Judgement Day

by Andrew Neiderman

  In many ways, this second case was even more difficult than the Heckett case, but Eleanor didn’t present it that way.

  “You’ve got great DNA evidence. There’s no question he had sex with her. You have the pictures of her traumas, bruises your expert witness will testify are associated with unnecessary force. You have the situation, the place being her apartment, the event occurring at a time of night no one would usually entertain a guest, and you have evidence of his drinking heavily. Dig into his past, and see what you can find that will help develop the case. She’ll be a good witness, too. Okay. Go to it.”

  Sounded good, Michele thought, until she discovered the animosity between the two sisters. Instead of pointing her rage completely at her husband, the wife was accusing her sister of wrecking her marriage. Michele had discovered this today and debated telling Eleanor or Mike Barrett about it. Eleanor might take it as a show of weakness by setting up an excuse for failure before she had even begun. She could persuade the DA to assign another prosecutor to the case, and moving her off something so early would surely set the stage for her doom, especially after her first defeat.

  But her new, raw paranoia, which she would readily admit seemed to blossom out of thin air this morning, got her to thinking that Eleanor knew all of this before she handed her the assignment. She was the type of person who might visibly accept being contradicted but would never forget it and would work to prove herself right.

  Of course, at my expense, Michele thought sadly. She glanced at herself in the office mirror. When she went to wipe something off her right cheek, John Milton’s face appeared just behind her, smiling lustfully. She spun around, but there was no one there.

  “I am tired,” she told herself, and gathered her things to leave for home.

  Sofia looked up, surprised. She was leaving an hour before the end of the day.

  “I have something I have to do,” she told her. “I have my cell if you need me.”

  “Yes, of course,” Sofia said, but her face was full of concern.

  Michele had just stepped out of the building when Matthew Blake seemed to come out of nowhere. She had the feeling he had been waiting for her. She jerked herself back the moment she saw his face. His hair was disheveled, as if he had run his fingers through it from every direction, and his eyes were wide, like those of someone who had just seen a violent death. Ordinarily, he was immaculate, but she could see mud stains on his pants and even a small tear in his suit jacket. His tie was jerked loose, the top buttons on his shirt undone.

  “I’ve got to talk to you immediately,” he said. He didn’t wait for her to accept his invitation. He seized her firmly at her left elbow and started to pull her along, heading for his car at the curb.

  “Matthew, what’s come over you? You’re hurting me!” she cried, pulling her arm out of his grip.

  “Sorry, but we must talk now. Please,” he begged. He stepped forward and opened the car door for her.

  She looked around as if she wanted to be sure someone witnessed her getting into his car.

  “He’s not here. Don’t worry,” he said with an icy smile.

  “Who?”

  “Please, get in, Michele,” he urged, the desperation clear in his voice.

  She got into the car. He closed the door and ran around the vehicle to get in. He looked back and then shot away, his tires squealing. He beat a red light and turned a sharp right. Michele snapped her seat belt quickly. “Why are you driving so crazy? What is it?”

  He put his hand up for her to wait, and when he saw an open place to park, he pulled in and shut off his engine. For a moment, he just sat there looking ahead. She waited, afraid to make any demands. He turned to her slowly. “Wanted to get us away from there.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s some person or persons in your offices who are not, shall we say, friendly to my efforts.”

  “What? Who?”

  “Let me start at the beginning,” he said, his voice forcibly controlled and calm. “A little less than a year ago, I sensed a different energy come into the city. I did my work, solved my cases, and delivered solid evidence to the DA’s office. But suddenly, the shadows were deeper; the darkness in the souls of people I once trusted got thicker. I knew something was happening. I had sensed something similar years ago, when I was seriously thinking of devoting myself to God and what happened happened. It was then that I knew I had a special gift, a gift I had to use where it would be most effective, and that was in police work.” He paused. “I know it will sound crazy to you, but I can see him.”

  “Who?” she asked.

  “Satan, Lucifer, whatever name he goes by.”

  “So you’re as good as my aunt Eve?” she asked, a slightly satirical smile on her face.

  “Your aunt Eve is one of those people who can read energy well, sense things, but she can’t do as much as I can, see as much as I can. Nevertheless, you shouldn’t ridicule her.”

  “I don’t ridicule her. I humor her, and she knows it. Where is this going, Matthew? Are you just upset about my going on a dinner date with John Milton?”

  “You didn’t go on a dinner date with John Milton. You went on a dinner date with Lucifer,” he said.

  Michele stared at him a moment and then turned away and shook her head. “When I was in high school, I had a boyfriend for a while, and then I started with another boy, and my first boyfriend came to see me and told me the new boy was really AC/DC. He was having sex with other boys in addition to girls sometimes. When that didn’t work, he spread a rumor that he had herpes. I’m not saying it’s something males do more than females, but it is natural to be jealous.”

  “I’m not jealous. I mean, I am, but that’s not what motivates me to tell you all this. I think you’re in terrible danger.”

  “I know. Like I would be if I was seeing someone who had syphilis.”

  “No!” Matthew said, pounding the steering wheel. “Take me seriously for a moment, will you?”

  “Okay, okay. Calm down. What do you want me to know?”

  He relaxed a bit. “From the moment I began to investigate Warner Murphy’s death, I knew something very dark and deadly had come into the city. Everyone wanted to declare it a suicide, and to everyone else, that would seem logical, because there was no evidence of anyone entering the building and his apartment to do him harm. The witnesses, the video replays, forensics, you name it, there was nothing to suggest anything but suicide.”

  “And as far as I know, that’s where it stands.”

  “It wasn’t suicide. He was murdered. I tracked it all to a man who was killed in an upstate maximum-security prison in Woodbourne. After he died and was cremated, John Milton brought him here to kill Warner Murphy. I can’t prove it yet, but the attendant in the lobby was part of it. I’m not finished fully investigating his past, but I’ll make the connection eventually.”

  “Let me understand you, Matthew. You’re saying that John Milton brought a man to New York City, after he died and was cremated, to kill Warner Murphy?”

  “Michele, think about this. Who took Murphy’s place at the law firm?”

  She stared at him and then shook her head. “Have you been drinking?”

  “Stop it.”

  “You’re going to feel like a fool tomorrow after I tell you what you said. Go home, Matthew. Take a nap.” She turned to get out. He grabbed her arm. “Ow.”

  “Michele, I need to know what you did with Milton last night. There are changes going on inside you that you might not understand or even be aware of. You spent the entire night with him?”

  “If you have to know, we had dinner, and we went for a ride and talked. I don’t know where the time went, but he was very interesting. He’s traveled to many fascinating places in the world, speaks seven languages, and has met people in high places. We just talked, or he talked and I listened. I don’t think you need to know more than that, Matthew.”

  “You will when I tell you the rest. After I tracked Murphy’s ki
ller back to the Woodbourne prison and learned how he died, I followed the chain of events to the funeral home where he was cremated, paid for by an anonymous benefactor. It’s called the Foster Funeral Home. They’ve cremated a number of hard-case prisoners from that penitentiary. You can check that out for yourself.”

  “So? That proves what?”

  “One of the things I discovered in the owner’s office was a picture of Christ on the cross upside down.”

  “Upside down? What’s that mean?”

  “It’s an icon for Satanists, those who worship the devil.”

  “Matthew . . .”

  “No, just listen. I asked the warden to let me know when another death in the prison came up, one that had a similar arrangement involving the Foster Funeral Home, and one did come up today. I went to the funeral home and waited, and guess who came to pick up the urn? Tom Beardsly, Milton’s private investigator.”

  She sat back.

  “Interested now, huh?”

  “I don’t know where this is going, but go on.”

  “I followed Beardsly to a farmhouse in an area that could be the setting for The Grapes of Wrath. It looked forgotten. The whole area was . . . defeated. Even the vegetation looked unhappy.”

  “The vegetation?”

  “When Beardsly continued down an unpaved side road, I parked and walked through the woods. Milton’s limousine was there. After a few minutes, Beardsly left without the urn, so I got into position to see what was going on. I saw a Satanic ritual during which Milton resurrected the cremated criminal through fire and took him into the farmhouse. It was bloodcurdling.”

  “Resurrected?”

  “He rose in black smoke and took form.”

  “A man who died and was cremated?”

  “Exactly. A distortion of Christ’s raising of Lazarus. Satan likes to mimic God’s miracles.”

  She shook her head. “Even you should admit that this is a lot to digest, Matthew.”

  “Of course it is. It’s supposed to be.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Someone once said the devil’s greatest asset was the fact that so many don’t believe he literally exists.”

  “Did you take any pictures of this ritual?”

  “No. I won’t need them. I’m not looking to have him indicted and tried for resurrecting the evil dead.”

  “What are you looking to do?”

  “I’m looking to stop him and throw him out of this world the way he was thrown out of heaven,” Blake said. “All I ask is that you stay away from him.”

  She nodded. “Stay away from John Milton,” she said. “That’s where this is going?”

  “This isn’t jealousy, not in the sense you’re thinking, Michele. I wouldn’t be afraid of competing with him for you if he were just a man.”

  “Okay, Matthew. I need to go home. I’m very tired, and as it turns out, I have more of a challenge facing me in court than I first thought. I’m being asked to sink or swim. I have my own problems at the moment.”

  “You don’t believe anything I’ve told you, do you? Not a word.”

  “I’m too tired to believe anything right now. All I want is for you to be careful, to think through anything you do or say to anyone else. You’ve had a great disappointment, too, Matthew, maybe in more ways than one. You’re probably very tired, too. We both need some rest.”

  “Right. Some rest.” He started the engine. “I’ll take you home. You don’t seem to be taking whatever I tell you seriously so I hesitate to add anything.”

  “What else?” she asked, closing and opening her eyes, like someone in a dentist’s chair.

  “We have a new homicide. I left John Fish on it, but I know now that it’s not a coincidence. Nothing ever is.”

  He pulled away from the curb and turned around. “Why do you say that? What’s not a coincidence?”

  “The young attorney representing the chief suspect, Paul Scholefield, someone who was at her side moments after it was determined that her husband was murdered, already is being considered for a position at Simon and James.”

  “How did you find that out?”

  “The receptionist at Simon and James, Kaye Billups. She never liked John Milton. She’s my inside man,” he said. “He replaced Murphy’s personal secretary with one of his own and has hired two researchers for the firm already.”

  “That’s not unusual, Matthew. New people suggest new people.”

  “You heard about Alexander James collapsing in court and dying. It wasn’t a natural heart attack. He’d ingested cocaine.”

  “I’d like a dollar for every attorney who does.”

  “Now he’s bringing in this Paul Scholefield. Don’t you see? He’s taking over a prestigious law firm with a gold reputation. The cases are flowing in.”

  “It could easily be just a coincidence, Matthew. People are naturally drawn to a winner.”

  He smiled at her. “There are no coincidences, Michele. Something happens because of good energy or bad. That’s all there is to think about.”

  She was silent.

  “He’s coming for someone else,” Matthew said, nodding and sounding more as if he was talking to himself now. “That’s why he performed the ridicule of Lazarus. It’s like rubbing salt in a wound, a spiritual wound.” He turned to her. “He’s deliberately letting God know, challenging him.”

  “Okay, Matthew.”

  “That’s all right. Only this time, I’ll be there.”

  “Don’t do anything stupid, Matthew. Talk to someone else about this, maybe a priest you respect.”

  He pulled up in front of her aunt’s place.

  “Will you promise to do that?” she asked, putting her hand on his arm. “Will you?”

  He shook his head. “You’re already in great danger, Michele. You won’t tell me about last night. Maybe you really don’t remember, but I fear he’s already gotten into you.”

  She pulled her hand away as if his arm had burned it. “That’s uncalled for, Matthew.”

  “I don’t mean sexually, although I wouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Get some serious help,” she said, and opened the door.

  “Michele!” he called.

  She hesitated and looked back at him.

  “Michele, it’s more than your life that’s in danger.”

  “Right now, I’m only worrying about my career,” she said, holding up her briefcase, and then she closed the door.

  He watched her walk away and drove off. The feeling that he had to do something and do it quickly grew more intense.

  His vibrating phone snapped him back to the moment.

  “Blake,” he said.

  “Forensics came up blank with any traces of arsenic anywhere in the apartment but found evidence of it in the remnants of the drink that was in that glass. I got everyone possibly involved to give me samples of their prints, but Marie Longstreet gave me the hardest time. I had to bring her in, and guess what? There were two sets of prints on the glass we confiscated,” Fish said. “Dylan Kotter’s and Marie Longstreet’s.”

  “So you think she poured him his lethal drink.”

  “I’d say so.”

  “What was the drink?”

  “Jack Daniel’s and soda.”

  “Did you check the contents of the Jack Daniel’s bottle?”

  “The contents? No.”

  “Do it. You’ll find the arsenic was already in the bottle. What else did you find out?”

  “Marie Longstreet admits to being pissed off at him, but she claims she refused to see him. She was off work at the time of death. Medical examiner puts it at about one a.m., and Dylan Kotter was seen earlier at the restaurant where she works. She told us she went home and sulked but didn’t go back to his apartment with him. She has no one to confirm her being home at the time of Kotter’s death. Her prints are on the glass, Lieutenant, and she has motive and opportunity.”

  “Do you have any witnesses who saw her at the scene, the building, at around one
a.m.?”

  “Not yet. We’re bringing her in again, now that the prints are confirmed. She’ll break.”

  “No, she won’t.”

  “Why not? She doesn’t have an attorney yet, as far as I know.”

  “It’s a waste of time.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I don’t even have to hear any of this to know who killed Dylan Kotter,” Blake said.

  “Who?”

  “Whoever Paul Scholefield represents.”

  “But the wife looks clean.”

  “She killed him, Fish.”

  “Really? And you’re convinced of this how?”

  “Her lawyer, Scholefield, is going to work with John Milton. I’m sure he always has.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t worry. I’m on the bigger picture. Check that bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Check other glasses in the cabinet to see if Marie Longstreet’s prints are on any others. Prints could last a while in that environment if the glasses weren’t wiped or cleaned. We don’t know those prints were made last night. Poison in the bottle would indicate the wife knew he would drink it and then set up the mistress.”

  “And you figured this all out because Paul Scholefield is her attorney?”

  “Exactly. You’ll see,” Blake said. “You’ll see,” he muttered to himself. “I gotta go. Do what I said.”

  He hung up.

  He never thought it would become something personal. He had no family that could be threatened, but saving Michele Armstrong had suddenly become just as important as saving mankind.

  He had no doubt he could do it.

  25

  John Milton stood back in the belly of a wide shadow and smiled at his favorite street toughs, Buzzy and Jason. They were sitting in their late-model BMW watching couples walking hand-in-hand, some people with dogs on leashes, and some obviously homeless people thinking they’d find a comfortable place early for the evening. Buzzy and Jason were shopping for an easy mugging to make some extra spending money.

  Automobile traffic was building as it always did this late in the afternoon. Taxi drivers were racing to deliver their current passengers quickly enough to get another fare. Hired cars and limousines, as always, seemed to thread themselves smoothly through the clog of nervous drivers and buses. The city’s habitual heartbeat moved into a more characteristic atrial fibrillation, with all the irregular stopping and starting, horns sounding warnings and complaints, and pedestrians challenging the changing traffic lights.