Read Sam Kincaid 01 - The Commission Online
Authors: Michael Norman
I slept in the next morning and didn’t arrive at the office until after nine o’clock. There was a message from Kate asking me to call her as soon as I got in. It seemed that Clarence Puffer and Hyrum Locke had gone out to the Vogue home right after our meeting with Chief Hansen to diplomatically advise Mrs. Vogue that there was good news and bad news. The good news: clearly, Levi Vogue’s murderer had been identified. The bad news: the killer had also been murdered.
Apparently, the meeting with Margaret Vogue hadn’t gone all that well and resulted in her scurrying to see the family patriarch, Richard Vogue III. When Hansen arrived at his office the next morning, he found a terse message from Papa Vogue asking that all future developments in the case come directly to him, not Margaret. Further, his message requested an immediate meeting with Lt. McConnell and “that guy from the corrections department” who had been working on the case with her.
At this point, Hansen made a serious blunder. For reasons known only to him, he dispatched Puffer and Locke to the corporate headquarters of Vogue Chemicals, only to have them unceremoniously rebuffed at the front door by an aide to Vogue. By the time Locke and Puffer returned to Salt Lake P.D. headquarters, an angry Richard Vogue had placed a telephone call to Mayor Baldwin. Following that age-old administrative principle that all shit runs downhill, Baldwin promptly called Hansen into his office and chewed on him for about an hour.
I suppose that only someone with my acerbic sense of humor could appreciate the events of the morning involving Locke and Puffer. As I drove to police headquarters to pick up Kate for our visit with Richard Vogue, it occurred to me that this had to be an extremely stressful time for the entire Vogue family, and to have received this kind of information from anybody, no matter how diplomatically delivered, had to be upsetting.
The corporate headquarters of Vogue Chemicals was located in downtown Salt Lake City near the convention center. After we signed the visitor log in the lobby, a neatly dressed security officer escorted Kate and me to a spacious fifth-floor conference room. The room was decorated in earth tone colors with fine-grained oak furniture. Several beautiful southwest landscape paintings hung on the walls.
We waited for approximately ten minutes before a subdued Richard Vogue entered the boardroom, accompanied by Edward Tillman, whom he introduced as the company’s corporate legal counsel. He apologized for being late and thanked us for coming. Vogue was a distinguished-looking man, probably in his late sixties, with a mane of thick silver hair. His aristocratic look was enhanced by a well-tanned face and a lean, wiry physique that suggested a man who placed a premium on physical fitness. When he shook my hand, the grip was strong and his hand leathery. This was not a man who’d spent his entire work life sitting behind a desk.
“Lieutenant McConnell, Mr. Kincaid, my wife Helen and I have been blessed with three wonderful children and eight grandchildren. Levi was our eldest child and our only son. I can’t begin to describe the pain and anguish that his murder has caused the entire family. We are a close-knit bunch, and this has been devastating for everyone.
“Needless to say, the news Margaret received last evening from Deputy Chief Puffer and Mr. Locke only served to add to the family’s grief. Just when we’d adjusted to the notion that your investigation produced Levi’s killer, we were told that this Watts fellow had taken his own life.
“Speaking personally, I found that news most disturbing. I had hoped, one day, to have the opportunity to ask Mr. Watts why he killed my son. His death, regardless of how it happened, permanently deprives me of that opportunity. And now to have the coroner’s office conclude that Mr. Watts’ death was really a murder staged to look like a suicide is almost beyond belief. I don’t know what to make of it, and I’m hoping you can help me.
“Also, I’d like to ask that in the future, you contact me directly with information about the investigation. It’s much too overwhelming for Margaret to deal with right now.”
We extended our personal condolences. Kate promised to communicate directly with him in the future. She explained that it had become imperative that we obtain statements from Margaret and her sons as soon as possible, and asked how he preferred we handle that.
“I don’t see any reason why we can’t arrange something for tomorrow right here in this office.” Turning to Tillman, Vogue asked, “Ed, I realize that it’s Saturday, but could you arrange your schedule to be here, at say eleven o’clock in the morning? Margaret and the boys can meet you.”
Tillman nodded. Ideally, this wouldn’t be the way we preferred to take statements from family members in a murder investigation, but it would have to do. Depending on how Tillman conducted himself, we could probably make it work.
Vogue surprised us by expressing skepticism about the accuracy of the medical examiner’s findings relative to the death of Charles Watts. He demanded to know what specific evidence the State Medical Examiner’s Office used to conclude that Watts’ death was a criminal event rather than a suicide. Like us, he seemed to sense that a murder, arranged to look like a suicide, might hold unknown and ominous implications. After Kate reviewed the existing evidence, he seemed unhappily resigned to the accuracy of the coroner’s report.
Finally, Vogue got around to asking the question we most hoped he wouldn’t. “Tell me this. Given the medical examiner’s findings regarding the murder of Watts, how close are you to having this mess resolved?” This particular question seemed to bring Tillman out of a semi-comatose state and to the edge of his seat, pen at the ready. Having anticipated this question, Kate and I had rehearsed an answer on the drive over. Unfortunately, while the answer contained elements of the truth, it also contained a deliberate and glaring omission.
“I wish we were here with the answers I know you and your family so desperately want, but I’m afraid that’s just not the case,” said Kate. “We’re back to square one with respect to who murdered Watts and why his death was staged to look like a suicide. Finding the answers to those two questions will help us to unravel the mystery surrounding the murder of your son.”
No fibs so far, I thought to myself.
Kate continued. “What we can tell you is that our investigation has all but ruled out the possibility that your son’s death was a murder connected to a burglary gone awry. Instead, we’re convinced that Levi’s murder was somehow connected to his employment as a member of the parole board.”
“We are carefully examining our offender population for possible suspects,” I said. “We’re looking at current inmates as well as former prisoners to see who might have harbored a grudge against the parole board in general, or your son in particular.”
We carefully skirted any reference to his son’s occasional visits to the Satin & Lace Club and the Starlite Motel. We couldn’t predict how Vogue might react to that kind of negative information.
Vogue listened intently and without interruption. I had the feeling he was just as interested in sizing us up as he was in absorbing the information we had provided. Tillman, although quiet, had been scribbling away on his legal pad like a well-paid corporate lawyer should. After pausing momentarily, as though the lapse in conversation had given him time to digest everything we had shared, Vogue tossed us an unexpected curve.
“I sincerely appreciate your taking the time to drop by on such short notice. It’s been most helpful. I’d like you to know that Helen and I are absolutely committed to finding out what happened to our son. We don’t care what it costs or how long it takes. We’re not going to rest until we have answers—all the answers.
“With that end in mind, you should know that I’m considering hiring a team of private investigators, lead by a retired FBI agent, James Allen—you may know him—to look into my son’s death. Please don’t be offended. It isn’t personal. It’s just that I’ve been concerned from the outset that the police department hasn’t committed sufficient personnel to the investigation. I’ve reflected that concern to the appropriate city officials, unfortunately, to no avail. Should I elect to move forward with a parallel investigation, I hope that information will be shared by all parties, and that an atmosphere of mutual cooperation develops.”
He didn’t give us an opportunity to discuss the merits of his proposal. He stood and said, “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my son’s funeral begins in two hours.”
As Kate and I drove back to Salt Lake City P.D., we discussed the implications of having to work with a team of private investigators. “I’ll tell you, Kate, and you’ve probably seen it too, when you get multiple agencies working the same case, it usually isn’t pretty. Instead of cooperation, you tend to get jealousy, petty bickering, and lots of turf protection. Assuming Vogue follows through with his plan, our investigation has the potential of becoming a first-rate clusterfuck.”
Kate looked over at me. “What do you know about James Allen?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. We’ve worked a couple of fugitive cases with some of his people in situations where one of our offenders committed a federal offense and then split the state. He retired about a year ago as the Special Agent in Charge of the Salt Lake City field office. He probably has solid management skills, but it sure doesn’t mean he was a good field agent. How about you?”
“I don’t know him at all. But one thing we can probably be assured is that Mr. Vogue has the money and the smarts to hire competent people. I’d prefer that we not have to deal with it, but if we do, at least we should have that going for us.”
“I agree. One thing we could do is urge the mayor and Chief Hansen to contact Vogue and try to talk him out of hiring privates, or at least buy us some more time. We could use that,” I said.
***
I dropped Kate at police headquarters and headed back to my office. When I got there, Patti informed me that James Allen had called not once, but twice, asking that I return his call as soon as possible. It appeared Richard Vogue had moved well beyond the
possibility
of hiring a team of private investigators. He had already done so.
I decided not to postpone the inevitable and dialed his number. He picked up on the first ring, with “Sam Kincaid, how are you?” Caller ID. More technology I could do without. We engaged in the usual salutations and perfunctory glad-handing before settling down to business.
“Sam, as you probably know, Richard Vogue has asked Allen & Associates to look into Levi’s murder. I want to assure you that we are here to assist in any way we can and not to step on toes. Believe me, I understand how difficult it can be when a high profile case is already being worked by more than one agency. And then to have a team of private investigators tossed into the mix can’t be viewed by the official agencies with much enthusiasm.”
No shit, Sherlock,
I thought.
I decided to hedge my bets and play it conservatively. “You know, Jim, you’re probably talking to the wrong guy. You need to be on the horn to Lt. Kate McConnell. She’s the lead on this one. My office has been assigned in a support capacity only.”
“Oh, I understand that, Sam, but I hoped you could make the introductions and lay the groundwork. After all, you and I have some history. I’m afraid I can’t say the same about my relationship with Lt. McConnell. I could take the direct approach and go straight to her boss, but I’d hate to do that for the obvious reasons.”
He was playing all of the right cards. I decided that it made sense to feign cooperation and stall for time. “You’re right about one thing—going around McConnell would probably be a big mistake. Suffice it to say, it wouldn’t exactly engender an attitude of trust and cooperation. You should also be aware that the Salt Lake County Attorney’s office has been involved from day one. Tom Stoddard is the contact there. I’m sure the DA’s office will expect input into this decision. In the meantime, I’d be happy to serve as a liaison between you and Lt. McConnell. Let me approach her and I’ll get back to you. How does that sound?”
Translated, that means I’ll get back to you in about ten years.
“Sounds good to me, Sam. I really appreciate your assistance. Time is of the essence, so I’ll expect to hear from you soon.”
***
I had an idea. I found Terry working in his office, all dressed up and ready to attend Levi Vogue’s funeral.
I dropped into the seat next to his desk. “Change of plan,” I said. “And for what I’ve got in mind, you’re definitely overdressed.”
“Shit. I not only wear my best suit, but I rush my ass to the cleaners yesterday and pay to get it cleaned, all because you told me we’re attending Vogue’s funeral today. And now you’re about to tell me I’m not going. What gives?”
Smiling, I said, “What’s the matter with you—out a little late last night? You know, Terry, it wouldn’t hurt if you’d buy a second suit, and always keep one of them clean. Then you can avoid the stress of having to run around at the last minute trying to get your wardrobe in order. And besides, you are going to the funeral. It’s just that nobody’s going to see you.”
“Up yours, Kincaid,” he said, trying to suppress a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “Just give me the piss-ass assignment and get out of my office.” That’s what I liked about Burnham—always the soft-spoken gentleman.
***
I don’t like funerals much, never have. This one would be no exception. I arrived about twenty minutes before the scheduled start of the service. It was a beautiful afternoon for a funeral, lots of sunshine with a cobalt blue sky and a few cumulus clouds.
I spotted Burnham parked in our undercover surveillance van across the street from the church parking lot. This gave him an unobstructed view of the church’s main entrance, as well as a good view of a side entrance. He would have a clear field of vision through the van’s one-way glass to videotape mourners as they entered and exited the church. I knew this exercise might be for naught, but I also felt there was at least an outside chance that the video footage might help us connect someone to Vogue’s murder.
To my dismay, I also observed two marked vans and a large SUV from our local television stations. The press release, explaining the circumstances surrounding the death of Charles Watts, had been given to the assembled media at a nine a.m. news conference.
The guest of honor was present in a bronze casket at the front of the church. It was common in the Mormon faith to have an open-casket viewing preceding the funeral service. In this instance, undoubtedly because of the condition of the body, there had been no viewing.
By the time the service began, the church was filled beyond capacity. Margaret, her two sons, and a group of her family members occupied the front rows on one side of the church. Richard Vogue III, his wife, their two surviving daughters, and their families were seated in the first rows on the other side.
The next several rows were occupied by political dignitaries and members of their various entourages. I recognized Governor Walker, Salt Lake City Mayor Porter Baldwin, and Senator Theodore Stephens, all political heavyweights who had come to pay their respects to Richard Vogue III.
Chief Hansen was sitting with my boss, and they had been joined by Vogue’s colleagues from the state board of pardons. I saw people from my own department, including several members of Sloan’s administrative team and even a couple of prison employees.
Mercifully, the church service was handled with little fanfare. A much smaller group of mourners gathered at a nearby cemetery for a brief graveside service. The whole thing lasted less than two hours.
I met Burnham after the funeral at a downtown gourmet coffee shop. Feeling moderately guilty over his recent wardrobe crisis, I bought. Over two coffees and a single cinnamon roll that I’d reluctantly agreed to split, Terry and I discussed the current status of the case. Between bites, Terry said, “Tell me something. Why were you so hot to have this surveillance tape?”
“On one level, it’s a shot in the dark. I’ll admit that. But you know how intensely I dislike loose ends. I’m bothered that our investigation hasn’t identified the guy Vogue brought to the motel for the three-way action with Sue Ann. Think about it. It would have to be someone close to Vogue, somebody he trusted implicitly. Who might that somebody be? Surely not a member of his devout Mormon family. And certainly not someone from his church. It seems to me that leaves old, trusted friends, or perhaps somebody he works with. That somebody might well have attended his funeral. And just maybe we’ve got him on tape.”
“I follow you now,” said Burnham. “You’re planning to invite Ms. Winkler in to watch enhanced videotape.”
“Exactly. But not just yet. Kate’s got Salt Lake vice pulling round-the-clock surveillance on the motel. It would be nice if they’d come up with something illegal going on. Then, if Ms. Winkler decides not to cooperate, we’ll be able to apply some pressure.”
“You realize that finding this guy may not get us any closer to solving the murder of Watts,” Burnham said.
“No question about it. This could turn out to be a waste of time and energy. Fortunately, it’s not the only iron we’ve got in the fire.”
“I sure hope not. What else you got?”
“We’re trying to identify the individual who created the forged suicide note. That person might be directly involved, or at least represent a link to whoever else is. We’re working that angle right now.”
We spent the next few minutes figuring out our next moves. The weekend would be spent interviewing Levi’s friends and acquaintances. I assigned Terry the task of locating Watts’ estranged sister, hoping that she might have information that would help us. I also gave him the difficult job of trying to locate any of Charles Watts’ friends. Those could be associates he hung around with while on parole, or possibly a small circle of friends from his most recent prison stay. While it appeared that Watts was something of a loner, that might not have been the case inside the joint. If Terry managed to locate his inmate friends, perhaps one of them might help us unravel the mystery surrounding his murder.
Six days had elapsed since the murder. We badly needed a break before the case grew any colder.
As for me, my weekend agenda included a stint as Mr. Mom. I had promised Sara she could bring a friend, and I would take them for an afternoon at Hogle Zoo.