One Dog Night

by David Rosenfelt

  “Agent Mulcahy, did Danny Butler have a criminal record?”

  “He did.”

  “Did he have three convictions for drug possession, and two for breaking and entering?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he arrested but not convicted on three other occasions?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he himself addicted to drugs?” I ask. “Enough so that he was in rehab on four separate occasions?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you believe his story?”

  “I did.”

  “Because of his status as an upstanding citizen?”

  “We take information and judge it no matter where it comes from. It’s not always upstanding citizens that have information about a crime.”

  “What would Butler’s background have to have been for you to doubt what he said? Maybe time as a Taliban commander? Or a Nazi SS officer?”

  Dylan objects and De Luca admonishes me to cut it out. Business as usual.

  “Did you check into Butler’s background after you talked to him?”

  “I did.”

  “Did he graduate high school?” I ask.

  “He did not.”

  I introduce Butler’s high school records, which include a PSAT combined score of 614, and I point out that in those days one got 400 for signing one’s name.

  “In the interview, Butler said that his conscience had been bothering him all these years, and when he saw Mr. Galloway on television as a representative of the U.S. government, it pushed him over the edge. Made sense to you?”

  “I had my doubts,” Mulcahy says, surprising me. “But when I checked it all out, I was convinced.”

  Mulcahy has opened a door for me, that I was planning to open myself. “Checked it out how?”

  “I compared it to the evidence of the fire. Everything Butler said was accurate, and it was information that was not publicly available.”

  I introduce as evidence Butler’s records from one of his drug rehabs, and refer Mulcahy to the date on the report. “Is that two weeks after he says Mr. Galloway confided in him?”

  “Sixteen days, yes,” Mulcahy says.

  I then get him to read a paragraph from the initial statement Butler made to the rehab facility, admitting to heavy drug usage for the two months previously. “So by his own admission, Mr. Butler was using drugs during the period that he claims Mr. Galloway confessed to him?”

  “Yes, but not necessarily that day.”

  “Maybe it was a drug holiday,” I say. “Or maybe it was Thanksgiving, and he was going cold turkey for the day. But in any event, his recounting of the details of the fire, how it was set, et cetera, all of that proved to be accurate?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Down to the last detail?”

  “Yes.”

  “So let’s recap. A man with five felony convictions and extraordinarily low intelligence recounted almost verbatim technical details of a conversation he had six years earlier, when he was taking so many illegal drugs that he would soon be forced into rehab? And all because he was suddenly conscience-stricken. Is that about right?”

  “That’s your description,” Mulcahy says.

  “Which part of it is inaccurate?” I say.

  “You left out the fact that there was no other way he could have gotten the information.”

  “There was no other way that you could find,” I say. “Now, you said that Butler was subsequently killed in Las Vegas, and that Mr. Galloway is said to know people there.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “I also know people there. Are you going to cuff me?”

  Mulcahy surprises me with a smile. “I’m tempted,” he says, and the jury laughs.

  “Where did he get the money to go to Vegas in the first place? Did he have a job?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe he suddenly came into money? Perhaps for performing a service?”

  “If he did, I’m not aware of it.”

  “Maybe he just needed a vacation; conscience clearing can be exhausting.”

  Mulcahy just smiles, as if these barbs are to be expected from a defense attorney who doesn’t have the evidence on his side. He’s an experienced, excellent witness because of his confidence and lack of fear; the jury thinks that means he’s telling the truth and hiding nothing.

  I let him off the stand, having accomplished as much as I could, which is not nearly enough.

  “Mr. Mandlebaum, I think you’ll be more comfortable in this chair.”

  That’s what I hear Laurie say as I walk into the house. What I see is Laurie, Sam, Tara, Bailey, and five very old people, four of them men.

  “Andy, I’ve got some people I want you to meet,” Sam says. “This is Morris Fishman, Leon Goldberg, Stanley Rubinstein, Hilda Mandlebaum, and her husband Eli.”

  “Nice to meet you all,” I say. “You’re Sam’s students?”

  They all nod their confirmation of my question.

  “At what school might that be?” I ask.

  “The YMHA in Wayne.”

  He’s talking about the Jewish version of the YMCA, meaning it’s the Young Men’s Hebrew Association. Except they aren’t “young” and Hilda isn’t one of the “men.” Perhaps it should just be called the HA.

  I ask Sam if I could talk to him in the kitchen before we get started. Once we’re in there, I ask, “Does their age have anything to do with why you wanted to make the meeting early?”

  He shrugs. “They’re sharper earlier in the day,” he says. “They usually have dinner around fourish, and then to bed by eight.”

  “I’m not sure this is going to work, Sam.”

  “They’re up at five in the morning, Andy, so we’ll have a full day. And you should see them on a computer; they’re as good as any students I’ve ever had.”

  “How many classes have you taught?” I ask.

  “This is my first.”

  “Sam…”

  “It will be fine; trust me.”

  I actually do trust Sam, especially when it’s in the area of computers, so we go back into the other room. Morris Fishman is in the process of telling Laurie she looks just like Esther Fleischmann, his high school sweetheart who cheated on him in 1947 when he went to Rutgers and she stayed home.

  “Morris,” Laurie says, “you deserved better.”

  Eli Mandlebaum is petting Tara, and Leon is petting Bailey, and they seem quite content about it. Based on their relative sizes, Leon could be Bailey’s jockey. Tara has always been an equal opportunity petting receiver; she is unconcerned about race, religion, sex, or age. Clearly she’s teaching Bailey her open-mindedness.

  Sam turns the meeting over to me. I can tell I need to get it over with quickly; it’s getting close to six-thirty, and I think Hilda is starting to nod off.

  I explain where we are on the case, as it relates to the cell phone records. “We have all these people that were called. They live in different places and have quite different occupations. The only common thread that we know about is that they were all called at some point by the owner of that particular cell phone.”

  “So you want to find out if there are any other connections?” Stanley asks.

  “Exactly. We need to dig as deeply as we can into each of their lives, and find out if they are connected in any other way. No matter how insignificant the link might be, I want to know about it.”

  “How do we do it?” Leon asks.

  “I have no idea,” I say. “Sam is in charge of that. He’ll instruct you on what to do. Right, Sam?”

  “No problem.”

  “I’m also going to be getting a list of missing persons from around the time of the fire. We’re going to need to track them down as well.”

  “We’re on it,” Sam says, and then turns to his team. “We start bright and early at six? The computer room at the Y?”

  Everyone nods their agreement, and Hilda says that she and Eli will pick up bagels and lox on the way in. With that, Sam
leads the “over the hill gang” out the door.

  When they leave, Laurie says, “I hope I’m just like them if I get to be their age. And I hope we’re just like Hilda and Eli.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Didn’t you see them holding hands? Hilda told me they’ve been married sixty-one years. And they’re still holding hands.”

  I hadn’t seen them holding hands, but I don’t say that. The truth is, I see the possibility of turning this situation to my own sexual advantage. The trick is to appear sensitive. “I’ll hold your hand as long as you let me,” I say, and take her hand.

  “You think you’re going to use Hilda and Eli’s love for each other to get me into bed?” she says.

  “It was worth a shot,” I say.

  “Okay, here’s the deal,” she says. “There’s a definite chance you’re going to get lucky tonight, but you need to understand that it has nothing whatsoever to do with the Mandlebaums. You got that?”

  “Yes, ma’am. The Mandlebaums are a nonfactor.”

  “Okay, let’s go,” she says, and starts leading me up the steps to the bedroom.

  “I just hope that I don’t scream out Hilda’s name,” I say.

  Today’s testimony is going to be both dry and terribly damaging.

  The witness is Special Agent William Rouse, the assistant head of the FBI crime lab located in Baltimore. He supervised the bureau’s testing on the metal can found three blocks from the scene.

  It’s a large can, standard make, capable of holding almost four gallons, and Dylan proudly holds it up before introducing it as evidence and showing it to the witness. I’ve seen pictures of it from the discovery, and learned that it’s available at Home Depot and pretty much everywhere else.

  “Is this the can you were given to test?” Dylan asks.

  Rouse nods. “It is.”

  “What types of tests did you run?”

  “Fingerprint analysis, blood typing, and DNA.”

  “Were you able to get satisfactory results in all three areas?”

  “We managed to retrieve DNA and blood type results. There were no fingerprints.”

  “These tests that you conducted, were the same ones done by the local police at the time the can was found?”

  “Yes, I was subsequently shown those reports after we conducted our tests.”

  “Were your results consistent with theirs?” Dylan asks.

  “Identical.”

  Dylan takes him through the results, which are of course a match for Noah’s DNA and blood type. Rouse says that there is a one in four billion chance that the DNA results are inaccurate. Based on the media reports I read before coming to court this morning, that matches our chances of getting an acquittal.

  Dylan then addresses the question that the jurors must certainly be wondering. “If the police had these DNA results six years ago, why wasn’t an arrest made back then?”

  “Because Mr. Galloway’s DNA was not in the database at the time. Recently he attempted to gain clearance because of a federal job he was taking, and a DNA sample was required. That’s the reason we got a hit when we ran it this time, acting on Mr. Butler’s information.”

  “Your witness,” Dylan says to me, in a tone that doesn’t seem to contain much worry.

  I start by opening a package under the defense table, and I take out a can that is identical to the one that Rouse tested. “Is this the can you were given to test?” I ask, mimicking Dylan’s question.

  Rouse looks confused, and points to the previously introduced can, now resting on a side table. “No, that one is.”

  “How do you know that?” I ask. “Don’t they look identical?”

  “I assumed Mr. Campbell was showing me the correct can.”

  I nod as if this makes perfect sense. “So you said you were certain that was the can, even though it just looked like it, because you just believed whatever Mr. Campbell said?”

  “I tested the can that he gave me,” Rouse says, finding apparent refuge in a non sequitur.

  “Good for you. How long was Mr. Galloway’s DNA on that can?”

  “At least six years,” he says.

  “You can tell that from your tests?”

  “No. But as I said, my results matched the police tests.”

  “The results that Mr. Campbell showed you, and you accepted at face value.”

  “Yes.” He manages to sound slightly indignant at my inference.

  “Agent Rouse, you are here as a supposedly independent expert witness. The court members and I would appreciate it if you would limit your answers to what you know independent of what Mr. Campbell or the police told you. Can you do that?”

  Dylan objects, but De Luca overrules him, and Rouse agrees to my request.

  “Thank you,” I say, acting as if I have triumphed, when in fact I haven’t. Rouse’s test results are still staring me in the face, and the jury will believe them.

  In situations like this, I feel it’s important that I do more than just attack the witness; I need to present an at least somewhat plausible theory of my own. It’s tough in this case, because I truly have no idea how Noah’s burned skin got on that can.

  “So, based on your own tests, that DNA could have been left on that can three years ago?”

  “It’s possible.”

  “Three months ago?” I ask.

  “Possibly.”

  “Was he conscious when he touched the can?” I ask.

  “I can’t say that from my testing.”

  “Did he touch it willingly?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. That is not within the scope of my work.”

  “Was his skin on the other cans as well?”

  “I only tested the one can. I was told that it was the only can recovered.”

  I show Rouse a page of the report by the fire department, which estimated that seventeen gallons of the napalmlike substance was used. “This can couldn’t hold seventeen gallons, could it?”

  “No.”

  “It would take five such cans to hold that much, would it not?” I ask.

  He nods. “It would.”

  “So the theory is that Mr. Galloway fled the scene, but for some reason decided to leave one can to be found, while taking the others with him?”

  “That is not part of my testing.” I knew that, but I don’t really care what he says. I’m doing the testifying now; I’m just using Rouse as a foil to get my words out.

  “You’d have to ask someone else that.”

  “Thank you, Agent Rouse. You can be sure I will.”

  The birth certificate of Roger Briggs is on file in the Paterson Hall of Records.

  It shows that he was born to Natasha Briggs at Paterson General Hospital. There is no father listed on the certificate, and no explanation for the omission.

  Tragically, the death certificate for Roger Briggs is also on file, and it is dated slightly more than eight months after his birth. Cause of death is asphyxiation by fire; which is standard procedure in cases of these types, though an incinerated body can yield no such evidence. Even the bureaucracy can’t seem to stomach the concept of a human being, in this case a baby, being consumed by flames while alive.

  There is good reason to doubt that Roger Briggs died in that fire, and it is not just that the coroner found no traces of a body that small. My doubt more strongly stems from the fact that a young officer named Kyle Holmes seems to have had the same doubt, and I believe he died because of it. And if he was in fact murdered by someone threatened by those doubts, then they move up a step toward certainty.

  Our investigation outside of the trial is moving very slowly, and at this point is mostly dependent on Sam Willis and the “over the hill gang.” I’m also anxiously waiting for Pete and especially Cindy to come through with missing persons information, but that is pretty much a shot in the dark.

  Our situation within the trial is considerably more dire, and unfortunately moving at a faster pace. Dylan has maybe four days’ worth of witness
es still to call, and then it’s our turn to present our case, such as it is.

  I believe in being completely honest with my clients, except when I think it is in their best interest to conceal things or flat-out lie to them. My moral compass pretty much always points south.

  But in Noah’s case there’s no reason not to be straight, so in our daily meeting before court I lay things out as best I can. As he always does, he listens respectfully, with no apparent emotion, and then asks intelligent questions when I finish.

  Once I’ve answered everything completely, if not to either of our satisfactions, he says, “It’s funny in a way; the longer this has gone on, the more I’ve believed in my own innocence. And the more I’ve wanted to win.”

  “That’s only natural,” I say.

  He nods. “I suppose. But there was something very comforting in not caring. The worst had happened; that was as bad as it was going to get.”

  I know exactly what he’s saying, and I’m feeling very guilty about it. I gave him a reason to hope, I gave him actual hope, and to this point I’m not delivering on it. I’ve built him up for a fall, and we both know it.

  But he’s going to try and let me down easy. “On the other hand, Andy, the relief that I feel that I didn’t kill those people makes anything that happens worthwhile. I had to live with that horror for a long time, but it’s gone. When I wake up in the morning, I don’t hate myself.”

  I just nod my understanding.

  “Instead I hate you,” he says, and laughs to let me know he’s kidding.

  Before we head into court, Noah tells me that he heard from Becky and Adam this morning, and that they’re doing well.

  “She wanted me to ask you if she can come back to attend any of the trial,” he says. “She wants to support me, and she wants the jury to see her supporting me.”

  It’s actually a good point, and one I’ve thought about. The jury may be wondering why she’s not here, and I’m going to answer that question for them in our case.

  “But I told her no,” Noah says. “I want her where it’s safe, and I sure don’t want her here when the jury tells us their verdict.”