“What about them?”
“Where are they?”
“I don’t know.”
“Huh?”
“I was born in Pennsylvania, but I was an orphan until I was four. I had foster parents for two years, but that didn’t work out, and I returned to the orphanage. Three years later, I went to another foster home.”
“You never located your real mother and father?”
“No. My foster family adopted me, and I took their name.”
“How’d you get the name Matthew?”
“One of the sisters at the original orphanage named me.”
“Sisters? So you were in a religious orphanage.”
“Most of them are,” Blake said, smiling.
“Well, don’t you want to know who your real parents are?”
“I feel like I do know them,” he said. He finished his coffee and wiped his lips.
“Huh?”
“We gotta get going. Sal, great sandwich, as usual. Best to Rose.”
“I’ll tell her. She’s always asking me if you stopped by.”
“I’ll be back,” Blake said. “Got some vacation time coming.”
“God bless,” Sal said, and they left.
“You take vacation time? Didn’t know you were so human,” Fish half-kidded as they got back into the car.
“We all have some weaknesses,” Blake replied.
He had called the warden, who had set them up to meet with one of the head guards, a man named Donald Wilson. He was a heavy six-footer, with curly light brown hair, and he had the face of an ex-prize fighter, which they discovered he was. He had hard, bony hands that looked as if they had been broken on a few faces.
“Whatcha tryin’ to determine, if the bastard raped some other child?” Wilson asked without saying hello. He had the air of someone who was annoyed with everything, including himself.
“Not exactly,” Blake said. “How’d he die?”
“Don’t tell me some bleedin’ heart is trying to blame that on us.”
The warden cleared his throat, and Wilson dropped his indignation.
“The way I figure it is someone raped him for a change, and he tried to take revenge and got himself killed. No one knows nothin’, of course. Right, Warden?”
“Just answer the questions, please, Donald.”
“Did he have any visitors, frequent or otherwise?” Blake asked them both.
“I’d have to check on that, but from what I remember, he didn’t. Donald?”
“He was shit. Who’d come to see him? Even the creeps here thought he was creepy.”
“Who claimed his body?” Blake asked.
“I did get that information for you,” the warden said, and opened a slim file. “Someone paid for his cremation anonymously. Here’s the name of the funeral parlor that carried out the instructions.”
Blake looked at it and copied down the name. Then he looked up at Wilson. “I imagine you have quite a collection of human garbage here, Mr. Wilson, but was there anything about him you remember?”
“He was a conniving, sneaky reptile. I don’t know if he developed some kind of a nervous condition or what, but he started jutting out his tongue like a snake. It bugged everyone. No other prisoners wanted to eat with him. He sat by himself in the cafeteria and curled up around his food like a wild dog. I can take anything any of these assholes can throw at me in here, but I don’t mind admitting that creep gave me nightmares.”
“You found his body?”
“Yeah. I heard the screaming and found him, but there was no one around. Maybe he strangled himself.”
“So he wasn’t beaten to death or stabbed? He was strangled?” Fish asked. The question occurred to him so quickly that he had to ask it. He had assumed more than one inmate had committed the killing.
“That’s it,” Wilson said. He smiled. “Might have been suicide.”
“You’re not serious about him strangling himself?” Fish said.
Wilson looked at him. “Maybe he was trying to get someone’s hands off his neck, but his were on his neck, and the fingers were very tight.”
“Fingerprints on anything lead to any suspects?” Blake asked the warden.
He shook his head.
From the way the two men looked, Fish thought there had been little interest in who had killed Keith Arthur. They probably saw it as a form of relief, especially Wilson.
“Okay. Thanks very much,” Blake said, rising.
“I hope you guys are getting good overtime,” Wilson told them.
“Oh, we don’t work for the money,” Blake said. Wilson’s eyebrows went up. “We work for the pleasure of meeting people like yourself.” He smiled. “Thanks, Warden,” he added.
Fish followed him out. “That guy’s enough to keep me from breaking the law.”
“Probably broke it as much as the men he guards,” Blake said.
“So what do you make of that idiotic idea that Arthur choked himself to death? You can’t strangle yourself with your hands. At best, you’d starve your brain of oxygen and pass out. Your hands would relax.”
“At best,” Blake said as they got into the car. He paused and then shook his head.
“What?”
“Maybe he didn’t have control of his hands,” Blake said, started the car, and drove out.
“You mean someone else put his hands over Arthur’s?”
“Could be.”
Fish was quiet. “I don’t even know why we’re thinking about it,” he finally said. He noticed they were taking a different highway. “Where are we going now?”
“To the funeral parlor,” Blake said.
“Why? You think his ashes might still be there?”
“I doubt it,” Blake said. “I doubt it very much.”
“Who the hell would want his ashes?”
Blake didn’t respond.
Fish sat back and closed his eyes. Take a short nap, he told himself. It’s the only thing that makes any sense.
Twenty minutes later, they pulled into the Foster Funeral Home in Ferndale. The funeral home was a large, three-story Queen Anne style house that obviously had been expanded to accommodate a chapel and a showroom for coffins. It had pristine white aluminum siding and black hardwood shutters. There were beautiful maple trees standing like Roman columns on both sides of the building. Their leaves were like the color of a rich red wine. A hearse was parked in the front. To the right was an expanded parking lot. Great care had been taken to create attractive landscaping on the property, with flower beds and well-trimmed hedges. There were two dozen automobiles in the lot.
“Maybe we’re interrupting something,” Fish muttered. He was never fond of funeral homes or cemeteries. It came from his grandmother threatening him that if he didn’t eat his vegetables, the dead would rise out of their graves in the nearby cemetery and dance around the house at night joyfully—“because you’ll be unhealthy and die and join ’em.”
“The guest of honor won’t mind,” Blake said, and got out. He looked back when Fish didn’t get out. Reluctantly, he opened his door. “You don’t have to come in if the place bothers you. I just have a couple of questions for the funeral director.”
Fish stood but didn’t close the door, thinking about it. Then he shrugged. “And miss any of this? No way. I want to be able to tell my grandchildren.” He joined Blake.
Mourners were gathered in the chapel. A man about twenty, dressed in a tuxedo, smiled at them. “You’re not that late,” he said. “Just starting.”
“We’re not here for the service. I need to speak to the funeral director. Is it Mr. Foster?” He showed his identification.
“Oh. Yeah. That’s my dad,” the young man said. “I’ll get him. You can wait in his office if you want.” He nodded to their right.
“Thanks.”
Blake and Fish walked to the office door and entered. It was very neat, immaculate, in fact. There were brochures on the dark cherrywood desk, a vase with real pink and white roses on the ta
ble in front of the settee, and plaques and framed letters of appreciation on the walls. Blake read a few. He paused when he moved a vase and saw a picture of a cross; only on this cross, Jesus was upside down. He picked it up and looked at it.
“Whaddaya got?” Fish asked.
Blake showed him.
Fish studied it a minute. “Weird.”
Blake nodded and put the picture back. He looked at another framed document. “Business has been in the family nearly a hundred years,” he told Fish.
“Yeah. I imagine it’s like the cemetery. Everyone’s just dyin’ to get in.”
Blake smiled.
“I grew up next to a cemetery,” Fish explained. “Never got used to it, seein’ the funerals, the people visiting graves. Kept me indoors at night until Packy McDermott described makin’ love to Jillian Robinson on some cool slab one summer night. ’Course, Packy didn’t have all his wires connected. Died in Afghanistan in a copter crash. It was his fourth rotation.”
“Gentlemen,” they heard, and turned to greet Morgan Foster, a thin fifty-eight-year-old man, with a full head of neatly styled chalk-white hair. He was lanky, with long arms and hands that looked transplanted from a man a foot taller. “How can I be of assistance?” he asked. Whether it was a characteristic of his work or not, he spoke in a loud whisper.
Fish had the feeling he rarely raised his voice. Maybe he didn’t want to wake the dead and lose a commission, he thought, and nearly laughed at his own private joke.
“We can see you’re busy, Mr. Foster. We don’t want to take up much of your time. I need to know what you can tell me about the cremation of one Keith Arthur. He was killed at the maximum-security correctional facility in Woodbourne.”
“Oh, yes,” Foster said, moving quickly to the file cabinet to the left of his desk. “I remember it because everything was done anonymously. I received a bank draft to pay for it all.” He pulled out a file and opened it. He read some papers and then turned to Blake. “Here’s a copy of the bank draft. And here’s the letter of instruction.” He handed them both to Blake.
He looked at them, nodded, and handed them back. “Who picked up the urn?”
“As you can see from the instructions, he was identified as a Mr. Don Martin. When he arrived, he had the letter of authorization described here in the instructions. Is there some kind of problem? A family complaint?”
“What can you tell me about Don Martin?” Blake asked in response.
“Not very much, I’m afraid. He looked to be about mid-forties, perhaps six feet tall.”
“Dark brown hair?”
“I believe so, yes. Nicely spoken. Wore an Armani suit and Berluti shoes. He was all business. Signed the paperwork, took the urn, and left.”
“Berluti?” Fish asked.
“I’m quite up on styles, designers, but not because of my own taste in wardrobe. Some of my clients want their loved ones in what they consider the best, even though in life they never would spend the money on such things.”
“Seems like a waste,” Fish muttered.
“Not to their loved ones. In many cultures, people are buried with riches.”
“They don’t dress them up for cremation, do they?”
“Some do, yes. You say ‘they’ as though you’re not one of us,” Foster said, smiling. “We’re all mortal and all capable of great sorrow. We take great pleasure in easing the pain.”
Fish grunted.
Foster looked at Blake. “Is there anything else?”
“May I see that signature again?” Blake asked. He studied it a moment, as if he was committing it to memory. “Thanks. Oh. We couldn’t help wondering about that picture of a cross you have there.”
“Oh, yes.” Foster lifted it gently and held it as though it was a valuable artifact. “This was something my son found on the Internet. He printed it out to show me. He thought it was a big mistake some church had made.”
“Was it?” Fish asked.
“I don’t know. Someone had egg on his face, I bet.”
“Maybe,” Blake said. “Thanks for your time and information. Sorry to have bothered you.”
“You’re welcome. No problem. I have a well-oiled machine here. Practically runs itself,” Foster said. He nodded at Fish, who obviously couldn’t wait to leave. He was outside ahead of Blake, who followed, talking on his phone. Blake held up his hand. Fish watched and waited.
“I appreciate it, Warden,” Blake said. He listened, and then his face seemed to harden right before Fish’s eyes. “I see. Yes. Thank you.” He ended the call.
“What?” Fish asked.
“Keith Arthur was the fourth inmate who was killed or died in prison and was cremated during the past three years.”
“So? Who the hell wants to visit the grave site of a murderer or a mother rapist or whatever? They probably dumped their ashes in a sewer.”
“Their remains were all requested and paid for anonymously,” Blake said. He turned and looked back at the entrance to the funeral home.
“What?” Fish asked.
“They were all done here,” Blake said.
16
He was starting to get under her skin. Every time Michele Armstrong finished with her witness and he was supposed to begin his cross-examination, John Milton prolonged the pause in court activity with little annoying tactics. Sometimes he would lean over and whisper in Lester Heckett’s ear, often laughing before Judge Philips addressed him with what Michele thought was a too nice “Mr. Milton, would you like to cross-examine this witness?” It was almost as though Michele wanted to be deferential to the defense attorney instead of vice versa. There was no sarcasm or even a note of irritability.
Michele was used to an opposing attorney’s attempts to throw her off balance during a trial, but until now, none she had come across was as good at it as Milton. His irritating manner had begun before the trial started. She was standing at her table and looking down at her notes when she sensed him beside her. Only he wasn’t simply beside her; he was very close, closer than someone would normally stand, even someone she had known. It was what any New Yorker would call “in your face.” Surprised, she stepped back. For a moment, she thought he had been smelling her, inhaling her perfume. He had his eyes closed and then opened them quickly.
“Hello,” he said. “I thought I’d introduce myself and get us off on a professional footing. John Milton.” He offered his hand. She couldn’t help but notice the onyx ring. It seemed to glitter, and in the glitter was the image of a peace sign or what she knew of as a broken cross.
“Oh,” she said, and took his hand. He didn’t shake. He held her hand and kept his eyes fixed on her face, the smile sitting on his lips, anticipating something more from her. “Pleased to meet you,” she added.
He let go of her hand and looked around the courtroom. “Why do you suppose this is called a courtroom?”
“Because it’s where we hold court?” she replied. “You think?”
“Yes, but a court can be so many things. It almost makes it sound as if this is just another game, simply another competition.”
“I doubt the judge and jury will feel that way, not to mention the wife of the deceased,” she said.
His smile widened. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be defensive,” he said.
“I’m the one who’s supposed to be more sensitive,” she countered, and he laughed.
“You and I are both freshmen in a sense. This is my first defense as an associate at Simon and James and your first prosecution as a New York district attorney. Something of an occasion neither of us will soon forget, two rookies doing battle.”
“I would hardly consider myself, or you, for that matter, a rookie, Mr. Milton.”
“Please, call me John.”
She started to nod and realized that in her left hand, she was clutching the magic eye amulet her aunt Eve had given her. It seemed to radiate warmth, reminding her it was there. Maybe Aunt Eve was starting to rub off on her. She would never have paid h
eed to anything like this. She even walked under ladders and didn’t care if a black cat crossed in front of her, but for some reason, especially for the first day of trial, she made certain to bring the amulet with her. She placed it on the table beside her papers.
Milton stepped back, his eyes fixed on the amulet. “Very pretty,” he said. “Some sort of good luck charm?”
“They’re bringing in your client,” she said, nodding at Lester Heckett’s entrance instead of answering.
“Oh. So they are. Well, I’d wish your charm brings you good luck, but that would be hypocritical, and I never believe in luck, anyway. Everything happens for a reason, don’t you think?”
“Exactly,” she said.
“I hope we’ll still be this friendly when it’s over.”
“I don’t see why not. What’s between us isn’t personal.”
“Yet,” he added, widening his smile and then leaving to join Heckett.
She stood looking after him, and now she vividly recalled how she’d suddenly become very twisted and nervous that first day. She watched the way he greeted his client and spoke to the police guards. Whatever he said to them made them laugh. He seemed to be enjoying himself far too much. She could think of nothing funny about any of this, but for a moment, she wondered if he took more delight in his work than she took in hers. After all, right up to now, the one accusation she couldn’t throw off was that she was too serious and too uptight about her career.
Maybe so, but she was determined to boost that career considerably with this prosecution. However, both the district attorney and Eleanor Rozwell had looked a lot more nervous about the case after she’d confirmed that Lieutenant Blake was now unable to make the connection between Heckett and the hired gun.
“If Lieutenant Blake is right, and I’m confident he is, the actual killer is dead,” she told them. “But Lester Heckett pulled that trigger, too, and I want to go after him straight on. Obviously, the defense won’t introduce the possibility of a hired killer.”
“Not one hired by Heckett,” the DA said, “but he could develop that there was one and claim that Heckett isn’t tied to him. The burden of proof for that, if the jury seems to be accepting it, is entirely on us.”
Judgement Day Page 15