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“How about the papers? You said there were stories?”
“Yeah, but I don’t believe any of them named the parties charged. There was definitely something weird going on there. To tell the truth, the media didn’t trust the government back then. Lot of unethical stuff going on. And I hate to say it, since I was a member of the force, but some of the men in blue did some stuff they shouldn’t back then. They crossed the line sometimes, especially with the longhaired hippies coming to town. Some of my brethren didn’t have a lot of patience for that. It was a real ‘us against them’ mentality.”
“And maybe something like that happened here; you said the charges just went away,” said Michelle. “Maybe they’d been trumped up.”
“Maybe. But I really don’t know for sure.”
“Okay,” said King. “We appreciate your help.”
Summers smiled. “You’re about to appreciate it a little more.” He held up a piece of paper. “I do have one name for you. Donald Holmgren.”
“Who’s that?” asked Michelle.
“Public defender back then. A lot of the protesters that day were really young, and half of them were spaced-out on stuff. It was like all the war protesters—hippies and people like that—had switched their focus to Nixon. So I’m thinking the odds are good that whoever got charged was one of them. If they had no money for a lawyer, they’d be initially represented by the P.D. office. Holmgren might be able to tell you some more. He’s retired now too but he’s living in Maryland. I haven’t talked to him, but if you approach it right, he might open up to you.”
“Thanks, Paul,” said Michelle. “We owe you.” She gave him a hug.
“Hey, tell your old man everything he said about you was true. Wish my kids had turned out half as well.”
CHAPTER
58
DONALD HOLMGREN LIVED in a townhouse on the outskirts of Rockville, Maryland. His house was filled with books, magazines and cats. A widower now, he was about seventy and had a full head of gray hair and was dressed in a light sweater and slacks. He cleaned some cats and books off his living room sofa, and King and Michelle sat down.
“We appreciate your seeing us on such short notice,” said King.
“No problem. My days aren’t that busy anymore.”
“I’m sure they were much busier when you were at P.D.,” commented Michelle.
“Oh, you can say that again. My tenure covered some interesting times.”
“As I mentioned on the phone,” began King, “the incident we’re investigating is the death of the national guardsman around May of 1974.”
“Right, I remember that case well. It’s not like national guardsmen get killed every day, and thank God for that. But that was some day. I was arguing a case in federal court when the demonstration started. They stopped the court proceeding, and everybody went to the TV sets and watched. Never seen anything like it before and hope I never do again. I thought I was in the middle of the storming of the Bastille.”
“We understand that initially a person was charged with the crime.”
“That’s right. Started at first-degree murder, but as details followed, we were looking at getting it knocked down.”
“So you know who handled the case?”
“I did,” was his surprising reply. Michelle and King exchanged a look. Holmgren explained, “I’d been at the Public Defender’s Service about sixteen years, started back when it was just the Legal Aid Agency. And I’d defended some high-profile cases too. But to tell the truth I don’t think anybody else wanted it.”
“You mean the evidence was so strong against the accused,” said Michelle.
“No, the evidence wasn’t overwhelming by any means. If I remember correctly, the person charged was arrested because he was coming out of the alley where the crime took place. Dead body, particularly one in uniform, and a bunch of hippies running around throwing rocks, well, that’s a recipe for disaster. I think they arrested the first person they saw. You have to understand that the city was under siege, and nerves were frayed to the breaking point. If I remember correctly, the defendant was some college kid. I didn’t necessarily believe he’d done it, or if he had, that he’d meant to. Maybe there was a scuffle, and the soldier fell and hit his head. Of course, the prosecutor’s office back then had a reputation for trumping up cases. Hell, we had police officers lying under oath, writing up false charges, creating evidence, the works.”
“Do you remember the name of the defendant?”
“I’ve tried to think of it since you called, but I can’t. It was a young man, smart, that I do remember. Sorry, I’ve handled thousands of cases since then, and I didn’t work on that one very long. I remember legal charges and defenses better than I recall names. And it’s been thirty years.”
King decided to take a shot. “Was his name Arnold Ramsey?”
Holmgren’s lips parted. “Why, I couldn’t swear to it but I think that’s right. How’d you know?”
“It would take too long to explain. That same Arnold Ramsey, eight years ago, shot and killed Clyde Ritter.”
