“But you didn’t look for anything after you lost your wife, except to get into a lot of crazy,” she said sharply. “So what the fuck are we talking about?”
He pressed a fist to his chest like he had heartburn.
Nice.
Why don’t you ask him to break out those photos of the wife and kid? Remind him of all the mad man stories you heard about how he tried to get himself killed after they passed?
Maybe ask how many rounds he’s got left in that .38 he keeps in the cabinet.
“Well, it’s getting late.” He looked at his watch. “I’m sure your young man is wondering where you are.”
“He’s all right,” she said. “He’s used to waiting.”
He started to take the glass from her. “Well, it won’t do for you to be showing up with liquor on your breath if you’re supposed to be working late with Borrelli on a serial killer case.”
She thought of Mitchell looking up as she came in, questions in his eyes he was starting to be afraid to ask. She held onto her glass.
“I am working.” She finally took a sip and cringed. “We were talking about how to get these other departments to cooperate.”
“We were?”
“I was going to ask if you know anybody you could reach out to, help us get what we need on these open cases if we get stonewalled.”
“I’ll look into it.” He set his glass aside, instead of refilling it. “And maybe I can do a little more as well. Wouldn’t mind a side project. Stay out of the relatives’ hair for a while.”
It was getting dark in the house. She realized he’d unscrewed most of his light bulbs either because he wanted to save money or because he didn’t see any point in replacing them. Whatever. The man needed to work.
“Are you really going to move upstate?” she asked. “Can’t see you getting up early to milk the cows.”
“Maybe I’ll go to Long Island instead.” He shrugged. “If you’re telling me true, prices ought to be falling off a cliff.”
16
OCTOBER
1989
Do I know you?
Joey, now a lieutenant, was on the witness stand, testifying at the Lonnie Donges trial when he noticed the slightly washed-out blonde in the back row staring at him.
“And how many years have you been with the department, lieutenant?” Brendan O’Mara, the prosecutor on the case, was trying to keep him focused.
“Eight years, next month.”
“In that time, is it fair to say you’ve been involved in numerous investigations?”
“It’d be fair to say ‘hundreds.’ I was very active on patrol. And I’ve stayed active as a supervisor. I never ask my men to do anything I wouldn’t do.”
He stared back, trying to key in on her. She wasn’t his type at all. Too tall, too old, too fully formed. She was wearing a white blouse and a blue blazer. Not too much makeup or attention to brushing her hair. Like she didn’t care all that much about people evaluating her by her appearance. Who the hell was she and why was she looking at him like this?
“In those hundreds of cases, have you ever encountered the scene of a crime that was so wantonly brutal and vicious?” Brendan approached the stand, blocking Joey’s view.
“No, although…”
“Objection.” Lonnie’s lawyer, David Dresden, was on his feet, ponytail bouncing over his suit jacket collar. “That’s not even a leading question. It’s an invitation to deliver a soliloquy.”
Smartass Jew York lawyer who didn’t have any business trying a case out here. Probably was barely breaking even between his piddly public defender compensation and the cost of gasoline he spent driving out here.
“I’ll allow the question,” said the judge, the Honorable Edward J. McCarthy.
The People’s murder case against Lonnie Donges was in good hands with Fast Eddie in charge. Especially since officers on Joey’s watch had used their discretion not to arrest the judge for domestic violence, when Mrs. McCarthy called them to the house in Port Jefferson and showed them her blackened eye and bruises on her neck.
As Brendan moved, Joey saw the blonde was still giving him that X-ray stare. He wondered if this could be a divorce lawyer for the judge’s wife, looking for leverage to use in the settlement.
“Can you describe the scene to us?” Brendan asked.
“Certainly.” Joey put his hands on the rail of the box, asserting his authority. “The victim was found in a wooded area behind a Toys ‘R’ Us department store in Babylon. Her clothes had been torn off and her head was at an unnatural angle because her neck was broken. Her legs were covered in blood and it was obvious that identification was going to be a problem because her face was so badly disfigured.”
Thinking about it on reflection, he realized that putting the remains in a construction trailer and setting them on fire had not been worth the trouble. It didn’t look like that old MTV video and those volunteer firefighters had somehow arrived within ten minutes of him dropping the match. He’d barely had time to hide behind the darkened Dairy Queen across the road, to see what the response was going to be. The flames barely had a chance to consume the flesh, let alone scorch the bones. If he ever did this again, it’d be simpler just to find a safe place to wrap her up and dump her near a highway. With a chart of everybody’s schedules, he could be reasonably sure of when the roads would be empty.
“It was actually less difficult in this case to identify the suspect.” Brendan raised his voice. “Wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell us why?”
Joey shut his eyes and started nodding, knowing the jurors would mostly interpret this as a dedicated public servant deeply moved by his duty to speak for the dead. In this case, a plump failed nursing student named Angela Spinelli, who, given his own limited interaction with her, no one was sincerely going to miss.
“An intact crack pipe was found near Angie’s body.” He knit his brow to show how he was still affected by the sight. “Our crime scene technicians were able to lift useable fingerprints from it. We eventually were able to match them to Mr. Donges’s prints, which we already had in the system from a previous arrest.”
Lonnie, dark as sin and skeletal from his crack habit, started muttering loudly to his lawyer: “Buncha lyin’ motherfuckers. How’s everything gonna burn except a fuckin’ crack pipe…”
“Mr. Dresden, tell Mr. Donges to stifle himself or I’ll have him removed,” the judge said, noticing that the jurors had started to shake their heads. “I know city courtrooms are like zoos these days, but out here we show respect for the law.”
Was that blond bitch in the back smiling like this was some kind of joke? Joey leaned to the side, trying to get a better read on her. But then the courtroom doors opened and Kenny Makris came in, the DA trying to make a statement to the jury with his presence, and sat right in front of her.
“Lieutenant, you were on duty at the station when Mr. Donges came in voluntarily and agreed to give a statement without a lawyer,” Brendan said. “Is that correct?”
“Objection.” David Dresden stood again. “He was dragged into the station with a bloody mouth, tortured in a basement room, and denied his right to counsel. And he’s since recanted that statement.”
“Overruled.” The judge didn’t even bother to look at the defense table. “Lieutenant, you may answer the question.”
“Yes, I was present. Though Detective Rattigan was in charge of the interrogation.”
The former Prince of Pain was slouching in the first row, having testified earlier and basically thrown up all over himself under intense questioning from Dresden. He looked like he was passed out now. The presence of the DA in the courtroom was intended to assure the jurors that the office still solidly believed in this case. And Joey’s testimony was going to be crucial for its redemption. But how long were they going to keep carrying this lush?
“At any point did you see Detective Rattigan strike or in any way physically abuse the defendant for the
purpose of obtaining a confession?” Brendan asked.
“Absolutely not.”
Joey curled his lip, to show the jury that any such suggestion was beneath contempt. Which it was. Since William Rattigan was no longer in good enough shape to get down on one knee and squeeze a defendant’s testicles hard enough to get an incriminating statement. Joey himself had donned the rubber glove and performed the honors himself. Another reason to saddle Billy the Kid’s horse and send him riding off into the sunset.
“No one forced Mr. Donges to do anything,” Joey said. “He abducted, raped, and killed an innocent woman before he put her in a trailer that he set on fire. Then he put himself at the crime scene with his own ill-considered words.”
“Fuck all, y’all.” Lonnie slapped the defense table and turned away.
“Judge, really…” Dresden was more weary and perfunctory as he rose this time.
“Overruled.”
Lonnie was shaking his head. “Y’all the ones shoulda been burned up…”
“Okay, that’s enough.” The judge brought the gavel down. “Mr. Dresden, we’re going to take a break and discuss this in chambers. Mr. Donges, you’re going back to the pens.”
* * *
There was a bright red Dodge Challenger next to his white Camaro IROC Z in the parking lot. The first sign of trouble was that he could see the Challenger had its hood up. The second and third signs were the pair of black spiked heels he could see beneath the front bumper.
“There a problem?” He made sure he was smiling as he came around on the driver’s side.
Of course, it was the blonde from the back row. She’d been waiting.
“I must have left my running lights on, because now my battery is dead.” Her skirt, way too short for late October, was tight across her butt as she bent over the engine block, one minor concession she’d made to the honey pot role. “Could you give me a jump?”
He straightened up to his full height, nostrils twitching slightly, like a dog trying to tell if it was a deer or a coyote he sniffed close by.
“Why not?”
He went to get his cables from the trunk, deciding to play along for now and see what she was after.
“I can never remember where to attach them,” she said as he came back. “Positive goes to negative?”
He squinted again. She wasn’t set up to play dumb. There was too much rangy intelligence in her eyes and she moved too athletically when she unfolded herself to stand up to him. There was nothing scared and helpless about her, he noticed, as he clamped the jaws on her outputs. She seemed like a woman who could check her own spark plugs and change her own oil filters.
“Impressive,” she said as he raised the Camaro’s hood to attach the cables to his own battery.
“Really?” He went to unlock his door and start his own motor. “I’d think anyone in this lot could’ve done that.”
“I was talking about your testimony in the courtroom.”
He didn’t like the confident way she came over and stood by his open door, hand on her hip, looking down at him.
“Just the facts, ma’am.” He gave her his best Joe Friday. “That’s all it was.”
He fumbled a little, putting his key in the ignition. “Bet you could find it if it had hair around it,” his father used to say. He jammed it in and twisted it a little too hard, almost flooding the engine.
“Guess you better get in your own vehicle and see if it’ll start now,” he said.
“There’s nothing wrong with my battery, lieutenant. Turn your motor off.”
He shut it down and looked up at her, sun glare over her shoulder turning her into a looming silhouette.
“What’s this about?” he asked, no longer grinning. “Who are you?”
“Leslie Martinez.” She handed him an ID. “I’m with the state investigations commission. I’ve written to you and left several phone messages. I thought I’d try to see you in person.”
“You don’t look like an investigator.” He gave the card a cursory glance and gave it back to her. “Or a Martinez.”
“It’s a married name. And I promise you that I am an investigator. With a particular interest in your department.”
“Okay, so now you see me,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
He was conscious of everything now. The position of his hands in his lap. The tilt of his shoulders against his seat. The pressure of the sun on his eyeballs, which made him long to put on his shades. The awareness that there had been talk about the state investigating the PD, taking a closer look at the confession rate and these bullshit allegations about so-called innocent minorities getting abused.
“I’d like you to come in and answer some questions for us,” she said.
“And why would I do that?”
“It would help our investigation.”
“There’s no reason for your investigation. Except to harass good cops.”
“Let me ask you something: Do you think that was credible testimony today?” she said.
“Ask me what you need to ask me and let’s get this over with,” he said. “Because I’m not coming in. And you’ve got no cause to compel me. This is my car and my time, and I’ve got places to be.”
“I’m sure you do.” She stood back, pretending to admire the ride. “Funny thing, what you said on the stand today. Reminded me of another case.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you remember Stephanie Lapidus?”
She moved so the sun was more directly in his eyes, forcing him to squint more intently.
“Student from Mercy College, found raped and strangled down the road from her car?” Leslie Martinez did not make this sound like a question.
“Yeah, I remember. Long time ago now.”
“Some striking parallels to this case. Don’t you think?”
He faced forward and furrowed his brow just enough to make two distinct lines on his forehead. Like the thought had never occurred to him.
“What are you thinking specifically?” he asked.
“Both Stephanie and Angie Spinelli were young white women traveling alone late at night. Both were abducted, taken to secluded areas, and supposedly killed by drug-addicted black men.”
“Nothing ‘supposed’ about it. Trevor Knightsbridge is up in Attica for life for what he did to that poor girl. If there was any real justice, the state would have fried his ass by now. Instead of wasting taxpayers’ money harassing honest, hardworking cops.”
“You feel like I’m harassing you, lieutenant?”
“Say what you have to say.”
He’d be well within his rights to ask for his union delegate or a lawyer now. But only guilty people asked for lawyers. He’d said it himself a thousand times. Besides, he needed to find out how much she already knew. Mentioning a lawyer would end the conversation too soon and leave him hanging.
“In both cases, incriminating evidence with the defendants’ fingerprints was found at the crime scene,” Leslie Martinez said.
“Yeah, that’s how it usually goes with real police work. You find evidence, follow leads, and get people to tell you things that they shouldn’t. You might want to try that some time. Instead of swallowing a bunch of crap you’ve been fed by scumbag defense lawyers.”
“You didn’t let me finish.” She put one stiletto heel on the driver’s side doorstep. “The other parallel is that in both cases, the defendants had been arrested several weeks earlier. And both say they had possessions confiscated by the police that were never officially vouchered.”
“Boo-hoo. Call the American Civil Liberties Union.”
“The point is, that same evidence later showed up at the crime scenes, with their fingerprints. Like it was deliberately planted to incriminate them.”
“What do you expect them to say? Jesus, lady…”
She was encroaching further into his car, having herself a good look around. Almost as if she was mocking him. Daring him to lose his cool and tell her to back off.
�
�The rolling papers in Stephanie’s car and the crack pipe by Angie’s body. Some coincidence. Don’t you think?”
“Drug paraphernalia at crime scenes.” He refused to look at her shiny knee coming at his face. “It’s like popcorn at the movies. Just what you would expect.”
Someone was talking. Two cases, seven years apart. Why would this Leslie even think to compare them unless someone had tipped her off?
“Here’s what you wouldn’t expect.” She held onto the top of the doorframe. “The same officer involved in both of the original arrests. And the same detective at both crime scenes.”
“You’re trying to turn me against Billy Rattigan?”
“You know how it works, lieutenant. You or him. Maybe you want to come in sooner rather than later.”
“I don’t know where you’re getting all this garbage, but I’m innocent. I don’t even remember locking up Trevor Knightsbridge. And for your information, with Lonnie Donges, I wasn’t the arresting officer. I was the supervisor. See these stripes on my shoulders? Means I’m a lieutenant.”
“Which is why you just happened to be there when they found Angie’s body. But why were you there when they found Stephanie’s car seven years earlier?”
“I wasn’t.”
“Sure about that?”
“Yes. I’d just been working the overnight tour.”
“I thought you didn’t remember the case that well.”
He realized he’d been still and stiff for so long that his joints would audibly crack if he tried to move too quickly now.
“It’s coming back to me,” he said.
“Then you remember standing by Stephanie’s car when it was found. Even though, as you just said, your tour was over.”
For a half second, there was nothing between now and then. He was back beside the highway. The smell of grass and auto exhaust in the air. Bambú packet in his shirt pocket. Billy Rattigan distracting everyone as he staggered over with a hangover. Amy Half-Nelson in her baggy uniform, putting her eyes where they should not have been.
He turned and looked up at Leslie Martinez, not giving a damn if she heard a crick or a pop in his neck now.
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