“Of Eleven Hamilton Court. An ERT raid that blew up in our faces and had us arresting one of our own. Don’t lead with your failures, Dartelli.”
Dart tried hard to ignore him. “What’s of particular interest to us, Sergeant, is that this individual perpetrating these crimes”-and Dart paused here to collect himself-” is …”-he searched for a way to say this-“confidently familiar with police investigative procedure. Especially as regards the collection of hairs-and-fiber evidence, chain of custody, et cetera.”
“He’s a cop?” Haite was no dummy, he knew where Dart was going with this. He said, “You’re thinking Kowalski?”
Dart shook his head no and spoke extra slowly, “Someone with a personal grudge against sex offenders; someone, let’s say, whose wife may have been violently raped and murdered.” He paused, watching the color drain from Haite’s complexion. “Someone with a firm understanding of hairs-and-fibers evidence collection techniques, and a sharp enough mind to use that understanding against us.”
“God,” the sergeant said, his eyes wide.
Dart glanced at an oil painting of Jesus that hung above the handbells.
Haite said, “You think it’s-”
Dart quickly interrupted. “Better if this is kept speculative until such a time as the individual is apprehended, I think.”
Haite thought for two of his remaining five minutes in total silence, glancing intermittently at Dart with something like hatred in his eyes. He seemed to blame Dart for all this trouble, like a parent blaming a child.
Dart, letting the blame roll off him, felt that he had made his point well, and so far, Haite had kept a cool head. It was going better than he had hoped. Dart said, “I need the weight of this department behind me-the support that these were murders-if I’m to convince this company, Roxin Laboratories, to suspend their trials.”
“Forget it,” Haite said, shattering Dart’s brief flirtation with success.
“But, Sergeant-”
“One thing at a time, Detective! The investigation first. The suspect first. You are not putting this department into the position of defending a theory-one in which we’ve brought no charges against anyone and have nothing but some hairs-and-fibers evidence to go on. We have to involve the prosecutor’s office, we have to do this all aboveboard. You want to shut down this trial, you had better have a suspect in custody-”
“But, Sergeant-”
“For now, they are suicides,” Haite roared, his voice no doubt carrying into the main hall. “They’ve been cleared as suicides. You’re talking about reopening cleared cases.”
“He’ll go on killing,” Dart reminded in a hoarse whisper. He felt devastated, as if he’d had the wind knocked out of him.
“Some perverts? Some child molesters? You think that’s going to shake up a lot of people, do you? Get a clue, Dartelli.”
“He’ll kill them,” Dart repeated.
“That’s your problem, Detective. You are my problem. This is your theory, not mine. You prove it, or you lose it, but do not go making any accusations until you damn well know what you’re talking about-until you can prove it to me and the prosecuting attorney’s office. What you’re talking about here …” He rolled his eyes. They were filled with tears, his friendship with Zeller getting the better of him. “I, for one, hope to God you’re wrong.” He checked his watch, looked at Dart, and snapped, “Not one word of this to anyone. Anyone. Not until you hand me the smoking gun-with an arm attached to it. Do you understand?”
“Do you know what you’re saying?” Dart asked. “What you’re condoning?” He looked around the room. And in a church, no less, he felt like adding.
“Not one word,” the sergeant repeated.
“Please,” Dartelli said, speaking the one word he hoped might get through.
Haite kicked back the chair as he stood, and it nearly went over. “You really are a Boy Scout,” he said viciously, storming out of the room but stopping and turning to face Dart from the open doorway. “You didn’t learn anything from him, did you?”
Dart straightened the chair and followed Haite out into the cold.
CHAPTER 36
The house was a large Victorian on a one-acre fenced estate in West Hartford, just down the street from the governor’s mansion. Towering elms and oaks lined the street. The smell of woodsmoke tinged the air. One neighbor had already put up Christmas lights-a team of seven perfectly sculpted reindeer made of tiny white lights, arcing up toward the sky, drawing a sleigh parked on the grass. Hoping for snow. This was a Mercedes-Benz neighborhood. Dart felt conspicuous in his Taurus.
He checked himself twice in the rearview mirror, attempting to improve on the disheveled and unkempt appearance that seemed stuck on him. He jerked the mirror back into place, slipped a breath mint into his mouth, and climbed out of the car.
Dr. Arielle Martinson answered her own front door carrying a yellow legal pad and half-glasses. She wore stone-washed designer jeans, a man-tailored flannel shirt. Without makeup, she looked a few years older. He noticed a shock of gray on the right side of her head that he had missed during their first encounter. She had pulled back her hair just prior to answering the door, for she held a hair elastic wrapped around two fingers, and her hair still held that shape of someone standing in a strong wind. But it was down by the time she greeted Dart and she shook her head again, freeing her hair more, making sure to cover that scar.
She admitted him with hardly any small talk. He, the cop, taking note of the exquisite furnishings-oriental rugs, flowing drapes, and antiques; the security system-the motion detector winking high in the ceiling’s corner; and the hand-carved door to the library as she directed him through.
She had been working at one of two computers, one on a mahogany partner’s desk with a burgundy leather top. A reproduction Tiffany lamp. An original oil painting over the fireplace. A brown Lab lying between the leather couch and the leaded window. She offered him coffee, tea, or “something stronger.” He declined, mentioning that he was on duty. She found herself a glass of white wine in the kitchen and quickly returned.
“It’s a beautiful house,” he said.
Taking a chair with needlepoint upholstery, she said, “It’s late. Let’s get down to business, shall we? What brings you back so soon, Detective?”
“A man named Greenwood. A drug overdose suicide. Discovered late this afternoon. We think he’s part of your trial.”
She pursed her lips. “I have no comment.”
“I only wondered-”
“No comment is no comment,” she said curtly. Her heaving chest showed him that she was agitated. Her darting eyes provoked a sense of concern in him, as if she were attempting to conceal someone hiding in the room.
“We’re on the same team here,” he reminded.
“Following our last meeting, I attempted some inquiries. But a blind trial is just that, I’m afraid. Again, I assure you that if the suicides were found to be related in any way to our trial, I would be well aware of it, and the trial would be halted. But I have not been made aware of such a relationship, in spite of my inquiries. I understand that you have a job to do. I have no quarrel with that. I would suggest to you that-”
“They are murders. We’ve confirmed that,” Dart interrupted, silencing her. “Related directly to your trial. I need to stop the trials.”
“You can prove to me that they are related?” The fingers of her right hand ran up and down the stem of the wineglass nervously.
Dart said, “We need to offer these men protection-”
“Impossible.”
“They’re targets!”
She stared at him for a moment and then said, “Detective Dartelli, I can’t divulge to you the nature of any of our trials, but what you are suggesting would most certainly compromise the trial, most likely nullify any results, and thereby cost this company millions of dollars. I can promise you, Detective-promise-that we’ll fight any such attempt on your part. You and your department will bear huge le
gal costs if we have anything to say about it. I don’t think either of us wants that.”
“We need your cooperation,” he almost pleaded. I need to bring proof to my superiors, he thought. I need to shut you down.
“No. That’s not going to happen,” she said sternly.
“You have Proctor working on this, is that it? You think you can handle this without-”
Dart caught himself midsentence, recalling Zeller at the fire and the man’s intimation that Zeller was himself a target. He met eyes with Martinson. Hers were stone cold and her breathing had calmed to where her chest was not moving at all. Frighteningly confident. Proctor had been told to rid her of this problem called Walter Zeller. She knows about Zeller! Dart realized.
“You need me,” he told her.
Her gaze remained unflinching. She sipped the wine and rested the glass cradled in her hands in her lap, and her fingers toyed with the stem again.
“The suicides will eventually be linked to your clinical trial,” Dart warned, “to your drug-this Prozac for sex offenders.” She stiffened noticeably, a look of hate filling her face. “Unless a person is held responsible by the police, tried, and convicted, your drug will be blamed.” He didn’t want a gang of rent-a-cops hunting down Zeller and performing roadside justice. No matter what his crimes, the sergeant deserved better. Suddenly he felt his sentiments shifting toward Zeller, found himself believing that he owed it to Zeller to find him first. “Do you understand me?” Dart asked angrily. Her impassive front was getting to him. She had still not recovered from his calling her drug Prozac for sex offenders. He sensed that he knew something that she didn’t want him to know, and that in desperation, he might have played that card wrongly.
“I think we both understand each other,” she returned, her voice dry despite the wine.
“Unless these suicides become reclassified as homicides, your drug will be blamed. You said yourself that such a ruling would be devastating to your company. That reclassification is up to me, doctor.”
“No comment.” She lifted her chin and literally looked down her nose at him.
What was her game? he wondered. “You need me,” he repeated. If murder, it would appear that someone had attempted to sabotage her research; if suicide, that the drug had fatal side effects.
“I need to get back to my work,” she said stubbornly.
“You need me to do this,” he said again.
“Need you?” She smirked, and said, “Let’s assume, hypothetically, that you’re right-that someone may be testing what you’ve called a Prozac for sex offenders. Do you see the importance of such a thing? Can you begin to understand the social and economic implications of such a treatment? The benefits to society? Even were this company to be partly effective in its goal-let’s say that we could reduce physical and sexual abuse by ten, or fifteen, or twenty percent with no adverse side effects-can you argue effectively against such a treatment? But there are those who would stop such a thing if they could. Oh, yes. Believe me, there are. They would say a crime committed is a crime to be paid for. They would do anything to see such a treatment fail-anything-this hypothetical company’s competitors, certain rights organizations-it’s a long list. You say you may be able to reclassify these suicides as homicides, Detective. Let’s say, hypothetically of course, that this company had over ten years in such an effort-where would you put your faith?” She drank some of the wine and caught eyes with Dart. “What I’m telling you, Detective, if you’re listening, is that I’m not convinced that these men, these suicides of yours, were ever part of any Roxin trial.” Dart felt the words like a blow to his chest. “You seem like a perfectly nice man; I wouldn’t want to embarrass you.” She spun the wineglass in her fingers. “You may be made to look foolish if you pursue this any further,” she cautioned.
Can she get the names off the list? he suddenly wondered. He had no documentation from Martinson concerning the participation of Stapleton, Lawrence, and Payne in the trial, only a verbal comment made to him several days earlier. She could deny it all. If she could destroy the record of their participation then her only concern for their killer would be that he be taken care of-quickly and quietly, the less publicity the better. And that he, Dart, not make trouble.
“If someone has convinced you to go outside the law on this, Dr. Martinson, I strongly advise you to seek a second opinion-preferably a legal opinion. There’s no reason to further-”
“My impression,” she said sharply, interrupting him and coming to her feet, her chest heaving once again, “is that we are both wasting our time, Detective, and that we both have better things to do than to sit around speculating. I have, in fact, solicited just the legal opinion for which you seem to be strongly lobbying, and that has come back an unqualified ‘No comment.’ Unqualified,” she repeated. “I’ll show you to the door now.”
“This is not the way to handle this,” Dart warned. “You’re making a big mistake.”
“And you, Detective, had better be careful, or you may need your own attorney, your own second opinion.” She paused by the front door. The threat came not from her words, but from her eyes. “Don’t meddle, Detective.” She turned the handle and opened the door. The cold air rushed in and stung Dart’s face.
“We can work together on this,” Dart offered one last time.
“I don’t think so. No thank you.” She opened the door. Dart stepped outside, suddenly chilled to the bone.
He was out on Farmington Avenue when his cellular rang, and the phone got hung up in his pocket trying to come out. He thought he had missed the call because it stopped ringing just before he answered. The line was in fact dead, but a moment later it rang again.
“Dartelli,” he answered.
“You’re finally thinking like a cop,” said Zeller’s voice. Dart immediately checked the rearview mirror and the cars in front of him, but it was a pitch black night, and besides, he thought, Zeller would never make it that easy.
“I can help you, Sarge. But you-”
“Save it, Ivy. Just do your fucking job. That’s help enough. There’s a science editor at the New York Times might be interested in what you know. His name is Rosenburg. Good writer.”
The line went dead.
Dart jerked the wheel, skidded off the shoulder, and came to an abrupt stop at the top of a hill. He jumped out of the car and searched for a vehicle executing a U-turn or parked conspicuously. Below him was an intersection with a gas station and a bookstore on opposing corners. He looked for someone standing at a pay phone, or an idle car.
Nothing.
Besides, he thought for a second time, he would never make it that easy.
CHAPTER 37
With the surveillance of 11 Hamilton Court failing to produce any sign of Wallace Sparco, and with a Be On Lookout alert having failed to raise his vehicle, Dart felt his only chance of finding the man-of saving him, perhaps-lay within that building. But when during the Friday night shift he approached Haite to discuss the technical merits of the search-and-seizure warrant issued on the house, Haite forbade him to enter “or get anywhere near” 11 Hamilton Court. What began as a civilized discussion ended in a shouting match with all of CAPers staring at the two through the glass wall of Haite’s shared office. Dart stormed out and, feeling the brunt of everyone’s attention, continued into the hall looking for somewhere to calm down. He hurried down the hall and seeing Abby’s light on, knocked and entered. They hadn’t seen each other in nearly a week, a fact that had escaped Dart until he found himself standing there looking at her.
“What are you doing here?” he asked her.
“This is my office.”
“At night.”
“I make my own schedule. I’m a one-person division,” She hesitated and then explained, “I’m trying to get onto your schedule so we might see more of each other.” Another hesitation. “I’ve missed you.”
“The kids?”
“It’s actually better this way. They sleep at night. I’m with t
hem in the mornings and afternoons. I should have tried this sooner.”
“When do you sleep?”
“I don’t,” she answered. “You look like you’re ready to break something. Not something I’ve done, I hope.”
“Haite. He’s bullheaded. I misjudged him. Brought him into my confidence when I probably shouldn’t have. Sent him off the deep end. He suddenly wants nothing to do with these suicides. He keeps assigning me domestics.”
“The night shift,” she reminded him. Domestic quarrels and assaults were almost entirely the domain of the night shift.
“Yeah, I know. But I’ve got bigger fish to fry and he knows it. It scares him, is the thing.”
“Which fish?”
“I told him-not directly, but I told him-about Zeller.”
“Oh, shit,” she gasped.
“Seems his loyalty outweighs his concern over-and these are his words-’a bunch of perverts’ getting killed.”
She nodded, as if she understood, or had encountered such resistance herself. She said, “I had a case involving a gym teacher. Junior high. Molesting his girl athletes, a peephole in the shower, stealing underwear from their lockers-the whole nine yards. He raped three of them. Got one pregnant, or maybe we’d have never known. The school board tried to pressure me not to press charges. Said it would hurt enrollment. Said that they’d fire him, and that that was enough. They got to someone upstairs-I don’t know how. And they fired him, and ran him out of town. And I pressed charges before he got out of town. But no press. No publicity.”
“I never heard about that.”
“No one did,” she said. “It damn near cost me my badge.” Looking at him coyly, she added, “But I kept my badge. In fact I got my own division.” She grinned. “I found out who they got to.”
Dart and others had wondered how she had managed to pull a Sex Crimes division out of CAPers, and now, years later, it was explained. He was struck with an idea.
“What is it?” she asked, seeing his change of expression.
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