X - Chapter Twenty One "The Thirty Percent Solution"

 

"The Thirty Percent Solution"

Chapter Twenty One 

      Capt. Rafael Jimenez of the New York Police Department’s Detective Bureau and Special Agent Vincent DuBois of the FBI were in the secured evidence room at the FBI’s New York headquarters in the Tribeca neighborhood of the city. They were reviewing evidence gathered in the search and seizure operation carried out at Winshire Associates. 

     The two men had actually started the job two days earlier, right after FBI agents had transferred all of the evidence seized at the Winshire location to the FBI’s evidence room, a massive space containing rows of shelving and filing cabinets. 

      The amount of evidence from the Winshire location was overwhelming.

      There were twenty-two cardboard boxes of documents removed from Merritt’s office alone, and more boxes from other locations.  A special Federal systems guru was able to access the files in Merritt’s personal computer, and financial records were downloaded and printed from Winshire’s data storage system. A small safe was discovered during an electronic sweep behind a small oil painting in Merritt’s office; the safe was of poor quality and easily opened. 

      DuBois and Jimenez had started opening boxes and sifting through the documents that same afternoon. After about an hour, they stopped. It was a question of too much of a good thing, a good thing that could stall them for weeks. Then DuBois suggested that they could turn the job over to FBI evidence specialists, who could examine everything and provide a detailed inventory. 

      Now, early in the morning two days later, they were working on a long, metal table. Also on the table were a computer to review data files, and a film reader to view negatives, and the inventory – a document of some thirty pages – to guide them. 

      On page seven of the inventory, Jimenez noticed an interesting item: “Key Personnel Dossiers,” File Container #17. They searched for File Container #17 among the cartons stacked up next to the metal table. It was easy to find. The label was white with black print. 

      They wrestled the carton onto the table, opened it and found about twenty file folders. More than half of the folders had turned brown by aging, and a small number of them were a fresh beige color. They spread the folders out over the table, and noticed each one had a name. 

      “Holy shit,” Jimenez shouted. “We know some of these guys. If it’s okay with you, I’ll start with ‘William Voldman.’” 

      “Please be my guest,” said DuBois. “Well, I see ‘G. Gordon Hope.’ Let’s see what the boss knew about him.”

      The two law-enforcement officers spent several minutes flipping through the contents – mainly computer printouts, but also photographs and photocopies of small items like receipts. 

      “I see here that Bill Voldman, ‘Mr. Clean,’ had or has, I don’t know which, a special friend,” Jiminez said. “Her name’s Dorothy. Not a bad life. He flies in from the West Coast, into the arms of Miss Dorothy. Now, this is sweet, there they are, I can’t make out which expensive eatery that is, but they’re happy. Oh, no, here it is, maybe, a copy of a receipt, from his expense account, maybe. 

      “Holy shit! I can’t believe this. You see this stuff?” Jimenez continued. “How could he gather this kind of information?”

      “Read it and weep, my friend,” answered DuBois. “I know it’s hard to believe, but Ted Merritt was quite a guy. I’ll bet it’s mostly true.”  

      DuBois waited, as though he wanted to make maximum impact with a revelation. “Well, if he had one woman, I’ll up you to maybe, I don’t know, five or six. Gordy sure likes the ladies. And here’s one I know. I told you I followed the writer guy, Mike Stein, and he met with a woman at the Grand Hyatt. Well, here she is, a blonde from Albania. Mike Stein told me about her. She’s Gordy’s girl, and here they are.”

      DuBois slid several photos across the metal table to Jimenez. “That’s at one of the little celebrations a bunch of Winshire guys enjoy with some escorts or up-scale hookers,” DuBois said. “But don’t draw any conclusions; the photo doesn’t do her justice. At the Hyatt, you wouldn’t believe it, but all these guys were walking past her just to get a look at her.” 

      “Okay, fine,” said Jimenez. “But all these files, all of them, look, they’re bad news for us. If Merritt went to all the trouble to get dirt on all the guys working for him, that means he was using this info, somehow, who knows. But more to the point, every one of these guys could have a motive to kill him. That means no one stands out. That leaves us up in the air.” 

      “Maybe not,” said DuBois. “Maybe not at all, if Merritt went to all this trouble to get the full story on Gordy, maybe Gordy pissed him off more than any one else. Maybe Merritt was a jealous man, and he hated to see all the action Gordy was getting. Or maybe there was an internal politics thing. I don’t know.”

      “But one thing I do know,” said Jimenez. “Sure, Merritt got a lotta info on all these guys, and I guess it was a way to control them. But we gotta look at every one of these folders, and we gotta ask ourselves. Sure, having babes on the side, that’s one thing. But is there one of these folders with info that’s important enough to kill for? And, I’m sorry to tell you, it may not be there.” 

      Both men turned thoughtful for a few minutes. Then DuBois said: “Look, we’re basically at the beginning of this investigation. We gotta learn a lot more. And we can talk to all these guys. Let’s do two things, see if anything else in the inventory stands out, really grabs us, and then look at all the other stuff. You know, autopsy, crime scene, everything. And then, most of all, we gotta focus on motive. And that’s not gonna be easy, because when it comes to power and money, all these guys want that.” 

      “That’s fine, that’s fine with me,” said Jimenez said. “But we gotta clear up one thing now. The other morning I put on quite a performance. Guess I should’ve been an actor, or something like that. But I raised my voice just a hair. And I didn’t have to. First of all, I didn’t know it was you, and I know you don’t call all the shots. Lot of the time, we do what we’re told.”

      “Hey, hey.” DuBois raised his right hand, in a gesture of friendship. “Don’t worry about it. Really, no problem.”

      “But wait a second, hear me out,” Jimenez insisted. “Just a second. I want to tell you that it really doesn’t matter to me. If you get the murder or I get the murder, I don’t give a shit. Really. I’m already a winner. I’m already winning the game.” 

      DuBois said, “I’m with you. Me neither, I don’t really care. And anyways, it’s our bosses that’ll decide. I’m telling you, we don’t control much at all.” 

      “But one thing,” Jimenez insisted. “If I really believe something, if I decide to do something, like an interview, or put pressure on someone, anything. If I really believe I gotta do it, I’ll still do it, but I’ll tell you first.” 

      “I hear you,” said DuBois. “I understand, and I agree. Just one thing: If we don’t agree, at least you’ll listen to me, at least you’ll give me a chance.” 

      Jimenez said, “That’s fair. Okay.”

      The two men sent out for sandwiches and coffee, and they ate their lunch while perusing the inventory. Chomping on the big sandwiches loaded with deli meat, and sipping their coffee, they decided to look first at the list of documents found on the office floor. They assumed that those documents would be toward the beginning of the inventory, because it was in the Merritt’s office where FBI began gathering and sorting documents. Gamble won, they saw that there was a section in the inventory entitled, “Collected from carpeting in Merritt office,” and they began reading the entries. One entry that caught their eyes was labeled “Letter of recommendation, promotion of S. Bucknell to Exec. VP”; and another was labeled, “Incomplete document, notation Thirty Percent, Maximizing.” 

      “Let’s find those suckers, my mind’s throwing me all kinds of ideas,” Jimenez pleaded. “What’s the box number, anyway.” 

      DuBois answered, “See here? It says File Container # 4.” 

      The two men went through the same exercise, finding the carton, wrestling it onto the metal table, and then laying out the contents. It was too easy, they agreed, because the order of the documents on the table corresponded exactly with the listing of the inventory. The first document was the kind of letter they had expected; a brief description of Bucknell’s success in gaining new clients and helping to decide which practice each one should be assigned to. The letter was signed by Merritt. 

      The second document was more difficult to understand. The document was only two pages. Both pages had the same heading: “Thirty percent, maximizing Client.” The upper-left corners of both pages were torn, giving the impression that they were torn from a longer document. At the bottom of each page were the page numbers 49 and 50. 

      Page 49 started in mid-paragraph and then ran on to page 50, where it filled only a third of the page. The text began by explaining why some comments by Winshire “should be made, not in writing, but verbally, because they could be construed to give the wrong impression of the program’s goals and potentially expose clients to unjustified prosecution by officialdom.”  Then, under the title “Promotion” were further instructions, such as pointing out that the program would provide counsel on using regulations for enterprise advantage, which Winshire had already done to some extent; methods to avoid excessive regulation; and the program is provided on a confidential basis and should not be shared with outside parties; clients must implement the program in its entirety; and Winshire accepts no responsibility or liability. Nowhere was the name of the author given, and no signature present. 

      “Very strange.” Jimenez exhaled a big breath. “I’m gonna have to study that sucker. Not much like a straight-out murder case.” 

      “I already got some ideas,” said DuBois. “I’m sticking my neck out, but it looks like it’s saying one thing in legalese, that Winshire wants to teach clients to cheat and steal, so the clients won’t complain about Winshire cheating and stealing. It might be that simple.” 

      Both men went silent. They were united by one unsaid realization. They were making progress, but the path forward was long, very long. 

      “Okay, this’s where we stand,” announced Jimenez, “and if it’s okay with you, I’ll take the floor.”

      “Can’t disagree with that.” 

      Jimenez continued, “Okay, the autopsy. It’s not common, not run of the mill. In the office, and this isn’t off the subject, there was evidence of a real fight, but it looked one-sided. Maybe it was more of a struggle than a fight, ‘cause Merritt took a lot of punishment. There was a lot of movement, but I bet Merritt took more than he gave.

      Jimenez continued, “There were contusions and bruising, mainly on the left side of his body, of course meaning his attacker was right-handed. But there was also a lot of bruising around his neck, meaning he was chocked, but not fatally. The cause of death was the gunshot wounds, four of them, three in the upper torso area and the heart, and one in the forehead, and the loss of blood. And, by the way, all of the blood appeared to be Merritt’s. The gunshots were with a small caliber round, a .380 APC round, probably from one of those small pistols that’re so stylish now. Three of the slugs stayed in the body, and the one stayed in the wall with some brain tissue, and we’re looking for a match. And for Merritt, he had a steak dinner, according to the contents of his stomach, and maybe a few Vodka Martinis. And his keys and his wallet – with credit cards and cash still there – all still in his pockets.” 

      Jimenez stopped and breathed in and out several times. “I’ll send you a copy, but I remember this kind of stuff. Okay, the office:  

      “Things – mainly papers – were scattered all over the office. But one interesting thing, there was mainly only blood underneath the documents and not on top of them. That could mean, and I’m stressing maybe, that the blood splattered before the documents were thrown around, and that could mean the papers were thrown around when Merritt was already dead. And, genius here, that could mean that the killer maybe was looking for something. Genius, no?” 

      “Absolutely,” answered DuBois. 

      “Okay, the rest of the office,” Jimenez went on. “We did some checking for fingerprints and DNA. But the crime scene guys, and here you tell me your opinion, they said it wouldn’t be useful to check every surface there, ‘cause a lot of Winshire people probably went into Merritt’s office all the time.”

      DuBois placed his hand on his chin. “Maybe it’d be a good idea to check a little more. What if it shows up that there’re prints or DNA from someone that’s got no business reason to be there. I don’t know.”

      “Okay, I’ll get ‘em to do it.” 

      “And two more questions: any shoe marks of blood anywhere in the offices? And, what was in that little safe?”

      Jimenez said, “On the blood marks, I don’t know. I’ll get my guys to check. And on the safe, it’s interesting. There was a gold Cartier bracelet, all wrapped up with a bow, real pretty. Another mystery, no?” 

      “Oh, one last thing,” said DuBois, “we gotta do a chronology on Merritt.” 

      “I’m working on it. And we’ll keep pushing it. But a lot of restaurants around here got steaks and Vodka Martinis.” 

      Around seven, both men decided they had earned their pay. They could call it a day without feeling guilty. Jimenez felt good about the day. He was working with his old friend, and they had come to some decisions, they were making progress, and they had shown respect for each other. So, the words came easily: “Hey, Vince, I know it’s past the cocktail hour, but we worked hard and made some progress. You feel like a drink?”

      “Jesus, that’d be great,” said DuBois. “But I gotta be back in Forest Hills, got two ladies waiting for me. You see, tonight’s Kelly’s birthday, it’s number nine, and we got some people coming over.” He hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. “But why don’t you join us? I know Leigh would love to see you. And who knows? You might meet a model.”

       Jimenez hesitated. “I don’t know. I’m thinking maybe I ought to check in at the 17th Precinct; there might be some developments. And . . .  ”

      “Your choice, Raf. I just thought  . . . Look, it takes about, I don’t know, maybe fifteen, twenty minutes on the E or the F line. And if you want me to, I’ll tell the models you’re off bounds.”

      “Very funny,” Jimenez said. “No, I better not. Anyway, I’ll see you tomorrow morning. We’re gonna go evidence diving again, aren’t we?” 

      “Yeah, see you then. Get home safe, Raf.” 

      As he walked to grab the Subway up to the 17th Precinct, Jimenez admitted to himself why he didn’t accept the invitation, why he didn’t want to attend DuBois’ family celebration: He – Jimenez – would be confronted by his greatest failure. The images of Anna and his son Gabriel filtered into his mind. With shame, he suddenly realized that he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his son, and he was not sure how old the boy was now. And it doesn’t make it less bad to say it’s not my fault, I got a hot Latin temper. I got a son out there. 

-0-

      Looking back at his life, his career and his personal life, Jimenez concluded that he had – in fact – sowed what he reaped. In his career, he earned the respect he enjoyed. It was never easy, but at every important stage of his life, he had won the little battles that, added up, made for a successful career. And what was the basis of his success? Jimenez followed a simple formula: “Think clear, and try as hard as you can.” He didn’t know where he had learned it; had he learned it at his father’s knee when he was just a boy, or was it part of the Dominican Republic’s culture that was somehow transmitted to him? 

      When he was a little kid, almost an infant, in the early 70s, his parents, little Rafael and several other families immigrated from the Dominican Republic to a new life in America. They were lucky, their new life started well. Rafael’s dad got a job, a secure job as a bus driver. And then, at the same time as the other families, his parents bought a house in the Bronx, in the Baychester neighborhood. 

      Yes, later, when people told Jimenez the story, there couldn’t have been a better example about success in America. After two years on the job, his dad bought a car; it was used, but it was their car. On the day after Dad brought the car home, the family went for a ride. Little Rafael’s parents were in the front seats, and he was in the back seat, when a truck crashed into them head-on. Jimenez never learned the whole story, but the important thing was that little Rafael was alone. 

      Eventually, one of the other Dominican families took little Rafael in. He grew into a big kid, and he did well at school. He was tall, he was handsome, and he was smart; a few thoughtful teachers encouraged him to attend university after high school, because he was good at book learning. But he wanted to start living, and he entered the Police Academy. As a cop, he worked hard, he kept his nose clean, and he took every test for advancement he could. 

      But after a few years, he felt his life lacked something. So, following his father’s example, he married Emma, a beautiful girl from the community, and the young couple brought a son, Gabriel, into the world. Rafael tried hard, but he found he couldn’t change; as time passed, his driving ambition and his short temper put increasing strain on their marriage. In an attempt to save their marriage, they tried separation, but then they finally divorced. Yes, after almost twenty years on the force, Jimenez made detective, and then captain. His career was a success, but his personal life was a failure.  

      Later that evening, after checking in at the 17th Precinct, it was almost ten o’clock when Jimenez arrived back at his apartment. As he turned the key to open his apartment, Jimenez thought that maybe it was a mistake to turn down the invitation from his friend, Vince. Jimenez pushed his front door open and looked into the darkness, and he felt the pain of the one element still missing in his life. He was alone again.