Corpus Delicti (David Brunelle Legal Thriller Book 6)

by Stephen Penner

  “Any response?”

  Edwards stood up sharply. “Absolutely, Your Honor.”

  She started in, but Brunelle allowed his mind to wander a bit as it recovered from his tortured, but eloquent, argument. He wasn’t going to get another chance to speak and Grissom had likely made her mind up before either of them opened their mouths. Edwards was hitting all the main points: Confrontation Clause, effective assistance of counsel, blah blah blah. There was some indignation, too, at Brunelle’s attempts to trivialize a defendant’s constitutional rights or somehow equate a victim with a defendant.

  Brunelle knew there was no way to equate Kenny Brown and Amy Corrigan. Kenny Brown was still alive.

  Grissom was ready to rule as soon as Edwards sat down again. “First, let me say, Mr. Brunelle, that I am both impressed and concerned by your advocacy. Ms. Edwards, you better watch out if he makes those kinds of siren-like appeals to the jury. I appreciate your effort, Mr. Brunelle, to somehow twist yourself into the protector of individual liberty even as you attempt to put this man,” she pointed at Brown, “this private citizen, in prison.”

  Brunelle acknowledged the compliment with a slight nod.

  “However, I am not a juror and I am not about to be confused by creative arguments and flowery turns of phrase. I have no desire to endanger or in any other way impact any private member of the community. But that is not what I’m being asked to do. Whether Ms. Edwards chooses to contact this person is her decision, and her action, not the court’s. That’s not what I’m being asked to do. What I’m being asked to do is protect the Constitutional rights of a criminal defendant. I have no hesitancy to do that.”

  She pointed a finger directly at Brunelle. “You are to provide Ms. Edwards with an unredacted copy of the witness’s statement, as well as the name, date of birth, and current address and telephone. And you are to do that by close of business today.”

  Brunelle frowned. He wasn’t unprepared to lose the motion. He didn’t like the judge’s timeline, though.

  No harm in asking.

  “Your Honor, could you possibly give me until the end of the entire day, not just five o’clock? The witness leads a somewhat transient lifestyle. I may need a few hours to confirm her current whereabouts.”

  Grissom narrowed her eyes as she considered the request. “How about by ten o’clock this evening?” she suggested. “Will that work for you, Ms. Edwards?”

  “We have no objection to that,” Edwards stood to reply. “It’s not like I’m going to rush right out and talk to her tonight.”

  No, thought Brunelle. But I am.

  Chapter 14

  Brunelle had no idea where Linda Prescott was or how to find her. Prosecutors weren’t in the business of finding people. That was detective work.

  “Montero. Major crimes.”

  And there were more detectives than just Larry Chen.

  “Detective, it’s Dave Brunelle again from the prosecutor’s office. I need a little help finding one of our witnesses.”

  “Oh, okay. The Kenny Brown case, right?”

  “Sure,” Brunelle conceded.

  “Who are we looking for?” Montero asked.

  “Linda Prescott. She was the last one to see the victim alive. She was one of Brown’s girls.”

  Montero surrendered a dark laugh. “Then she still is one of his girls. They don’t get to quit. That’s what Amy Corrigan tried to do.”

  Brunelle frowned. If quitting got you killed, what would snitching get you?

  “I need to find her,” Brunelle said.

  “So do what everybody else does,” Montero replied. “Go to DateNight.com.”

  “DateNight.com?” Brunelle repeated.

  “Yeah,” Montero replied. “That’s the way most prostitutes work any more. Post an ad, include a cell number, and wait for the texts to start rolling in. Schedule a time and spend the day in your motel room, turning one trick after another. Almost none of the girls just walk the streets any more. The only johns who still drive around looking for a hooker off the streets are creepy old guys who don’t know about DateNight.”

  Brunelle felt his cheeks sear and was grateful again for the non-visual nature of telephone communication. “So, is she just on there as Linda Prescott? Is it that simple?”

  “It’s almost that simple, but no, she isn’t going to use her real name. None of them do. Here, hold on. I’ll pull it up right now.”

  “DateNight?” Brunelle asked. “On your work computer?”

  Montero laughed. “It’s part of my job, Mr. Brunelle. I don’t think anyone is going to think I’m actually looking for a hooker tonight.”

  “Heh,” Brunelle forced a chuckle. “Right.”

  “Okay,” Montero said. “Here she is. Even with all that make up and the weird selfie angle, I recognize her from her booking photo. She’s going by ‘Anastasia.’ Says she enjoys generous men and new experiences.”

  “Of course she does,” Brunelle muttered.

  “You need me to do anything else right now?”

  Brunelle considered asking Montero to set up a security detail for Linda starting at 10:00, but he knew that was a non-starter. Chen was right; they couldn’t do that. The only thing to be done was to warn her, and with all of Brown’s other girls watching, a cop wasn’t the person to do it.

  “No, thanks,” Brunelle answered. “I can take it from here. “

  Chapter 15

  Brunelle opted not to look up DateNight.com on his work computer. It would have been part of his job too, but he didn’t relish trying to explain to his IT folks why he was using taxpayer resources to troll for prostitutes. Instead, he left work right at 5:00 and hurried home to his laptop where he could peruse the offerings on DateNight.com at his leisure.

  Although not too much leisure. He still had to give Linda’s name and contact number to Edwards by 10:00. He would have to assume that Brown would have it immediately after that. That gave him just a few hours to warn Linda that her pimp was about to discover she’d snitched him out.

  The prevailing joke about snitches was, ‘Snitches get stitches.’ Brunelle had seen more than one tough-guy-defendant wearing a t-shirt with that phrase to court. Linda would be lucky to get away with just stitches. Brunelle thought of the other phrase he’d heard, cited less frequently, perhaps because of its length, but undoubtedly more apropos in the current situation: ‘Snitches are bitches who end up in ditches.’

  Ah, the literary glamour of practicing criminal law.

  Brunelle didn’t want Linda to end up in a ditch. He couldn’t protect her round the clock—he didn’t have that kind of time, or, honestly, the toughness to out-tough a pimp who beats and murders his prostitutes. But he could warn her, and she could take steps to get the hell out of the area. But not without making arrangements to come back in time for the trial. He still needed her testimony. And he needed her to stay alive long enough to give it.

  It was no problem finding her ad on DateNight.com. The problem was bringing himself to text a prostitute. Linda or Anastasia or whatever she was calling herself, she was unlikely to respond to a text that said, ‘Hi. Dave Brunelle, prosecutor, here. Do you have a few minutes to discuss a personal safety plan?’ Besides, he would have to assume that Kenny the Pimp or his other girls might read whatever text he sent. What he needed to tell her had to be spoken word only. That left one option.

  ‘Hey, Anastasia,’ he typed into his phone. ‘Saw ur ad. I want to be generous if u want a new experience. Tonight?’

  He only paused for a moment before hitting, ‘Send.’ It was barely a few moments after that before he got a response.

  ’11:00. pacific motel. room 311. 100 roses for 30 mins. 150 roses for 60. Extra is extra.’

  Great. He had a date. $100 for half an hour, $150 for a full hour. A good deal, he supposed. And anything too kinky would cost extra.

  “Seems fair,” he mumbled to himself. Then he texted ‘Ok. C u then,’ to confirm the date.

  He frowned slightl
y. He would have preferred something before 10:00 p.m., but he didn’t suppose it mattered. He could use his remote desktop program to send Linda’s name and number to Edwards’ work email at 9:59 p.m. Not even Edwards would stay at the office until 10:00 p.m., so she wouldn’t open it until the next morning anyway. He hoped.

  He was distracted enough by thoughts of email logistics that he forgot for a moment to feel nervous about having just solicited a prostitute—which, of course, was a crime. Only a misdemeanor, but still, prosecutors weren’t supposed to go around committing crimes. Particularly not embarrassing sex-related crimes that would land him and his boss on the front page of the paper. And him in jail overnight.

  But the trepidation wasn’t at bay for long and after confirming his plan to email Edwards a minute before Grissom’s deadline, Brunelle realized what he was doing and reeled at the explosion of nervous bile in stomach.

  “What am I doing?” he asked aloud.

  But then he remembered what he wasn’t doing. He wasn’t really soliciting a prostitute. He was just setting up a meeting with a witness.

  “A witness interview,” he assured himself.

  Then he smiled at himself. If he were prosecuting a john who used that excuse, he wouldn’t believe it either.

  He looked at his phone display. He had several hours before his ‘witness interview.’ He considered having a drink or two, but decided not to add a DUI to his solicitation charge. Instead he set two alarms—one for 9:55 to send his email, and the other for 10:30 so he’d have time to get to North Aurora Avenue by 11:00—then turned on the TV and tried to lose himself in the day’s sports scores.

  *

  The Pacific Motel was just two motels up from the Aurora Motel. Brunelle hadn’t been far off when he’d tried to find Linda on his own. He just didn’t realize she wouldn’t be on the streets. Instead, she was in room 311.

  Brunelle pulled into the parking lot and found a parking spot in the back. The clock on his dashboard said ’10:53.’ He considered parking where he could see room 311, but he didn’t really want to be seen, and he really didn’t want to see the 10:30 appointment leaving. It might be a witness interview, but it was still with a woman who was being victimized by pimp and john alike, and he didn’t like being quite so close to the action.

  Being a prosecutor was nice, he considered. He could be on the good guy team, fighting injustice, holding the bad guys responsible, and generally championing the greater good. But he could do it from the comfort and distance of his desk. He got to look at the witness statements and scene photos without actually having to meet the witnesses or process the crime scene himself.

  There was something different about homicides too. It was the worst crime, the most permanent. There was no returning the stolen goods and writing a letter of apology. No undoing what was done. But there was also no direct interaction with the victim, and, as final as the result was, there was no chance of the victim being re-victimized. Not like the wife being abused by her husband or the child being molested by his uncle.

  Or, Brunelle knew, the prostitute being used by john after john and beaten by her pimp.

  He looked again at the clock. 10:57.

  Was he really going to go into some seedy motel room, to talk with a woman who was turning trick after trick that night, to warn her that her pimp was about to find out that she was the one who snitched him out? He’d beat her just for not making her quota that night. And what if she didn’t care? What if she was more afraid of not earning enough money that night than she was about what might happen tomorrow?

  “Oh, shit.” Brunelle suddenly realized he hadn’t brought any money. Not $100 anyway. She was probably going to be more concerned about explaining why she gave some guy a half hour appointment without getting paid than anything about potential witness intimidation.

  10:59.

  There was probably an ATM around somewhere. Maybe the manager’s office? But was he really going to give a hooker $100? Wouldn’t that actually be a crime? Well, not if he didn’t have sex. But who would believe that?

  11:00.

  What if she turned on him? What if her loyalty to Brown was greater than any fear she had of him? What if she was smart enough—or Brown was—to realize they could accuse him of coming to the motel to pay her for sex? That wouldn’t just ruin his case; it would ruin his career.

  11:01.

  Brown could be hiding in the bathroom for all he knew—and Brown would recognize him from court. It would be Brunelle’s word against theirs. And he’d sent that stupid text.

  Why, people would ask, didn’t you just have the detective talk to her? ‘Because I didn’t want to endanger her,’ he would say. ‘Mm-hmm, a likely story,’ they would respond.

  11:02.

  His heart was racing almost as fast as his thoughts. His palms were sweaty on the steering wheel, which he suddenly realized he was gripping so tightly his knuckles were white.

  He let go and tried to calm his mind.

  11:03.

  Was he really going to get out of his car, and walk across the parking lot, and knock on the door, and go inside, and close the door, and tell this woman—who was probably high right then—that he wasn’t going to give her any money, but instead he was a prosecutor, but don’t worry, he wasn’t going to arrest her or charge her or anything, he just came to warn her out of the goodness of his heart?

  Really?

  11:04.

  No.

  He wasn’t going to do that.

  He wasn’t a cop. And he wasn’t a hero.

  He was a prosecutor. Prosecutors go to court, not prostitutes.

  11:05.

  He started his car again and quickly pulled out of the parking spot. He drove too fast past room 311 and pretty much cut off two cars as he turned too widely onto Aurora Avenue, then straightened out and floored it.

  He didn’t care. He needed the drive.

  He turned the rearview mirror to look himself in the eye.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” he asked.

  He didn’t even see the police lights behind him, turning into the parking lot of the Pacific Motel.

  Chapter 16

  It was a long, restless night. Even after the glass of scotch he poured between the front door and the bed, Brunelle didn’t sleep well. Troubling dreams stayed just out of memory’s reach and he couldn’t ever seem to get comfortable. When his alarm went off, he was almost relieved to stop trying to sleep.

  By the time he got to the office, he’d already drained most of a grande americano. It would be the first of several that day, he knew. Chain-caffeinating.

  The message light on his phone was flashing, and he knew there were at least a dozen new emails in his in-box, but the first order of business was calling Montero. If, as was apparent, Brunelle couldn’t warn Linda, somebody had to.

  But he got her voicemail.

  ‘This is Detective Julia Montero with the Seattle Police Department. I’m away from my desk, so please leave a message and I’ll call you back. Thanks.’

  He hated leaving voicemails.

  “Uh, Detective. It’s Dave Brunelle. From the prosecutor’s office. I was just calling because, uh, well, can you just call me back? It’s about Linda Prescott. Okay. Great. Uh, bye.”

  He reminded himself to be grateful he didn’t have to deliver closing arguments over voicemail.

  There were actually fifteen new emails, half of them from county-wide spam accounts letting him know about the latest retirement in the parks department and the upcoming sewage maintenance subcommittee meeting, open to the public!

  His three voicemails were equally uninteresting. The first was from the legal assistant who ran the file room; she was looking for a file he was pretty sure he didn’t have. The second was from the property room asking if they could release something to someone on one of his old cases. The third was a hang up.

  Brunelle looked around his desk for a suggestion of what to do first that day. The obvious answer was to
crack open the Kenny Brown/Amy Corrigan file and start doing some preemptive legal research on Edwards’ imminent motion to dismiss for lack of corpus delicti.

  Brunelle felt the same about legal research as he did about exercise. He knew it was good for him, and he did it occasionally when compelled, but that didn’t mean he liked it. He reluctantly opened his browser to the legal research website the county had decided was good enough for the prosecutor’s office and stared at the log-in screen.

  Maybe I should check in with Nicole, he thought. I mean, just in case. See if there’s anything pressing going on right now.

  He knew it was bullshit, but he also knew he wasn’t quite ready for a morning of slogging through appellate decisions on his computer screen. He pushed himself to his feet and walked, slowly, to the desk of his legal assistant.

  “Hey, Nicole. Any new homicides last night?”

  Nicole shook her head and smiled. “Afraid not, boss. Looks like it was a quiet night in the Queen City.”

  Brunelle cocked his head. “I thought Seattle was the Emerald City.”

  But Nicole shook her head. “Queen City was the original nickname. King County, Queen City. They switched it because some idiot thought Queen City sounded like there were a lot of gay people in Seattle.”

  Brunelle thought for a moment. “There are a lot of gay people in Seattle.”

  “I know,” Nicole replied.

  “That makes no sense.”

  “‘Right. And renaming it after the Wizard of Oz is even stupider.”

  “What about ‘Rain City’?” Brunelle suggested. “I think I’ve heard that.”

  “Or Jet City,” Nicole offered. “There’s a pizza joint on the Eastside called ‘Jet City Pizza.’”

  “Jet City, huh?” Brunelle tried it on. “Because of Boeing?’”

  Nicole shrugged, “I guess so.”

  Brunelle considered his options for a moment. “Let’s go with Rain City. l like that one best.”