Sam Kincaid 01 - The Commission

insidious side that belied the public image of the successful, happily married, church-going family man.

Chapter Seven
    It was late in the morning and I hadn’t made an appearance at my office. Actually, I have two offices. The Department of Corrections requires that I maintain an office at central headquarters in Salt Lake City. My staff in the SIB, however, is housed in one of the administrative buildings at the state prison twenty-five minutes south of Salt Lake City. That’s the location of my other office. In reality, much of what we do require our presence at the prison.
    I knew I would return later in the afternoon to the Starlite Motel, so rather than driving south to the prison, I headed to department headquarters. I had a tentative plan, and I wanted to assign my most experienced investigator to do some of the legwork.
    Terry Burnham had been a Salt Lake City police detective for twenty-four years until his retirement three years ago. Like a lot of cops, the adjustment to retirement did not come easily. In less than a year, he concluded that evening bridge groups and weekly golf outings with his fellow retirees left him empty and unfulfilled. So two years ago I offered him a job in the SIB. He was a good hire, and adapted quickly to the prison environment and the world of the inmate. He was the best investigator in the SIB.
    ***
    Burnham hadn’t been in my office for more than five minutes when we were interrupted by Norm Sloan’s administrative assistant, Brad Ford. He wanted an immediate update on the investigation so he could run the information back to Sloan. As soon as Sloan told me he expected daily briefings on the investigation, I sensed that Ford might become a nagging pest. My instincts appeared to be correct.
    Ford stood nervously in front of my desk, unsure of whether he should sit down in the empty chair across from Burnham or remain standing. I didn’t invite him to sit. “Brad, what can I do for you?”
    “Well, Sam, given the old man’s insistence on regular briefings, I thought you and I should agree on a time each day, maybe late in the afternoon, when we can get together for updates on the investigation.”
    You’ve got to be kidding me!
    “We can talk about that later, but now isn’t a good time,” I said. “You’ve caught me right in the middle of an important planning meeting.”
    “When would be a good time?”
    “I’ll do my best to get back to you first thing in the morning, how’s that?”
    “That’s not good enough—what do you expect me to tell the director?” A sour note of irritation now showed in an otherwise unflappable demeanor.
    Tell him any damn thing you want. Just get the hell out of my office!
    “Tell him things are progressing smoothly and that I’ll get back to him as soon as possible. Now, you’ll have to excuse me.”
    Ford’s face turned bright red. He started to speak, but instead, turned on his heel and marched out the door.
    “I guess I don’t have to tell you where he’s going,” Burnham said.
    “I’ll probably catch hell later, but it won’t be the first time. Let’s get back to work.”
    Officially, Ford was Sloan’s media spokesperson, and unofficially, his self-appointed administrative assistant. People in the department perceived him to be a self-serving climber who lacked significant corrections experience and as someone who hadn’t paid his dues in the field. Leaks to the press or divulging too much information might enhance his prestige and visibility while damaging our investigation. We couldn’t afford that.
    ***
    Burnham and I agreed to pursue leads from the angle that someone in our offender population was responsible for Vogue’s murder. Several tasks required our immediate attention.
    “Terry, why don’t you start by searching our computer database for inmates, past or present, who have ever threatened members of the Board of Pardons. While you’re at it, let’s identify anybody who has threatened or assaulted any member of the prison staff.”
    “Okay. I’ll get right on it. How far back do you want me to go?”
    “Six years ought to do it. There’s no point in going back prior to the time Vogue was hired as a parole board member.”
    “Okay. Anything else?”
    “Yeah, one more thing. Contact Gallagher at the Board of Pardons and tell him that we’re going to need a list of every parole case handled by Vogue from the time he was hired until his death. They won’t let the files out of the office,