and whispered comments between the young constable and two other women working behind the counter as he took a seat in the waiting area. He was oblivious.
Within moments, Assistant Police Chief John Zemke leaned over the counter. “Fielder?” he said in a loud, brusque voice.
Wilson’s body tensed as he stood up and walked toward the stocky, sunburned detective.
“Come on in,” Zemke said, brushing back his thick, wiry gray-white hair. The fifty-something former LAPD homicide captain, turned Sun Valley detective and ski fanatic, wore elk-skin boots, navy-blue ski pants, and a red sweater. Zemke relished what he did for a living, but valued where he did it even more.
Wilson followed Zemke through the western-style swinging doors into an empty office at the rear of the building. He sat down in front of the detective’s desk, attempting to control his emotions.
“As far as we’re concerned, this case is murder and attempted suicide. We found powder burns on your father’s right hand. His fingerprints were on the murder weapon. A dozen witnesses put him and the two women together during the evening. What else do you want to know?”
“Who were the two women?”
“Probably high-end hookers. We get a lot of them this time of year. They look like sisters: same blood type, same physical features, same expensive jewelry. We don’t know their names yet. They were carrying phony IDs. But we’ll know soon enough.”
Wilson decided to ignore the “hookers” comment for the moment. Zemke might be a jaded macho throwback, but he was nobody’s fool. Wilson could see that from his eyes. “What kind of gun was it?”
Zemke leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t care much for Wilson’s father, or any of the other wealthy landowners in the area who acted as if Sun Valley was their private playground. “Smith amp; Wesson Sportsman.22 LR caliber automatic, stainless steel, ten cartridge clip, six-inch barrel, thirty-nine ounces, designed for concealment. Five bullets were discharged. Each woman was shot in the back of the head while sitting in matching chairs in your father’s chalet. Both were fully clothed. Blood-soaked. They died instantly. No evidence of a struggle except for a few broken fingernails. These women obviously knew they were going to die. But they didn’t have time or were too scared to do anything but grab the arms of their chairs.”
“And my father?”
“We found his body lying on the floor next to where the women were executed. Blood from at least one of the women was on his hands and face. Bullet entered his head just below the right ear. Gun was lying next to his right hand. That’s about it,” Zemke said, anxious to end the interchange.
“What about the other bullets?”
“Embedded in the ceiling beams. Either threatening or torturing shots,” he said while turning his attention to a file he’d picked up from his desk.
Wilson didn’t say anything. There was a momentary twinge of uncertainty about his father’s innocence, but he refused to believe that his father killed anyone. He knew his father. Of course he could never know all the details or secrets of his father’s life, but he was well acquainted with his father’s character-and it had nothing to do with corruption. His father’s life had been devoted to enlightenment and liberation, for himself, his family, his clients, and anyone else he could influence. Wilson had questioned and tested his father’s soul for long enough to know.
Zemke looked up from the file, “Unless there’s something else, son, I’ve got work to do.”
“A few things you should know, detective,” Wilson said with measured delivery as he stood up. “My father abhorred guns and he never used his right hand for anything requiring mechanical precision or applied pressure because of an old injury. He would never have used his right hand to pull the trigger of a gun. As to your explanation of the bullets in the ceiling beams-threatening or torturing shots is how you put it. Strikes me as predisposed, which brings me to my last point.” Wilson paused, his emotions rising. “The comment you made about the two women being hookers not only represents gross speculation on your part, but piss-poor police work. Seems the only whore here is you, detective. My father didn’t kill anyone.”
At first, Zemke was stunned, his eyes blazing, but he held his tongue. He slowly surveyed Wilson with biting anger, then genuine curiosity. He hadn’t expected such a tongue-lashing from Charles Fielder’s privileged son. The open file on his desk was no longer a distraction.
“I understand your point of view, Mr. Fielder,” he said in a calm, almost respectful voice. “We haven’t established a motive yet. Until we do, this case will remain open.”
“Thank you,” Wilson said, feeling slightly better for having vented at least some of his anger. He needed Zemke, and anyone else who might get involved, including reporters, to seriously investigate the possibility that someone other than his father had murdered those women. Otherwise, I’ll be doing this on my own, he thought.
“Has your father shown any signs of regaining consciousness?”
“Not yet.”
“I’m sorry. Let us know if his condition changes.”
“Sure,” Wilson said, knowing that Zemke had his own channels of information. At least he’s expressing some level of concern, Wilson thought. “One more thing detective, I want access to the family chalet.”
“Can’t do that. It’s a crime scene,” Zemke said, his hard-bitten demeanor returning.
Wilson wheeled around. In a deceptively mild tone he asked, “You know what my father’s done for this community. Who would you like me to call?”
Zemke’s eyes were suddenly on fire again, but he knew Wilson would eventually get what he wanted. Besides, everything had been gone over multiple times. “Fine,” he conceded, “but we’ll be watching.”
Wilson left the detective’s office and returned to the hospital and his father’s ICU room, where he joined his mother and sister. They looked so much alike-the expressive eyes, elegant noses, and slender frames-it was not uncommon for them to be mistaken for sisters. Seeing the pain on their twin faces made his father’s comatose state even more agonizing. They seem so helpless… we all are… but not for long if I can help it, Wilson said to himself. He told his mother and sister about his meeting with Detective Zemke. They both seemed relieved that Wilson was taking care of such matters but expressed new concerns about keeping his father in Sun Valley. Wilson had already come to the same conclusion. His father needed better care than the Wood River Medical Center staff could provide.
When the neurosurgeon who’d operated on his father returned to the room, Wilson asked him to step into the corridor for a private word. “I want my father prepared for an immediate airlift to Massachusetts General in Boston.”
“The risks of transferring him in his current condition are very high, unless you have medical personnel…”
“That’s why I’d like you to go with him. I’ll make sure you have a flying ICU by this evening.”
“I can’t just…”
“You’ll have the opportunity to personally turn him over to a group of highly respected neurologists and neurosurgeons at Mass General. I think you know Dr. Joseph Malek. One of your mentors, I believe. He’s also a personal friend of my father’s. He will be looking forward to reconnecting with you when you arrive. I don’t think I need to tell you that every step of how you handle this is going to be scrutinized by the press.”
“You’re right, I have worked with Dr. Joseph Malek,” the neurosurgeon rejoined, his voice rising. “And we both know he would never condone such coercion.”
“He would if he thought one of his dearest friends was in harm’s way and being framed for murder,” Wilson said sternly.
“I can’t promise anything until I have arranged for my other patients. What are you going to do about the police?”
“I’ll handle them; just get my father ready to fly. I want to leave tonight.”
After the neurosurgeon left to make his preparations, Wilson remained in the corridor pacing back and forth while talking on his phone and sending emails to arrange for his father’s flight to Boston.
Forty-five minutes later, his father’s attorney, Daniel Redd, called to announce that he’d just arrived in Sun Valley. The timing couldn’t have been better for what Wilson needed next.
“There’s been a change of plans. We’re moving my father to Mass General tonight,” Wilson said over the phone.
Daniel immediately concurred with the decision, just as Wilson expected he would. He’d known Daniel for several years but had never really dealt with him one-on-one. What Daniel said next both surprised and pleased
