Murder One

by William Bernhardt

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” After a moment, he placed his hand gently on the back of her neck. “You’re not the one who planted that knife in my file cabinet.”

  “But it’s still my fault. This only happened because of me. It’s me they want. And now, since they can’t get me, they’re going after you.”

  Ben didn’t say anything, although that was pretty much his evaluation of the situation, too.

  “Is there anything I can do, Ben?” She pressed all the closer.

  “Keri, who might want to frame you—or me—for this murder?”

  “I’ve told you already. Andrea McNaughton. You saw how she acted in the courtroom. And Joe’s police buddies. They made up their minds I was guilty ten seconds after the body was found.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they didn’t approve of me. I worked in a strip joint. I wasn’t one of the gang. I wasn’t the nice housewife at home. I was the home wrecker. Never mind that Joe never told me he was married—until he used it as an excuse to break it off with me. Never mind that I only met Joe because he and his sanctimonious buddies came to the club to get drunk and shout obscenities at naked women. After he was killed, in such a horrible way, getting me became a crusade for them.”

  “I’m sure this has been hard for McNaughton’s widow. Finding out about her husband’s”—he stopped before he got to the word “affair”—“unfaithfulness. And having it exposed so publicly.”

  “I think she was the one who got the police worked up. At least initially.”

  “You think she wanted them to go after you?”

  “Of course. What better revenge could there be against the ‘other woman’ than to sic a pack of ravenous cops—and the D.A.—on her trail? She hates me, Ben. She’ll do anything to cause me pain.”

  A sobering thought. “Do you have any idea where that knife came from?”

  Her shoulders heaved. “How could I? Knives are everywhere.”

  “I know. But it did have caked blood on it.”

  “Joe’s blood?”

  “I don’t know yet. But I expect we both will soon.”

  “I just had a horrible thought. If that knife really is the murder weapon—and the police were able to produce it—what does that tell you?”

  Ben looked at her wordlessly.

  “Ben—is it possible they have another reason for wanting to frame me? At least some of them?”

  “You mean—” Ben’s brain raced a thousand miles a minute. He had never even considered that possibility. But it made perfect sense. It explained everything—even this current irrational desire to persecute and prosecute him. “But why would cops want to take out Joe? He was their friend. Their partner.”

  “That’s what they say. But that doesn’t necessarily mean it’s true.”

  “Didn’t you tell me Joe was working on a mob investigation just before he was killed?”

  “That’s right. He didn’t like to talk about his work much—at least not when he was with me—but he told me a little. Said he was investigating Tony Catrona. Digging around in his past. Seeing what he could come up with.”

  Ben frowned. If only half the rumors he’d heard over the years were true, Catrona was a seriously bad news character. He’d swept into Oklahoma with the onset of pari-mutuel betting, but reportedly had expanded his operations well beyond the horse races—into drugs, prostitution, and murder for hire.

  “Is it possible this could’ve been a mob hit?”

  Keri shivered; Ben could feel her trembling softness against his chest. “I don’t know. I don’t even want to think about it. Poor Joe.”

  Poor Joe indeed. It seemed incredible—but it might explain some of the more extreme aspects of the killing. Like the humiliating public manner in which the body was strung up. And the severed penis in the mouth. Wasn’t that something the mob did to squealers? People who talked too much? Or perhaps people they didn’t want to talk at all.

  “You’ve done so much for me,” Keri said. “Back when this nightmare began, you were the only one who believed me. You were the only one who could get past the fact that I worked in a strip bar and see that I wasn’t a murderer. And you were the only one who would help me. You were so kind. All my heart and—and—my love—for you—” She hugged him tighter. Ben could feel her heartbeat. “And now to see how they’re making you pay for your kindness. I just can’t stand it. Isn’t there something I can do?”

  “I don’t think so. My legal—” Ben stopped himself. “My partner is working on the case. I’m hoping she’ll be able to get these trumped-up charges dismissed.”

  “Christina?” He felt Keri’s body stiffen slightly. “Has she graduated?”

  “Yes. With flying colors.”

  “But—she’s new, right? Maybe she should have co-counsel. Someone with more experience.”

  “She’ll do fine. I trust her completely.”

  Keri tilted her head back. Ben could see her face was red and streaked with tears. “Maybe I should just confess. Tell them what they want. Tell them I killed Joe.”

  “Please don’t do that.”

  “Why not? They’d have to let you go. And you said I can’t be prosecuted again.”

  “I’m not sure they would let me go. They might try me as an accessory before or after the fact. And I’m not so sure about the last part, either.”

  “What?”

  He hesitated. “Keri, I think they’re going to try to use the discovery of the knife as a means of reopening the case against you. They’ll claim one or both of us committed fraud—hid the murder weapon. They’ll try to get a new trial. In fact, they’re probably already at the Court of Appeals working on it.”

  Keri’s eyes widened. The horror on her face was unmistakable. “But you told me about double jeopardy. You said that was impossible—”

  Ben’s chin lowered. “I know. I was wrong.”

  “You mean—it could start all over again? The whole—the—the trial and the publicity and—” Her voice cracked. “Oh, God, Ben. God. I don’t think I could take that. I—I don’t think I could survive it.”

  Ben tried to comfort her. “You’ll survive it, Keri. You’re tough.” He felt her tears trickling onto his arm. “We’ll survive it together.”

  “If—if you say so.”

  “I do. You didn’t commit this crime. And I’m not going to let them railroad you—or me. We’ll fight these people—and we’ll win.” He placed his thumb under her chin and tilted it upward. “I won’t let them continue persecuting you, destroying your life. I won’t allow it. And that’s a promise.”

  10

  “SO,” CHRISTINA SAID, “YOU’VE got the general picture?”

  “I guess,” her friend Karen said, scanning the seemingly endless pages bound in a loose-leaf notebook. “How do you keep track of all this stuff?”

  “Comes with the territory,” Christina replied. “Lawyers never forget anything.” And she would know, of course, having been a lawyer now for—what? A day and a half?

  Karen was a petite woman with a dress size that made Christina burn with envy. She was a little taller than Christina, but then, who wasn’t? She wore her auburn hair in a bouncy blunt cut just above her shoulders. “Since you’re the one with the steel-trap brain, why don’t you do this yourself?”

  “I can’t. This is a press conference. I’m not a member of the press.” Christina tossed back her strawberry-blond mane. “And there is the tiny matter of the ethical rules regarding pending criminal matters. Besides, it would just seem self-serving, coming from the attorney for the defense. But when you start asking the hard questions, people will listen.”

  Karen hesitated. “I don’t know about this.”

  “Come on, Karen. You know Ben isn’t a murderer. Hasn’t he always shot straight with you?”

  “Yes, he has. But I’m a journalist. I have to be impartial.”

  “You can be impartial. You can be impartially hard on everyone. I’m just suggesting one possible way of doing
that.”

  “Well … I suppose that’s true.” She looked up and pointed a finger. “But you owe me, girlfriend.”

  “No way. We’re even. I’m the one who leaked you the goods on the Barrett case, remember?”

  “That was years ago.”

  Christina tapped the side of her head. “Lawyers never forget anything.”

  Christina took an unobtrusive seat on a bench in the back of the courtroom corridor where Nick Dexter was holding his press conference. She wanted to watch, but she didn’t want to be noticed. It was fun to watch other people squirm—not so fun to do the squirming yourself.

  In a matter of moments, reporters from all the local networks crowded just beyond the podium, each with two or three crewpersons huddled close behind with their minicams and boom microphones. Several print journalists were there, too, even though there was only one daily newspaper in Tulsa these days. Christina wondered if they were beginning to attract some regional or even national coverage. The newspaper reporters looked decidedly low-tech, scribbling away in their little notepads or holding up tape recorders, while their TV cousins worked in a swirl of electrical cords and blinking lights.

  After a fashionable delay, Dexter walked briskly out of the clerk’s office, two files tucked under his arm and a serious expression on his face. He looked the very picture of the determined young man on the move. Christina hoped he would slip and fall on his face.

  But of course, he didn’t. “Ladies and gentlemen, I have a brief statement. Then I’ll take questions.” He glanced down at his prepared text, never once breaking his solemn expression. “Two days ago, the Tulsa Police Department received reliable information leading them to believe that one Benjamin Jonah Kincaid, a Tulsa attorney, aided Keri Dalcanton not only in her successful evasion of criminal justice but also in the crime itself. Pursuant to a search warrant”—he glanced up here—“legally obtained pursuant to a proper showing of probable cause, a search of Kincaid’s law office was conducted. During the search, a police officer found, hidden in a file cabinet, a bloodstained knife. Preliminary forensic reports indicate that the knife is the murder weapon, or one of them, that was used to kill career police officer Joe McNaughton. We understandably took Kincaid into custody and charged him. At the same time, we filed papers with the Court of Criminal Appeals asking to reopen the Keri Dalcanton prosecution based upon the fraudulent withholding of critical evidence during the first trial.”

  He swallowed, then peered out into the sea of faces. “Any questions?”

  The petite brunette in the front row beat the others to the punch. “Karen Keith, Channel Two. I have a few questions.”

  Dexter nodded. “Fire away.”

  “What was the source of the information that led you to Mr. Kincaid?”

  “I’m not at liberty to identify the source at this time.”

  “Was it an anonymous tip?”

  “For present purposes, yes.”

  “If the source of the information is unknown, how could the judge issuing the warrant evaluate its reliability?”

  Dexter paused a beat. “I never said the source was unknown. Only that I was not at liberty to reveal it.”

  Karen glanced down at a piece of paper in her hand. “Then the judge knew the source?”

  “The judge was able to evaluate the information’s reliability based upon the past reliability of the source.” He inhaled deeply. “Is there … someone else?”

  Another hand shot up in the air. A photogenic brunette with a microphone dangling over her head. “LeAnne Taylor, Channel Six. What charges have you brought against Mr. Kincaid?”

  Dexter cleared his throat. “He’s been charged with aiding and abetting, accessory after the fact, concealment of evidence, obstruction of justice, and, um, murder.”

  “Murder?” Taylor said. Dexter noticed that she, too, was reading from a sheet of prepared notes. “I thought the D.A.’s office believed Keri Dalcanton committed the murder?”

  “We did. And we do,” he added hastily.

  “Well, which is it? Kincaid or Dalcanton?”

  “We believe the two defendants may have acted … in concert.”

  “You’re saying she called her lawyer and asked him to help her kill her boyfriend?”

  Dexter coughed. “We’re still gathering evidence at this time, Ms. Taylor. We don’t necessarily know all the details of the crime yet. It’s possible Mr. Kincaid’s involvement was after the fact.”

  “Then he wouldn’t actually be a murderer.”

  “In that scenario, no. But we’re still—”

  “So you’re admitting you’ve charged someone with murder who might not have done it.”

  “I said, we’re still exploring—”

  “Shouldn’t you do your exploring before you charge a man with murder?”

  Dexter adjusted his tie. “I think I’ve said about all I have to say on this issue. Are there any other questions?”

  “Yes. I have one.” This time it was a young man, blond, in the traditional dark suit and white shirt. “Jeff Lea, Channel Eight. Other than the knife, do you have any evidence against Kincaid?”

  Dexter mopped his brow. “Doesn’t anyone have any questions about Keri Dalcanton?”

  In the back, Christina had to force herself not to grin.

  Lea shook his head. “We understand the case against her. But we don’t understand why you’re going after her attorney. Isn’t this an infringement of the constitutional right to counsel? “

  “If a lawyer commits a crime, he can be charged like anyone else.”

  “Yes—if he commits a crime. But representing his client isn’t committing a crime.”

  “What is this, cross-ex?” Dexter’s sudden outburst caught everyone by surprise, except the cameras, which were still rolling.

  Lea kept plowing ahead. “No, this is a press conference. But as far as I’ve been able to ascertain, Mr. Kincaid has been a professional, respected, even admired member of the legal community.”

  Dexter made a sneering sound. “He’s a defense lawyer.”

  “Yes, he’s a defense lawyer,” Lea said, reading from the piece of paper in his hand, “but he’s never knowingly helped any client commit a crime or aided them in concealing a crime or their guilt. Why would he start now?”

  Even Dexter’s charismatic cheekbones couldn’t help him now; he was beginning to look as if he were under siege. His face was red and he was sweating profusely. “We believe he may have been engaged in a relationship with his client. Beyond the lawyer-client relationship. More intimate.”

  “Do you have any evidence to support that accusation?” This from Karen Keith, right in the front row.

  “Well, er, we’re still gathering—”

  “So, basically,” LeAnne Taylor said, “you’re just trashing his reputation to prop up your dubious case.”

  “That’s not true. It’s—it’s just—we’ve only had the knife a few hours.” He was floundering, digging himself in deeper with every word he spoke. “You did this!” He pointed over the heads of the reporters toward Christina, who was quietly sitting in the rear. “This is your fault!”

  Christina pressed her fingers against her chest and smiled. Who, little ol’ me?

  There was a faint coughing noise from the direction of the clerk’s office, behind the podium. Dexter whirled around—then jumped almost a foot into the air.

  It was the D.A. himself—Thomas LaBelle. He was a sturdy, handsome man, broad-shouldered and slightly graying. His countenance emanated calm, mature strength. And he had a reputation for being unwilling to put up with any unprofessional behavior.

  It was from bad to worse for Dexter, and he knew it. His mouth opened, but he couldn’t seem to make any words come out.

  “Nick, do you mind?” Not waiting for an answer, LaBelle stepped behind the podium, nudging Dexter into the background. “Why don’t you return to your office, Nick? I’d like to have a few words with you, as soon as I’m done here.”

 
Dexter obediently skulked away.

  LaBelle adjusted the microphone for his greater height. “I’ve just been on the phone with the team I sent this morning to the Court of Criminal Appeals.” In the space of a sentence, LaBelle had transformed the tenor of the press conference. Where before they’d had Dexter’s blustering and fumbling, they now had LaBelle’s considerable and imposing presence. No one was going to mess around with him. “I’m pleased to announce that the Court of Criminal Appeals has agreed that the apparent concealment of evidence, outside the control of the law-enforcement community, justifies the reopening of the Keri Dalcanton case.”

  Like the pro he was, LaBelle waited a few moments to allow the audience to absorb what he had said. “There will be a new trial. And we will do everything imaginable to see that justice prevails.” He paused, making eye contact, not with the reporters, but with the cameras. “This time, I will handle the trial myself.”

  One newspaper reporter raised his hand, almost timidly. “What about the charges against Kincaid?”

  LaBelle didn’t blink. “Given this latest development, the murder charge will be dropped. We believe Keri Dalcanton is the murderer, and we will focus on her. We will continue to prosecute the charges of concealment of evidence and obstruction of justice against Mr. Kincaid. We will not oppose a defense motion to release Mr. Kincaid on bail.”

  Several more hands shot up, but a stony look from LaBelle was more than sufficient to tell them that, unlike Dexter, he was in charge, and he was not interested in messing around any further with their questions. “Thank you,” he said curtly. Then he disappeared.

  The crowd dispersed. Christina stopped Karen and LeAnne before they left. “Thanks for the help, girlfriends. Give my best to Jeff, too.”

  “Our pleasure,” LeAnne said. “Nick definitely needed to be reminded of a few things. Like, say, the Constitution.”

  “Still, thanks.”

  “Hey,” Karen said, “with your coaching, how could we go wrong? Nick should’ve known better than to take you on. Unless I miss my guess, he’s now undergoing a major chewing out—and possibly losing his job.”