“So she gets in the car, starts performing, then gets strangled?”
“That’s how I figure it. Maybe the guy’s frustrated because he can’t, um, ejaculate, or maybe he discovers she’s a guy. Or, if it was a set-up, maybe it was just a way to get a clear shot at her throat. Whatever the case, I think the guy used some kind of rubber-coated metal cable. Something that wouldn’t cut the skin, but would be strong enough to cut off the air supply.”
Shelby fought to get the image of Charese’s face turning purple from strangulation out of her mind and to re-focus on the conversation. “Again, your scenario gets back to the conclusion that she didn’t know her murderer. I mean, I can’t picture her performing sex on Reese or Roberge or Pierre.”
“Unless she didn’t recognize them. Maybe he kept the car lights off or, again, wore a disguise. We’re just guessing now—hopefully the computer will spit out a car ID based on the tire tracks and carpet fibers. In the meantime, I’m going to get started on seeing if any of these guys have an alibi.”
“Detective, may I make a suggestion?”
“Sure.”
“Since the papers haven’t reported the identity of the murder victim yet, none of the suspects should know she’s dead, right?”
“Right. Unless one of them killed her.”
“Well, both Reese and Pierre Prefontaine are expecting me to call them today. And Roberge’s lawyer is also expecting a call from me. Why don’t I proceed as if nothing’s happened, and see what each of their responses is? Maybe one of them will give himself away.”
The detective was silent for a moment. Her request was unusual—she was wearing quite a few hats here. But her suggestion made sense, and there was no reason for any of the suspects to become suspicious if they received a call from her. “All right with me, so long as you clear it with Ms. Palmer.” Jennifer Palmer was the senior ADA assigned to the case. She and Shelby had hit it off right from Shelby’s first interview, and Shelby was lucky Jennifer drew the case. “If she says okay, I’ll wait until later today to begin questioning the suspects.”
“Great. And, Detective, thanks a lot.”
“No problem.” He turned to go, then paused in the doorway. “And please call me Dom.”
* * *
Shelby closed her office door and stared out the window. Just this morning, life had been so good. Now death had intruded again. This time, she knew she would have to ask herself some tough questions. Had she killed Charese? Had she, in her inexperience and naiveté, failed to understand what desperate men could do when they were backed into a corner? She had been dealing with Charese’s problem like a chess match, positioning the pieces on the board so that her opponent—sometimes Reese, sometimes Roberge, sometimes Pierre—would be forced to concede to her demands. Checkmate. But this was the real world, not some board game. Had one of the players, angered at the thought of losing, simply knocked the board over and jumped across the table to settle the competition with his fists? It sure looked that way.
She looked at her watch. Two o’clock. Some people were probably still eating lunch, yet she felt as if this day had already gone on for weeks. She went out to the vending machine and grabbed some peanut butter crackers and a Diet Coke; she didn’t have much of an appetite, but she needed to be sharp if she was going to interview the three suspects. And she couldn’t even do that until she sold the idea to Jennifer. She forced the crackers down and finished the soda, then went to the ladies’ room to wash her face and brush the crackers out of her teeth. The cold water and the cool toothpaste refreshed her a bit, and she went to find the woman she hoped would be supervising her for the next few months.
Before she could even knock, Jennifer looked up at her and smiled. “Don’t even bother coming in, Shelby. I just talked to Detective Mazzutti and he told me what you want to do. I think it’s a good idea, definitely worth a shot. I’ve got a trial tomorrow, so I can’t do it myself anyway. Why don’t you work with Mazzutti on this for a couple of days, then we’ll decide whether you can stay on the case, all right?”
Shelby smiled. “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”
She phoned Reese first. She decided to be aggressive, to taunt him. Maybe his male ego would betray him. “Hi, Reese. I haven’t heard from you in a while. Where’s Charese’s money?”
“Who is this?”
Reese was just trying to buy some time—he knew who she was. “This is Shelby Baskin.”
“Oh, hello, Miss Baskin. For your information, Krygier’s lawyer asked for a two-week extension. Which I gave him. I expect to hear from him this week, at which point I will call you. I don’t believe we have anything else to discuss.” He hung up.
Shelby sat back and replayed the conversation in her mind. She could analyze the nuances of the conversation for hours, but in the end there was simply too little on which to base a conclusion. If Reese had killed her, or even knew she was dead, he hadn’t revealed himself in their conversation.
As for Roberge Krygier, she couldn’t call him directly because he was represented by his father’s attorney. And, based on what Reese had said, there was no use in calling the lawyer. The lawyer was supposed to be contacting Reese in a couple of days with a settlement offer, assuming by that point they hadn’t learned of Charese’s death. But it was doubtful the police could keep Charese’s identity out of the papers that long, and Krygier would be stupid to make the offer once he found out Charese was dead.
That left Pierre. She dialed his number, and he answered on the third ring.
“Premier Properties. This is Pierre.”
“Mr. Prefontaine, this is Shelby Baskin, Charese Galloway’s attorney.”
“Oh. Hi.”
“I was wondering, is your offer to pay Charese to leave the apartment still open?”
Pierre paused before responding. Shelby guessed that her offer came as a bit of a surprise. “Well, sure, I guess so. The only thing is, it will take a few days to get the money together.”
Was he stalling, knowing that in a few days it would be a moot point? “I see. And we would want $20,000, not $5,000.” Shelby was just looking for reactions now, shooting in the dark.
Pierre again paused. “Listen, this is not a great time to talk, and I need to think about this a little. Can I call you back?”
Another meaningless response. “Sure.” She gave Pierre her number and hung up.
Maybe she just wasn’t very good at this type of investigative work. She had spoken to both Reese and Pierre and was no closer to knowing whether they had killed Charese than she was before. She would have to call Detective Mazzutti and tell him she had struck out. Maybe he would have better luck meeting them face to face.
* * *
[June 19, 1990]
The local newspapers identified the murder victim the next day, a Tuesday. Shelby forced herself to read every word. The Globe buried the story in a small box in the Metro section, but the Herald liked the racy angle of it and featured it on page 3. The murder of a prostitute was, even in Boston, a fairly rare occurrence, and the tie-in with the Krygier family made it a natural feature for the tabloid Herald. The paper devoted half a page to the story, and included the same picture of Charese and father and son Krygier that it had run the previous fall.
Shelby spoke to Detective Mazzutti later that morning. “Listen, Shelby.” They had moved to a first-name basis. “I know you think it’s sleazy for the Herald to use Charese’s death to sell newspapers, but it’s actually good that they ran the story and the picture. We need to find somebody who may have seen something that can help fill in the blanks here. The publicity will help us.”
“I guess you’re right. Have you talked to any of the suspects?”
“Yeah, I actually spoke to all three of the musketeers already this morning. Actually, maybe we should start calling them the three blind mice—none of them know anything. They all have what I would call ‘soft’ alibis. Prefontaine says he went to the Red Sox game, got stuck in traffic, then got home around half pas
t midnight. Got a ticket stub and a mustard stain to prove it. One of his neighbors pulled into the parking lot with him and she confirms the twelve-thirty time. The alibi makes sense; there was a lot of traffic getting out of Fenway that night. But, he could have just as easily left Fenway and headed over to the Theater District—no traffic going that direction—in plenty of time to kill Charese at around midnight, which is when we think she died, ditched the murder weapon and gotten home by twelve-thirty. So who knows?
“As for Jeffries, he was at some fund-raiser downtown which ended at about eleven o’clock. Then he says he went home. Plenty of witnesses at the fund-raiser, but his wife was out of town visiting her parents, so who knows where he went after that? Could have gone home, could have visited a girlfriend, could have driven over to the Theater District to kill Charese.
“Young Krygier says his wife went to bed early because she wasn’t feeling well, and he just stayed up watching TV. His wife confirms the story, but, you know, this is a woman who had no idea her husband was gay, so how sharp could she be? He could have slipped out while she was sleeping. So, they all have stories, but nothing airtight like they were out of town or even at a party with lots of witnesses.”
“So we’re no closer than we were yesterday?”
“Actually, we did get one break. The forensic people cross-referenced the tire tracks with the carpet fibers and came up with a blue or gray Pontiac Grand Am, any of the last three model years. And according to the Department of Motor Vehicle records, Pierre Prefontaine owns a 1988 Grand Am. Gray.”
Shelby banged her desk with her hand. “Wow. I really wouldn’t have guessed him.”
“Well, let’s not jump to conclusions just yet. This definitely makes him a prime suspect, but there's a lot of blue and gray Grand Am’s around. Over 1,500 registered in Massachusetts alone, according to the Motor Vehicle records. And a lot of them are owned by rental car companies, so that widens the possibilities even more.”
Shelby was unimpressed. “Sure, fifteen hundred cars, but out of how many drivers? I mean, aren’t there, like, six million people in Massachusetts? That’s a lot of coincidence.”
“I agree. But a jury’s not going to convict a man just based on a car match, even a man with a motive. We need more.”
* * *
Bruce thumbed back three weeks in his calendar, found the day Pierre had come to the office to discuss the Fenway Place deal. May 29. That was the day Pierre had mentioned his problems with his tenant.
Bruce pre-dated the memo, began typing on the keyboard:
To: File
From: Bruce Arrujo
Date: May 29, 1990
Re: Conversation with Pierre Prefontaine
Earlier today I spoke by telephone with Pierre Prefontaine regarding a contemplated real estate purchase. (Our Client: Howard Plansky. Matter: Fenway Place Purchase.) During this conversation, Mr. Prefontaine mentioned to me that he was having problems with a tenant (by the name of “Charese”) in a condominium unit he had recently purchased at a foreclosure sale at Two Clarendon Street in Boston. The tenant was only paying rent of $200 per month and Mr. Prefontaine believed he could not evict her as long as she paid her rent. He stated that he was losing over two thousand dollars per month on the unit, and that this was causing him extreme financial hardship. He then made a comment to the effect that the only way to “get rid” of this tenant was to kill her. He stated that either he or the tenant would have to die since the financial drain was “killing” him. He then asked me what the penalty in Massachusetts was for murder.
I am writing this memo to memorialize my conversation with Mr. Prefontaine in the event of any future criminal activity involving Mr. Prefontaine or the tenant.
Bruce paused here, pulled out a soft-cover book containing the professional rules of conduct for Massachusetts lawyers from the bottom shelf of his bookcase. He dusted it off, found the section he was looking for, studied the rules for a few minutes, then continued on the memo.
Note: I have not notified the police of this matter because I do not feel that the comments made to me by Mr. Prefontaine were sufficient to give me “knowledge” of his “intention to commit a crime.” I fear that Mr. Prefontaine may indeed commit a crime, but my fears are not the same as actual “knowledge.” Absent such “knowledge,” Disciplinary Rule 4-101(C)(3) does not allow me to violate the attorney-client privilege by reporting this conversation to the police.
He printed out a single copy of the memo and slid it in into the innermost pocket of his briefcase. From that same pocket, he removed the copy of the affidavit Pierre had signed—the one certifying that none of the members of the ownership group was in default on any RTC debts. He hid the affidavit in a legal ethics textbook on his bookshelf.
Bruce then informed his secretary he had an early lunch appointment and jumped on the green line train heading out to Newton.
Thirty-five minutes later, he walked off the train and ducked into a public restroom. He took a fake mustache and beard and a pair of heavy-framed glasses from his briefcase and put them on. From his suit coat pocket he pulled out a yarmulke, a Jewish skullcap, and bobby-pinned it to the hair on the top of his head. He looked in the mirror: his parents would still recognize him, but the disguise would probably fool a casual acquaintance.
Still carrying the briefcase, he walked to the Newton Police station and entered the front door. Five minutes later, he left the station and walked back to the green line train stop. He was now empty-handed.
* * *
Shelby was just about ready to call it a day when her phone rang. It was Dominic.
“Hey, how you holding up?”
“Pretty good, as long as no one’s actually expecting me to get any work done.”
“Well, I just got an interesting phone call. Are you free for a few minutes?”
“Actually, I could really go for a drink. You want to meet me in Faneuil Hall?”
Shelby sensed that the offer surprised Dom, but he quickly accepted. She had begun to sense that he was interested in her, though still a bit intimidated. “Sure, I’m off duty now. How about Frog’s Lane in twenty minutes? It’s upstairs at the west end of the Marketplace building. The bar should be quiet enough so we can talk.”
Shelby had been there a few times. “Sounds good. See you in twenty.”
* * *
Twenty minutes later, Shelby arrived to find Dom seated at the bar sipping a beer and nibbling at a plate of nachos. He stood when he saw her enter, gestured for her to sit down. He started to get the bartender’s attention, then stopped himself.
Shelby smiled to herself at his indecisiveness. It was as if he had to remind himself that this wasn’t a date, it was a business meeting. So he should let her call the bartender herself. She ordered a dark rum on the rocks, asked for a stirring straw, then turned to Dom to explain. “I started drinking this when I was on vacation in Santo Domingo a few years ago. Sometimes it makes me feel like a pirate or something, but I really do like the taste.”
Dom wasn’t sure how he was supposed to respond. “You want some nachos?”
“Thanks.” Shelby reached across and grabbed a couple. “So, what’s this phone call about?”
“I was out all day, but when I got back at around four there was a message from a cop over in Newton. Tells me that some guy found a briefcase on the subway this afternoon. The guy turned it into the police because there was a memo in the briefcase about somebody possibly murdering someone named Charese, and he recognized the Charese name from this morning’s newspaper article. The Newton cop faxed it over to me. Here it is.”
He handed Shelby a single typewritten page on flimsy thermal fax paper. She flattened it out and read it to herself, stirring the ice cubes in her drink around in increasingly rapid rotations as she did so. It was a memo to the file, from some lawyer named Bruce Arrujo, regarding Pierre Prefontaine and a possible threat to kill a tenant of his named Charese….
Shelby sat silently for a few seconds. She
had stopped swirling, and was now chewing on her straw. She stopped when she noticed Dom looking at her mouth. Finally she spoke. “Wow. This is pretty incriminating. I really didn’t think Prefontaine was that desperate.”
“Well, apparently this Arrujo guy did. He’s at a big firm—Stoak, Puck & Beal. Even I’ve heard of them.”
“Yeah. Everyone has. So have you called this Arrujo guy?”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Before I talk to him, what’s my landscape like here? Can he even talk to us? Can we force him to?”
Shelby had just finished taking the required course in legal ethics, but some of the details were a bit fuzzy. It reminded her that she better pick up the pace on her bar exam studies—the test was in six weeks. “Good question. I think he’s right in his memo—he can’t violate the attorney-client privilege unless he knows his client is intending to commit a crime.”
“But now that the crime is committed, can we make him testify?”
“I doubt it, as long as Prefontaine was his client. There are exceptions, but they have to do with the lawyer helping the client commit fraud. Pretty screwy, huh?”
Dom nodded. “I’ll say. What about just using the memo as evidence?”
“No. Same problem. We’d still need the attorney to authenticate it, and we can’t compel him to testify. Plus, he wrote it a few days after their conversation, so it’s probably hearsay. Bottom line is that the whole thing between Prefontaine and Arrujo was a confidential communication. Conversations between someone and his lawyer or his doctor or his clergyman are confidential and can’t be used as evidence. So as long as Prefontaine was Arrujo’s client at the time he made the incriminating statements, we can’t get the evidence in front of the jury.”
“Hey, wait a second.” Dom reached across and grabbed the memo from Shelby and scanned it quickly. “This thing says that some guy named Plansky was the client, not Prefontaine. You said the privilege is only good if Prefontaine was Arrujo’s client.”
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