Ortiz was in uniform, and he had placed himself at the rear of the small group of policemen. He wanted a long second look at Stafford before the lawyer got an opportunity to recognize him. Crosby and two policemen had stepped into the foyer to await Mrs. Stafford’s return. A moment later Larry Stafford, dressed in Bermuda shorts and a red-and-black-striped rugby shirt, walked down the carpeted corridor. His wife trailed behind, more visibly worried now.
“What can I do for you?” he asked with a wide smile. Ortiz concentrated on the face. There was so much light in the hallway, and there had been so little in the motel room. Still, he was sure. It was him.
Crosby handed Stafford the search warrant. Ortiz watched him carefully as he read it. If Stafford was nervous or upset, he did not show it.
“I’m afraid I don’t understand… What did you say your name was?”
“Crosby. Detective Ron Crosby, Mr. Stafford.”
“Well, Detective Crosby, I don’t understand what this is all about.”
“That is a search warrant, Mr. Stafford. It is an authorization by a judge to search your house for the items listed in the warrant.”
“I can see it’s a search warrant,” Stafford said with a trace of impatience. “What I want to know is why you feel it is necessary to invade my privacy in the middle of the night and rummage through my personal effects.”
“I’d prefer not to go into that right now, Mr. Stafford,” Crosby said quietly. “If you’ll just permit us to do what we came for, we won’t take much of your time.”
Stafford scanned the warrant again.
“Judge Rosenthal signed this warrant?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes, sir.”
Stafford said nothing for a moment. There seemed to be a private war waging inside him. Then he relaxed.
“Search if you want to. I’m sorry if I gave you a hard time. It’s just that I’ve never had anything like this happen before. I’ll even make it easy for you. I own several sport shirts of this type,” he said, indicating the list of clothing set out in the warrant, “and at least three pair of tan slacks. Why don’t you come up to my room and I’ll show you. Then, if you’re not satisfied, you can search the house.”
Stafford was not reacting the way Ortiz had expected him to. The man was too self-possessed. Maybe he was wrong. After all, he had gotten only a fast look at the murderer’s face, and he was dazed and in pain at the time. And there was the lighting. No, there had been enough light. The globe outside the motel room was very bright. Still, it had been so fast.
Stafford started to climb the stairs to the second floor with his wife close behind. Ortiz stayed to the rear as several officers followed Crosby. Two men stationed themselves in the foyer.
Stafford’s bedroom was toward the rear of the house. It was bright and airy and had a decidedly masculine feel about it. A sliding glass door led to a small balcony, and Ortiz glanced out into the darkness. A twin bed sat against the north wall. It was unmade, and the edge of one of the blankets touched the hardwood floor. A large walk-in closet occupied the east wall, and an expensive-looking chest of drawers stood to their right as the party entered the room. Stafford pulled out one of the middle drawers and stood back.
“My sport shirts are in here. My slacks are in the closet.”
Crosby signaled to Ortiz and the policeman stepped over to the closet. He opened the louvered doors and started to examine several pairs of slacks that hung on a long row of wooden hangers. He pushed several aside before stopping at a pair of tan slacks. He wasn’t positive, but they were close. It was the shirt he could be sure about. The flowered pattern was distinctive.
He finished sorting through the hangers, then walked back down the line and selected the tan pants. He looked at Stafford. The man had not changed his expression of detached interest, and he had given no indication that he recognized Ortiz.
“Let me see the shirts,” he said to Crosby. The detective stepped back, and Ortiz carefully lifted one shirt after another out of the drawer, placing them in a neat pile on top of the chest of drawers. Midway down, he stopped. It was sitting there. A shirt of brown and forest-green with a leaf-and-flower design. The shirt that the man who killed Darlene Hersch had been wearing. Ortiz called Crosby aside, and the two men conferred in the corridor. Mrs. Stafford stood on one side of the room, nervously shifting her attention between her husband and the door to the hallway. Crosby and Ortiz reentered the room. They looked grim. There were two other policemen with them. That made a total of six officers, and the large bedroom was beginning to shrink in size.
“Mr. Stafford, I am going to have to place you under arrest.”
Mrs. Stafford blanched, and her husband’s composure began to slip.
“What do you mean? Now, see here. I…”
“Before you say anything, Mr. Stafford, I have to advise you concerning your constitutional rights.”
“My rights! Are you insane? Now, I’ve cooperated with you and let you into my home. What nonsense is this? What am I being arrested for?”
Crosby looked at Stafford, and Ortiz watched for a reaction.
“I am arresting you for the murder of Darlene Hersch.”
“Who?” Stafford asked, his brows knitting in puzzlement. Mrs. Stafford’s hand flew to her mouth, and Ortiz heard her say, “My God.” Crosby began reciting Stafford’s Miranda rights.
“You have a right to remain silent. If you choose to-”
“Wait a second. Wait a second. Who is Darlene Hersch? Is this a joke?”
“Mr. Stafford, this is no joke. Now, I know you’re an attorney, but I am going to explain your rights to you anyway, and I want you to listen carefully.”
Mrs. Stafford edged over to her husband with a slow, sideways, crablike movement. Stafford was beginning to look scared. Crosby finished reciting Stafford’s rights and took a pair of handcuffs from his rear pocket.
“Why don’t you change into a pair of long pants and a long-sleeved shirt?” Crosby said. “And I’m going to have to cuff you. I’m sorry about that, but it’s a procedure I have to follow.”
“Now, you listen to me. I happen to be an attorney-”
“I know, Mr. Stafford.”
“Then you know that as of right now you are going to be on the end of one hell of a lawsuit.”
“Getting excited is not going to help your situation, Mr. Stafford. I’d suggest that you keep calm and have your wife contact an attorney.
“Mrs. Stafford,” Crosby said, turning his attention to the lawyer’s wife, “you had better contact an attorney to represent your husband. He will be at the county jail within the hour.”
The woman acted as if she had not heard Crosby. Stafford started toward her, stopped, and looked at Crosby.
“May I talk to my wife in private for a moment?”
“I can send most of my men out, but someone will have to stay in the room.”
Stafford started to say something, then stopped. He seemed to be back in control.
“That would be fine.”
Stafford waited to go to his wife until all but one policeman had left. She looked confused and frightened.
“Larry, what’s going on?”
Stafford took her by the shoulders and led her to the far corner of the room.
“This is obviously some mistake. Now, call Charlie Holt. Tell him what happened and where I am. Charlie will know what to do.”
“He said murder, Larry.”
“I know what he said,” Stafford said firmly. “Now, do as I say. Believe me, it will be all right.”
Stafford changed his clothes and his wife watched in silence. When Stafford was finished, Crosby put on the handcuffs and escorted the prisoner downstairs. Ortiz watched Stafford closely. He said nothing as they led him to the car. He walked with assurance, his back straight and his shoulders squared. Mrs. Stafford stood alone in the open doorway. Ortiz watched her shrink in the distance as they drove away.