DESCRIBE KOLB ROAD – GRAY,
LOW EXCEPT; VIEW OF PLACE
DEPENDS ON ATTITUDE,
EXPERIENCES
Secret entrance?
STORY OUTLINE MacGloughlin
Felipe and Arne (investigators in the
Criminal Investigations Unit ASPC Kolb
Road, Tucson) are tasked to
investigate the discovery of a small of
cocaine found in the cell of inmate
Heinrich Bornheim (79, contraband
found during the previous days
“surprise” quarterly intensive search of
the houses (cellblocks) of Trimble Yard
(level 4), House 5 (geriatric) When FA
arrive at Bm’s cell his body is stabbed
dead. FA think murder from the start,
and soon they connect it with the
apparent suicide of Paul Bornheim
(45), a faithful visitor and caller of HB,
in his locked-from-the-inside office an
exclusive Tucson Foothills mansion.
Traces of cocaine are also found in BT’
s office. FA assume a drug trafficking
connection to the murders, although
they have no evidence in the case of
HB and the Tucson PD are treating BT
as a suicide. FA spend time running
down in-prison and outside leads to
both murders from the drug end,
several wrong turns. F is sure it is drug
related; A investigates the history of
HB and BT in NJ, discovering that both
were involved in a gold skimming
operation at a metal refinery in Perth
Amboy. HB had been stashed away in
AZ in view of possible future testimony.
BT escaped prosecution, then followed
to AZ, visited him at every opportunity,
spoke to him by telephone everyday.
Very cozy and lovey-dovey, but where
does it get us?-
CHARACTERS
Felipe Andres (Andy) Anderson Norton
MacGloughlin Torreblanco 45 in 1999,
born May 5th, 1954, Empalme,
Sonora, moved Franklin Pierce City,
Ten. 1956, Father: Scotch Irish, 1/8th?
Chickasaw; mother Alejandrina
Carolina Torreblanca Metabache
Mexican/Chinese, brother sister born
1956 FT, F looks Anglo, sis MX, father
and grandparents (1909) prohibited
learning Spanish as child, learned as
adolescent; struggled to get MX
citizenship, also has TN birth
certificate. Grandfather dentist and
farmer, Baptist lay preacher –
grandmother PreHByterian, daughter
minister. F raised as “Phillip” in Bible
Belt church atmosphere, alternating
Baptist and PreHByterian. Father died
railroad accident 1960, grandparents
refused to allow weak mother take F
back MX, took them in to house. First
wife (Phyllis Margo Chandler ) from
“Franktown”, born 1955, married 1973
at (she) 18 and (he) 19. Moved AZ
May 1975 when Talvin Industries
moved from FT to Tucson.
Grandparents retired and moved to T
1976. Phyllis didn’t like. Both went FT
Xmas 1976, she stayed. F came back
to sell house but learned she had
taken up with a “white boy” like mother
wanted. Stayed T. F in 1978 married
Melinda Alma Gomez. By 1980 had two
daughters: Catherine – May 5, 1979;
Emeliana – November 5th 1980. Talvin
job was night so F studied Pima
Community college 1977-80. In 1980
Talvin closed and A did one year as
fulltime student at UA, but with savings
running low joined DOC at Wilmot
Complex with promise pay 2 courses
UA per semester. Graduated UA May
1984 History/Criminology. 1990
transferred to Kolb Road Complex, met
A as partner, 9 years together by late
1999. F has 11 Yorkies. March 1997
Melinda dies accident. Catherine
Married July 1997, moved Phoenix.
Emiliana is 19 in December 1999.
Boyfriend like Rysen. Lived with father
in Continental Ranch home after
mother died but now with uncle Platon
and aunt Mercedes, attending UA.
December 1997 A sold CR house,
living borrowed weekend house on
Campground Road, Mt Lemmon, near
Summerhaven, in order to be more
protected from angry drug lord. Next
door lives Bríghid Mary Russell who
sleeps with her gigantic Golden
Retriever, Bertold. Become friends,
lovers, she wants to marry, have kids.
F likes the idea of kids but sees her
body as very frail and is hesitant to
marry again. F is bipolar, takes
Lexapro, down mornings, up later,
counseling every Wednesday. Attends
swanky St. Stevens PreHByterian
Church PCUSA in Tucson Foothills for
social – not formally religious, follow
golden rule.
Arne George Klinghoffer – Born 1948
in Phelps Dodge “company” copper
mining town of Clifton, AZ, to German
Mormon immigrant parents, father a
local Phelps Dodge policeman. He
later strayed from the faith – became a
“Jack Mormon.” Learned fluent,
unaccented but low class Spanish from
Mexican miners’ kids playmates; Ran
around with his fathers police buddies
and became policeman there at 17 in
1965, later CO at Ft Grant State
Prison opened at the old Ft. Grant
army base south of Safford in 1968. In
1968 he also married his high school
sweetheart, Katty. By this time he was
a heavy drinker. He was transferred
from Ft Grant to Kolb Road in 1974
because of his drinking and under
suspicion of having killed an inmate
who had made a quadriplegic of a
fellow officer. Katty was fed up with his
drinking and went back to Clifton and a
sweetheart she had left there. He was
fired from DOC in March, 1977 for
continued drunkenness (and
‘coercing” a confession out of an
inmate, who later died). He brought a
lawsuit against DOC which got no
where. After being fired he joined AA,
stayed sober, became active in the
Mormon Church for the first time since
leaving Clifton, and in March 1978
married Bettysue Morgan (27) an
elementary school teacher who
converted from Baptist to Mormon to
marry him. Then graduation weekend
1978 while working part-time weekend
duty at county jail “saved” the nephew
of then Congressman now US Senator
Benjamin VanDahl and his Mormon
Bishop brother Carlyle VanDahl. The
nephew was being booked for public
drunkenness. Arne beat off some
Hispanic inmates who were shouting
they were going to rape the cute white
boy. A found him rolled up in a fetal
position of the shower room floor
bawling like a baby. A ran the Mexican’
s off (he saids they were just joshing
the kid), took the kid to medical, got a
phone number out of the kid, called a
sister, and got the family involved. A
thus became something of a protégé
of extensive, influential, and wealthy
VanDahl family. As a hero of sorts,
DOC settled the suit and took him back
as a CO3 at Spanish speaking Santa
Rita yard, Wilmot complex, where his
Spanish was useful. Having gotten job
security and “the big head” A started
drinking again. He and Bettysue went
through several difficult years of
durnkeness and then sober periods in
AA and counseling. She would leave
him, he would reform and bring her
back, then it repeated. Since 1977 he
was invited (and forced by DOC to
attend) to the VanDahl’s elaborate
Thanksgiving Feast at the family
compound in Tempe. Thanksgiving
1980 he was with the VanDahl party
exiting the Arizona Mormon Temple in
Tempe when Baron Randall, a member
of a dissident Mormon polygamist sect
which had some Mormon political
grievance against the VanDahls,
attempted to shoot the Senator and
the Bishop. Baron got a shot into
Carlyle’s clavicle and then turned the
gun right in front of Benjamin’s face. A
lent over grabbing the gun and falling
to the ground with Baron, turning the
gun to Baron’s head and pulling Baron’
s finger on the trigger. The Arizona
Republic reported that Baron shot
Carlyle and then turned the gun on
himself. No one who was close to the
action believed that. After this A
became sort of a lucky charm for the
VanDahls. They offered A a very
lucrative position at one of their
companies but he declined, being
comfortable at DOC and now felt
secure there – he was a hero and not
going to be fired. He also liked
occasionally “putting down” a bad guy.
Beyond that, he held the senator in
high esteem and didn’t want his
drinking problem to come to the
senator’s attention. A turning point
came in July 1982 when Bettysue
asked help from Carlyle VanDahl,
explaining the problem. A literally
“never knew what hit him.” On 1
August 1982 a very hung-over morose
A was settling in his office at Santa
Rita yard 3 when his captain and two
very beefy men dressed as hospital
orderlies entered. The captain told A
he had been authorized 3 months
leave. With no other words or
explanation he was forcefully taken out
to the Santa Rita vehicle sally port,
strapped into an ambulance bed,
driven to Tucson International Airport,
and placed on a private jet where
Bettysue awaited him. Three hours
later he had been admitted in a very
exclusive California detox spa. He
praises what happened there as
making his life. Although he
occasionally attends AA now, he
denies having desired a drink since
1982. Acts sloppy and crazy at work,
shirt tail out, jalopy with one door
different color, does different fictional
detective every month, Met him at CDU
“fuck her, throw regs.”
Catherine Melinda MacGloughlin
Gomez – May 5, 1979 Married July
1997, moved Phoenix.
Emeliana Margaret MacGloughlin
Gomez – November 5th 1980. She is
19 in December 1999. Boyfriend like
Rysen. Lived with father in Continental
Ranch home after mother died but now
with uncle Platon and aunt Mercedes,
attending UA.
Frederick R. Jackson - Complex
Chaplain. Retired former Army major
MPs then Chaplain. Golf tournaments,
bare story, Alaska.
Bettysue Morgan Klinghoffer - March
1978 (27) married A; an elementary
school teacher who converted from
Baptist to Mormon to marry him. Get
new Mercedes every Christmas from
VanDahls. Parents well-known gospel
duo in SW.
Bríghid Mary Russell – teaches Pima,
has gift and candle shop Somerhaven,
sells hand made candles internet. Born
June 1967 – 32 in 1999, Ulster
Catholic parents immigrated US 1974.
She non-religious but biased against
Ulster protestants and PreHByterians.
She accepts F – “You’re more a
Mexican than Orangeman.” But doesn’t
like his PreHByterianism. Involved in
Tucson ethnic festivals but holds back
on Scottish Festival.
Captain Mahler – head CIU, jewish,
accepts can do nothing with A.
Warden O’Brien, ASPC Kolb Road,
Tucson. Good warden, or keeps good
appearances. Old history with A, both
were at Ft. Grant. Supposedly hates A
but calls on him to help with wayward
grand-daughter.
Javier Salanez – CIU porter 5’9”, lanky,
extremely well spoken and courteous
in Spanish, afraid of being sent to OK.
Alvaro Hernandez – cacique Cornfields
Unit – From wealthy, politically
important Mexican family, in for life for
gunrunning to the Túpac Amaru
guerillas in Peru, and for the (he saids
accidental) death of a Pima County
sheriff’s deputy., now 21 years, always
Cornfields, benevolently controls as
cacique – all peaceful, only minor drug
use allowed, works equipment repair
shop, contacts everywhere. A calming
influence, CF warden has learned to
use him. No lockdowns etc., to keep
family from visiting.
Diego Bermudez Ortega Inmate
Cornfields gardiner, 78, in for life,
killed wife and shot lover (BT). BT
remorseful, paid DB lawyer, gave
brother job, puts maximum $25 dollars
in DB’s inmate store account every
week – DB refuses to use it.
Griegs – black CIU porter. Former high
school teacher who had affair with 14
year old girl student, ran away with
her, in for rape and kidnapping and
attempted murder. Girls family powerful
enough to keep him in. Passes
messages, A give him real coffee.
Melinda Alma MacGloughlin Gomez –
second wife F, died of injection of
Bedoyecta in pharmacy in Magdalena
1997. Born Indio, California, 1968,
carried back to MX at two, knew little
English, 1974 moved Tucson live with
uncle, work in his 4th avenue MX
restaurant “Los Saguaros,” F and
Phyllis often ate there, became friends
with uncle and Melinda. When Phyllis
divorced, F ate there very often, soon
a romance and marriage May 22, 1978
– big shindig south Tucson dance hall,
where he years later investigated a
shootout. He Lived uncle’s ranch
house for couple first two years
because F’s house was already in
escrow. MAG not want house where
“she” had lived. Civil wedding – she
not believe in saints or RCC. She
wanted to “fully develop” herself, made
a career at TUSD in various positions
that did not require good English. She
was bi-polar manic-depressive as later
diagnosed – really bad when kids were
babies, then better, then getting worse
in later years, usually refused
treatment, although took Prozac for a
time in early 80’s with great benefit, but
then stopped the treatment because it
took away control of her life. She saw
F as the great evil influence on her life
and often spent hours telling him how
bad he was. He was very unhappy but
stayed with her because of inertia and
for his dear girls. He was also bi-polar
and this affected his reactions to her.
From the early 1990’s he was taking
Prozac and then Lexapro. In the 1990’
s when the girls were getting older he
several times made plans to leave her,
but never got to the point of doing it.
By 1997 he was resigned to stay with
her but concerned about being at her
mercy in old age. Then suddenly she
was dead in March 1997 from a freak
toxic reaction to a fairly ordinary
vitamin injection.
Phyllis Elizabeth Chandler
MacGloughlin – first wife of F, HS
sweetheart, both young and ignorant,
Both went FT Xmas 1976, she stayed.
F came back to sell house, but learned
she had taken up with a “white boy”
like mother wanted. She divorced him
in TN.
Platon Gomez Ferez – Uncle Melinda,
proprietor “Los Saguaros,” helped F
get MX citizenship, loaned ranch house
for couple first two years because F’s
house was already in escrow. MAG not
want house where “she” had lived.
Retires owning several MX restaurants.
James Edward Slanton – Houseguest
to Paul Bornheim last five months,
finger prints show him wanted in
Florida for embezzlement, sent back
before prints found on BT gun, now
how get him back?
Charles James Williams - butler to BT
Elena Gonzalez Ruiz 63 in 1999, born
1936 BT’s cook and housekeeper.
Last year BT got her grand-daughter
Mariana pregnant (that was OK) but
then forced her to have an abortion –
that greatly upset Elena who has no
other descendants, sees Mariana as
undesirable – was pleased BT took her
and wanted the child. Went after BT
with unloaded shotgun when learned
of abortion.
Mariana Elena’s grand-daughter – has
wilted right had and ugly scare on face
from childhood burn.
Federico “Fred” Bermudez Ortega 72
in 1999, born 1927 BT’s gardener,
handyman – is brother of Diego
Bermudez Ortega - but BT knew this
and cared for him, wasn’t afraid. Did
he kill for revenge.
Paul Bornheim –45 (1954) victim –
found in locked room (45), of HB, in his
locked-from-the-inside office an
exclusive Tucson Foothills mansion.
Traces of cocaine are also found in BT’
s office. HB first got money from
account in 1946 used to flee Germany
and Alte Kamaraden for Mexico. BT
born Guadajara 1956. emptied 2nd
account 1960 and moved to PN. , tried
3rd (which has Heydrich paperwork
which would embarrass Swiss banks)
1976 but number wrong,; came AZ
1976 (56) seeking correct number;
arrested traffic stop AZ 1976, warrant
found outstanding AZ warrant – appeal
failed, 1978 (58) convicted attempted
murder on celly in Florence while
appealing,
BT moved Phoenix 1978 (24) to be
near father in Florence. Moved to
Tucson in 1986 (32) when HB
transferred there. Married, brings
grandchildren to visit HB
Dec. 1999 HB gave BT location of #3
account secret numbers, then commits
suicide with sharpened cross stolen
from Doyle. BT is killed by AK agent
butler to get secret numbers.
came to Kolb Road 1986 (66), to
house 5 geriatric .
Disliked, difficult IM at first, then
became docile to get visits. Kept quite
about money/documents thinking
German government would free him.
BT has been trying to get it out of him.
Contraband found in cell during the
previous days “surprise” quarterly
intensive search of the houses
(cellblocks) of Trimble (yard, level 4).
When FA arrive at Bm’s cell his body is
stabbed in heart. FA think murder from
the start, and soon they connect it with
the apparent suicide of Paul Bornheim
(45), son, a faithful visitor and caller of
HB, in his locked-from-the-inside office
an exclusive Tucson Foothills mansion.
Traces of cocaine are also found in BT’
s office
Heinrich Bornheim (79) 1920,
Austrian, Heydrich deputy entrusted
with info secret Swiss accounts of NAZI
gold, traveling by submarine Europe-
Buenos Aires June 1944 (24) ( as crew
member; sub captured, HB and crew
sent Sahuarita, AZ, POW camp,
escapes Xmas 1944, captured
Nogales, AZ – while out left numbers
on several hopefully permanent
surfaces; in several pow brawls – in
one kills US civilian worker breaking up
fight. convicted of murder by State of
AZ; after war sent back to Austria
against protest of AZ. ,
3 accounts, one emptied 1946, one
1960,
HB first got money from account in
1946 for use of “Viergestirn Hilfsverein
der Alte Kameraden,” a “ratline” or
escape routes for Nazis and other
fascists fleeing Europe at the end of
World War II. The escape route led
toward safe havens in South America,
particularly Paraguay. In the mid-
1950s there was a falling-out and HB
fled
Germany and Alte Kamaraden for
Mexico. BT born Guadajara 1956.
emptied 2nd account 1960 and moved
to PN. , tried 3rd (which has Heydrich
paperwork which would embarrass
Swiss banks) 1976 but number wrong,;
came AZ 1976 (56) seeking correct
number; arrested traffic stop AZ 1976,
warrant found outstanding AZ warrant
tried 3rd (which has Heydrich
paperwork which would embarrass
Swiss banks) 1976 but number wrong,;
came AZ 1976 (56) seeking correct
number; arrested traffic stop AZ 1976,
warrant found outstanding AZ warrant
– appeal failed, 1978 (58) convicted
attempted murder on celly in Florence
while appealing, came to Kolb Road
1986 (66), to house 5 geriatric .
Disliked, difficult IM at first, then
became docile to get visits. Kept quite
about money/documents thinking
German government would free him,
then embittered. BT has been trying to
get it out of him.
Contraband found in cell during the
previous days “surprise” quarterly
intensive search of the houses
(cellblocks) of Trimble (yard, level 4).
When FA arrive at Bm’s cell his body is
stabbed in heart. FA think murder from
the start – no weapon - and soon they
connect it with the apparent suicide of
Paul Bornheim (45), son, a faithful
visitor and caller of HB, in his locked-
from-the-inside office an exclusive
Tucson Foothills mansion. Traces of
cocaine are also found in
STORY OUTLINE
I am a LEO (law enforcement officer), a
CO3 (Correctional Officer level 3)
detective in the Criminal Investigations
Unit Arizona State Prison Complex on
Kolb Road, Tucson, Arizona. It still
surprises me to say that. It’s not what I
started out to be. In October, 1980, I
was just starting my junior year classes
at the University of Arizona in
education, when my night job at Talvin
Industries, my employer for eight
years, closed their Tucson plant. The
economy was a little tight, but I found
what I considered a temporary job in
education at the Arizona State Prison
Complex-Wilmot Road, Tucson. The
pay wasn’t what I was used to as a
foreman at Talvin, but they would pay
for two colleges classes per semester.
It was easy work and I was on a
minimum-security yard with no danger.
But then, after six months, I was
required to attend the six week
correctional officer’s training academy
in order to keep the job. The economy
was still bad, so – what the hell? – I did
it. No sweat.
But, then, after a year there was a
reorganization of the education
department at the complex, and the
position I had held now required a
degree. Guess who still lacked 24
hours of college credits? I was on the
way out. “But look, you’re lucky,” said
the lieutenant from the personnel
office, “you’ve been to the academy,
so we can transfer you as a CO.”
Yes, “good luck“– from a soft desk job
to walking the corridors and recreation
yard among real, live inmates with just
a can of MACE and a not fully reliable
radio. There is a world of difference
between having 1 or 2 inmates in your
office, or even 20 in a classroom, and
walking alone in a yard with 80 or a
100 inmates mulling around. Of
course, I got used to it. Inmates from
minimum security up to level 3 are OK,
rarely dangerous. Level 4 is different,
but Wilmot Road only had two Level 4
yards and I was never permanently
assigned to one. I did occasionally pull
temporary duty at one of the 4 yards
(Rincon and Cimarron). At Rincon I
usually found CO2 Mason on duty
when I was. He was loud and bad. I
learned to stay in his shadow.
They still talk about me at Rincon. I
became famous when early one
morning I found blood splattered in
front of the education building.
Expecting the worst, I called an IMS
(Incident Management System) alert
on my radio. That was supposed to
mean something serious and
dangerous had happened. An armed
Incident Response Team rushed over,
the yard was “locked down” with all
inmates, even kitchen workers, locked
in their cells. The warden brought
some people visiting from
Administration in Phoenix over to see
his IM team in action. Everyone’s
adrenaline was up. The IM team began
searching the education building with
“take no prisoners” looks on their
faces.
And then, oh, and then! It turned out
that a rabbit had gotten into the yard
during the night and someone had
killed it. About an hour before I called
the IMS a CO had come upon the
“crime scene.” He carried the carcass
off to the trash and used his radio to
report the incident and ask someone
to send a porter to clean up the blood.
By the time the warden and guests
arrived, no one would admit having
heard the report. And the radios were
always unreliable. Later a few allowed
that maybe they had heard that earlier
report but they didn’t want to question
“the teacher’s” judgment. After that,
whenever I went on Rincon Yard I was
“the teacher” or “the rabbit man.”
So, how did I get from the “rabbit man”
of Rincon Yard at ASPC-Wilmot Road,
who never worked higher than a level
3 yard, to detective in Criminal
Investigations Unit at ASPC-Kolb
Road? Aren’t those guys real tough
cop types? That’s been asked a lot
either about me or to me. I think there
is a saying about being kicked upstairs
in a job to your level of incompetence. I
guess that’s me. I began in education
at Wilmot Road before the days of
compulsory high school classes for all
inmates under 40. We pretty much
only met the serious guys who wanted
to get an education and set their lives
straight – or so they convinced us.
Also, working lower level yards, I didn’t
come into contact with violent
offenders. So I had a somewhat more
positive (or rosy) outlook towards
inmates than the traditional CO
attitude that they are all liars, all bad
and not to be trusted. And I was wrong
sometimes.
A big blotch on my record is the 14-
month long robbery and embezzlement
carried on by two of my trusted inmate
clerks when I ran the store at Tate
Yard, Wilmot Road. Yes, I did trust
them to much, especially “PT” a very
intelligent black guy who I largely
allowed to run the store. While I sat in
my glassed-in office listening to NPR or
chatting with whatever CO3 who was
free at the moment and came in for a
soda or snack, “PT” and “Streak” had
a free hand. The deputy warden
wanted to dismiss me, but I wasn’t just
any CO2. I was a DOC hero.
You see, nine months previous, while I
was on my way to work at 6:00 one
morning, I had stopped at a Mexican
market in south Tucson to buy a copy
of “El Imparcial,” the major Spanish
newspaper of the area, to read at work
to improve my Spanish and to give to
the Spanish speakers on Tate yard. I
often did this. There was a newspaper
machine for “El Imparcial” right at the I-
10 south Tucson exit, so the stop only
took five minutes.
Well, this particular morning there was
a major drug deal going down there.
Three or four cars sat around in front
of the market but I paid them no
attention. As I stepped out of my car in
my CO uniform, I suddenly found
pistols and several AK-47s pointed at
me. Before I could faint about thirty
highly armed highway patrol officers,
Pima County sheriff’s officers, Tucson
police officers, and DEA agents came
out of the shadows and got the drop
on the bad guys. Only one of the guys
with an AK-47 tried to resist and he
died very quickly and permanently.
If I hadn’t been to the toilet before
leaving home I would have
embarrassed myself. Moreover, I would
have fainted had there been time – but
it was all over in 30 seconds. Then, no
one told me to leave and my car was
now blocked-in anyway, so I hung
around the crime scene with guys in
five other kinds of uniforms. No one
ever asked why I was there. Finally
there was a call for the senior
representative of every organization
represented to come have there
picture taken. I was in a group photo in
the Arizona Daily Star identified as the
DOC man in on the operation, and had
a 40-second interview on the nightly
TV news. Somehow, the story became
that I was part of the plan all along,
that I bravely drove in there alone to
cause the bad guys to commit
themselves.
The DOC Administration loved it and
now I was not just “the rabbit man” but
also a DOC hero. So, when the IM
store scandal came to light, the deputy
warden was quite angry with me but
not ready to come down hard on a
DOC hero – DOC doesn’t have many –
so he gave me recreation duty, where I
could do little harm and the inmates
would keep me busy. That was true.
They kept me continually busy getting
recreation equipment, or fixing it, or
solving their dozens of needs with that
old and incomplete equipment we had.
That job certainly got me into good
physical condition and maybe I had
found my niche. I could have stayed
there until retirement.
However, “DOC will be DOC.” That is,
the Administration acts in its own
mysterious way. After a year as
recreation CO, we got a new deputy
warden who shifted most of the
personnel around.
I was put in charge of the Tate Yard
crafts workshop, where, again, there
wasn’t much to do, little to steal, and it
was understood that the inmates knew
much more about the equipment than I
did. However, I was supposed to
continually circulate in the shop to
make certain no one was making a
weapon, and to carefully search them
when they left the shop for any
possible contraband. Well, I’m just not
a hard ass, and my searching was
minimal – after all these were guys on
a minimum yard, all expecting to go
home within nine months, why would
they risk that by making weapons?
Well, I don’t know why, but come one
quarterly search at Tate Unit and two
shanks (homemade knives) were
found in a dorm - on a minimum yard
IMs are in unlocked dorms rather than
cells - that had clearly been made in
my shop. Then several more were
found in the shop. The Tate deputy
warden made a big thing of it: the first
time on his watch that weapons had
been found on Tate Yard! He wanted
me fired from DOC with no pension,
and he even talked of charging me
with criminal negligence, etc, etc. In
fact, he might even do the worst thing
to me that can be done to a Tucson
based CO: get me transferred to
Winslow Complex up on that cold,
windy, dry, dusty, isolated, God-
forsaken Colorado River Plateau. I
would have quit DOC before going to
Winslow!
But by now I was even a little more of a
hero.
You see, several months before, we
had a minor hostage incident on
Cimarron Yard. Several Mexican IMs,
lifers with little to loose, took four
medical staff and three COs hostage
and demanded a laundry list of “quality
of life” improvements on Cimarron
Yard. These being days of
enlightenment at DOC, the decision
was made to negotiate rather than use
“direct action.” The official DOC
hostage negotiator, a Dr. Tilden, a
psychiatrist from Phoenix, rushed down
at midnight, with the hope that the
incident would be over in time for the
morning news. She and her interpreter
both seemed to be coming down with
the flu, but, being professionals, they
forged ahead. The negotiations were
going well when the interpreter came
down with diarrhea and retired to
medical. The incident commander,
Deputy Warden Howell from Admin, put
out an emergency call for a Spanish
speaker to come in to interpret.
Although more than a third of the COs
on the yard were of Mexican heritage,
no one came forward to interpret. This
was partly because they didn’t want to
get involved in an affair that might turn
out bad, and partly because many of
them were from families which had
discouraged their learning Spanish
because in Arizona a Spanish
surnamed person who speaks both
Spanish and English is considered
lower class than one who speaks only
English. Some of the hostage-takers
could have interpreted, but DOC
needed its own interpreter involved.
When no one volunteered, DW Howell
cursed mightily and looked out the
control room window to see a bus
unloading seven COs, including yours
truly, who had come over as re-
enforcements. Before we were through
the two gates of the sally port, he was
shouting at us, asking who spoke
Spanish. I was the only one innocent
enough to answer in the affirmative. He
looked rather questioningly at me, “A
gringo like your Speaks Spanish?” I felt
offend. “Señor! Me llamo Felipe
Andres Norton MacGloughlin
Torreblanca, Nací en Empalme,
Sonora, MEJICO!” I proclaimed.
I don’t know if he understood any of
that, but he rushed me over to a golf
cart, and soon we were with the
negotiators in the yard library, where
the bad guys were hold up.
Negotiations had continued with no
official interpreter present, and all I did
was help to confirm what had been
agreed. Officially, DOC conceded
nothing, but unofficially, two of the
most abusive COs on the yard were to
be transferred off complex, and the
hostage takers would all get major
discipline tickets but kept on the yard.
My part in resolving the incident was
about as minimal as possible and still
have been there, but the photos in the
Arizona Daily Star and on TV news the
next day showed me right there beside
Dr Tilden and DW Howell as the team
that had peacefully and quickly
resolved a potentially disastrous
situation. In addition, they mentioned
my part as a hero in the drug bust. I
even got a letter of thanks from
Director Harlan, the big boss in
Phoenix.
So, by the time of the contraband
weapons incident, I was a double hero
at DOC, and Tate’s DW Carlson
couldn’t discipline me as he wanted.
Nevertheless, he could raise a big
stink about getting me off Tate Yard.
That’s where the being kicked upstairs
in a job to your level of incompetence
comes in. I don’t know what went on in
Wilmot Road Administration or what
deals they cut with the Administration
at ASPC Kolb Road, but I advanced
from CO2 to CO3 and went to the
Criminal Investigations Unit at Kolb
Road. What I wanted to do was go
back to being a recreation officer on a
low-level yard, but according to the
Warden’s secretary, no DW at Wilmot
Road would have me.
So, on Monday, July 2, 1990 I reported
to Kolb Road Complex. I spent two
hours of orientation and paperwork
with Mrs. Percell, Director of
Personnel. She seemed a nice,
grandmotherly type of about 5’8”,
round, grey hair, black glasses
hanging from her neck. She reminded
me of my high school English teacher,
only younger and plumper.
Finally, she very formally announced
that I was to form a CIU team with a
CO3 Arne Klinghoffer. After she told
me that, she sat back with a smile on
her face waiting for my response as if it
should be loud and interesting. I
disappointed her. Arne Klinghoffer was
a name I knew, but no more. I had
always been at Wilmot Road and he
had never worked there. I vaguely
remembered he had once done
something heroic like saving the
governor’s life at a party in Phoenix. Or
was it a senator? But I knew no more
than that. I knew nothing of his
reputation as impossible to work with,
dangerous, and certifiably insane.
A look of disappointment slowly
covered the personnel lady’s face.
“You do know who Klinghoffer is?” she
ventured.
“He’s a hero isn’t he?” I countered.
She looked at me appraisingly as if to
ask herself, “Can he really be that
uninformed, or is he pulling my leg?”
She seemed to decide to go ahead as
if I hadn’t just derailed her plans. “That’
s the only CO3 opening we have at
Kolb Road Complex. If it doesn’t work
out, I can get you on to the recreation
yard at either Winslow or Ft. Grant.”
I didn’t know how to respond. I would
have worked with Joseph Stalin rather
than go to one of those forlorn places.
“Thank you,” I said.
Mrs. Percell seemed rather
disappointed with me. “You are to meet
him and CIU Captain Mahler at 1:00 in
room E6, CIU.” It was only 10:00, so I
went off for a long lunch.
At 12:50, I was at the door of room 6,
building E, which houses training and
conference rooms, the complex
chaplain, and the complex armory, the
complex gym, and the Criminal
Investigations Unit. The door was
locked, so I went a few doors down to
the Captain’s office, which was also
locked. Across the hall a door was
open, so I went over. There I met a
portly black man, about 6’2”, with a
rather serious smile, reading glasses
hanging over his stomach just like Mrs.
Percell, but these were silver framed.
He rather reminded me of former
Supreme Court Justice Thurgood
Marshall, with that sort of lost,
academic look. “Oh, they all went off to
lunch at Margo’s,” he informed me,
“CO3 Cassidy’s retirement lunch. They
won’t be back before 2:30 or 3:00.”
Margo’s was a truck stop restaurant
down Kolb Road from the complex,
which was very popular with DOC staff
because of the extra large portions
they served. I had been to a few
retirement luncheons there and
doubted they would be back before 4:
00, just in time to check out. “Both
Mahler and Klinghoffer?” I asked.
“Mahler for sure. You never know
about Arne, but probably so. He
seemed normal today,” the chaplain
replied.
Rather than pursue that “normal
today” thought, I called Mrs. Percell for
orders.
She took it in good stride: “Oh, I should
have thought of that. Mahler probably
took his radio. I’ll try to get him at
Margo’s and call you there at the
chaplain’s.”
It’s strange that our aging radios often
don’t work reach everywhere within the
complex, but they will always reach
down to Margo’s. She called me back
in five minutes “OK, its set definitely for
10:00 tomorrow morning. You don’t
have to come in ‘til then. The “Cap”
apologizes for this afternoon.”
Now being free for the rest of the day, I
stayed on chatting with the chaplain
who didn’t seem occupied. He
apologized for not having coffee,
saying that he has just arrived himself.
He went over to Captain Mahler’s
office, opened it, and put on coffee.
While we waited, he did have designer
chocolate to offer, - Amano Artisan
Chocolate from Belgium. He proudly
informed me that this had won first
prize at the 1999 Seattle Chocolate
Awards. It was delicious, but I manfully
held myself to five pieces. Bríghid had
made several remarks recently about
watching our weight. Since she is
almost a skeleton, that means
watching my weight.
Frederick R. Jackson was always
called ‘the chaplain’ or ‘Jackson’, never
‘Fred’. He had been Complex Chaplain
at ASPC Kolb Road for two years,
having come aboard after retiring as a
major in the US Army Chaplains Corps.
His job was to coordinate and fill-in for
the other eight chaplains at Kolb Road
Complex. I later learned that he had
been in the military police before
becoming a chaplain. He was from
Florida, had served two tours of duty in
Alaska, and had dozens – I suppose
hundreds – of stories about his time
there, which he loved to tell. His bear
stories were especially good. The
denomination with which he was
ordained was the Combined National
Baptist Assembly. His greatest
disappointment in life was not having
made bishop. Several times per year,
he would mention, “if I had pastured a
church I would be a CNBA bishop by
now. But chaplains don’t make
bishop.”
When the chaplain understood that I
was to be a new partner for Arne, he
gave me a close, studying look. “You
really expect to work with Arne?”
“Well, yes. Is that strange? Something
wrong with that?”
He slowly replied, “You know, Arne
works alone.”
I innocently replied, “I suppose Arne
will work with whoever DOC tells Arne
to work with.”
He again gave me that strange,
studying look, reminding me of Mrs.
Percell’s “Are you pulling my leg?”
glance. He seemed to decide not to
proceed with this topic. “Well, you’ll
meet ‘the Cap’ and Arne tomorrow.
Where are you from? Been with DOC
long?”
Tuesday morning at 9:58, I was again
at door E6. It was locked again.
However, this time the captain’s office
was open. Captain Mahler proved to
be a very average man: about 5’11”,
slightly overweight, slightly pale
complexion, vaguely dark eyes and
hair. His only distinguishing point was
one of those funny, thin moustaches
that I think they call British army
moustaches.
He introduced himself, had me sit, and
poured coffee. He offered me the one
chocolate donut left on the plate, but
good manners told me to decline it. He
seemed to realize that. He cut off a
corner for himself and handed me the
rest. It was tasty and the coffee was
truly delicious.
I must have smiled because Mahler
gave me a grin “Yeah, Arne demands
the best. That’s Jamaican Blue
Mountain Peaberry #2, Arne’s favorite,
$58 a pound.” I must have looked
shocked, because he continued, “DOC
doesn’t pay for it. Somebody gives it to
Arne and he brings it in.”
I later learned that the VanDahls
provide Arne all he wants. He provides
it to the office and, more importantly,
breaks DOC policy by giving it to
inmates. You see, DOC policy prohibits
a CO giving anything to an inmate.
They can investigate you for giving
anything worth over one dollar. So how
do you reward an inmate who has
given you a valuable tip? You can help
them get a job, or a better cell, or
possibly squash a disciplinary ticket.
But, after that, what? I used to buy
candy bars at the IM store at two for 90
cents and give them out one or two at
a time when an IM did me a special
favor, tip, or what ever. But, Arne?
Arne has class. He buys the three
once jars of ersatz coffee they sell in
the store for 98 cents, empties the jar,
stuffs it with maybe 5 ounces of
Jamaican Blue Mountain Peaberry #2,
and gives those jars out for good tips.
Arne can do that. I came to learn that
Arne can do many things I wouldn’t
dare try.
Mahler had also worked at Wilmot
Road and even on Tate Yard, so we
had a good half hour chat about
people we knew. When it passed 10:
30, I asked if we were waiting for
Klinghoffer. He gave me one of those
studying looks like I had gotten from
Percell and the chaplain yesterday.
“What do you know about Arne?”
This time I was ready. After all those
hints yesterday that there was
something to “know” about Arne
George Klinghoffer, I had spent last
night calling up COs I knew from
Wilmot Road asking what they knew
about him. Several knew he had a
reputation as crazy, or dangerous, or a
hero – “they said he thinks he’s
Sherlock Holmes,” or “didn’t he kill an
inmate at Ft. Grant and bury the
body?” or “didn’t he save a senator’s
life?”
I gave my prepared answer, “Well
Captain, I understand he’s a crazy,
dangerous hero. He’s probably hard to
get along with.”
Mahler rocked back in his chair two or
three times, again studying me. “All
that’s more or less true, and a good bit
more. He can be dangerous. He is a
hero to some people, some very
important people. He wants to be
thought crazy or even seriously
insane. He’s not easy to understand: I’
m not sure I understand him at all.”
He rocked for another minute or two.
“But there is more than that for you to
understand. I value him greatly. He’s
my most productive investigator. He
gets continual, valuable results. He’s
probably as valuable to the
department as two or even three of the
other four investigators. Yes, he does
stuff that would normally get a CO3
kicked out on his ear. But that won’t
happen to Arne for two reasons.”
He raised his left hand and ticked off
the reasons. “One is that he is a
golden boy to the VanDahl family,
probably the most powerful and
influential family in the state of Arizona
– both politically and in Mormon
Church circles. He really did save the
lives of Senator Benjamin VanDahl and
Mormon Bishop Carlyle VanDahl. He is
also, as I said, my best CO3 and I
would fight like the devil to keep him.”
I later discovered why this was no small
matter. DOC Director Harlan, the big
boss in Phoenix, is Mahler’s step-
father.
At this point Mahler pulled two cigars
from his desk and offered me one –
Joyas de Panama “Churchills.” I
declined, saying that I didn’t smoke. He
sighs, “I’m the only smoker here.” He lit
up there in the office and I realized why
he had a table fan in the open window
blowing air and smoke outside on one
of the hottest days of the year.
“There’s a third possible reason that
Arne’s gold,” continued Mahler. “He
has some kind of a strong relationship
with Complex Warden O’Brien. It
seems to be more hate than love, but it’
s strong, old, and a mystery to me.
Nevertheless, I wouldn’t be surprised
to see O’Brien go to the mat for Arne.”
I wondered why he was telling me all
this.
“I’m telling you all this because I want
you to understand the situation very
well. It is important to me that Arne
have a partner, the right kind of
partner. Since he’s been one of my
investigators - three years now - he
has worked alone. That’s not normal
and not good. I’m convinced he would
work better with a partner, be happier,
would probably even be more
productive. And, most important, would
probably slow his pace so that he not
wear out so quickly, and be here until
he retires or at least until I move on.”
At this point, there was a brief knock
on the door and it opened to reveal
the head of the chaplain. “Oh,” he
said, “I thought I would join you, but I
see you’re busy.” He raised an
eyebrow at Mahler “Giving him the
sales talk on Arne?”
Turning to me he gave his “sincere
chaplain” mile “I know you won’t
believe it, but most of what the Cap
tells you about Arne is true. If you’ll just
take the time to know Arne and
tolerate his foolishness, you’ll find he is
really a great guy, worth knowing. That
last little snot the Cap had in here had
no concept of the opportunity he had. I
hope you do.”
Leaving, he said “Catch you later,
Cap.”
Mahler responded “Yeah, sure, Major.”
He saw my questioning glance. “Oh, he
calls me Cap because I am also a
Captain in the Army National Guard.
And I call him Major, because that was
his last army rank. In any case he gave
you some good advice.” He shrugged.
“In the past year I’ve assigned four
guys as partners for Arne. Three were
guys about Arne’s age and
experience. I thought he might work
well with a peer. None of them lasted
more than two weeks. Arne was just
too high intensity for them to bother
with. In May, I assigned him a young
hot shot from Yuma who had made
CO3 after only four year with DOC. He
looked about 19 but was 23. I thought
Arne might take him on as sort of an
adopted son. No luck; after the first
day the kid asked to be transferred
back to Yuma – refused to even come
in to talk to me.”
He seemed to reset himself in the chair
as if getting serious. “The point is that
my major goal is to get a good partner
settled on Arne. I’ve learned that peer
CO3’s don’t work because they don’t
have the necessary motivation to
adjust to and tolerate Arne. And the
adopted son idea didn’t work either.”
He gave me what I came to consider
his serious but confiding stare. “So
now I’ve got you. Hopefully I have
explained why I need you as a partner
for Arne. The why it’s in your best
interest to stay is perhaps more
complicated, but I think you will agree.”
I stirred at this. “It’s true that I want to
work in Tucson, but Arne is beginning
to sound like some serious baggage. I
could always work somewhere else in
Tucson, the Pima County Sheriff, or
even Pinal Sheriff’s office. My house is
in Continental Ranch, just a few
minutes up the freeway to Pinal
County.”
He gave me a knowing smile I didn’t
like. “But you’re rather comfortable at
DOC, aren’t you? Anywhere else you
would actually have to work to earn
your way.”
I tried to give him a shocked and
confused expression. “What do you
mean?”
“MacGloughlin, I know a lot about you,
studied you before requesting your
transfer here.”
Requested me? The first I’d heard of
that.
“MacGloughlin, your record at DOC isn’
t impressive. Despite your being a
“hero”, no body wants you in there
command. You’ve either messed up or
just gotten by in every post you’ve
had. The only place where you have a
good job report is from running the
recreation Yard at Tate, where the
inmates kept you busy. You’ve been
kicked upstairs to CO3, but in truth you
weren’t cut out to be a corrections
officer, perhaps not to be an LEO at
all, or at least not where you have to
be tough with the bad guys.”
He was giving it to me hard and I didn’t
particularly like it. “Some of what you
said may be true, Captain Mahler. But
with those conclusions, why am I here?”
“You’re here CO3 MacGloughlin,
because I think you may fit in with a
situation where you don’t have to
supervise inmates, where your natural
curiosity can be put to use solving the
little mysteries that come our way, and
where you can have an extremely able
partner who can both teach you and
complement your deficiencies – just as
you will complement his. Moreover, you
will each cover the other’s ass from
time to time. I think you’ll do it because
you don’t have better options.”
That was clear enough. I liked the way
he put it. I probably would like the
investigating role. “Captain, is
Klinghoffer really dangerous? Really
crazy?”
Mahler smiled, apparently realizing he
had won the battle. “He’s only
dangerous occasionally to bad guys.
You have my word that he will never be
dangerous to you.”
He rocked several more times, as if
phrasing carefully his answer about
Arne’s sanity. “He’s not crazy in any
way that would endanger you. In my
opinion he’s not really crazy at all. He
does, yes, often act crazy. I don’t know
why. Part of it is he wants to offend
Warden O’Brien. Probably something
from their history back at Ft. Grant.
You know that Arne is rumored to have
done a revenge killing on an inmate
there. O’Brien may have somehow
been on one side or the other of that.
Arne isn’t saying.”
“Why have all these potential partners
refused to work with him?”
Mahler gave me a half-smile, half-
grimace. “He comes on strong at first,
testing you. If you will ignore his antics
for two days, I think you’ll be home
free. On a daily basis here in the
office, his greatest irregularity is his
occasional slouchiness, and this game
about playing fictional detectives.”
I smiled, “that’s what they said about
him thinking he’s Sherlock Holmes?”
“Yes, or Poirot, or Maigret, or Nick
Charles, or a dozen others. He does
one per month when he doesn’t forget
it. But that’s harmless. Arne is
harmless. You’ve just got to adjust and
accept.”
“OK,” I sighed “I’m convinced. What do
I do?”
“He’s waiting for you over at CDU.
Undoubtedly, he’s going to put on a
show for you. Just go with the flow. Don’
t react to anything.”
As I walked out of building E, the
chaplain was sitting in the front patio
with several COs and education
people, sharing his luxury chocolates.
He waved the box at me. “I tell you
true: get to know Arne and you’ll love
him.” This brought several guffaws
from his audience.
I walked over to the Admin building,
which also has Main Point Sally Port,
the principal pedestrian entry into the
secure area inside the complex fence. I
walked up to the metal detector,
emptied my pockets into a tray, placed
one hand over my belt buckle, and did
the little twisting dance through the
detector door that I had learned at
Wilmot Road.
The young Hispanic women running
the detector smiled at me. “You must
be from Wilmot. You don’t have to do
the dance here. Just walk through
normally and you’re OK.”
I glanced at her sheepishly, “Glad to
know that.” I walked up to the outer
sally port gate which was just then
opening, entered the waiting area with
five or six others in both civilian dress
and uniforms, and exited into the
secure area inside the complex fence.
I could have walked to CDU (Complex
Detention Unit) about a third of a mile
off to the west but didn’t want to. You
see, I have a bone spur growth on my
left heel, which makes walking long
distances painful. I’ve seen the x-ray –
it makes a quite artistic looking curve
up the back of my heel. They want to
cut it off but I don’t like the idea. And, I’
ve found that with just the right shoe
with just the right sole cushioning
insert, I get along OK.
In any case, one of the old,
dilapidated, yellow school buses they
use for transportation here inside the
fence was pulling up at Main Point. I
followed the others on to the bus and
was surprised to notice that the driver
was a black inmate named Jenkins
whom I had known for years when he
was a bus driver at Wilmot Road.
“Hey, Jenkins, when did you leave
Wilmot?” I said as I sat down right
behind him.
“Hey Rabbit Man. Didn’t know you were
here. I had a little trouble, had to teach
a new guy some manners. They
reclassified me and sent me over here.”
I really hate it when they call me Rabbit
Man, but decided long ago that it was
better to ignore it than to object. “But if
you were in a fight you must have
gotten a major ticket. How come you
got a job so quick?”
“You know how that is. They needed a
reliable driver over here, so that ticket
just got lost between Wilmot and Kolb.”
Yeah, I did know. However, I didn’t
want to get involved in that can of
worms.
We pulled up to CDU and I got off with
a uniformed CO. We nodded and
walked up to the gate. There was only
one gate here rather than the inner
and outer gate sally port most yards
have. I pushed the buzzer on the gate
frame.
“You must be new. You have to walk
around over here so someone inside
can notice you.” He said.
“Oh, is the buzzer broken?”
“Not broken, but there’s usually no one
in the control room to hear it.”
The gate clicked open. Someone had
seen him. I discovered that CDU was
manned with only two COs. One was
always busy in the “runs” or cell
corridors working with the twenty to
thirty inmates in CDU at any one time
for “criminal” rule infractions. The other
was usually in the CO3 office doing
paperwork. From there he had a good
view of the area to the left of the sally
port gate.
At 8:23 a.m. Monday, December 6,
1999, I drove into the parking lot of
Building E at the Arizona State Prison
Complex on Kolb Road in Tucson. As
usual, I parked my 1996 blue Dodge
Caravan minivan in the second spot
from the northwest corner, next to an
unwashed, slightly dented, dull
aquamarine 1986 Chevrolet Caprice
with a replacement brown driver’s
door. Sitting in it listening to NPR’s
‘Morning Edition’ was my partner Arne
Klinghoffer.
As he climbed out, I noticed he was
dressed in his Sherlock Holmes attire
with a deerstalker cap, Inverness cape,
and Mahogany Calabash Pipe (which
he never lights). So, he’s going to be
Holmes for December. He was
Hércules Poirot in November but not a
good one because he can’t do an
accent.
“Mornin’ Arne,” I said thoughtlessly.
“Happy Monday!”
He walked a few feet toward me and
starts.
I mentally kicked myself for the
oversight. “I mean, Good morning to
you, my dear Holmes. Dreary day,
what?”
“As you said, Watson.” We started
toward the building.
The chaplain shouted a welcome as
we passed his door. Captain Mahler’s
door is open but the office is empty.
Arne opened our office, E6, tossed the
Tucson paper, the Arizona Daily Star,
and the state paper, the Arizona
Republic from Phoenix, on his desk
and turned on his desk radio to NPR.
I went to the armory office down the
hall to pick up two charged walkie-
talkies, or ‘two-way handheld
transceivers’ as they are official know
to DOC. All showed scratches and
missing paint, each one unique, so I
could pick two that I had learned with
experience would hold a charge
longer. We were supposed to change
them out during the day as the charge
died, but if we had been just sitting in
the office we often didn’t notice the
charge has gone.
Arne had started brewing coffee, his
Jamaican Blue Mountain Peaberry #2,
and I sat looking through the Republic
in anxious anticipation of my first cup
of the day of that ambrosia. Arne and I
had nothing active going on for the
day or even the week, and I was
wondering if we would just sit around
the office today, or pull out some
recent IMS file to go back over, maybe
finding somebody overlooked before to
go interview. When Arne was being
Holmes, he wanted people to see him.
“We could go back to that stabbing in
the Trimble sweat lodge,” I offer. We
never got to interview Chaplain Doyle.”
DOC had collected all of the Native
Americans who claim to follow
traditional religions on Trimble Yard
where Father Doyle, the yard chaplain,
maintained a sweat lodge to fulfill their
religious freedom.
He looked up from the Arizona Daily
Star classifieds with the Calabash Pipe
hanging from the corner of his mouth.
There is no tobacco in it – Arne doesn’
t smoke.
“Yeah, we might,” he said, without
enthusiasm. Arne doesn’t like Doyle,
considers him ‘smarmy.’ You look it up.
“They did quarterly search at Trimble
last week. I suspect we’ll get something
from that.”
No, I think, we won’t. We were
supposedly reserved for really
important things and offsite
investigations. Mahler rarely called us
in over contraband found in a quarterly
search.
It had just turned 9:00 when Mahler
stuck his head in our door. “Oh, you’re
here. Good. I’ve got something for
you.” He took the third chair.
Arne smiled, “Please be seated,
Inspector Lestrade. How can your
humble servants be of service to
Scotland Yard?”
Mahler knew how to get what he
wanted with the least effort. “You see,
Mr. Holmes, with this flu what’s goin’,
round the Metropolitan Police are a
little understaffed and we could use
your help.”
“Most certainly, my good man. How can
Dr. Watson and I help?”
Mahler continued in the expected vain
“Well, you see, Mr. Holmes, we did our
quarterly search at Trimble Prison last
week and have several resulting
matters that need attention. We would
be most obliged if you and Dr. Watson
would look into one of them for us.
Specifically, a stash of cocaine turned
up in cell B7 of house 5, occupied by
seventy-nine year old inmate Heinrich
Bornheim. Could you be so helpful as
to do a follow-up interview with
Bornheim?”
Do the geriatrics in House 5 use
cocaine? I asked myself. It certainly
was not common.
About thirty minutes later, we had had
our requisite two cups of morning
coffee and were on a bus going to
Trimble Yard.
“How did you know we would get in on
this?” I ask. “We almost never do.”
“Elementary, my dear Watson. Simple
deduction. I knew Martinez and
Blanden are both out sick. And,
Foreman has gone back to Maryland
to his mother’s funeral. The Cap was
going to need us.”
We entered Trimble Yard sally port,
signed in at control, and walked over
to House 5 passing a recreation yard
on our left where maybe a hundred
orange uniformed inmates were
playing basketball or just milling
around.
House 5 had the standard design of all
inmate housing at Kolb Road Complex.
It was a ‘T’ shape with the main
entrance at the top of the ‘T.’
Immediately inside the entrance was
the control room. Leading off to the left
was ‘A’ run, off to the right was ‘B’ run,
and back from the control room was ‘C’
run.
I didn’t know the CO2 on duty but he
knew Arne. “Hello, Sherlock how’s
Baker Street? Come to solve one of
my mysteries?”
“Good day to you, Constable McKinley.
Inspector Lestrade has indeed sought
my assistance in a small matter. Is
Bornheim out there on the recreation
yard?” he replied politely, waving the
pipe toward the yard.
“No, I kept him in for you. Mahler called
that you were coming, I mean Lestrade
did,” he corrected. “B7, door’s
unlocked.”
We walked down B run past closed
doors, which might or might not have
been occupied. You see, our inmates
do have privacy. There are no bars
here. The walls are concrete, the
doors are solid metal, and the windows
are small. B7 was the fourth door down
on the left.
I reached it first, shouted “BORNHEIM,”
heard nothing, opened the door, and
quickly wished I hadn’t.
Bornheim was sprawled on the
unpainted concrete floor, partially
curled around the foot of his bolted-in-
place steel framed bunk bed. His
hands seemed to clasp his left chest
but there was blood everywhere. He
was dressed in the standard padded
orange pants and jumper, but the
jumper was now dark red.
I stepped back and waved Arne in. He
reached over to check the body while I
ran back toward the control room
pulling out my radio to call for an
“incident management response”
team. “IMS, IMS, inmate severely hurt
House 5 cell B7, lot of blood, need
medical,” I shouted into the radio.
As I reached the control room with the
radio in my hand CO McKinley realized
I was calling the IMS in his house. He
looked at me questioningly, “You sure
about this?” he asked through the
glass. I just nodded yes.
He then picked up his radio, “That’s
Trimble Yard! IMS Trimble Yard, House
5, cell B7.”
I had forgotten to say what yard! My
radio was on channel 3, which was a
complex radio channel, which reached
more than just Trimble. I caught my
breath and clicked on my radio. “Yes,
Trimble yard, House 5, B7, medical
and criminal IMS called by complex
CO3 MacGloughlin.
Arne was now at my side, “He’s dead.”
Just then, the entrance door flew open
and three COs came rushing in with
MACE ready to use. Arne barked to
get their attention and then sent them
down B run. Soon medical was their,
and CO3 Reyes had taken over as
incident commander. He briefly
interviewed us and then let us go back
to CIU.
We didn’t speak on the way back, but
as we entered the office I asked Arne
what he had made of the scene. He
hesitated, no longer Sherlock Holmes.
He hung up his deerstalker cap and
Inverness cape on the back in our
small closet and looked around for the
pipe.
He grinned his Lee-Marvin-in-Cat-
Ballou grin, “Seem to have lost the
pipe.” He shrugged “I’ve never gotten
used to dead bodies. Let’s get our
reports done while it’s fresh.” He
handed me an incident report form and
sat down to fill out one himself. He
finished his quickly and I certainly had
little to say.
He had just finished wondering again,
where he had left the pipe when
Mahler and the chaplain both came in.
“You folks OK?” the chaplain asked.
“Tell me about it, Arne!” the Captain
demanded.
Arne sat down behind his desk. I pulled
four diet Wal-Mart cokes from our mini-
refrigerator. They sat in our visitors’
chairs as Arne explained that
Bornheim was dead when we arrived,
apparently stabbed in the chest, no
sign of a knife or shank which might be
under the body. We had touched
nothing except to check his pulse.
We all knew that we wouldn’t learn
much from the IMS team. Professionals
from the Tucson PD would do the
crime scene investigation, and might
have a very preliminary report for us
next morning.
The chaplain finished his coke and
asked for another. “You know,
Captain, this must have been at least
something of a shock. You ought to
give these two the afternoon off.”
“Yes,” said Mahler “Take the rest of
the day off, but I want you to actually
go home and rest.”
Arne grunted “Thanks,” then looked at
Mahler “You going to want us to
handle this Cap?” Mahler was no
longer Inspector Lestrade. Arne had
turned serious.
“I don’t see any choice, Arne,”
responded Mahler. “I’m short on
people and you two are the best in any
case.” He leaned back and seemed to
consider his words. “There’s
something that I was going to tell you
after you had interviewed Bornheim
and gotten an opinion of him. That
cocaine that was found in Bornheim’s
cell last week was probably planted. It
was just too clumsily hidden. It was
meant to be found.”
“Is that what Bornheim said?” I asked.
“Bornheim was moody and refused to
talk last Friday. They hoped he would
be different today. He was an old man
and spoke English as a second
language. I have the impression that
as he got older he retreated into his
native German.”
“You think he was probably set up by
an inmate of House 5 trying to get him
off the yard?” I continued.
“Most likely,” Mahler answered. We all
four knew what the alternative was.
There had been cases where COs
either on yard staff or on search teams
had become over zealous and planted
contraband in inmate’s rooms, either
because they were sure the guy was
getting away with something or simply
because they didn’t like the guy. I had
discovered a case like that only a few
months before on Salmon Yard, which
the DW had hushed up.
“It’s really unlikely a con would do this,
a plant,” Arne ventured. “What motive
would be worth the cost? That much
merchandise, already inside, was quite
valuable. Why sacrifice it to get
someone in trouble? There are much
cheaper ways of doing it. It’s hard to
see a con doing this?”
“I know,” said Mahler. “I haven’t come
up with a good theory.”
“It seems more likely to me” the
chaplain offered “that one of the
search team found the coke elsewhere
earlier in the search and used it to
settle a score with Bornheim.
Somebody he had pissed off last
month or last year. I saw something
like that in the MPs. It does happen.”
“I don’t know that we have much of that
here, Mahler hedged, “but Yeah, it
could be that. I don’t want to think so.
In any case Bornheim’s murder puts a
new light on it.”
Arne sat up. “Maybe a new light but I
don’t see where it points. We need to
know more before theorizing.” He
stood up “MacGloughlin and I need to
get home to rest from our traumatic
experience.”
We nodded goodbye at our cars and I
headed up Kolb Road. He would be
home in five minutes. It would take me
more like an hour because I was living
up on Mt. Lemmon, a peak in the
Santa Catalina Mountains north of
Tucson. I live in a borrowed chalet in
the forest almost at the end of the
Catalina Highway.
At least there would be little traffic this
time of year. What’s more, the deputy
sheriffs who patrolled there did give
me slack on the speed. Actually, I was
cross-deputized with the Pima County
Sheriff’s Department and the Tucson,
Marana and Oro Valley PDs.
It was only 11:30, so not much traffic. I
put a cassette of ‘Five Red Herrings’
by Dorothy L. Sayers in the player and
started up Kolb Road. Sayers’ Peter
Wimsey books are among my favorite
mystery stories and I hadn’t read this
one in years. I was toying with the idea
of writing a mystery novel and thought
Sayers, or Agatha Christie, might be
good models.
I drove up Kolb, east on Tanque Verde
and then onto the Catalina Highway as
the road to Mt. Lemmon is officially
known. I soon stared climbing. This
was slow driving, with many switch
backs and narrow roadway, but I had
done it hundreds of times and in
December this road was little used.
The main danger now was weather
that will close or restrict use of the
highway.
It only took me forty-seven minutes
from the complex to the Camp Ground
Road exit off Catalina Highway, about
ten minutes short of the village of
Summerhaven, which was a small
unincorporated community sitting at an
elevation of approximately 8,200 feet.
My chalet was at about 7,200.
Summerhaven was a popular tourist
destination. Several small shops in
Summerhaven attracted visitors,
including the Mount Lemmon General
Store, The Cookie Cabin - which offers
homemade cookies and pizzas, and
Bríghid’s Candle Works run by my
neighbor, very close friend and
perhaps future wife, Bríghid Mary
Russell. In summer Tucsonans come
up to escape the heat and enjoy the
views. In the winter they come up to
play in the snow and enjoy the views.
I turned right onto Camp Ground Ridge
Road and stopped to put “1492” into
the combination lock on the gate which
the Forestry Service had there. I didn’t
know why the gate is there, but it make
me feel better having it. As the name
implied, there are camp grounds down
this dirt road, run both by churches
and civic organizations. Also several
private cabins or chalets are here,
grandfathered in from before this area
was zoned for camp grounds.
I turned in at the “Firsgaad” sign, the
third chalet the left. This was the first
time I have ever lived in a house with a
name. Two hundred feet across a
small arroyo sat an un-named but
nicer chalet where Bríghid lived with
her Golden Retriever, Berthold. That
is, she lived there when she wasn’t
over with me and my eleven Yorkies.
Or, would you believe eighteen? I’ll get
to that later.
As I pulled up at Firsgaad, I heard the
yapping of many little voices. The
center of their world, so I told myself,
had returned.
Tuesday morning December 7th, I
arrived at CIU before Arne. Mahler had
already made the coffee but wasn’t
around. I went in to chat with the
chaplain who was complaining that four
of his eight yard chaplains were out
sick or vacationing the next weekend
and he had to cover two services at 6:
00 Saturday afternoon and two at 11:
00 Sunday morning. “Well,” I said, “just
change the schedule around. Do
Saturday at 5:00 and 6:00, and
Sunday at 10:00 and 11:00. You’ve
got all week to arrange it.”
He looked at me with one of his
questioning stares, and then pulled a
cloth from a desk drawer to wipe his
dangling glasses. “MacGloughlin, you’
ve been with DOC much longer than I
have. Do you really think there is a DW
on this complex that would be that
flexible?”
Well, I had been called an innocent
here more than once, but it didn’t
seem so unreasonable to me.
Nevertheless, I didn’t think I wanted to
continue that line of conversation. “It’s
December 7th. You do anything to
observe Pearl Harbor Day?”
“I saluted the flag at half mast when I
came in. And I will call my uncle Henry
tonight.”
I hadn’t noticed the flag, but I did know
that the chaplain’s great uncle Henry
had been a mess boy on the light
cruiser Phoenix at Pearl Harbor. He
had a photo on his office wall of the
undamaged Phoenix passing in front of
the sunken battleship Arizona on
December 9, 1941. Supposedly, one
of the tiny figures one saw on deck
was his uncle Henry.
“Do you ever wonder about the later
history of ships like the Phoenix,” I
asked. “We know about the Arizona,
but what happened to the Phoenix?
Did your uncle spend the war on her?
On was she sunk later?”
He smiled at me, “Do you remember
the Falklands War?”
“Sort of. Wasn’t that Margaret
Thatcher against the Argentineans?”
He smiled again, “Close enough. You
remember the Brits sank an
Argentinean ship with several hundred
casualties, the General Belgrano?”
“Yeah, I remember that. A big
battleship.” I said in triumph.
“Not really a battleship. It was a light
cruiser, the former USS Phoenix.”
Mahler and Arne coming down the hall
saved me from further correction.
Soon we were all four in Mahler’s office
drinking coffee and eating the
chocolate donuts Arne brought in.
“I suppose there is nothing yet on
Bornheim,” I ventured.
“Yes, indeed” Mahler replied. “They
found a perfect clue. The murderer left
identifying evidence at the scene.”
We all sat up. Really?
Mahler pulled out one of his plastic
evidence bags and produced a
Mahogany Calabash Pipe, which he
handed to Arne. “Sherlock Holmes did
it.”
For once, Arne almost looked
embarrassed.
“No,” Mahler grinned, “just the incident
team report which tells us nothing we
don’t know. We should hear from the
crime scene team this morning. Arne, I’
d like for you two to get a head start
looking into Bornheim. I had a call from
Warden O’Brien last night. He
mentioned that the deceased was
serving a sentence handed down in
1946.”
Arne, the chaplain and I all had
bewildered faces. What? 1946? Over
fifty years ago?
“I assume you’re going to explain
that?” stated Arne.
“I don’t know much more than that. I’ll
leave it to you two to check it out.”
While I went over to Admin to check
what info we had on Bornheim there,
Arne phoned contacts at DOC in
Phoenix to learn what was in the
informal master file on Bornheim. At 12:
30, we went up to Margo’s for lunch.
Mahler and the chaplain were already
there.
We always sat in Louise’s section. She
had come down from Arne’s hometown
of Clifton in the 1980s to be near her
miner husband when he was in Wilmot
Road complex on a manslaughter
conviction. He died in prison and she
stayed on, becoming a good friend to
Arne and Bettysue and - by extension -
the rest of Arne’s circle.
I quickly reported what I had learned.
“Heinrich Bornheim, 79, was born in
Graz, Austria, in 1920. He was a
captured German submariner in a
POW camp in Sahuarita, AZ, in 1945,
when he killed a US civilian worker who
was trying to break up fight. The State
of Arizona convicted him of first-degree
murder and sentenced him to life
imprisonment.”
“You mean they had a POW camp for
German soldiers down here at
Sahuarita? That’s just out of Tucson?”
asked Mahler.
“And very close to the Mexican
border,” noted the chaplain. “It must
have been a big temptation to escape
and hike the sixty miles to the border.”
“But, why was he still incarcerated on
the same sentence more than fifty
years later?” asked Arne. “I’ve never
heard of life going more than thirty or
thirty-five years.”
I shook my head, “I don’t know. The
record then jumped thirty-one years to
1976 when a traffic check in Benson
turned-up an outstanding arrest
warrant from 1945. He had a
Pennsylvania driver’s license and his
car had Pennsylvania plates. He
obtained the services of a well-known
local lawyer who appealed both the
original conviction and the 1976
incarceration. In the meantime, he
attacked his celly in Florence and the
court sentenced him to an additional
15-year term for the attempted murder,
which he would serve subsequent to
the 1945 sentence.”
“My god, this guy doesn’t know when
to stop,” exclaimed Mahler. “Or didn’t.”
“He must have been a very troubled
soul,” mused the chaplain. “If he grew
up in Nazi Germany and was in the
Hitler Youth, who knows what he
believed, or how fanatically.”
“You think he was a Nazi?” I asked.
That seemed to me almost like a
concept from pre-history.
“If he was born in 1920 he was about
15 when the Nazis’ took over Austria.
From then on, he was probably
brainwashed in the Hitler Youth
organization. And, you said a
submariner. I’ve read that they were
some of the most fanatic Nazis of all,
right along with the Waffen-SS.”
“Maybe that’s how he got away in
1946. Those fanatical Nazis had
escape organizations to South
America. It’s all explained in the book
Odessa File by Frederick Forsyth,”
explained Mahler.
I continued, “In 1986, at age 66, he
came here to House 5 as a geriatric.
He was a disliked and difficult IM at
first, but then became docile when he
began getting regular visits from his
son and grandchildren. In recent
years, he showed interest only when
receiving his regular family visits. He
had not been to medical since arriving
at Kolb Road and was taking no
medications. There was no indication
that he used drugs.”
“Did he have any tickets recently?”
asked Arne.
“His discipline tickets had all been
minor and there are none since 1992.
He was quite, kept to himself, bothered
no one, and had no obvious enemies. I
found nothing to indicate a revenge
motive,” I concluded.
Mahler turned to Arne, “That leaves
big gaps. What can you fill in?”
Arne pulled a notepad from the pocket
of his Inverness cape, “There is
actually
“The British navy captured the German
submarine U-57 while surfaced off
Bermuda in July, 1944. There were a
few unusual or suspicious things
noted. For instance, she carried
papers assigning her to service as a
school ship at Kiel naval base yet had
clearly started for the Caribbean or
South America. She carried 26 rather
than the standard crew of 25. One of
her crew (Bornheim) had a tattoo like
the Waffen-SS blood group tattoo, a
small black ink tattoo located on the
underside of the left arm near the
armpit.”
The chaplain spoke, “Didn’t that get
him treated as a war criminal? In the
war novels I’ve read they were often
trying to remove the tattoo because it
meant immediate arrest.”
“It seems that it would have a year
later, but in mid-1944 they were not yet
being arrested,” answered Arne. “He
was sent to ‘Camp Continental’ near
what is now the Quail Creek
subdivision in south Sahuarita. He
escaped on December 22, 1944, at
the same time as the more famous
German POW escape from the
Papago Park POW camp in Phoenix.”
“I’ve read about that Phoenix escape,”
said Mahler. “It seems it was more a
joyride into the desert than any serious
attempt to escape. They thought they
were going to float down the Salt River
to Mexico, not knowing that it was even
then a dry river bed.”
“Must have been quite a surprise,”
commented the chaplain, as he offered
us all Belgian after dinner mints.
Arne went on, “After police in Nogales
captured him on January 13 sleeping
in a SP boxcar, he was back in the
camp. In April, 1944, Pima County
Superior Court sentenced him to life
imprisonment for the murder of a
civilian worker at the camp who was
trying to break up a brawl between
submariners and soldiers. He was in
the old prison at Florence for a few
months. Then Germany surrendered
and the US Army and the International
Red Cross sent Bornheim back to
Austria with the general repatriation of
prisoners of war. The State of Arizona
objected to releasing him, but finally
gave him up.”
“That raises an interesting question,”
put in Mahler. “POWs are supposed to
be returned at the end of a war. But,
what if they have committed a capital
crime while in a POW camp?”
The chaplain gave his opinion, “It
probably varies from country to
country. The Russians or Germans
would probably have executed the guy
at the time of the crime. However, we
and the British would be more trying to
follow the famous Geneva
Conventions, which recognize the right
of a POW to try to escape. The Red
Cross may have seen the killing as
part of an attempt to escape.”
“And, there was the general euphoria
of the war being over,” I added.
“In any case,” Arne continued, “he was
sent back to Austria, which was
independent again. In the mid-1950s,
he was living in the German community
in Monterrey, Mexico. In 1961, he
obtained a Pennsylvania drivers
license for an address in Pittsburg. By
1976, he had several businesses in
the western Pennsylvania area in
partnership with a young son. It was
that year that an Arizona highway
patrol officer stopped him for speeding
outside Benson and somebody found
an outstanding warrant from 1945.”
“If he was released to be repatriated
as a POW rather than escaping
custody, why would there be an arrest
warrant?” asked the chaplain.
“I found nothing on that,” answered
Arne.
“My guess,” offered Mahler, “is that
somebody was very POed by his
release and wanted to get him if he
ever came back to Arizona.”
“Probably so,” agreed Arne. “From
there the story is what MacGloughlin
has reported. At Florence, he received
regular visits from son and family. DOC
sent him here for age and space
reasons, not because of his health. He
had various tickets at Florence for
acting up, but none for contraband.
They never suspected him of drug
use.”
“I’m impressed,” I admitted. “We have,
or had, a real Nazi war criminal here at
Kolb Road! He may have been Himmler’
s deputy off on some secret mission.
He may have been on his way back to
Sahuarita for buried Nazi treasure.”
“That might make a good suspense
novel Nazi gold buried in the Arizona
desert. Or, somebody like Alistair
MacLean may already have used it.
Although a few corrections would be
needed – Bornheim was in the Waffen-
SS (a military organization) while
Himmler was head of the Gestapo (the
Nazi secret police).” said the chaplain.
“And, having been in custody from the
Bermudas to Arizona, Bornheim could
hardly have brought treasure with
him,” added Arne.
“Joking aside,” said Mahler as he
turned serious, “Does any of that help
with the Bornheim murder?”
“I don’t see how it could,” answered
Arne. “He had been in the Arizona
prison system for twenty-three years
and here for thirteen with no indication
of interest in all that time. No, the
motive for his murder was from
something much more recent.”
I had to make a quick stop by my
dentists office then got back to the
complex at 2:45. As I approached E
building, I found Mahler at one of the
tables smoking a cigar, and two
education types nibbling chocolates
while the chaplain told his Alaska bear
story about the time he saved a
drunken native who was trying to share
his bottle of Scotch with a grizzly.
The chaplain waved me over and
stuffed the box into my hands. These
are Swiss ‘Claudio Corallos’ he said
“Every bit as good as the Belgian
‘Amano.’”
I quickly agreed.
“The preliminary crime scene report
came in from TPD,” said Mahler. “A lot
of information but I see nothing helpful.
The weapon was probably a shank
similar to a kitchen knife. There’s a
copy on your desk.”
“What conclusion does it reach?” I
asked.
“Not a damned thing. Just outlines the
technical findings.” Mahler seemed
displeased. “Where’s Arne?”
“He had to go by home. He’ll be right
here.” I answered confidently.
“Surely the report indicates that the
guy was murdered?” asked the
chaplain.
“Not even that,” replies Mahler.
The chaplain waves his chocolate at
Mahler. “I suppose I understand that.
When I was in the MPs, we sometimes
had to outsource our serious crime
scene investigations. And, it was hard
to get anything but the most obvious
conclusions out of a local PD or Sheriff’
s Office. Always covering their asses.”
I excused myself and went in to review
the report. About forty minutes later
Mahler came into the office. “See what
I mean?”
Just then, Arne came in fully dressed
as Sherlock Holmes. “Read the report?
Nothing there, of course.”
“OK, I’m game. How do you know there’
s nothing in the report?” I ventured.
“Elementary, my dear Watson, just
using my little gray cells.”
I corrected him, “The ‘little gray cells’
are Poirot, not Holmes.”
He grinned at me sheepishly, “By Jove,
old boy, you’ve caught me out!”
I smiled in triumph. It wasn’t often I
catch Arne in an error.
Mahler butted in, “My dear Holmes,
how did you know the report was a
disappointment?”
Arne turned serious. “I’ve been talking
to two guys I know over at the Tucson
PD crime lab. They aren’t willing to put
anything in writing, but a number of
circumstantial factors point more to
suicide than murder.”
“Except that there was no weapon.” I
reminded him.
“That is an important point.” Mahler
agreed.
“Yeah, but it does tell you why the
report was so inconclusive.” Arne
summarizes. “I’m sure it murder but can’
t see it being something from his
wartime past. We might look into that
guy he tried to kill in Florence back in
the 70s. And, likely as not, there will be
a drug connection.”
We spent the afternoon interviewing in
House 5. Bornheim was last seen alive
at 8:30 Monday morning. I called the
IMS at 10:02. He had been dead at
least half an hour, probably nearer the
ninety minutes. He lived in room 7 on B
run where DOC keeps aged but
healthy inmates. Most had been away
between 8:30 and ten, either at
medical, at the chow hall, at the yard
library, or off yard. Six inmates beside
Bornheim were on loss of privileges or
“lock down” and confined to their cells.
The cell doors of all these inmates
were supposed to have been locked,
but House 5 is fifty-three years old and
the electrical door locking control
system is almost that old. Therefore,
you can never be sure.
Most of the cells have two inmates.
Bornheim had been alone for more
than a week, his previous celly having
been transferred to Florence where
they keep the really bad guys.
Three COs had been in the run for
one reason or another in the critical
period. Also, a nurse, the yard
chaplain, and the librarian, who is also
the notary public on the yard,
accompanied by a paralegal had been
there.
We interviewed the six inmates and got
the expected responses: saw nothing,
heard nothing, and knew nothing. Arne
had even had a jar of coffee sitting on
the desk in front of him, an obvious
offer of a jar of Jamaican Blue
Mountain Peaberry #2 to anyone
giving good info. No takers!
The three COs had been up and down
the run several times, but only one had
had contact with cell B7. At about 8:30
CO2 Holler had opened Bornheim’s
door to tell him that he would be
interviewed sometime later about the
cocaine found in his cell the previous
week. Bornheim was sitting at his desk
with a book. He looked up but didn’t
say anything. The three COs
continued to go past Bornheim’s door
but no one had had a reason to look in
the small window to check on him.
The nurse, the chaplain, the librarian
and the paralegal and been in for
legitimate reasons to see other
inmates. We interviewed all but the
paralegal who only worked part-time
and wouldn’t be back until the following
Monday. The librarian said that
Bornheim had been a regular library
user until about three week before but
had stopped showing up over there.
Wednesday morning, 9:00, December
8th, Arne, Mahler, and I met in his
office to go over what we knew. We
had just settled in when the chaplain
come in for coffee and, seeing our
huddle, grabbed a chair.
Arne was a little down. Today he is
Arne, not Holmes. “Well, we didn’t get
anything.”
“Should we interview the inmates from
B run who were out of the house
Monday morning?” I asked.
Arne looked at me with glazed eyes.
“You want get the time of day from an
inmate unless he wants to tell you.
And, these old career inmates just
want to fuss and complain. I wish we
didn’t have them at Kolb Road.”
“How about an inducement, a reward?”
The chaplain asked.
“I tried the coffee,” Arne said. “Either
they don’t know anything or they are
afraid to talk.”
Mahler sat up straight in his chair. “Let’
s toss out some ideas of what may
have happened. What motives seem
likely here?”
“Nothing really stands out, but I think
the drug angle is most obvious,” Arne
replied. “But an old guy who wasn’t
active or sociable? It’s hard to see him
dealing drugs.”
“Still,” I said. “That’s probably what it
will come down to, like most violent
deaths in southern Arizona.”
“Likely as not it’ll come down to that”
agreed Mahler. “We just don’t know
enough. Moreover, he had no record.
Not a ticket since 1992. In Phoenix they’
re certain there is a major drug rings
operating here right under our noses,
and there may be. Bornheim’s murder
may even give us a break on that.”
I suspected he was right, but Arne
disagreed. “No Cap, we’ve been on
that trail for eighteen months and there’
s just no sign of anything major. There
is a lot of merchandise on the complex,
including Trimble Yard, but it dribbles
in in dozens of unrelated ways: visitors,
food day, the mail, supplies, COs and
civilian staff doing a little on the side,
and who knows how many ways I
haven’t thought of.”
“No place for sex, or love, or revenge
in this Bornheim murder?” asked the
chaplain.
Mahler looked at the chaplain, then at
the ceiling. “Not sex, based on what we
know now. No hint he even had a good
friend. And no hint of difficult relations
with other inmates. It might be revenge
if he crossed someone on a drug deal.
Or, Arne, what about revenge from
that inmate he tried to kill at Florence?”
Arne shrugged, “I’ll check on that. But
it was twenty-two ot three years ago. A
long time to wait for revenge?”
Mahler leaned back and rocked a few
times. “OK, lets put motive aside. What
about opportunity?”
The chaplain grinned “Ah, now we’re
getting serious! Motive, means, and
opportunity!”
Arne gave the chaplain a humorous
glare, “I think that’s my line.”
“OK,” Mahler pushed ahead. “Who had
opportunity?”
“Well,” I began “if the door locks all
worked on B run, and if the CO had
them closed when he says he did, no
inmate had an opportunity.”
Arne smirked. Mahler smiled, “Those
are two big “ifs,” but for now we’ll go
with that unless we find a reason not
to. That leaves three COs and four
civilian staff.”
“Well,” Arne said, “based on the
interviews, which still need some
verifying, neither the nurse nor the
librarian were there of their own
decision, so they couldn’t have
planned to murder Bornheim at that
time. The head nurse had sent this
nurse over to check on an inmate’s
medicine supply. The librarian went
over because the paralegal had lost
some paperwork and thought she
might have left it with the inmate.
Apparently, he accompanied her
because he is responsible for her while
she is on the yard. Also, the librarian
and the paralegal were together, so
they’re both clear unless they acted
together, which is not likely. That
leaves the three COs who knew they
were going to be there, and the
chaplain who seems to have decided
on his own to pay a pastoral visit to a B
run inmate on lockdown.”
“Now just a damned minute”,
demanded the Chaplain Jackson as he
stood up and put on his glasses.
“Chaplain Doyle is just about the most
kindhearted man I know. You leave him
out of this.”’][p;“But Chaplain,” asked
Arne “what if he though it was God’s
will? What if it was a mercy killing?”
“Seriously, Jackson,” Mahler said, “in
your years in the MPs and Chaplains
Corps did your never know a bad
chaplain.”
“Of course I did,” the chaplain fumed
“a lot of them were flakes. But Doyle is
my good friend and a very spiritual
Christian.” He glanced at Arne “I don’t
like him made fun of!”
Arne apologized, “You’re right. I
shouldn’t have said that. Doyle is a
great guy. Please forgive me.”
The chaplain nodded acceptance and
sat back down. “What about the three
CO?”
I looked at my notes. “Teran is older,
near retirement. Gracia and Holler are
younger with less than five years at
DOC. Gracia has resigned effective
December 31, going to the Pinal
County Sheriff’s department. Teran
was turning guys out to shower, giving
them extra time since there were only a
few guys in the run. Gracia and Holler
were doing follow-up from the search,
mostly returning things that had been
confiscated but later deemed not
contraband. As best we can tell, there
were always at least two COs in the
run. They were going in and out of
cells, so one might not have noticed
the other rush into Bornheim’s cell,
stab him, and rush out. Of course they
were all searched by the IM Team, but
there was up to an hour in which to
stash the weapon.”
The chaplain looked at me as if
realizing something. “Why would the
killer have taken the weapon with him?
Seems rather dangerous?”
Arne shrugged. “We wondered about
that. No good answer. Maybe he
feared someone would know
something that connected the shank to
him. The point is that the killer did take
the weapon with him.”
Mahler brought us back on course, “So
we’ve got three COs and really all six
of the guys on lockdown, since we can’
t be certain their doors were locked.
But for the moments, let’s concentrate
on the three COs. Even if they are
totally innocent, they must have
observed more than they’ve told us so
far. Let’s get them over here one by
one and jog their memories.” He
turned to the chaplain “As far as
means is concerned, the report says a
shank with a blade like a kitchen knife,
or maybe even a kitchen knife.”
After lunch at Margo’s with Arne’s wife,
Bettysue, we spent the afternoon
interviewing Holler, Gracia, and Teran
at CIU. Yes, they remembered more
details, but nothing helpful. It did seem
a little less likely that one of them had
had the opportunity to do the foul
deed. Truth be told, we were getting
nowhere. We needed a break.
Thursday morning, 9:00, December 9th
I parked at 9:07 but sat in my car
listening to the last tape of ‘Five Red
Herrings’, which I enjoyed as much as I
had years ago. On the way home, I
would start ‘Hangman's Holiday’ a
series of Wimsey short stories.
By 9:30 I was entering Building E. Arne’
s car wasn’t outside nor was Mahler’s.
Morning Edition was coming out of the
radio in the chaplain’s office but it was
empty. Then the door to Mahler’s
office opened and the chaplain came
out with a cup of delicious smelling
fresh coffee in his hand. “Get a cup
and come over,” he invited.
We were soon sitting in his office with
NPR playing in the background. “Any
progress on Bornheim?” he asked.
“No,” I said “nothing obvious turned up
from those interviews of the three COs
yesterday. We’ll keep stirring the
coals, hoping for a break.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, “what success I
had as an MP often came from luck
and the stupidity of the perps.
Moreover, you couldn’t always count
on the latter. You just have to keep
stirring the coals until some hidden
ember sparks up.” He started telling
me one of his Alaska bear stories, the
one about the time he had a gun but
the wrong ammunition.
We were still sitting there at about 10:
30 when Arne came in, cape, cap, and
pipe in hand. He handed a sack of
chocolate donuts to the chaplain,
threw an old Arizona Daily Star down
on the desk in front of me, said “My
dear Dr. Watson, you really ought to
read your local paper,” and went over
to Mahler’s office for his cup of coffee.
It was the previous Saturday’s paper. I
glanced over the front page noting that
the Arizona legislature was as
embarrassing as ever, that there had
been two different drug gang
shootouts in south Tucson with several
dead, that we were getting a new city
manager, that a guy up in the Catalina
Foothills had committed suicide, that a
women in Oro Valley had been
arrested for having her husband’s girl
friend killed, etc., etc. Nothing new.
Arne came back, “Find it?”
I felt embarrassed. “One of these drug
shootouts?” I asked.
He pointed the calabash pipe at me.
“Dear colleague, read that about the
unfortunate gentleman in the
Foothills.” The Santa Catalina Foothills
were the wealthiest part of Tucson,
studded with million dollar homes.
I did. “Some millionaire in a mansion up
in the Foothills shot himself in the head
in his home office. Door and windows
locked. Nothing mentioned about
drugs or that it might not be suicide.
My dear Holmes, do you have some
inside info on this? Oh, Bornheim! Paul
Bornheim. Could it be our Bornheim’s
son, the one who visited regularly?”
A quick call to Admin revealed that
Paul Bornheim and three
grandchildren were on Bornheim’s
visitation list and visited at every
opportunity. A call to McKinley in
House 5 control revealed that Paul
Bornheim and our Heinrich Bornheim
talked everyday during phone hours.
Bingo!
“You want to tell me that Paul
Bornheim is a suicide?” asked Arne. “If
so, I’ve got a nice lost Spanish gold
mine up in the Santa Ritas you’ll want
to see.”
“Not likely,” I replied. And, turning to
the chaplain, “Where’s The Cap?”
“I think he’s at Wilmot Road helping on
a drug search.” He answered. Then,
turning to Arne, “I agree, Mr. Holmes,
that it would be quite a coincidence,
but if TPD says it’s a suicide I think you
have to accept that.”
Arne seemed to consider. “It’s early
days yet. We need to know a lot more.
I’m going to call a few friends at TPD,”
he said, rising. “Maybe Lestrade will be
back soon.”
I looked over reports at Admin until 12:
30 when the chaplain called to say we
were going to Margo’s for lunch.
Mahler and my old nemesis DW
Carlson from Tate Yard at Wilmot
Road joined us. Carlson was now
Assistant Warden at Wilmot. He
greeted me like a long lost friend, and I
returned the hypocrisy. After all, it had
been nine years since he booted me
off Tate Yard, and I had made a good
record at Kolb Road. Even so, Mahler
made a point of praising Arne and me
as his best investigators.
It seemed they had had a good
morning, having found drugs buried in
the flowerbeds at the Rincon entrance.
Arne did rain on their parade a little
when he asked how much they had
actually found.
The conversation turned to our murder
as Louise served my meal. I had
chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes,
two orders of turnip greens, extra corn
bread, and sweet tea. I was still a
Southern boy at heart! Arne often
kidded me about being half Mexican
but always looking for Southern food.
My genes might be half Mexican, but
my heart is all Southern!
Holmes told Lestrade about Paul
Bornheim, waving the calabash pipe
for emphasis. He had spoken to
several people at TPD, including the
Captain Mill in homicide who had the
Paul Bornheim case. “They’re pretty
sure it’s suicide because of the layout
of the shot and the room being locked
from the inside. However, the autopsy
showed a trace of unexplained
tranquilizer in the blood, so they haven’
t closed the case. I explained our
interest and my conviction that it has to
be a connected murder. Somebody
wanted them both dead.”
The chaplain looked at him. “You’re
basing that on very little.”
Arne straightened the deerstalker and
pointed the calabash straight at the
chaplain’s nose. “My dear bishop, my
deductions are elementary logic. The
little gray cells.” He glanced at me
daring me to correct him again. “There
is a connection here and Watson and I
will prove it.”
I wasn’t so certain, still liking the drug
angle for our Bornheim. I expected
Mahler to object but he just smiled.
Arne turned to him. “My contact down
at Scotland Yard gave me permission
to investigate Paul Bornheim as a
murder under cover of investigating
our Bornheim’s unfortunate demise. I
assured him, Inspector Lestrade that
you would agree to that.” He smiled
“He did ask that we not represent
ourselves as TPD unless absolutely
necessary.”
“I wonder why?” remarked the chaplain.
“What did you learn from the Yard?”
asked Mahler, playing along.
“Not as much as I would like,”
shrugged Arne as he pulled out a
notebook and read, “Paul Bornheim
was divorced. One child is away at
college back east. The other lives with
mother in San Francisco. Paul lived in
his mansion, which he bought in 1986
– that fits with when DOC sent
Bornheim here – with a butler or
majordomo named Charles James
Williams, a cook/housekeeper named
Elena Gonzalez Ruiz, a gardener
named Federico Bermudez Ortega,
and a houseguest named James
Slanton, from Pennsylvania of all
places. The butler has been there four
years, the housekeeper for six years,
and the gardener something like two
years and a half. Slanton about five
months.”
“Any of them have obvious motives to
kill?” I asked, through a mouth full of
corn bread and turnip greens.
Arne answered, “We don’t know. TPD
really hasn’t looked at this as a
possible murder. Without knowing
about Bornheim, all the evidence
points to suicide. He was shot in the
head with his own gun for which he
had a permit. Blood and powder
splatter and other forensics are
consistent with the deceased having
fired the gun. The barred windows
were quite securely locked, as was the
door. Catalina Foothills Security
verifies there were only two keys to the
office, and that only they could have
duplicated one. Bornheim had one key
in his pants pocket. The butler, who
had left, had the other. The door could
not be locked from outside without one
of the keys. Between 4:00 and 4:30,
both the housekeeper and the
houseguest went to the office to speak
with victim. Both tapped on the door,
tried to open it but found it locked, and
then heard victim talking on telephone.
It seems he often locked himself in and
talked for hours on the phone. The last
person to see him alive was the butler
who carried in a luncheon tray at 3:30.
Tray later found untouched.”
“Probably wasn’t hungry if he was
planning to kill himself,” commented
AW Carlson.
“I’d want to go out on a full belly,”
answered the chaplain.
Arne grunted and continued, “Last
time victim known alive was 4:30 when
housekeeper tried for a second time
but went away when heard victim on
phone. At that time, 4:30, housekeeper
served lunch in kitchen dinning area to
self, gardener, and houseguest.
Houseguest was learning Spanish so
gardener, housekeeper, and
houseguest sat there until about 7:30
chatting in Spanish. At that time
gardener left to visit grand-daughter
for weekend, and housekeeper and
houseguest moved into kitchen where
they continued chatting as she
prepared dinner for victim, who
normally dined punctually at 8:30.”
“This was a long Spanish lesson,” the
chaplain noted. “Three or four hours?”
“I can understand it if this was more a
friendly conversation and if Slanton
more or less understood what was
said,” answered Mahler.
Arne continued reading, “No one
heard a shot, but house is large and
well constructed, plus housekeeper
and gardener are both past sixty and
may not have good hearing. In
addition, kitchen is not near office.
When victim did not answer call to
dinner at 8:30, housekeeper became
concerned, banging on door and
finally called butler oh his cell phone.
He was at nearby YMCA working out.
He rushes over, opens door security,
finds victim dead at desk, and calls
911. Time of death was maybe
between 3:00 and 5:30. TPD
fingerprinted the housekeeper,
gardener, and houseguest. Slanton,
the houseguest, turned up wanted in
New York. He waved extradition and
has already been sent back.”
“Why so quick?” ask the chaplain.
“Again, TPD thinks they have a
suicide. And New York wanted him now
to testify in an ongoing trial.”
“OK,” Mahler commented as he toyed
with his salad. “It seems straight
forward enough. Dead between 4:30
and 5:30. Door locked.” But he could
have let someone in.” The three
people known to be in house
accounted for, but could someone else
have been in the house?”
“TPD discounted that possibility,” Arne
answered. “The house and grounds
have a very good security system
which was operational.”
“Could the butler have come back?” I
asked.
“TPD did check that. He is confirmed at
the Y from 3:45 until called by the
housekeeper.”
“And the keys?” asked the chaplain.
“Can we be sure that there were only
two keys?”
“The security company confirms that.
They were special electronic keys and
only two were provided.”
“Until we know more,” said Mahler “my
guess is that someone got into the
house and convinced victim to open
the door. Or, alternatively, that the
housekeeper and the houseguest, and
maybe even the gardener, are lying.”
“But what common cause would there
be between a gringo from
Pennsylvania and a Mexican
housekeeper?” asked Carlson.
“You’d be surprised,” said the
chaplain. “Maybe it was mutual hatred
of victim. Maybe he’s paying her
plenty. Maybe he’s dating her
daughter. You never know.”
Mahler looked at Arne. “What do you
propose to do, Mr. Holmes?”
Holmes puffs on his empty pipe. “With
your permission, Inspector Lestrade,
Dr. Watson and I will view the scene of
the crime and interview the three
suspects.”
“Three?” ask Lestrade.
“Don’t forget the butler.” Arne answers
giving his Lee Marvin grin. “I’ll betcha
‘the butler did it.”
Friday morning, 9:00, December 10th
Arne and I met at the Paul Bornheim
mansion. It’s like my place in that it has
a locked gate, but there the
resemblance ends. This must cover
two or three acres of very valuable
Foothills real estate. Everything is
behind palm trees and hedges, in
water scarce Tucson. An elegant
driveway leads to a massive front door.
The butler, Williams, received us and
showed us to the crime scene, still
marked off with crime tape.
“Dr. Watson, even though the Yard isn’
t yet treating this as a murder, let’s be
very careful not to leave them a
reason to complain about us being
here. Very careful.”
I wondered if he is remembering
leaving his pipe by Bornheim’s body.
We looked around. He moved
something here and there. I touched
nothing but did examine the windows
and the door. He put on rubber gloves
and examined the door lock.
“Mechanical lock with an electronic
key? How does that work?”
I had no idea.
Nautical prints and several historic
rifles or shotguns adorned the walls.
The desk was executive size and had
about twenty framed photos arranged
around the ends and front. I
recognized quite a few of them as
showing Paul and Heinrich Bornheim,
alone or with a girl and boy at different
stages of growth. It seemed that those
from the past twenty or twenty-five
years were taken on visitation days at
Florence or Kolb Road. I suddenly
realized that the children had only
known their grandfather in prison. One
photo showed Heinrich and a Paul
aged about ten in front of the Eifel
Tower. Another showed Heinrich, an
older Paul, and a young girl in front of
the Hotel Château Frontenac in
Quebec City. Hey, I’ve been to both
places.
There were file cabinets and two
computers. Arne tried the files. “Dr.
Watson, see what on those computers.”
I started booting them both up. They
both had Windows 2000 Professional
and were both password protected. I
tried simple possibilities like ‘Paul
Bornheim’ and variations there of, and
Heinrich Bornheim. I didn’t know either
man’s birthday. “They are password
protected Sherlock. You need an
expert to get into them.”
“OK, I can’t get into the cabinets either.
I wonder if TPD did?”
We had a copy of the TPD interview
with Slanton, the houseguest. It was
brief. He had not been a suspect,
because no murder was suspected. He
referred to himself as a distant cousin
of Paul Bornheim from Pennsylvania.
His health had gone bad while in
prison, back there for a crime he didn’t
commit and “Cousin Paul” had invited
him to Arizona to recuperate and get a
new start on life. Victim was going to
buy him a business to help get him on
his feet. He produced the card of a
real estate agent with whom they had
been checking out small businesses
for sale. He had approached the office
door about 4:20 but left when he heard
victim on telephone. Otherwise, he
confirmed the housekeeper’s
testimony about being with her
practicing his Spanish, which he would
need in his new business. He knew no
reason Paul Bornheim might want to
kill himself and doubted that the two
children might know anything. He had
been in the office several times and
was not surprised that “Cousin Paul”
had a handgun their, although he had
never seen it. Deceased was very
security conscious.
“It’s a shame they let Slanton go so
quickly,” I remarked. “If it’s murder,
somebody will have to go back to New
York to interview him again.”
“TPD, not us.” Arne grunted. “It’s their
mess-up.”
As we left the office, an old Mexican
woman came up and asked in Spanish
if she can clean the office now. I told
her no, probably not for several days.
This was Elena Gonzalez Ruiz, the
housekeeper. We decided to interview
hew first, at the kitchen dining table.
Arne started the interview but it soon
became clear that she was
uncomfortable with the low class
Spanish he learned from the miners’
kids when he was growing up or with
his Sherlock Holmes getup, or both.
She stared at his deerstalker cap
rather than answer his questions. So, I
took over with my higher class but less
perfect Spanish.
She was Elena Gonzalez Ruiz, over
sixty, 5’ talk, a little overweight, gray
haired, didn’t use glasses - but needed
them, dark dress with white apron and
lively, awake, brown eyes. She is from
Cananea, an historic copper mining
and smelter town in Sonora, the
Mexican state south of Arizona. In
recent years, Cananea had become a
staging area for drug smuggling north
into Arizona. Elena said it is now a very
dangerous place to live. She had’t
been back “in a century.”
Her grandparents and parents ran a
funeral parlor there, but after the
prosperity of World War II, times were
hard. So, in 1954 at age 18, she and a
sister came to Tucson to live with an
aunt and seek their fortune. Even
then, “el norte” had its appeal. She
married in 1959, had several children,
and became active in a Pentecostal
church in the 1970’s (found the
Gospel). Her husband left her a few
years later, probably because of her
new religion, leaving her the children
to care for but with a mortgage free
house on District Street in south
Tucson. She made her living cleaning
houses for “gringas” or white ladies.
Mr. Paul Bornheim offered her fulltime
employment and she had social
security and health insurance for the
first time in her life. He spoke a very
good Mexican Spanish and they got
along fine. He was the best employer
she had ever had, truly a man loved of
God. She prayed for him every
morning and every night and his death
was the worst shock of her life. She
knew he had been sad lately and
would miss him, and the job, but God
would forgive him. He was such a good
man.
Why had he been sad? She didn’t
know that. She kept to her own
business. But, one couldn’t help but
here his emotional phone
conversations every evening with his
father and see the sadness in his
eyes. She heard him on the phone in
his office? No, he often walked around
the house and garden talking on his
cordless phone. Of course, she didn’t
listen, and in any case, her English
wasn’t good enough to understand him
of the phone.
Yes, she had seen the handgun
before. Mr. Paul Bornheim had several
times left the top, right hand drawer of
his desk open, and she had seen it
when she was cleaning.
She confirmed what we already knew
about the events of Friday afternoon.
At about 4:00 and again at a few
minutes before 4:30 she had heard Mr.
Paul Bornheim on the phone in the
office. She tapped lightly, but it wasn’t
unusual for him to ignore her when he
was on the phone. Why had she
wanted to see him? Just a
housekeeping question. She was with
Slanton and the gardener from 4:30
until the gardener left around 7:15 of 7:
30, and Slanton stayed with her after
that chatting in his pigeon Spanish. He
never left her presence until the police
came. No! Of course, no one would
have a reason to kill Mr. Paul
Bornheim! He was good to everyone.
Arne handled the interview with the
gardener, since he spoke an illiterate
Spanish that I didn’t fully understand. It
was hard to get much out of Federico
“Fred” Bermudez Ortega. He was born
in Arivaca, a ranching town out
southwest of Tucson, attended Arizona
schools through fifth grade when his
family moved back to Mexico. He didn’t
seem to remember much English. He
had spent his life working as a cowboy
in Sonora and southern Arizona, in
recent years on his brother’s ranch
near Arivaca. He had come to work for
Mr. Paul Bornheim about thirty months
ago, having met him through dealing
with Bermudez’s brother. He was
seventy-two, arthritic, and clearly not
of much use as a gardener. When
pushed on what value he was to Paul
Bornheim he assured us that he
worked everyday.
Why would the victim want to kill
himself? He didn’t know any reason.
Would anyone want to kill him? No, he
was a very kind person who helped
everyone. Hadn’t he helped Bermudez
prove his US citizenship, and got him
signed up for Medicaid and
Supplemental Social Security? Hadn’t
he given him this nice job and a room
to live? No one could want to kill Mr.
Paul Bornheim! When pushed again
on why the victim had hired him, he
repeated that Mr. Paul Bornheim was a
very good man.
At 1:00, we went over to the Golden
Corral on River Road for the buffet.
There is a little pseudo-Southern food
here, filling but not very tasty. I chose
the roast beef, corn muffins, fried okra,
string beans, butter beans, spinach,
baked potato, and sweet iced tea, and
cleaned off the plate. Arne eat faster
than I, and less, so he spent thirty
minutes outside on his cell phone while
I finished. He came back in for coffee
while I had two helping of not very
good banana pudding. “It’s a good
thing for you we don’t eat here often.”
He remarked. “You know you’ll spend
the next hour complaining about your
stomach hurting because you
overfilled it.”
I grunted. He was right on both
accounts. I would complain (at least
silently) but we didn’t eat at buffets
often.
Back at the mansion butler Williams
asked us into his office. Yes, the butler
had an office! On his wall hung
membership certificates for The
International Guild of Professional
Butlers and The International Institute
of Modern Butlers, and a graduate
diploma from the Charles MacCallan
Academy for Butlers and Household
Managers in Philadelphia. I was
impressed.
We interviewed in English for the first
time that day. Williams was a little over
6’, slim and somewhat muscular, in his
50s I suspect, rather pale
complexioned, dark hair and eyes, sort
of reserved as you might expect an
English movie butler to be. It occurred
to me that he was only the second real
butler I had ever met. He was very
formally dressed although not in tails,
and looked distinguished. I felt
overshadowed and maybe intimated as
we sat in front of this very impressive
personage at his elegant desk.
However, Arne just smiled; adjusted his
deerstalker, and puffed on his empty
pipe. Williams ignored Arne’s
performance.
He offered us coffee and then took
control of the interview by starting to
tell us about himself. He is sixty-four
(sure didn’t look it), from Switzerland,
where his father was a butler before
taking service with an English family
which eventually moved to
Connecticut. He studied in Philadelphia
and then worked as a butler or major
domo (apparently there is a difference)
back east for decades until contracted
by Mr. Paul Bornheim. He took the
position here because he planned to
retire to the Southwest. In fact he had
had an arrangement with Mr. Paul
Bornheim the starting next July his
position would become half-time,
allowing Williams to follow retirement
pursuits. In the meantime, there were
plans to find an assistant to the
housekeeper. In fact, a young lady had
been interviewed on Wednesday. On
Friday, he had left at 3:30, as usual, to
go to the YMCA down on Skyline Road
where he normally spent several hours
on Friday afternoon.
Here, Arne interrupted in a fake British
accent, “I say, old fellow, isn’t five
hours a little much to spend at a
gymnasium?”
Williams answered without
nonchalantly, “Undoubtedly, Mr.
Holmes, under normal circumstances.
“However, you see, I meet there with a
lady friend. My fiancée, in fact. We do
the machines, then have a leisurely
picnic style meal on the patio or in the
lounge area, then visit the pool and
sauna. In addition, there is often an
interesting lecture to attend. We are
never bored.”
Arne was surprised. “I’ll have to check
out the Y,” he declared.
Williams started to continue his
narration, but Arne took control of the
interview with a series of rapid-fire
questions, which Williams answered
without hesitation.
Mr. Paul Bornheim was a very nice
employer, perhaps the best Williams
had had. He seemed an average mid-
western American but was proud of
being of German extraction. He
seemed to be independently wealthy,
with no current business interest.
Williams understood that Bornheim
had trained as an accountant,
probably at Penn State. He largely
kept to himself. His son, Henry, was at
Yale but spent his vacations with his
father. The daughter, Henrietta, lived
in California with her mother but visited
often. He rarely had visitors, although
he did normally go out several times
per week, and he always went to the
prison when Mr. Heinrich Bornheim
could have visitors. Who was Mr.
Heinrich Bornheim? His father, who
had the misfortune to be incarcerated.
Williams understood that Mr. Paul
Bornheim had relocated to Tucson to
be near father. They talked the
permitted thirty minutes by phone
every day.
“What did they talk about?” Arne
asked rather briskly.
Well, of course, Williams would never
purposefully overhear his employers’
conversations. In this case, it was
unavoidable. It was Mr. Paul Bornheim’
s custom to wall around the house
talking on his cordless headset. He
especially did this when conversing
with his father. It was often impossible
to avoid overhearing what Mr. Paul
Bornheim was saying. They often
talked about past events, friends back
east, trips they had made to Asia, and
South America. Lately, there had been
a strident or unpleasant tone to the
conversations. Mr. Paul Bornheim
seemed to be placating his father
about certain accusations. His duties
to his employer didn’t allow him to go
into detail about his personal life.”
I had handled this objection before.
“Mr. Williams, I very much appreciate
your loyalty and discretion. But I think
you will agree that your duty to Mr.
Paul Bornheim now is to give us as
much information as possible to help
us clarify the manner of his death.”
He seemed to consider. “Officer
MacGloughlin, it is my understanding
that Mr. Paul Bornheim clearly
committed suicide. Under those
circumstances, I see no reason to
disclose private affairs of my employer
which might be used to denigrate his
name.”
Now it’s Arne’s turn. “It’s not suicide. It’
s murder. Both Paul Bornheim and
Heinrich Bornheim met violent deaths
within the last week. That’s not a
coincidence. They were murdered. Mr.
Williams, you don’t want to interfere
with a murder investigation. Either you
talk to us here or you talk to us from a
TPD cell.”
The pale faced butler turned even
paler. “Mr. Heinrich Bornheim has
been murdered?”
“Yes.”
Williams let out a long breath. “Yes,
that does make a difference. So, the
Tucson police are investigating Mr.
Paul Bornheim’s case as murder?”
Yes.” Arne lied.
“Very well.” Williams was silent for
more than a minute. “You will be aware
that Mr. Heinrich Bornheim was from a
culture much older and different from
that of contemporary America or
Arizona.”
“We know that he was European,
Austrian, and had grownup in Nazi
Germany.,” I said.
“Yes. It would appear that Mr. Heinrich
was very much a product of that place
and period, especially the racial
teachings.”
“Prejudices against Jews and Slavs?” I
asked.
“Really against any non-Germanic
people. Especially against any non-
European peoples.”
“Like Mexicans?” Arne asked.
“Yes. Mr. Heinrich had lived in Mexico
and I gathered that he was especially
intolerant of Mexicans in any role other
than that of servant.”
“And Paul disagreed with him?” I asked.
“In his actions if not his words. That
greatly angered Mr. Heinrich. Recently
he was very angry with Mr. Paul for
having been unfaithful to those
teachings.”
Arne sort of grunted. “I suppose I can
see that. Here in Tucson it would be
difficult to treat all Mexicans as
servants. Had Heinrich been angry at
Paul over this recently?”
Williams went on. “Yes, but it wasn’t
the first time. There was an incident
about four years ago. But Mr. Paul
didn’t consider that he had broken his
father’s principles.”
I asked. “What happened?”
“Yes. I know few details. Only that Mr.
Paul Bornheim had an affair with a
Mexican lady who worked at the
Dessert Diamond Casino out south of
Tucson. She was quite attractive.”
“So he brought her here?” asks Arne.
“No. I saw her photograph in the
newspaper. You see, her husband
caught them in bed. He killed her and
lightly wounded Mr. Paul. He was
refusing to testify against the husband.
However, it didn’t matter because the
husband pleaded guilty. Mr. Paul
Bornheim became quite emotional
affected by the affair, was morose for
weeks. He blamed himself for the lady’
s death and the poor husband’s
misfortune. That is why he hired Mr.
Bermudez, the husband’s brother, as
some compensation for the damage he
had caused.”
I gave Arne a knowing look. There may
be a motive here for Bermudez. Arne
nods, and then asks Williams “And
Heinrich Bornheim became angry over
this?”
“Yes, very. I couldn’t help but overhear
Mr. Paul’s part of many phone
conversations over the matter. He
maintained that situation had not
violated his father’s principles because
it was an unimportant tryst with an
‘untermensch’ and that he had not
treated her as an equal.”
“And Heinrich didn’t accept that point
of view?”
“No, he did not. He felt Mr. Paul was
drifting away from the true Aryan
philosophy he had been taught. It was
weeks before the topic was dropped.”
Seeing Arne distracted I asked, “And
there was something recently?”
A look of severe discuss crossed his
face. “I will tell you this only in the
utmost secrecy. You must promise that
no one in this house will ever know it
came from me.”
Arne was thoughtful. “In this house?
Yes, we can promise that.”
Williams sat up straight and squared
his shoulders, as if preparing for an
ordeal. “Mrs. Gonzalez has a
granddaughter, Lila. She often came
to visit with her grandmother and
helped around the house.”
“As a paid helper?” Arne asks.
“No. Mr. Paul once offered to pay her
but Mrs. Gonzalez wouldn’t hear of it.”
He paused. “Lila is in her early
twenties and has quite a nice figure,
and would have a nice face except for
a large, dark red scare covering much
of the left side of her face, supposedly
from a childhood burn. She has a quite
but pleasant personality. Mrs.
Gonzalez placed Lila close Mr. Paul at
every opportunity, as if attempting to
develop a sexual interest in Mr. Paul
for her. Lila seemed willing and
eventually she became his mistress,
lived here in the house as if she were
his wife. Lila became pregnant. She
seemed satisfied. Mrs. Gonzalez was
extremely happy, and Mr. Paul also
seemed happy if bewildered. He was
getting her the best medical care.”
Williams stopped again to consider his
words. “Then came something I don’t
understand. Last May, when she was
maybe two months pregnant, Lila got
an abortion and wasn’t living here
anymore. The last time I saw Lila was
when she came in to tell her
grandmother about the abortion.
There was a very tumultuous scene.
Lila would explain nothing. Mr. Paul im
seemed as surprised as anyone did
but Mrs. Gonzalez blamed him and
went after him with a kitchen knife,
which I managed to take from her.
Then she ran off to his office and
came back with that antique shotgun
off the wall. Of course, it had no
ammunition. Finally Mr. Paul yelled at
me to ‘handle this’ and left. After Mrs.
Gonzalez calmed down, I drove her
and Lila down to their house in south
Tucson. Mr. Paul spent the night
elsewhere but was back the next day.”
“No one called the police?” I asked.
“No, it would not have been
appropriate.” He shrugged. “Mr. Paul’s
only comment to me on the affair was
‘Williams, women aren’t worth the
trouble.’ About the middle of the next
week, Mrs. Gonzalez came back to
work as if nothing had happened. I don’
t think they ever talked about it. The
major repercussion was that Mr.
Heinrich somehow found out about Lila
this past week. I think on Sunday.”
“Any idea how he found out?” I asked.
“No, I haven’t. Every afternoon last
week until Friday, Mr. Paul was walking
around from room to room and outside
with that headset on, making a very
unpleasant attempt to console or
convince his father of his
repentance-----------------------------------
------------. I felt sorry for them both.”
Arne suddenly asked, “Did you ever
meet Heinrich?”
“No, sir. There was never any reason
to, and I wasn’t on his approved
visitors list in any case.”
Yes, he knew about the handgun Mr.
Paul kept in the office desk. There was
a similar one in the drawer of his
bedside table. At one time or another,
Williams had handled both. Mr. Paul
had required that he know how to
handle both. He was concerned about
security, but not more than some other
employers Williams had had over the
years.
Mrs. Gonzalez must have known about
the gun. Mr. Bermudez might not. Mr.
Slanton almost certainly would have.
Arne rubed his chin. “Those are the
only two girlfriends you know about?”
“Yes, but he went out several times per
week. There may have been other
relations I don’t know about.”
“Where did he go?” I ask.
“He belonged to a health spa. He
sometimes lunched out. He often
brought books and tapes back from
the public library. He sometimes went
to mass. He sometimes took out his
golf clubs, but it seemed to me he was
never gone long enough to play even
nine holes. He often went to one of the
Indian casinos out south of town.”
I looked at my notes. “Are you sure
Slanton was a nephew and not other
relative?”
Williams shrugs. “Mr. Paul often
referred to him as ‘my nephew.”
Arne entered the fray. “We understand
that there were only two keys to the
office door, that they are electronic,
and can not be duplicated?”
“That is my understanding. I certainly
never tried to have one duplicated.”
“Did you often have a reason to use
your key?”
“I myself, no. However, I loaned it to
Mrs. Gonzalez twice per week so she
could clean the office. I did
occasionally loan it to Mr. Paul when
he didn’t have his key at hand.”
Arne changed topic. “About your
movements on Friday – by the way, do
you live here?”
“Yes, all of the staff have quarters
here. Mr. Bermudez is usually away
with his family on weekends, and Mrs.
Gonzalez occasionally spends a night
at her house in south Tucson. She has
a son living there. And, I suppose, Lila
now.”
“About your movements on Friday. Did
you leave at 3:30 every Friday?”
“That was my custom. I would serve
Mr. Paul a light lunch shortly after 3:00
and leave for the Y by 3:30, then
either return by 10:00 or by 9:00
Saturday morning.”
“So you last saw Paul Bornheim at 3:
00.”
“No, actually, it was almost 3:30.”
“And he was alive then.”
“Very much so. He was on the
telephone but showed me where to set
the tray and made a motion with his
hand for me to lock the door.”
“So, you locked it from the outside?
Did you make sure that it was locked?”
“Yes, the door was locked.”
“It could only have been opened from
the outside with your key? Which you
had in your possession until you
reached the Y. Then you left it in a
locker with you clothes?”
“No sir. It is waterproof. At the Y I
always have it around my neck.”
“Even in the sauna with your fiancée?”
“Always.”
“OK, what were you doing when Mrs.
Gonzalez called you for help?”
“My fiancée and I were in the lounge
having a soda preparatory to going out
to dinner.”
“And you rushed over immediately?”
“I was here within fifteen minutes.”
“What did you do when you arrived?”
“I immediately went to the office and
opened the door.”
“Did you check to see if it was locked?”
Williams hesitated. “I think so. And, she
had just told me that it was locked.”
“But you aren’t sure it was locked?”
He hesitated again. “I could not testify
thusly.”
“OK, you opened the door and what?”
I saw Mr. Paul sprawled across his
desk. I walked over behind him, saw
that he was clearly dead, and
instructed Mr. Slanton to go call 911.”
“Why didn’t you call from the office? Or
use your cell phone?”
“I knew I should not use the office
phone. I have seen enough movies
where an innocent is accused of
murder because he left fingerprints on
the crime scene.”
Arne grinned. “OK, what did you do
then?”
“Mrs. Gonzalez was almost hysterical. I
bundled her out of the room as best I
could, closed the door, and then stood
before the door until the ambulance
arrived.”
“How long was that?”
“Maybe five minutes.”
“Anything happen in that time?”
“Mr. Slanton wanted to go into his
uncle, but I didn’t allow it. The man was
clearly dead. Then Slanton went into
the kitchen to console Mrs. Gonzalez.”
“The police interviewed you?”
“Briefly, and also Saturday morning
briefly. And Saturday morning I
consented to be fingerprinted.”
“Oh yes,” I ask “They fingerprinted you
all? Didn’t they?”
“Myself, Slanton and Mrs. Gonzalez.
Bermudez wasn’t there.”
“Oh yes,” this time it was Arne. “When
you left at 3:30 all three were there.”
“Yes.”
“Did Slanton object to having his prints
taken?” I asked.”
“Not in my presence.”
“Do you know any reason, perhaps a
business affair, for which anyone
would want to kill Paul Bornheim?”
“None, whatsoever. He didn’t seem to
have any business affairs. The man I
knew was good hearted and had no
enemies.”
“Except Mrs. Gonzalez,” I offered.
Williams glanced at me but didn’t
respond.
“That’s enough for now,” Arne
decided. “Where can we find you next
week?”
“Mr. Henry, through Mr. Himes - Mr.
Paul’s lawyer - has asked us all to stay
on through the end of the month as
the legal affairs are straightened out.
Mr. Henry is due back next Wednesday
when his semester has ended at Yale.”
Arne looked thoughtful. “Do you
happen to know the terms of Paul
Bornheim’s will?”
“Not really. It must be a large estate. I
understand that Mr. Slanton is well
provided for, and one would assume
that the children are the main
beneficiaries. I don’t know if Mr.
Slanton’s parents are living.”
“How do you know that Slanton is well
provided for?” asked Arne.
“I once heard a conversation in which
Mr. Slanton objected to the amount Mr.
Paul contemplated spending on the
purchase of a business for Mr.
Slanton. Mr. Paul responded that there
was no reason for Mr. Slanton to have
to wait until Mr. Paul’s death to be rich.”
“Do you have lawyer Himes’ phone
number?”
Williams handed Arne a card off his
desk.
Saturday morning, 9:00, December
11th Saturday morning at 8:00 I called
Arne to see if I need to go down the
mountain. We weren’t paid for working
weekends, often didn’t even get comp
time, but when we were on an
interesting case we sometime did. I
had plans with Bríghid, but DOC had
first call, so I called Arne.
No, he said. There was nothing we
needed to do. He was going to call a
few people at TPD to see what he
could find out, especially about the will.
Sunday morning, 9:00, December
12th Sundays I didn’t call Arne. I
considered this my day. If he wanted
me, he would have to call me. He didn’t.
Monday morning, 9:00, December 13th
interview paralegal
Arne and I both pulled into our parking
places at 9:11. I was about half way
through tape three of ‘Hangman's
Holiday.’ It turns out that I had read this
once before, but I am enjoying them in
any case. I can hear Morning Edition
coming through the open window of
Arne’s car as he waits for a segment to
end. It’s something about President
Clinton wanting peace in the Middle
East.
When he joins me on the way into E
building he gives his opinion. “Watson,
there won’t be peace in the Middle
East in our lifetime.”
“The president seems to be making a
major effort with Arafat.”
“Not in our lifetime,” he repeats.
Mahler wasn’t in but the chaplain had
made coffee, so we joined him. Arne
placed his usual bag of chocolate
donuts on the desk. Chaplain Doyle
from House 5 was already there. The
chaplain is just ending his story about
the time in Alaska that he met a bear
and had no gun. Doyle was the first
one to snag a donut.
“How did your conflicting weekend
schedules go?” I asked the chaplain?
“Harried,” he answered. I preached a
quick ten-minute sermon, and then
rushed off the next yard. However, it
worked out. Every chaplain has a
reliable set of clerks to open the
service, lead singing, and such. All I
had to do was show up and give my
sermon.”
The chaplain smiled at Doyle. “You
know, Doyle, these guys like you for
the Bornheim murder. You had
opportunity. Did you have a motive?”
Doyle blushed, clearly not liking the
joke. He wrapped another donut in a
napkin, said “Thanks.” to Arne and left.
“Sorry about that,” said the chaplain.
“My jokes aren’t always appreciated.
Anyway, what about this Y2K stuff? Are
you worried, MacGloughlin?”
“That the computers are going to stop
at midnight December 31? I just can’t
believe it.”
Arne grinned. “The government seems
to take it seriously. What if they’re
right? What if you’re driving down your
mountain at that time and your car
goes dead? Or does yours have a
computer?”
I though about that. “I have no idea.
Would a ’96 have one?”
“I don’t know either.”
The chaplain said, “I think it does. But
it may not be vital to the car’s
operation.”
“Well, I’ll be sure to be in a safe place
at the critical moment.”
“In the arms of the dear Bríghid?” Arne
asked.
The chaplain gave Arne a stern look.
He had quietly chided me several times
about living with Bríghid without benefit
of matrimony. I think he was bothered
by the fact that his wife, Socorro de
Dios (yes, this Baptist chaplain has a
Mexican Catholic wife), was a good
friend of Bríghid who was living in sin
with me. They both taught at Pima
Community College Northeast
Campus. Also, he liked Bríghid.
Everyone liked Bríghid. “Why don’t you
two get married at Christmas? She still
wants to, doesn’t she?”
I don’t want to go into this again. “We’
re talking about it,” I fudge. But I just
don’t see the need to marry if we aren’t
going to raise kids. I see that as being
what marriage is for in this day and
time when a woman has a job or is
financially independent. The major
teaching of Jesus was that we treat
others better than we do ourselves, or
do what’s best for the other in our
decision making. I don’t see that
marriage would be a benefit to Bríghid.”
I didn’t mention that it would involve all
kinds of emotional issues for me.
Bríghid is wealthy compared to me.
Could I be comfortable with that? To
be fair to her I would have to insist on
a pre-nuptial agreement protecting
her, but I dreaded talking to her about
that. “And besides, that Saint Paul,
whom you admire so much, said it was
better not to marry.”
The chaplain gave me a solemn look,
“You are misapplying Paul’s words,
and being overly cunning with your use
of Jesus’ teachings. In any case,
marriage is often important to a woman
for emotional and psychological
reasons, which you are ignoring.
Beyond that, it is my impression that
Bríghid would like to have children.”
I was silent, feeling rather taken aback.
This is another question I haven’t
resolved. At forty-five, do I want to start
another family. My two daughters are
nineteen and twenty. Catherine is
married. Emiliana is about to marry. I
great enjoyed raising them and
appreciate them as adults. They have
turned out very well indeed. But I would
be approaching seventy when a
second set became adults. Would that
be a problem or a blessing?
Arne saved me from further deep
thoughts by returning to the computer
suicide problem, “That’s one good
thing about this complex being so old
and technologically backward. We don’
t have to worry so much about Y2K
because not much here is
computerized.”
The chaplain looked around at his
computer. “It would certainly affect me.
All my records, plans, sermons –
everything are in that computer.”
That caused me to think about the
possibilities. “Yeah, I have quite a bit
on mine – on both, here and at home.
Maybe I’ll print everything out before
Christmas.”
“No,” Arne said. “Just get one of those
external storage systems and back up
everything on there.”
“Well, aren’t those computerized?”
“Yes, but one made in the last few
years will have the Y2K problem fixed.”
“I’ll look into it.” I said.
Just then, we heard Captain Mahler
enter his office and we all three joined
him, along with what was left of the
donuts. Mahler opened the donut bag,
and found only one left. He looked
accusingly at Arne.
Arne looked at the chaplain, who
blushed, “Sorry about that. Doyle was
here when Arne arrived.”
“And how is it that he took one of my
donuts?”
The chaplain blushed again. “You’re
right. It should have come from my side
of the table.”
Mahler smiled, “Forget it.”
Mahler poured his cup of Jamaican
Blue Mountain Peaberry #2, took a
deep smell of that delicious aroma and
said to Arne “As far as I am concerned,
your job is safe as long as I am here
just for giving me this sip of Paradise
every morning.”
Arne smiled. “Thank Mr. VanDahl. I just
bring it in.”
“Thank you, Senator VanDahl,” Mahler
said to the absent senator, “and I’ll
vote for you next election even though
I’m not a Republican.”
“You’re not?” asked the chaplain. “I
supposed you were.”
It occurred to me that although I’d
known all these guys for years, we’ve
never talked much about politics, or at
least political parties. I supposed the
chaplain is a Republican. I would have
guessed Mahler was. I knew that Arne
didn’t vote much and switched around
when he did. I vote most of the time but
do switch around. Years ago I got
accidentally registered as an
independent and have never changed
that. I’m really down on Arizona
politicians: they must be about the
worst in the nation, except maybe for
Louisiana. We hadn’t had a governor I
respected since Bruce Babbitt and that
was so long ago most Arizonans today
wouldn’t recognizes his name.
“No,” said Mahler. “Remember I’m
Jewish, or at least was raised in a
secular Jewish home. They taught me
the Democrat Party line, so that’s how I’
m registered. But, I always vote for
Senator VanDahl.”
“I was raised Mormon. That should
make me a Republican,” Arne said.
“But I’m a lapsed or “jack” Mormon.
And, actually, I’m registered as a
libertarian.”
I looked at the chaplain. “I suppose you’
re a Republican, being a
fundamentalist Christian?” After I
realized what I had asked, I blushed.
Being black, he is probably a
Democrat.
He didn’t seem to notice my
embarrassment. “I’m registered as an
independent. But, yes, I do usually
vote Republican because of their
family-friendly values.”
Now there was a moment of silence. It
seemed no one wants to continue this
topic.
“So, where are we on the murders?”
asked Mahler.
We hadn’t written up our reports yet,
so I pulled out my notebook and went
over what we learned Friday at the
Paul Bornheim mansion.
Arne added a few points, waveed his
pipe to get our attention, and said,
“You know, this is becoming to look like
an Agatha Christie novel. Three of the
four people living in the house had
possible motives: the housekeeper
because of Bornheim’s treatment of
her granddaughter, the gardener
because of the affair of the brother
and sister-in-law, and the houseguest
may have hoped to inherit some of his
millions.”
“No motive for the butler, my dear
Holmes? Didn’t you predict last week
that the butler did it?” asked Mahler.
“A motive may show up, my dear
Inspector Lestrade, but at the moment
it doesn’t look like the butler did it.”
“Wait just a minute,” demanded the
chaplain. “Your logical processes
seem to be faltering her, Mr. Holmes.”
Arne stood up, seemingly taken aback.
“I beg your pardon, my dear bishop?
Are you addressing me, the empire’s
preeminent consulting detective? Who
is famous for his intellectual prowess
and is renowned for his skillful use of
astute observation, deductive
reasoning and forensic skills to solve
the most difficult cases the criminals of
Arizona can produce. Are you
addressing me, sir?”
A repentant chaplain explained. “My
dear Holmes, I misspoke. Forgive me.
Perhaps I should have said that I see a
possible incongruity here, some points
that are not harmonious.”
I had no idea what he just said, and
the look on his face said that neither
did Arne.
The chaplain continues. “It’s just that
the reason you are investigating Paul
Bornheim as a murder rather than
accepting it as a suicide is the
connection with the Heinrich Bornheim
murder. Yet you are including suspects
who have no relation to Heinrich. If you
are considering someone with no
connection to the father, you have no
reason to think the son was murdered.
They concepts mutually exclude each
other.”
I smiled at Arne. “Is he saying we can’t
have our cake and eat it too?”
Arne was quiet for a long moment. “I
am certain Paul Bornheim was
murdered. I agree it is unlikely that the
Kolb Road drug traffickers got the
housekeeper or the gardener to kill
him. Some other connection between
one of then and the father may turn
up. Slaton is another matter
altogether. He was related to both.”
He glanced at Mahler, and then waved
the pipe at me. “Saturday I talked to
Captain Mill. He still has the case open
but all these drug killings lately, which
are unquestionably homicides, have
TPD homicide overloaded, He gave me
two facts to work on. An previously
unidentified fingerprint on the base of
the handle of the death gun has now
been determined to be an overprint of
Paul Bornheim’s thumb over Stanton’s
left index finger. You will remember
that Slanton said he had never seen
the gun.”
“Why in the world did TPD let him go?”
I asked no one in particular.
“They’re probably asking themselves
that,” responded Mahler.
The chaplain grunted, “I’ll bet someone’
s ass has been chewed up and spit out
over that.”
Arne smiled, “There’s more. Mill had
seen the will. Slanton is referred to as
Paul Bornheim’s son not nephew or
cousin and inherits equally with the
other two children. However, the three
only come into their inheritance when
Paul and Heinrich are both dead. As
long as Paul or Heinrich lived, they
would live on a generous trust fund
allowance. The estate is probably
something over seven million dollars.”
“Bingo!” exclaimed Mahler, “There is
motive for both murders.”
“Looks like it.” Arne allowed, and then
looked seriously at Mahler. “TPD wants
Dr. Watson to fly back to New Jersey to
interview Slanton.”
I jerked up in my chair. Where did this
come from? Fear is my first though of
going back to some urban jungle back
east.
“No, Arne. Our primary concern is
Heinrich Bornheim. TPD make this
mistake. They’ll have to get Slanton
back or go interview him themselves.
You could concentrate on how Slanton
managed to get Heinrich killed while in
our custody.”
Arne shrugged, “I don’t think they’ll be
doing that soon. They are
overextended and they still want to see
this as a suicide.”
“That’s their business. Anything else of
interest from the interviews or TPD?”
Arne motioned for me to open my
notebook again. I went to the page
where we had noted question about
the interviews. “First, why did Slanton
downplay his relation to victim, saying
he was a ‘distant cousin’?”
I waited for a comment.
Mahler saids, “Go ahead, and read all
your points. Then we’ll mull them over.”
“Two: it’s strange that Slanton admitted
he had been in prison back East. We
would have expected him to hide that.
Three: that about looking for a
business with a real estate agent. I
called the agent and that checks out.”
“What does that tell us?” asked the
chaplain.
“Don’t know,” answered Arne. “Maybe
nothing.”
“Four: this Nazi past of Heinrich. Can
there be anything there that we’re
missing? And was Paul involved in it?”
I continued. “Five: the housekeeper
didn’t mention the granddaughter. That’
s not surprising.” I looked at Mahler.
“Should we continue after the
housekeeper and the gardener in view
of the ‘incongruity’ the chaplain has
pointed out?”
Mahler looks at Arne. “They are
unlikely suspects. Is this what they call
a ‘conundrum’?”
I wished I could use big words like that.
“If one of them is guilty, it removes our
reason for suspecting murder. Yet, if
we are going to investigate this as a
murder connected with Heinrich, which
is our only legitimate reason to be
looking at Paul, then can they be
suspects?”
Arne rubbed his chin, and then
straightened the deerstalker. “They
both seem unlikely because of their
age and sophistication level, or lack
thereof. A third party, who wanted to
orchestrate both murders, might have
had someone else go after Heinrich
and convinced one of these two, or
both, to do the son.”
The chaplain and Mahler had both
finished their donuts. Therefore, we
adjourned to one of the front patio
tables for a third cup of coffee.
“They both already had some motive.”
I continued.
“Which one of those two do you like for
it?” asked the chaplain?
“Oh, if it’s one of them, it’s her. I can’t
see the old man doing it. And,
according to her and Slanton, the old
man couldn’t have done it,” replied
Arne.
“At least not alone,” corrected Mahler.
“And even the old lady alone would be
a very great stretch.” Arne added. “But
she and Slanton seem to have been
awfully cozy. Those two may have
worked together.”
The chaplain smiled, “And that gives
you the tie-in you need with our
Bornheim.”
“I like this,” said Mahler. “Is there any
possibility that Slanton did it alone?”
“I don’t see how. Unless the
housekeeper and gardener, or at least
the housekeeper, are lying. She
certainly alibis him in the critical 4:30 to
5:30 period. Actually until 8:30.”
The chaplain asked “How certain are
we on the time of death, especially this
4:30 as the earliest possible time of
death?”
“It’s based on the statements of
Gonzalez and Slanton. If they lied, that
certainly implicates them.” I said.
Mahler turned to Arne. “Let’s
concentrate on those two, Mr. Holmes.
I hope you aren’t too disappointed that
the butler didn’t do it.”
Arne smiled sheepishly. “You’ve got
me there, Inspector Lestrade. Dr.
Watson and I will follow up on the
housekeeper and the Lila angle, and
we’ll go back to House 5 to see what
we might stir up.” He sat up straight in
his chair. “Cap, TPD isn’t sending
anyone back to New York to interview
Slanton anytime soon. What do you
say to my trying to set up a telephone
interview with him? Maybe one of these
video conferences?”
Mahler looked skeptical. “I really don’t
want any problems with TPD. You can
do that only with the total approval and
cooperation of Captain Mill.”
“That’s good.” Arne agreed. “I’ve
already planted the seed of the idea.”
The chaplain looked thoughtfully at
Arne. “Where is Slanton being held?”
“Newburg. It’s on the Hudson not far
north of Manhattan.”
The chaplain looked to Mahler, “I have
a friend – guy I was in the MPs with. He’
s now a captain in the Middletown,
which is near there. Would you like for
me to call him, see what information is
available informally?”
“Can’t hurt.” Mahler replied.
The chaplain hesitated, then offered, “I
have several friends who are now on
second careers with security or
investigative agencies in the DC are.
Would you like for me to ask about the
background of Heinrich? His Nazi
past?”
“No, don’t waste your time. This isn’t
something from fifty years ago.”
Just then, Mrs. DeNeuve, the paralegal
who had been on House 5 B run with
the librarian on the morning of
Bornheim’s murder, came in to be
interviewed. She had never dealt with
Bornheim on any complaints or
appeals. She had asked the librarian
to take her to B run that morning to
retrieve some forms from an IM in B11.
It had been difficult because the
electric lock on the B11 door would not
open. Eventually the IM had pushed
the needed forms under the door. She
had verbally complained to McKinley in
Trimble Control about the bad lock as
it violated conditions of confinement.
He had said that he could always
manually open a door if necessary.
Beyond that, she had noticed nothing.
The librarian was with her at all times
except for a few seconds when he
stepped across the hall to receive a
book that an IM slipped under his door.
She was sure the librarian had not
gone to B7.
Arne and I spent the rest of the day at
House 5 again interviewing the COs
and the B run inmates. Then we
started on the occupants of runs A and
C. Nothing new. A few seemed
nervous, but not enough to merit an
intense interrogation.
We left House 5 at 3:30, both taking
the bus. There had been a time when I
walked everywhere on the complex but
now I had this bone spur growth on my
left hill which limited that. I did have an
insole insert, which alleviated the pain.
However this morning I changed shoes
from yesterday but forget to change
the insert. Arne is in a similar situation
form an old stab wound to his left mid-
calf.
Jenkins, an inmate I knew well at
Wilmot, was driving the bus, so I sat
down behind the driver’s seat and
asked Jenkins about a really humorous
clerk I used to have, Corriveau.
“He got out on parole in September,”
He answered. “If he’s not already back
at Wilmot, he will be by Christmas. He
can’t live on the outside.”
Probable true, I thought.
He stopped the bus to pickup a
passenger and I noticed that he was
trying to get my attention with his eyes.
Then he looked at a wad of paper on
the floor on the left side of the driver’s
seat. I nodded that I understood and
stealthily retrieved the wad.
We parted back at CIU. Arne had
arranged to interview Slanton the next
morning at 8:00 Arizona time, 10:00
New York time. I went to the office to
finish the report on our Friday
activities. When I was about to leave
for the day, CO3 Clearns from
Cornfields Yard stuck his head in the
door.
“Ho, MacGloughlin! What’s cooking?”
“Not much, Clearns. We’re working that
murder on Trimble Yard, but nobody
admits to knowing anything.”
“I know what you mean. The cons won’t
talk or, if they do, it’s all lies.”
“In this case they just aren’t talking.”
“Say, I got a message for you:
Hernandez wants to see you.”
“Oh?” I looked up. “You know why?”
“He didn’t say and I didn’t ask.”
Hernandez. There were probably
fifteen or more inmates on Cornfields
Yard named Hernandez. However, if
you just mentioned the name
‘Hernandez,’ most anyone at Kolb
Road would assume you meant Emilio
Hernandez, the ‘cacique’ of Cornfields
Yard. ‘Cacique’ means boss or leader
in Spanish. Cornfields Yard was where
inmates who largely or solely spook
Spanish lived (although many of them
do speak English well). It was probably
eighty percent Mexican with the rest
mostly African heritaged inmates from
Puerto Rico, the Dominican Republic,
and Cuba.
Cornfields was the last Kolb Road yard
to have a con boss, an inmate who
was recognized as the one responsible
for keeping the peace and sorting out
inmate differences before they become
a problem for the COs. At one time all
yards at Kolb Road had either one IM,
or a group of two or three, who had
special privileges in exchange for
doing most of the COs’ work for them
in keeping things quiet. However, with
the more violent drug culture that hit
prisons in the 70s and 80s, that
system broke down.
Emilio Alvaro Hernandez Robles was
from a wealthy, politically important
Mexican family. He is in for life for
gunrunning to the Túpac Amaru
guerillas in Peru, and for the (he said
accidental) death of a Pima County
sheriff’s deputy. He’d been in for
twenty-one years, always in the same
cell at Cornfields, benevolently
controlling as cacique, keeping
everything peaceful through his family’
s influence in the Mexican community
on the outside and his influence inside,
allowing only minor drug use. He had a
very philosophical, accepting attitude
towards his confinement and his
influence seemed to be totally
benevolent. Lockdowns were almost
unheard of at Cornfields.
I was in his good graces because of an
incident a few years back when I was
out on the far east side of Tucson
looking for a parole violator to take
back to Kolb Road. I came across a
‘coyote’ or immigrant smuggler safe
house filled with illegals who were
being held against there will. I called
over some sheriff’s deputies and we
liberated them. It turned out that some
were not illegals but rather local
Hispanics who were being held for
ransom, including two cousins of
Hernandez. A few days later, he called
me over to Cornfields to thank me
personally and declared himself in me
debt. Since then he has given me
some valuable tips or hints.
Thanking Clearns, I left at 4:00 and
listened to All Things Considered on
NPR as I started up my mountain.
When the signal went out about half
way up, I went back to the Hangman’s
Holiday tapes.
Tuesday morning, 9:00, December
14th I pulled into my parking space at
9:11, listen to the end of a report on
‘Morning Edition” about a scientific
study showing that the English
government back in 1821 had slowly
murdered Napoleon on St. Helena by
putting arsenic in his brandy. I hoped it
wouldn’t take two hundred years to find
who killed Bornheim!
The chaplain was out but Mahler was
in. I stopped by for coffee. Martinez
and Foreman (one of Mahler’s other
investing teams are just leaving. I
asked Foreman about the trip back to
Maryland to his mother’s funeral. His
answers are rather solemn: The
weather was bad. It was nice to see his
brothers. He brought his dad back with
to live in Tucson. He went up to Staten
Island to visit his housebound
grandmother.
When they left, Mahler sighed. “Poor
Foreman! Lost his mother and now his
wife has left him.” I didn’t know how to
respond. Foreman’s wife was divorcing
him months ago. Had she comeback?
Arne had gone to Admin so I looked
over the Arizona Republic and then
(remembering Arne’s suggestion) the
local Arizona Daily Star. I needed to go
see Hernandez but wanted to check in
with Arne first. However, he wasn’t
back by 10:30, so I walked over to
Main Point, went through the metal
detector and two sally port gates, and
waited for a bus to Cornfields.
I remembered the wad of paper from
Jenkins, and looked at it again. It has
written in capital letters
“BLHARRISCOFFEECUP.” I had
broken that down into ‘B. L. Harris
coffee cup.’ I thought I knew what it
meant. We had a young CO named
Benjamin Larry Harris who worked at
the “Hub” which is the main office
complex within the secure area within
the fence. He probably brought a large
16 or 24-ounce cup of coffee from
Circle K or Seven-Eleven in with him
every morning - as did many COs and
other staff who didn’t care for the
complex coffee. Was Jenkins
suggesting that Harris was smuggling
contraband in his coffee cup?
Probably.
At Cornfields, I stopped by the deputy
warden’s office to tell him I wanted to
see Hernandez.
It didn’t surprise the DW. He looked at
his watch. “He should be in the shop.
That’s where he spends most of his
time.”
I did find him in the machinery repair
shop, which was to the east of the
Cornfields Admin building, next to a
large vegetable garden plot. There
was an easel and oil paint set up at
one workbench. The last time I was
here Hernandez was working on a
desert landscape. However, this time
he was at a table in the center of the
room bent over an ancient lawnmower
turned up side down on the table,
removing the blade. Out through the
open doors to the east I could see ‘old
Diego’ working what appeared to be a
spinach patch. He could always be
found somewhere around the yard,
doing landscaping, working the flower
beds at yard Admin, or here in the
vegetables. I shouted and he waved.
Hernandez was a little under medium
height, somewhat over weight, had a
nice shock of black hair starting to
gray, with a round face with a ruddy
rather than dark complexion. He was
dressed in the standard issue orange
pants and jumper.
I offered my hand. “Hello, Alvaro, not
painting today?” It was against DOC
policy to have physical contact with
inmates, including shaking hands, but
that didn’t apply to Alvaro.
“Hello, MacGloughlin. I’m between
paintings. And I do have to earn my
keep.” He joked.
In another life, he attended American
prep schools and even Virginia Military
Institute for two years and speaks
flawless English.
We discussed various things going on
in Arizona and the world stage. He
thought the Y2K problem with the
computers was very overblown. He
speculated about the 2000 presidential
election. His family owned several
businesses in Texas and knew the
Bushes. He was certain that Governor
Bush was going to be the Republican
nominee. I wondered if that would help
him get out sooner, but didn’t ask.
Finally, he turned serious. “I
understand that you are investigating
a drug ring tie-in to the death of
Heinrich Bornheim, or at least that an
inmate killed him for some reason.”
“Yes, there’s obviously something
there.”
“Drop it.”
“Drop it?” If any other inmate had told
me to ‘drop it’, I would have laughed.
But, Hernandez?
“Drop it. That’s a dead end. There is
no ‘drug ring’ as such at Kolb Road
prison complex. It’s all ‘nickel and dime’
stuff. Not something anyone would kill
over. And no Trimble Yard inmate
killed Bornheim.”
I thought for a moment. That’s what
Arne says. Alvaro should know. But
then what? Revenge? Sex?
Contraband but not drugs?
“Phoenix is sure we have a major drug
ring here?”
“Do you think someone in a DOC office
in Phoenix knows better what is going
on here than I do?”
“No, of course not.” And, Arne agrees
with you, I reminded myself. “But what
then? Give me some direction. It could
still have been an inmate.”
“I would know. Are you sure it was
murder – not suicide?”
“No question. The killer took the shank
or knife with him.” I didn’t mention that
the crime scene report had been
inconclusive.
“Have you looked carefully at the
COs?”
“We probably could look more
carefully. See if one of them is in
financial straights.”
“Do that. Also, have you interrogated
intensely the former celly?”
“He was living alone. His last celly had
been sent off site sometime before.”
“There is a man there in House 5 who
was Bornheim’s celly for over a year,
until recently.”
I suddenly remembered the inmate in
cell B5 who seemed more agitated by
Bornheim’s death than any of the
others.
“Wagner?” I asked.
“Talk to him.”
I tried to recoup some prestige. “We
haven’t just been after the drug angle.
There was a suspicious death in town
the Friday before Bornheim’s that
seems related.”
“Paul Bornheim” he stated, then
seemed to consider whether to tell me
something. Finally, “Do you know
about Diego?”
“He’s only been around a few years.
He must be in his 60s if not 70s. He
loves to work with plants. Isn’t he in for
killing his wife’s lover?”
“Hi wife. The lover survived. Read the
sentencing report.”
“I will.”
Back at CIU, Arne, Mahler, and the
chaplain were ready for lunch at Margo’
s. We went there and then waited until
there was a table free in Louise’s
section. Martinez and Foreman were
supposed to join us, but only Martinez
showed up. He was a young,
handsome Hispanic who spoke only
broken Spanish. “Foreman may not
get here,” He reported. “He’s very
broken up over the divorce.”
“But, isn’t that several months old?” I
asked.
“They had gotten back together,”
Mahler told me. “He thought they were
going to make it.”
“Something new come up?” I asked.
“No, just the same old, same old. They
both have quite a few issues.”
“I guess there are always two sides
even though we may only see one,” I
philosophized.
“That’s the Lord’s truth.” Said the
chaplain.
It seemed strange to me that he was
so accepting of the situation. Of us
five, the chaplain, Arne, and myself all
have one divorce behind us. Martinez
and Cheryl had separated a while back
but seemed to have things under
control for the moment. We knew very
little of Mahler’s private life but there
have been hints of an ‘ex’ back east. I
didn’t even know if was presently
married now, or what his living
arrangements were.
Louise took our orders and Arne
started to report on his call to New
York. Slanton was already free, so the
interview was set up in his lawyer’s
office with the lawyer listening in on the
speakerphone.
He had seemed helpful, wanting to
please. He apologized for misspeaking
a few times during the interview with
TPD. His uncle’s death had greatly
upset him. Yes, he had touched the
gun. His uncle had taken him out to the
desert to show him how to use it.
When asked if he was really Mr. Paul
Bornheim son rather than nephew, he
consulted with his lawyer, and then
admitted that, yes, he was Mr. Paul
Bornheim’s son. His father had always
referred to him as a nephew to avoid
embarrassment over his illegitimate
birth. Yes, he knew that he and his
siblings were equal and only
beneficiaries under the will. Yes, he
had visited his grandfather whenever
in Tucson. He had only learned
Heinrich’s death the previous evening
when Arne had called to set up the
interview. Slanton had been in touch
with the Pima County Coroner’s Office
that very morning to arrange for the
funerals of both men. He was buying
mausoleums in Tucson’s Eastlawn
Cemetery. Slanton would be coming
back to Tucson on Thursday to finalize
the arrangements. Heinrich had had a
daughter but she died in a supposed
‘accident’ years ago. Why supposed?
Mr. Slanton’s lawyer didn’t think it was
his clients place to answer that. Yes,
his father had certainly had security
concerns.
“So, do you still like him for Paul
Bornheim’s murder?” asked Mahler.
“Or both?”
Arne rubbed his chin. “Yes I do. If we
had been face to face, I might have a
different opinion. However, just from
this, I see a person who panicked
when the crime was discovered,
allowed himself to be returned to New
York on a charge he knew he could
negotiate, and then got some very
cagey advice from a good lawyer. If he
does come back that will both make
him look even more innocent and put
him closer to the housekeeper should
she need her backbone stiffened.”
“If he is the one, and if the
housekeeper is involved, I suspect he
has someone here keeping tabs on
the case and on the housekeeper,
maybe even on you two,” the chaplain
looked at Arne and me.
On us? I didn’t like that.
Arne looked thoughtful, “I don’t want to
think that.” He turned to me “But we
could keep our eyes open for tails.”
Everyone was quite for a moment, then
I changed the subject. “I went out to
see Hernandez this morning,” and told
them what had transpired.
“I’m sure he’s right about the
contraband,” agrees Arne. “There are
just too many little ways to bring it in.
All those contact visits. And so many
underpaid COs and staff. And all those
supplies that come in everyday.
Besides, I don’t know that all that much
is getting through.”
“Quite a few stashes were found on
Trimble week before last,” Mahler
reminded us “although it was all very
small amounts.”
“I was at Ft. Grant when there really
was a major ring operating: cocaine,
heroin, weed, you name it. Half the
inmates were clearly high. There’s
nothing like that here,” said Arne.
“OK, If we accept that there is no drug
connection, what do we have as a
motive for Bornheim’s murder?” asked
Mahler.
Arne pointed the pipe at me. “Dr.
Watson may find something when he
gives Wagner the third degree.”
“We’ll get him out of his comfort zone,”
I said. “Lock him in a room in CIU for
two or three hours. Then try ‘good cop,
bad cop” on him.” I was always ‘good
cop.’ Arne could do a serious ‘bad cop.’
“Do that,” ordered Mahler. “And what is
this about the gardener at Cornfields?
What’s his name?”
“Diego Bermudez Ortega,” I said. “I’m
going to the Hub after lunch to read his
file.”
Arne grunted, “The gardener at Paul
Bornheim’s place is named Bermudez.
Was it Bermudez Ortega?”
The notebook that would have that
was back on my office desk. “I don’t
remember. I’ll check when I get back to
the office.”
“Paul Bornheim’s gardener was from a
ranch near Arivaca. Any idea where
your guy is from.” Arivaca was a
community out northwest of Nogales,
southwest of Tucson.
“I seem to associate him with Nogales
or some ranch around there. Could be
Arivaca.”
“You’ll know in a few hours,” said
Mahler. “But even if they are brothers,
what can it mean? Don’t I remember
from your original interview with Paul
Bornheim’s Bermudez something about
Paul Bornheim hiring him as a good
deed?”
“Yeah,” I agreed, “there was something
like that, about his being hired
although he obviously couldn’t do
much work.”
“Well, check that out thoroughly for
any possible motive,’ Mahler ordered.
“I still can’t see that feeble old man we
interviewed as having done this.” Arne
declared.
Martinez had been quite I had
forgotten he was there. “Maybe he did
some small role in the operation. Could
he and the housekeeper have done it
together? Or could he have helped the
‘nephew’ who is really a son?”
”We’ve been over that once,” noted
the chaplain “but it’s worth a review.”
“Let’s leave it until MacGloughlin goes
through those files on the Cornfield
Bermudez,” suggested Mahler.
“Anyone going for desert?”
The chaplain took a bag from his
jacket pocket, “I brought dessert.” He
handed each of us two large and very
delicious after dinner mints. “Belgian!”
He declared. “The best!”
As we rose the chaplain remembered “I’
ve got a call in to my friend in the
Middleton, New York, PD. I may have
something tomorrow.”
I took a bus to the Hub and spent the
afternoon doing research on
Bermudez and Bornheim. Our
suppositions on Bermudez proved
correct, and I verified that Wagner had
been celly -with Bornheim for more
than a year.
On the bus back to Main Point sally
port, I had Jenkins as a driver. That
reminded me that I hadn’t done
anything about the note on CO Harris.
Wednesday morning, 9:00, December
15th I arrived at 8:50 but parked at
Admin rather that E building. It was a
time of morning when there was not
much use of the Main Point entrance
to the secure area. There were two
COs in the control room and a black
lady CO of about thirty at the scanner.
Her nametag said Brahms. I avoided
any joke about her musical abilities but
made some innocent chitchat.
She said she was on duty during 7:00
shift change three mornings per week.
Yes, it was a rush time but they tried to
do an adequate job. Yes, probably half
of the COs who came on at 7:30
brought large coffee cups. The cups
go through the scanner but aren’t
opened. So, yes, contraband that didn’
t show up on the scanner could pass
through. Yes, contraband could get by
in cups or other ways. Some mornings
there was only her and two others to
process eighty CO-s reporting at 7:00.
Of course, contraband could get
through. And, all the staff that wonder
in and out throughout the day. They
are earn yesterday?” Arne asked.
“Our Diego Bermudez is the brother of
the other, Federico Bermudez. That’s
all I found there. And, Wagner was
celly to Bornheim for over a year until
a few months ago. And, when he
moved it was only across the hall.
Also, Bornheim saw the complex
psychiatrist twice a few months ago.
And he had counseling from Chaplain
Doyle weekly until six weeks ago.”
“Why didn’t we learn that before?”
asked Mahler. “Why didn’t the House 5
staff tell us that? The CO3 must have
known.”
Arne sighed, “He knew at the time but I
wouldn’t expect him to remember six
weeks later. You know how that job is.
Rush, Rush, and then forget it. It would
be in the call out records over at the
Hub. They are kept for six months. But,
it would be our responsibility to go
through them. And I wouldn’t have
thought of it.”
“And Doyle and Jackson, why haven’t
they told us?”
Arne sighed again, “I’m not surprised
that Doyle hasn’t volunteered
anything, especially after that joke
Jackson tried that went flat. Jackson
himself may have seen Bornheim’s
name on a list of people Doyle was
counseling six weeks ago but there
would be no reason for him to
remember it.”
Just then the chaplain walks up, “Did I
hear my name taken in vain?”
Mahler tells him about Doyle and
Bornheim. “I don’t remember anything
about it. Do you want me to call him, or
do you want to visit him? Or for me to
go with you?”
I don’t look forward to interviewing
Doyle in a negative environment. “Why
don’t you talk to him and, from that, we’
ll know if we need to follow it up?”
Yeah, I like that.” Arne agrees.
“I’ll call him now.”
Arne and I went to our offices to look
through the morning papers. I was still
in the first section of the Arizona
Republic when we were called back
into Mahler’s office.
“Doyle wasn’t difficult about it,” the
chaplain began, “although this should
be considered confidential. Bornheim
started seeing Chaplain Doyle in
March. He felt abandoned by Paul
Bornheim. He knew Paul Bornheim was
having affairs. It didn’t matter if they
were only with women. He had made
great sacrifices by coming to prison
rather than doing a deal back in New
Jersey. Now he felt betrayed. Doyle
thought Bornheim might be suicidal.
Over a few months he tried both
secular therapy and religion based
spiritual healing. Doyle thought there
was some improvement until mid-
October when Bornheim stopped
coming to the sessions. Doyle went
twice to House 5 to see Bornheim but
Bornheim refused to see him. End of
story. He says he didn’t think to
mention it to us because it was so long
ago.”
“Six weeks was long ago?” asked Arne.
“Enough to serve Doyle as an excuse.
You guys want to follow it up?”
“No, not now.”
“Have you heard anything from New
Brunswick?” asked Mahler.
“Yes, there I have information.” The
chaplain pulls out some folded
notepaper. “It seems that this was big
news in New Jersey a few years ago.”
He reads, “Three Rivers Mining and
Extraction is the fourth largest mining
conglomerate in the world. One of their
operations is a copper mine in the
Atacama Desert of northern Chile in
partnership with the Chilean
government. Most of the ore if refined
there but a portion, which is rich in
gold and other valuable minerals, go to
a New Jersey smelter for a special
extraction process. For several years,
a group of executives Three Rivers
had been defrauding the Chileans,
underreporting the amount of gold
obtained. This amounted to over one
hundred million dollars. Eleven
executives of Three Rivers were
involved in this.”
He looked up, “It seems that they were
stealing the money for the company,
not directly to their own pockets.”
“So, they were honest in their
dishonesty?” asked Mahler.
“Something like that. It appears that
they defrauding the Chileans as just
normal business practice. My friend
says that it was no great secret in
certain departments at Three Rivers.
And they probably had an
arrangement paying bribes to certain
Chileans to ask no questions.”
“Probably so,” agrees Arne.
The chaplain continues, “Paul
Bornheim was one of these eleven
executives. He headed the accounting
department at the smelter. He and his
partner Bornheim and two other
employees of Three Rivers (not from
the eleven executives I mentioned) set
up their own operation to underreport
the already underreported amount of
gold and pocket the difference. Over a
few years it amounted to tens of
millions of dollars.”
The chaplain turns the page on his
notes, “But then there was a change in
the Chilean government about five
years ago with new people coming to
power that hadn’t been in on the
payoffs. They discovered the thefts
and complained to the State
Department, which brought pressure
on New Jersey authorities, whose
subsequent investigation uncovered
both the original fraud and Paul
Bornheim’s activities. The executives
escaped prosecution because of lack
of hard evidence. Paul Bornheim and
Bornheim could have implicated them
but refused to testify. Even Paul
Bornheim and two of his accomplices
went free. Only Bornheim was tried.
He refused any plea bargain in
exchange for testimony, so the judge
gave him a maximum sentence in the
hope he might relent. And, he was sent
across the country to the Arizona
desert to increase the pressure.”
“So, those ten executives back in New
Jersey would probably like
permanently to shut up Paul Bornheim
and Bornheim so that they can never
testify,” concluded Arne.
“There’s more,” continued the
chaplain.” After things had settled
down there began a series of murders
or assignations, actually two series.
Over a period of two years, four of the
executives were murdered and there
was an attempt on a fifth. They were
killed in alphabetical order, as they
would appear on a list of the eleven
executives. There was a never
confirmed rumor that agents of the
Chilean Army Intelligence Service were
going down the list executing them.”
“Secret agents of a third world country
killing US citizens? Is that likely?” I
asked.
“Oh, it’s quite possible,” replies the
chaplain.
“But it seems unlikely that they would
get away without a trace in four
murders,” said Arne. “Were are four in
New Jersey”
“No: two were in New Jersey and two
plus the attempt in Florida. And, it
might not be so hard to do if they had
permission from high in the American
government. In any case, the
executions stopped two years ago
after congress passed a foreign aid bill
that increased our aid to training the
Chilean Army by the amount stolen.”
“Aha!” I exclaimed. “They had their
money back so they stopped the
killings.”
“That’s one interpretation.”
“You said there were two series of
murders?”
“Yes, the two Paul Bornheim
accomplices who stayed back east
have both died execution style, the last
one about eighteen months ago.”
“Those executives getting rid of
witnesses?” asked Arne.
“Or getting revenge,” answered Mahler.
“But the last eighteen months ago?”
asked Arne. “That’s quite a while to
have waited.”
“Maybe something has come up that
renews the likelihood of our two guys
testifying against the executives,” said
Mahler.
“I asked about that. Sloan didn’t know
of anything. Maybe they are just
patient.”
“Maybe,” Arne allowed, “but I don’t like
it. If I were them, I would have come
after these two when I did the other
two. Yes, we’ve got to consider this
and it may well turn out to be this way.
However, our only suspects now – the
ones with opportunity – seem to have
other motives. Slanton and the
housekeeper have both motive and
opportunity and the means was there
in the drawer. Of course, Slanton
seems to be from that same New
Jersey milieu as Bornheim and Paul
Bornheim. He might have wanted the
inheritance and in addition been
influenced by those who wanted his
uncle and Bornheim silenced.”
“Milieu?” Arne’s vocabulary sometimes
surprised me.
“So you fully discard the idea of
Bermudez and Williams?” asked the
chaplain.
“The old man seems so unlikely. Yes,
he had something of a motive. But,
what was he capable of? Moreover, if
he took revenge on his employer he
lost a secure personal situation.
Williams remains cleared by the
testimony of Slanton and Gonzalez. If
they are telling the truth, he is clear. If
they are lying, that means they are
guilty so he is clear.”
“Could all three of them be in on it?”
asked Mahler.
Arne answered slowly, “They could, I
guess, but it’s very unlikely. I don’t see
that. And the motive? Slanton would
give Williams part of his inheritance?
Or Williams would give Slanton part of
his pay for killing the uncle? That’s
even less likely. No, the butler didn’t do
it.”
“And there is no possibility of a fifth
player that we don’t know about?”
ventured the chaplain.
“Only if Slanton and Gonzalez are
lying. In which case they are guilty and
will lead us to the other party.”
Mahler straightened up in his chair.
“Let’s summarize what we know and
where we go from here. Arne, do we
know that we have two murders, not
suicides?”
“ Bornheim was clearly a murder
because the killer carried the weapon
away. Therefore Paul Bornheim almost
certainly was. It would just be too great
a coincidence. If the times of death
were reversed we might think that Paul
Bornheim killed himself in a fit of
remorse over Bornheim’s murder, but
the way it happened, it’s murder.”
“Who might have killed Bornheim?”
“No main suspect there. Holler, Gracia,
and Teran, the three COs who were on
B run that morning all live more or less
paycheck-to-paycheck. They might
have done it for enough money. An
inmate is a little more difficult even if
we accept that the doors don’t always
lock. Teran was letting the inmates out
one at a time to use the shower at the
end of the hall. Bornheim was last
seen alive at about 8:55 when he
returned from the shower. Teran was
in the run continuously after that until
we found Bornheim dead at 10:10.
Gracia and Holler were in and out of
cells on the run during that time but
Teran didn’t have reason to pay them
much attention. He would, however,
have noticed an inmate out in the
hallway who shouldn’t have been
there. Then we have four civilian staff
that were on the run in tat period, the
librarian, the paralegal, the nurse, and
Chaplain Doyle. Teran didn’t
particularly notice where they went
either. I think we were correct before in
eliminating the librarian, the paralegal,
and the nurse. And Doyle is very
unlikely.”
“When are you interviewing Wagner?”
Mahler asked me.
“I’m going to get him over here this
afternoon.”
“OK, so we’re left with the three COs,”
Mahler sighed. “What’s the next step
with them?”
“Intensive interrogations. Check
around to see if they have come into a
large some of money recently,”
answers Arne.
“What do we definitely know about
Paul Bornheim?” asked Mahler.
“Assuming he was murdered, our
major suspects are the nephew and
the housekeeper, conceivably working
with others.”
Mahler look surprised, “Are you no
longer certain Paul Bornheim was
murdered?”
“Yes, I am, but TPD would say we don’t
have any solid proof yet.”
“Any suspects beyond those two?”
“No one else in view at this minute,
except that the gardener is still
hanging around in the background.”
“What’s the next step there?”
“We need to talk to the housekeeper
again before Slanton gets back,” I said.
“Yes,” said Arne “and he’s due back
tomorrow. Maybe we should go over to
the mansion this morning.”
Mahler looks at his watch. “OK, you
two get off to do that now and try to get
back in time to do Wagner this
afternoon. Hernandez wouldn’t have
put you on him without good reason.”
Thirty-five minutes later butler Williams
opens the door for us at the Paul
Bornheim mansion.
Again, I led the interview in my higher
class Spanish. She seemed to
consider conversing with Arne to be
beneath her. We went over the events
of that Friday evening again. She was
certain that Paul Bornheim had been
alive at 4:30. Yes, Slanton was with her
continually from 4:30 until the death
was discovered. They were not even
separated by one of them going to the
bathroom. They talked mainly about
her life in Cananea and the early years
in Tucson. Yes, Williams left about 3:
30 and did not return until she called
him.
She voluntarily stars talking about her
granddaughter Lila and Paul
Bornheim. Williams had told her it
would be best clearly to explain the
situation. Lila was a wonderful girl but
with that terrible scare on her face, no
man her age was interested in her.
Therefore, she had brought Lila to the
house in the hope that her employer
would take an interest in her. It took
time but he had taken Lila to his bed.
He had wanted Lila to use
contraceptives but grandmother had
not allowed that. Once Lila was
pregnant, Paul Bornheim seemed
pleased with the prospect. He got Lila
the best of medical care. Grandmother
was ecstatic about having her first
great-grandchild.
Then disaster struck last July. Lila
came in one evening and announced
to everyone that she had gotten an
abortion. She explained nothing more.
Mrs. Gonzalez thought Paul Bornheim
was responsible for the abortion. She
became enraged, hysterical, and came
at him with a knife. Williams drove her
and Lila to their house in south Tucson
where Lila finally explained that tests
had shown that be baby was going to
be born severely deformed, probably
because of drugs that Lila had used.
She had taken it on herself to get an
abortion without telling anyone.
Once Mrs. Gonzalez had recovered
from the shock, she sought out Paul
Bornheim to explain and apologize. He
had taken it well, gave her ten
thousand dollars with which to help Lila
however she could, but did not want to
see Lila again. Mrs. Gonzalez was very
grateful to him and now became even
more devoted to his wellbeing. If she
thought someone had killed him, she
would execute him herself.
We again questioned her about
Slanton but to no avail. Slanton was a
dutiful and loving nephew to Paul
Bornheim.
It was lunchtime and my stomach was
demanding food so we took only a few
minutes with Williams. To begin, he
informed us that Paul Bornheim’s
lawyer, Himes, had been out with an
interpreter to inform Federico
Bermudez that Paul Bornheim had
bought Diego Bermudez’s ranch at
auction and the day before he died
had signed the papers passing title to
Federico. It seemed to Williams that
Bermudez had not fully understood or
that he did not like the idea. He was
upset over the idea of having to leave
the mansion and Williams assured him
that he did not have to leave soon.
In addition, Mr. Slanton and his mother
were to arrive the next day at 11:00.
Lawyer Himes had verified that they
were now the owners of the mansion.
They were both also the beneficiaries
under Bornheim’s will.
As we leave the mansion I called
House 5 to have Wagner carried over
to CIU to wait for us. McKinley said that
Wagner was at lunch but will be sent
over when he returns to the house.
We walked into to the Golden Corral
on River Road at 12:50 where I gorged
myself as usual. Arne naturally finished
long before I did and again spent time
outside on his cell phone.
“Just checking in with Captain Mill,” he
reported on returning. “He wants to
know if we get anything new in the next
forty-eight hours. They are close to
calling it suicide and closing the case.”
“That might make things harder for us.”
“Bound to,” he agrees.
We both get coffee and desert. Mine is
banana pudding. His is apple pie. They
are filling but not very good – factory
made.
He rubs his chin, “What do you make
of the two interviews?”
“To the extent that it is true it reduces
her motive and also continues to show
Slanton in a favorable light. And, that
about Paul Bornheim signing the
papers on the ranch just the day
before: that sounded a little like he
might be tidying up his affairs. Can it
be that the Lila and aborted baby
episode – perhaps his first potential
offspring – had so affected him that he
was preparing to kill himself?”
“I doubt it. That’s not much to go on.
We could ask Himes if Paul Bornheim
had done other things recently which
might be described as winding up his
affairs.”
It was 3:05 when we parked in front of
Building E. The chaplain is sitting at
one of the front patio tables with
several of his yard chaplain, including
Doyle. It occurs to me that we could
take the opportunity to review things
with Doyle but decided that there was
nothing to be gained. We knew his
story. They are all enjoying coffee and
some new Swiss ‘Belfair After Dinner
Dark Chocolates.’ Arne and I each
take one. These could be addictive.
We met Mahler in the hallway. He
informed us that Wagner had been
waiting in detention room 2 for almost
two hours. We got coffee and a third
cup for Wagner and went in to
interrogate him. I quickly realized that
this might be easy. Wagner gave every
sign of wanting to talk to us.
We soon discover that Hernandez has
sent him word to talk to us. Beyond
that, Wagner is on the transfer list to
be sent to Winslow in January,
something he doesn’t like. He offered
to tell us everything he knew in
exchange for a guarantee that he
would stay at Kolb Road Complex. I
was sure we could do that and don’t
doubt that he has something
worthwhile to tell us, or Hernandez
wouldn’t have sent us to him. I
nevertheless look to my senior partner,
who has taken a chair behind Wagner,
for approval. Arne nods affirmative and
moves his chair to around in front of
Wagner. I understood this to mean it
was going to be good cop, good cop.
“We’ll do that,” I said, “if you have
something good for us.”
Wagner began, “I was celly with Sam
for over a year, ‘til late September. I
liked him. He was a good person, a
human being. They said he was a
“joto” (gay) but he never came on to
me. We got along together. He joked a
lot, except when he was down. He took
Prozac, which kept him up most times.”
I look at Arne, Why didn’t we know that?
Arne shrugs.
Wagner continued, “He read almost a
book a day and let me watch whatever
I wanted on the tube. He snored loud,
liked to read ‘til real late. But he had
problems with his ‘friend’ Benny on the
outside. He seemed to think of Benny
as his wife and was really hurt because
Benny was not being faithful. You
know, he was sleeping around. He first
found out Benny was unfaithful a few
years ago when some guy found
Benny in bed with his gal and shot ‘em
both. The gal died. The guy is here
now in Cornfields.
Arne sighs, “We know.”
“Benny wasn’t hurt bad but Sam found
out from the news and went crazy. I
was in B run then, a few doors down in
B11. We all heard Sam going on about
it and crying at night. He felt betrayed.
And, they talked every day on one of
the phones down the hall or sometimes
on the one out in the recreation yard.
Sam was always complaining to Benny.
But, Benny kept coming every visitors’
day. I don’t get visitors so I never saw
them, but Sam was always happy after
the visits. That finally settled down. By
the time I was his celly Sam didn’t talk
about that.”
“How did you become his celly?” I
asked.
“A young guy transferred in as my celly
in B11 and wanted his friend from C
run as celly. I was willing to move and
the only opening was with Sam.
“Go ahead.”
“Sam and me got along fine, no
problems. Sometimes he talked more
about Benny than I wanted to hear but,
all in all, I was satisfied. He was going
to see that chaplain, Doyle, and began
asking me question about religion. I
didn’t like that but I let him talk. Then
last September I had appendicitis and
spent eleven days down at St. Mary’s
Hospital. When I came back Sam had a
new celly and I was put in B5 across
the hall with an older guy who was OK.
Sam and me still talked a lot. That door
lock on B5 usually doesn’t work when
they throw the switch in control so I
would leave door half open and we
could hear each other OK.”
“All these doors are probably over fifty
years old,” grunts Arne “It’s a wonder
they don’t fall off the hinges.”
Wagner smiled, “Then back before
Thanksgiving, a week or more before,
Sam found out that Benny was being
unfaithful again, maybe even had
married, and had a baby. Well, Sam
just went crazy. I would hear him crying
all night. When he talked to Benny on
the phone he was always whimpering
like a puppy. He kept tell Benny that it
wasn’t right, that he deserved better
treatment, that he had sacrificed so
much for Benny and deserved better.
That Benny didn’t appreciate him. That
life wasn’t worth living if Benny were
going to treat him this way.”
Arne interrupted, “This wasn’t in the
news. How did Sam find out about the
girl and the baby?”
Wagner looked at him. “Hernandez
knows.”
“Of course,” I interjected. “That’s why
Hernandez mentioned old Diego. He
found out from his brother and got
word to Bornheim!”
“I think that’s what happened,” Wagner
agreed. “After he found out Sam never
got over it. He went on and on about it
to me and on the phone to Benny,
every day. He said several times that
life was no longer worth living. Then,
we had that quarterly search and that
contraband was found in Sam’s room.
At first, he was really agitated but when
he found what they had found he
shrugged it off. Said it wasn’t his. Said
they missed his real contraband. And, I’
m sure it wasn’t his. Sam didn’t do
drugs or deal.”
“Who would have planted it?” I asked.
“I’m not sure. The searchers
sometimes do that just to show that
they are earning their pay. But, I don’t
know. It wasn’t Sam’s.”
He looks at us more seriously, “Sunday
morning he came out to recreation with
the rest of us for the first time in
weeks. He was very quite and stern, as
if he had decided something. I asked
him how things was going. All he said
was that it was all over. He didn’t say
what. I tried to talk to him Sunday night
but he wouldn’t answer me. And, then
Monday morning you found him dead.
For him it was all over.”
“You’re telling us he killed himself.”
“I’m telling you what I know.”
“You weren’t there Monday morning.”
“No, I went to chow and then was on
medical call.”
“You know we found no shank, no sign
of a weapon. How did he stab himself?”
“I can’t answer that for you.”
We sent him back to his house with a
promise that he will stay at Kolb Road.
It is 4:45 and our part of E Building is
deserted so we start home. I turned on
‘All Things Considered’ where thy are
again on the Y2K topic, giving a list of
preparations one can make such as
hording food and cash. I decided that I
would buy some extra groceries for
Christmas and get extra cash from the
ATM. When the radio dies about
halfway up the mountain, I put on tape
one of a new book, Agatha Christies
“The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.”
Thursday morning, 9:00, December
16th It was rather cold on my
mountain this morning and my
Caravan doesn’t want to start. Low
battery! I use jumper cables to connect
my battery to Bríghid’s Volvo, which
had started without problem. I stop at
the Checker Auto parts store near the
base of the mountain for a new
battery, which I will in stall tonight.
Arriving at CIU at 10:25, I found the
usual suspects waiting for me. I
panicked when I realized there was
only one donut left but the chaplain
made up for that loss with some new
Belgium mints covered with edible
gold. Yes, edible gold! I knew nothing
about the chaplain’s finances, but it
occurs to me that between an Army
Major’s pension and his DOC pay he
does all right. I remind myself that he
drives a three or four year old Nissan,
so maybe he just splurges on
chocolates.
I explain my battery problems and get
my cup of coffee. Mahler reminds us
that we are invited to the birthday
lunch for Mr. Stevens at Margo’s at 12:
30. Stevens runs the education part of
E Building and is a good friend of
Mahler. He is also an equine
enthusiast who walks a little tilted to
the left after falling off his horse last
year. Mahler also mentions that
Foreman is having continual marriage
problems and may be leaving DOC.
Where would he go?” I asked. He’s too
old to go to the police or sheriff, or
probably even the Border Patrol.”
“He talked about the Air Marshalls
Service,” Mahler said “and he has a
teaching degree.”
“But he only lacks what? Five years to
a DOC pension?”
“Seven. He says that if she leaves him
he doesn’t want to remain in Tucson.”
“I understand that,” said the chaplain.
“I left Phoenix to get away from my ex.”
I didn’t often get into religion with the
chaplain, but some little devil caused
me to ask “Was that a spiritual
response, Jackson?”
He regarded me seriously and I
thought I had again overstepped some
boundary of the permitted. Then he
smiles “If I had been at all spiritual the
divorce wouldn’t have happened. I was
much too involved into my career, into
ME. She had faults and she acted
badly. Nevertheless, a spiritual
Frederick Robespierre Jackson would
have been her servant, her counselor,
her mentor, her friend – not her
antagonist. I daily thank God that I
have a second opportunity with
Socorro de Dios. I daily thank God. But
no, that was not a spiritual Frederick
Robespierre Jackson who allowed his
ME, his ego, to come between him and
the first wife God entrusted to him.”
I was abashed and astonished, and
silenced. He had opened his heart far
more than I ever would. I was deeply
affected by his confession. What would
I have said about my divorce from
Phyllis Elizabeth Chandler
MacGloughlin? Well, she had divorced
me. She didn’t like Tucson, went back
to her family in Franklin Pierce City,
Tennessee, and sent divorce papers.
Could I have, should I have done
something more than accept the
divorce? In truth, I liked the freedom
and attitude of the west, this Tucson. I
liked the Mexicans – of course,
genetically, I was half Mexican. I
remembered Phyllis’ mother wanting
her to marry a ‘white boy.’ At the time I
considered myself a “white boy.”
On my Grandmother MacGloughlin
Douglas’ side of the family, I could
trace my blood back to the John
Douglas who stood beside John Knox
to sign the ‘Scots Confession,’ the
foundation document of American
culture and independence. How could
anyone be more ‘white’ than that” If
being Scottish meant being ‘white?’
Moreover, if not, what did it matter? It
was far more important being a
descendant of that John Douglas, that
gigantic Scotsman who was both
Archbishop of St. Andrews and
Chancellor of the University of St
Andrews, than being white, or black, or
purple. So if I met a black African who
was a descendant of that John
Douglas, would he be my brother? My
thoughts were getting too deep.
Mahler turned to Arne “What did you
learn yesterday?”
I wondered if I should report my
conversation with CO Brahms and my
tip on CO Harris and his coffee cup. I
decidced to wait.
Arne began reporting on out interview
with the housekeeper.
Mahler interrupts, “So, according to
her, she was at peace with Paul
Bornheim?”
“Yeah, but that could all be lies.
Slanton could have taught her well
what to say,” Arne answers.
“Should you interview this Lila?” asked
the chaplain.
“Yes,” agrees Arne, “we do need to do
that. But she may also have been well
prepared by Slanton.”
“And this about Paul Bornheim giving
Federico Bermudez the ranch that
Diego Bermudez had lost. What do you
make of that?”
“Nothing at the moment,” answered
Arne, “except that it gives a small
support to the suicide idea.”
“Which you don’t even entertain?”
“No.”
“And Slanton and his mother were also
the beneficiaries under Bornheim’s
will? What does that tell us?”
The chaplain speaks “It increases their
motive. However, you know, I’m getting
the impression of a close-knit group
here, a family more or less, that
reduces the motive. I would like to
meet this Mr. Slanton, to take his
measure. I have almost gotten the
impression that Paul Bornheim, and
maybe Bornheim, would have given
Slanton whatever he wanted, without
the need to kill them.”
“Yes, but getting a lot is not the same
as getting it all,” answers Arne.
“So, the net result is that Slanton still
has the motive,” concludes Mahler.
Arne: “Most definitely.”
“Do you plan to interview Slanton
tomorrow?”
“Oh, yes!” replies Arne. “If for nothing
else than to verify what he has told us.”
“OK,” Mahler changes topic
The chaplain gives us all a serious
glance, “I am beginning to doubt the
culpability of Slanton and the
housekeeper. If this is murder, shouldn’
t you look again at the butler or for an
unknown suspect?”
Arne is firm, “It is murder, not a
coincidence, and the facts as we know
them point to Slanton and
accomplices.”
The chaplain persevered, “I would like
to meet Slanton.”
Arne rubbed his chin. “We can
probably arrange that, if you are
serious?”
“Yes. Let me know when you are going
to see him and I will be there.”
“I’ll let you know.”
Mahler came back in “What did you get
from Wagner?”
Arne and I haven’t had a chance to
talk this over, so I don’t know what he
is going to say.
“He gave a credible argument that
Bornheim had committed suicide.”
For some reason I suddenly add, “And
Hernandez seems convinced of that.”
“Strong indication of suicide. But, the
means? Shank or knife?”
The chaplain smiles, “I once saw a
movie where a guy kills himself with a
pistol which is tied by wire to a rock
which is hanging off a bridge. He
shoots himself, the gun is pulled off the
bridge into the river below by the rock
and the cops think it’s murder.”
Arne is very thoughtful, “We might look
in to that, although my first though is
that it would be impossible her. But,
why would he want to hide the fact that
he had killed himself?”
“A life insurance policy with a suicide
clause still in effect?” I offer.
“That’s another question for lawyer
Himes, but I don’t see it. The man
Wagner described was not going to be
concerned about something like that.
He was asking religious questions and
preparing to ‘end it all.’”
“So, it could be suicide except for to
weapon?” asked Mahler.
“Well, yes, but that has been the case
from the beginning. If there had been a
weapon there, it might have indicated
suicide, or not.”
Mahler considered, “Wagner indicates
probable suicide and Hernandez seem
to think that also. The evidence denies
that. We don’t know at this point which
to believe.”
“Oh, well,” said Arne, “I was forgetting.
We now have a suspect. We’ve had a
break.It seems that CO Gracia has
been at the door of bankruptcy but
suddenly paid off his debts last week,
more than $20,000.”
“How did you learn that?”
“Sources.”
“Sources I shouldn’t know about?”
Arne didn’t answer.
“Where does he say the $20,000 came
from?”
“He hasn’t been asked.”
“He comes on at 3:00 shift change. I
think we will intercept him at Main Point
and bring him over here.”
“Let his shift commander know he is
going to be one man short.”
“Sure, and it is conceivable that he will
quickly give an acceptable answer.”
“But you don’t expect so.”
“I have nothing against Officer Gracia,
but I would like progress in this case.”
“Realistically,” I put in “where is some
CO living paycheck-to-paycheck going
to come up with $20,000? Not from a
bank loan, I think.”
“A family loan?” asked the chaplain.
“Arne shrugs, “Always possible. We’ll
find out at 3:00.”
We waited around the office reading
the newspapers until leaving for the
Stevens birthday luncheon. At 3:00 we
were at Main Point sally port waiting for
CO Gracia.
He spotted us and I was sure I saw a
guilty look cross his face. He was silent
as we took him to CIU. There he was
uncooperative. He said that his
personal finances were none of our
business, and refused to answer our
questions. He asked to see not his
lawyer but his union steward. Most of
our COs are members of American
Federation of State, County and
Municipal Employees, as are Arne and
I.
We told him that that would not be
necessary and took him back to Main
Point, being sure that he went on duty.
Then we reported to Mahler.
Mahler asked if we want to call in TPD
to arrest Gracia.
Arne hesitated and rubbed his chin.
“No, we’re not there yet. And, it
bothers me that he wanted to see the
union steward rather than a lawyer.
That’s more the reaction of someone
who thinks his rights are being violated
than of someone who has committed a
crime. We may have been too eager
there.”
“But, he’s our best suspect, our only
one so far.” I object.
“There is that.”
“I’d rather tangle with a lawyer than the
union. Let’s be sure of what we are
doing with Gracia,” cautioned Mahler.
“Agreed.” Arne turns to me, “Changing
the subject, we have an appointment
to interview Slanton at 5:00. He was
going to be involved arranging the
funerals before that.”
“You still see him for killing Paul
Bornheim?”
“He’s our only suspect. Unless some
New Jersey hit man turns up. Even
then, from their own testimony Slanton
and the housekeeper would have to be
implicated.” Arne shakes his head.
“This just isn’t working out!”
At five 5:00 sharp, Williams opened the
door to the mansion for us. Like the
best English movie butler he bowed
and announced “Mr. Slanton with
receive you in the library” and led us
there. “Shall I serve tea , sir?” he
asked Slanton.
“Yes, please, Williams.”
Williams withdraws.
Slanton introduces himself. “Isn’t
Williams a show and a half? I don’t
know where Uncle Benny got him, but
he is a gem.”
We agree, then I asked if the funeral
arrangement had gone satisfactorily.
OH, yes, that had. The funerals would
be Saturday at 11:00 at Eastlawn
Mausoleum. He invited us to attend.
I went over the timeline of events that
Friday afternoon and evening.
Friday morning, 9:00, December 17th
Hanukkah 4-11