Jessie Black Box Set 2

by Larry A Winters

  “That’s not my intention.” She wondered why he cared. The notoriety had obviously increased his lunch rush, and the people around them seemed happy to consider her arrival as free entertainment. “Is there somewhere more private where we can talk? An office in the back?”

  “Am I legally required to talk to you?”

  Jessie hesitated. It was only for a second, but it was apparently enough to embolden him.

  “That’s what I thought,” he said, before she could respond. “I want you to leave my restaurant immediately. I have already spoken with the police. At length. I cooperated fully. I’m done.”

  He turned his back on her and signaled the hostess over to them with a snap of his fingers. “Angie, please call the police if this woman refuses to leave.”

  The hostess’s eyes widened. “I thought she was with the DA’s office.”

  “Are you questioning me?”

  The woman quickly looked at her shoes.

  “It’s okay,” Jessie said, speaking up. “I’ll come back another time, when you’re less busy.”

  “I’m always busy,” Bonarini said. Then he stormed away, back to the door through which he’d come.

  Angie looked at Jessie with a nervous expression, and Jessie tried to offer what she hoped was a reassuring nod. “I’ll go.”

  She walked outside into the sunlight, the noise of mid-day traffic, and the cold. If her objective had been to glean useful information from Jerry Bonarini, she’d failed spectacularly. Well, that’s why I’m a lawyer and not a detective.

  She was about to head north to get her own lunch—she figured an unpleasant encounter with a restaurateur justified a couple slices of pizza—when someone cleared his throat loudly behind her.

  Jessie turned. A man had come out of the restaurant. He was young and tall, and wore the black pants and shirt that seemed to be the uniform of the Bistro Cannata waiters. His long, dark hair was secured in a ponytail.

  “Hey, you said you’re with the DA’s office, right?”

  “Yes. Jessica Black.” She extended her hand. He hesitated for a moment, then shook it.

  “My name’s Greg Clifford. You’re here about the shooting?”

  “Yes. I had some questions. Were you working that night?”

  “I had their table.”

  “You waited on Keeley and Raines?” Jessie tried to keep the excitement out of her voice. Finally, a break.

  “Yeah. Listen, I don’t have much time. The lunch crowd is nuts today, and Jerry will kill me if he catches me out here. I just thought, since you’re here, I should tell you something. You know, for the record.”

  Jessie wasn’t sure what he meant. “For the record?”

  “To set things straight. I saw on the news, they’re saying Keeley was drinking. One website even had a whole thing about how he was rumored to be a recovering alcoholic, and he must have fallen off the wagon. But it’s not true. Only his date was drinking. I know because I was the one pouring the wine.”

  “Keeley was sober?”

  Jessie would need to double-check Fulco’s report. She was pretty sure the detail that Keeley had been drinking had come from Brooke Raines’s statement. Had Fulco simply taken her word for it?

  “Well, I couldn’t tell you that for sure,” Clifford said. “But I know he wasn’t drinking wine with his dinner. He ordered an ice tea and that’s all he drank.”

  Jessie chewed her lip. If Keeley hadn’t been drinking, and Raines had claimed he was, then that would be an inconsistency in her story. It might be a minor inconsistency—she could imagine a distraught woman making a mistake—but what if there were more?

  “Is there anything else you can you tell me? Did you hear any of their conversation?”

  “Some of it. It was awkward as hell. First few times I walked over to the table, they were talking about the weather. Then she must have broken the news that she was leaving him, because he was asking why and she was telling him she didn’t want to discuss it, she just wanted out. Then she got up and left and he followed her.”

  “Followed or chased?” The exchange the waiter had just described didn’t sound like the angry argument that had been recounted by Fulco and later reported in the news.

  The waiter squinted at her. “What do you mean? I don’t know. I guess he chased after her. But he wasn’t running or anything. She got up and left, and then he put his napkin on the table and got up and left, too. On his way out he told the hostess he’d be back to settle up.”

  Keeley had paused to tell the hostess he’d be back to settle up? That didn’t sound like the action of an enraged man rushing outside to hurt or kill a woman in a violent rage.

  “The same hostess working now? Angie?”

  Clifford nodded. “Yeah.”

  “Did she tell that to the police?”

  The waiter shrugged. “I don’t know. Jerry didn’t want us talking too much, you know? A lot of our customers are political bigwigs. He said they need to know we’re not eavesdropping on them, waiting to run to the police to report on them.” He shrugged, and his ponytail bobbed. “Makes sense, I guess.”

  Jessie did not agree. In fact, the more she heard, the less seemed to make sense.

  7

  After speaking with Greg Clifford outside Bistro Cannata, Jessie went back inside to ask Angie if she remembered Keeley pausing on his way out the door to tell her he would return to settle the bill. She did. Jessie thanked her and Clifford. When she left, she was no longer in the mood for lunch.

  She wanted to review the police file and compare it to the information she’d just received while it was still fresh in her mind. At her apartment, she carried a folder of documents to the couch, along with a steaming cup of coffee, and folded her legs under her.

  Two things she’d learned bothered her—first, that Corbin Keeley had not been drinking alcohol the night of the shooting, and second, that he’d taken the time, while supposedly chasing a woman, to stop and tell the hostess that he would come back for the bill. These details were minor, but they disturbed her anyway—because they did not mesh with what Fulco had told her. They also didn’t seem to mesh with the elements of a self-defense claim under Pennsylvania law, which required that Raines reasonably believed she was in imminent danger of death or serious bodily injury, that it was necessary to use deadly force against Keeley to prevent such harm, and that she had no ability to retreat.

  The police file was thin for a homicide investigation. Apparently, Fulco had felt comfortable closing the case after only a minimal investigation. Flipping through the documents now, she found Raines’s statement, a small collection of witness statements, and an autopsy report from the ME. The witness statements had been taken by the uniformed officers who’d interviewed the customers and staff of Bistro Cannata after Fulco whisked Raines away to the Roundhouse. It appeared that the detective himself had not followed up with any of those witnesses.

  She flipped to those witness statements now. She was looking for evidence that would back up Fulco’s conclusions and contradict what the waiter, Greg Clifford, had told her. Maybe Keeley had been seen pouring his own wine, for example, or even sneaking sips from a flask. And maybe the waiter had downplayed the violence of the altercation, or the urgency of Keeley’s exit.

  She read every witness statement. None of the witnesses reported seeing Keeley drink. None of the statements mentioned alcohol at all. Unfortunately, it did not appear that the police asked the question. Jessie supposed that Fulco probably had not yet learned of the role alcohol had supposedly played, so the police had not known to ask. Later, when the case appeared cut-and-dried, no one had followed up.

  There were numerous references to Keeley “walking” out of the restaurant after Raines. One diner stated that Keeley spoke to the hostess on his way out, which corroborated what the waiter and hostess had told her. With regard to the argument itself, no one described any yelling or violent behavior. Keeley and Raines did not appear to have made a scene. Had the shooting not o
ccurred, it seemed probable that no one would have remembered that they’d argued at all.

  Jessie turned to a series of pages covered in feminine handwriting. Brooke Raines’s statement, which Fulco had asked her to write out after she’d told them her story.

  The first thing Jessie noted was how neat each line of blue ink appeared. There were barely any crossed-out words or sentences. No extra details or explanations had been crammed into the margins. Nothing to show Raines’s thought process or even show that she’d been putting her thoughts to paper on the fly. If anything, the tidy writing implied the opposite. One sentence flowed to the next in logical order. It was as if Brooke Raines had already had the entire story fully composed ahead of time in her mind, and all she’d needed to do was write it down.

  That might mean nothing. Brooke Raines wasn’t your typical confessed killer. She was educated, probably used to writing, and her good penmanship wasn’t exactly compelling evidence against her. Plus, she’d just spent a few hours verbally explaining the shooting to Fulco, so that process could have helped organize her thoughts before a pad of paper was placed in front of her.

  Still, Jessie had seen many statements in her time as an assistant DA. This one, before she even read its substance, just looked wrong.

  And its substance increased, rather than eased, her suspicions:

  I had decided to end the relationship at a restaurant because doing it in a public place seemed safer than alone in one of our apartments. I just wanted to end things and leave, without getting thrown against a wall or kicked in the stomach or something much worse, which I knew he was capable of. Even in public, I wasn’t sure I would be safe. That’s why I brought my gun. I have a license to carry concealed. You can check it. Shooting is one of my hobbies. My father got me into it when I was a teenager, and I’ve been target shooting for years.

  She could imagine Fulco absorbing all of these details and thinking he’d won the jackpot—a homicide investigation he could close in less than a day, no muss, no fuss—no need to even testify in court, since no charges would be brought. A lazy cop’s dream come true.

  Corbin didn’t take it well at all. He started to yell at me, right there at our table in the restaurant. It was scary and embarrassing, and it just reinforced to me that he was a damaged person and that I needed to get out of this toxic relationship before he hurt me really bad.

  But Greg Clifford and the witnesses in the file reported a subdued argument, not the kind of yelling Raines described. Did that mean her description rose to the level of a lie? Maybe not. Jessie could only imagine what it would be like to suffer in an abusive relationship. She supposed it was possible that, subjectively, Keeley’s behavior had seemed scarier and louder to Raines, who knew his violent patterns and recognized the danger signs, than to casual onlookers. She kept reading.

  I realized I should have tried to stop Corbin from ordering wine. He was always at his worst when he’d been drinking.

  Hadn’t Clifford told her, with confidence, that only Raines had drunk the wine and that Keeley had limited himself to ice tea?

  I ran out of the restaurant. When I dared to look back, I saw Corbin running after me. He was moving fast and he looked furious. I’d seen that look before, the last time he hit me. It was terrifying.

  Jessie sipped coffee as she studied the words. Raines had twice used the word “run,” yet that didn’t seem corroborated by the witnesses.

  He said he was going to kill me. He grabbed a rock off the ground and hurled it at my head. I felt it whip past my head and I saw it hit the wall of the building and I knew if it had hit me, it could have killed me. There was no way I could get to my car and get away before he reached me. I had no choice. I pulled my gun out of my purse and I shot him.

  The scene that played in her mind’s eye was chilling. But there were no witness statements to back it up, and the only security camera in the vicinity had failed to capture the incident. Could she really rely on Raines’s account of what had happened outside when several key details she’d given about what had happened inside the restaurant were questionable? Doubting the honesty—or at least the accuracy—of a domestic abuse victim made her feel sick to her stomach, but she couldn’t ignore her instincts.

  Jessie flipped through the file. The next document that caught her eye was the autopsy report from the medical examiner. The ME’s language was clinical, a dry recitation of observations and measurements: On the left upper forehead, 1/2 inch to the left of the anterior midline, there is a gunshot entry wound. This wound consists of a 5/16 inch circular hole with circumferential abrasion and slight marginal radial laceration. Jessie skimmed the report, understanding the gist—Keeley had died from a gunshot to the head, which she already knew—but lacking the expertise to derive other clues from the language.

  She had one more trip she needed to make before she could call it a day. She needed to meet with the ME.

  8

  Andrew Dale, the deputy medical examiner who performed Corbin Keeley’s autopsy, was working. That meant Jessie had to brave the unpleasant smell and icy air of the morgue to meet with him. No matter how many times her job required her to visit this place, its tiled floor and walls, stainless steel tables and operating room sinks, and lack of any windows or natural light always made her skin crawl.

  That sensation increased tenfold when she saw what Dale had waiting for her.

  Dale had laid Corbin Keeley’s body on a table. The body looked pale. Surgical stitches tugged the rubbery flesh where the autopsy incisions had been closed. There were traces of a handsome face, marred by the gunshot wound and the ME’s work. His eyes stared lifelessly at the ceiling. His lips were slightly parted in a blank expression. Jessie had to force herself to look at him.

  It was strange, but seeing his body—which, in death, looked utterly devoid of humanity—was the first time she saw him as a person, instead of as the woman-beating stereotype described in the media.

  He’s the victim. She realized that somehow, against her nature, she had forgotten this obvious fact. With the photograph of Nina Long’s horribly bruised and swollen face stuck in her mind, she’d never focused on the photographs of Keeley. She’d never stopped thinking of Keeley as the aggressor, so she’d never focused on him as a victim. But he is the victim. And your job is to fight for the victims, even when they aren’t perfect.

  Dale, a short man who always seemed to be smiling, was grinning at her now. He had a bald head that gleamed under the morgue’s harsh overhead lights. “I thought I’d surprise you with a visual demonstration.”

  “Thanks,” she said, still distracted by her thoughts. When her head cleared, she said, “I’m surprised you still have the body. Didn’t the family ask for it to be released after the investigation closed?”

  “No,” he said. “Actually, they insisted we keep him.” Dale gave Keeley’s ankle an affectionate pat with a gloved hand. “They said they were in the process of persuading the police to reopen the investigation. I assume that’s why you’re here.”

  Jessie knew the morgue sometimes kept bodies for months if justified by the needs of an ongoing investigation or trial. Usually family members objected, just wanting to bury their loved ones and move on. But Carrie and her mother were not the usual family members.

  “We haven’t made any decisions yet,” she said. She returned his smile, although doing so while standing over a corpse felt unnatural. “Just trying to be thorough.”

  “Right.” Dale gave her a pair of gloves. The smell of latex filled her nose, mingling with the other odors of the room—chemicals and the faint stink of decay. She suppressed a gag. Dale didn’t seem to notice. He gave the corpse another friendly pat. “So what can I tell you about the councilman?”

  Jessie looked at the body again. Glassy, dead eyes stared back at her. “Tell me about your autopsy.”

  “Manner of death was homicide. Cause of death was a gunshot wound to the head.” Dale gestured at the entrance wound in Keeley’s forehead. “N
ot exactly a medical mystery.”

  “I guess not.” Jessie wondered if she’d ever be able to speak about a victim with the detachment of Dale’s matter-of-fact tone. She doubted it. The room suddenly felt chillier. “Is there anything you found interesting or unusual?”

  Dale shrugged. “I don’t know if I’d say that. But….” His voice trailed off.

  “But what, Andrew?”

  He seemed to hesitate. “This isn’t a medical observation, which is why I didn’t include it in my report. But I did wonder.”

  “Wonder about what?” She tried to keep her voice level as she urged him to continue.

  “Look at the entrance wound.” He pointed a gloved finger at the hole in Keeley’s forehead, a few inches above his left eye. “You see the round shape and the surrounding margin of abrasion, consistent with a gunshot wound. This,” he said, moving his finger around the edge of the hole, “is gunpowder stippling. You see the width of the stippling? That indicates that the bullet was fired from an intermediate range—not close-up.”

  “Okay….” Jessie said. “That’s strange?”

  “Brooke Raines claims she was fleeing from Keeley, in fear of her life, right? She ran into the parking lot. He threw a big rock at her. She got her gun out of her purse and fired at him. We know, from the body, that she fired from some distance. What are the chances of a panicked woman, firing from a distance, hitting Keeley in the head?”

  “She had experience with guns. She was licensed to carry concealed, and had been for years.”

  Dale made a face. “Even excellent marksmen don’t hit their targets when they fire in a panic—not in my experience, anyway, and I see a lot of gunshot wounds. If I were to guess, I’d say Ms. Raines pulled her gun calmly, carefully took aim, and shot him. And that’s not how your typical self-defense shooting plays out, is it?”

  Jessie’s mouth felt dry. “No.”

  “And there’s another thing, too,” Dale said.

  “What?”