Prime Witness by Steve Martini

him during the search. We’ll take him down after we get an arrest warrant, based on the evidence,” I say.
    “What if he shows up at the van?” says Claude.
    This is more perplexing. We can’t let him drive off with the van and its contents. “Detain him,” I say. “Hold him for questioning. But no arrest.” I am adamant. I will not have some judge on review limiting our evidence, throwing out our case because we acted rashly.
    Claude looks at Henderson. “Pass the word,” he says. And like a shadow on a cloudy day, Henderson disappears into one of the empty offices to use a phone.
    From down the hall I see a head, spindles of long dark hair backlit by office light, and a pair of eyes peering around the jamb of one of the office doors. As I had guessed, it is Lenore Goya. Just as quickly as it appeared, the head vanishes back into its solitary sanctum.
    Claude and I are now huddled in Feretti’s old office.
    He has not seen this side of me before. Up to now I have been passive, waiting in the wings to help only if called upon. But with Ingel and Acosta now kneeling on my throat, I am becoming, in the jargon of our time, more proactive.
    I had noticed as we entered that Claude had assembled an entourage in the outer office, another cop in a uniform I don’t recognize and a second man, heavyset, a gut like Babe Ruth, in a blue pin-striped work shirt. These are the percipient witnesses, the people who found the van and its grisly contents.
    “We will need Sellig,” I say. “Have Henderson call DOJ and get her out here.” I am taking no chances with one of the county crime techs. If the case against the Putah Creek killer starts here, I am determined that it will stand on a solid footing, evidence hard as concrete, nothing some slick defense attorney can suppress in a pretrial motion months from now.
    “Now tell me what happened,” I say.
    Claude’s looking at his notebook again.
    “Our guy,” he says, “Iganovich appears to be a Russian immigrant, in the country four or five years now. We ran a rap sheet on him, came up clean, only thing we found is a license from the state, last October. Licensed security guard,” he says. “No firearm permit.”
    Claude’s shaking his head. “Can you beat it?” he says. “Guy’s probably not even in the country legally and he’s working security.”
    “We can worry about his immigration status later. How did you find this thing, the van?” I ask. I start looking for potential problems, the lawyer’s mind at work.
    “It’s all real clean,” says Claude.
    “Humor me.”
    “Officer Dandrich, outside, is with the university police,” he says.
    It’s the uniform I didn’t recognize.
    “Two days ago he sees this van parked in one of the university lots. It’s two A.M., the lot’s reserved for day use only, the place is empty. He thinks maybe whoever owns it is working late. So he doesn’t think anything about it. He looks at the rear tire, it’s been chalked by the meter maid. Yesterday he comes back on shift and the van’s still there. There’s a ticket on the windshield. He looks at the tires again, the vehicle hasn’t been moved. Traffic code for the university gives the guy twenty-four hours, then it’s towed. So he calls the tow truck company, a vendor downtown.”
    According to Claude this is a commercial garage under contract to the university.
    I am following this unfolding drama, my feet propped on the leaf of the desk which I have pulled out for this purpose.
    “That’s where this guy Harold comes in,” he says. “Mr. Goodwrench?” He’s referring to grease and pinstripes, outside in the hail.
    “Mr. Harold,” he says, “is real careful. He’s been sued before by the angry tow toads, so he makes it standard operating procedure whenever he takes a car from the university to inventory the personal property inside. He insists on doing this in front of one of the campus cops.”
    “Trusting guy,” I say.
    “Anyway,” he says,