Next, I reflected on what I was going to do when we arrived at the police station. Under ordinary circumstances, I’d say nothing and get a damn good lawyer, but that wasn’t an option. I had to talk; otherwise Mulvaney would arrest Ash for murder. My best hope was to confess to my unofficial investigation, share my information, and hope that I could convince Mulvaney—or more likely, Delcambre—that Donna was the killer.
We continued eastward, driving past a large park and a little while later passing under Interstate 895. About six or seven blocks after that, we turned into the parking lot at the rear of the Baltimore City Police Department’s Southeastern District Headquarters. We parked near the rear entrance and I was ushered slowly toward the building through the pouring rain. I was pretty soaked by the time we got inside.
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The investigations division office looked like almost every other detective bureau I’ve ever worked in or visited. There were four rows of gray modular desks, each with a computer, and all separated by cubicle walls, creating an overall effect reminiscent of furnished cattle stalls.
It being a Saturday, it looked as if there was only a skele-ton crew of detectives on duty.
I was led to an interview room where the male officer removed my handcuffs. It was a relief to have the hooks off and I rubbed my wrists where the metal had created indentations in my skin. He motioned for me to sit in a hard plastic chair that stood on one side of an old metal table.
Obeying the silent instructions, I said, “Can someone get me some paper towels or something? I’m soaked.”
The officer nodded, left the room, and shut the door behind him. Meanwhile, the female officer leaned against the wall with her arms folded, watching me. Looking up, I saw a glass and metal camera housing on the ceiling and knew that my interview was going to be videotaped. It gave me an idea. A few seconds later, the other cop returned with a half-inch thick stack of brown paper towels.
I thanked him and began to dry my face and hair.
A few minutes passed and then Mulvaney breezed into the room with a manila folder tucked under her arm. She told the uniformed officers, “You can go now.”
Delcambre entered the room next and he wore an expression that was a combination of puzzlement, wariness, and slowly simmering anger. It was clear that he was still undecided as to whether I’d lied to him, but if he did conclude that I’d played him for a chump, I knew which one of the detectives would take the bad cop role when they hit me with the Mutt and Jeff routine.
Once the detectives were seated, Mulvaney opened the folder and said, “This is Baltimore City Police case number two-zero-six-six-eight-one-alpha, a homicide 148
John J. Lamb
investigation. My name is Detective Lieutenant Sarah Mulvaney.”
“And I’m Detective Sergeant Richard Delcambre.”
Mulvaney glanced up from her paperwork at me.
“Could you please identify yourself, sir?”
Now I was absolutely certain that we were being videotaped, otherwise she wouldn’t have asked me to state my name. A videotaped interview is a wonderful investigative and prosecutorial tool, but it’s also a double-edged sword: detectives who might be more worried about their conviction batting average than justice can’t conveniently forget or ignore statements that would tend to show a defendant’s innocence. Furthermore, the videotape must remain on continuously throughout the interview—
detectives can’t turn it off if they don’t like the answers they’re getting from a suspect.
“My name is Bradley Lyon and can I clarify something before we go any further?”
“What’s that, Mr. Lyon?” said Mulvaney.
“Am I under arrest?”
“No, you came here voluntarily.”
“In handcuffs . . . in the back of a police car . . . after being taken from my room at gunpoint? If that’s voluntary, I’d sure hate to see your version of coercion.”
Delcambre’s jaw dropped and he turned to look at his boss in shock.
“That’s not how it happened.” Mulvaney tried to sound imperious, but the words sounded more like a whiny complaint.
I looked up at the camera on the ceiling. “Hi there, future defense attorney and jurors. Just for the record, I am under arrest for murder, I haven’t yet been read my constitutional rights although I
have
been questioned, and the only reason I agreed to come to the police station was because Lieutenant Mulvaney threatened to The False-Hearted Teddy
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arrest my wife if I didn’t confess to a crime I didn’t commit.”
Mulvaney tossed her pen on the table. “We’ve got solid evidence on you!”
“You’ve got nothing.” I locked eyes with her. “Donna Jordan put those gloves and superglue tubes in the trash can because she killed Jennifer, but you wouldn’t listen when I tried to tell you that. And here’s the freaking punch line: you won’t even be able to use that evidence against her because it’ll all be suppressed. You needed a search warrant to come into my room.”
“We had exigent circumstances!”
“Really? Back at the hotel you told me that it was a search incident to a lawful arrest, which of course, we know it wasn’t.”
“I never said that.”
“Yes, you did, but let’s examine your ‘exigent circumstances’ theory. It’s supposed to mean you had reliable information that someone’s life was in imminent danger or that the evidence was about to be destroyed.” I lifted my hand to my ear. “You hear that? That’s the sound of a defense attorney sharpening his carving knife as he prepares to slice, dice, and turn that silly ass argument into julienne fries. There were no exigent circumstances and you’ve got no evidence.”
“You promised to confess.”
“Think back. I promised to make a
statement
and here it is: I did not murder Jennifer Swift. However, I have developed significant information since the last time we spoke that will help you prove that Donna Jordan is the killer. I’m willing to work with you and share that information, but I have a couple of conditions. If you don’t agree to them, I’m going to invoke my right to remain silent and you can chat with my attorney.”
Mulvaney snapped the manila folder shut. “You aren’t 150
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in any position to dictate terms. This interview is finished.”
Up until that moment, Delcambre had remained silent.
He said, “With all due respect, Lieutenant, will you shut up for a second? Mr. Lyon, what are your conditions?”
“They’re real simple. First, no more threats to arrest my wife.”
“Done.”
“Second, I was dragged out of that hotel in handcuffs with every TV station and newspaper reporter in Baltimore watching. I want Ms. Javert there”—I nodded in the direction of Mulvaney—“to call a press conference and tell everyone that she made a terrible mistake and that I’m not under arrest for murder or anything else, for that matter.”
Mulvaney blinked in bewilderment, but Delcambre, who’d obviously read
Les Miserables
, rubbed his mouth to conceal his grin. “Agreed.”
“And I need someone to go back to the hotel and get my cane.”
“I’ll send someone over right away.”
“Finally, I want to make a telephone call and let my wife know that I’m all right before an F-five tornado with blond hair and blue eyes levels this police station.”
“I think we’ve got a deal,” said Delcambre.
Mulvaney was chalk-faced with rage. “There is no deal and I ought to relieve you of duty for insubordina-tion, Sergeant.”
“Reality check, Lieutenant: the idea of no longer working with you is a relief, not a threat. And yes, there
is
a deal and you’re going to go along with it.”
“Why?”
“You’ve screwed things up so badly, we don’t have a choice,” Delcambre said impatiently. “I want to catch the real murderer and, even though I don’t really care what happens to you, I’m not thrilled with the idea of Mr. Lyon The False-Hearted Teddy
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owning my house because your incompetence dragged us into a seven-figure, false-arrest lawsuit.”
Mulvaney was about to deliver a spiteful response when she heard me softly humming, “There’s No Place Like Home.” Gritting her teeth, she said, “But what will the captain say?”
“That’s your problem, boss.”
Fourteen
Delcambre led me out of the interview room and pointed to a vacant work cubicle. “You can use that phone.”
“Thanks.” I sat down in a frayed office chair and pressed the numbers for our cell phone. Although the interview room door was shut, I heard the argument between the detectives resume and quickly grow in intensity. Mulvaney attempted to launch a Vince Lombardi–like speech about how teams succeed or fail together. However, she didn’t get much past the second stanza before Delcambre shouted her down, saying that if the team’s captain was an imbe-cile that showed up at the wrong stadium on game day, it didn’t make a difference how the rest of the players performed.
Ash answered on the first ring and her voice was almost crackling with tension. “Hello?”
In a bright and cheerful tone, I said, “Hi, honey. Hey, a funny thing happened on the way back down to the teddy bear show.”
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“Where are you? Are you all right? They told me you were under arrest for murder.”
“By they, you mean that hyena pack of reporters? I’m sorry you had to find out that way. I’d have called, but I had a gun screwed in my ear.”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine and the good news is that, at least for the moment, I’m not under arrest.”
“Bradley Aaron Lyon, this is not funny. I’ve been calling every police department number in the phone book trying to find out where they took you and all I could get were those damn voice menu recordings. Then I started calling nine-one-one and they told me to get off the line because it wasn’t an emergency. And I was so frightened, because . . .” She paused to take a deep breath.
“Because it’s way too much like the day I got shot.” I looked down at the desktop, feeling awful that my lame attempts to lighten the mood with humor had upset her so badly. “You’re right, it was really wrong of me to treat this like a big joke. I’m very sorry.”
“You should be.” There was a short pause. “Are you
sure
you’re all right?”
“Other than being ashamed of myself and a bit damp, I’m excellent.”
“Where are you?”
“Sitting at a desk in the detective bureau at the Southeastern District headquarters. Where are you? It sounds quiet.”
“I’m up in Karen’s room. She gave me her key. It was a madhouse with all those reporters wanting to know why you’d been arrested.”
“I can imagine. You didn’t spray anybody with a hose, did you?”
“No, but I might have accidentally splashed some of 154
John J. Lamb
my sparkling water on this horrible woman reporter who kept asking me what it was like to be married to the
‘Teddy Bear Terminator.’ ”
“Accidentally, huh?”
“Half the bottle.”
“That’s my girl.”
“And did you have to make that comment about Mulvaney and the BOTOX?”
“I was misquoted.”
“Right. So, why were you arrested for murder? I thought the police had already charged Tony.”
“They had, but Donna changed all that by planting a couple of superglue tubes and some latex gloves in our bathroom wastebasket. Then she called Lieutenant Mulvaney to tell her where the incriminating evidence was.”
Ash inhaled sharply. “You were right about her being the killer.”
“Yeah, but if even half of what Donna told me about Jennifer is true, I’m not going to lose any sleep if the trial ends up with a not-guilty-by-reason-of-insanity verdict.”
“Why?”
“Because Donna began making the angel bears for her little boy, who eventually died of muscular dystrophy.
Then her ‘best friend’ Jennifer stole the prototype bears from the dead kid’s room and began selling them. Later, when Jen ran out of hot angel bears, she began making pirated bears and claimed the design was her original idea.”
“Oh my God, that’s, that’s . . . vile. It’s . . .” It doesn’t happen often, but my wife was at a loss for words.
“Yeah, the idea is so gruesome it’s kind of hard to get your brain around it, isn’t it? And I didn’t even get to the part about how the bears that Jen ripped off were supposed to be donated to the children’s ward at a local hospital.”
“How could she have done those things and lived with herself?”
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“I suspect that may have been exactly the question that Donna asked herself when she walked into the exhibit hall yesterday morning and saw the Tomb Raider and Tony hawking the bears. I’m certain it just unhinged her.”
“It all fits together. But . . .”
I heard the uncertainty in Ash’s voice and understood why. “But some things still don’t make any sense. I know.”
“I mean, if the police found the inhaler in the ventilation duct in the Swifts’ room, why would Donna want to frame
you
as the killer?”
“Maybe she was afraid that I’d find the evidence in her purse when I took her to our room to talk.”
“But why not plant it all in the vent? If you’d committed a murder, would you carry the evidence around in your purse for hours afterwards?”
“Depends on the purse. Do you see me with a Louis Vuitton or am I more a Dooney and Burke sort of guy?”
“Brad honey, focus.”
“I’d have ditched the evidence ASAP,” I said, remembering how Donna had talked about throwing the key card away after the warning call from Jennifer.
“Exactly.”
“Which sounds very logical, but doesn’t take into account the fact that Donna is a functional alcoholic. Remember our little chat with her last night?”
“Of course.”
“And you think maybe that scene this morning was powered by booze?”
“I hadn’t thought about that. Did you smell anything on her breath?”
“No, but that’s why God created vodka. And a little later, she nearly dragged you to death with her van. Can anyone say DUI? Then she drank nearly half the bottle of Frangelico during our interview. It’s possible that she was so drunk that she forgot to plant all the evidence in the Swifts’ room.”