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It has been almost fourteen years since Kristen McNeil’s body was discovered.
Her mother had called the police to say that Kristen had not come home one night, an uncharacteristic action for the eighteen-year-old. But not until thirty-six hours after that was Kristen found near Hinchliffe Stadium in Paterson, New Jersey.
Hinchliffe Stadium was a decayed relic of a time gone by in Paterson. In its day it was the scene of minor league baseball games, high school football, auto racing, and some important boxing matches. But it had fallen into terrible disrepair and wasn’t designated as a historical landmark until eight years after Kristen had breathed her last.
So it wasn’t exactly a high-traffic area back then, and had some kids not been playing there, it might have been much longer before her whereabouts became known.
The police immediately considered it an attempted sexual assault leading to the murder, since the victim’s clothes were partially torn. The obvious theory was that she had fought hard to protect herself and scratched her killer, since traces of skin were under her fingernails.
The cause of death was strangulation, and in addition to the killer’s leaving behind his DNA in the skin under Kristen’s nails, the same DNA was found on a piece of discarded gum and a half-consumed beer can near the body. In the intervening years no match had ever been made. The partial fingerprint on the beer can was not enough to yield a match.
Apparently the killer had had no other run-ins with the law, before or since, because his DNA was not in any database. Every few years the Paterson Police ran it through the system, hoping for a match, but they were always disappointed.
The case was famous in Paterson, and occasionally the media would write stories revisiting it. It frustrated everyone that even though absolutely incontrovertible evidence existed to tie the killer to the crime, he was still out there, free.
Also, he might be dead, since it seemed unlikely that someone capable of such a cold-blooded murder would have kept his nose clean for the past fourteen years.
So all the authorities could do was wait for a break that seemed increasingly likely never to come.
Laurie Collins is great on the “giveth” … not so much on the “taketh away.”
Every marriage should have a balance; I think I read that somewhere once. It works that way with me and Laurie Collins, as she represents the human-decency side of our marriage. It’s not that I have inhuman decency, or human indecency; it’s just that I am comparatively agnostic on the subject. Fortunately, Laurie has me covered.
Laurie’s decency and spirit of giving last year-round, but especially come out during Christmastime. Of course, that would depend on whether your definition of Christmastime coincides with hers. I doubt that it does. I’d be willing to bet that it doesn’t.
For years she had viewed Christmas as starting with the conclusion of the Thanksgiving meal. It was a bit early, but on some level it seemed to make sense. Out with the old holiday, in with the new. And here in the Northeast, which is where our home in Paterson, New Jersey, is, the climate has a Christmassy chill in the air by then. For the past two years we’ve even had white Thanksgivings.
In her eyes, the end of Christmas has always been February 1, though she has never adequately explained the reason for that monthlong extension. I think it is just that she likes Christmas, so why not continue it? It wasn’t like anyone was going to stop her; I have long ago ceded control over the family calendar.
Last February, when she retired her Christmas albums for the year and I could finally stop listening to “Jingle Bells,” I made the mistake of mentioning that I was pleased that baseball season was about to get going, that “pitchers and catchers” had already reported for spring training. It got her to thinking that if baseball season could last seven months, it wasn’t fair that Christmas season lasted less than half as long.
“It’s only supposed to last three weeks,” I made the mistake of pointing out, and in retaliation she decreed that this year Christmas in our house was going to be even longer. She didn’t invite dissent on the matter.
So our son, Ricky, no sooner took off his Halloween costume last week … he went dressed as an aging Eli Manning … than Laurie announced the start of Christmas. Which means the start of giving.
Laurie has never come across a charity she doesn’t like. That’s fine with me because we are quite wealthy as a result of my inheritance and some lucrative cases I have handled as a criminal defense attorney. She keeps searching for new ways to share our good fortune, and she keeps finding them.
Last year she added a couple of excellent wrinkles to her charitable repertoire. She goes into the local department store in downtown Paterson and writes them a check that they are to apply to layaway items being purchased by their customers.
Her view is that if people are buying gifts on layaway, they must be on the borderline of being able to afford them. So this way when they come in to make their last payments, the cashier tells them that the gifts have already been paid for and hands them their items. It’s like a Christmas present for those struggling to buy Christmas presents.
Her other new trick is even more personal. The local post office, as well as a couple of retail stores in town, puts a tree in their lobby. Children then fill out a small form asking for special gifts, and those are put in envelopes and hung on the tree. Laurie takes a bunch of them and anonymously makes the wishes come true.
No place would think to install a Christmas tree the first week in November, so Laurie has approached the places and requested the wish lists of children who have already submitted them, in anticipation of the tree being set up. The stores know that Laurie is dedicated and totally reliable, so they are happy to give the wishes to her, and she is happy to fulfill them.
So that’s what she is doing today, as a way to celebrate the start of her extended Christmas season. She’s opening wish cards from our local pet store, occasionally laughing and more often crying. Some of them can be pretty poignant and heartbreaking, such as when children ask for a pair of shoes, or a warm coat.
Laurie has a rule: if she opens a wish card, she will make it happen, no matter what. I cringe at the possibility that some kid is going to request a Porsche, or a mail-order bride.
The kids include their address so that the donors will know where to send the gifts. Laurie goes to the stores and personally picks out everything. She then carefully wraps the gifts, sometimes including a card from Santa, and then sends them by UPS.
She generally does not include me in doing this, which I’m absolutely fine with. Occasionally she’ll mention a wish that seems funny, or maybe particularly sad, but basically it’s her thing. So right now she is doing her thing and I am fulfilling my own wish, which is to sit on the couch and watch ESPN.
“Andy, listen to this. It’s from a boy named Danny Traynor.” She starts reading the note, which starts
with the traditional “Dear Santa.” “‘Santa, I know I always ask for stuff, but this time it’s important. Can you please give us a coat for my mom and a sweater for my dog Murphy? He’s a dachshund, so it has to be a long one. And then I have a special request for my present. Please, Santa, please find my dad and bring him home. Thank you. Your friend, Danny.’”
“Uh-oh.”
“We need to get into this, Andy.”
“Get into it how? The kid’s father might have run off with his secretary, for all we know.”
“Maybe, and if it’s something like that, we can back off. But we’re investigators; let’s find out.”
“You’re an investigator; I’m a lawyer. If the kid wants to sue his father, that’s where I come in.” Laurie was a lieutenant in the Paterson Police Department and has served as my chief case investigator ever since she left that job.
She nods. “Fair enough; I’ll look into it myself. I have another job for you anyway. This one is right up your alley. It calls for a lawyer and dog lover, and you check both of those boxes.”
“I do not like the sound of this.” Laurie knows that I have been trying to get out of the lawyering business for a long time now. Unfortunately, I keep getting roped into taking on cases.
“Actually, I think this one is perfect for you. You might even have some fun.”
“You know I don’t like fun. I have never found fun to be any fun. I’m funny that way.”
She nods. “I’ll tell you what. Let’s go interview your potential client, and if you don’t want to take on his case, then no problem.”
No way am I going to get out of meeting this person, and in truth I’m as intrigued as I’m going to get. I don’t intrigue easily. “Now?” I point to the television. “While they’re talking about the Giants?”
Instead of answering, she picks up her phone and dials. Someone must answer because she says, “Does now work for you?”
I assume the answer is yes since Laurie hangs up the phone, stands, and says, “Your client meeting is about to begin.”
“Where are we going?”
“Eastside Park.”
“Can we take Tara and Sebastian?” Tara is my golden retriever; she is widely and correctly recognized as the supreme living creature on all planets so far discovered. Sebastian is our basset hound. He doesn’t aspire to such heights; basically all he wants to do is eat and sleep.
“Absolutely,” Laurie says. “They will fit right in.”
I know every inch of Eastside Park.
Not only did I grow up playing Little League and high school baseball on its fields, and tennis on its four courts, but it is where as a teen I hung out with friends trying to pick up girls.
It would be accurate to say that I had better success at baseball and tennis.
Now, since the park is only about seven blocks from my house, it’s where I take Tara and Sebastian when I want to give them a long walk. That happens almost every night, so by this point there is likely not a blade of grass that one of them hasn’t pissed on.
We enter as always through the Park Avenue entrance. It’s a Thursday afternoon so few people are here; they’re all at work.
Suckers.
A police car is parked near the tennis courts, and we walk in that direction. Stands are always set up for spectators, maybe enough to hold forty people. That’s more than sufficient; it’s not like they play the US Open in Eastside Park.
As we get closer, I see that a uniformed police officer is sitting in the first row of the stands, and with him is his partner, a beautiful German shepherd. I turn back toward the police car, and sure enough, on the side is writing identifying it as a K-9 unit. Nobody is playing tennis for them to watch, so it’s a pretty good bet that this is who we are here to meet.
“You want to fill me in on what’s going on?” I ask Laurie.
“Corey can do that.”
I look toward the court, trying to get a better look at the waiting cop. “Is that Corey Douglas?”
“It is.”
“He and I have an unpleasant history.”
“Time to turn the page, Andy. What’s past is past. Don’t look back. Time to forgive and forget. Let bygones be bygones.”
“What are you, a cliché machine? I am not representing that guy. He’s nuts.”
About three years ago I cross-examined Sergeant Corey Douglas about his actions on a case. I don’t remember all the details, but the cross did not go well for him. I nailed him for not having probable cause to take the actions he took, and all the evidence he accumulated was ruled inadmissible.
It wasn’t highly unusual, until he came at me in the parking lot afterward. He was furious with me, which in itself doesn’t make him at all unique among police officers I encounter. What struck me is that his anger was on behalf of his dog.
The dog, whose name I believe is Simon, had performed great work in the operation, at some risk to his physical well-being. Douglas was outraged that Simon’s success, and the risks he had taken, now were rendered worthless by the court.
He saw it as my fault. Which, I suppose, it was.
Douglas didn’t attack me physically in the parking lot, which was rather lucky for me, since he has me by forty pounds and four inches. He’s also not a coward, which gives him another advantage over me. But for a few minutes I thought he was going to lose it, so I got out of there as fast as I could, and I haven’t seen him again until now.
We reach them and Laurie says, “Corey, Andy … I believe you already know each other?”
He and I both nod, and I throw in a small sneer for effect. Never let it be said that Andy Carpenter is mature. Tara and Sebastian, meanwhile, are not holding a grudge against Simon. They are sniffing away at each other.
Laurie smiles. “Good; this is a special moment. Corey, why don’t you explain the situation to Andy?”
Instead of doing so, he says, “How about if we talk about the fee? If it’s too high—”
Laurie interrupts, “There is no fee, Corey. If Andy does this, it’s out of the goodness of his heart.”
Are you out of your mind? is what I want to scream at Laurie. But when it passes through my wimp filter, it comes out as “I have a lot of heart goodness; I’m known for it.”
Corey seems unappeased; maybe he thinks that I should pay him to be his lawyer. Finally he says, “We can table that for now. I’m retiring next month; I’ve put in my twenty-five.”
“Good luck with that,” I say, staring my version of a dagger at Laurie. “I keep retiring, but it never seems to take.”
“Simon—his full name is actually Simon Garfunkel—just turned nine.” Corey points to him. “We’ve been together seven years; I want him to retire with me. But retirement age for police dogs is ten.”
I know that the policy among police forces nationally in recent years is to let a dog live out his retirement years with his handler, should the handler want him. “So will they be giving Simon another handler for the next year?”
Corey nods. “Yes. Dogs now are trained to specialize, whether it be in apprehensions, locating suspects, drug interdiction, whatever. Back when Simon was trained, they taught them to do it all. They’re planning to move Simon to the drug detail when I leave.”
“What’s the problem?” I ask.
“His hips are acting up, and those drug-detection dogs are on their feet all day. It won’t be good for him. Plus, he’s put in enough time and service; they should let him live out his years with me. He deserves that. He loves me, and I love him even more.”
I see Laurie fight off a smile; she knows that’s the kind of pitch that will get to me.
“Have you taken this up the ladder?”
He nods. “I talked to the captain and got nowhere. Then I took it to the Appeals Board and they blew me off. That’s when Laurie suggested you.”
“So you want me to represent you in court?”
He shakes his head. “Not me. Simon.”
This time Laurie is unable to f
ight off the smile. “Simon would be your client, Andy.”
“Can I talk to him privately?” I ask.
“Sure,” Laurie says, and she leads Corey out of the stands, walking off toward his car. Simon, Tara, Sebastian, and I are left alone.
“Simon, you’ve had enough of this working crap?”
He licks my arm as I scratch his neck, so I take that as a yes.
“And, Tara, you’re good with this?”
I swear, she smiles at the prospect, so that’s another yes. I don’t bother asking Sebastian since it would involve waking him.
“All right, let’s go for it.” I get up and walk them all back to where Corey and Laurie are waiting.
“What was that about?” Corey asks.
“I can’t tell you what we talked out because of lawyer-client confidentiality.” Laurie rolls her eyes. “But I have decided to very temporarily come out of retirement to represent Simon. Okay?”
Laurie leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. I take that as a yes.
Corey’s reaction is slightly less heartwarming. “You know, I almost killed you in the parking lot that day.”
“It’s just as well that you didn’t.”
“Paperwork would have been ridiculous,” he says. “Plus, I like Laurie.”
“That’s why I keep her around.”
This one is not going to be easy.
I’m meeting at our house with Hike Lynch, the lawyer who works with me when I take on a case. Hike is a terrific researcher and has quickly gathered a great deal of information both on animal law in general, and police policy toward animals in particular.
Hike is by nature a total pessimist, not just in his work, but in his life. He is positive that everything will turn out badly, and when it doesn’t, he views it as proof that the next thing will turn out twice as bad. Hike considers the future, whether ten seconds or ten years away, to be something to fear.
But my concern about this case is not based on Hike’s description of it as a “total, wall-to-wall loser.” Considering his normal point of view, that could actually be described as almost upbeat. Unfortunately, I don’t see much here to work on; no law limits police discretion in handling their working dogs.
Dachshund Through the Snow Page 1