by Jason Parent
He stood his ground. “As I understand it, I’m free to go. If you would kindly step aside.”
“Yes, yes, the doctor has cleared you for release. It’s been an absolute pleasure talking with you, Mr. Masterson. Just one more thing…” Detective Reilly extended her hand.
With rising suspicion, Christopher reached for the proffered hand. But before he made contact, she grabbed his wrist, spun him around, and slammed him over the railing of the hospital bed. She wrenched his arm up toward his shoulder blades. He felt cold metal scratching at his wrist, then biting into it.
“Christopher Masterson, you are under arrest for the assault and battery of a minor.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“You have the right to remain silent,” she said as she yanked his left arm behind him.
Ice crawled up his spine, but he kept his cool. “For a moment, I thought you were smarter than this.”
“Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”
“You’re making a big mistake.”
“You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford one…”
Christopher started to blank her out. They had his murder weapon, but he didn’t think they had any grounds to test it for the teacher’s DNA. And Reilly wasn’t arresting him for murder, which meant she still had nothing. The detective’s strategy seemed wildly miscalculated, incompetent even, unless…
She’s biding time. His jaw clenched so hard he thought he might chew through his teeth. The bitch is going to try and turn Tessa.
When Reilly turned him around, he saw that she was smiling. His upper lip began to twitch.
How dare they take what is mine? As soon as I’m out—and it will be soon, you stupid bitch—I will retrieve what you and yours have taken from me.
Both things.
Chapter 22
Sam straightened the wrinkles from her suit pants, then walked with her head high, trying to appear cool and confident. When Police Chief Frank Cotillard called her into his office, Sam knew she wasn’t going to leave happy. The chief wasn’t one for compliments. He never gave his subordinates a pat on the back for a job well done. He was far more likely to dole out walking papers.
She had been a cop at the Third Precinct longer than Cotillard had been police chief, nearly her entire career. She had climbed her way up from writing tickets and directing traffic to a position of dignity and respect. Her talents put her in line for command roles, but she would purposely sabotage her own advancement whenever talk turned that way. Sam just loved being a detective, and she was damn good at it. There was no greater satisfaction than putting bad guys where they belonged.
In all the years she’d been working under Cotillard, Sam had been called into his office only twice. Both times, she’d left it thinking she was going to lose her job. When it came down to saving a life or following proper police procedure, for Sam, the choice was easy. She would disregard the rule book every time. Twice, that disregard had landed her in front of Cotillard’s desk. But she still never regretted her decisions.
They say the third time’s the charm, she thought as she stepped into the chief’s large corner office. Tension hung heavy in the air, and Sam detected a faint smell of mint, a lesser version of the chief’s liberal application of aftershave each morning. An imposing figure, the chief loomed behind his desk as he always did right before he was about to dole out a tongue-lashing, using his girth and tree-trunk arms to intimidate. He was not the best and brightest among them, and Sam assumed he had strong-armed his way to the top. His bullying didn’t work on her, nor did his temper tantrums.
What did make her nervous was the threat of losing her job, though she would never show it. So as impatient as she was, she kept her mouth shut and waited for him to tell her why he’d called her in there.
His wiry gray mustache hung like an awning over a sour grimace. Nostrils flaring, he peered down the end of his nose at her. “Please, have a seat,” he said after a long, uncomfortable silence.
Sam squinted at him, searching for tells, then pulled back a padded blue chair with metal legs. She sat.
The chief remained standing, his gaze somewhere behind her. “Here he comes.”
The door opened, and a young man, probably in his late twenties, barreled into the room, clutching a briefcase in one hand and some loose paper in his others. He put down all of it in a disorderly stack on the floor beside the chair adjacent to Sam’s. His cheap navy suit and yellow tie were wrinkled, but the rest of him was kept up nicely, from his perfectly feathered hair and clean-shaven face to his polished dress shoes. He straightened and buttoned his jacket.
Lawyer. Sam stood to greet him. This can’t be good.
“You fucked up, Reilly,” Chief Cotillard said.
Well, hello to you, too. There’s something to be said for small talk. Before her temper could get the better of her, she bit the inside of her cheek and put on an innocent face. That wasn’t too difficult since she hadn’t the faintest idea what Cotillard was talking about.
Cotillard gestured at the younger man. “This is Assistant District Attorney Leslie Quintara.”
Sam shook the attorney’s hand. Then, all three of them took their seats.
“Leslie, tell Detective Reilly what we’re up against here,” Cotillard said.
Leslie tugged his collar as if it were too tight. For an attorney, he was extraordinarily slow to speak. Usually, Sam couldn’t shut them up, even those on her side. He couldn’t have been a prosecutor for long. Most of his kind were cocky and unjustifiably self-assured, or they at least acted that way. Maybe they had to be to go up against the types they faced on a daily basis. Most cops were the same way.
Sam thought she knew all the prosecutors in Bristol County, yet she’d never seen Leslie. The DA looked as green as grass and did little to inspire confidence. Most newbies spent their time handling misdemeanors. Sam hoped Leslie wasn’t the prosecuting force behind any of her felony arrests, especially not Christopher Masterson’s case.
Leslie cleared his throat. “It’s the Masterson case.”
Oh bloody hell. Sam swallowed hard. Things were quickly going from bad to worse, and she hadn’t even found out why she’d been called into the office.
“We’ve hit a snag, a rather serious one, actually.” Leslie gave her a sheepish, awkward smile. “Masterson’s attorney is moving to exclude the evidence and for the immediate dismissal of all charges.”
Masterson’s attorney’s move didn’t come as a surprise. Every suited monkey posing as a defense attorney with nothing but the slightest hope of getting his undeniably guilty client off on some imagined procedural violation filed motions like that on a daily basis. Ninety-nine percent of them failed, unless the goal was to waste everyone’s time and the taxpayers’ money. The remaining one percent succeeded because of horrendously bad police work. And since Sam wasn’t in the habit of illegally wiretapping phones or searching vehicles without warrants or consent, charges against her collars generally stuck.
Under normal circumstances, she would have laughed at the news and sarcastically wished Masterson good luck. But she was sitting in Chief Cotillard’s office, so things weren’t normal. His and Leslie’s unsmiling faces implied that the motion was no laughing matter.
No, Masterson’s arrest was anything but normal. She knew she had nothing, yet she had arrested him anyway, all just to give her some time alone with Tessa so she could build a case for Jackson’s murder. Masterson’s attorney, however, wasn’t playing fair.
She knew the motions were coming. She just thought she would have a little more time.
The chief shoved a finger in her face. “What were you thinking, arresting Masterson for attacking that kid? He was the one who got stabbed, for Christ’s sake! If, and I do mean if, that knife was used in a homicide, its evidentiary value has just been flushed down the
fucking toilet.”
Michael had given her the knife, and she had taken it into evidence, using all the correct procedures. “If we could just get it tested, you’ll see—”
“Forget it, Reilly. The guy’s attorney has already requested its return three times, like it has some kind of emotional value or something. And I’m of the mind to return it to him. It ain’t evidence, that’s for sure. Isn’t that right, Leslie?”
“I’m afraid so,” the attorney said as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Sam was beginning to hate that whiny voice. “The judge has already made his ruling on that regard.”
“I just need a little more time.” Sam had arrested Masterson barely two days ago. She hadn’t even had a chance to work him for a confession or to get in to talk to Tessa. The social workers were stonewalling her, claiming Tessa was in shock. And maybe she was. The kid had seen her dad get stabbed. But Sam was determined to interview that kid while she could still get to her away from her dad. “It’s the knife that killed Gloria Jackson. I’m sure of it. It was found in his kitchen. I know, the chain of custody is a little shaky, but it’s been properly documented since the knife entered our possession and can be traced all the way back to his home. No judge in Bristol County would exclude it on those grounds. If we can just get it tested, we will have what we need to charge him with murder. We’ve got Masterson dead to rights.”
She vaguely remembered telling Masterson the same thing. He had played it off as though it was a minor inconvenience. That slimy son of a bitch. She felt helpless, forced to watch as her chances to nail a killer crumbled around her. “I just need a little more—”
“Time?” Chief Cotillard finished. “We know. You’ve said that. You’re out of time, Reilly. This prosecution is going nowhere. And that’s not even the worst part.”
“What do you mean? I can find corroborating evidence. Let me talk to him… or the girl. I’ll get one of them to talk. Then we’ll have the evidence we need to get the knife tested and put that bastard away forever. I don’t understand why you’re not willing to back me up on this.”
Leslie coughed. “The knife is exactly the problem. Masterson’s attorney is asserting chain of custody and a host of additional evidentiary issues, true, but those are the least of our worries. He’s citing all sorts of Fourth Amendment violations with respect to your… the department’s seizure of the weapon. Most contain the normal jargon, easy to handle. As you are probably aware, we are taking the position that Michael Turcotte and Robert Wilkins were invited guests of Tessa Masterson and seized the weapon after Masterson assaulted Turcotte.”
“Right,” Sam replied. “Masterson’s daughter let them in. Michael grabbed the knife to escape from an attack by Masterson. Doesn’t the knife have some probative value of Michael’s perceived need to defend himself? Admittedly, his getting the murder weapon was an amazing stroke of luck. We should be thanking him for it.”
Sam left out the part about Michael being sure he was grabbing a murder weapon because he’d seen it used in a vision. In doing so, he’d probably saved Sam’s life, too. She no longer had to look over her shoulder every time she stepped outside. Michael was like an avenging angel. She didn’t believe in all that religious stuff, but she sure felt blessed to have him around.
Even so, she had told Michael not to go to the Masterson house. He’d gone anyway, and she felt guilty for it. Had some part of her known he would? Had she manipulated Michael as though he were a playing piece in a game where losing could have meant death? The thought made her stomach turn. Suddenly, she didn’t like herself very much.
Leslie said, “Masterson’s lawyer claims that Michael acted as an agent of this department and, specifically, your agent. If true, Michael isn’t afforded the same leniency as the average civilian. Rather, his conduct must adhere to the same standards as those of every officer in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. Masterson’s attorney alleges that as an agent of the Fall River Police Department, the boy entered his client’s home without his client’s consent and searched it without a warrant, after Masterson informed the boy that he wasn’t invited and told Michael to leave.”
Sam’s face heated. “That’s a load of horse—”
The lawyer held up his hand. “If the argument is to be credited, just as you, Detective, cannot waltz into Masterson’s house without his permission or a warrant, neither can Michael Turcotte. Whatever evidence he seized as a result of such conduct is inadmissible.”
“That’s crazy.” She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “The knife was in plain view for the entire world to see. Isn’t there some principle like that that can help us here?”
Leslie scratched his chin. “A good thought, except only the handle of the knife was in plain view. Its handle is identical to several others in the set. The blade was not visible. Even if it had been, there are serious questions as to how Michael knew what to look for… unless someone told him what to look for. That would bring us back to the ‘undisclosed agent’ argument.”
“Are you suggesting I revealed details of my investigation to a teenage boy?” Sam acted as outraged as she could. Grimacing, she glared at the young lawyer. She hadn’t told Michael much, but she’d definitely told him more than she should have. The implication being tossed around by Leslie, however, put her career in jeopardy. She had to come clean, even if it meant falling on her sword. “All I told Michael was to see if he could learn anything about Tessa Masterson. I stressed that under no circumstances was he to go anywhere near that house.”
“So you admit that you used a fourteen-year-old boy to help you investigate a fucking homicide?” Chief Cotillard slammed a fist into his desk. His office windows rattled in their frames. “Damn it, Sam! What the hell were you thinking?”
“Michael has served only in the capacity of a witness, a confidential informant at best. Since when has using an informant not been an essential part of detective work?”
“I don’t care if the boy is Sherlock fucking Holmes. You should not have been involving a kid in a murder investigation. Christ, Sam. It’s not like I’m telling you anything you don’t already know.” The chief’s face turned so red, Sam thought he might have a heart attack. Her own face felt balmy, too.
“In any event,” Leslie said, “whether or not you told Michael to go there, I’m sure you can at least see how it looks. This kid, whom you’ve known his entire life, called you with the evidence we needed to put Masterson away. Add to that Michael’s baffling participation in the Crotty case, and defense counsel is painting him out to be a police profiler or consultant of sorts. It’s even been suggested that you use Michael for… supernatural reasons.”
“Michael had nothing to do—”
“Save it, Sam,” Chief Cotillard interrupted. “Four officers were sent to Crotty’s house when you arrested him. At least one of them talked. He told us all about the kid who was there. You sure have a strange way of entertaining that boy.”
“He saved that woman’s life!”
“And there’s more,” Cotillard continued, ignoring Sam’s outburst. “Dr. Prentiss filled us in about your visit to the morgue. He said you called the boy your intern.” Cotillard shook his head. “Christ, Sam.”
Leslie sighed. “Right or wrong, the judge apparently wants to consider the defense’s argument. She took the matter under advisement, but at this point, we have to assume the knife is out. Our whole murder case is built around it. Without it and some grounds to test it for DNA, Masterson will walk, unless you’ve obtained more evidence since his arrest.”
“We haven’t gotten enough for a search warrant,” Sam said despondently. “I was banking on being able to talk with the girl before Masterson was released. She’s gotta know something. We haven’t found Jackson’s car yet, either. I’m assuming he used that to move her. We should be trawling the river for it.”
“There were no tracks anywhere near the locati
on Jackson’s body was found,” the chief said. “Where would you have us look?”
“What about witnesses?” Leslie asked. “Did anyone see Ms. Jackson enter Masterson’s house? Did anyone catch anyone leaving that evening? Did anyone call in suspicious activity near the dumpsite?”
Sam nodded. “A neighbor saw a car parked in front of Masterson’s home at the approximate time of death.”
“Did he or she get a license plate number? Make or model? Color?”
“She said the car was a black sedan. That’s all she knew. Jackson drove a dark blue Chevrolet Cobalt.” The questioning was becoming frustrating. If she had more to give him, she would have already told him. “We know she was going there to see Tessa,” she added. “That has to count for something.”
“The notation in her day planner, you mean? Yes, it can be used to show where she might have been heading, but it doesn’t show if she ever got there. We need more.”
“Tessa must have seen something. All I’m asking is that you hold him long enough to give me time to talk with her.”
“Well, you’d better be quick. Once the case is dismissed, we can’t hold him any longer. Besides, when she was told of her father’s arrest, Tessa Masterson took full responsibility for the murder of Gloria Jackson. She confessed under oath and stated that she acted alone. Beyond that, she refuses to give any details.”
“That’s horseshit. Either her father did it, or they both did.”
Leslie nodded. “I agree with you. She’s obviously covering for him. More importantly, our psychiatrist agrees with you. But the problem is not what we know, but what we can prove. We’re keeping her in juvenile hall, going at her day and night, but Tessa won’t budge. She’s spooked, and if you saw the scars on her, you would understand why. She won’t even finger her father for the abuse. You’ve got to give me something I can work with here, Detective. I’m only here on a short recess. I have to get back to the courthouse, and unless I have more to offer the judge, Masterson is moments away from walking.”