Trial Junkies (A Thriller)

by Robert Gregory Browne

  And when Hutch thought about it, if Nadine had a problem with anyone, you'd think it would be Jenny herself. They had been best friends when Hutch came along, and Nadine had been promptly relegated to third wheel. Not intentionally, of course, but that was just the way things worked.

  Still do.

  If anything, Nadine and Ronnie should have bonded at that point. Because Ronnie had been Hutch's friend and had suffered a similar fate. Why they hadn't immediately become BFFs was a mystery to him.

  A clash of personalities, he supposed. Although it seemed to have worked for Matt and Andy.

  As he stood there, wondering about all of this, these thoughts were forcefully wrenched from his brain when two things happened simultaneously:

  First, his train, the green line, came roaring to a stop in front of him, its doors hissing open. And at that very same moment, he saw a familiar figure scurrying up the steps to the train platform.

  It was the creepy guy with the crew cut and thick black glasses, his ever present book bag slung over a shoulder as he made a beeline for the opening doors.

  He was in a hurry, but didn't seem stressed, his black eyes showing about as much emotion as the battered Chatty Cathy doll that Jenny had inherited from her aunt. The thing had sat atop her dresser in the room she and Hutch shared, staring blankly at them as they made love, looking like something spawned in hell.

  Funny he should think of that now.

  He pulled back as the creep swept past him and found a seat in the nearly empty car.

  Ditching his cigarette, Hutch stepped aboard and moved down the narrow aisle as the doors closed behind him and the train lurched into motion. He nodded politely to the guy as he passed, but the creep merely blinked at him behind those glasses, then opened the bag and pulled his book onto his lap, dropping his gaze to it.

  Hutch glanced at the title, but most of it was obscured by the guy's left hand. The word DEATH was clearly visible, however, and the thing had the plain, dry look of a textbook without its dust cover, an old-fashioned tome like the ones you'd find in the archives section of the UIC library.

  Whatever it was, Hutch doubted he'd be able to buy a copy at his local Barnes and Noble, and that one word—DEATH—summoned up an irrational sense of dread that was hard to ignore. Hutch wasn't sure why he felt this way, but it was strong enough to compel him to take the seat directly behind the guy, in hopes of getting a closer look at that book.

  The creep was sitting close to the aisle, so Hutch slid all the way over to the right side of the seat, then glanced around quickly before leaning forward an inch or so to peer over the guy's shoulder. He was trying like hell not to be obvious about it, but the creep was so absorbed in what he was reading it probably didn't matter.

  And what Hutch saw made him wish he hadn't been so goddamn curious.

  His stomach lurched, the beef sandwich he'd eaten earlier doing a quick and nasty three-sixty before worming its way up toward his esophagus.

  He stared at the pages just long enough to see two images that could never again be unseen. The kind that take the direct route from eye to brain, burn themselves onto the cerebral cortex and remain there like scar tissue for the rest of your natural life. On those pages were two of the most gruesome photographs he had ever laid eyes on, each rendered in a stark, clinical black and white—which only intensified the horror.

  The first was a photo of a blond woman who must have been in a devastating car accident, because there was a steering wheel embedded in her face—so deep that it looked as if her flesh was growing around it.

  And if this wasn't enough to get the upchuck express on the move, the photo on the page facing it featured a corpse of indeterminate origin whose body was half eaten away by maggots, several of which had nested in what was left of the victim's right nostril.

  Hutch slammed back in his seat, squeezing his eyes shut, feeling his gorge rise, the acidy burn of bile in his throat. But closing his eyes was a bad idea, because the imprint of what he'd just seen was still floating in the darkness behind his lids. He immediately opened them again and looked out the window at the night rushing by, trying to focus on the lights in the distance.

  Jesus H. Christ and all his disciples.

  He sat there, trying to purge himself of this optic assault, when something unexpected happened—even more unexpected than the sight of those horrific photographs.

  Beneath the clatter of the wheels on the tracks, he heard a faint, high-pitched mewling sound. A quiet keening whimper that wasn't truly a keen or a whimper. A sound not fueled by pain, but by...

  ...Well... by joy. That was the only way he could describe it.

  What. The fuck?

  Realizing it was coming from the creep, Hutch once again gave into his curiosity and turned from the window, taking another look over the guy's shoulder. He knew he shouldn't do it, but couldn't help himself.

  What he saw this time made him shudder with revulsion. Made him want to jump to his feet and run screaming from the train car.

  All of the creep's attention was focused on a new page, a new photograph—this one in garish, living color. And Hutch had been wrong about black and white upping the intensity of the images.

  Color was worse.

  Much, much worse.

  The page was filled with a shot of a naked woman lying face up in an alleyway, her eyes glazed, her throat slit, her bloodied body covered with raw, gaping knife wounds, two of which had been judiciously placed where her nipples should have been.

  And as he made that strange, joyful mewling sound, the creep carefully ran his fingertips over the image as if he were caressing the body of a willing and beautiful lover.

  — 29 —

  "WAIT A MINUTE, wait a minute," Matt said. "You want to pass that by me again?"

  They were standing in his living room, Matt wearing a threadbare terrycloth robe, fresh from a shower and still toweling his hair. He seemed a little distracted, but Hutch was pretty sure he'd heard every word.

  Hutch had called the moment he got off the train, then headed straight over. What he'd seen was something that needed to be shared. Immediately.

  "I'm telling you, the guy's a freak. A fucking psycho."

  "This is the guy we saw at lunch, right?"

  "Right. Crew cut, black glasses. He's a regular. One of the trial junkies."

  This was the first time Hutch had been to Matt's apartment and it was obvious by the clutter—endless stacks of books, piles of newspaper, dirty clothes strewn about—that he lived alone, a confirmed bachelor after a nasty divorce. One of their friends had mentioned that Matt was in the midst of an ongoing relationship with a very much married flight attendant from Boston, but there was no evidence that she'd been around lately. If ever.

  "All right," Matt said, tossing the towel to the floor, "let's think this through."

  "What's to think about?"

  "Just calm down a sec. The book this guy was reading—what did it look like?"

  "You mean besides all the dead bodies?" Hutch felt another wave of revulsion shudder through him. "I don't know, like a textbook of some kind."

  Matt nodded. "Probably an autopsy manual. There's a guy at the Post, keeps one in his desk. Drags it out whenever he wants to get a rise out of someone. Pretty disgusting stuff."

  "Disgusting doesn't even come close to describing it," Hutch said.

  "But maybe there's an innocent explanation. Maybe this guy's a medical student, studying forensic pathology."

  "And maybe he holds tea parties every Saturday and makes regular donations to the Red Cross. That still doesn't explain what I saw. And heard."

  "So he gets off on the photos. So what? I've seen some pretty weird stuff in my day, and a freakazoid with a death fetish is probably about a three on a scale of ten."

  "You're kidding, right? A three?"

  "Have you ever seen that video on the web—Two Girls, One Cup? Now that's some seriously screwed up shit—no pun intended."

  "I don't thin
k you get it," Hutch said. "The woman in that photograph might as well have been Jenny. Slit throat, knife wounds and all. And if he's a medical student, what's he doing at the courthouse every day? He's been there since the start of jury selection."

  Matt snorted, reminding Hutch of Nadine. "So what are you saying? That this guy's the real killer? That's pretty fucking convenient."

  "All I'm saying is that it's worth exploring."

  "And how are we supposed to do that?"

  Hutch spread his hands. "You're the reporter. Are you telling me you've never done a background check?"

  "It usually helps to have a name."

  "So we get it somehow."

  "How? Walk up and ask him?" Matt snorted again. "Hey, buddy, we think you might be the guy who should really be on trial here. You want to give us your name so we can pass it on to the cops?"

  "I'm serious," Hutch said.

  "Oh, I know you are. But as much as I'd like to think you're right about this guy, we can't be checking up on everyone in that courtroom who gives us a bad vibe."

  "Bad vibe?" Hutch said, shaking his head. "The guy gets off on dead bodies. Dead bodies that look just like Jenny. He's been sitting in on the trial from day one and he's just about the sickest son of a bitch I've ever encountered. And I live in Hollywood. That ain't a bad vibe, Matt. It's a Richter magnitude earthquake."

  Matt held up his hands. "Okay, you've made your point. I doubt if it'll come to anything, but it doesn't hurt to check him out. And now that I think about it, there might be a fairly painless way to get his name—assuming we have a little help."

  "From who?"

  "That old guy you were talking to during the breaks yesterday. One of the other trial junkies."

  "Gus?"

  "That's the one. Didn't you say he used to be a bailiff there?"

  Hutch nodded. "Thirty years. In that very same courtroom."

  "So it stands to reason he's pretty friendly with the security staff. The gatekeepers in the lobby."

  "He's pretty friendly all around. What do you have in mind?"

  "Nothing too devious," Matt said. "But if Gus and his buddies go along, I think it just might work."

  It took Hutch a moment to figure out what Matt was getting at, but once he did, he couldn't help but smile.

  Nice, he thought.

  Very nice.

  — 30 —

  "EMPTY YOUR POCKETS, please. Keys, wallets, cell phones in the tray. Backpacks, briefcases, purses on the belt."

  It was a daily ritual—twice a day, if Hutch left the courthouse for lunch. And because Ronnie's trial was getting a lot of play, the security lines would often stretch out the doors and into the courtyard. It usually took a good ten to fifteen minutes to get inside the building.

  The guards manning the scanners were very thorough, and courteously mistrustful of everyone who entered: staff, attorneys, spectators and defendants alike.

  But they always had a broad smile and a friendly word for Gus, former bailiff and resident trial junkie.

  He was one of the boys.

  First thing that morning, the second day of testimony, Hutch had approached Gus in the upstairs hallway, just outside the courtroom, asking him a question related to the trial. He couldn't remember now what that question was, but Gus had known immediately that there was something else on his mind.

  "I sure hope you're a better actor when the camera's pointing at you."

  There weren't many people on the planet who had a genuine twinkle in the eye, but Gus was one of them.

  "I'm afraid this is about as good as it gets," Hutch told him.

  "Well, at least it pays. I saw the news about you posting bond for the defendant."

  "You and a few thousand other people."

  "Saw the reporters, too. Coming after you when your cab pulled up outside. Looked like a pack of cheetahs chasing after a gazelle."

  "Cheetahs don't usually travel in packs," Hutch said, wondering how he even knew that.

  Gus grinned. "I stand corrected, professor."

  "So does it bother you?"

  "What—the reporters, or you reminding me how little education I've had?"

  Hutch shook his head. "Me posting bond."

  "Now why would it bother me? It's your money. And it's no secret that you and that little gal are friends. Maybe more than friends if you believe those photos they printed in the papers this morning."

  When he saw the Post, Hutch had found himself getting angry all over again, but he played it down.

  "Much ado about nothing," he said with a shrug. "Just a thank you kiss."

  "I had a young lady thank me like that, once. We went on to raise three kids together—may she rest in peace. But let's not get too far off point. You've got something you want to ask me, and I figure you might as well come out with it."

  Hutch hesitated. When you're about to try to get someone to do something a little sketchy, it isn't easy to just come out with it. And when you're trying to get him to get someone else to do something a little sketchy, well, you want to play that tune with a very light hand.

  "So what do you think about her?" he asked. "Veronica. You think she's guilty?"

  "Well now," Gus said. "I suppose it would be politically prudent of me to tell you it's a bit premature to be asking me that question. I don't have the benefit of being her friend. Or seeing the evidence."

  "...But?"

  Gus gestured to the closed courtroom doors, which wouldn't be unlocked until five minutes before trial started. There was already a crowd forming, people anxious to get the seats that hadn't been reserved for friends and family.

  "I ran that courtroom for nearly three decades and I saw a lot of defendants come and go. You see that many faces, you tend to learn to read them pretty fast."

  "Makes sense," Hutch said.

  "Damn right. Now I don't have any statistics or science to back me up, but I figure a good eighty percent of the people who sit at that defense table did exactly what the cops and the prosecution say they did. Maybe more. And nine times out of ten, I can predict who's guilty just by looking them in the eye."

  "And Ronnie?"

  "She ain't no killer, son. I knew that the moment she walked into the courtroom." He checked his watch, then gestured to the doors again. "But if you don't tell me what's on your mind pretty soon, it's gonna have to wait until morning recess. I need to queue up."

  Hutch had waited with the crowd many times himself, but now that he was siding with the defense, Waverly was making sure he and the rest of Ronnie's supporters had seats. The courtroom was easily the largest one in the building, but if yesterday's proceedings were any indication, it would be filled to capacity.

  Considering Gus's connection to the place, it was a bit surprising he didn't have a reserved seat himself, but maybe he played by the rules—and that could be a bad thing.

  "You can sit with us," Hutch said. "Even if you say no to what I'm about to ask you."

  Gus was still twinkling away. "So don't keep me in suspense. What's on your mind?"

  Hutch took a deep breath and told him. About what he'd thought during Waverly's opening statement. About the encounter with the creep in the restroom, and later that night, on the train. About the book and the photographs and that awful, goosebump-inducing mewling sound.

  He told Gus about Matt's idea, a way to find out who this psycho was and run a background check on him. And to Hutch's surprise, Gus didn't blink. Didn't hesitate for a moment.

  "Sounds to me like you've got the bug, boy. I warned you it would happen if you stuck around long enough."

  "What bug is that?"

  "The junkie bug, that's what."

  "I told you, I'm here for the one trial. I'm just trying help a friend."

  Gus chuckled. "You think Ms. Waverly's the first defense attorney to suggest the real killer might be sitting in the courtroom? You think I haven't spent a good amount of my time speculating about the guy sitting across from me, or the woman three rows over? Or th
e witness on the stand, claiming he saw the whole damn thing when I know good and well he's lying? Sure, you've got a personal stake in this particular event, but I can see that look in your eye. The excitement when you talk about this fella. You're an addictive personality, my friend, and you're as good as hooked."

  Hutch wasn't sure he was ready to cop to that just yet, but he didn't figure it would hurt his cause for Gus to think it.

  "Maybe," he said, "but that doesn't answer my question. Will you help us out or not?"

  The grin returned. "Hell, I'd be crazy not to. I've had my doubts about the little twerp myself, and I've always loved a good mystery."

  Gus couldn't guarantee that his buddies would go along with it, but with the promise of a saved seat, he went back down to the security station to see what he could do. Hutch didn't know what Gus had told them—he doubted it was the truth—but the old guy came back still grinning, giving Hutch a hearty thumbs up.

  Everything had been arranged for the lunch recess.

  Now here they were, standing in the long post-lunch line to get back inside the building (after once again fighting off a platoon of reporters), the creep not four feet in front of them, dropping his wallet and keys into a tray and his book bag on the belt.

  Gus caught the eye of the security man up front, gave him a subtle nod, then waited for their target to pass through the gate, which beeped loudly and unexpectedly.

  "Step this way," the guard said, then pulled the creep to the side and started passing a wand over him.

  While the creep stood blinking behind those thick black glasses, another guard scooped up the tray with his wallet and keys, then disappeared behind the scanner.

  A moment later it was done, and when Gus and Hutch passed through the gate and retrieved their own personal effects, Gus found a small slip of paper neatly folded inside his wallet, which he promptly handed to Hutch.

  As they made their way to the elevator, Hutch unfolded it and saw a hastily scribbled note—name, date of birth, and a twelve digit ID number issued by the State of Illinois.

  "You get what you need?" Gus asked.

  Hutch nodded. "And then some."