The Tragedy Man: A Serial Killer Thriller

by Staci Layne Wilson

  Winesapp had no questions.

  Al Jackson was called next. He wore a loud checked suit with a wide 1970's style tie. He strutted into the courtroom when his name was called and stopped to sign an autograph on his way to the witness box. He sat down, his legs spread wide, his arms at his sides, and a slight smirk on his face: the picture of up-yours indifference. The cameras whirred and clicked softly, and the journalists whispered excitedly into their tape recorders.

  Macintosh smiled pleasantly and approached the stand. "Mr. Alvin Jackson, it's a pleasure to meet you." The other man bowed his head and smiled graciously, as though used to the comment. "Why are you testifying here today?"

  "I hate to see a good guy get the shaft. Cary Bouchard didn't kill anybody," he snorted, rolling his bulbous eyes.

  "But on your show, the show that was recorded live on the night Mr. Bouchard was picked up by the LAPD, you implied that he did."

  "Oh, that," Al raked the air dismissively with one hand. "That's just what I do on the show." He turned to the judge and explained earnestly, "I'm the devil's advocate."

  "Thank you," said Stafleese with a slightly bemused smile.

  "Do you take the blame for Cary Bouchard's odd behavior on the night in question?" Macintosh asked.

  Al Jackson lowered his shiny eyelids and looked sheepish. "Yeah, I was a little rough on the kid, I suppose. I don't blame him for running out like that. If I were him, I would've done the same thing."

  "Do you know anything about the Insta-Pic photos? Mr. Bouchard claimed that he received one of them from your driver--or, what he thought was your driver at the time."

  "No. I may be insensitive sometimes, but I don't have a sick sense of humor like that. Mr. Bouchard was picked up by someone only pretending to be my assistant," Al Jackson said, looking Macintosh intently in the eye. He seemed completely sincere.

  "Mr. Jackson, have you ever been the recipient of strange fan letters?"

  "Shit, yeah! Oh--pardon my French. Yes. I always get weird letters, and once I even had to get a restraining order on this whacky chick who kept trying to break into my house."

  "So, Mr. Jackson, from your point of view as a fellow media star, do you think that it is possible that Mr. Bouchard could be the victim of an especially vicious, obsessed fan?" Macintosh leaned forward, indicating that he was intensely interested in Jackson's answer. Of course, he'd told Jackson exactly how to phrase his answer, but he was nervous nonetheless. He hoped the buffoon wouldn't blow it.

  "Absolutely," Jackson replied. "When you are in the public eye, you become a target."

  Macintosh sighed a breath of relief. Perfect. "Thank you, Mr. Jackson. I have nothing further." He seated himself and said, "Your witness, Mr. Winesapp."

  Cyrus Winesapp got unsteadily to his feet. The poor man was looking a bit better, but he hadn't changed his suit in at least two weeks, and Cary could swear he smelled algae, or maybe rotten flesh, each time he came within range of the attorney.

  "Mr. Jackson," he said, his voice rising to a high-pitched gnat-whine, "Why are you testifying here today?"

  Al Jackson laughed softly and said, "Can't you lawyers come up with your own ideas? It's bad enough you rip off the public, but you steal from each other, too? I've already been asked that question today."

  Macintosh shook his head, much put-upon. "I know that, Mr. Jackson," he said slowly, as though speaking to an imbecile. "But what I want to know is the real reason you're here."

  "I answered that. Hate to see a good guy get the shaft."

  "It isn't for the publicity? I understand your ratings are slipping Mr. Jackson, and that you have rerun the Cary Bouchard episode of your show three times since his arrest."

  "Well, the publicity doesn't hurt, but--"

  "Mr. Jackson," Winesapp cut in. "You said that you were 'exaggerating' when you implied that Cary Bouchard was a murderer on your show. So, you weren't telling the truth then?"

  "Naw. It's what I do on the show. People want to see me tear em' up," Jackson smiled innocently, as though he had no control over his own actions and was just directed by what his fans wanted to see.

  "If you were lying then, Mr. Jackson, how do we know you're not lying now?"

  Macintosh got to his feet. "Objection! Inflammatory."

  Winesapp shrugged. "Withdrawn. I have nothing further."

  "You may step down," said the judge, and with a resounding crash of his gavel he called for recess until the following day.

  To say that Cary was nervous about taking the stand on his own behalf would have been the understatement of the year. The day was looming closer and closer, like a meteorite approaching the earth and he felt he could only stand helplessly by as it came up on him, ready to squash him into oblivion.

  There was only one witness left--the hostile one, both literally and figuratively.

  Suzet Montage took the stand, raised her right hand and swore to tell the truth. Still in her masculine mode, she wore gray zoot pants with suspenders over a white undershirt with a starched collar and long, skinny polka-dot tie. On her hands were dainty white gloves, and Cary wondered why he was so disappointed; something about her fingernails, but he couldn't remember now. The thought made him uncomfortable, so he turned his attention on Macintosh as he asked his first question.

  "Ms. Montage, have you ever been employed as an actress for the sole purpose of deceiving a single individual?"

  "I don't know what you mean," she said slowly, obviously feigning ignorance while her brain worked overtime to find a more suitable falsehood.

  "If you'd like, I can subpoena Bruce Gravvy and have him tell the court," Macintosh said smugly.

  "No, that's not necessary," Suzet said quickly. Telling the truth would be easier than facing one of Bruce's henchmen. "I was hired once by a private detective to seduce a man so that he could photograph the two of us together and then blackmail him, if that's what you mean."

  "That's what I mean," said Macintosh with a smile. "You and this detective, Gravvy, had a pretty good blackmail business running in France, didn't you? That is, until you tried to go freelance. You got Gravvy and yourself into trouble. Why is it that you are here, free in America, while Gravvy is behind bars in a Frog hoosegow?"

  "Objection, objection, objection," Winesapp sighed with annoyance. "Irrelevant."

  "Your Honor," said Macintosh, "I am trying to establish that if Ms. Montage worked as a blackmailer before, she might be doing it again."

  "Sustained," snapped the judge.

  Crestfallen, Macintosh asked his final question. "What is your relationship to convicted rapist, Edward R. Newman?"

  Suzet considered her answer for a long time. "I'm married to him."

  "Thank you, Ms. Montage," Macintosh said with evident satisfaction. He turned on his heel and took his seat beside Cary, patting him on the back. "Lookin' good," he whispered enthusiastically. "You'll owe me a first-class dinner at New York's finest for this one!"

  Cary's spirits were soaring. I've been right all along, he thought. Someone was out to get him. He just hadn't known who.

  Winesapp had only one question for Suzet: "How long has it been since you've seen or had any contact with Edward Newman?"

  "Seven years," she had replied. "The day he went to prison."

  Cary turned that moment over and over again the next day as he lay on his bunk in his cell. She had to be lying. It was just too much of a coincidence. He was convinced that Edward Newman and Suzet Montage were somehow behind Old Scratch Press and that they were the ones who had been terrorizing him. But Macintosh could find no connection. He also could not disprove that Suzet had not contacted her husband in the last seven years, or vice versa. Cary's soaring spirits plummeted back to earth with a thud. It seemed like every time Macintosh pulled out an ace, Winesapp had an even better trump card up his sleeve.

  He worried constantly to the point of obsession about testifying. A few months ago, he had been eager and anxious to speak up for himself; now the very thought o
f it sent his heart racing and his perspiration flowing. He was becoming more confused and less certain as the trial drew to a close.

  Macintosh worked with Cary more and more as the big day approached. He went over the questions that he would be asking, as well as the ones he thought Winesapp would be likely to throw out. When Macintosh had first taken Cary's case, he wasn't sure why. It seemed like an unwinnable case. But he'd felt compelled to take it. His advisors had encouraged him. As the trial progressed he began to feel more and more certain that he would win. And he began to hate Winesapp. It became an all-consuming fixation, but he said nothing to either his colleagues or his client. Frankly, it had him worried. He'd never been like that before...or had he? He found that he couldn't remember much about his life previous to the trial. How long had he been a lawyer? Had he ever been married? Did he have children? He couldn't quite remember. To combat his confusion, he threw himself even deeper into his work. And he vowed that he would beat that bastard Winesapp, if it was the last thing he ever did.

  Macintosh tried to concentrate as he sat on his bed, the cursor flashing insistently on his laptop. He was going to have to handle Cary very carefully up there on the stand. He would have to word his questions in such a way that Winesapp couldn't possibly find any loopholes. Macintosh would have to ask the tough questions himself and hope that Cary's answers wouldn't sound too rehearsed or that Cary wouldn't dissolve into tears. As he sat there, trying to streamline some of his more difficult questions, Macintosh was overwhelmed with a feeling of complete despair. He had a gut-feeling that his efforts were futile; that it truly didn't matter if he won or lost the case.

  He closed his tired eyes and felt them burn against the moist lids. Now he had some inkling of how Cary Bouchard felt. Whether the man was guilty or not--whether he knew the answer himself, for that matter--he had to have feelings of great despair and utter hopelessness. He said little, so Macintosh could only guess at the severity of other man's private demons. But if they were anything like his own...

  Macintosh shut down his computer and laid it aside. Tomorrow he would begin his questioning. It would last a day or two, then Winesapp would have his turn. Then it would be over. Macintosh had a niggling fear of what the end of the trial would bring. He couldn't understand why, but he felt some deep, inner core of himself screaming a warning. But like a rabbit in a snare, he knew it was too late to run the other way.

  For his big day, Cary had dressed in his finest tailored suit. It was a pale pearlescent gray, and he'd had it custom-made what seemed like a lifetime ago. Now, thanks to constant worry and substandard fodder, it hung loosely off of him and he felt for all the world like the pathetic scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz. He only hoped he didn't look too ridiculous.

  He sat up straight and tried to look innocent as he swore to tell the truth. The Bible felt cool and comforting to the touch. He wondered what had become of the Bible that crazy lady had left in his cell...it seemed to have disappeared in the melee. He glanced down at the black book, seeing word "BIBLE" embossed in caps in gold leaf on its spine. And the word just before it...it looked too long to be "Holy," but Cary couldn't see thanks to the bailiff's gnarled fingers. He ducked his head and made out the last three letters: NIC. What--? His oath was complete and the bailiff took the book away before Cary could puzzle it out.

  Macintosh, his only friend in the world, stood before him. Macintosh smiled with encouragement and began, speaking gently. "Mr. Bouchard, let us begin at the beginning, with the first murder you are accused of: Joshua B. Ryan. Do you have an alibi for the night Mr. Ryan was murdered?"

  "No," Cary admitted, trembling. "I was home alone," he said haltingly. "But I always was. Every night."

  The jury snickered in unison. Cary felt himself shrinking into the protective folds of his voluminous suit. Macintosh apparently took no notice. "I see. Cary, this is a tough question, but you must answer honestly. Did you hate Joshua Ryan?"

  Cary swallowed. "Yes," he croaked almost inaudibly. "But that doesn't mean I killed him."

  "Of course it doesn't. The Art Building had been broken into by thieves on several occasions. The most recent break-in occurred less than half a year before Mr. Ryan was killed. He could have simply surprised a burglar."

  "Objection!" said Winesapp, rising to his feet. He had changed his clothes and looked halfway decent for the first time in weeks. For reasons unknown even to himself, this frightened Macintosh. His opponent seemed to be regaining his strength and he felt challenged. "The Defense is making speeches."

  "Sustained," said the judge.

  Cary jumped. He'd never been in such close proximity to the judge before. Now he was sitting right next to him, and Stafleese's voice seemed preternaturally loud. Cary turned his head to his right and glanced up at the judge. The judge looked back with a steady, unflinching gaze. He looked huge, like a looming, carnivorous eagle about ready to swoop down upon its rodent prey. Cary shivered and forced himself to break the stare. He had begun to feel mesmerized.

  "Apologies," grumbled Macintosh with irritation. "Mr. Bouchard, do you own a hooded jacket and a pair of blue jeans?"

  "No, sir. I do not."

  "Did you have anything to gain from the murder of your employer?"

  "No, sir. I was about to be fired in fact, so I quit."

  "That was when you wrote Vengeful Ghost and it was subsequently put under contract with Old Scratch Press."

  "Yes," Cary concurred. "After that I decided to leave Old Scratch and go with another publisher."

  "Excuse me." The voice came from above on Cary's right. It was the judge. He wanted to ask a question of his own, it seemed. Cary and Macintosh stared at him in open-mouthed surprise. Not only had Stafleese never exercised this option up to now, but Cary was just hanging on by a thread as it was and Macintosh was worried that the unexpected judge's question might push him over the edge.

  The judge cleared his throat before beginning, as though he was thoroughly enjoying their discomfort. "Mr. Bouchard," he said finally, clipping each syllable to an end before moving on to the next one, "Did you break a contract with Old Scratch Press?"

  Cary was mute with terror. He closed his eye and forced himself to answer. "Yes," he peeped.

  "And didn't you think that was wrong?"

  "I knew it was wrong," Cary said haltingly, "but I didn't feel it was wrong at the time. I didn't mean any harm. They went out of business anyway, and I just wanted what was best for my career."

  "But don't you see," said the judge, "The road to Hell is paved with good intentions."

  Cary's heart was beating so fast he was afraid it would explode.

  The judge said nothing more.

  Macintosh bowed his head in the judge's direction and went on with his questioning. He peered at Cary. The man was white as a ghost but looked as though he could go on. "Mr. Bouchard, when did you start to notice something odd?"

  "Well, I started seeing things and having nightmares. At first, I thought something was wrong with me, but then I got the first Insta-Pic. It proved to me that some outside force was responsible for my uneasy feelings. Also, I later went to a doctor who gave me a clean bill of health."

  "How do you account for these hallucinations and nightmares?" Macintosh asked, his voice laden with concern and sympathy.

  Cary hadn't told all, he'd only mentioned a few isolated incidents. "At the time I didn't know," he replied, his confidence growing. "But now that I have done some research on hallucinogenic drugs and discovered more about the nature of my enemies through the workings of this trial, I am convinced that I was drugged. I was unwittingly forced to ingest hallucinogenic drugs."

  Macintosh smiled dubiously, but not adversarially. "C'mon, do you really expect people to believe that?"

  "Yes," Cary said loud and clear. This part had taken a lot of practice and so far, he was handling it very well. Spurred by his outward aplomb, Cary continued confidently. "To use a writer's favorite axiom, 'Truth is stranger than fiction.' It may seem
unreal, but it's the only logical explanation."

  Macintosh nodded. He was convinced. "Tell me about the Insta-Pics. You had three when the police picked you up in L.A., and three in your apartment which were seized after your arrest in New York."

  "I got the first photo in Dallas while I was at a book signing. A kid of about sixteen handed it to me. By the time I saw what it was, the boy had gone. It disturbed me deeply. Just imagine--a scene that I conceived in my own brain, depicted right there in living color. At first, I thought it was real, but then after I thought it over rationally, I came to the conclusion that it had to be a prank. A stupid kid's idea of a joke. I decided the best way to handle it was to ignore it; not give the prankster the satisfaction of having it played up in the media." Of course, that hadn't been Cary's original reason at all, but it sounded good. He'd come up with it all by himself, too.

  "The second photo," he continued, "was handed to me at the airport in Los Angeles by what I thought was Al Jackson's driver. This man was an Indian, definitely not the same individual as in Dallas. It's very scary when I look back on it now; how trusting I was, how I just got into the car with that man. Thank God he was only a messenger. The second photo had me worried, too, but I was still convinced it was all staged just to scare me."

  "Why, did you suppose, was someone after you?"

  "Jealousy. Insanity. I really don't know, and frankly, that's beside the point. The fact is, someone was killing these poor women and trying to make it look like I did it. Trying to make me believe that I might have done it. Which only strengthens my conviction," --he winced inwardly; wrong choice of words!-- "that I was drugged. My hallucinations and nightmares have completely vanished since I have been incarcerated." That, of course, was not true, but who could prove it?

  "And the third photo," Macintosh prompted.

  "I found that one on my dressing room table backstage at the Al Jackson Show," Cary lied. His eye was steady; it betrayed nothing, but his hands were clenched in fists and his knuckles were so white it looked as though the bones might pop through his skin at any moment. "It sent me into a tailspin. After what I had endured on that awful show, it was just too much. At first, I had been only annoyed and slightly concerned that someone was obviously following me and playing tricks on me. But that night it broke me. I was terrified, running blindly from some unknown antagonist."