D
R
. J
ANET
C
ARLSON
must be the best-looking coroner in the United States. It’s ironic, because she had to have been voted “Least Likely to Hang Out with Dead People” in high school. She’s about five foot four, a hundred and ten pounds in rubber surgical gloves, and at thirty-five years old still looks like every guy’s dream date for the senior prom.
But put a scalpel in her hand, and you don’t want to mess with her.
I once helped Janet’s sister out of a sticky legal situation with her ex-husband, so she owed me a favor. I’ve called in that favor about fifty times since, but she doesn’t seem to mind, so I’m doing it again today.
Janet’s full medical reports on the murders aren’t in yet, or at least they haven’t been turned over to the defense, so I go down to her office to find out what I can. As soon as I arrive she buzzes me in; she almost seems anxious for the company. Maybe because the other ten people hanging out with her are in refrigerated drawers.
“I shouldn’t be talking to you,” she says. “Tucker would tie me to a tree and flog me.”
I close my eyes. “What a great visual . . .”
She laughs. “So what do you want?”
“Information that will clear my client.”
She touches her apron pockets. “Sorry, I left that in my other apron.”
We finish bantering, and she takes me through what her reports will say. “It’s pretty straightforward, Andy. All four women died from manual strangulation, probably with a cloth. Cause of death in each case is asphyxiation.”
“Were they sexually molested?” I ask.
“No.”
I’m surprised to hear this. “Isn’t that unusual, considering they were naked?”
“In my experience, very. And there was no semen found on or near the body, so it’s likely he didn’t masturbate, although two of the bodies were moved. But it’s refreshing, don’t you think, Andy? A prudish sex fiend.”
“If they died from the strangulation, when did he cut off their hands?”
“Postmortem. Very neatly done . . . he took his time. Same thing with the clothes.”
“They found the clothes?”
“Only Linda Padilla’s,” she says. “But I doubt that they were ripped off in any of the cases . . . there would have been some abrasions. I believe he cut them off after the victims were dead, most likely with the same knife he used to cut off the hands.”
“Without passion?” I ask, since she’s making the murders sound almost clinical.
“I would say so. If there was, it’s certainly well hidden.”
I thank Janet and head back to my office. What she had to say is surprising and vaguely disconcerting. I had been having trouble seeing Daniel as a psychopath and was counting on the jury feeling the same way. Janet’s portrayal of the crimes is such that it may not be the work of a psychopath, at all, but rather someone making it look that way. That would make the killer smart, cold, and diabolical, a role Daniel is far more suited to.
On the more positive other hand, if the killer is more calculating than psycho, he would be quite capable of pulling off the frame we are claiming has been perpetrated on Daniel.
Vince is at the office when I arrive, and he starts in on his daily ritual of questioning me about progress in the case. I’ve basically been telling him what I know, for two reasons. First, I cleared it with Daniel, and second, I don’t know anything.
“What do you know about Daniel’s sex life?” I ask.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s a pretty straightforward question, Vince. Is there anything unusual that you know of?”
He’s upset by the question. “Of course not. Come on, Andy, he’s my son.”
“Having your genes is not exactly proof of normalcy.”
“The killer had weird sex stuff going on?” he asks.
“He murdered women, stripped them naked, and cut off their hands,” I say. “There’s a hint of the loony in that, don’t you think?”
Vince believes his role in this is to convince me of Daniel’s innocence. While he’s babbling away about that, I glance at the call list Edna left on my desk. First on the list is Randy Clemens. He called only once, which is not a surprise, since inmates in state prison are allowed to make only one phone call a day. Next to Randy’s name is Edna’s note: “He needs to see you right away.”
I defended Randy Clemens on a charge of armed robbery four and a half years ago. The state had a strong case, but not an airtight one. I came to like him and believe in his innocence. The fact that he’s calling from prison should give you some idea of how successful I was in his defense. After he was sentenced to a minimum of fifteen years, his wife divorced him and took their daughter to California.
It is a source of ongoing pain and guilt that Randy is behind bars, and those feelings are exacerbated every few months, when he calls me with ideas he has thought of for appeal. They never have any merit or prospects for success, and it always falls to me to break that news to him. What he can’t accept, what I have trouble accepting myself, is that his legal game was played out and he lost. No do-overs allowed.
I ask Edna to call the prison and arrange for me to visit Randy on Saturday. I don’t want to go, I never want to go, but I can’t stand the idea of him sitting in his cell, feeling that I’ve abandoned him.
Kevin and Laurie come back for a meeting I’ve called to go over what we’ve learned. I don’t really expect anything to come from these initial efforts; I believe that if there is a motive anywhere to be found, it will be in the Padilla killing. But it’s more likely that there was no motive to any of this other than lunacy, despite the curious tactics the perpetrator used.
Kevin says that he visited with Arnold Simonson, husband of Betty, the grandmother who became the second victim.
“They lived off their Social Security and his disability insurance; he hurt his back while working as a foreman in a carton factory,” Kevin reports. “They were high school sweethearts, married forty-two years, hoping to move to Florida next year. Two grown kids, four grandchildren . . .” Kevin is obviously upset as he recounts this.
“So no apparent motive?” I ask.
“Zero. And I showed him the photos of the other women, but he had never seen them before.”
I nod. My guess is that the only thing we’re gonna find these people have in common is that they were killed by the same person.
“He showed me their family album,” Kevin says. “How anybody could have hurt that woman . . .”
I discuss with Kevin and Laurie what I learned at the coroner’s office, and Kevin makes the very logical suggestion that I should talk to someone with professional insight as to the killer’s state of mind. I make arrangements to do that, then I leave for a meeting with my client.
Laurie heads off to talk with the husband of Nancy Dempsey, the first victim. With that out of the way, we’ll be free to turn our collective focus to Linda Padilla. We need to find proof that the killer is logical, that the crimes had a motive, because only then can we make a credible case that he framed Daniel.
T
HE HORROR OF
confinement is starting to take its toll on Daniel. I am told that loss of freedom is a nightmare that cannot be fully understood unless experienced. Daniel is experiencing it right now, and I can see the devastation on his face as he is led into the visitor’s room. What he doesn’t realize is that he hasn’t yet faced the worst part. That will come if we lose the trial and the system puts him away and moves on to other things. Willie Miller once told me that the feeling of hopelessness, of being forgotten, is the toughest part of all.
Daniel sees me as his only link to the outside world, and his only hope to ever get back there. He sees me this way because it is true, and it’s a pressure that makes me uncomfortable. For instance, right now, before I’ve said anything, Daniel is desperately hoping that I’ve brought some news that will end his agony.
I haven’t.
My expressed purpose for being here is to bring him up-to-date on the progress of our investigation, but since there basically is none, I’m able to get that out of the way quickly. What I really want to do is probe his story about the night of the Padilla murder; I don’t believe his version of events, and I’m hoping there’s another explanation for his lie besides him being the killer.
“Did you know Linda Padilla?” I ask.
“Why? You think I killed her?”
I deflect this question by lecturing him on his role as the defendant. He must tell me everything there is to tell; the worst possible thing that can happen is if I am surprised in court by something the prosecution knows that I don’t. Tucker will find out if Daniel had a connection to Linda Padilla, so I must know as well.
“I knew her,” he says, his voice an octave lower. Actually, it could be a bunch of octaves lower, since he’s barely whispering and I have no idea what an octave is.
“How well?” I ask.
“I met her a couple of times, maybe three. The last time I interviewed her.”
“About what?”
“I was working on a story about organized crime in North Jersey, how it had evolved, how strong it is today . . . that was the main thrust. She kept coming up in my research, so I approached her.”
I’m not surprised to hear him say this: Linda Padilla’s name has often been linked to the mob, albeit always through unsubstantiated rumor and innuendo. There are those who believe organized crime supplied her with much of the information she used to rock the establishment. Of course, those believers consist mainly of those she has attacked and/or her future opponents, but the talk has never been completely eliminated.
“In what context did her name come up?” I ask.
“I couldn’t be sure, but my sense was that she was somehow beholden to them. I asked her about it, but she completely froze me out. Denied it, then wouldn’t talk about it.”
If Daniel is telling the truth, and if his information tying Padilla to organized crime is correct, it could be a link to the chalk outline of her body in a pavilion in Eastside Park. Of course, it doesn’t explain the other murders, none of which bear the markings of mob hits, but at least it’s something.
“How are you coming on your whereabouts at the time of the murders?”
He frowns, which is an answer as clear as any words he can say. He says them anyway. “I was home in bed. I’m up every morning at five-thirty, so I go to bed early. All the murders happened after midnight, except Padilla, and . . .”
He doesn’t finish his sentence and he doesn’t have to. He wasn’t home in bed the night Linda Padilla was killed; he was in Eastside Park with her body.
I ask Daniel how his prints could have been on the phone in the park. He doesn’t know, but his theory is that the blow he took to the head knocked him unconscious, and the killer took advantage of that to screw off the phone and place it in his hand. The killer then screwed it back on, with Daniel’s fingerprints on it. It is a theory that would have little if any chance of holding up; there is not even any conclusive evidence that Daniel lost consciousness. Yet it is a measure of our plight that I file the idea away for further consideration and possible use later.
Daniel is sticking to his story about being miles away from the park when receiving the cell phone call from the killer. I’m going to have to get experts to question the technology, if such experts exist.
Daniel’s theory about how the other scarves got into his house is less sophisticated, but he’s very vocal about it. “It’s a setup, Andy, don’t you see? Would I leave things like that around to be found? I’ve covered criminal cases for ten years! I know how these things work.”
While I’m at the prison, I get a message from Edna. We have been informed that the grand jury has returned an indictment, not exactly a major surprise, and that there will be a hearing on Monday in front of the trial judge. That judge has not been appointed yet, but it’s expected to be announced no later than tomorrow. While judges are assigned randomly, I would suspect this will be slightly less random than most, since this trial is a political hot potato.
I leave Daniel after about a half hour, promising to keep him regularly informed of developments. I drive to the Haledon office of Dr. Carlotta Abbruzze, a shrink whom I had about five sessions with three or four years ago. It was at a time when my then wife, Nicole, and I were having some problems, and I was trying to determine if I was the cause.
Basically, I wanted to sit and talk about my marriage, but Carlotta, as she encouraged me to call her, wanted me to lie on the couch and relive my childhood. Since I can’t remember a single problem in my childhood, this seemed a waste of time. Besides, I reasoned, there was always the danger that I might discover some actual childhood problems, which I had no desire to do.
Carlotta told me that I was in heavy denial, a charge I will refuse to accept until the day I die. I stopped seeing her, but we became friends, having dinner once in a while. It cost me just as much, but at least I got something to eat, and I could sit up when I talked.
Edna has made an appointment for me with Carlotta at her office. I show up ten minutes early and sit in the waiting room for her door to open. I know that it will open exactly at the scheduled time, not one minute before or one minute after.
It does open, and one of Carlotta’s patients exits. We of course do not make eye contact; I don’t make eye contact with anyone, and I’m not about to start with a fellow shrinkee. Carlotta follows him into the waiting area and invites me into her office.
Once we’re inside and the door is closed, she says, “I assume you’re not here because of a sudden craving for mental health?”
I shake my head. “Been there, done that.”
I walk toward the couch to lie down, then do a brief turn and sit in the chair opposite hers. “I’m here for your professional expertise, for which I am prepared to pay handsomely.”
I go on to describe the murders and what I consider the unusual actions the killer has taken. I know this isn’t really Carlotta’s forte, and she would never qualify as an expert in court, but I think she can give me some insight.
When I finish, she thinks for a moment, then asks, “Do you know if the victims were strangled from the front or the rear?”
I had forgotten to cover that. “From the rear. Most likely with a scarf.”
She thinks quietly for a while longer. “Andy, what I know about serial killers probably couldn’t fill a good-sized paragraph.”
“Take your best shot.”
She nods. “All right. Let’s assume for the moment that the murders are a result of pathology, not motive. Because if there is revenge involved, or money, or anything like that, what I have to say is of no value whatsoever.”
“Gotcha.”
“The interesting factor to me,” she says, “is the absence of rape, pre- or postmortem. I’m sure you know rape isn’t a sexual crime; it’s a crime of power or dominance. Sometimes when the rapist is intimidated by women, he will commit the rape postmortem, when the victim cannot possibly assert her will.”
“But when there’s no rape? No sexual assault of any kind?” I ask.
“That could suggest a fear of women so powerful that the killer can’t assert dominance, at least sexual dominance, even after death. This is obviously just a guess, but the attack from behind would tend to support it.”
“He doesn’t even have the courage to face women head-on?”
She nods. “Right.”
What she is saying seems to make sense to me. “What about cutting off the hands?”
She shakes her head. “Very hard to say. Maybe he was abused by a woman, and the method of abuse could have involved her hands. Or maybe he feels horribly manipulated by women, and this is a symbolic way to put a stop to it. There’s really no way to tell with the limited information you have, Andy.”
I broaden the conversation to include some nonprivileged information about Daniel, including the murder of his wife. She sees little likelihood that a murder of a spouse for money could fit with the killings we’ve seen these last few weeks. It’s encouraging and confirms my instincts as well.
I thank Carlotta and head home, feeling a little better about things. I’m starting to open up to the remote possibility that Daniel is not guilty. The evidence says otherwise, but attacking evidence is what I do.
Laurie is waiting for me when I get home, on the front lawn throwing a ball to Tara. My two favorite women, waiting eagerly for their man to come home. Can my newspaper, pipe, and slippers be far behind?
Apparently, they can, since as soon as Laurie sees me she sends me back out to bring home some pizza. In Laurie’s case, she orders so many toppings that it’s more of a salad than a pizza. Since I’m a man’s man, I get a man’s pizza, plain cheese. That way I can eat four pieces, eat just the cheese off the other four, and give the crusts to Tara.
After dinner we have some wine. Laurie has opened a rather flinty-tasting bottle, but I decide that sitting in candlelight, minutes before bed, is not the time to lecture or educate her. Instead, she tells me of her session with Richard Dempsey, husband of murder victim Nancy Dempsey.
Laurie did not like him very much at all. On three separate occasions he let slip the fact that theirs was a troubled marriage, comments that Laurie considered inappropriate in light of the subsequent tragic events. “If I had given him the opportunity, I think he would have tried hitting on me,” she says.
“Should that ever happen, use the face-smash-into-the-car maneuver you used on the pimp,” I say.
She nods. “Will do.”
“Do you think he’s involved in this?”
She firmly shakes her head. “I don’t, Andy. The guy’s a little slimy, but a serial killer? I could be wrong, but it just doesn’t fit at all.”
Nothing fits, and it’s starting to get on my nerves. I’m also feeling tired, and what I want to do right now is get into bed with Laurie. The problem is that she seems comfortable on the couch, drinking wine and petting Tara’s head.
My mind races, wondering how to lure her into the sack. I think back to the numerous techniques I tried on women during my fraternity days, but the one thing they had in common was that they never worked.
“You ready for bed?” she asks.
I fake-yawn nonchalantly. “Whenever . . .”
“Then I’ll stay up for a while. You can go on to sleep. You look tired.”
There’s as much chance of me going to bed without Laurie as there is of me crawling into the microwave and pressing High.
“No, staying up is fine. I’m completely wide awake,” I say. “I can’t remember the last time I was this awake.”
She smiles, a humoring-the-pathetic-idiot smile. “I think we should go to bed. You coming?” she asks.
“Damn right,” I say. “I’m exhausted.”
She takes my hand and we go to bed.
I am Andy the master manipulator.