Dead Famous aka The Jury Must Die

by Carol O'Connell

  After packing up the meager belongings from his apartment, MacPherson had been willing enough to come to this hotel under FBI escort, but he stubbornly refused to leave town. Argus blamed Dr. Apollo for giving this fragile little man a backbone.

  The doctor's guards were divided in their duties. One man was posted on the staircase between floors, and the other rode atop the only elevator in service tonight. This was not correct procedure for a stakeout. He should have had more men, but that would have meant answering too many questions. No requests would be made to the New York bureau. No local agents should learn about the captured juror until the Reaper had been taken into custody, dead or alive.

  The agent thought better of lighting up his cigar in this hotel room. MacPherson had claimed to be allergic to smoke and probably lied about that. Little prig. However, Argus's future depended upon staying on good terms with this man for a while longer.

  He turned down the volume on the radio, then pulled a curtain aside and craned his neck to see the sky. It was getting light. Dawn was only hours away. Dear God, how he wanted a smoke – and sleep. When had he last slept through the night? He had only dozed the night before. In the past hour, he had downed five cups of coffee – not enough, but there was more on the way. That bellman would take at least ten minutes more to fetch it, at least that long.

  An infusion of nicotine might help to stave off the drowsiness, that and cold fresh air. The agent opened the window and stepped out onto the fire escape, then sat down on the metal grate and unwrapped his cigar. Leaning back against the wall, he exhaled the first blue cloud of smoke. His eyelids weighed ten pounds each. Argus glanced at his watch as if that would hurry the next pot of coffee.

  The Chelsea Hotel was an inspired choice, now that he was certain that the Reaper kept close tabs on Dr. Apollo. The death of the homeless man had proven that much.

  He tried to pay attention to the news broadcast from the radio on the other side of the open window, but his head lolled to one side, and it seemed that his eyes had only closed for a moment. Surely it had been no more than a minute. The window closed behind him with an angry slam, and the cigar in his hand was still smoking when he started awake. Damn you, MacPherson, you and your phony smoke allergy, Argus could no longer hear the radio. The double-pane glass had cut off the sound. All he had to listen to was the sporadic static of cars passing by on the street below. He pulled out his cell phone to make sure that his men were in place and alert, trying the agent in the stairwell first, then the one on the elevator, who gave him two welcome pieces of news: Riker was visiting Johanna Apollo's floor – one less juror to worry about – and Argus's pot of coffee had arrived. There would be no more communication, no sound or movement, while they waited for a stone killer to walk into their arms. As Argus concluded his last call, his gaze was drifting down toward the street. It was a fight to keep his eyes open as he folded his phone into a pocket. So tired.

  He fixed his gaze upon the building directly across the street, determined not to let his eyes close one more time. And so he never saw the frantic shadow on the curtain behind him, arms waving. Nor did he notice a splatter of red dots appear in the next instant, staining the material with blood just beyond the glass. His eyes had closed before the drapes were pulled down from their rod, clutched in the death grip of a falling man, as the horror show was unveiled, blood on the walls, the furniture and the floor.

  Argus would not wake for three more hours. A hotel maid would be the first to discover the body at nine o'clock, and she would call the police.

  Chapter 13

  KEY IN HAND, CHARLES STOOD IN THE OPEN DOORWAY to the reception area. For the third time in as many days, he was startled to see his new tenant, the former hermit. Or, rather, he saw Riker's back as the man walked down the hall toward the rear offices of Butler and Company – while Mallory, another unexpected sight at this early morning hour, was making a hasty retreat, heading toward the front door with uncommon speed and ignoring the fact that Charles was barring her way.

  "Just a moment," he said, calling her attention to himself, the immovable object in her path, and it annoyed her that he would not step aside. Oh, how unfortunate. "I gather that Riker hasn't seen your recent additions to the wall."

  "No," she said, still advancing on him.

  Ah well, that would explain so much: her agitation, her strong desire to get the hell out of here. She never lost momentum, fully expecting him to get out of her way before they collided, but he had seen her do this trick too many times, and he stood his ground. Now he was looking down at her upturned face, such a lovely face, but definitely not a happy one.

  "So Riker surprised you," he said. "You know he's going to have some questions about what you've done."

  Mallory took the long way round him. Closing the door behind her, she said, "You can fill in for me."

  Right.

  Resigning himself to damage control, Charles walked down the hallway and paused by the open door to his business partner's private office. Riker was scanning the half of the cork wall that was all Mallory's work, a neat square composed of photographs all perfectly aligned and alternating with sheets of text. The overall effect was somewhat like a chessboard. Among the upper rows were candid shots of jurors who were still alive when captured by their photographers. Pinned alongside them were e-mails and letters from Ian Zachary's fans. In the lower region were pictures with the same faces, eyes closed this time, and the predominant color of their photographs was blood red. These were the postmortem portraits of people lying on morgue dissection tables. Previously, the only corpse pictured on the wall had been the murdered FBI agent, Timothy Kidd, Riker's own contribution from the suitcase of Dr. Apollo.

  '"Morning," said Charles, trying to put a good face on what was already shaping up to be a bad day. He noted the man's paleness and ill-concealed anger. Well, this was no improvement in Riker's condition. Mallory's game plan had a nasty glitch.

  "Where did she get all the photographs?"

  "Most of them came from Ian Zachary's computer," said Charles. "Mallory hijacked it. Apparently, Zachary's fans are not above stealing things like morgue records to make him happy. And, of course, to win prizes."

  The detective concentrated on the last row. Here were all the portraits of a surviving juror, Dr. Johanna Apollo. She was the only one on the wall to be represented from every angle. In the final shot, her deformed body was in clear focus, but the head was slightly blurred, turning in the direction of the camera click.

  "The fans didn't send Zachary these pictures of Jo," said Riker. "Mallory took them."

  "How did you know?"

  "Years and years of looking at surveillance shots. Mallory's the worst photographer on the force."

  "Ah, the center fixation. Yes, lots of wasted space around the subject's face. Not a very good sense of composition, is it?" Charles turned his eyes to the upper gallery of fan photographs representing nine other jurors, every one deceased. "To be fair, I think all of these pictures are equally bad."

  "Yeah, but Mallory's shots are always perfectly bad." Riker tore a picture off the wall, and its pushpins went flying. "If I drew a gun sight on this, Jo's head would be in line with a bullet."

  The metaphor was not lost on Charles. Riker was obviously questioning Mallory's intentions toward this woman. And now, in a face-off, the detective elicited a confession of sorts. It was all there, played out across Charles Butler's face in the red flush and the sorry eyes that would not meet Riker's own.

  After ripping all of Dr. Apollo's photographs from the wall, the angry man slammed the door on his way out.

  Chief Medical Examiner Edward Slope was seated behind his office desk, catching up on paperwork before cracking open the first corpse of the day. Without his uniform of bloodstained surgical garb, he might be taken for a graying general. His face was dignified, his expression set in stone, and his posture was perfect, even when he believed that he was not being observed. The pathologist looked up from his paperwork a
nd almost betrayed a look of pleasant surprise.

  Before Riker had gotten two feet in the door, he was subjected to yet another impromptu examination. Checking the mended bullet holes?

  Dr. Slope's quick appraisal also took in the bomber jacket, flannel shirt and jeans. In lieu of hello, he said, "You look like hell, and I don't mean the wardrobe. I'm guessing that you're losing sleep while working undercover as a lumberjack." Slope had always fancied that he possessed a sense of humor. "And now you need a consultation, right?"

  Apparently no one had told this man about the forced separation from NYPD, and Riker planned to take advantage of that. "It's definitely not a social call, Doc." He tossed a slew of photographs on the desk blotter. 'What can you tell me about this woman?"

  The medical examiner hardly glanced at the pictures of Johanna Apollo. "Since she's not dead yet, not one of my customers, I'm guessing you want me to tell you what's wrong with her. Got an X ray or a medical history in your pocket? No, I didn't think so. Well then, I'll tell you the same thing I told Mallory – just before I sent her packing. I can't do a diagnosis without the proper – "

  "Mallory showed you these pictures?"

  "Yes, two months ago, maybe three. At least she came in with a working theory. Based on her research, she decided the woman had Scheuermann's kyphosis. Wanted me to confirm it. Mallory seems very well versed on the subject of hunchbacks. Perhaps you two should talk more often, maybe compare notes. You're still partners, aren't you?"

  Riker slumped down in a padded armchair in front of the desk. He was feeling all the aches of a night spent sleeping on the floor of Jo's hotel room, what little sleep he had managed, but anger was slowly dissipating exhaustion. Mallory had lied to him again. What a surprise. Her investigation of Jo was apparently not a recent thing, but dated back to the first encounter during a visit to Ned's Crime Scene Cleaners. He added this to the list of Mallory's deceptions, then turned his tired face to Dr. Slope. "I need information on this woman, anything you can – "

  "She has a severe spinal deformity – that's all I can tell you with just a damn photograph."

  "Not good enough, Doc. I once heard you do a twenty-minute spiel on the history of a corpse with no ID. That time, all you had to work with was a damn tattoo."

  "And a corpse on the dissection table."

  Riker gathered up his photographs, preparing to leave. "Well, thanks for all your help." As he rose from the chair, he thought better of taking the pictures with him and dropped them on the desk. "Keep 'em – a few souvenirs. If she shows up on your dissection table in the next few days, I want you to remember this conversation."

  "Hold it." The doctor picked up one of the photographs and studied it with more care. "I don't believe I've seen this one. It shows a bit more of the pathology."

  Riker sat down again.

  "Mallory was probably right," said Slope. "Scheuermann's kyphosis is the most likely cause. The range, in layman's terms, is round back to hunchback. Hers is an extreme deformity. So I'm guessing there were other factors, maybe a childhood onset of osteoporosis or scoliosis." He pointed to the duffel bag that Jo carried in the photograph. "Do you know if this is a heavy load she's carrying?"

  "Yeah," said Riker. "It's her job bag, all the gear to clean a crime scene, her moon suit, a respirator and – "

  "So, in addition to heavy lifting and wearing a respirator on her back, she's doing a lot of bending and stretching."

  "Sure. Goes with the job. But she only works three days a week." "Then I can tell you that she spends the other four days recuperating. This woman is either a masochist or a very determined individual. How long has she been doing this sort of work?" "Three months or so."

  "By now, her pain medication is probably supporting three pharmacies – addiction levels. At one time, she might have controlled aches and pains with aspirin, but that won't help her anymore. I doubt if she sleeps through the night without pills, so you can add more drugs to the list. Heavy sedatives, anti-inflammatory medication, amphetamines to keep her going after nights when the pills don't work. She's probably under medical supervision. She can't get any of these meds without a doctor's prescription."

  "She is a doctor, a psychiatrist."

  Slope arched one eyebrow, and this was tantamount to an emotional outburst in his limited range of stone-faced expressions. "And now a psychiatrist is doing menial labor? I don't suppose you're planning to tell me why that – "

  "Nope."

  'Well – a psychiatrist – that's unfortunate. Then she also has a medical degree. She's probably prescribing her own medication. Doctors make the most dangerous drug cocktails for themselves, things they'd never give to a patient. That's why it's illegal to self-prescribe. But the law is so easily – "

  "Back up, Doc. What about the masochist angle?"

  "What? Pain for its own sake? Well, many people go into mental health professions because they've been treated for emotional problems of their own." Slope's eyes drifted back to the photograph. "That's a good possibility here. As a small child, her appearance would've been quite normal. Then – age ten to fifteen – she began to change – grotesque change. Hard to imagine a day in her life – curious stares, clumsy remarks. Now, given that teenagers are not the sanest, most stable peer group on the planet, try to picture this woman's adolescent years at the mercy of – "

  "Pure hell."

  Slope nodded. "At least a thousand arrows to the soul on a good day."

  "Her father was a shrink, too."

  "Then you can count on a history of long-term therapy. He would have put his daughter in treatment with a child psychiatrist."

  "What about this angle?" said Riker. "You say the cleaning job brings on more pain. What if the job is like a hair shirt?"

  "Penance? I suppose that's one possibility. Here's another. Given her choice of work these days, crime scenes, she might be coming to terms with death. She could be suicidal."

  This last suggestion remained with Riker, riding with him on the subway back to SoHo. And the idea nagged at him as he walked the streets, heading toward an old familiar haunt, where he had agreed to meet Mallory for breakfast. She had a lot to answer for today. He was planning to make it a very short meal, perhaps their last one together. In addition to her other crimes against him, she had yet to mention tailing the fake blind man last night, though she had been given that chance earlier this morning.

  …

  Charles Butler had not remarked on Mallory's reappearance a convenient five minutes after Riker's angry departure. She had as yet not offered him any opportunity for conversation, but busied herself at a computer. Her fingers were flying across the keyboard. Her eyes were fixed on the screen, and she was stone-deaf to what he was saying – until he unplugged the thick gray cable from the wall and her screen went blank.

  Good job.

  Mallory's hands came to rest, but she would not look at him when she said, "It's better if Riker knows all of it now – all at once."

  "Oh, well that explains everything, doesn't it?" And he knew, in Mallory's mind, it would excuse her for leaving him to face Riker's suspicions alone.

  "Did he tell you where he was going?"

  "No," said Charles. "I'm not sure we were on speaking terms when he left. He obviously thinks I was part of this scheme from the beginning."

  "You didn't tell him how long – "

  "Well, he's a detective, isn't he, Mallory? I'm sure he can figure that out. Just a warning." And this advance notice was more than she deserved.

  "I'm meeting him for breakfast. I'll patch it up, okay?"

  "No, that's not okay. All this deception – that's the least of the damage. He sees you as a threat to Johanna Apollo."

  "He said that?"

  "He didn't have to. It was – "

  "Now that he knows she was on that jury, he'll do whatever it takes to keep her alive." As if this might pass for an answer to all present and future questions, she plugged in her computer, then resumed typing. "It's better
this way."

  Oh, of course. That, after all, had been her purpose in posing a threat to Johanna Apollo. And Mallory had done it so graphically, so deliberately in every photograph.

  "You should have been honest with Riker," he said, "right from the start. Why can't you just sit down with the man and talk to him like a – " He had been about to use the words normal person, words that did not apply to her – nor to himself.

  Charles Butler had been raised in an academic womb, entering Harvard at the age of ten, a freak, a thing apart from his peers. Mallory had matriculated to the streets at an even younger age and had also learned to survive on her own, absent any ties to other children. And, thanks to his own more elite education, Charles knew the cantos of Paradise Lost, but he was unable to recite the simplest line of a valentine to her for fear that it might strain their friendship or altogether end it. For her part, Mallory knew all the dimensions of hell on earth, having taken its measurements in her formative years, but she knew nothing about the human heart. And so they coexisted side by side, each in their own separate cell, business partners and prisoners who sometimes met for lunch or dinner, conversing but never quite touching one another.

  And now he felt like a fool.

  Why should it come as a surprise that Mallory could not sit down with Riker, all that she had left in the way of family, and tell him that she had created all this misery for him – out of love? He stood behind her chair, planning to tread more carefully with his remaining suspicion. "Riker doesn't know everything yet, does he, Mallory?"

  She glanced at her watch as a pure distraction. Mallory always knew the exact time to the second. This was a gift, an odd quirk of her brain, and perhaps she made finer distinctions in increments of time for all he knew. Charles watched her quickly gather up keys and coat, playing out the charade of being late for her appointment, as if that could ever happen to one so pathologically punctual. And now, without further complaint, he watched her go. What else could he do? Mallory had taken hostages.