We pull into the driveway of our house on Forty-Second Street in Paterson, and I see Laurie looking at us through the window. We have a detached garage, and the apartment is above it. “Home sweet home,” I say.
I open the door to the car and the burst of cold air comes barreling through. The wind has picked up, which makes it seem a hell of a lot colder. I think that might be why weather people always talk about wind-chill factor.
We start walking toward the garage, with Carrigan for some reason carrying Zoey. The door to our house opens, and Laurie, Ricky, and Tara, our golden retriever, come out and walk toward us. Sebastian, our basset hound, clearly felt that this was not worth getting out of bed for. Sebastian wouldn’t get out of bed if I drove home with LeBron James, Beyoncé, and the pope.
“Hi,” Laurie says. “I’m Laurie, this is Ricky, and that’s Tara. Welcome.”
“Thank you,” Carrigan says. “This is Zoey.” He puts Zoey on the ground and she and Tara do the requisite sniffing of each other’s private areas. “I appreciate your hospitality.”
“Our pleasure,” she says. “Come on in.”
We all head up to the apartment. Carrigan seems to hesitate at the doorway, as if not sure he wants to step across that threshold.
He finally does so, and on the way up the stairs, I ask, “Is Zoey housetrained?”
Carrigan shrugs. “I have no idea. I’ve never seen her in a house.”
The apartment itself is modest, but reasonably comfortable. There is a bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, and living room. None of them are what I would call spacious, but they don’t feel cramped.
There are televisions in both the bedroom and living room. I show Carrigan where the remote controls are, since I consider them the most important appliances in this or any other house. He seems familiar with how to operate them, which sort of surprises me.
“Come in here,” Laurie says, and as I turn to follow her voice to the kitchen, I notice that Carrigan is opening a window. He seems on edge, nervous in a way I hadn’t noticed before. I don’t ask him about it, because it’s really not any of my business.
“It’s fifteen degrees out there,” I say. “The thermostat is over there, and—”
He interrupts, almost with an urgency in his voice. “It’s better this way. Is that all right?”
“Sure.”
With that, we walk into the kitchen. Laurie has the refrigerator open and says, “I didn’t know what kind of food you liked, so I just got a lot of different things.”
We look in the refrigerator and it is packed with stuff, as are the cabinets that she opens. There is also a healthy supply of dog food. Carrigan and Zoey can eat well for quite a while, which I suspect was Laurie’s goal.
“If there’s anything you or Zoey particularly like that we don’t have, please tell me,” Laurie says.
“There’s ice cream in the freezer,” Ricky adds.
“This is rather overwhelming,” Carrigan says, and then adds, “As well as inexplicable.”
“Laurie is the master of the inexplicable,” I say. “I can’t even explain how inexplicable she is.”
She proceeds to show him where everything else is: the towels, the toilet paper, the smoke detector, the shampoo, the vacuum cleaner, and on and on. Tours of the Louvre have been conducted with less attention to detail.
“You want that open?” she asks Carrigan, referring to the window. At this point it is cold enough to hang meat in here.
“Yes.”
She nods. “Okay. Do you have a driver’s license?”
“Expired.”
“Then if you need to go anywhere, Andy or I will drive you. If you need anything else, please let us know.”
“At the risk of stating the obvious, you did not have to do all of this,” Carrigan says.
She smiles. “It’s Christmas.”
“Don’t ask,” I say.
I have to admit that I’m feeling pretty good about what we’re doing.
As is so often the case, Laurie is right; we’re helping someone who needs it, and it’s not a hardship for us at all. It’s also a very good message to send to Ricky, although he was already a main proponent of it.
I haven’t been to Charlie’s, a sports bar that represents my one and only hangout, in a week, so I decide to go tonight. The Giants are playing on Thursday Night Football, so the place will be packed, but I have a regular table with Vince Sanders, the editor of our local newspaper, and Pete Stanton, a captain in the Homicide Division of the Paterson Police Department.
I ask Laurie if she’s at all worried about being alone with Carrigan, even though he’s not actually in the house. She gives me that “you’re an idiot” look. Laurie is a former cop and current private investigator, and she can handle herself in a dangerous situation a hell of a lot better than I could. Of course, that’s not a high bar to exceed.
“Maybe we should google him,” I say. “We might be able to learn something about his background.”
“His background doesn’t matter. We’re doing this because of his present situation. If we start to investigate him, even online, it feels like we’re intruding and violating his privacy.”
“Okay.”
I get to Charlie’s just before the opening kickoff, so Vince and Pete barely nod in my direction. They used to pretend to be glad to see me, knowing I’d pick up the check. Now they just charge their food to my tab whether I’m there or not, so they can cut down on the insincere sociability.
At halftime Vince says, “You’re going to be in the newspaper tomorrow.”
“Why?”
“For taking that homeless guy home. You’re nuts, by the way.”
Pete nods. “Totally nuts.”
“We’re being nice and charitable; I’m aware those are genes you two are deficient in.”
“He could be a serial killer,” Pete says, as he gets up to go to the bathroom.
“Thanks for the upbeat assessment, Pete.” Then I turn to Vince. “Why is it going to be in the paper?”
“It’s a human interest story; it appeals to humans. Don’t ask me why.”
“You would be the last person I would ask about anything having to do with humanity. Where did you hear about it?”
“Ralph Brandenberger, the guy who runs the shelter. You want to give me a quote for the story?”
“No. We’re not doing this for publicity.”
“Touching,” he says, looking around. “There’s not a dry eye in the place. How about telling me his name? Brandenberger didn’t know it, and so far we’re just calling him ‘homeless guy.’”
I’m torn on this. On the one hand, I really would prefer that the story be private, and I’m certain Laurie would as well. But on the other hand, there’s obviously no way for me to stop it, and referring to Carrigan as “homeless guy” seems to strip him of some dignity.
“His name is Don Carrigan,” I say.
“Sounds familiar. What else can you tell me?”
“Nothing.”
“No background? Former career? Reason he’s homeless?”
“No, no, and no.”
“You’re a big help,” he says.
Vince takes out his cell phone and calls the paper to instruct them to use Carrigan’s name in the story. Pete comes back as the second half kickoff is about to take place, so all further conversation about Carrigan, or anything else besides the Giants’ inability to cover wide receivers, is shelved.
After the game ends with a fairly rare Giants victory, I go home and tell Laurie about the upcoming story about Carrigan. I ask if she thinks I did the right thing in giving his name, and she says, “I think it’s okay. But you need to show him the story tomorrow.”
“I will. There was no way I could talk Vince out of running it. He thinks it’s a human interest story; I guess he has humans working for him to tell him what interests them.”
She smiles. “Vince is a good friend; he’d be there for you if you needed him.”
“Yeah. Meanwhile
he and Pete are on a lifetime free burger and beer scholarship.” The truth is that I’m absurdly wealthy from an inheritance and lucrative cases, so I’m happy paying for them. But I’m even happier complaining and rubbing their noses in it. That’s what friends do.
“I’m trying not to be nosy,” Laurie says, “but I couldn’t help seeing Don sitting in the garage with Zoey before.”
“With the door open?” I ask, and she nods. “Maybe he’s just used to cold air, or not used to heat.”
She shakes her head sadly. “I can’t imagine what the poor guy has gone through.”
“Speaking of that, have you decided how long we’re going to make him not go through it?”
“Let’s take it one day at a time,” she says.
“As opposed to two days at a time? Or no days at a time?”
“Andy, trust me on this.”
As I’m heading out for my morning walk with Tara and Sebastian, I see Carrigan sitting in the open garage.
“We’re going to the park,” I say. “Feel like taking a walk?”
He thinks for a moment and nods. “Yes. Thanks for thinking of me.”
As we start out, I see that the newspaper is on the front lawn, wrapped in plastic. I haven’t gotten a chance to look at it yet; I had forgotten about the story.
“When we get back, I want to show you something,” I say.
Carrigan doesn’t respond; he doesn’t really seem like the curious type.
So I continue, “There’s a story about you in the paper. About what happened the other night, Zoey’s situation, your staying here … I didn’t tell them about any of it.”
“That’s okay.”
“But I did give them your name. I hope that’s not a problem.”
He shrugs. “No one will care, so why should I?”
We walk for about a half hour; it’s cold but sunny and quite beautiful out. We don’t say much; if not for me we wouldn’t say anything. I ask him if he likes football, and he says, “Used to.” Then I ask him if he grew up around here, and he says, “No.”
Fascinating stuff.
We get home, and I have breakfast with Laurie and Ricky. Then I walk Ricky to school, which is about ten minutes from our house. He goes to School Number Twenty, the same one I attended about six million years ago.
When I get home, I notice that there’s a commotion of sorts going on near my house, and as I approach I see that it is actually at my house. A little closer, and I’ve narrowed it down more specifically, as there are four police cars in my driveway.
It’s the garage.
Nonsensically, the first thing I think of is carbon monoxide poisoning. The reasons it is nonsensical include the fact that the garage door has been open, and there is no car in the garage. Those two factors reduce the carbon monoxide risk quite considerably.
Laurie is standing at the end of the driveway, as officers are blocking the route to the garage. “What the hell is going on?” I say.
“I don’t know. I saw Pete go in there with a bunch of other officers. They had their guns drawn.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“No, he didn’t stop in for coffee first.”
So we stand here for at least ten minutes, waiting for something, anything, to happen. Finally Pete and the other officers come down with Carrigan; his hands are handcuffed behind him.
They walk near us to a waiting car, and I yell out to Pete, asking what is happening. “We just arrested your tenant for murder,” Pete says.
Carrigan looks over to me as well, and simply says, “This is not right.”
“Don’t say anything to anyone,” I say. “Not one word. I’m an attorney, and I’ll meet you down at the jail.”
“What about Zoey?” he asks, elevating himself considerably in my mind by showing concern for his dog.
“She’ll be fine,” I say. “I promise, we’ll take care of her.”
Within five minutes they’ve all left, and the only sign that they’ve been there at all are the neighbors still milling about, trying to get up the courage to ask us what happened.
“I think googling him might have been a good idea after all,” I say.
She nods. “You get Zoey from the apartment, and I’ll meet you at the computer.”
According to Google, Don Carrigan is wanted for murder.
Based on today’s events, I’ve got a feeling Google is right about this one.
The victim was Steven McMaster, a wealthy business executive who was murdered in his home nine months ago in Short Hills, New Jersey.
He came home from a business dinner and was likely accosted just before entering the house. The murderer then probably forced him to open the door and they both went inside. This would explain the lack of a burglar alarm activation, although the system was elaborate.
The criminal then murdered McMaster, brutally, by breaking his neck. There were no neighbors within shouting distance in the area, as the houses are apparently on large pieces of property. So no one saw or heard anything out of the ordinary.
The house was ransacked, including a safe, which McMaster was likely forced to open. In fact, he was killed in front of that safe, so the theory was that the killer decided that once the safe was open, there was no longer any reason to delay the murder.
DNA evidence at the scene tied Donald Carrigan to the crime. Carrigan is referred to as a former Green Beret and veteran of the Iraq invasion. The police issued a warrant for his arrest, but subsequent stories refer to his still being at large.
The media coverage, at least as Google tells it, gradually died down as no arrest was made.
Google doesn’t have very much to say about Carrigan’s background. We find a few different Don Carrigans. One is a head of a pharmaceutical association in Denver; another is an apparently ace TV journalist in Portland, Maine.
The one we think it is, based on the Green Beret mention, is originally from Pittsburgh. He is a graduate of Ohio State, and became a teaching assistant there before joining the army. He does not seem to have ever been married.
Google does not have any images of him, but it certainly seems like we have the right one. How he went from what we know to being a murderer, or an accused murderer, does not readily leap from the computer screen.
“So what now?” I ask.
“Now we go talk to him.”
“Aren’t we carrying this Christmas thing a little too far?”
“I said talk, Andy. I didn’t say represent. I want to hear his side of it.”
I nod. “Okay. Let’s go and get this over with.”
I’ve met with many people at the jail after they’ve been arrested. Obviously, they are almost always my clients, or I wouldn’t be there in the first place. And this is the first time that I can remember Laurie going with me; she no doubt wants to hear Carrigan’s story for herself.
It takes about an hour for us to be brought into a room to wait for Carrigan, and then another ten minutes for a guard to show up with him. As jail waiting times go, this is positively warp speed, and I’m glad for that.
Carrigan is handcuffed but otherwise looking none the worse for wear. He doesn’t have the look of panic that I often see, and I can only speculate that is because he does not have that much to lose. But he does seem jittery, much like he was in the apartment. Of course, he and I don’t go back that far, so I don’t know if this is his normal demeanor.
“Are they treating you okay?” Laurie asks.
He nods. “I have no frame of reference, but I would say reasonably well.”
“Did they tell you why you are here?” I ask.
Another nod. “I am accused of committing a murder. They haven’t informed me of the identity of the victim, and I haven’t asked because I’ve been following your directive not to speak.”
“Good. The man’s name is Steven McMaster. He was accosted and murdered at his home in Short Hills, and his killer then burglarized the house.”
“This has nothing to do with me. I’ve neve
r heard of the man, I’ve never met the man, and I certainly never killed the man.”
“There was apparently DNA evidence tying you to the scene,” I say.
Carrigan looks confused. “Where did you say the murder took place?”
“Short Hills.”
“Nothing could tie me to the scene, because I have never been there.”
Laurie asks, “Do you have any idea why they are accusing you?”
“None whatsoever.”
“Do you have a criminal record?”
He nods and says, “Vagrancy. Some arrests for assault, but no charges filed.”
“Okay,” I say. “We’ll see what we can find out.”
“You’re acting as my attorney?”
“Do you have anyone else?”
“No. Nor do I have any money to pay your fee, regardless of what that fee might be.”
“Let’s not worry about that right now. If I don’t take the case, I’ll make sure you are well defended by the public defender. I know the people over there pretty well.”
“Is this more Christmas charity?”
“So far,” I say. “In the meantime, continue not talking to anyone.”
“How is Zoey?”
“She is fine; you don’t have to worry about her,” Laurie says. “Tara and Sebastian will like having another friend around the house. Is there anything else we can do for you?”
He hesitates. “I’m not sure … I hate being confined … I’m claustrophobic. I don’t know what can be done, but I get anxious.”
“We’ll see what we can do,” Laurie says.
Before we leave, we stop in to the jail infirmary. It’s an advantage of defending so many accused criminals that I know pretty much everyone in the place. The head nurse is a terrific lady named Daphne Collins, who has a perpetual smile and an infectious laugh, neither of which makes any sense in these surroundings.
We tell her what’s going on, and she promises to have the doctor check Carrigan out right away. This is not a problem that is particularly rare, and she said the usual protocol is to prescribe a mild sedative.
“It will take the edge off,” she says.
“Thanks, Daphne. Edge removal sounds like a really good idea.”
Deck the Hounds: An Andy Carpenter Mystery Page 2