Sam nods. “Right. But two of the calls were made the day before Kristen McNeil’s murder, and one that night.”
“Are you sure?” I ask unnecessarily, since in matters like this Sam is always sure, and always right.
“Yes. They were made from three different phones. If it’s one person making the calls to him, he is a very careful guy.”
This is stunning news, and it leads to a few conclusions. For one thing, Taillon’s hiring Siroka to follow me clearly relates to the Noah Traynor case. Siroka had said that, but this confirms it. For another, Taillon was probably himself involved in Kristen McNeil’s murder, whether directly or indirectly.
And last, it makes perfect sense that Taillon was killed, maybe by his own employer. He obviously knew a great deal, and we knew about him. He therefore presented an intolerable risk.
“This is significant stuff, Sam. Thanks.”
“You want the other highlight?”
“There’s more?”
He nods. “A week before Kristen McNeil was murdered, Taillon placed two calls to NetLink Systems.”
This case is different from most.
In almost every situation in which a defendant is accused of murder, the defense has certain standard options. Credibility of witnesses can be called into question, alibis can be offered, prosecution theories can be attacked.
In this case? Not so much.
The prosecution will confidently offer their DNA evidence and dare us to knock it down. They will say, without fear of contradiction, that Noah Traynor was at Hinchliffe Stadium with Kristen McNeil and that she had his skin fragments under her fingernails.
They will also say, again without fear of contradiction, that he could not have missed media reports about the murder, yet did nothing. Did not come forward, did not explain himself, did not offer to help, did not submit to questions … nothing.
They have no fear of contradiction because we cannot contradict them. We can try to attack the science, but time and time again that has proven to be futile. We can attack the way the police got to Noah through the online DNA site that initially sent them to his brother. But that issue, adjudicated in other venues, has been determined to violate no privacy rights.
We can attack the forensic people that collected it: we can claim they were incompetent or corrupt or that they screwed up the chain of custody. But if I get up in court and do any of that, everyone within the sound of my voice will know I am full of shit.
Simply put, the prosecution is right; Noah was there, he did leave those skin fragments behind, and he never subsequently came forward in fourteen long years. They don’t have to offer theories; they simply have to present that evidence and let the jury decide.
With this fact pattern, there is no question how they would decide. Which means we cannot attack this head-on, so we have to come at it through a side door, and when we come in that door, we had damn well better have with us a person we can point to as the real murderer.
The only people that I know now that could possibly fit this description are Siroka and especially Taillon. The bad news is that they are not going to be walking through that door because they are both dead.
To make matters significantly worse, it will be much harder to investigate Taillon and Siroka now that they have moved on to the great beyond. I assume that someone found that to be a motivating factor when deciding to kill them.
So while I am fairly certain that Taillon and maybe Siroka are directly connected to the McNeil killing, I am nowhere close to getting an impartial observer to believe it.
I can’t even pin down who Taillon called at NetLink Systems. It could have been Kyle; maybe he hired Taillon to kill Kristen when Kyle was out of town and therefore had an alibi. Or it could have been any other employee there. Kristen worked there and obviously knew a lot of people in the place, so there is no telling who had a reason to want to hurt her.
It is not even inconceivable that Taillon could have called Kristen herself. Her sister indicated that Kristen might have been having an affair with an older man; maybe she had taken up with Taillon. He was a dangerous guy, so something could have happened that made her scared and want to leave town.
Which brings us to Mitch Holzer. He’s the guy that Pete Stanton said was a semi-associate of Taillon’s, the person who would back up or fill in for Taillon when Taillon needed help or was unavailable. Pete described him as an independent contractor, much like Taillon, and said to be careful with him, that he was dangerous.
Laurie has had Marcus checking Holzer out and figuring out the best way to approach him. I already know that the best way to approach him is while standing behind Marcus, but I’m willing to listen to suggestions. He has just called to report in and is on the phone with Laurie offering those suggestions.
Laurie does almost no talking on the call, again simply offering a few Okays and Rights. This compares to when I talk to Marcus; the only words I say are What? and Huh?
When she finally gets off, she says, “Marcus is going to take you to see Holzer tonight.”
This is not pleasant news; I don’t like putting myself into dangerous situations, even though it always seems to happen. My instinct is always to delay it as much as possible. “Tonight? I have plans for tonight.”
“What kind of plans?”
“I was hoping to have dinner with my family, so that we could discuss family stuff.”
“Family stuff?”
“Right. Like how was your day, how was Ricky’s day, how was my day. That’s what families do; they talk at dinner about their day. Then I was going to help with the dishes, and there’s a really good Seinfeld rerun on. It’s the one where George sleeps with the cleaning lady at work.”
“I’ll DVR it for you.”
“It’s not the same. I like to watch it live.”
“It was shot twenty years ago. Should I tell Marcus you don’t want to talk to Holzer?”
She’s got me; she knows that even though my cowardice is shining through in bright neon, I’ll have to go. If I refused, I’d be letting down my client. This represents a perfect example of why I don’t like to have clients in the first place.
“I’ll go. But make sure Marcus knows that he has to stop Holzer from killing me.”
This isn’t necessarily going to be so bad.
Holzer is supposed to be a dangerous guy; I’ll take that as a given. But I am only going to talk to him. If he refuses, he refuses, but he can do so without resorting to violence.
On the other hand, it’s not exactly breaking news that many people find me annoying. I have seen enough examples of it to know that on some level it must be true. If it walks and annoys like a duck, it’s a duck.
If Holzer is one of those people, and there’s a good bet that he will be, then things could get a bit scary.
Enter Marcus Clark.
Marcus picks me up at the house at 10:00 P.M. Laurie kisses and hugs me good-bye; she claims she’s not worried, but I don’t quite get that display of affection when I go to Charlie’s to have burgers and beer with Vince and Pete.
We drive to a bar on Market Street in downtown Paterson. The area is known for having its share of violent crime; the only way I would ordinarily come down here at this hour would be if I was accompanied by a Marine battalion, or Marcus.
Laurie said that Marcus told her that Holzer hangs out in this bar pretty much every night and actually uses an office in the back. I come up with a strategy on the way down there and share it with Marcus. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t even say anything, but I have to assume he’s heard me because I’m sitting about three feet away from him and the radio is off.
The plan is not terribly complicated. Marcus is going to go in first and situate himself in a place from which he can observe. I’m then going to approach Holzer and try to talk to him, without his realizing that Marcus and I are together. I don’t want Holzer to see me as an enemy, but good buddies don’t bring Marcus Clark to a meeting.
We park a few
stores down from the bar, and Marcus goes in while I wait in the car. This means that I will have to walk about fifty feet by myself, which does not please me. But I give him about three minutes, then take a deep breath and follow.
Probably fifteen people are in the bar, and the first complication is that I have no idea what Holzer looks like. I could yell, Hey, Holzer!, and see who turns around, but instead I go over to the bartender, who looks at me like I’m from another planet. Which I guess I am.
“I’m looking for Holzer,” I say.
The bartender doesn’t say a word, much like Marcus in the car. My words have no impact on these people; you’d think they were on a jury. All the bartender does is turn and go through a door to the back. Hopefully Holzer is back there and he’s going to come out and talk to me.
About three minutes later the bartender returns and says, “He’ll meet you in the back in five minutes.”
“Through that door?” I point to the door the bartender just used.
He shakes his head. “No. Around the back. Through the alley.”
I think I see the bartender make eye contact with a guy near the end of the bar. A large guy, by appearance he would fit the dictionary definition of goon. The combination of him and the word alley is somewhat worrisome. But I say, “Okay … thanks … five minutes,” to the bartender.
In the meantime, the goon gets up, noticeably does not make any effort to pay for his drink, and goes outside. I walk over near Marcus and whisper, “He told me to meet Holzer in the back of the alley in five minutes. I think the guy that just left is involved.”
Marcus doesn’t say anything; he just gets up and leaves. I hope he’s not going home; I wish I had kept the car keys.
I wait the five minutes, which seems like five seconds, then I take a deep breath and go outside. The alley is to the right of the bar, and I instruct my legs to continue walking into the alley and toward the back of the building.
I am almost there when a figure appears next to me, not saying anything but walking at my side. It’s Marcus, which is good news.
We turn the corner, and dim but decent light is coming from various windows in the adjacent buildings. Standing against the building are two men, the goon from the bar and another large guy I assume is Holzer.
The goon says to me, “Just you.” Then, to Marcus: “Beat it.”
Holzer, if that’s who it is, says, “Oh, shit.”
Marcus, in typical Marcus fashion, does not say anything and does not move.
“I told you to beat it,” the goon says.
“That’s Marcus Clark, right?” Holzer asks no one in particular.
“I don’t care who it is,” says the goon, who will now and forever be known as the idiot goon.
The idiot goon makes a move toward Marcus, I assume to attempt to physically remove Marcus from the premises. The idiot goon reaches out with his arm, and Marcus takes that arm, sort of pivots around, and emulates an Olympic hammer throw, using the idiot goon as the hammer.
In the dim light the result is a little hard to see, but the sound echoing through the mostly enclosed area is crystal clear. The way Marcus performed the act, one can’t say which part of the idiot goon’s body hit the brick wall first. Based on the crunching sound, and that he just crumples to the cement unmoving, I’m thinking it was his head.
“I tried to warn him,” Holzer says.
“You and Marcus have met?” I ask.
Holzer nods. “Once, from a distance. But he’s a known quantity. You I don’t know.”
“So why did you set up this scene back here?”
He shrugs. “Somebody comes looking for me, I’m careful. Especially after what happened to G.”
Taillon’s first name was George, so I’m assuming that’s who he’s talking about. But I ask him, just to be sure, and he confirms it.
“Who killed him?” I ask.
“I still don’t know who the hell you are.”
“My name is Carpenter; you can call me C. I’m a lawyer, and Taillon hired someone to follow me. His name was Siroka and they both got killed. I want to know who wanted me followed and why. I think that person is the same one that killed Taillon and Siroka.”
“I don’t know anything about why you were being followed, nor do I give a shit.”
I nod. “I didn’t ask you that. I asked you who killed Taillon.”
“I want to get the son of a bitch as much as you do. I got the word out on the street.”
“Good. So what is the son of a bitch’s name?”
Holzer thinks for a few moments, as if coming to a decision. The only sounds I hear are the small groans coming from the idiot goon. Marcus looks over at him; he seems to be at least partially awake and taking in the scene, but doesn’t seem inclined to get up and back in the action.
Finally Holzer says, “I could be wrong; I’m just making a guess here.”
This is like pulling teeth. “Guess away.”
“There’s a name, a guy, that’s hired G a few times in the past. I heard his name once. But when he called, G would drop everything. He wouldn’t tell me anything about the guy; he let the name slip by accident. I guess he didn’t want me to horn in on the action, which meant the guy paid big money. G wanted to keep it for himself.”
“What was the name?”
“Not long ago, I had a job that I needed some help on, but G bailed on me. He said he had a job, and he couldn’t take anything else on. I had the feeling that the same guy was using him for something.”
This is taking forever; I’m tempted to have Marcus beat it out of him. “What is the guy’s name?”
“You didn’t hear it from me, right?”
I nod; we could be getting close. “Right.”
“Arrant. The guy’s name is Arrant.”
I’ve never heard the name Arrant, which is not significant.
Plenty of bad guys are not on my radar, which is fine with me.
That might not even be the guy’s name. Holzer said he only heard it once, so it could have been slightly different. It also wouldn’t have seemed terribly important to Holzer at the time, so he might be misremembering it. And even if he got it mostly right, it could be spelled a few different ways.
Holzer didn’t provide a first name. Who knows, maybe Arrant is the guy’s first name. Maybe it’s Arrant Smith. Or Arrent Ramirez. Or Aaron Schwartz.
But the good news is that I have a number of ways to check it out, the first one being Sam Willis. So Sam is the first call I make as soon as I get home, even though it’s almost midnight. Sam is always awake.
Uncharacteristically, he sounds out of it when he answers the phone, so I ask, “Did I wake you?”
“No. I’ve got the flu; damn thing is wiping me out.”
“Sorry to hear that. If you’re up to it, call me tomorrow.”
“Is this about a case? Tell me now; I need something to take my mind off how bad I feel.”
I tell him about the name Arrant and how I need whatever information Sam can find. I would give him more details, but I don’t have any.
“I’m on it. If I come up with anything, I’ll email you a report. I don’t want to come over and risk you guys catching this, and it hurts my throat to talk.”
Depending on what Sam can come up with, I might go to Pete Stanton or Cindy Spodek, our friend at the FBI, to further dig up information on whoever this Arrant guy might be. He’s our only lead now, which doesn’t say much for the status of our investigation.
The morning starts on a decidedly down note; Hike comes over to go over pretrial preparation. He’s written and we’ve filed a series of briefs, such as change of venue, request for bail, inadmissibility of certain evidence, et cetera. We’re doing it now because we’ve come into the case late, and some of them basically duplicate efforts that the public defender had already made.
We’ve put a new twist on them, but it’s not going to matter. Some of them have already been rejected, and the rest will be. If we’re going to have any suc
cess in this case, it’s going to have to be in front of the jury.
We’ve tracked down a few people that we can use as character witnesses for Noah, but it’s basically fluff to pad our case. Our basic problem remains: we are not going to be able to prove Noah innocent; we must show that someone else is possibly guilty.
It’s all depressing, so much so that Hike’s leaving doesn’t even make me feel better. I’m going to spend the rest of today rereading the discovery documents and reviewing witness statements.
To break up the pain of that, I’m also going to head down to the Tara Foundation for some dog therapy and pick Ricky up from school. But even with those welcome respites, it looks like it’s going to be a long and uneventful day.
Once again, I’m wrong. A major event happens in the form of a phone call from Sam Willis. His voice is still raspy from his illness as he says, “I can’t believe you haven’t called me.”
At first I think he means I should have checked in to find out how he’s feeling, but that’s not really Sam’s style. “Why should I have called you?”
“Why? The email I sent after we talked last night. It took me all of twenty minutes to research. What did you think?”
“I just checked my emails. Didn’t get anything.”
“I sent it to your work email.”
“Oh, I checked personal. You want to tell me about it?”
“You should look at it and call me back. But it’s huge.”
I hang up and open my business email account, which I obviously don’t need to be in the office to access, and which I almost never check. After all, I work as little as possible. Sure enough, there’s an email from Sam:
“The guy Holzer was talking about is Charles Arrant. He was born in London, but has lived all over the world. But get this … there’s an Interpol Red Notice Alert out on him. In fact, there are three of them. I’ve attached a bunch of documents. Call me. Sam.”
Even before I download the documents, I know that Sam is already right about one thing: this is huge.
Somehow Sam has gotten access to the actual Interpol documents, as well as media reports and other background information. But it all boils down to Arrant’s having gotten Red Notices at the request of three countries: Great Britain, France, and Sweden. A number of photographs of him are also included, to help law enforcement around the world identify him.
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