Murders usually are “personal matters,” but I decide not to point this out. “Who replaced him?” I ask.
“I’m not sure. Roy Chaney is in the job now, but I’m not aware if he followed Mr. Evans, or if there was somebody else in the interim.”
“Can you check?”
This prompts another look at his watch and, while not a frown, a slight weakening of the smile. Finally, he asks his assistant to get the information, but it proves to be unnecessary, as the assistant was working here five years ago. She confirms that Chaney replaced Evans.
I thank Marshal and leave. Rather than go straight to my car, I decide to display my awesome investigative prowess and walk aimlessly around the area. It’s an enormous place, with endless, cavernous warehouses starting near the water and stretching well inland.
There are not many people around, just thousands of unattended boxes and crates. Security is either nonexistent or very subtle; I get the feeling that if one of the boxes had “ANTHRAX – IF YOU ARE WITHIN TWO MILES OF THIS CRATE, YOU WILL BE DEAD IN FOUR MINUTES” printed on the side it wouldn’t attract attention.
After about twenty minutes of intensive investigating, all I’ve really managed to do is get lost, to the point that I have no idea where my car is.
I happen upon a small building that contains a few glass-enclosed offices. A woman sits behind one of the desks, so I lean in and ask if she knows where Joel Marshal’s office is, since that’s where I parked my car.
She smiles. “Just walk in the direction you were going, and after the second building make a right.”
“Thanks,” I say, and then decide to try another question. “Do you happen to know where I can find Roy Chaney?”
She smiles again, ever helpful, and calls out, “Roy! Somebody here to see you!”
All this time I thought I was lost, when in fact I was relentlessly zeroing in on Chaney’s office. Within a few moments a man I assume to be Chaney comes out of a rear office and walks toward the doorway, where I am standing. He looks as though he’s pushing 40, pushing 5'10", and has already pushed past 240 pounds. I wouldn’t want to try to sneak any contraband chocolate cupcakes or potato chips into the country with this guy around.
“What can I do for you?” he asks.
“You’re Roy Chaney?”
He nods. “Yup. Who are you?”
“My name is Andy Carpenter. I’m an attorney representing Richard Evans.”
“Is that right?” he says as he walks past me and out the door, leading me to step out as well. It was a clumsy attempt to conceal that he does not want the woman at the desk to hear the conversation.
“Yes. I understand you replaced him when he went on trial.”
“That’s right. I didn’t know him, though. I mean, we never met. When I got here he was already gone.”
I’m not that great a judge of human behavior, but Chaney seems nervous. “But you took over his responsibilities?”
“Right.”
“Was there anything unusual about any of the things he was working on? Or any of the people he was working with?”
“Unusual like what?”
“Unusual like something which would have made someone want to get him off the job and out of the way. Do you remember anything like that?”
“No.” It’s far too quick an answer; this was five years ago, and he would have had no reason to be thinking about those days until my question. This guy is hiding something and is not at all good at it.
“You didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary with his work… anything that you might have reported to your superiors?”
“I haven’t done anything wrong,” he says. “I just show up and do my job.” It’s an answer completely unresponsive to my question, and when I get those kinds of answers, I usually assume they are both unresponsive and untruthful.
I give him my card and tell him that he should call me if he thinks of anything. As I’m leaving, he says, “You trying to get Evans out of jail?”
I nod. “I’m doing more than trying.”
Laurie calls on my cell phone as I’m leaving the port area.
“Andy? Where are you?” is how she starts the conversation.
“Newark,” I say.
“You’re kidding,” she says.
“I am?”
“Are you serious?” she asks.
“Why would I lie about being in Newark? And why are we having this inane conversation?”