by E Y Mak
Candice asked, “Okay. What do you want me to do?”
“Two things. First, ask Marissa to run the standard victim diligence searches on Tim. She’s just outside my office. She’ll know what you’re talking about. Second, I want you to talk to Petri Ulanov, one of the computer specialists on fifty-five. Check the firm map—he’s in the Control Room. You can’t miss it. Ask him to prepare a rollback on 5959 Maple three weeks back from September twenty-first. Put it together and then chat.”
Russell paused, as though deep in thought. “FBI, right?” he said. “I am interested in knowing your thoughts as well, once you’ve had a chance to look at the data. It’s always good to have a different view.”
Candice was excited by the news. She had never been asked to do analysis at the FBI. She had only been asked to collect and compile information. Candice disguised her excitement by casually making notes in her leather Moleskine.
“Understood. What’s a rollback?”
The phone on Russell’s desk rang and he glanced at it. “Petri will give you the technical explanation. Sorry, I have to take this. Let’s talk later.” He reached for the phone. “Russell speaking.”
Candice stood up and walked to the door.
“Candice?”
She stopped and turned her head back towards Russell. His hand was covering the receiver on the phone.
“Track your time to account four five three three zero zero one for now. That’s my personal file. This one hasn’t hit the books officially yet. Keep it on the down low.”
Chapter Eight
Russell walked out of Phineas Tower and hailed a yellow cab for Brooklyn. He had other business at that police station anyway and had scheduled to meet with Detective Lions directly. He hoped to be able to review the file this afternoon and Marissa had managed to jam in an appointment with the detective for 2 p.m. He sat in the backseat of the cab and said to the driver, “Police station, Sixty-Second Precinct, Brooklyn, please.” The driver nodded and peeled down the street.
After the short ride to the precinct, he concluded his first two items of business—delivering some signed affidavits certifying the integrity of collected surveillance data. Then he returned to the front desk and told the desk sergeant about his appointment. The desk sergeant checked the computer terminal and then furrowed his brow.
“Harry doesn’t seem to have an appointment with you,” he said.
“That’s weird. It should be in the calendar already. I made the appointment this morning,” said Russell.
The desk sergeant shrugged. “Let me try calling him.” He picked up the phone and dialed Harry’s extension. The recipient answered quickly.
“Detective Lions. We’ve got a Russell Woo to see you.” There was a short pause. “Alright, I’ll bring him up. The desk sergeant hung. He looked up at Russell and said, “You’re in Interrogation Room D today.”
“Interrogation Room D?” Russell asked.
“Don’t worry too much about it. Harry likes to take a lot of meetings in there when the other rooms aren’t available.”
The desk sergeant led Russell to a meeting room on the fourth floor and gestured for him to wait inside. Russell walked in and felt the familiar coldness and sterility of the interrogation room. He had been in most of the stations in Manhattan at some point or another, and every one of these rooms he had ever been in was cold. The same cold temperature, the same cold décor: a table in the middle and a separate side table for refreshments and other necessities; a two-way mirror set opposite where Russell was seated; and 1980s-era fluorescent lighting. He thought that it could be an extension of interrogation technique used by some police departments—make the suspect as uncomfortable as possible, and perhaps they would be more likely to elicit the necessary information. It could also be a coincidence.
Russell set his briefcase on the table, sat down in the hard, metal-backed chair, and breathed in deeply. He didn’t relish the conversation he was about to have with Harry. No one ever liked their work being reviewed, and many at the NYPD resented the glorified role afforded to Phineas agents.
The doorknob to the meeting room turned, and a familiar face entered the room.
“Harry! Long time no chat, buddy,” said Russell.
“Russell. Good to see you again,” said Harry in his usual cavalier manner.
Harry was a tall man with a swimmer’s build, the result of spending whatever free time he had rock climbing in some always-new exotic location. His brown hair was cut short and he had one of those faces that always maintained a five-o’clock shadow that failed to obscure his dimpled chin. He wore a white-collared shirt and grey slacks. His firearm was secured underneath his arm in a brown leather shoulder holster. A mag light was counterbalanced on the other end of the holster. Judging by the leather jacket he carried under his arm, the car keys in his hand, and the sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead and stained at his armpits, Russell surmised that Harry had just returned from chasing down some perp in the field.
Russell decided to just be direct. He said, “Listen, I’ve been asked to look into the Tim Butler suicide. I understand that you were in charge of the file. I don’t mean to go over your head and second-guess you. I’ve just been asked by a client to do a standard file review—just to put their mind at ease. You know how it is.”
Harry looked at him suspiciously. “Can you tell me your client?”
Russell pretended to be slightly offended and wanted to protect Lukas’s identity. “He has legal standing to see the file.”
Harry pushed back. “Look, the file is closed and we haven’t asked for your help on it. The bean counters upstairs gave us strict parameters on when we can and can’t use your blimp data. This suicide doesn’t meet that test. We’re already over budget.”
Russell stood firm. “Harry—again, my client is footing the bill. The NYPD won’t see an invoice.”
Harry paused for a moment. “I don’t have the authority to release the file. If the NYPD isn’t the client, you’re just like any other person walking in off the street. You’re going to need to make a Freedom of Information request.”
Russell knew that Harry was losing patience. Having your file reviewed is pretty much a no-win situation for a cop. If the officer had missed something, he could look like an idiot. If he was right, it still suggested a lack of confidence in your abilities. He contemplated going over Harry’s head and asking his superior for access to the file directly. He could play that game, but this wasn’t the file to burn his political equity. Besides, Harry and Russell had worked on more than a handful of cases over the years and had even gone out on several assignments together. By Russell’s score, he had helped Harry more than Harry had helped him. Time to call up some favors. Russell was going to bring up the past.
Russell asked, “Remember that time I saved your ass from the Neo-Scarlet Killer?”
“Yeah. What about the truck on Flatbush Ave?” Harry asked nonchalantly.
“The tip on Martin Rotty?”
“The girl from evidence downstairs?”
That one hit a weak spot for Russell. He went all in with, “The transvestite stripper that I left out of the Robert Ansel investigation closing memo?”
“You asshole.”
Score. Russell knew that his tenaciousness would win him the file. He knew that Harry knew it too. The tide was turning and the release was inevitable—but with strings. Russell stared into the room-temperature police-department coffee sitting in the Styrofoam cup on the table as he waited for Harry’s response.
“Okay, Russell. You win. I’ll let you review the file. But before you go off on a wild goose chase, you will keep me—and only me—updated every step of the way. I want the option to join in on the action.”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Russell.
Harry then left the room to get the file, and Russell whipped out his phone. He checked his emails, quickly reading, deleting, archiving, and categorizing the fifty-seven messages that had arrived since he had
entered the room. Glancing at his Speedmaster, he realized a full ten minutes had elapsed. Russell spent a further five minutes checking baseball scores before Harry returned with a banker’s box marked “Butler, T.” The difficulty with which Harry reached over the table to set down the box suggested that it was full.
“Everything’s in here,” Harry reported.
“Thanks,” Russell said. He estimated the amount of materials in the box. He had already spent much more time on this than he ought to have, but this was something he couldn’t delegate to Candice just yet. After bringing over another cup of coffee, Harry left the room.
Russell stood up from his chair and lifted the lid of the banker’s box, looking inside. The box was full with file folders. He pulled the laptop out of his briefcase and started a fresh Word document called “Timeline.” As always, he was going to create a chronology from the 911 call going forward. A typed transcript of the call was on file. He imagined Cherry’s hysterical voice as she made the initial call from the victim’s home. The transcript indicated that she was still on the phone with the emergency operator when the paramedics arrived minutes later.
He then moved to the report of the responding officer, Constable Rebecca Thompson:
“A call had come in at 01:36 a.m. on September 21 from Cherry Butler, the victim’s wife. She had found him unresponsive, hanging from the closet door in his home office. Paramedics arrived within 8 minutes but were unable to revive him. Pronounced dead on scene.”
The next file he opened was marked “NYC Office of Chief Medical Examiner.” After reviewing the pathology report without any new developments, he flipped to the autopsy report:
Investigation:
On September 21 at 2:21 a.m., Officer Thompson from the New York Police Department called the NYC Chief Medical Examiner’s office to report the death of one Caucasian male, 55 years old. I arrived at 3:05 a.m. and cleared the scene at 5:53 a.m. No charges are pending and there are no signs of foul play.
Location:
The body was found deceased with a leather belt wrapped around his neck in a locked office on the main floor of his residence. No resuscitate efforts were attempted as the body displayed signs of rigor and lividity.
Information/Witness Statements:
I spoke with Officer Thompson and he told me the following:
The subject lived at the residence with his wife, Cherry Butler, and two children, Jaycee and Michael Butler. His prior medical history reportedly included depression, high blood pressure, and a recent increase in insomnia and paranoia.
Earlier that evening, the subject and his wife went to bed at approximately 10:00 p.m. She awoke at approximately midnight and found that he was not in bed; she noted that the subject had often been unable to sleep recently due to negative reports about him in the national news media.
She woke up again at approximately 1:20 a.m. to use the bathroom. After she had done so, she went downstairs to check on her husband and noticed that he had closed the office door, which she found unusual. Upon finding that the door locked, she used the spare key and found the victim with a leather belt secured around his neck. At this point, she called 911 and waited until Officer Thompson responded.
Scene Description:
The room was fully furnished, with a large desk in the center of the room and a leather swivel chair with its back facing the window. A flat-screen television was set on top of a wooden hutch backing the wall to the right of the entryway. A four-drawer filing cabinet was set down next to a hutch. A brown leather sofa lined the left wall. There was a closet on the right corner of the room near the door. The hutch contained various office supplies, hard alcohol and several glasses. The closet contained various clothing items. Aside from the computer, the only item on the desk was a note which was confirmed by Mrs. Butler to be written in the subject’s handwriting. An inkjet printer was set on a small shelf in the leg space of the desk.
The subject was located hanging from the closet door facing the window. The subject was dressed in a white T-shirt, underwear, and plaid pajama bottoms. The tip of the tongue was darkened and protruded forward. I noted no signs of trauma to the face, chest, abdomen, back, arms or legs. Several superficial vertical lines were seen over the inner aspect of the left wrist. There were no signs of trauma or blood over the palms or tops of the hands, nor was there any breakage on the fingernails.
The black leather belt was looped a single time around the anterior and lateral aspects of the neck. The long end of the belt was threaded once through the slip lock and upward behind the victim’s back.
Conclusion: Death due to asphyxia.
Russell continued reading the remainder of the documents in the folder. All of the reports were consistent with the autopsy report.
He noted that both Constable Thompson’s report and Harry’s notes included a reference to the expressionless man. Constable Thompson had buried it in a descriptive summary of Cherry’s witness statement. Harry had disregarded it as a lead. He had interviewed Cherry further on this unusual detail but she was unable to give Harry any further description of the man aside from his general details and Tim’s odd characterization of the rigidity of his face.
Am I chasing some kind of phantom? Russell shook his head and turned to a photocopy of Tim’s suicide note. In neat writing Tim had composed his final correspondence:
Dear Cherry,
I am sorry. There were no other options for this. Please do what you can to take care of yourself and J.C. and Michael. I have been thinking about this for some time now. I can’t bear to live in a world that hates me. I love you. I am sorry.
Your dear husband,
Tim
Russell checked the box and realized this was the culmination of the file. He collected his thoughts on the totality of the information available to him so far. Phineas Academy preached that the investigator should always consider death investigations as suspicious until the facts prove otherwise. He first thought of his conversation with Lukas and the vague reference to the expressionless man. He opened up another note on his laptop and captured several thoughts for the closing memorandum he knew that was going to have to take care of sooner or later. He wrote:
He could easily identify the means of death and a clear motive to take his own life.
Some potential self-inflicted wounds were suggesting previous attempts at suicide and, at the minimum, he had researched modes of death.
There was a suicide note written by the deceased. There was no reason to believe it was written involuntarily or that it was faked.
Russell knew what this analysis meant. He found no obvious holes, and all of the independent reports corroborated each other. Absent any further evidence, Russell would be forced to come to the same conclusion as Harry. There weren’t any particular avenues of investigation that Russell would have followed up on that Harry had missed, given the particular circumstances of Tim’s death.
But he knew that he owed Lukas more than that. He couldn’t just mail this one in. And there was this weird reference to an expressionless man.
He got up slowly from the chair and returned the box to the desk sergeant. By the time that he had got there, Russell had decided that he would visit the Butler residence before giving Lukas any conclusions.
Chapter Nine
Russell decided that the most sensitive way to access the Butler residence was to have Lukas first clear a visit with Cherry. On his cab ride back to Phineas Tower, Russell speed-dialed Lukas on his phone. Lukas agreed on the approach and promised to do his best to schedule a meeting later that afternoon.
The cab stopped about two blocks before Phineas Tower in front of Tuzzi’s, a bakery specializing in European-style pastries and cakes. Having missed lunch, Russell picked up a to-go raksmorgas, a Swedish prawn sandwich that Tuzzi’s had adapted for American appetites. While walking back to the tower and finishing his lunch, Russell felt a vibration in his jacket pocket. He dug the phone out and saw that it was Lukas.
“She
’s available now. I’m going to pick you up,” Lukas said with the urgency of a Brooklynite. “Where you at?”
Incidentally, Russell was only two blocks away.
Soon, they were crossing the Brooklyn Bridge on their way to Tim’s house. During the drive, Russell gave a brief update to Tim. An hour later, they arrived at Tim’s modest home on Maple Street. The smooth wheels of Lukas’s BMW 535i crunched over the dry maple leaves as they pulled into the driveway. Russell and Lukas sombrely climbed the five steps leading up to the front door, and Lukas rang the doorbell.
Even though the sun had not yet set, the light on the porch switched on as Cherry Butler opened the door. She was a pretty woman in her midforties. She wore her long brown hair in a tight ponytail and was predominantly dressed in dark colors. A gold locket shone brightly on her chest, the glint of the jewelry contrasting against her dark grey sweater. Her eyes were red and moist with the mournful dimness of a new widow.
“Cherry,” Lukas said with a nod. Russell nodded but kept his eyes to the ground.
“Hello, Lukas. You must be Russell from Phineas. Please come in,” Cherry said in a soft voice. She reached out and gave Lukas a hug before extending her hand to Russell.
“Where’s Jaycee and Mikey?” asked Lukas.
“The kids are at my mom’s house this week. They needed some time away from this house,” Cherry responded.
“You okay alone in this house?” Lukas asked.