"DO you have information which leads you to believe they are going to?"
"No."
"Then why do you think you are currently a suspect?"
Another smile, smaller this time. "Right now I don't think I am. But when I killed him, I got some of his blood on my clothes. I threw them and the knife I used into some brush behind Hinchcliffe Stadium. I should have thrown them over the falls, but I was in a hurry, you understand."
Hinchcliffe Stadium is a large baseball field, a former minor league park, and it is right next to the Passaic Falls, one of the larger waterfalls in the country. Had Stynes thrown the material into the falls, that would have been the end of it.
"Dorsey wasn't killed behind Hinchcliffe Stadium," I point out.
He smiles. "Don't confuse where he was found with where he was killed. He was found in a warehouse on McLean Boulevard."
I've already pretty much decided I'm not going to take this case, but for some reason, maybe morbid curiosity, I keep probing. "Why don't you just go there and pick the stuff up?"
"Because if for some reason the police are watching me, they'd nail me to the wall. This way, even if they find it, there's a chance they won't tie me to it."
He's just confessed to a brutal murder with all the emotion that I show when I'm ordering a pizza. I am suddenly struck by a desire to pick up the intercom and say, "Edna, this is Andrew. Could you bring in a machete, a can of gasoline, and some matches? Mr. Thumbs-Up wants to show us how he decapitated and charcoal-broiled a cop last week."
"Why did you kill him?" I ask.
He laughs, permanently removing any chance I would reconsider and take the case. "If you knew Dorsey, the more logical question would be, Why didn't somebody kill him sooner?"
"What did you do with his head?"
He smiles, seems to consider answering, then makes his decision. "That's something I don't think I'll share with you. Nor is it relevant to your taking or not taking my case."
He seems to think I might be doubting his truthfulness, so without prodding, he goes on to tell me the mixture of gasoline and propane that he used on Dorsey's body. It is the same as Pete had mentioned to Laurie, but not reported in the newspapers.
I'd like to know more, but that desire soon gives way to another, even more intense one. I want to get this guy out of my office. Now.
I stand up. "Make sure you keep a copy of the retainer agreement. It is your protection against my revealing anything you've said today. I won't be representing you."
He stands. If he's disappointed, he's an outstanding actor. "You think just because I'm guilty I don't deserve a good defense?" he says with apparent amusement.
I shake my head. "I think everyone is entitled to the best defense possible. The guilty generally need it the most."
"Then why are you turning me down? I can afford whatever you charge."
I decide to be straightforward. "Mr. Stynes, when I represent a client, I do everything possible within the system to win. I don't want to be sorry if I succeed."
"You want me to go to jail?" he asks.
"Not as much as I want you to leave my office. I assure you, there are plenty of competent attorneys who will take your case, if it becomes a case."
"Okay," he says. "Whatever you say."
With that he walks out of my office, and I hear him saying a polite goodbye to Edna as he leaves. The meeting has left me a little shaken, which I can attribute to the casual, matter-of-fact manner in which he described committing such a horrible murder.
What I can't figure out is why I'm worried.
MONDAY NIGHT IS TIED FOR THE BEST NIGHT OF my week with Wednesday and Friday. Those are the nights that Laurie and I spend together. We don't often go out; in fact, more often than not we stay at one of our homes and either cook dinner or order in. We each have spare clothes in the other's house, though since Tara is at my house, that's almost always where we sleep.
I admit there is nothing spontaneous about this arrangement, but it works quite well for us. We are in a committed relationship, with all that entails, but we are not ready to live together. This way everything is out in the open, and there are no unmet expectations. We've chosen not to include Saturday night on our list because for some reason we both cherish Sunday morning solitude.
Tonight we're at my house, but it's Laurie's turn to provide dinner. While I can barely manage to order in, Laurie is an absolute master in the kitchen. Anything she finds in the refrigerator, anything at all, can become part of a terrific pasta dish.
Laurie has planted a vegetable garden in the rear corner of my backyard, a testimony to the differences between us. She finds it rewarding to spend her time growing things that the supermarket is already filled with. She seems to believe that if she can't make lettuce rise from the ground, then we'll have to go lettuce-deprived. She's even growing basil, and in a pathetic attempt to curry favor with her, I've forever sworn off store-bought basil.
We're having pasta tonight, some kind of red sauce with things in it. I don't ask what those things are for fear that they'll sound so healthful I won't want to eat them. It's delicious, and with the music and candles and Laurie as company, it should be perfect. It isn't, because I'm still thinking about Geoffrey Stynes and his chilling confession this afternoon.
I move it partially out of my mind, until Laurie mentions that she stopped into the office after I had left. "Edna told me somebody tried to hire you today, but you fought him off."
I try to smile and shrug it off. "You know Edna."
She does know Edna, but somehow that isn't enough to get her to drop it. "She said you seemed upset."
I decide to try honesty. Who knows? Maybe it'll work. "I didn't like him. I didn't like the case."
"Why?"
I shake my head. "It's privileged."
She nods, fully understanding and respecting the meaning of that. It bothers me, not being able to tell her something she would so desperately want to know, but I have no ethical choice.
There are few, if any, things more vital to a defendant's protection in our justice system than the attorney-client privilege. If an accused individual were unable to be honest with his attorney out of fear that his words would be revealed, it would cripple his chances of being adequately defended. I have never breached attorney-client privilege in my life, and I never will.
Ironically, had I accepted Stynes as a client, I could have assigned Laurie to the case as my investigator and told her everything Stynes said. Once I turned him down, I clearly lost the ethical justification to assign an investigator.
Besides, there really is no absolute guarantee that Stynes killed Dorsey. False confessions are amazingly commonplace. Of course, they're usually made to the police, not to lawyers. And the confessors are most often losers and/or lunatics. On the surface at least, Stynes doesn't fit the bill. Even more significant, the fact that he knew the composition of the flammable solution pretty much says it all.
The guy did it.
Laurie drops the issue, though she can tell that something is bothering me. Wild and crazy couple that we are, we decide to do what we often do after dinner: play Scrabble.
Playing Scrabble against Laurie is very difficult for me. We take our glasses of wine and sit on the floor, and I almost instantly find that I can't take my eyes off of her. She is beautiful in a casual, unassuming way, as if it takes no effort. And in her case it doesn't. I have seen her after an exhausting run, after a shower, after making love, after a night's sleep, after a tearful conversation, after a long day in the office, and even after a physical confrontation with a violent suspect. These observations have convinced me that they haven't invented the "after" that could make Laurie look anything but wonderful.
But if I'm looking at Laurie, then I can't be looking at my tiles. This is an effective part of her plan, but it's not nearly the most daunting part of her game. She is a woman with no Scrabble morals whatsoever; she'll do anything it takes to win, and the rules are for her opponents to worry about.
I usually lose by about fifty points, but tonight I'm actually ahead by seventeen. We're about three-quarters of the way into the game, which means she simply will not take her turn unless and until she comes up with a great word. She will ponder and agonize over her decision until August if necessary, but will under no circumstances make anything other than the perfect move.
About ten minutes have gone by, and I'm about to doze off, when she finally puts down her word. It lands on a triple word score, totals forty-eight points, and, if left unchallenged, will put her well into the lead.
The word is … "klept."
Now, there is no reason I should let her get away with this. Well, there's one. She gets really aggressive when I put up any resistance at all.