by Jack Davis
Dunn didn’t smile. “Give me twenty as a retainer.”
Morley understood, fished a bill from his pocket, and handed it over.
Dunn continued, “I was retained yesterday by a very sweet client, Esther Lingram.”
Not knowing where the conversation was headed, Morley just nodded.
“She originally asked me to contact you, to give you some information but wouldn’t tell me what it was. Said those were your instructions to her.”
Morley smiled thinking of his last conversation with the Esther, and her fondness of Law and Order.
Dunn continued, “I explained to Mrs. Lingram that I was not in the habit of delivering mail for people. Especially when neither one was a client, and certainly not to a friend of mine in law enforcement. I told her it could be a setup.
“She seemed on the verge of tears the whole time she was in the office, when I told her that, she lost control. Completely fell apart. She said her daughter had committed suicide the day before—”
“WHAT?” Morley couldn’t hide the shock and grief that overwhelmed him. “Oh, God no.” He fought to control his breathing. Tears formed.
“It’s true, PJ, I’m sorry. I confirmed it with the coroner’s office yesterday.”
Morley closed his eyes and put his head in his hands. When he looked up, Dunn seemed conflicted.
The two were interrupted by the waitress with two cups of coffee.
“Thanks,” said Dunn, he watched the middle-aged woman walk away before he started again.
“When I was able to get Mrs. Lingram calmed down a little, I explained attorney-client privilege to her, and over the next thirty minutes, she told me everything. I had to make her stop talking.”
Dunn’s voice became more grave, “My friend, you’ve gotta be more careful who knows your secrets; she’s a prosecutor’s dream.”
“It wasn’t—” started Morley.
Dunn put his hand up and shook his head. “I’d rather not know.” His face went blank. “Unfortunately, you don’t have to worry about that anymore. Mrs. Lingram died this morning. Heart attack.”
Morley’s emotional devastation deepened; he tried to wipe the tears from his eyes, but they wouldn’t stop.
“I’m sorry, PJ.”
Morley struggled to regain his mental equilibrium. He stared out the window.
Dunn waited.
“Did Mary leave a note or…” Morley’s voice cracked. He searched his friend for answers.
Dunn paused a long time before continuing, as if trying to phrase things correctly, legally. “I don’t want you to say a thing until I tell you it’s okay.”
He waited for Morley to agree. “Okay.”
“Apparently, there was a boy at school who had sexually abused Mary. When Mrs. Lingram found out, she was confused as to what to do, so she contacted another individual, who we’ll refer to as Mary’s boyfriend…”
Dunn paused to answer the question on Morley’s face. “That’ll explain itself in a second. The boyfriend confronted the abuser and a physical altercation ensued in which the abuser was severely injured.
“Fast-forward a couple months, most of the rest of this I got from a high-ranking buddy of mine from the local precinct.
“Like I said, fast-forward a couple months, Mary goes into the private unisex bathroom that she used regularly. Someone is waiting for her. He’d unscrewed the light bulbs.
“The perp gagged Mary and told her that if her boyfriend doesn’t meet him at a certain location the following day, the abuser’s gonna spread nude photos of Mary all over social media, and physical copies at the school.”
“Someone found Mary next period curled up in the corner. She’s devastated and emotionally distraught. She has no idea what the abuser is talking about not knowing anything about a boyfriend. The police try and interview her but she’s a basket-case. They take her home.
“She tries to explain things to her mother while she’s taking a bath to calm down. Esther assures Mary she’ll take care of it. She leaves to get my number and call my office. When she gets back to the bathroom, Mary had slit both wrists.”
Morley closed his eyes. He involuntarily wiped both palms on his thighs. “What do the cops have?”
Dunn sighed. “There’s no camera on that hall. The police don’t have any good physical evidence to go on. They liked a suspect that Esther gave ’em, but when they reach out for him, his lawyer returned the call and says his client has no idea what they’re talking about and astonishingly enough, has five eyewitnesses who’ll swear he was with ’em all day.
“They were going to follow-up with both Mary and Esther…” Dunn didn’t finish the thought.
“At this point, they don’t have anything?”
“No, not much. They plan to go after the name Esther gave them, but unless he or one of his alibi witnesses breaks, which is a possibility, they don’t have a lot.”
“I should. I shouldn’t…” Morley stumbled trying to put together thoughts through his grief.
“PJ, stop. Mary was a confused hormonal teenage girl with a disability that just compounded her problems. She was taken advantage of, abused in such a vile manner that I can’t—” Dunn shook his head. “There’s only one person to blame here, and it isn’t the boyfriend.”
Morley opened his eyes as Dunn paused. The cadence of his speech slowed, and his tone was lawyerly, just facts, as if coming to a point.
“I can push with friends in the DA’s Office to try and get justice for Mary and Mrs. Lingram, but you know how difficult it’s gonna be to prove this, especially with two primary witnesses deceased. Even if they’re somehow able to get the piece of shit into court, from what Mrs. Lingram told me, he’ll say there was consent and that she wasn’t a minor.
“If there’s any evidence linking him to the threats, his lawyer will deny there was any way his client could possibly conceive of poor Mary taking her life.
“The defense will bring up the trauma their client suffered. They’ll bring in a psychologist or two who will testify to how emotionally scarred he is, blah, blah, blah.
“Without something extraordinary that I don’t know, there’s no way he’ll get any substantial jail time.
“To top it all off, they’ll go all-out to find the boyfriend. They’ll probably come up with some bullshit story about the boyfriend harassing the perp, who knows.
“Whatever, the cops will have to look for the boyfriend, hopefully without success.” Dunn pursed his lips.
Morley went through that scenario in his mind as Dunn continued.
“His family has money, they’ll probably pay this scumbag’s legal bills, and there will be a lot of pressure from the court to settle. I can tie them up in court with a civil suit and at the very least cost them a good six figures to defend themselves, but at the end of the day…”
“That scumbag is still walking around,” said Morley.
Dunn nodded.
Morley had decided to act. But before he could start to lay out first steps, his friend started talking again.
“As I said, his family has some money,” he pulled out a folded piece of paper with typewritten text. “A little internet search pulled up an address.”
Morley reached out to take the paper, but Dunn did not release it.
“I drove by the house to see what it looks like. It’s in a nice neighborhood. Too nice for some of the people who are sitting in ‘hood’ cars out front.” Dunn paused apparently to let Morley catch up. “He has people there waiting for Mary’s boyfriend, probably the alibi witnesses. He did what he did to lure the boyfriend out. The boyfriend needs to be careful, maybe wait a while.”
Morley could feel the features in his face soften. “You’re a good man, Myron Dunn, and a good friend.”
“I wouldn’t be a good lawyer if I didn’t have you burn this piece of paper once you’ve transcribed the notes.”
“Will do. Thanks again.”
“No need, just eventually get some justice for
Esther and Mary.”
83 | You Won’t See Me
Port Washington, New York, 12/10/09, 2119 hours
Once back at the office, it took Morley five minutes to change into street clothes, ten to locate the right vehicle, and another seventy to arrive on Jeff Belsen’s street without using any toll roads.
Morley confirmed two of Dunn’s suspicions shortly after he turned onto the street in the well-to-do section of Port Washington. His prey’s family had money, and there were people waiting that didn’t look like the indigenous populous.
He pulled over, parked two blocks from the address, and observed.
Sure enough, there were two cars parked on the street that looked out of place. Both were late models, with as much rust as original paint. He’d seen dozens like them in gang neighborhoods. The ghetto cruisers were parked on either side of the street, facing away from one another. No doubt to cover each avenue of approach. Two occupants sat in each car.
Morley watched as neighbors walking along the sidewalk gave the vehicles a wide berth. He was hoping someone would do what he couldn’t without leaving a digital footprint and report the suspicious strangers to the police.
Eleven minutes into his surveillance one of the men from a beat-up Chevy went to the far side of Belsen’s house. A few minutes later a different individual came back to the car.
They’ve got at least one person out back. That accounts for his five witnesses.
After watching three more thirty-minute rotations, he’d confirmed there was only one guard behind the house.
Around midnight, Morley determined what bedroom Belsen slept in after watching him limp to one of the cars. He brought bottles of something to both vehicles. Shortly after going back inside, Morley saw a light go on in a second-story room. It went out for good at 0015 hours.
Tears, fake and real (Vestal, New York, 12/10/09, 0015 hours)
Lublin walked out of the bar restaurant on the Vestal Parkway shortly after midnight. He had been forced to frequent new establishments since his release from jail weeks earlier. He rightly felt he was not welcome in any of the places he regularly went to prior to his notoriety. Unfortunately, no matter where he went, his paranoia got the better of him. He was sure the wait staff and other customers recognized him. They were watching him, judging him. Fuck them! I’m famous and soon I’ll be rich too.
No matter how superior he felt to these double-digit IQ burger flippers, he couldn’t avoid the lingering fear of what they might be doing to his food. He kept switching where he ate.
Lublin had been coming to a new place, The Ale House, most nights for the past two weeks. It was on his way home from work; the kitchen stayed open late, and they kept their lights turned down low. He liked being a shadow in the dark booths. It was more difficult for people to see him, to recognize him…or so he thought. They had good fries too.
Lublin was finishing his meal when he received a text from Timmons, CALL ME ASAP. He knew the subject behind the message was a contract with a television show, Into the Mind. The premise was to find individuals who had been through harrowing, near-death experiences and professionally interview them. The show used thorough interview techniques to drill down into the person’s mind during the crucial moments when their life hung in the balance. It delved into what people were thinking, how it affected what they did, and sometimes how they survived. They had previously interviewed soldiers, police officers, astronauts, firemen, and even Secret Service Agent Thomas McCarthy, who had been shot when he shielded President Ronald Reagan in the 1982 assassination attempt.
Timmons had been approached by the show’s producer. “We’re planning to go in a little different direction during the upcoming season.”
The producer didn’t tell him that as a result of a ratings slide in the second season, the third season was going for more sensationalism. Their focus would be on the opposite end of the good-evil continuum. They were going to interview killers and try and get into their minds. The producer had told Timmons they had interviewed several inmates who were in prison for multiple murders, and a few people in mental institutions. He added they had tried to interview John Hinckley and Mark David Chapman, John Lennon’s killer, without success. He told Timmons they would lead the new season with Lublin’s interview and guarantee him a hundred fifty thousand dollars, with the promise of residuals. Timmons agreed as long as he could vet all questions ahead of time and have almost full veto rights on the editing of the interview. The two sides had come to an agreement in principle.
Lublin, anxious to find out if Timmons had been able to finalize the deal, was taking out his phone to call the lawyer as he walked from the bar. Focused on dialing and the potential for more nationwide exposure, he headed toward his car in the parking lot. He noticed but did not acknowledge a man in a hooded sweatshirt walking in his direction.
The night was remarkably clear for the Triple Cities; there wasn’t a cloud in the sky and the moon was full. That was the only reason Lublin spotted the knife at all. The moonlight glinted off the polished steel as the figure pulled it from the front pouch of his sweatshirt.
Lublin was deep in thought when his brain acknowledged the weapon. He had used knives on most of his victims, and while there was an immediate recognition of what it was, seeing it so out of context, Lublin didn’t react immediately. It wouldn’t have mattered if he had.
In one swift, violent motion the razor-sharp blade came up across Lublin’s windpipe. He was startled initially and then the realization of what had happened set in. His lips moved as he tried to yell, but all that came out were rasping gurgles as air mixed with blood. His blood! In a reflexive but futile gesture, Lublin brought both hands up to his neck, as much to try and keep the two parts of his throat together as to staunch the flow of blood. Both were equally as impossible. He tried desperately to breathe, to no avail. He felt like the fish he had caught as a child and threw on shore to watch die. He remembered thinking it funny that they could have all the air they wanted and yet they were still suffocating. After writhing, the fish could only lay there helpless, eyes wide open, mouth taking gulps of air, but nothing happening.
As his eyesight started to fade, he got a good look at the man who had so quickly and decisively ended his life. He didn’t recognize him. He had never seen him before. He was Hispanic, with tattoos of tears under his eyes while real tears ran down his face. His killer was crying and said something in Spanish. Wiping the blood from the knife on Lublin’s sleeve, the man looked around.
Lublin felt his knees give out and he tried to steady himself against a car. His blood-drenched hand slipped, and his body slid to the ground. He tried to push himself up but couldn’t. Within a few more seconds Craig Lublin had passed beyond physical pain. His wound continued to spurt blood as he lost consciousness; soon the flow slowed to a gentle ooze.
Morley was true to his word. Jeff Belsen never saw him. The reggae music masked the slight sound Morley made as he entered the Goth-inspired bedroom.
Belsen’s marijuana-induced sleep was deep. Morley had him in a vice-like blood choke before Belsen’s THC-saturated brain realized what was happening.
Morley followed the second hand on his watch.
Belsen had stopped struggling long before Morley loosened his hold and felt for a pulse. Faint but readable. Belsen’s eyes were glassy, and drool seeped from his mouth. Morley did an eye-thump for confirmation of his victim’s stupor. He was satisfied with the delayed blink that Belsen had had his last coherent thought.
Morley looked at his watch again. He had to stealthily make his way to the backyard before the next changing of the guard.
As Mustafa Mohammad turned the corner into the backyard, he saw two of his friends facedown on the ground, hog-tied. Then there was a fist…
When he woke up, he was facedown, his hands uncomfortably trussed to his feet behind him. His T-shirt was tied around his mouth to keep him from talking.
He heard a voice. It was clear with no trace of emotion.
“The piece of garbage upstairs raped a handicapped girl. She committed suicide yesterday. Tonight, he paid the price. I can’t prove you knew anything about it, that’s the only reason you’re still alive.
“No one’s ever going to know exactly what happened here tonight. You get to leave without me killing you. I’m taking your IDs and weapons. I know who you are and where you live. I can find you no matter where you go.”
Mustafa heard someone walking toward him. In the next second his hands were cut free. He immediately removed his gag. His friends were still immobile, gagged and bound on the ground in front of him. In his peripheral vision he saw a stranger off his right shoulder.
“Your other friends are tied up in their cars.”
In the next second Mustafa’s switchblade was swaying slightly in the ground just inches from his right hand. The stranger had thrown it with uncanny accuracy.
“If you have a problem with this arrangement you can pick up the knife and we can finish this right here. Your choice.”
Mustafa thought about what had happened and the options now presented to him.
“We didn’t know ’bout the girl.” He rubbed his sore nose. “That’s fucked up. Jeff just said he need a alibi for a weed deal, and protection.” He paused. “We cool.” Mustafa put out his hand, the stranger shook it.
Morley hated not having his cell with him, but not wanting to leave an electronic footprint, he’d left it at the office. Anyway, anyone critically important who might need to talk to him had his father’s old number.
Not wanting to be out of “comms” for the day was the only thing that destroyed the idea of Morley taking his first sick day since coming to New York—that, and wanting everything to appear as normal as possible.
He’d decided to push his workout until the afternoon as he pulled onto his street at 0446 hours. All thoughts of workouts vanished when he spotted two patrol cars outside his house.
He locked up the brakes in the driveway and was out of his car before anyone in either of the other cars could react. Bursting through the front door, he saw his mother in the kitchen crying.