The Pursuit of Justice

The captain laughed dryly. "Yeah, I don't think so. Any judge will toss this out, and you know they'll then look at any other warrant more harshly." It was true; we'd seen it happen. Once one warrant was denied, if you took another one back to them, even with more evidence, and it was the same judge, they would often treat it more as harassment than legit.

I shrugged, at both the captain and Miranda, "Had to try."

"What else you got?" asked the captain, bluntly.

"We are looking into the receptionist a bit more, going to look over Newton's phone again, see if there is anything we missed. Talk the wife again. Retrace our tracks."

The reality is that Newton had done something egregious enough that someone wanted him dead. Some evidence of that had to exist somewhere. We just needed to start again, and dig deeper, look at what we knew harder.

"Okay, well, if you need anything else, holler."

And that was that.

We spent the next couple of days mostly working on another case, and after that we did everything we mentioned. I spent a morning going through Newton's phone again, looking at everything on there with a fresh eye. Miranda did the same for the afternoon, and then we compared notes. We didn't have much new to look at. There were some Snapchat conversations worth looking at the other person he was communicating with, just to get clarity on the relationship, but not much else.

We got the results of the sweep of Newton's office area, and his home neighborhood. I won the informal pool on the number of "He was so quiet and kept to himself" responses we got, - twelve, - from neighbors. It's a thing they do in our department. Nothing really came of it; no juicy reveals or family squabbles in the streets or late-night visits or anything like that. God knows, that neighborhood was a busy body neighborhood. If there was something to know, they'd have told our guys.

We did take a closer look at his house, it was pretty nice and cost a bit. He was doing better than most single person CPA operations to be able to afford it, and it's not like Mrs. Newton was working. We were told she brought some money into the marriage, but I was having the forensics department look into it all the same. Straws were definitely being clutched here. While I was asking them, it did cross my mind that I wish I could have asked Clarice; this was right up her alley.

We also went and saw Caroline Newton again. She was going all in on the mourning, all dressed in black and heavy pale makeup. We went over everything again, and she couldn't tell us anything more than she already had. No obvious enemies, no, she didn't know a lot about his client base. No, she'd never heard the name Ashton Polk. No, on reflection, she'd not seen any disturbing or out of the ordinary behavior. She did then point out that he worked a fair amount, and took off to conferences to learn about tax code changes more than you might think, so he wasn't around as much as she would have liked. And as a statement, it did echo through my brain, I have to say.

We did do one interview on the same day we went to see Caroline Newton, that I suggested on the spur of the moment, and on hearing it, Miranda decided we had to do. We went to see Macey Phillips. Given his boy had been seen visiting Ashton Polk, we figured he might be able to shed light on why. Sometimes, in those situations, when talking to people like Phillips, they gave away as much with what they specifically didn't mention as they did with what they would talk about.

He traditionally operated in offices over what was now a coffee shop, but back in the day, it was actually a prohibition speak easy. His ostensible business was construction, and he had built a couple of neighborhoods to the east of the city, mostly sold as out of town investments rather to local home buyers, for obvious reasons.

We went to see him. We didn't make an appointment; Macey Phillips was not an appointment kind of guy.

When we showed up, there were several of his guys lounging around in the lobby. They knew who we were and we knew who they were, and there was tension on all sides.

"Wanna see Phillips," I said, to the first goon to stand in my way.

"I'll see if the boss wants to see YOU," he replied, looking down at me. He must have been six foot four if he was an inch.

He was back in a few moments, while Miranda and I just stood, looking at each other and trying to avoid looking at the sudden-but-trying-to-be-hidden interest from everyone else in the lobby of the building.

"Go on up," he grunted, indicating the stairs behind him, with his thumb.

I gave Miranda a look and we started up the stairs.

Macey Phillips' office was a mess. There were papers everywhere, maps on the walls with pins in them, folders stacked on the floor, even a few 2x4's along one wall, along with a tape measure. His desk was overflowing, and he sat, feet up, reclining on a large leather chair. I did wonder if we dug through some of the boxes along another wall, we might find Jimmy Hoffa's body, they looked like they'd be there that long.

It was all very carefully cultivated to look as though actual building work was performed there. As if.

Phillips was puffing into life a new cigar, obviously freshly clipped, probably for our benefit. I did notice it was a Cohiba, with the distinctive yellow band on it. Not actually legal, since it was Cuban, but oh well. I wasn't going to arrest him for it. It was typical of the man, to thumb his nose at us. He probably had a box full of them just for situations like this. I just wondered where he got them from, and if I could tap into that supplier.

"Well, well, what can we do for Minneapolis' finest? Let me guess, Ashton Polk?"

He pulled his feet off the desk and sat up.

"Am I right, Detective Tulley? How about you, Detective Faulkner?"

The thing is, he was right, but I wasn't about to follow his lead.

"What can you tell us about Ashton Polk, Mr. Phillips? Your man was observed at his offices. What kind of relationship did you have?"

Phillips rolled his cigar around and then took a deep drag.

"Ahhh, I do love a good Cuban. Can I offer you one Mr. Tulley? Or you Miss Faulkner? I understand you may not know what to do with a nice long cylinder like this, but I can sure teach you."

The very unsubtle reference to Miranda's sexuality just bounced off her. She was immune to such things, thankfully. She'd heard it all, seen it all and ignored it all.

"Thanks, but it'll take a longer and harder cylinder than anything you have to get me interested Mr. Phillips," she retorted.

"Oh, I like this one!" exclaimed Phillips, genuinely laughing. "So much better than the last one, Mr. Tulley. Tell me, what happened to him?"

My last partner had left the force with two broken legs and a broken arm. He never did tell us who did it, but we figured it was on Phillips' orders. He'd been getting a little too close, following an old case on his own time. Something to do with Phillips' dad, as best I could get out of him. Theirs was an old blood feud. Brett hadn't been a great partner, to be sure, and I wasn't that sad when he left, but he didn't deserve the beating he'd got. Of course, Macey Philips had the perfect alibi when we'd talked to him about his movements that day. He'd been playing golf with the Mayor that day. The Mayor, for fucks sake.

I just stared at Phillips, not replying immediately.

"Can I ask, what exactly is your interest in Ashton Polk?" Phillips eventually said, after blowing a smoke ring, keeping eye contact with me. He had a twinkle in his eye I would have dearly loved to wipe out.

"You can ask, Mr. Phillips," I said, through somewhat grated teeth, "But I am under no obligation to tell you."

Phillips shrugged. "Whatever. Well, it appears our Mr. Polk has gone bye-bye, and I would rather like to have a conversation with him as soon as possible. We have some... business ventures together. He does some accounting on a couple of the buildings I own, and I need some figures from him."

I glanced at Miranda and could see she didn't believe it for a second, or at least didn't believe that was the extent of their relationship.

"I see," I intoned. "So, you have no information of his whereabouts then?"

"No, and I can see you don't either," he replied, smirking. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here, asking me, right?"

I took a shot in the dark.

"Does the name Sydney Newton mean anything to you, Mr. Phillips?" I had no idea if it would, but it would be interesting to see his reaction.

It was blank. The amusement left his face, but wasn't replaced by anything other than blankness.

"No, should I?"

"I just thought I'd ask. Another person of interest."

We just stood there, staring at each other for a second, no one speaking.

"Well, as you can see, I'm a busy man Detectives. You can see your way out."

We'd been dismissed. As we left, Phillips had one last thing to say. "Oh, if you find him, let him know I am looking for him? Thanks."

I spent the next morning in court, giving evidence on an old case that had finally come to trial. I took the afternoon off, trying to get to some errands that I'd been putting off. There were house things, trips to Home Depot to get door handles and light bulbs, getting the oil changed in mine and Clarice's cars and all the other things you do to get through life.

I was just relaxing at home that night, secure in the knowledge I'd actually made progress with the shit you have to get done to exist in the twenty-first century, when we actually caught a break on this case.

That's the way cases often go. You make no progress, hit a dead end, perhaps you know what happened but can't prove it - that happens more than you would think. You sit around, trying to break the case. Get that clue. Fill in that missing piece. Get that piece of evidence. Come up with a new way to see what you've already got, how the pieces fit together. Or, just something happens outside of your control, and suddenly new opportunities open up.

It was just that. Clarice was just opening a bottle of wine to have with dinner when I got a call from Miranda. She was also having a day off, and the station had called her first.

"What's up?" I said, eyeing the glass Clarice was pouring for me, and motioned for her to pour more. She shook her head at me, laughing as she did so.

"Hey John. Get a load of this. That little receptionist at Polk's place? She just got brought in. Was caught driving a little erratically after spending the afternoon in a bar. Apparently some good Samaritan called it in, concerned she might be drunk driving. She got pulled over by a unit, he did a sobriety test and wasn't completely happy with the results. She had a tail light out, and he asked to see in the trunk and guess what he found? No? A hundred grams of marijuana. Yeah. She's in pokey now. She won't be there too long, she'll be released by morning, but when they called me, since they know she's a person of interest in our case, I got them to not actually tell her that. She's sitting in an interrogation room now, and has been for the past hour, stewing. You wanna go down and see if she'll crack, eh partner?"

Miranda was almost beside herself with glee. An opportunity like this rarely comes along. I was pretty happy, too.

'Oh hell yes. Clarice?" I said, talking to the wife while covering the phone. "Keep the wine on ice, I have to run into the office. We just caught a break."

"That's great honey," she smiled in return, genuinely happy. "I'll make myself some dinner and leave some in the microwave for you if you are late, okay?"

My wife. Always looking out for me.

I grabbed my keys and heavy coat, it was still very cold outside, and hustled to the precinct.

When I got there, Miranda was pacing up and down outside the interrogation room. Debra Gustav had been in there for two hours, and had one potty break.

"Who picked her up?" I asked. It was a germane question, since some patrolmen were nicer than others. If it was an asshole, then she'd already be in a bad mood, not just a nervous one.

"Hennessey," Miranda replied.

Ah, Patrolman Derek Hennessey. He was an interesting dude. He was a born-again Christian, clean living, a fish diet, and very concerned with everyone's eternal souls, but what was most amusing was that he still wanted to swear like he used, like a sailor does. Something would happen, and he'd want to yell, "MotherFUCKER", like you do, but instead, we'd get "FRACTALS!" or you want to say, "That guy is such a shitty asshole" and he'd go "That guy is such a dunderhead". Same phrasing and intonation, just replaced words. It was hilarious to the rest of us. When he did it in our ear shot, Miranda and I would try and work out the words he intended to say, but replaced.

Hennessey was a good man though, and so she'd just be nervous rather than outright pissed.

I had stopped by the coffee pot, and grabbed three coffees, plus creamer and sugar, - I had no idea if Debra took any or not, - and nodded at Miranda, who first jammed a folder of documentation under my arm while taking one of the coffees, and then opened the door, and in we went.

Debra Gustav was not in good shape. She was handcuffed to the rail on the table, and obviously in distress. Eyes were swollen, indicating crying, and she looked up expectantly the moment we walked in, her eyes widening when she saw who it was.

I put the coffees down on the table, and then did the usual thing -- interview rooms were recorded continuously and so all you had to do really was announce what was going on.

"This is John Tulley, in Interview room two. Present are myself, detective Miranda Faulkner and suspect Debra Gustav. The time is," I glanced at my watch, "Seven twelve in the evening." We didn't really need to give time or date; the recording was time and date stamped, but I did it anyway, just to be clear.

I sat down opposite Debra, looked at her and the cuffs and glanced at Miranda, to see if she had the keys. She indicated she did, so I just said, "Do we really need the cuffs?"

Miranda grimaced at me, playing bad cop as she did; it was a time-honored act we put on, one we didn't even have to think about any more. She then removed the handcuffs and then stepped back, leaning against the door behind me. Debra rubbed her wrists, obviously glad to be unrestrained, and then nodded at the coffee.

"Is that for me?" she asked.

"Yeah. There's creamer and sugar there; I don't know how you take it."

She stirred in some creamer but ignored the sugar; healthy girl!

She took a sip and wrinkled her nose.

"Yeah," I chuckled, "It's not very good. Probably been there a while. Still, better than nothing, eh?"

She just sat back, almost slouched, now that she could because her hands weren't attached the table, staring at me.

"Well Miss Gustav. It is Miss, isn't it? You didn't indicate any spouse?" She shook her head.

"Well, Debra, if I might call you that. What a pickle you appear to be in. Let's see. Officer Hennessey found, yes, almost one hundred grams of weed in your trunk, and on investigation of your purse when you reached the station, found another three joints in there." I flipped through the folder, looking up the arrest report, and then looked up at her into slightly frightened eyes. Good. I could use that.

"That stuff in my trunk. That's not mine. I never saw that before," she protested, immediately, in a slightly whiny tone.

"I'm sure," I murmured, reading more of the report. "No one ever has in these situations."

"Look," she said, urgently, "the joints, okay, those are mine. I cop to that. I had a couple of drinks at the bar over a very long lunch. I was sober. But the stuff in the trunk, I have nothing to do with that"

"Yeah. Right," I agreed, sarcastically. "Look, Debra, the stuff in the trunk in conjunction with the joints in your purse are way past the magic line of forty-two grams, which constitutes intent to sell."

I closed the folder and looked at her. I let it be silent for a moment, before continuing, "You do understand, intent to sell carries a maximum fine of ten grand and up to five years in prison?"

I didn't mention there was almost no chance of her being convicted of that, though. Way too much time and effort for that. If she was an established dealer, then possibly. For her? Not a chance.

She almost sobbed her response, "But it's not mine. I have never seen that before. I'm copping to the joints, but that... why would I have that? I'm a recreational user?"

"I have no idea Debra. Big party coming up? Other secretary friends who need a supplier? How would I know? It was there, though, Debra. No escaping that." It's an old interrogation trick to use the interrogee's name a lot. It promotes a connection and they feel like you know them better than they know you.

"What do I have to do to get you to understand? It's not mine. I would never do that. Ask anybody!" she was getting a little het up. Time ramp it up, then to cool it down. Get her well and truly spooked, then show her there's a way out.

"Be that as it may, Debra, what we have here is a pretty open and shut case. The DA could well throw the book at you. Election year and all that." This was an out and out lie. The fact is, she was really going to be cautioned, asked where she got it and released in the morning anyway, the moment her court lawyer showed up. One hundred grams sounds like a lot, but its less than four ounces and just about a grand of street value, at most. Nobody does time for that. First offense, no record, really not a big deal, but right now, she didn't know that, and I wasn't about to tell her and neither was Miranda. Not exactly sporting of us, but I'm a cop in the Homicide division investigating a murder; fair doesn't enter into it.

"But..." I added, slowly, clasping my hands together on the table in front of me. "The DA and I have... an understanding."

This much was true. The current DA, Michael Bubsy, well, his wife had a cousin who had a son who, when we heard about him, was well on his way to a flourishing - if likely short - career as a drug runner for one of the local gangs. Busby had asked me, in a roundabout way, to scare the kid straight. I'd thought about it, and then picked him up one day on some trumped-up charge, took him with me to the state prison, got the Governors permission to show him around (the Governor loved this idea; one less person he might have to incarcerate) and then after that, took him to the morgue, were we viewed various recently retired gang soldiers.

He got the point. Last I heard, he was in the Marines and had made officer selection. So yeah, the DA and I had an understanding. He wasn't about to throw cases for me, but he'd certainly listen if I asked him, and that fact is that this case wasn't worth the time to prosecute anyway, so I wouldn't even have to waste that IOU.

"What do you want?" asked Debra, flatly, looking back and forth between Miranda and I, unsure who to ask.

"Well, let's face it, Debra. You've not been extremely forthcoming with talking to us about Ashton Polk, have you? Let's start by talking about that."

"If I talk to you, this all goes away?" she wanted to know.

"I can't make that promise, Debra. But I can certainly intercede on your behalf. Remember, I have the ear of the DA. I think I can safely say it'll be a lot better with me as your friend than not, that's for sure." I could sense Miranda nodding behind me.

Miranda could see she wasn't quite convinced, so jumped in with, "Look, we know you were just doing your job holding us off. We get that. We respect you for sticking to your guns, but this is a murder investigation. Your employer is a person of interest, if not a flat-out suspect. Right now, you aren't doing yourself, or him, any favors. You won't speak to us and it just makes him look guiltier, and you by association, which is not something that you want right now. The reality here is that we don't think you really had anything to do with whatever might be going on, and we'd like to clear that up. We only want the truth of the situation, nothing more. We aren't really that interested in prosecuting you. Do yourself a favor and let's move on and remove your boss from our considerations."