by Tim Tigner
“No chance Kyle and Katya were working together?”
“It doesn’t look that way. In any case, we appear to have a very solid case against him — clear motive, clear means, clear opportunity — so we’d rather not complicate it.”
Kilpatrick stopped pacing to survey Frost. “Do you agree with that?”
“Not entirely. I think you should put the Russian before the grand jury as well. They probably won’t indict her, but that will give us the chance to learn everything she knows. As soon as we kick her loose, she’ll fly back to Russia and we’ll never see her again.”
Kilpatrick picked up a bat that Barry Bonds had autographed for him, and began swinging at the air. “Okay. Sounds like we’ve got our man and our plan. I happen to know Achilles’ attorney. He’s from the Bay Area, and he’s top-notch. The best around. So I need you to keep on it until you’ve got all the facts buttoned down tight. I don’t want any surprises.” Kilpatrick brought the bat down on the desk like a judge’s gavel.
“The DA is watching this one closely. A triple homicide at the yacht club makes for a very high-profile case with tourists and taxpayers alike, so she’s ordered me to get a conviction. Whatever it takes.”
Chapter 11
6 Months Later
804, 805, 806–
“Man, why you keep doing that? Looks painful.”
I didn’t pause, but redirected my focus across the hall long enough to appraise the new guy. He was pacing his cell like a caged panther. 812, 813, 814. He could have been straight from an NFL defensive line. Mid-twenties. A fit 300 pounds on a 6’6” frame. No visible gang tattoos. Conservative haircut. Healthy complexion. Reasonably intelligent, lucid eyes. 821, 822, 823. I’d worked with many a man who looked like him, and called more than one my friend. “A guy’s got to do something, right?”
“You’re not just passing time,” NFL said, his voice thick and slow. “Nobody does a thousand sit-ups hanging by his toes jus’ to pass the time. You’re training for something.”
“Domestic violence?”
“What?”
“You kill your girlfriend?”
“No, man. She’s fine. It was an accident, but her old man’s a cop. When a guy’s my size, people make assumptions, you know?”
I understood, but I didn’t reply immediately. This was fast approaching the longest conversation I’d had with a fellow inmate during the six months I’d been awaiting trial at Santa Barbara County Jail. On the hunter-gatherer spectrum, I was much more spear than basket. So rather than wasting time getting to know my fellow inmates, I was treating my time awaiting trial as though the SBCJ was a training camp.
While Casey’s investigators were out looking for an alternative man and motive to wave before my jury, I was keeping to myself and getting into the best climbing shape of my life. 860, 861, 862.
I was also exercising my brain in a way I’d never done before. In Moonwalking with Einstein, I’d read that a person could win the US Memory Championship by practicing an hour a day for a year. Sounded pretty cool to me — not to mention therapeutic. I’d found that I could force myself to block out virtually any amount of physical or emotional pain if focused on a compelling goal.
While I wasn’t planning on being in jail for a whole year, I could easily dedicate an hour a day to each of the competition’s categories. After six months, I was up to 49 random words and 147 random digits. I was also getting competitive with memorizing decks of cards, my favorite.
At the moment however, I was focused on my physical routine — and my new neighbor. NFL was about as close to Miss Manners as they came in this place. 888, 889, 890. Since the endorphins were flowing and the inverted sit-ups were just the beginning of my routine, I answered his question. “I’m a climber. As in rock. Lots of core strength required. Can’t be wimping out when you’re a hundred meters up a cliff face and the wind starts–”
The distinctive double snick of an extending steel baton cut me off like a guillotine. I cursed my lack of vigilance even as I released my toes and twisted to absorb the fall to the concrete floor with my left deltoid rather than my skull.
The baton whistled and then cracked across my feet, creating a wave of pain powerful enough to loosen my dental work. “Hands and feet are to remain inside the cell at all times.” Officer Grissel sneered down at me, exposing brown teeth.
My feet were screaming, but I clenched my jaw against the surging pain and building rage. Without responding, I rolled into a handstand and started doing pushups with my back to him. 1, 2, 3. I kept doing them until Grissel moved on. Then I piked down and into a cross-legged position to inspect the damage.
“Anything broken?” NFL asked.
“I got my toes clear of the bar in time. Might have been ugly otherwise. Could have ended my vacation plans then and there.”
“Vacation plans? What you in here for?”
“Triple homicide. But I got a good lawyer.”
NFL grunted at that. “They all like that here?” he asked, doing a head tilt in the direction of Grissel’s departure.
“Grissel’s the worst, and he doesn’t like me very much. He confuses rank with superiority, and I’ve never done too well with that type. Plus I think he’s suffering from a constant toothache.” I rolled back into the handstand and continued my workout routine. “You smell that breath?” 18, 19, 20.
“Like he gargles with sewage.”
NFL went back to pacing. Every once in a while he’d stop and watch me, shaking his head with his massive arms crossed. I figured we both targeted a thousand in our workouts, but whereas mine were reps, his were pounds.
I was in my fifth set of pushups when I heard approaching footsteps. They weren’t Grissel’s. Grissel was my height, and these belonged to someone considerably shorter in stature. I flipped back onto my feet and received an emphatic reminder of the foul guard’s handiwork. I’d be leaving the burpees and jumping jacks out of my routine for a day or three.
Officer Hicks’ mop of dirty blonde hair came into view. “You’ve got a visitor, Achilles. Your attorney.”
I slipped into my shoes and stepped to the door without wincing audibly. Hicks unlocked it and escorted me toward the south holding cell block gate.
NFL called after me. “Give your attorney my name! Marcus Fry! Tell him I can pay!”
Chapter 12
Cui Bono
WITH MARCUS’S PLEAS echoing behind us, Officer Hicks prompted me down a long windowless corridor, through another gate, and finally into the visitation area. I’d learned that jails differ from prisons in a few key ways. They’re designed for relatively short stays while inmates await trial. So, even though this one had room for 640 occupants, it didn’t have all the amenities of a prison. There was no library, or gymnasium, or even a contact visitation room. I had to use a handset to speak to my visitors through the thick plexiglass window that separated us.
Not that I had many visitors.
Other than Casey, my only visitor had been Sergeant Dix, a Special Forces master sergeant. My CIA recruiter had enlisted Dix as part of the training program he’d designed to bring me up to par with the SOG’s other recruits, most of whom hailed from elite military units. Dix and I had grown close over the course of a very intense year, and had kept in touch the way guys tend to do, which is to say very occasionally, or whenever it was important.
I didn’t know Casey nearly as well as I knew Dix. My first battle beside him was still a couple of weeks away. But even without that familiarity, I could tell from the look in his bright eyes that the news wasn’t going to be good.
Casey picked up his handset, and I picked up my handset, and he launched right into it. “The investigators still haven’t come up with anything solid to support our other man defense.”
As my heart sank ever deeper, he began counting off fingers.
“No witnesses who saw suspicious activity around the yacht.
“No witnesses who saw other people on the yacht.
“No cr
edible reason to believe such a person exists.
“No unexplained fingerprints.”
“They did, however, independently confirm that the section of PVC with your fingerprints on it exactly matches the rest of the PVC pipe connected to the motor. Your prints are on the original.”
Achilles wanted to pound his head against the plexiglass. This had been going on for months now. Lots of activity, no progress. Casey’s investigators were like hamsters spinning wheels. Now we were virtually out of time. “Any good news? Anything at all?” I asked.
“There are traces of talcum powder on the packing tape used to cover the carbon monoxide detectors. That supports our assertion that the real killer used gloves while applying it, latex gloves in this case. But frankly, that’s a lot more circumstantial than what the prosecution has, which is your actual fingerprints.”
“Anything else?”
“I’m afraid so. As you know Cui Bono is the starting point of every murder investigation. Who benefits is also the question to which every juror will demand a satisfactory answer. Your inheritance gives the prosecution a ten-million-dollar motive, whereas the defense is broke. You’re the only person who profits financially from your parents’ death. Your brother’s too, for that matter.” Casey’s expression was grim.
“As for other potential motives, we couldn’t find anyone with a major grievance against any of the victims. None of the three appear to have been involved in anything that would make someone want to silence them. I trust you haven’t thought of anything in either of those regards since the last time we spoke?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Without some variant of those motives in play, we’re left with homicidal mania and jealousy. Katya is beautiful enough that I could easily spin the jealousy motive, and her being from Russia would do a lot to open up the jury’s imagination. But for that to work, you need to identify the individual. She swears there is nobody out there in a jealous fervor. My investigators kept her under tight surveillance in Russia and confirmed that she is not seeing or being stalked by anyone. She’s back from Moscow, by the way. Arrived last weekend to start her post-doc at Stanford.”
Katya had written me a couple of times. Long, despondent, tear-soaked letters written late at night. They were full of sorrow over shattered dreams and wistful memories of Colin. They’d also brought me up to date on her career progression. “Couldn’t we say it’s the police’s job to find the stalker, not ours? Muddy the waters of reasonable doubt?”
“We could, but that would likely backfire. Assistant District Attorney Kilpatrick is pretty sharp. He’d position you at the top of that suspect list. They have you on tape lying to the police about having contact with her.”
“It wasn’t really contact. All I did was reply to an email she sent with a question about Colin. It slipped my mind in the interrogation room.”
“But you see how they could spin the headline? Lying to the police about your history with her. Plus they could say the engagement was what threw you over the edge. It dashed your hopes. They’ll say you were upset, infatuated, and intoxicated. Better we don’t go there.”
“What you’re telling me is that with less than three weeks left until my trial you have nothing for me, other than a half million dollars in legal fees?”
“Actually I have Plan B all teed up and ready to go.”
“Maybe you should have started with that.”
The rebuke slid off Casey like water off a duck. “Kilpatrick owes me a few favors. I called them in, applied some leverage, played up your medaled Olympian status, and got him to agree to a sweetheart deal based on an alternative scenario.”
“What alternative scenario?”
“Something got stuck in the exhaust pipe. Say a rat crawled in and died. You removed the dead rodent, but then didn’t sufficiently reattach the piping.”
“That’s quite a scenario.”
“As I said, he owes me.”
“What about the tape over the carbon monoxide detectors, the portholes superglued shut, and all the other adjustments that had to be made to override the yacht’s safety systems?”
“Those will be considered circumstantial and disregarded.”
Casey was beginning to look like a miracle worker after all. “So what’s the deal?”
“He’ll drop the charges from the top end of the scale all the way to the bottom. From three counts of murder in the first degree, to three counts of involuntary manslaughter.”
“And the number?”
“Involuntary manslaughter carries a sentence of one to four. I got you two.”
“Two years?”
“Two years each, with consecutive sentences. Six years total.”
Six years. I shuddered at the thought of what six years in captivity would do to me. “And I’d be a felon, convicted of killing his family.”
Casey said nothing.
I’d run a million deal scenarios through my mind, fighting pride and weighing time. Figuring out where to draw the scrimmage line wasn’t the hardest thing I’d ever done. But it was close. “Tell Kilpatrick I’ll take my chances with the jury.”
Chapter 13
The Fourth Man
FORTY-FOUR HOURS elapsed between the time Casey delivered his bad news and the moment I received my next message. It wasn’t what most people would consider to be good news either. In fact, it would probably top the nightmare list for many. But my circumstances were special, in more ways than one, so I was happy to be the recipient.
It was Saturday morning, two weeks and two days from the start of my trial. I’d come to learn that like on the outside, jailhouse moods were best on weekend mornings. The inmates had visitation to look forward to, and the guards had a slightly more relaxed attitude without the warden around.
My message arrived in a shower bay. Three mountains of muscle cornered me the moment I was alone.
“Hello, pretty boy,” the middle one said, identifying himself as their leader. “I heard you was lookin’ for comp’ny.”
These guys weren’t going to be winning any genius awards, but they weren’t complete fools either. They were going for the misdirect, trying to make me think rape rather than murder. It was a sound battlefield tactic. All war is based on deception, after all. But then I wasn’t deceived. And despite outward appearances, I had the advantage.
I hadn’t been granted bail while awaiting trial due to the nature of the crime, and the surfeit of compelling evidence. It also didn’t help that I’d been trained to disappear. But I hadn’t been convicted either. No one here had. This was jail, not prison. The three message boys had hope of seeing freedom someday soon.
They had a lot to lose.
Therefore, they would be highly motivated to make my death look accidental.
That gave me an advantage, because I didn’t care about appearances.
Three on one would seem to most to be a lopsided fight, especially if all involved were of similar size and stature. I stand 6’ 2” and weigh 220 pounds, which puts me an inch and 5 pounds below the average NFL quarterback, but still north of 19 out of 20 American males. The heights of the three facing me were also in that 1 of 20 range, but they’d register closer to 280 on the meat scale. More like defensive ends than quarterbacks. Advantage attackers. However, unlike football, where the rules of the game amplify the laws of physics, combat puts myriad additional factors into play. Among those applicable at the moment were tactics, technique, and attitude. I knew I had them on tactics and technique. The laws of probability made that a lock. Their need for accidental also tipped the scale. Advantage Achilles.
“You heard right.” I sauntered toward the leader, acting all peaches and cream. “I’ve got six months of lonely all pent up inside.”
As attacker one digested this unexpected twist in the conversation, I dropped to my right knee and drove my right fist up and into his exposed testicles like a battering ram on a castle door. I packed the blow with six months of pent-up rage, powering it with
my shoulders and back, and punching it through as if I was reaching for the stars.
It was devastating.
As my fist lifted him up and back, I could hear his ancestors cursing the termination of their bloodline. My objective was to disable one of them before any knew the battle had even begun, and in that I succeeded with style points to spare.
But I was still two-thirds of the way from home.
As the eunuch heaved forward and vomited, I spun up and around to my right, where I delivered a rapid triple combination to the second slab of beef. First plowing my right elbow into his solar plexus and robbing him of his ability to breathe, then delivering a stunning backhand to the bridge of his nose. Finally, I whipped back around to yank his head downward into my lifting knee. Oomph! Crack! Crunch!
The crunch was gruesome. A ten-pound head colliding at speed with a ten-pound knee spelled all kinds of jeopardy for the two-ounce nose caught between. The sound alone sent a shudder down my spine.
I’d expected the third attacker to pause and assess the situation that was so rapidly veering from plan. But he didn’t. The starting whistle had blown and so he jumped into play. He dove at me like people who weigh 280 pounds are inclined to do.
I couldn’t get out of the way in time.
As my knee finished off number two, number three took me to the tiled floor. Hard.
Getting me on the ground worked in three’s favor. My remaining opponent’s only advantage was his weight, and a floor fight played to it. The bad news for him was that I’m not a football. There was no ref, and no whistle. He didn’t know what to do next. He didn’t know whether to try to hold me until one of his buddies recovered enough to help out, or to try to get on top and pummel me to death.