The Last Innocent Man

He had dropped in on Crosby before going to court, and nothing had changed. No fingerprints, no other witnesses, no leads. Crosby had moved around the edges, not wanting to ask the question directly. Probably under the orders of some department shrink. So Ortiz had answered the unspoken question. Nothing had changed. He still had trouble sorting out what had happened. His memory was getting better every day, but it blurred and faded, and even when his idea of things seemed clear, he could not be sure if what he was seeing was what had really happened.

The public defender was still gabbing, and Ortiz shifted in his chair in the witness box. Thinking about his memory and that night had spoiled the feeling of peace he had experienced when he had started giving testimony. It was Darlene that troubled him. He was afraid of the pictures he would see when his memory came back. Afraid that he had been responsible for her death. Everyone assured him that it wasn’t so, but how did they know? How could they be so sure of what had happened that night?

The public defender looked up from his notes. Ortiz waited for the questions, grateful for a chance to escape from his own thoughts.

“Officer Ortiz, what happened to Officer Murdock and Officer Elvin after Teske and Hennings left the scene?”

“They remained in the residence.”

“Thank you, I have no further questions.”

“You’re excused,” the judge said. Ortiz was surprised he had gotten off so easily. Maybe the schmuck was learning.

Jack Hennings, Ortiz’s partner, looked up from his newspaper when the courtroom door opened.

“You’re on,” Ortiz said.

Hennings handed the paper to Mike Elvin and went through the door. Ortiz turned toward Elvin to ask for the sports section when he noticed two men talking at the other end of the corridor. His hand started to shake and his chest felt suddenly constricted. The two men concluded their conversation, and the older man walked toward him. Ortiz did not see him. His eyes were riveted on the younger man-the blond. He had started down the hall that led to the elevators, but Ortiz was seeing him in a different place. He was remembering a man with curly blond hair walking quickly along the landing that ran outside the rooms at the Raleigh Motel, and he was seeing a face spotlighted for a moment in the doorway of the motel room where Darlene Hersch had died.

The older man passed him, and the blond disappeared around the corner.

“Tell Jack to wait for me,” he said to Elvin. Elvin looked up, but Ortiz was already halfway down the corridor.

There was no one in the hall when Ortiz reached the corner. He looked up at the floor indicator. Both elevator cars had reached the ground floor. Ortiz walked back toward Judge Rosenthal’s courtroom. The law student who served as the judge’s clerk was reading a textbook in the empty courtroom and munching on a sandwich.

“Excuse me,” Ortiz said. The boy looked up.

“There was a lawyer in here just now, with blond hair. Can you tell me who he is?”

“Why do you ask?” the boy asked suspiciously.

Ortiz realized that he was dressed for undercover work and looked as grubby as the degenerates he had to mix with. He walked across the room and flashed his badge.

“Now, can you tell me his name?”

The boy studied his badge, then hesitated. Ortiz knew he was thinking about the constitutional rights his professors had told him he had.

“I don’t know if-” the boy began.

“You’d better,” Ortiz said softly, and there must have been something in his tone, because the boy spoke.

“Stafford. Larry Stafford.”

“And where does he work?”

“The Price, Winward firm. It’s in the Standard Plaza Building.”

Ortiz put his badge away and headed for the door. Halfway there, he stopped and turned.

“This is official police business, you hear, and I don’t want this mentioned to anyone. If it gets back to me that you opened your mouth, you’re in serious trouble.”

There was a pay phone near the elevators. The phone book had two listings for Lawrence Dean Stafford. Ortiz wrote them both down; then he called homicide. Ron Crosby answered.

“This is Bert Ortiz, Ron. I want you to check something for me. I need the make of car for Lawrence Dean Stafford, 22310 Newgate Terrace.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Just do it for me by this afternoon, okay? I’ll be back to you.”

“Does this have something to do with the Hersch case?”

“Everything.”

THE LUNCH HOURcrawled by and Ortiz made his second call to Crosby shortly after one.

“I’ve got your information,” the detective said quietly. The tension on the other end of the line was the tip-off. Crosby had struck pay dirt. “There are two cars registered to Lawrence Dean Stafford. The first is a Porsche and the second is a Mercedes-Benz.”

Ortiz said nothing. He was cradling the phone and staring at the wall of the phone booth, without seeing it or feeling the plastic thing in his hand. He was back on Morrison Street and the Mercedes was right in front of him.

“Is this your man, Bert?”

“I think so, but I have to see his face.”

“You saw the killer’s face?”