The Last Innocent Man

NEWGATETERRACE WASa long, winding, tree-lined country road fifteen minutes from downtown Portland. At uneven intervals driveways led the way to expensive homes, few of which were visible from the street. Stafford’s home was at the end of a stretch of straight road. A row of tall hedges screened the house from view, and the policemen were not able to see it until they had driven a short distance up the driveway. The house was a two-story Tudor design painted a traditional brown and white. The grounds had the well-manicured look of professional care, and there were several large shade trees. The driveway circled in front of the house, and Ortiz imagined the Mercedes parked in the garage that adjoined it on the left.

The young woman who answered the door was puzzled by the appearance of two carloads of uniformed policemen at her doorstep.

“Mrs. Stafford?” Ron Crosby asked.

“Yes,” the woman answered with a tentative smile.

“Is your husband home?”

“Yes.”

“Could you please ask him to come to the door?”

“What’s this all about?”

“We have a matter to go over with your husband. I’d appreciate it if you would get him.”

The woman hesitated for a second, as if hoping for more of an explanation. She got none.

“If you’ll wait here, I’ll get him,” she said, and walked toward the end of the hall, disappearing around the back of a staircase that led upstairs from the foyer. Ortiz watched her go and his stomach tightened. In a few moments the man who killed Darlene Hersch would come down that hall.

Ortiz was in uniform, and he had placed himself at the rear of the small group of policemen. He wanted a long second look at Stafford before the lawyer got an opportunity to recognize him. Crosby and two policemen had stepped into the foyer to await Mrs. Stafford’s return. A moment later Larry Stafford, dressed in Bermuda shorts and a red-and-black-striped rugby shirt, walked down the carpeted corridor. His wife trailed behind, more visibly worried now.

“What can I do for you?” he asked with a wide smile. Ortiz concentrated on the face. There was so much light in the hallway, and there had been so little in the motel room. Still, he was sure. It was him.

Crosby handed Stafford the search warrant. Ortiz watched him carefully as he read it. If Stafford was nervous or upset, he did not show it.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand… What did you say your name was?”

“Crosby. Detective Ron Crosby, Mr. Stafford.”

“Well, Detective Crosby, I don’t understand what this is all about.”

“That is a search warrant, Mr. Stafford. It is an authorization by a judge to search your house for the items listed in the warrant.”

“I can see it’s a search warrant,” Stafford said with a trace of impatience. “What I want to know is why you feel it is necessary to invade my privacy in the middle of the night and rummage through my personal effects.”

“I’d prefer not to go into that right now, Mr. Stafford,” Crosby said quietly. “If you’ll just permit us to do what we came for, we won’t take much of your time.”

Stafford scanned the warrant again.

“Judge Rosenthal signed this warrant?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes, sir.”

Stafford said nothing for a moment. There seemed to be a private war waging inside him. Then he relaxed.

“Search if you want to. I’m sorry if I gave you a hard time. It’s just that I’ve never had anything like this happen before. I’ll even make it easy for you. I own several sport shirts of this type,” he said, indicating the list of clothing set out in the warrant, “and at least three pair of tan slacks. Why don’t you come up to my room and I’ll show you. Then, if you’re not satisfied, you can search the house.”

Stafford was not reacting the way Ortiz had expected him to. The man was too self-possessed. Maybe he was wrong. After all, he had gotten only a fast look at the murderer’s face, and he was dazed and in pain at the time. And there was the lighting. No, there had been enough light. The globe outside the motel room was very bright. Still, it had been so fast.

Stafford started to climb the stairs to the second floor with his wife close behind. Ortiz stayed to the rear as several officers followed Crosby. Two men stationed themselves in the foyer.

Stafford’s bedroom was toward the rear of the house. It was bright and airy and had a decidedly masculine feel about it. A sliding glass door led to a small balcony, and Ortiz glanced out into the darkness. A twin bed sat against the north wall. It was unmade, and the edge of one of the blankets touched the hardwood floor. A large walk-in closet occupied the east wall, and an expensive-looking chest of drawers stood to their right as the party entered the room. Stafford pulled out one of the middle drawers and stood back.

“My sport shirts are in here. My slacks are in the closet.”