Played!

by Michael A. Kahn

“What the fuck?” Moran says.

  Butz points to a spot about eye level above the nightstand. There is a small piece of white tape on the wall, almost but not quite the same color as the wall.

  Moran slips on a latex glove, grasps the tape at the corner, and peels it off, revealing a neat round hole. He snorts and shakes his head. “A peeping Tom. These fucking hot-sheets motels.”

  Moran hands the tape to Butz, who takes it with the tweezers and drops it into a specimen jar.

  “I’ll want that marked, Fred,” he says.

  Milton holds the jar up to the light. “These shavings look fresh.”

  He turns to Moran. “Who’s been in the next room?”

  “Let’s find out.”

  Five minutes later, Moran is back with a room key. Milton and Butz follow him to the room next door, Number 206. He opens door and enters, followed by Milton and Butz. All eyes move to the right.

  “Bingo,” Moran says.

  There is a hole in the wall next to the mirror. They scan the room. The only evidence of prior occupancy is the slightly rumpled bedspread.

  Moran walks over to the drill hole and peers through. He turns to the other two and shakes his head. “Fucking Peeping Tom.”

  “Let me see,” Milton says. He peers through the hole. Part of Cherry’s room is visible through the hole, including the bottom half of the bed and the outline of her body.

  He turns toward Butz. “Have a look.”

  A few minutes later, Moran and Milton are standing by the open door of Room 206. Butz moves slowly around the room on his hands and knees.

  Milton says, “But your cop said no one’s come in or out of this room.”

  “Guy could be spooked.”

  “If it’s a guy.”

  Moran snorts. “True. That old broad at the front desk—Osama Bin Laden could have been living in one of these rooms and she’d have no fucking idea.”

  “Hmm,” Butz says.

  Moran and Milton turn. Butz is on his knees on the carpet below the drill hole. With one hand, he’s placing a small ruler on the carpet next to a little gray object while in the other hand he holds his iPhone, focusing on that object.

  Milton bends over Butz, who has just clicked the iPhone camera. Milton squints. He can see a faint dusting of gray particles on the tan carpet, but the ruler is set next to something tube-shaped, maybe a half-inch long and a quarter-inch in diameter

  Butz clicks the camera. And again. And one more time. Then he sets down the iPhone, removes another evidence jar, opens it, brushes the particles inside, closes it, and scribbles something on the label.

  “More wallboard, Freddie?” Moran asks.

  Butz shakes his head. “Cigarette ash, I believe.”

  Chapter Thirty

  Peggy Bernstein is seated cross-legged on the couch in the den, sipping from a mug of hot herbal tea.

  Milton faces her on the loveseat across the coffee table. He’s taken off his suit jacket but otherwise is still dressed for the office—white dress shirt, red bow tie, gray suit pants, black wingtips.

  “I read the full police report,” he says.

  “And?”

  “Nothing good. The bullet matches the gun stolen from the house. They have Hal’s fingerprints all over the motel room.”

  “What do the cops say about the drywall shavings?

  “The motel hasn’t had a full-time chambermaid for more than month. The gal at the front desk does a cursory cleanup after a guest checks out. She hasn’t vacuumed any of the rooms for at least a week.”

  “Who was in that room?”

  “She doesn’t know. She thinks someone checked in around the same time that another man checked into Room 205. That was Hal.”

  “She identified Hal?”

  Milton shakes his head. “No. She doesn’t remember what either person looked like—or so she claims. I know it was Hal for Room 205 because Hal told me. But there’s no record for who was in the room next door. Actually, there’s no record for either room beyond the cash payment in advance.”

  “How can that be?”

  “Detective Moran says it’s standard for those motels.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The ones that rent the rooms by the hour or provide temporary lodging to drug dealers and other lowlifes. Most of their guests don’t want to be recognized, and management plays along.”

  Peggy takes another sip of tea. “What else did you find out?”

  “According to the police report, Ms. Pitt was kidnapped on a Tuesday. Pitt didn’t report it until Thursday. After the court froze his assets.”

  “Why then?”

  “He claims he was trying to raise the ransom money on his own and panicked when the judge entered the injunction.”

  Peggy rolls her eyes. “That’s convenient.”

  “True, but the bank records seem to back him up. At least one of the banks was in the process of clearing a one-million-dollar line of credit for a wire transfer when the injunction hit.”

  “When did he call the FBI?”

  “Actually, he called the cops. They got into some sort of turf battle with the FBI on Friday morning. By the time the FBI got a government lawyer over to court to lift the injunction, it was too late.”

  “Whose Swiss bank account was it?

  “The FBI has made a request through the Swiss Embassy for the identity of the account holder. Problem is the Swiss government tends to sit on those requests.”

  Peggy shakes her head. “Hal may not be the brightest guy in the world, Milton, but how can they believe he’d leave those magazines in his apartment or make that call to the Swiss bank from his own cell phone or buy that duct tape with his credit card if he really was the kidnapper? It’s too pat.”

  “I agree. No one’s that dumb, not even my brother.”

  “What about that Detective Moran? Isn’t he suspicious?”

  Milton frowns. “He doesn’t seem to be. Then again, I should imagine he has dozens and dozens of unsolved homicide files. As far as he’s concerned, this one’s solved and cleared. He’s moving on.”

  “What about that semen from her mouth? It’s not even Hal’s blood type?”

  “I was hoping that would be our ace card. Apparently not, according to Moran and the prosecutor.”

  “How can that be?”

  “First off, apparently the blood type of semen doesn’t always match the same man’s blood type of his blood.”

  “Really?”

  “I checked it out. It’s true. That’s why investigators rely on DNA.”

  “And?”

  “They’re waiting for the results, but they’re not optimistic.”

  “Why not?”

  “According to the police lab technician, they didn’t find any sperm in the traces of semen they were able to collect from her mouth.”

  “What?”

  “It could mean the semen was from someone who’d had a vasectomy or that the trace amounts they collected had degraded. But it doesn’t seem to bother them.”

  “Why not?”

  “Worst case for them, according to Moran, Hal planted the evidence.”

  “Planted? How do you plant someone else’s semen?”

  “Apparently it happens. It’s not that hard to find used condoms. Especially out there. I saw two in the parking lot. Gross.”

  “How do they think Hal even would know that?”

  “They don’t care, Peggy. They’ll put some detective on the stand as an expert and he’ll testify that this sort of thing happens.”

  “Are they still going to do a DNA analysis of the semen?”

  “They will if they can get any DNA, but unless it points to someone in the system, they won’t pursue it.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’re pretty
sure they have lots of Hal’s DNA in that motel room. That puts him in there. That’s all the evidence they claim they need.”

  “What about that cigarette ash? Hal doesn’t smoke.”

  “That’s just his word. No way to prove it.”

  Peggy sighs. “Your brother was the perfect fall guy.”

  Milton says nothing.

  “She was going to shoot him, wasn’t she? Even if she didn’t get the money.”

  Milton nods. “She’d make it look like she somehow got untied, shot him, and escaped.”

  Peggy takes a sip of tea. “So what do you think really happened at that motel?”

  Milton shrugs. “That’s what I keep asking myself. All we know is that her husband didn’t pull the trigger. He has an airtight alibi: he was with two FBI agents in their office on Market Street when she was killed.”

  Peggy shakes her head. “Poor Hal.”

  Milton looks down at the carpet and sighs.

  “What?” Peggy asks.

  “My lawsuit. It put him in jail.”

  “No, it didn’t, Milton. Your lawsuit saved his life.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Seriously, if her husband had transferred the money, she would have shot Hal in the motel room.”

  “All well and good, Peggy, but someone shot her, and now my little brother is in jail.”

  “Speaking of that lawsuit, what’s going on?”

  “Armstrong went over to court today. Not me, though. The firm doesn’t want me anywhere near that case anymore.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “I know. But those are my orders. The firm put me on paid leave until Hal’s case is over.”

  “Paid leave? Why?”

  Milton shrugs. “They say the case is a distraction for the firm and its clients.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s a corporate law firm. We don’t do criminal law. Especially violent crimes.”

  “That’s ridiculous.” Peggy sets down her mug of tea on the coffee table. “You’re a lawyer, Milton. You’re doing exactly what a lawyer does.”

  “But not what an Abbott & Windsor lawyer does.”

  “Where will you work?”

  “I’m not sure, yet. Your uncle was kind enough to offer me space in his office. I might take him up on it.”

  “Oy, you and Uncle Heschie. What a pair. So what happened in court today?”

  Milton shakes his head. “Sam Budgah—his first lawyer—he’s gone.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “He’s been terminated. Didn’t even show up in court. I talked to Janet Perry this afternoon. She’s the associate on the case. She told me that Pitt has new lawyers. A bunch of heavy-hitters from Warren and London, including a former U.S. Attorney from their Chicago office. He announced that his client was at home in shock, mourning the death of his wife. He told the judge that if the injunction remained in effect, it would close down the Pitt’s office, put a dozen people out of work, jeopardize the rights of the hundreds and hundreds of clients of the firm.”

  “Oh, my God. Are you kidding?”

  Milton forces a smile. “He must have sensed he was losing the judge there, so he played his trump card. He offered to post a three-million-dollar bond if the injunction were dissolved. That way our insurance company client could prosecute its damages claim without any prejudice and his poor grieving client could bury his dead wife.”

  “The judge went along with that?”

  Milton nods. “Bond was posted at five o’clock this afternoon. Pitt’s free again to prey on the public.”

  “That’s disgusting.”

  “That’s the law.”

  Milton chuckles.

  “What?” Peggy asks.

  “Armstrong is not happy.”

  “Why not? A three-million-dollar bond is pretty good security.”

  “He liked being the plaintiff. Now he’s a defendant, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A class action got filed against Pitt and Mid-Continent Casualty.”

  “A class action? Of who?”

  “All of the clients that Pitt defrauded. And worse yet, the judge consolidated the class action with our case today. Janet said Armstrong was furious when he got back to the office. Screaming and yelling.” Milton looks up with raised eyebrows. “Guess who’s representing that class?”

  “Who?”

  “The one and only Rachel Gold.”

  “I know Rachel. We’re both volunteers at the Jewish Food Pantry. She’s awesome. Wait—she used to be at your firm, right?”

  “In the Chicago office. She left a few years back and then moved to St. Louis. She has her own practice now.”

  “Wow. So she’s on the other side, eh?”

  “Yep, and Armstrong is one unhappy camper.”

  “He’s a big boy. He can deal with it.”

  Milton looks down at the carpet. After a moment, he says, “Speaking of bonds.”

  Peggy frowns. “Yes?”

  “I called my mom this afternoon.”

  “Down in Florida?”

  Milton nods.

  “Called her about what?”

  “About helping post a bond.”

  “What bond?”

  “For Hal.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There’s a hearing tomorrow. On my motion for bail for Hal.”

  “For Hal? Do judges ever do that for someone held on murder charges?”

  “Sometimes. He’s not a flight risk. It’s not his semen. I’ve got some points to argue. I found a few cases. It could happen.”

  “But?”

  Milton shrugs. “It won’t be cheap.”

  Milton’s cell phone rings. He pulls it out of his shirt pocket, squints at the caller ID, and stands up. “It’s my expert,” he says to Peggy. “I have to take this.”

  He puts the phone to his ear and he starts toward the front hall. “Fred?”

  The conversation lasts a few minute, mostly Milton listening and saying an occasional Okay.

  “Thanks, Fred,” Milton says. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  He walks back into the den.

  “Well?” Peggy asks.

  He takes his seat facing her. “That was Fred Butz. Your uncle is right. He’s good.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Butz confirmed the drill shavings on the rug. They’re drywall, same type as the walls in the motel room.”

  “What about the ash?”

  “That’s where the plot thickens. Apparently, the ash is from a cigar, not a cigarette.”

  “How does he know that?”

  “He’s good, Peggy. He said he got suspicious when examining the autopsy photos. He said that the burn mark on her breast looked larger than the profile of a typical burn mark from a cigarette. He did an analysis of the chemical composition of the ash he collected at the motel. It matches the chemical composition of various cigars manufactured by the General Cigar Company. They make White Owls, Tiparillos, Robert Burns, and a bunch of other brands. Many are made from the same mix of cigar leaf and filler. When were out at that motel, he found an intact piece of ash on the carpet in the room next door. He photographed it alongside a ruler. He says the diameter of that ash most closely matches the diameter of a Tiparillo.”

  “Meaning?”

  Milton grins. “Ergo, our suspect smokes Tiparillos.”

  Peggy gives him a sympathetic smile. “It’s a start, Milton.”

  Milton shrugs. “Barely.”

  “You don’t have the burden of proof, right? That’s what you always tell me. All you need is reasonable doubt.”

  Milton shakes his head. “The jury’s going to need a lot more than a cigar ash and drywall shavings before
they start questioning the state’s evidence.”

  “What other options are there?”

  Milton glances down. “Find the real killer.”

  “Find the killer? Who’s going to do that?”

  He looks up and shrugs. “Me?”

  “My God, Milton. These people are thugs.”

  “True.”

  “And you? A nice Jewish boy from the suburbs? Are you crazy?”

  Milton offers a weak smile. “I’m not going to do anything crazy, Peggy. But still.”

  “But still what?”

  He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly. “Someone screwed up. Big-time. Hal doesn’t smoke cigars. If I can trace that cigar ash back to the killer, I bet I can trace the killer back to Pitt.”

  “Trace the cigar ash? Do you have any idea how many people smoke those things? How are you going to do that?”

  Milton shrugs. “I don’t know how yet, but I swear I will. I have to, Peggy. He’s my brother. My only brother.”

  Chapter Thirty-one

  That there is even a genuine bail hearing for a defendant facing such charges is noteworthy. That the hearing is going well is even more noteworthy. Of course, everything is relative. The phrase “going well” here means that when the clerk announced, “State of Missouri versus Harold S. Bernstein, Defendant’s Motion for Release on Bond,” the presiding judge did not simply bang down his gavel and declare, “Denied! Next case.”

  Instead, Milton stepped to the podium to enter his appearance as counsel for defendant. He was followed by an assistant prosecutor named Melinda Schimmel entering her appearance for the State of Missouri. Staring down at them, lips pursed, eyes squinting, is the Honorable Dick McCarthy.

  Judge McCarthy is a formidable jurist in every sense of the word, including physical. He stands at least six-foot-six and weighs at least three hundred pounds. The high-backed leather chair behind his judicial bench audibly groans whenever he lowers his bulk into it. He has a thick shock of white hair on top, a pair of large protruding ears, a bulbous red nose, and a deep foghorn of a voice that reverberates throughout the courtroom

  “Counsel?” Judge McCarthy says, staring down at Milton, “Your client is Hal Bernstein?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. And I am here today—”

  “The pitcher?”