by Sydney Bauer
“I could do some point comparison but, and forgive the pun, there really isn’t any point. They’re apples and oranges, ladies and gentlemen.”
“Shit,” said Frank. “This case will not cut us a break.”
He was right. Joe felt like they had been walking backward the minute they had arrived in Quantico—Ned Jacobs blowing their profiler ideas out of the water, Susan’s technician buddy dashing their hopes of placing Simpson at the crime scene with one flick of his “ninety-eight percent accuracy rate” screen.
“Look,” said Susan, after thanking Wicks and directing her two obviously disappointed friends back out of the laboratory. “It’s not all bad. The prints aren’t a match, but that doesn’t mean Simpson wasn’t in that greenhouse. You keep telling me how smart the kid is—so maybe he was careful, wore gloves or . . .”
“It doesn’t make any difference,” said Joe, stepping back so Susan could exit the heavy lab door first. “No evidence is still no evidence, and Jacobs is set on his sexual attraction theory so . . .”
While profiler Jacobs had agreed the killer’s organized, controlling approach to the murder could fit someone of either Peter Nagoshi or H. Edgar Simpson’s personality, he was still convinced the killer had some sort of sexual attraction to Jessica. He said the shoes were the key, as many perpetrators saw their victim’s feet as extremely erotic.
“The feet are incredibly sensual—but safe,” he had explained. “Removing her shoes was a particularly clean way to assert his control over her. He did not need to rape her, to risk revealing his identity by leaving his DNA at the scene. But still he managed to commit this crime in the way that he needed to commit it. No, I am afraid my assessment stands, gentlemen. The killer was attracted to her—no doubt in my mind.”
And so Jacobs had effectively destroyed both of their theories in one sweeping observation.
The scene was just as David expected—small groups of mostly males congregating in clusters—talking, drinking, smiling. The large conference room table had been pushed aside to create a wide open space in which to mingle. The curtains were wide open, revealing the city lights below. The men were basically clones of one another—dark suits, short hair, their ages in that appropriate margin that spread comfortably above or below the respectable watershed that was middle age. The women were dressed much the same, their suit skirts ending just above the knee, long enough to scream credibility and short enough to win the eye of an ever-appreciative ADA.
And there he was, all genuine interest and ingratiating smiles. He was chatting with Sweeney and his entourage, his dark brown suit screaming fine Italian wool, his shoes so damned shiny they must have required a set of high-powered double As just to maintain the wattage.
David moved forward, ignoring the stares from the few suits who had already looked across to see him bounding across the floor. And then Katz glanced upward, no doubt distracted by the peripheral image of a man torpedoing across the room toward him.
“Cavanaugh,” said Katz at once, and in that moment David saw three emotions shift quickly across his expression—alarm, anger, and then, perhaps, a determination to swallow his panic and “strut his stuff” in front of the powerful, influential supporter beside him.
“What an unexpected surprise,” he said, turning toward David, a sort of half smile, half grimace on his perfectly chis eled face.
“We need to talk,” said David. “We can do it here, in front of your fearless leader, or you can choose to step outside.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cavanaugh,” Katz began. “But I am afraid this is a private function.”
“Your choice, Katz,” interrupted David, “because to be honest I don’t give a crap who hears what I have to say.”
“Excuse me,” said Sweeney, now moving into their space. “Mr. Cavanaugh,” he said, extending his hand on instinct, before quickly withdrawing it at David’s glare. “Counselor, I have heard great things about you and your work, but I am afraid this behavior is completely unacceptable.”
“So sue me,” said David, turning toward the AG.
“For God’s sake,” said Sweeney, his face now flush with color. “Roger, call security.”
Katz was obviously in a bind: on one hand he needed to obey Sweeney; on the other, he did not want to look like a pussy in front of his entire staff, who were now viewing the exchange with great interest. So in the end he compromised. He leaned into David’s ear and whispered, “Outside, now,” before straightening his tie and directing David toward the back of the room.
The silence was deafening, the suits lost in some mesmerizing game of people tennis—except there were two balls in play and both had been lobbed straight to the back of the court and, sadly, out of bounds.
The minute they were out the door Katz let loose, no doubt realizing he had a small window of opportunity to show his wares before the slow moving air pump closed the door with a hiss.
“What the hell do you think you are doing, Cavanaugh? How dare you waltz in here uninvited. Shelley, call security. I want Mr. Cavanaugh here arrested for trespassing.”
“No chance,” said David, noticing Shelley had not moved an inch. “The DA’s office is open to all citizens of this fine state and I am, whether you like it or not, Roger, one of those fine goddamned taxpayers. You fucked with me today, Roger. You screwed with my client. You had him expelled from Deane knowing full well how that would play out in the press.”
The door shut with an almost inaudible click and Katz took a quick step back. “So, you heard about my little call to Dean Johns? An extremely insightful administrator, if ever there was one.”
“You are one sick fuck, Katz,” said David, his heart now pumping in triple time.
“Really? Then why do I feel so healthy, Cavanaugh? I am sitting pretty with a long career and a life full of promise ahead of me. Which is more than I can say for you, or your client who . . .”
“There is no way you will win this, Roger. James Matheson is innocent and the court will know the truth. One day you are going to have to face what you do to these people, count the lives you have ruined and be accountable for them. What you did today was a perversion of justice, plain and simple. So, while racing toward this speedy trial you requested, you better make sure you prepare a speech for Stein as to why you effectively tainted a statewide jury pool by interfering with . . .”
“You’re not filing a counter motion?” interrupted an obviously confused Katz.
“Why would I? James is innocent. We want to make sure he is home for Christmas.”
“And so you shall,” smiled the Kat. “Christmas 2999. Of course he will be well into his hundreds and his eyesight might not be as great as it is right now, but in the very least he’ll enjoy seeing in the new millennium and sipping the odd glass of cider.”
David took a breath before looking straight into his enemy’s dark brown eyes, seeing nothing but arrogance and overconfidence and greed. He took a step forward—slowly, carefully, until he was face-to-face with the shiny-faced ADA, Katz’s stance now unsure, his breath hot and sour and tinged with the slightest trace of fear.
“Are you listening to me, Roger?” David asked, his voice barely over a whisper. “You need to listen to me because what I am about to say is going to change your life.
“I am going to win this thing, you pathetic excuse for an attorney, and sink your precious future in the process. I am going to cut you down and wring you out and leave you bloodied and bare and wishing you never took me on in the first place.
“I am nothing if not determined, Roger—even you can give me that. And so know,” he said, “know, in here,” he said again, this time pushing his right fist hard against Katz’s chest, “that it is my mission to expose you, to humiliate you—personally, professionally, publicly—for your criminal manipulation of the law and the oath you swore to uphold. Your total disregard for humanity is beyond evil, Roger, and I will not rest until you get what you deserve.”
Just then they were interrupt
ed by a figure approaching from down the hall, and David, whose eyes did not leave the ADA’s, presumed it was the security guards ready to remove him from the premises. But it could not be the guards, he thought, at least not yet, as Shelley had not lifted a finger to summon them.
It was a waiter, carrying a fresh tray of drinks. And as he eyed the pair, obviously sensing the tension and making a rather wide circle around them in an effort to reach the conference room door unscathed, David called “Wait!” before grabbing the man’s arm and reaching across to grab an icy cold beer from his tray.
“Humph,” said Katz, taking a swallow, momentarily relieved to have David leave the confines of his precious personal space. “What do you plan to do, tough guy?” he asked, finding a new surge of confidence as he took another step back. “You gonna throw a drink in my face? Don’t worry, I’ve had more than a few whores respond in exactly the same way when they have been disappointed by my rejection.”
David said nothing, merely lifted the drink to his lips and took several deep swallows, allowing the cold amber liquid to cool his parched throat. He drained the glass within seconds before placing the empty tumbler back on the tray, nodding to the waiter in thanks and turning to Katz.
“You’re an asshole, Roger,” he said, after which he pulled back his arm and closed his fist, his punch connecting with Katz’s right cheek before the Kat even knew what hit him.
And then he turned to Katz’s assistant, totally disregarding the now flailing ADA who lay in a heap on the worn hallway floor.
“Shelley,” said David, rubbing his fist. “Thanks for the invite. It’s been a pleasure.”
“Any time,” said Shelley with a smile, diverting her eyes from her “beloved” boss to the man who stood triumphant before her.
66
“I’m sorry, H. Edgar,” said Alison Westinghouse. “But I am sure I heard him correctly. He said he was going to visit his best friend and clear the air. Now, I know that you are his closest friend, so I just assumed you two had had some sort of spat, which is completely understandable given the pressure you poor boys have been under, and that he was going to meet you to make amends.
“Perhaps he is stuck in traffic,” Alison Westinghouse went on. “Although I assumed he was meeting you at home so he should be there by now. Do you think we should be concerned?”
“No,” snapped Simpson, his brain now working double-time. “I mean, I am sure he is fine, Mrs. Westinghouse. It must be the traffic. The Red Sox are playing at Fenway so . . .”
“Oh, I see.”
“You’re right,” he lied. “We did have a disagreement. Nothing huge. Like you said, this has been a stressful time and well . . . Heath has been a rock, Mrs. Westinghouse. I am lucky to call him my friend.”
“And he thinks the same way about you, H. Edgar. You two must stick together now given . . .”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Simpson, now desperate to get off the phone. “I’ll see you then.”
“Of course, H. Edgar. You know you are welcome any time.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Westinghouse.” And then he hung up the phone. H. Edgar stood stock-still in the hallway of his parents’ grandiose Chestnut Hill mansion, the Persian rug thick beneath his feet, the corridor walls covered in original landscapes, and the only heir to this monstrous Brahman haul now fearing that life as he knew it was over—or at least in its agonizing death throes.
No, he said to himself, realizing what his friend was about to do. “No,” he said aloud, knowing that if he did not act, his brilliant strategy of damage control would be sabotaged before it even got a chance to get off the ground.
He took a breath, closed his eyes and opened them again, now looking up to see the keys to his mother’s BMW X5 hanging on a hook above the marble-topped side table. He leapt forward, snatching them off the wall before running for the door and, once outside, turning left toward the estate’s expansive six-car garage.
He looked at his Rolex. 1:52 p.m. Westinghouse was at least twenty minutes ahead of him so there was no time to waste. He unlocked the SUV and jumped up into the leather upholstered driver’s seat before turning on the ignition, releasing the hand brake and screeching down the circular drive, kicking up a tornado of polished white pebbles in his wake.
Heath Westinghouse was sick to his stomach. In fact, he had felt the nausea rise in his esophagus the minute he walked into Suffolk County Jail. Everything about this place said “puke.” The smell was so sickly he swore he could see the airborne germs bumping heads with the chemically toxic antiseptics that saturated the air like napalm. The guards were so fat that the guns in their belts looked like leather-holstered penises, standing at attention to their bulbous waists. The walls were so white he felt sure they were painted daily, with years of in-ground grime left to fester underneath. And the population was so black that he . . . well, needless to say, this was not a scenario he was used to.
Heath closed his eyes and shook his head rapidly from side to side as if attempting to rid it of all the concerns (prejudices) and worries (fears) that were forcing their way to the forefront of his brain. He was here to see James, to sort things out, clear the air, apologize for being responsible for their sending him to this fucking hole that . . . But one quick reminder of the significance of his surroundings and the wave was back again, this time rising as far as his throat, forcing him to swallow his very own vomit. And then he felt it—a welcome sigh of relief—at the sound of the doorknob twisting before him. His friend was here—James, his smart as all hell, athletically gifted friend who, in the very least, would appreciate his discomfort.
“Fuck,” he said as James entered the room. “Jesus fucking Christ, man. Shit! What did they do to you? You look like . . . Shit. Jesus. Fuck!”
James said nothing, just moved in slowly to take the seat across from him in the small, white, cinder block room.
“I am so sorry, man,” said Heath, shaking his head, diverting his eyes, looking everywhere, anywhere but at the distorted human being before him.
“I am not supposed to be talking to you,” said a weary James.
“I . . .” Heath began. “I know. I mean, we are obviously supposed to be the enemy. But James, we never thought it would come to this. H. Edgar told me you were cool, and the money was split and . . . Why did you lie about Barbara?”
“So this is why you are here?” said James, shaking his head ever so slightly.
Heath winced at the sight of his friend’s swollen black eye, which puckered as his head moved from side to side.
“You want to bang me up for lying about getting laid?” asked James. “Well, I’m sorry, Westinghouse, but as you can see, somebody already beat you to it.”
Heath nodded. He had not cried in years, but that was what he was doing now—slowly, silently, the tears tracking down his smooth, tanned cheeks.
“James,” he began. “I don’t understand any of this, man. H. Edgar says you are guilty.”
“I know,” said James at last, his own tears now leaking from the corner of his one good eye. “And to be honest with you, I am almost past caring.” James stopped there, as Heath leaned in across the table, desperate to comfort his close friend but unsure as to how, given James’ horrendous injuries and the oversized asshole standing guard by the door.
“You know,” James went on, now mere inches from his friend, “sometimes, at night, I imagine what it would be like to join them. To let go, to give in. And then I close my eyes and shut out the world, and then I see them, Heath. I see Jess and my son, smiling, relieved, grateful that I have finally worked out exactly where I belong.”
“No,” said Heath, now gripping James’ wrist, causing the overweight uniform to take a step forward. “Enough is enough, James. You cannot forget what you had and what you will have again. Jessica is gone, and that is a really awful thing, but if she loved you like you say she did, she would not want this for you. I will talk to H. Edgar. I will . . .”
H. Edgar saw the guard tap on the door a
nd push it open, revealing the two young forms seated at the small metallic table in the middle of the tiny windowless room.
“Seems you’re popular today, Matheson,” said the guard. “Visitor number two which means Mr. Baywatch here has gotta hit the road. Only one visitor at a time, them’s the rules.”
H. Edgar entered to see Westinghouse’s mouth agape—his blue eyes shot with blood, his complexion flush, his cheeks wet. And then the other inhabitant, almost unrecognizable in his red, shapeless prison garb, turned to face H. Edgar, eye to eye. Simpson gasped, the very sight of his “genetically perfect” friend, sending a strange intense heat through his entire body and squeezing his heart in a vice. But then he took a breath, collecting himself, controlling his thoughts and reminding himself why he was here. This was all about survival, his survival, nothing more, nothing less.
“H. Edgar,” said Westinghouse, rising quickly from his chair, its metal legs screeching in protest as it scraped across the cold, polished floor. “We need to do something, man. Look at him. We need to . . .”
“One of you has got to take a hike,” interrupted the guard. “You have exactly three minutes before visiting time is over.”
“Westinghouse,” said H. Edgar calmly, “I need to speak with James.”
“Not unless you promise to . . .” Heath began.
“It’s okay,” interrupted James, turning back to his fair-haired friend. “Give him his minute.”
And Westinghouse nodded, standing to maneuver his way out of the now crowded room. “I’ve got your back, James,” he said to James before facing H. Edgar at the door. “You’d better be here to make this right,” he added.
But H. Edgar said nothing, just stared at his tall friend as he passed by and into the corridor beyond.
And so there they stood.
Two of the inseparable band of three.
Two feet and a million miles apart.
“You did this to yourself,” said H. Edgar at last.