The Last Innocent Man

Crosby signaled to Ortiz and the policeman stepped over to the closet. He opened the louvered doors and started to examine several pairs of slacks that hung on a long row of wooden hangers. He pushed several aside before stopping at a pair of tan slacks. He wasn’t positive, but they were close. It was the shirt he could be sure about. The flowered pattern was distinctive.

He finished sorting through the hangers, then walked back down the line and selected the tan pants. He looked at Stafford. The man had not changed his expression of detached interest, and he had given no indication that he recognized Ortiz.

“Let me see the shirts,” he said to Crosby. The detective stepped back, and Ortiz carefully lifted one shirt after another out of the drawer, placing them in a neat pile on top of the chest of drawers. Midway down, he stopped. It was sitting there. A shirt of brown and forest-green with a leaf-and-flower design. The shirt that the man who killed Darlene Hersch had been wearing. Ortiz called Crosby aside, and the two men conferred in the corridor. Mrs. Stafford stood on one side of the room, nervously shifting her attention between her husband and the door to the hallway. Crosby and Ortiz reentered the room. They looked grim. There were two other policemen with them. That made a total of six officers, and the large bedroom was beginning to shrink in size.

“Mr. Stafford, I am going to have to place you under arrest.”

Mrs. Stafford blanched, and her husband’s composure began to slip.

“What do you mean? Now, see here. I…”

“Before you say anything, Mr. Stafford, I have to advise you concerning your constitutional rights.”

“My rights! Are you insane? Now, I’ve cooperated with you and let you into my home. What nonsense is this? What am I being arrested for?”

Crosby looked at Stafford, and Ortiz watched for a reaction.

“I am arresting you for the murder of Darlene Hersch.”

“Who?” Stafford asked, his brows knitting in puzzlement. Mrs. Stafford’s hand flew to her mouth, and Ortiz heard her say, “My God.” Crosby began reciting Stafford’s Miranda rights.

“You have a right to remain silent. If you choose to-”

“Wait a second. Wait a second. Who is Darlene Hersch? Is this a joke?”

“Mr. Stafford, this is no joke. Now, I know you’re an attorney, but I am going to explain your rights to you anyway, and I want you to listen carefully.”

Mrs. Stafford edged over to her husband with a slow, sideways, crablike movement. Stafford was beginning to look scared. Crosby finished reciting Stafford’s rights and took a pair of handcuffs from his rear pocket.

“Why don’t you change into a pair of long pants and a long-sleeved shirt?” Crosby said. “And I’m going to have to cuff you. I’m sorry about that, but it’s a procedure I have to follow.”

“Now, you listen to me. I happen to be an attorney-”

“I know, Mr. Stafford.”

“Then you know that as of right now you are going to be on the end of one hell of a lawsuit.”

“Getting excited is not going to help your situation, Mr. Stafford. I’d suggest that you keep calm and have your wife contact an attorney.

“Mrs. Stafford,” Crosby said, turning his attention to the lawyer’s wife, “you had better contact an attorney to represent your husband. He will be at the county jail within the hour.”

The woman acted as if she had not heard Crosby. Stafford started toward her, stopped, and looked at Crosby.

“May I talk to my wife in private for a moment?”

“I can send most of my men out, but someone will have to stay in the room.”

Stafford started to say something, then stopped. He seemed to be back in control.

“That would be fine.”

Stafford waited to go to his wife until all but one policeman had left. She looked confused and frightened.

“Larry, what’s going on?”

Stafford took her by the shoulders and led her to the far corner of the room.

“This is obviously some mistake. Now, call Charlie Holt. Tell him what happened and where I am. Charlie will know what to do.”

“He said murder, Larry.”

“I know what he said,” Stafford said firmly. “Now, do as I say. Believe me, it will be all right.”

Stafford changed his clothes and his wife watched in silence. When Stafford was finished, Crosby put on the handcuffs and escorted the prisoner downstairs. Ortiz watched Stafford closely. He said nothing as they led him to the car. He walked with assurance, his back straight and his shoulders squared. Mrs. Stafford stood alone in the open doorway. Ortiz watched her shrink in the distance as they drove away.

2

“There’s a Mr. Holt to see you, Mr. Nash,” the receptionist said. “He says it’s urgent.”

David looked at his watch. It was eight-thirty. He had been at the office since seven working on a brief that was due in two days, and he was only half-done. He was tempted to tell Charlie to come back, but Charlie would not be at his office this early unless there was an emergency. He sighed.

“Tell him I’ll be right out.”