Dead Famous

by Carol O'Connell

  “Maybe Andy was your bitch, Dr. Apollo. You were always in control of that room. That’s one thing the jurors agreed on when they talked to the media. They took their cues from you.”

  “I did my best to keep Andy from spinning out of control. He always wanted to use his fists, and it was a fight to keep him from hitting those people. So, in hindsight, he probably wasn’t your best choice for intimidating that jury—always a second away from exploding. And this is what comes of amateurs like you dabbling in psychology.”

  “But you claim this no-neck moron thwarted the entire justice system. Stupid Andy swayed the whole jury.”

  “Andy came from the cave,” said Johanna. “But you’re right about one thing. It was my fault. Now I wish I’d just let him explode in that jury room, a room full of witnesses. He might’ve hurt one of them badly, maybe a few broken bones. But you never would’ve walked away from that trial as a free man.”

  “And, without that unanimous verdict, without your vote, Doctor, the Reaper would’ve had no motive to kill the jurors. All those people would still be alive.”

  “When the other jurors were dying, Dr. Apollo kept us alive, me and MacPherson,” said Victor Patchock. “She paid for everything. And she kept us from falling apart. But then—”

  “Something happened,” said Mallory prompting him. “Something changed?”

  “I found out who the Reaper was. That damn lawyer, Fairlamb, ratted me out to Dr. Apollo. She was waiting for me in that underground parking garage. She took my gun away, but she was too late to stop MacPherson.” He turned to Riker, saying, “I waited outside on the street, and then I followed you guys to that bar on Green Street. And there’s poor Mac, a prisoner, jammed in that booth between you and Zachary.”

  “Who is the Reaper?” asked Agent Hennessey.

  “He is,” said Patchock, pointing to Riker. “He followed Mac to the garage that night. Later on, when I was leaving the bar, Riker was still waiting for Mac to come back from the men’s room. Arrest him!”

  Riker glanced at Mallory. She was not the least bit annoyed with the little man for wasting her time. And he knew why, or so he thought, but then she surprised him.

  Mallory put one hand on Victor Patchock’s shoulder, nails embedding in the material, just a gentle reminder that she was in control of him. And her voice was a monotone when she said, “I know you’re holding back. Big mistake, Victor. Don’t fool with me.”

  “I have to go to the toilet again.”

  When the door had closed upon the little man and his warden, Hennessey turned from one cop to the other. “Did you guys believe any of that?”

  “The rape happened,” said Riker. “I believed that much.”

  “No way,” said the agent. “Dr. Apollo never mentioned an assault in her complaint.”

  “Of course not,” said Riker. “Who would’ve believed her? You didn’t. There were ten people on the other side of that bathroom door and a bailiff out in the hall. How could Andy Sumpter be stupid enough to risk it? The plan is so stupid it’s damn smart.”

  “It did happen,” said Mallory. “Andy needed cash, and some people will do anything for money.” She turned to Riker. “But Victor did lie.”

  “I heard the noise in the bathroom,” said Johanna. “The other jurors had gone selectively deaf. So I went to the door to get the bailiff. The hall was empty. That’s when I realized that you’d bought him off. He was the one who carried your instructions to Andy Sumpter. You not only arranged the rape, but you timed it with the bailiff. You wanted him gone while that assault was going on.” Johanna addressed all her words to the dark window.

  Even the girl in the lighted booth was a believer now, turning that way as if peering through the solid walls that separated her booth from the producer’s.

  “Excuse me, Doctor.” Zachary rose from the console, walked around the Japanese screen and jammed a small camera up to the glass, illuminating the booth with a bright flash.

  No one there.

  He returned to his chair, behaving as if that had been a perfectly normal thing to do. “Go on, Dr. Apollo. You were giving me credit for suborning the entire jury.”

  She studied his more relaxed face. He was enjoying himself again. What a pity. But she could fix that. “You won’t get away with jury tampering. And you won’t be a media star anymore.”

  “Let’s talk about your crimes, Dr. Apollo. After the trial, I sent you roses every day for a month. I’m sure you know why. I never doubted that the verdict was your work. By your own account, you kept Andy Sumpter from beating up those people. You, more than anyone else, helped to sway that entire jury. Oh, and one other thing—you voted not guilty. I’d say you earned your roses, Doctor.”

  “You won’t get away with it.”

  He smiled and threw up his hands. “Bring on the police. Let’s have another trial. No, wait. What was I thinking? You have no proof.”

  “You misunderstood,” she said. “I was alluding to all the people who want you dead. Those jurors you and your fans hunted down, they had husbands and wives, parents and children. Lots of wounded survivors. This is your new trial, right here, right now. If I’m believed, then you’re a dead man.”

  “Just one moment, Dr. Apollo. If I understand you correctly, you’re openly soliciting my murder on the radio.”

  Johanna’s eyes turned back to the dark window of the producer’s booth, and she sucked in a breath, startled by the image on the other side of the glass. What malicious creativity. She would never have anticipated anything on this level of sophistication.

  “Fascinating.”

  Zachary lunged for the Japanese screen, knocking it down with his fist so that he could see the producer’s booth. A sheet had been draped across the window glass, and two holes had been slashed in the fabric, two dark eyes slanting upward. And though there was no third hole to indicate a mouth, Johanna would later remember a complete face with an evil smile.

  Upon the return of Victor Patchock, it was finally established, to the little man’s satisfaction, that an FBI agent, not Riker, had been the last one to see MacPherson alive. And then Hennessey left the room to respond to a cell-phone call in private. Without missing a beat between words, Mallory picked up the rhythm of the interview. “Let’s talk about the parking garage. What were the two of you planning that night?”

  “MacPherson and me were going to scare the living shit out of Zachary.”

  “So your gun had blanks, too?”

  “No, I was gonna shoot the bastard for real. Real bullets. I wanted to hurt him so bad, him and all his moron fans. I hate him more than the Reaper.”

  “You wanted revenge,” said Mallory, “that much is true. But you told us a few lies, Victor. I warned you about that. You said Dr. Apollo was the last one to change her vote.”

  He lowered his eyes as he nodded, reaffirming his statement.

  “You’re lying to me,” she said. “And such a stupid little lie.” Mallory held up an old newspaper clipping. “This is an interview with one of the jurors. According to this, the last holdout on that jury was a man. So it wasn’t Dr. Apollo, and I’m damn sure it wasn’t you. If you lie to me one more time . . .” Her words trailed off, and she let his imagination do the work of frightening him.

  “It was Mac,” said Victor Patchock. “He was the last one to change his vote.”

  “And he’s not the one who got raped in the bathroom,” said Riker. “That was you.”

  “No! It wasn’t me!”

  “You’re lying,” said Riker. “That night in the parking garage, MacPherson only wanted to scare Zachary. Payment in kind. He wanted Zachary to know what it felt like to be scared. But you wanted a different kind of payback. You brought real bullets. Andy Sumpter was dead, killed by the Reaper—no satisfaction there.”

  “So you went after Ian Zachary,” said Mallory, “your rapist by proxy. I warned you not to hold out on me one more time.”

  Riker leaned toward the little man. “Did you plan to s
hoot the bastard’s balls off? You think you could’ve made a shot like that—while you were hiding in the dark?”

  Victor Patchock’s head rolled back, and he stared at the overhead lights. His nose had begun to bleed, and he wiped it with one hand, smearing blood across his face. “I was the first one to change my vote to not guilty. Not that I was scared. That wasn’t it. I just wanted to go home. So I don’t know why Andy did that to me. Why? I already voted his way.” He used his coat sleeve to wipe the blood from his hand. “I’m a little man . . . I know that. Dr. Apollo kept voting guilty. It was just her and MacPherson. But after . . . I came out of the bathroom . . . Andy demanded another ballot. He stood next to my chair, one hand squeezing my shoulder—not hard, more like I was his girlfriend or something. And he was staring at Dr. Apollo. Everyone else, except maybe Mac, was looking the other way—if you know what I mean.”

  “So you were Andy’s hostage,” said Riker. “That’s why Jo voted not guilty.”

  “He knew where I lived,” said Victor. “Suppose I’d pressed charges? Who would’ve believed me? Nobody backed up Dr. Apollo. What chance did I have? The stupid ones were clueless, and the smart ones would never go up against Andy.”

  “Except for Jo and MacPherson,” said Riker. “You could’ve—”

  “Okay! All right! But what then? I’m a little man. And you damn cops, you can’t keep criminals in jail for six minutes. Andy would’ve been back on the street in an hour. You know he would’ve . . .”

  Raped you again?

  “So the lady changed her vote for you,” said Riker. Jo would have internalized all of Victor Patchock’s fear and pain, then sought to end it.

  “Dr. Apollo voted not guilty,” said Victor. “When she caved in, Mac did, too. He couldn’t make a stand without her. He just couldn’t do it alone.”

  Riker lowered his eyes. There was guilt enough to spread around this table in equal shares tonight. He had his own regrets on MacPherson’s account and took on a share of the blame for that death. A good man was gone, and this coward, this self-described little man, had survived. Victor Patchock was about to become famous. The news media would make him a symbol for the American justice system, proof that it was still alive and well. Or was it?

  Crazy Bitch could only stare at the blinking phone-board lights, too afraid to pick up any of the calls. It might be a curious fan or maybe an angry station manager. The relentless digital clock on her console was counting down the seconds. Not a moment’s peace, hardly time to draw a breath. She dumped her purse out on her desk and rummaged through the mess, hunting for a way to keep the entire world at bay, and she found it in a paper bag with a hardware store logo.

  She was saved.

  She laughed and laughed while tears streamed down her face, tears brought on by a joy so exquisite that it was almost unbearable. The mike was dead, and her voice could not be heard outside this room. She clenched her fists, then filled her lungs and screamed to no one, “I’m gonna be famous!”

  Hennessey had not yet returned when Mallory decided to reconvene the interrogation in the larger interview room, the one that allowed covert observation from behind the mirror on the wall. Riker guessed that this was for the benefit of the assistant district attorney. If that man was still waiting behind the glass, he would see Mallory end a brief interview with a willing statement from Victor Patchock—absent any duress. She pushed a pad of yellow paper in Victor’s direction, and the little man began to write down all the details wrung out of him in the smaller room. His face was free of tears now, and the evidence of his last nosebleed had been wiped away.

  “Write it all down.” She turned to the one-way glass, saying, “It’s a wrap. Let’s go collect the doctor.”

  On the other side of the mirror, Jack Coffey’s voice was slightly sardonic as he spoke into the intercom. “The boys from Chicago lost Dr. Apollo again.”

  “No way!” Mallory stood up and faced the mirror and her boss who stood behind it. “All those idiots had to do was—”

  “It’s not a problem.” Agent Hennessey stood in the doorway. He was smiling as he folded his cell phone into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “My guys found her. She’s a guest on the Ian Zachary show. We’ve got men at the radio station right now. As soon as the show is over, we’ll make the arrest for jury tampering.”

  Betrayal.

  Riker leaned his tired head upon one hand. The moment Mallory turned on the FBI agent, he decided to let her rip the man’s head off. Hennessey did not know her well enough to be forewarned as she walked toward him, her words carefully measured. “When did all of this go down?”

  “My bureau chief’s been monitoring the show for twenty minutes. He says the lady makes a good case. So Zachary’s going away for jury tampering, and he won’t be feeding the Reaper any more helpful information.” Hennessey patted Victor Patchock on the back. “And now we’ve got your corroboration for Dr. Apollo’s complaint.” He turned to smile at Mallory, as if that would help him. “The doctor and Mr. Patchock go back into protective custody whether they like it or not. They’re material witnesses now.” He turned away from Mallory—a huge mistake—to see Jack Coffey enter the room.

  Riker thought the boss was curiously calm.

  “So thanks for all your help, Lieutenant,” said the agent, “but we’ll take it from here.”

  Mallory was silently coming up behind Hennessey’s back when Riker had second thoughts about the impending violence. He grabbed her by the shoulders as her nails—call them claws—were on the rise, then whispered in her ear, “Let Coffey go off on the bastard. Trust me on this one.” His tip-off was the lieutenant’s composure.

  Jack Coffey was actually smiling when he pulled up a chair at the table. “Hennessey, here’s a little something your boss probably didn’t mention. It happened three minutes ago. Somebody called 911 for a disturbance at the radio station, and six patrol cops responded. The FBI agents tried to stop them from going up to Ian Zachary’s floor. Well, the uniforms don’t take orders from feds.” The lieutenant propped his feet up on the table, and the FBI agent stiffened his own posture, bracing for more bad news.

  “Sorry, Hennessey. It seems one of your guys is losing a little blood. But the good news? Our guy didn’t break his damn jaw. It’s just a split lip. A few stitches, he’ll be fine. And that disturbance call?” Coffey shrugged. “Turned out to be a false alarm.”

  Normally, Riker would have suspected Mallory of making that bogus 911 call, but she had an alibi for the time frame. Evidently, the lieutenant was picking up her bad habits.

  Jack Coffey turned to Detective Janos. “Those uniforms belong to the midtown precinct. Keep an open line to their sergeant. They have orders to hold that floor. Make sure that’s all they do. I don’t want anybody rattled till we’re ready to make an arrest.” And last, but with the greatest satisfaction, he turned back to the FBI man, saying, “We’ll take it from here.”

  “You have no jurisdiction on a jury tampering charge,” said Agent Hennessey.

  “Oh, that’s all changed,” said Coffey. “We have a few charges of our own.” He glanced at Mallory. “You didn’t tell him about that yet? Sorry, I ruined your fun.”

  Hennessey would have left the room with his document cartons, following in Jack Coffey’s wake, but Riker was now blocking the door. “Not so fast, pal. You made a deal with Mallory. You’re going to keep it.” He looked down at the boxes of Reaper files. “Or maybe you’d rather leave all that stuff here.”

  Over the next thirty minutes, Dr. Apollo’s voice was heard on radios all over New York City and the portable set in the interview room.

  Riker turned down the volume as he faced the one-way mirror. “What’s taking so long on that arrest warrant?”

  Jack Coffey’s voice came over the intercom, saying, “We’re shopping for a judge who isn’t afraid of the ACLU. Shouldn’t be much longer.”

  The contents of the Reaper file were spread across the long table, and Agent Hennessey coul
d only watch this invasion of his paperwork. His fingers lightly drummed the table to advertise a bad case of arrogance withdrawal. The FBI man’s detainment had not been formalized, though a strong suggestion was made by the massive bulk of Detective Janos leaning against the only door.

  Mallory owned the agent now, and she was in the early stages of toying with her food. After scanning the contents of an FBI folder, she looked up from her reading. “So Dr. Apollo was always on the shortlist for the jury murders.” She crumpled a sheet of paper, and Hennessey watched, fascinated, as the wad rolled between her palms, compacting into a perfect ball the size of a marble.

  “That’s destruction of government—”

  “It’s bogus,” she said. “And you knew it when you padded out the Reaper file. Now I want the good stuff, the personal notes that never made it into your database. How many screwups were purged from the computer?”

  Hennessey hesitated too long. Her paper marble shot past his right ear and bounced off the wall behind him.

  “If I have to find those mistakes by myself,” she said, “then I add them to the rest of the mess your people made of this case. I might hold a press conference—all the major networks—national publicity, all of it bad.”

  And those were the magic words.

  Hennessey retrieved the wadded paper from the floor. “This sheet isn’t total crap. When Agent Kidd was murdered, Dr. Apollo was our prime suspect for a copycat killing. She had her own history with psychiatric treatment, long-term therapy as a child and a teenager. Maybe our man said the wrong thing and she snapped. It happens. Or maybe he was the one who snapped, and the doctor killed him in self-defense. But we know the Reaper didn’t murder Timothy Kidd.”

  “You’re wrong,” said Riker. “And that’s one more screwup for the feds.” He looked up at his partner. “Mallory, are you keeping score?”