Flesh and Blood
Page 40
“They weren’t worse,” Ben said. “They were only the same. They were his flesh and blood.”
90
The media went into a feeding frenzy. The Times, the Daily News, the Post, and Newsday all ran stories on the Cunningham case for days on end, as did the Washington Post, the Chicago Tribune, the Boston Globe, and many of the nation’s other metropolitan newspapers. Time, Newsweek, and U.S. News and World Report gave the subject heavy coverage, as did Der Spiegel and Paris-Match. Reporters from all over the United States and Europe converged on New York to squat on the developments and pick meat from the bones.
The TV spotlight was even brighter. Not only did CNN and the network news shows focus heavily on the story, but the talkers, including Donahue, Geraldo, and Oprah, outdid themselves in presenting weirdly contrived angles they claimed as both exclusive and authentic. A Current Affair and Unsolved Mysteries ran specials on the case.
Nevertheless, none of them got the whole truth, or even much more than a semblance of it. And as Ben Tolliver realized early on, it was unlikely anyone ever would. The case was cleared by the DA and the New York Police Department, although in a form he found hard to recognize.
Most of the culpability for the killings fell on Clay Cunningham. But even there the family’s power and money combined to produce an adroitly concocted explanation. Clay was unbalanced, the story went, by grief over his father’s death. He blamed his stepmother for creating marital discord that caused the old man to suffer a fatal heart attack, and in a fit of blind rage, Clay had choked her. A psychiatrist who testified at the coroner’s inquest asserted that Mr. Cunningham was unquestionably deranged at the time, and therefore not responsible for his actions.
The NYPD announced that Lieutenant Ben Tolliver killed Cunningham in self defense, after the detective tried unsuccessfully to restrain the mentally unbalanced man when he went berserk and began shooting at everyone around him.
Separately it was revealed that Clay Cunningham also had established a corrupt relationship with Jack Mulloy, an obscure investigator in the DA’s office. Unbeknown to Cunningham, Mulloy had in turn conspired with Ardis Merritt—who was described to the media as a former administrator of the Cunningham Foundation—in an extortion scheme.
Evan Montrock, who for many years had been the family’s loyal head of security, was said to have been shot by Mulloy when Montrock discovered the investigator’s duplicity. Mulloy then died in a fiery auto crash while attempting to escape.
The cops further determined that Shelley Drake, a reporter for New York television station WPIC TV, shot Ardis Merritt when Merritt threatened her life and that of Lieutenant Tolliver by firing a pistol at them. Ms. Drake was not charged.
Although Tolliver reported suspicions to the district attorney as well as to his superiors in the NYPD, no evidence was produced to refute the official findings in the death of former Senator Clayton Cunningham, nor those in the suicide of the journalist Jessica Silk. Videotapes the lieutenant claimed were taken when the senator died were never found.
No link was established between any of these events and the death of Jan Demarest, a patient in the Brentwood Treatment Center in Farmington, New York. Although Lieutenant Tolliver argued that there had been a connection, support for the hypothesis was not forthcoming. Dr. Jay Chenoweth, head of psychiatry at the center, said that Ms. Demarest had shown suicidal tendencies in the past, and although she had been watched closely, the patient had managed to elude staff members and take her own life. An autopsy confirmed that Ms. Demarest had died of asphyxia caused by hanging. The Farmington Police Department declared her death a suicide, and marked the case closed. Dr. Chenoweth was later named director of the Brentwood facility.
The death of Clayton Cunningham IV also resulted in the Manhattan District Attorney’s office dropping its investigation into the activities of Cunningham Securities. In a brief statement, DA Henry Oppenheimer averred there was insufficient evidence to seek an indictment from a grand jury. Insofar as rumors of a money-laundering scheme were concerned, he said there was no proof of such activity, and no law prohibited the transfer of funds from a U.S. bank to one in a foreign country.
Fletcher Shackley, the senior prosecutor who had headed the investigation, resigned from the DA’s office in order to pursue a career in politics. Shackley immediately began organizing a campaign to win nomination in the upcoming race for the congressional seat representing Manhattan’s 17th District.
Ingrid Cunningham Kramer and her husband went into a period of deep mourning. It was pointed out that they had put their own lives at risk by bravely trying to stop the outbreak of violence at the family’s Long Island estate. Both were considered fortunate to have escaped without injury. When they resumed normal activities, the couple flew with their team to the polo matches in São Paulo, Brazil. Upon their return, it was announced that the board of directors of Cunningham Mining Corporation had elected Mrs. Kramer chairman and chief executive officer. Her husband, well-known international financier Kurt Kramer, continued as president of Amvest Corporation, an investment banking firm in New York.
At a press conference, Mrs. Kramer declared her intention to uphold the Cunningham tradition by devoting increased time, money, and effort to the family’s many charitable and political causes. For example, she vowed to give her whole-hearted support to Fletcher Shackley’s bid to win election to the United States Congress. Mrs. Kramer also hinted that she might at some point seek elective office herself, although no specific plans were revealed at that time.
The case had a major impact on the career of Shelley Drake. Overnight she went from news-reader on a local station to star in her own right. She was a guest on a number of talk shows, and was featured in articles appearing in People, New York magazine, and Vanity Fair. Several producers approached her with TV miniseries and movie offers.
Ben Tolliver was also deemed lucky to have survived the events at the estate. It took three hours of surgery and over a hundred stitches to repair the bullet wound in his hip. If the slug had hit him a little to the right, he might have wound up with a shattered pelvis. Or dead.
He spent two weeks in St. Vincent’s and then several more on leave confined to his apartment, going crazy from the inactivity. When the therapist put him on a moderate exercise program he overdid it, which landed him back in the hospital. Now he was again ready to be discharged, and this time when he promised the doctor he’d take it easy, he meant it.
“You’d better,” the surgeon said. “I don’t like to see my work screwed up by somebody who thinks he’s still a kid.”
“Can’t help it, Doc,” Ben said. “I’m young at heart.”
“That’s fine, but go slow, give your body time to heal. That bullet did more damage than you think. Tore a channel through your transverse abdominus and oblique muscles, and chipped the bone. I had a hell of a time repairing the damage. You rip those tissues loose again, you could suffer a permanent impairment.”
“Yeah, okay. But how soon can I work out?”
“Not for several weeks, anyway. And when you do start, stick with the regimen. The idea is to get the muscles limber, not to overexert them. You’re to do nothing strenuous until you’re much further along toward full recovery.”
“How about pushups—with a partner?”
The doctor smiled. “Let her do the work. For the time being, anyway.”
“Yeah, I guess I could stand that.”
“I’m sure you could. You’re getting out of here tomorrow, and I don’t want to see you again until it’s time for a checkup on your progress. Clear?”
“As a bell. And Doc? Thanks. I appreciate the embroidery.”
“Good luck, Lieutenant.” He left the room.
Ben lay back and switched on the tiny TV set that hung over his bed. After a moment he turned the set off; if he never looked at another soap opera it would be too soon. And every half-hour or so CNN began to repeat itself.
He’d also done all the reading he cared to for one day: magazine
s and newspapers—even that morning’s Wall Street Journal. Conversation with the occupants of the other three beds in the room wasn’t practical; they were a comatose, a broken jaw wired shut, and an Asian who spoke no English.
Ben looked at the pile of newspapers on the bedside table. At least the storm of publicity on the Cunningham case finally seemed to have blown away; for a long time the media had pestered him for interviews, but he flatly refused to talk to them. Now at last they were on to other disasters, other scandals. There was never a shortage of horrendous developments; New York had a new serial killer, another crazed judge, a teenager who’d blown away his parents. Tomorrow there would be something else.
The door opened, and Captain Michael Brennan walked into the room.
Tolliver had seen the zone commander several times since the Cunningham case had come to a violent head, but today Brennan was making no attempt to appear cheerful. Under the misshapen nose, his mouth was set in a grim line.
“Hey, Cap,” Ben said. “Good to see you. But why the gloom?”
Brennan drew up a chair and sat down beside the bed. “Got some bad news. I know you’re getting out of here tomorrow, and I wanted to tell you myself before you heard it through channels.”
“What is it?”
“You been passed over for promotion.”
Ben didn’t reply. After the case was cleared, he’d often thought about his chances for making captain, and had concluded they weren’t good. Hearing now that he’d be stuck in grade wasn’t really much of a surprise.
“I’m sorry,” Brennan said. “I know you been kind of counting on stepping up, but that’s what happened.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The trouble is, the PC thinks you’re too controversial. So do Houlihan and Galupo. The media blasted the department over the Cunningham case, and if there is one thing the brass don’t like, it’s taking heat. They got enough problems with the mayor as it is.”
Ben looked at him. “So why didn’t they just can me?”
“Don’t kid yourself, they would have. Except it would’ve given the reporters more rocks to throw at them.”
“How about you, Cap—what about your own promotion?”
“It came through.”
“Inspector Brennan. Congratulations.”
“Thanks. But as far as your situation’s concerned, it’s not all bad. The DA wants you for a special investigator.”
Tolliver groaned.
“Hey, keep your shirt on. You’d have a lot more room to move around in that job than you’d ever get as a zone commander.”
“I don’t have a shirt on—I’m wearing this fucking nighty. And I don’t want to be one of Oppenheimer’s boys.”
“Listen to me, will you? You’d be working on some of the most important cases to hit the city. And with him behind you, there’d be nothing to keep you from going all the way.”
“Yeah, but—”
“But relax, Lieutenant. Think, for once, before you take a swing. The game today is politics, and you better learn how to play it.”
“Seems to me I’ve heard that before, someplace.”
“Good. Maybe it’ll start to sink in.”
Ben exhaled, and stared at the ceiling. “I doubt it.”
Brennan stood up. “Give me a call, when you’ve thought it over. We can talk about it some more. Meantime, what I told you stays between us, right?”
“Yeah, it will. So long, and thanks for coming.”
When he was again alone, Tolliver continued to stare at the ceiling. It was painted pale green, and there were cracks in it. Leaving this place would be a pleasure.
He tried to keep his mind off what Brennan had told him, but it was difficult. Each time he thought of what had happened, his anger grew, until it reached the edge of bitterness. The game today was politics? Christ, wasn’t that the truth. In some ways, it was no wonder a guy like Jack Mulloy had become disillusioned, and then had turned rotten.
So immersed had Ben become in his thoughts, he wasn’t aware she’d entered the room. Until he smelled her perfume, and turned his head toward her just as her lips brushed his.
She really was a spectacularly good-looking woman, he thought as she stood smiling down at him with that lushly curved mouth, the honey-blond hair softly framing her face.
Her voice was gentle. “Hi. I know you’ll be going home tomorrow, but I couldn’t wait to see you.”
“You’ve been busy.”
“Yes, I know. It’s been wild. I feel guilty about not having spent more time with you.”
“That’s good. But you can redeem yourself.”
“I’m way ahead of you. I’m taking two whole weeks off, and I’d like to spend them with you, if I’m invited.”
He put his arms around her. “You’re invited.”
“Sure I won’t be a strain on you?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. The doc was even telling me how we could do some exercises together.”
“What kind of exercises?”
He kissed her nose. “I’ll show you tomorrow.”
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1994 by James Neal Harvey
Cover design by Tracey Dunham
ISBN: 978-1-4804-8585-3
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