by Sydney Bauer
‘And we know for sure that Sienna Walker is guilty?’
Joe went to answer in the positive, but found himself hesitating and falling into silence once again. ‘We don't know she's not guilty, Frank,’ he managed after a pause. ‘All the evidence points toward her. And besides, I am not sure David will be too keen to “share” when he finds out what we have against his client.’
Joe frowned and Frank read his thoughts. ‘You're beating yourself up for not giving Cavanaugh a heads-up on the forensics the moment Martinelli called you.’
Joe said nothing. The truth was, he did feel guilty for not having called David and told him of the evidence they had discovered – and even those, like the nightshirt, that they had not. Strictly speaking, this was not his job. It was the DA's responsibility to make available to the defence all items of discovery under Rule 14 (an obligation the Kat always delayed), and Joe knew Katz would have his badge if he had proof Joe was communicating directly with the defence. But Joe wasn't worried about his job, he was wondering if David, considering his criteria for representation, might find some way to have himself removed as Sienna Walker's attorney. Joe had confided in David regarding his suspicions of the mom's culpability, after all, so he knew the evidence was stacked up against her – was then, and was even more so now.
‘You have a second sense about these things, Chief,’ said Frank. ‘You'll know when to call Cavanaugh and fill him in.’
Joe managed a nod.
‘You think we should discuss our line of thinking on our friend Dr Dick with the DA?’ asked Frank, changing tack.
‘Did Dorothy give the Wicked Witch a detailed itinerary of her travel plans?’ answered Joe, offering his friend a conciliatory smile. ‘Let's see what we can find out first.’
Frank grinned. ‘They don't call you the Wizard of Homicide for nothing, Chief.’
‘They call me that?’
‘Nah. But I could start something.’
‘Over your dead body, McKay, over your dead body.’
25
‘The Kat is pissing all over you,’ said Boston Tribune Deputy Editor Marc Rigotti.
It was almost one on Thursday afternoon, and while David was proud of himself for avoiding the press for as long as he had, he knew this face-to-face with Marc Rigotti was both necessary and overdue. Rigotti needed David now, but David knew his cooperation would be repaid in the form of fair coverage leading up to and during the trial. And besides, Rigotti was a friend.
‘I gather we're talking the Kat with a “K”,’ responded David as Rigotti led him into yet another high-ceilinged room.
Rigotti shrugged. ‘Could be either, given both of their piss stinks.’ He smiled. ‘What I mean to say is, the DA is playing the media like a maestro. He's already painting your client as the “Mommy Dearest” from hell, and you've been – well, let's just say you've been customarily quiet.’
‘Not in my nature to hog the limelight, Rigotti,’ said David.
‘The front page is yours if you want it.’
‘At this stage I'd rather stick to the old adage that no news is good news,’ replied David before raising his arms to indicate his surroundings.
‘What's this all about?’ he asked after a pause, wondering why Marc had suggested they meet here, at the Isabella Gardner Stewart Gallery in Fenway. David guessed Rigotti's choice of venue had something to do with the fact that the gallery was Sienna Walker's most recent place of employment. Chances were the short-on-time hack planned on killing two birds with one stone – interviewing David and then the gallery curator in the space of one afternoon – ideally building some sort of profile on the accused, and the life she had led before her arrest.
‘Not what, who,’ said Rigotti, before stopping in front of a portrait painted in a combination of blues and greys. ‘Impressive, isn't it?’
David turned toward the wall. ‘She's a good-looking kid, Marc,’ he said, referring to the child depicted in the artwork before him. David freely admitted he took after his dock worker dad rather than his school teacher mom when it came to an appreciation of art. ‘If you need to ask me some questions, I am willing to give you a brief statement, but I'm pretty strapped for time so …’
Rigotti held up his hand. ‘Jesus, Cavanaugh, step off your fucking treadmill. Look at the painting,’ he said, ‘tell me what you see?’
And so a patient David obliged, stepping forward so that he could examine the portrait up close. He took in the colours and the rough but carefully placed brushstrokes that formed the girl's face. He studied the old-fashioned lace collar painted in delicate white flecks around the little girl's neck. He noted how the artist had used thicker paint to make the girl's long hair look lifelike, and in the girl's pale blue eyes he sensed a sadness, a loneliness, a … ‘Jesus,’ he said.
Rigotti smiled. ‘I knew you'd get it eventually.’
‘It's her. It's Sienna Walker.’
Rigotti shook his head. ‘Close – it's her mother. It's called “The Price of Innocence” and it's one of a small number of portraits executed by a respected English artist named Alistair D. Granby. Granby stopped painting in 1968 at the age of forty-one. Word has it he suffered from liver disease and early onset dementia from excessive drinking and now lives like a hermit in some backwater English country village. He was reportedly descended from British gentry, a duke or earl or something, which might explain the madness, considering the rampant inbreeding that lot got up to.’
Rigotti took a breath. ‘Anyway, Granby's works were few and far between. Sienna Walker's mother was his daughter – or, in other words, the artist was your client's grandfather.’ Rigotti looked at the painting again. ‘Pretty talented, don't you think? Maybe it's that fine line between madness and genius thing. You know, walking the line between bonkers and brilliance.’
David nodded. Despite his lack of instinctual appreciation David understood exactly what Rigotti was talking about. This Granby captured more than just the kid's image, he seemed to have harnessed her soul.
‘Did he do a lot of portraits of his daughter?’
‘No. So far as anyone knows this was the only one. According to my guy in London, Granby was kind of a lunatic – my contact describes him as an eccentric, misogynous prick who made his wife and his only child's lives hell before drinking himself into an irreversible stupor. This portrait is on loan from the Tate in London. Your client arranged for it to be here. Obviously it's a subject close to her heart given her mother died when she was a kid. Hard to draw your eyes away from it, isn't it? Kind of haunting – considering all that's going down.’
David looked at the painting again before registering a rush of self-admonishment. Unlike Rigotti, he had no idea who Sienna Walker really was – where she'd come from, who she'd been. He reasoned that this was because of how fast things had been moving, but he made a mental note to get Nora to do some research, and promised himself that his next meeting with his client would be spent trying to get to know the daughter of the little girl in the white lace collar with the sad blue eyes.
‘Why did you ask me here, Marc?’ David asked at last, sensing there was more to this meeting than just a history lesson on Sienna Walker's past.
‘Maybe I know you too well,’ said Rigotti after a pause. ‘Maybe I needed to know if you'd stick to your convictions and give this case a pass.’
There it was, the statement that told David that everyone in this city, Rigotti included, believed his client was guilty.
‘I'm on this case to stay, Marc,’ said David, noting the determination in his own voice.
But Rigotti said nothing.
David cut to the chase, needing to know. ‘What? You think I'm making a mistake?’
‘Maybe,’ replied Rigotti after a pause. ‘You didn't ask for this case, David. The cops are building a solid case against your client, and you and I both know you made that little pact with yourself never to go to bat for anyone who –’
David was sick of hearing it. ‘Listen, Marc, I d
id make a promise to myself, but why would you think I am compromising it by agreeing to represent Sienna Walker? What is it with this case? Why are people so desperate to bury her? She's innocent until proven guilty, just like any other defendant.’
‘But she cut her kid's throat, man.’ Rigotti shook his head.
‘You channelling the DA now, Rigotti?’
‘You know that's not it.’
‘Then what?’
‘There's more to this shit than you think, David.’
‘This shit? What shit?’ David felt his heart skip a beat. ‘Are you trying to tell me something, Marc, because if you are, if the DA's given you a heads-up on information he has a legal obligation to disclose to me then …’ he took a breath.
‘This didn't come from the Kat,’ said Rigotti, his voice now low. ‘No, that's not quite right. Let's just say I found myself in a situation where I happened to hear a conversation relating specifically to your case.’
‘A conversation between who?’
Rigotti raised his eyebrows, indicating David was asking too much.
‘Okay, so when did you hear this exchange?’
‘Just before her arrest.’
David immediately knew that, whatever the nature of the information Rigotti had overheard, he was indebted to the New York-born hack before him, given Rigotti had obviously held on to it until he'd had an opportunity to talk to David and sort out what was what.
‘I know what you're thinking,’ said Rigotti, reading David's mind. ‘But don't give me too much credit. I'm a good friend, David, but I'm not stupid. I held on to this so that I could check it, wait for further intel to filter through. I also figured that if you got wind of it you'd probably walk, which would have sent a message loud and clear to the universe that Walker was guilty, so whatever which way she was fucked.’
‘Jesus, Marc,’ said David. ‘What in the hell have you got?’
Rigotti swallowed before looking David in the eye. ‘The wire screen in the kid's bedroom was unscrewed from the inside, there's evidence the mom didn't bother to turn on the light after she found the kid was missing and … the blood in the bedroom, most of it came from the victim but early tests indicate that the mom's blood – and apparently a lot of it – was in the mix too. She must have cut herself, David, in the process of knifing her kid and …’ Rigotti took a breath. ‘I'm sorry, dude, but DNA don't lie.’
David's heart stopped. He could feel the beats suspend themselves while he took in this last piece of information.
‘There's one thing in your favour. The ME thinks the kid bled out while being cradled by her killer – but your girl's clothing didn't fit this picture, so unless she stashed the top she was wearing when she …’ He stopped there, obviously reading the shock in David's expression. ‘How much of that did you know?’ he asked.
‘Some,’ said David, understanding Rigotti knew him too well to even attempt a lie at this point. He began to feel hot. ‘Did Mannix confirm this with you?’ he asked, his anger at his detective friend now building. According to Rigotti the information on the blood and the other forensics had been discussed with Katz on Tuesday, and David knew there was only one person in a position to deliver such details – Boston PD's crime lab guru Dan Martinelli, via David's good friend Joe.
‘Like I said, David, right place right time,’ said Rigotti, obviously having read David's tone. He lowered his voice. ‘Thing is, David, you and Mannix may be tight but, when it comes down to it, he's a cop and you're representing the accused and –’
Rigotti was interrupted by the ringing of his cell. He looked at the screen. ‘My editor, I gotta take this,’ he said, pressing receive and taking a slight step back. And that was the moment when the timing switched from pause to fast forward, when Rigotti held his breath and looked at his watch and pocketed his cell before turning to David, an expression of urgency on his face.
‘What is it?’ asked David.
‘You wanna get on the front foot?’ asked Rigotti as he paced toward the exit. ‘Then you'd better come with me.’
26
Thirty minutes earlier
Life was full of surprises, but Joe Mannix was a man who had witnessed more than the odd bolt from the blue in his twenty-five-year career on the force, and so the scene before him (or more specifically, the two unexpected occupants in it) was not so much a shock as a confirmation that DA Roger Katz was the egotistical prick he knew him to be.
Joe and Frank finally walked into Katz's office on Thursday afternoon at a little after one to find the two guests sitting on either side of the ADA at the far end of the table.
‘You're late,’ said Katz, not even bothering to stand as Joe and Frank entered the room. And Boston FBI Field Office Special Agent in Charge Leo ‘Simba’ King, the familiar face on Katz's right, looked up at Joe with an expression that said: Sorry, man, not my doing.
‘We took a nap after lunch,’ said Joe, knowing this jibe would irritate the pompous ADA but not giving a shit. Frank yawned as if in punctuation.
Katz shook his head without looking up from a notebook he was scribbling in. ‘You know Special Agent in Charge King – and Special Agent Ned Jacobs?’
They did. King was a friend and the Quantico-based Jacobs was a good man with whom they'd worked before. The round-faced African–American was one of the Feeb's most respected profilers, and he too was looking at them apologetically.
‘Leo, Ned,’ said Joe. ‘You remember Frank.’
They all nodded at one another, Jacobs even getting to his feet to shake Frank's hand.
Joe and Frank proceeded to take a seat on opposite sides of the table, a water pitcher in the middle looking inviting but impossible to indulge in given there were only three glasses on the table.
‘Not sure you mentioned we were bringing in the FBI on this one, Roger,’ said Joe.
‘Not sure you bothered to consult me on anything regarding this case, Mannix,’ countered the stern-faced DA. ‘I thought we needed some help – from real investigative professionals,’ he added, tapping his pen on the table. ‘You don't have any objections, do you?’
‘Of course not. You need all the help you can get,’ he added, once again unable to stop himself.
Joe knew exactly what this was all about. Katz didn't so much need King's and Jacob's opinions as he did their reputations. Katz had done this before, dragged King and other agents away from other important federal investigations and into his own, simply so that he could call them as ‘professionals’ in court – and watch a jury be impressed by the presence of the FBI. It was both frustrating and unnecessary, but most things about the Kat were frustrating and unnecessary, so once again, there were no surprises there.
‘Agent Jacobs,’ said Katz, choosing to ignore Joe's last remark, ‘perhaps you'd like to start.’
Joe wondered what the hell Jacobs would start with, given he was a profiler and his job involved helping his fellow agents analyse the personalities of yet to be apprehended offenders.
‘Sienna Walker is an “A”-type personality with a penchant toward perfectionism,’ began Jacobs, his head bowed almost as if he was embarrassed by the ‘job’ he'd been allotted. ‘She is a high achiever who sets high goals for herself and while she has a critical eye, I do not believe she casts it on others as much as she does on herself.’
Joe did not believe what he was hearing. The man had been asked to profile a suspect already in custody. It was a set-up from anyone's perspective – Katz was putting the cart before the horse, a continuity anomaly Joe knew the cunning DA would manipulate in court by selling Jacob's profile to the jury as the building block that incriminated Walker before any arrest was made.
‘Hold up here,’ said Joe, his eyes flicking toward an open-mouthed Frank before settling on the ADA. ‘Special Agent Jacobs has interviewed Sienna Walker?’
‘He's an experienced behavioural psychologist,’ countered Katz. ‘It is standard practice for us to engage such specialists to provide a psychological examin
ation of the defendant.’
‘Standard practice?’ said Joe, his shoulders tensing. ‘Sure, it's standard practice to get a psych consult, Roger, but not an FBI profiler whose job it is to provide a psychological outline of a prospective killer. Walker's been arrested. She's in custody. And my guess is, you're probably well on the way to getting your grand jury indictment and –’
‘Special Agent Jacob's profile will go to cause,’ interrupted Katz. ‘Am I right, Special Agent?’
The DA put Jacobs on the spot, the poor man obviously uncomfortable, and Joe wondered why the normally vigilant King – a man who usually bent over backward to stand up for his staff – was not jumping to the profiler's aid.
‘Deputy Superintendent Mannix is right to a certain degree, Mr Katz,’ said Jacobs. ‘You know we at the FBI are always on hand to help with your investigations, but given Mrs Walker has already been charged, I'm not sure what help I can be to you.’
It was well said, and Joe was grateful.
Katz went to reply but was cut off by a so-far mute Leo King finally stepping in. ‘Roger,’ he said, ‘perhaps it would help if you told us if you were having any doubts about Sienna Walker's culpability?’
Katz did a double-take, from King to Joe and back to King. ‘Doubts? Doubts, Leo? Of course I don't have any doubts. The evidence against Sienna Walker is overwhelming. The woman is a murderer – a coldblooded assassin who slit the throat of her very own child. Her blood was found at the scene, for god's sakes, and the results of her examination at County confirmed it came from her.’
‘The woman was cut?’ asked Joe, the first he had heard of any confirmatory examination at County. Joe was frustrated at what must have been the asshole DA's move to have Sienna Walker's physical exam report picked up from County by his cronies and not by the Boston PD.
‘Well of course she was cut,’ Katz rolled his eyes as he faced Joe. ‘But we're not here to discuss the woman's physical health, we're here to discuss her psychological status.’ He turned back to Jacobs. ‘It is your job to get into the minds of these psychopaths, is it not?’