gestures conveyed sexual interest. I once might’ve followed up on them, before Savannah became a constant on my mind.
“Cordell Logan to see Charles Dowd.”
“Is Mr. Dowd expecting you?”
“He is.”
She picked up her telephone, tapped a couple of buttons with the eraser end of a pencil, keeping one eye on me, and let Dowd know I was in the lobby.
“Down the hall. Last door on your right.”
“’Preciate it.”
“Anytime,” she said with the hint of a smile.
Definitely interested.
Dowd was waiting for me outside his office in his shirt-sleeves, red suspenders, and a bright paisley tie, hanging loose. The fingers of his right hand clutched a fat, unlit cigar. He was paunchy, on the north end of sixty, and wore what remained of his hair in a ragged gray Afro that brought to mind an aging, black Bozo. Nobody, however, would’ve characterized his temperament or intellect as clown-like.
“I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”
“As I indicated,” he said without shaking my hand, “you’ve got ten minutes.”
His rumpled appearance matched the decor of his office. Case files and law books were strewn about. His desktop looked like the aftermath of a tsunami. The walls were naked but for a battery-operated clock and a framed law degree. The timepiece was hammered copper and shaped like the continent of Africa. The sheepskin was from Yale.
“I’ve been trying capital cases for thirty-five years,” he said as he parked himself behind his desk in a well-worn leather executive chair. “Dorian Munz was as guilty as they get. That doesn’t mean the government had the right to do him like it did. No man’s got that right.”
I sat down in a folding chair opposite his desk. “You said on the phone you’d let me have a look at Mr. Munz’s closing remarks.”
“You a PI?”
“Flight instructor.”
“A what ?”
“It’s a long story and you’ve got ten minutes. If I could just see the videotape . . .”
He eyed me sideways, firing up his cigar with a lighter shaped like a gavel. “I still don’t get what you’re trying to get at, Mr. Logan.”
“Just trying to bring a little closure to a father who lost his child.”
“Closure’s vastly overrated.”
Dowd dug a laptop out from under a pile of legal briefs on his desk, typed in a few commands, swiveled the computer screen in my direction, checked his watch, then sat back with his feet up, smoking and gazing out at the sailboats plying San Diego Bay.
The videotape was black and white and less than a minute long. It offered few insights beyond what Hub Walker had already shared with me: Munz lay lashed to a gurney, gazing into a camera mounted on the ceiling above him. Through tears, he alleged that Ruth Walker had stumbled upon a billing scam in which Castle Robotics had ripped off Uncle Sam to the tune of nearly $10 million for work that was never performed. Ruth, he said, intended to go to the authorities with what she knew before she was killed. But that wasn’t the only reason, he said, why Greg Castle wanted her dead.
“Ruth had a baby, Castle’s baby,” Munz said into the camera. “He wanted her to get an abortion and she said no, so he killed her—or had somebody do it for him.”
Munz acknowledged that his relationship with Ruth had turned bitter but insisted he was no murderer. “I loved that girl,” he declared. “I’ll always love her.”
The tape ended.
“What proof did Ruth Walker have that Castle’s company was ripping off the Defense Department?”
“Mr. Munz received an anonymous letter about a month after he was convicted,” Dowd said, flicking the ashes from his cigar into a cut crystal bowl on his desk. “All the letter said was that Castle was dirty, that Ruth Walker knew it, and that’s why she died.”
“Any idea who sent the letter?”
“Not a clue.”
Whoever mailed it, Dowd said, also sent copies anonymously to various local news media outlets. The story dominated San Diego’s
“Cordell Logan to see Charles Dowd.”
“Is Mr. Dowd expecting you?”
“He is.”
She picked up her telephone, tapped a couple of buttons with the eraser end of a pencil, keeping one eye on me, and let Dowd know I was in the lobby.
“Down the hall. Last door on your right.”
“’Preciate it.”
“Anytime,” she said with the hint of a smile.
Definitely interested.
Dowd was waiting for me outside his office in his shirt-sleeves, red suspenders, and a bright paisley tie, hanging loose. The fingers of his right hand clutched a fat, unlit cigar. He was paunchy, on the north end of sixty, and wore what remained of his hair in a ragged gray Afro that brought to mind an aging, black Bozo. Nobody, however, would’ve characterized his temperament or intellect as clown-like.
“I appreciate you taking the time to see me.”
“As I indicated,” he said without shaking my hand, “you’ve got ten minutes.”
His rumpled appearance matched the decor of his office. Case files and law books were strewn about. His desktop looked like the aftermath of a tsunami. The walls were naked but for a battery-operated clock and a framed law degree. The timepiece was hammered copper and shaped like the continent of Africa. The sheepskin was from Yale.
“I’ve been trying capital cases for thirty-five years,” he said as he parked himself behind his desk in a well-worn leather executive chair. “Dorian Munz was as guilty as they get. That doesn’t mean the government had the right to do him like it did. No man’s got that right.”
I sat down in a folding chair opposite his desk. “You said on the phone you’d let me have a look at Mr. Munz’s closing remarks.”
“You a PI?”
“Flight instructor.”
“A what ?”
“It’s a long story and you’ve got ten minutes. If I could just see the videotape . . .”
He eyed me sideways, firing up his cigar with a lighter shaped like a gavel. “I still don’t get what you’re trying to get at, Mr. Logan.”
“Just trying to bring a little closure to a father who lost his child.”
“Closure’s vastly overrated.”
Dowd dug a laptop out from under a pile of legal briefs on his desk, typed in a few commands, swiveled the computer screen in my direction, checked his watch, then sat back with his feet up, smoking and gazing out at the sailboats plying San Diego Bay.
The videotape was black and white and less than a minute long. It offered few insights beyond what Hub Walker had already shared with me: Munz lay lashed to a gurney, gazing into a camera mounted on the ceiling above him. Through tears, he alleged that Ruth Walker had stumbled upon a billing scam in which Castle Robotics had ripped off Uncle Sam to the tune of nearly $10 million for work that was never performed. Ruth, he said, intended to go to the authorities with what she knew before she was killed. But that wasn’t the only reason, he said, why Greg Castle wanted her dead.
“Ruth had a baby, Castle’s baby,” Munz said into the camera. “He wanted her to get an abortion and she said no, so he killed her—or had somebody do it for him.”
Munz acknowledged that his relationship with Ruth had turned bitter but insisted he was no murderer. “I loved that girl,” he declared. “I’ll always love her.”
The tape ended.
“What proof did Ruth Walker have that Castle’s company was ripping off the Defense Department?”
“Mr. Munz received an anonymous letter about a month after he was convicted,” Dowd said, flicking the ashes from his cigar into a cut crystal bowl on his desk. “All the letter said was that Castle was dirty, that Ruth Walker knew it, and that’s why she died.”
“Any idea who sent the letter?”
“Not a clue.”
Whoever mailed it, Dowd said, also sent copies anonymously to various local news media outlets. The story dominated San Diego’s
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