by Ray Flynt
“On the first floor, on the opposite side of the house from the garage.”
“Approximately how much distance is there from the master bedroom to the garage?”
“Sixty feet. We measured it.”
Cunningham returned to the prosecution table and consulted her notes. “So in a lifeless state, her body was moved from the bedroom to the garage and then lifted into the freezer?”
“Objection, Your Honor, conjecture,” Asher called out, rising half way out of his chair.
“Overruled,” Whitaker said.
Cordes cleared his throat. “We believe the blanket in which her body was discovered was used for that purpose.”
“Were there any other blankets on the bed?”
“Yes. There was a blue blanket of the exact same style and manufacture as the pink blanket.”
“The blue blanket remained on the bed?”
“Yes.”
Brad noticed a juror in the middle of the front row cover a yawn. The blanket discussion had gotten them off the testimonial fairway and into the weeds, and confirmed his suspicion that Cunningham was trying to run out the clock.
“Detective Cordes,” Cunningham began, as if to signal the importance of her question, “I’d like to clear up a point for the jury. If the Nesbit family employed domestic help for cooking and light housekeeping, how is it possible that the bedroom had not been cleaned, with the beds stripped and the sheets washed between the time of Ms. Nesbit’s death and the discovery of the body on March 7th?”
Cordes faced the jury. “Ms. Holt, the victim’s daughter, informed me that the master suite was the owners’ sanctuary and off-limits for the services of the housekeeper.”
After a few more mundane details were established regarding the length of time Cordes had spent at the crime scene, Cunningham announced. “Your Honor, I have no further questions of this witness at this time.”
Whitaker glanced toward the clock at the rear of the courtroom. “In view of the hour,” he began, “we’ll adjourn for the day, and Mr. Asher can conduct his cross examination in the morning.”
Shane Asher was on his feet. “Your Honor, I only have a few questions and can probably wrap up in the next fifteen minutes.” He held his hands in a palms-up gesture.
The judge stared a little longer at the clock above the doorway at the back of the courtroom before saying, “Very well, you may cross examine the witness.”
“Detective Cordes, have you ever awakened in the morning to find a spot of blood or drool on your pillow?”
Cordes grinned. “Yes.”
“And you’ve probably awakened to a few hairs on your pillow,” Asher began, before seemingly noticing the detective’s bald head for the first time. He did a take worthy of a stand-up comic, and said, “I’m sorry, I withdraw the question.”
Titters rippled through the courtroom, but Brad felt Asher had made the point that hair from Genevieve on the bed could be the result of multiple reasons—not all of them nefarious.
Asher crossed to the defense table and picked up a document. “Your Honor, I’d like to show this photograph to the witness and ask him to authenticate it.”
Whitaker glanced at the prosecutor before saying, “Proceed.”
Asher handed the photograph to the witness. “Detective Cordes, do you recognize this picture?”
“Yes. It is a photograph of the master bedroom at the Nesbit home.”
“It was taken by your photographer, Skip Manville?”
“Yes.”
Asher requested and the judge admitted the photo as evidence. There was a pause as jurors passed the photograph among themselves.
Brad was the last juror to see it. He gripped the 8” by 10” by the edges. What he saw was a king-sized bed with the far side still neatly made, but the near side looked as if a person had stepped out to visit the bathroom, with the top sheet and blanket pushed back. Five satin pillows remained neatly piled against the headboard. A sixth pillow looked out of place, and with no visible blood spot. The urine stain the detective had described was barely discernible on the shiny beige sheets. Cordes had testified that the fitted sheet had become loose, but from that photograph there was no indication that it had dislodged from the corner. The crime scene in the photo looked far less ominous than the one Cordes described, and Brad could see why Cunningham had not introduced that photo.
Asher turned back to the witness. “Now, Detective Cordes, you described a scene that, in your words, was indicative that a struggle had taken place. How does this scene differ from the condition you might have observed after your teenage son got out of bed this morning?”
Cunningham called out, “Objection, Your Honor. Argumentative and irrelevant.”
“Sustained. Mr. Asher, you know better,” Whitaker said.
Brad saw a smile curl at Asher’s lips, since he’d made his point.
“Let’s talk about moving that body. During the course of your investigation, did you determine Genevieve Nesbit’s height and weight?”
Cordes consulted his notebook. “She was 5’ 5” tall and weighed 135 pounds.”
“Did you see any marks on the floor indicating that Ms. Nesbit’s body had been dragged from the bedroom to the garage?”
“Most of the floors were wood or tile surfaces. No.”
“But the bedroom was carpeted, was it not?”
“Yes.”
Asher continued in a rapid-fire delivery. “And did you find drag marks on the carpet in the bedroom?”
“The bedroom carpet was a Berber style.”
“I didn’t ask you what style the carpet was. The fact is that you didn’t find any indication that a body had been dragged across the bedroom carpeting?”
“No,” Cordes said.
Asher turned toward the jury clasping his hands in front. “Detective, you described your interview with Francine Holt, but I’d like you to tell the jury about your interview with Carmelita Diaz.”
“I didn’t interview Ms. Diaz.”
“Then who did?”
“No one.”
“And why is that?”
“Ms. Diaz left the scene that afternoon, and we’ve been unable to locate her.”
A murmur rippled through the courtroom. Whitaker lifted his gavel, but offered only an icy stare at the spectators.
Brad felt that Cordes had anticipated the question of the missing witness, and had tried hard not to indicate any distress over providing the information.
“During your efforts to find Ms. Diaz, you determined that she had been in this country illegally?”
“Yes.”
“And had been employed—illegally—by Genevieve Nesbit for the last two years?”
Cordes seemed to lock his gaze on Brad, as if to gauge the effect on the jury of his answer, before saying, “Yes.”
“No further questions at this time, Your Honor,” Asher said, as the courtroom buzzed with that revelation.
Judge Whitaker stared at the prosecution table, but Cunningham seemed absorbed in making notes on the pad in front of her. He turned toward the jury. “It’s nearly five o’clock, ladies and gentlemen, and we’re going to recess for—”
“Redirect, Your Honor.” Cunningham was on her feet.
The judge turned toward Detective Cordes. “The witness is requested to return at 9 a.m. tomorrow morning.”
“May we approach, Your Honor?” Cunningham asked.
The judge drew his hand in front of his mouth, and Brad thought he saw a flash of anger in the judge’s eyes before he said, “Very well.”
The court clerk and stenographer were arrayed on a slightly raised platform directly in front of the judge, so Cunningham and Asher gathered at the far side of the bench. A click sounded as the judge turned off his microphone before swiveling in his chair to face the attorneys. Brad couldn’t hear what was being said, but the contrast between the attorneys couldn’t be clearer. Diane Cunningham looked intense as she pressed her point, while Shane Asher acted like a man wi
th no worries. Brad felt he knew what the argument was about: Asher’s cross-examination had been harmful to the Commonwealth’s case. She didn’t want to let the jury out of the building until she’d had an opportunity to minimize the damage.
Their conference lasted less than a minute, and as the attorneys returned to their respective tables, Whitaker once more faced the jurors.
“Jurors are reminded not to discuss this case, nor to form any opinions until all of the evidence has been presented. Court is in recess until 9 a.m. tomorrow morning.” With the bang of his gavel, the judge stood and headed for his chambers.
11
I found a ticket on my windshield when I returned to the car. Shit! It was that kind of morning. I’d fed the meter before my meeting with Nick, but our session had lasted longer than I’d anticipated.
I shoved the ticket in the center console of my Civic before starting the car and pulling into traffic. I’d driven three blocks before it dawned on me that I didn’t have a clue where I planned to go. The photograph of Martin Tetlow’s accident remained seared in my mind, and I figured it was time to visit Manayunk. I headed for the Schuylkill Expressway, or the “Sure-Kill” as I like to call it, and drove west.
I decided to first visit Tetlow’s address on Lyceum Avenue, and then retrace the route to the scene of his crash at Levering and Cresson Streets. Manayunk was an increasingly gentrified neighborhood within Philadelphia, and it was evident from the well-cared-for lawns and flower beds in front of porches and around the bases of trees that residents took pride in their community.
The “For Sale” sign signaled the address before I spotted any house numbers, and I pulled to the curb directly across the street. Marlene Trumbull’s photo glistened off the metal Woodbine Realtor’s sign, with her short blonde hair and brilliant white teeth. I copied her name and number, intending to give her a call.
No cars were parked in front of the Tetlow home, and I could see the driveway that led to the garage I’d read about in the police report. Down the block I spotted a funeral home, and wondered if they had handled Martin Tetlow’s final arrangements.
I prepared to make a U-turn and park in front of the house, when a gray Audi skidded into the empty space followed by a Chevy Suburban. A woman, looking like a slightly-older version of the realtor pictured on the sign, climbed out of the Audi, and a young couple exited the Suburban. I lowered my window to hear what they were saying.
“You’re going to love this place,” Marlene Trumbull gushed. She lifted her arms wide, like Evita standing on a Buenos Aires’ balcony. “It’s come on the market in the last few days, and believe you me it’s not going to last long.”
I had an idea. I closed the car’s window, climbed out, and began dodging cars as I crossed Lyceum street shouting, “Excuse me. Excuse me.”
The young man from the Suburban flashed me a who-is-this-crazy-woman look. I ran right up to Marlene sounding breathless. “Sorry to interrupt, but are you showing this house? I just read about it this morning, and my boyfriend and I are looking for a place. This seemed perfect.”
The man flashed his get-in-line stare, and looked impatiently at the realtor.
Marlene smiled graciously. “Yes, well, I’m showing the house to this young couple,” she swept her hand in their direction, “but if you’d like to come back in say, forty-five minutes, I’d be happy to give you a tour. That is, if it’s still on the market.” This time her smile showed two rows of perfectly capped teeth.
I wasn’t confident that I could solve Rachel Tetlow’s seventeen-year-old murder case, but perhaps I could sweeten the odds of selling her mother’s home. With my best crestfallen expression I said, “I really want this house.” I glanced at my watch. “I’ll be back at 1 o’clock.”
I figured I’d use the time to check out the scene of Martin Tetlow’s fatal crash.
As I returned to my car, my throat felt raw. I swilled bottled water, and scrambled in my purse for a lozenge. Damn this cold. When it was safe, I made a U-turn and proceeded south on Lyceum Street.
I imagined Tetlow departing for jury duty on that July morning, and wondered at what point he would have been aware of a problem with the brakes. The first few blocks were relatively flat, but by the time I crossed Manayunk Avenue the elevation dropped off considerably. I drove two more blocks, where Lyceum made about a thirty-degree turn and became Levering Street, at which point I was riding the brake pedal. Unfortunately, I discovered that in the intervening years Levering had become a one-way street in the opposite direction. But at the spot where I had to make a turn, it was clear to me that Martin Tetlow would have had a sense of his impending fate for at least two blocks prior to the juncture with Cresson Street.
Without instructions from a GPS, I “recalculated,” and made my way to the intersection of Levering and Cresson. I saw the elevated railway for the SEPTA line—its superstructure a dirty green and bleeding rust. Cresson Street occupied the space under the tracks. I’d concluded that Tetlow would have needed to make a left turn at that intersection for his trip to the Federal Courthouse in Philadelphia. I found a parking spot.
I crossed the street a few times, and stood on every corner of the intersection. The place hadn’t changed much from the Polaroid photographs I’d studied in the case file at Nick Argostino’s office. Manayunk was an established community. A few of the businesses bore new names, but little else had altered in seventeen years, including the rust on the railway superstructure. I closed my eyes and pictured Tetlow’s banged-up car sitting in the middle of the intersection.
Whoever had tampered with Tetlow’s brakes that morning could not have been assured of his death. The garbage truck had come along at the wrong time, crushing the driver’s side door and trapping him in his car. The autopsy had suggested that with earlier intervention his wounds might not have been fatal. If there hadn’t been any cross traffic, Tetlow would’ve had a head-on collision with a brick building—again not necessarily fatal.
I wondered if all cars had airbags back then. I didn’t recall seeing airbags deployed in the photographs from the scene, but they might not have with a side crash. I opened my smartphone, did a quick check, and learned that his 1991 Lumina was equipped with airbags.
I climbed back into my car more confused than ever. If Tetlow had survived the crash, he would not have been able to serve on the jury, still prompting a mistrial. I kept thinking about the shooting death of the other juror in the racketeering case; two jurors dead—one made to look like an accident, while the other appeared to be a drive-by shooting. I decided to leave a note for Brad on his desk that evening to find out what he thought.
I parked behind Marlene’s Audi, in the space where the Suburban had been. As I prepared to walk to the front door, Marlene powered open her tinted side-door window and called to me. “Thanks for coming back. I can show you the house, but I got an offer from that other couple. There’s a similar place about two miles from here that I can show you.”
I peered in and saw her inserting a document into a machine perched on top of a briefcase on the seat. “Is that a fax machine?”
Marlene shook her head and held her smart phone aloft. “I’m scanning the offer and e-mailing it to the seller right now.”
“4-G?”
She nodded.
I dropped all pretense of being an interested buyer, explained who I was and my reasons for wanting to see the home. I told her Rachel would be pleased to receive an offer.
Marlene appeared miffed for about two seconds until it dawned on her that my earlier act, feigning interest in the property, had probably pushed her buyers to a quick decision. “They offered full price.” She winked at me. “Here’s the keys. Go ahead and look around. I still have to call my office, and scan another document.”
I crossed the threshold, and closed the front door behind me with that eerie sense of being in a space where I didn’t belong. Like the scene of the accident, I wasn’t sure exactly what I was looking for; I just knew that I had to
see the space where Rachel had lived. Maybe the walls would speak to me.
The house dated from the 30s or 40s, I guessed, a time before everyone desired an open concept. I moved quickly through the empty living room, where Rachel had described her mother’s encounter with police detectives, and into the kitchen. An archway led to another room, most likely the family’s formal dining room. Stairs to the second floor were on the left side of the living room adjacent to the front door, and the treads creaked as I climbed my way to the bedrooms. My over-the-garage apartment at Brad Frame’s estate seemed opulent compared to the three tiny bedrooms I found. The house, emptied of its furnishings, contributed to the sense of smallness. One bathroom—decorated in turquoise tile—served the whole house. It struck me that not much had changed in seventeen years, and I wondered how much of a financial struggle Rachel’s mother had had following her husband’s death. Rachel had mentioned insurance, and I would need to ask her for the details.
Rachel had described the scene in her bedroom on the night before her dad’s death, in which he gazed out the bedroom window after hearing a noise. I stared out that same window at the driveway below, as the midday November sun warmed the space.
There were three keys on the ring that Maureen had given me. Two were similar, probably for the front and rear doors, with a third smaller key that I figured would give access to the garage. I locked the front door from inside and exited out back, using the key to lock the rear door. I tried the smaller key at the side door of the garage and it opened. Just then I heard Maureen yoo-hooing at me from the front sidewalk. “Sharon, I need to go,” she yelled.
I wanted to be respectful of her time, but resented the fact that I wouldn’t be able to look at the garage, even as I sensed there was nothing to see there which would solve a seventeen-year-old murder. The door had a bored cylinder lock, that required a key to open from the outside, but could be locked with a quick turn of the mechanism inside. I left the door cracked open and marched in Maureen’s direction.
“Thanks so much for letting me take a peek.” I handed her the keys.