Bradley sighed and shook his head. “Swyteck, huh?”
Stafford stared at the dashboard. He cracked his window lit a cigarette, and took a long, satisfying drag. “Swyteck,” he confirmed, smoke and disdain pouring from his lips. “Defender of scum.”
Chapter 18
The steak knife found in Goss’s apartment yielded a nice set of prints, and by the following Monday afternoon Detective Stafford thought they looked even nicer, when Jack Swyteck’s prints came from the Florida bar.
“We got a match!” Stafford blurted as he barged into the state attorney’s office.
Wilson McCue peered out over the top of his rimless spectacles, his working files spread across the top of his desk. Stafford closed the door behind him and bounded into the room with boyish enthusiasm. “Swyteck’s prints are all over the steak knife,” he said with a grin.
The prosecutor leaned back in his chair. Had anyone but Lonzo Stafford charged unannounced into his office like this, he would have tossed him out on his tail. But Lonzo Stafford enjoyed a special status-acquired more than half a century ago, when an eleven-year-old Lonnie entered into a pact with an eight-year-old Willie to remain “friends forever, no matter what.” As boys they’d hunted in the same fields, fished in the same ponds, and gone to the same school, Lonzo always a couple of steps ahead of Wilson on the time line, but Wilson always a notch higher on the grading curve. Now at sixty-five, Wilson looked at least seventy-five, even on a good day.
“I want you to convene a grand jury,” said Stafford.
The prosecutor coughed his smoker’s hack, then lit up a Camel. “What for?”
Stafford snatched the lit cigarette from his friend and smoked it himself, pacing as he spoke. “Because I got a suspect,” he replied, “in the murder of Eddy Goss.”
“Yeah,” McCue scoffed, “so do I. About twelve million of them. Anybody who has seen that animal’s videotaped confession is a suspect. Eddy Goss deserved to die, and everybody wanted him dead. There ain’t a jury in the world that would convict the guy who did the world a favor by blowing Goss’s brains out.”
Stafford arched an eyebrow. “Unless the guy who did it was the same slick defense lawyer who got him-and others like him-off the hook and back on the street.”
McCue was apprehensive. “And I can see the headlines already: ‘Republican State Attorney Attacks Democrat Governor’s Son.’ It’ll be ugly, Lon. With the gubernatorial election just three months away, you’d better have plenty of ammunition if we’re gonna start that war.”
Stafford took a drag on his cigarette. “We got plenty,” he said, smoke pouring through his nostrils. “We got Swyteck’s prints on the handle of a knife we found on the floor. I also had the blade checked. There was blood on the tip. AB negative. Very rare. Same as Swyteck’s. Lab found some fish-stick remnants on there, too, which is what the autopsy showed Goss had for dinner. And best of all, the blood came later, after the fish sticks.”
“Which means?”
“Which means that on the night Goss was murdered I can place Jack Swyteck in the victim’s apartment, after dinner, wielding a steak knife.”
“And you got a victim who was shot to death,” the prosecutor fired back. “I’d say we need more.”
“There is more. Just a few hours after the murder, about seven in the morning, we interviewed Swyteck. This was before he was a suspect. Swyteck came to the door in a pair of gym shorts, right outta bed. Nervous as a cat, he was. Big bruise on his ribs. Looked like a bite mark on his belly. Fresh red scratches on his back. Had an open cut on the back of his left hand, too. It looked like a stab wound, to me and Bradley both. Just to look at him, I’d say he’d been in a pretty recent scuffle.”
“And he would say he fell down the stairs.”
“Maybe,” said Stafford, his voice gathering intensity. “But he’s gonna have a hard time explaining how he knew Goss had been shot before we ever told him so.”
“What do you mean?”
“I checked with the media. No news reports were out about Goss’s murder until almost eight o’clock. We showed up at Swyteck’s house at seven, and we told him Goss had been killed-but we didn’t tell him how. Swyteck knew he had been shot. He said so. It was a slip of the tongue, I think, but he was talking about a shooting before we were.”
McCue listened with interest. “We’re getting there,” he said. He paused to rub at his temples and think for a second. “Why don’t you just arrest him, Lonnie. You know, maybe B and E or something, if all you want to do is rattle his cage?”
Stafford’s eyes narrowed with contempt. “I want to do more than rattle him. I want to convict his ass.”
“Because of what he did to you in the Goss trial?” McCue asked directly.
“Because he’s guilty. The fact that I would thoroughly enjoy nailing his ass doesn’t change that. I wouldn’t tag him or any one of those crusaders at the Freedom Institute just to get even. Swyteck did it. I’m convinced of it. He wigged out and blew away his scumbag client. He screwed up-big time. And I want to be the guy who makes him pay.”
The prosecutor sighed heavily. “We can’t be wrong about this one.”
“I’m not wrong. And if you’d seen Swyteck’s face that morning after the murder like I did, you’d know I’m not wrong. I’ve got a feeling about this one, Wilson. Not some flaky feeling you get when you wake up one morning and read your horoscope. This one’s based on a lifetime of police work. And in all the years you’ve known me, have my instincts ever steered you wrong?”
McCue averted his eyes. He had complete trust in his friend, but the pointed question reminded him that there may very well have been one instance when Lonzo Stafford had steered him wrong-dead wrong. It was a first-degree murder charge that Stafford had built on circumstantial evidence. McCue had gone ahead and prosecuted the case, but by the time it was over, even he was beginning to wonder whether Stafford had tagged the right man. It was academic now, of course. The jury had convicted him. Governor Swyteck had signed his death warrant. The state had put him to death. He was gone. McCue would never forget him, though. His name was Raul Fernandez.
“Let me sleep on it,” McCue told his friend.
“What more do you want?”
He shrugged uneasily. “It’s just that there are so many people who wanted to see Eddy Goss dead. We need to talk to other suspects. We need to talk to neighbors. You need to make sure there isn’t some witness out there, somewhere, who’ll gut the whole case by saying they saw somebody running from Goss’s apartment with smoke pouring from the barrel of a.38-caliber pistol. Somebody who couldn’t possibly be Swyteck. Like a woman, a seven-foot black guy, a friend of one of Goss’s victims, or-”
“A cop,” Stafford interjected, his tone disdainful. “That call to nine-one-one about the cop being around Goss’s apartment has you spooked, doesn’t it?”
McCue removed his eyeglasses. “I’m concerned about it, yeah. And so’s your boss. That’s why he told you about it when he put you on the case.”
Stafford shook his head. “You know as well as I do, Wilson, that if it’d really been a cop who’d blown Goss’s brains out, he wouldn’t have showed up at his apartment wearing a uniform. He would’ve stopped Goss on the street, shot him in ‘self-defense,’ and laid a Saturday-night special in his cold, dead hand.”
Maybe,” said McCue. “But the fact of the matter is that we’re talking about the governor’s son here. And we re talking about a first-degree murder charge. I’m no taking that case to the grand jury until you’ve got some good, hard evidence.”
Stafford’s eyes flared. He looked angry, but he wasn’t. He took it as a challenge. “I’m gonna get it,” he vowed. “I’m gonna get whatever you need to bring Swyteck down.”
McCue nodded. “If it’s out there, I’m sure you will.”