Murder One

by William Bernhardt

  Judge Cable pointed a gavel. “Mr. Kincaid, watch your tongue.”

  “Your honor, this is gross misconduct of the worst sort by police officers who have passed themselves off as disinterested witnesses. I should be asking for a mistrial.”

  Ben saw Judge Cable’s face lose its color. The last thing on earth he wanted was to see this case boomerang back again. “I’ll allow this to continue. But get to the point.”

  “Your honor,” LaBelle said, “for the record, I must protest—”

  “Sit down!” Cable snapped.

  Ben and Christina exchanged a look. Cable going after the prosecutor? Was it possible he was beginning to smell a rat, too?

  “I’ll repeat the question,” Ben said to Bailey, “and don’t pretend you don’t know the answer. What’s the Blue Squeeze?”

  Another heavy sigh. “The Blue Squeeze is a term some people use when police officers decide to—well, put the squeeze on someone.”

  “We’re not talking about official police business, right?”

  Bailey nodded. “This would be a … private matter.”

  “And after the first trial ended, you put the Blue Squeeze on me and my staff, didn’t you?”

  “It wasn’t my idea—”

  “Matthews then. Whoever. But the Blue Squeeze was on, right?”

  Bailey glanced at LaBelle, but there was no way the prosecutor could help him now. “Right. The Blue Squeeze was on. I didn’t think it was necessary, or even a particularly good idea. But some of the other boys—”

  “I’m sure they dragged you kicking and screaming.”

  “Mr. Kincaid!” Judge Cable bellowed.

  “Sorry, your honor. I’ll withdraw that.” As if it mattered. “You admit the Blue Squeeze was on. You admit you were following me and my staff around, watching our movements, watching our office—”

  “But we didn’t do anythin’,” Bailey insisted. “We just wanted to make sure you didn’t try anythin’ underhanded. We just watched.”

  “You just watched. And we’re supposed to believe that it’s just a coincidence that while you were watching, the knife turned up in my office.”

  “I don’t think it’s a coincidence,” Bailey said. “I think you—”

  “And it was just a coincidence that Paula Connelly, who was working with me on Keri Dalcanton’s defense, was brutally attacked—while you were watching.”

  “I don’t know anything about—”

  “For all we know, you might’ve planted every piece of evidence in this case. It’s clear that you and your friends were so determined to see my client convicted, you were willing to do anything!”

  LaBelle rose. “Is that a question?”

  Well, Ben had done about all he could here anyway. It was time to move on. “I’ll withdraw it.” He flipped to the next page of his outline. “Can you explain to me why Joe McNaughton was demoted, several months before he was killed?”

  Bailey seemed startled by the abrupt change of subject. “Why—what?”

  “You’ve told us you and Joe were buddies, that you talked to him all the time. Surely you know why he was demoted.”

  “It was my understanding that … Internal Affairs was concerned that he might’ve gotten … too close to the subject of his investigation.”

  “That would be Antonio Catrona?”

  “Yes.”

  “And can you then explain why sometime later his rank was restored?”

  Bailey shrugged. “I assume the IA investigation cleared him.”

  “Really?” Ben arched an eyebrow. “If IA cleared him, why was Corporal Wesley running around taking pictures of McNaughton through the windowpane?”

  Bailey paused. “I don’t know.”

  “Could it be that he wasn’t really cleared—because he really was tangled up with Catrona? Could that unfortunate connection possibly be the real reason he was killed?”

  “I don’t think it’s—”

  “Is—it—possible?” Ben asked, practically shouting.

  “I couldn’t say,” Bailey replied.

  “Then you don’t really know who killed Joe McNaughton, do you?”

  “No,” he said finally. “I guess I don’t.”

  “That’s right,” Ben said, walking away from the podium. “And neither does anyone else.”

  38

  IT WAS LATE, WELL past visiting hours at St. John’s, but Ben still wanted to stop by the hospital before he went home. It had been an exhausting day at trial, and tomorrow would be no better—but this was something he had to do. He owed it to Jones—and to Paula.

  After sweet-talking his way past the admissions desk, he quietly pushed open the door to room 522 and tiptoed inside.

  Jones was sitting at the side of the bed, his head resting against the iron railing. His eyes were closed, but Ben knew he was not asleep.

  “How goes it?” Ben asked quietly.

  Jones did not look up. “No change.”

  Ben stepped carefully around the end of the bed, glancing at the chart as he passed. “Christina told me the doctors say she’s stable.”

  “Sort of,” Jones mumbled. “Stable, but critical. They’ve got her blood level normal again. They’ve patched up the wound. They’re feeding her intravenously. But she won’t wake up.”

  Ben glanced at Paula’s recumbent form, lying atop the bed like Sleeping Beauty, alive but deep in slumber. She looked as if she had been that way forever. The rubber bag attached to her respirator slowly filled and emptied, but there was no other sign of life. “Is she in a coma?”

  Jones shrugged. “They don’t know what it is exactly. They say she should come around. But she doesn’t. She may have gone too close to the edge. She was very low on blood before they got her to the hospital. It may have been too—”

  “Don’t talk that way,” Ben said, cutting him off. “Don’t even think it. She just needs time, that’s all. She suffered a grievous injury and she needs time to recover. Build her strength. I was in a coma once, and I know—”

  “Ben, stop.” Slowly, Jones’s head rose from the railing. His eyes were red and lined and tired. A pink smudge showed where the iron bar had imprinted upon his cheek. “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know. That I haven’t already thought about. Constantly.” He stood up, but his legs seemed wobbly and insubstantial. “How goes the trial?”

  Ben shrugged. The trial was a matter of life and death to Keri, but at the moment, in this room, it seemed almost trivial. “Not well. But it always looks dark when the prosecution is putting on their case.”

  “I heard you put some major dents in LaBelle’s witnesses on cross-ex.”

  Evidently Christina, the eternal optimist, had preceded him. “I think I established that some members of the police department were willing to do anything to put Keri Dalcanton behind bars. And that helps. And Christina did a great job with the coroner. But did either of us prove Keri didn’t commit the murder? No.”

  “It’s early days yet.”

  “Yeah.” That was what defense attorneys always said. It’ll get better, once we’re putting on our case. Ben just hoped it was true. “Seen Matthews around?”

  “Some. Not much.”

  Ben swore under his breath. “I filed a formal protest, asking that Paula’s case be reassigned, but it doesn’t seem to have done much good. I don’t have much pull with Tulsa P.D. these days. I wish to God Mike were around. But he isn’t, and no one’s telling where he is.”

  Jones’s jaw tightened. “They’re never going to find out who did this to Paula, are they?”

  He couldn’t lie. “I don’t know. But I won’t let them give up without trying. And I’ve got Loving looking into it, too.”

  That seemed to cheer Jones, at least a little. “That’s good. Loving will make a serious effort. He—” His voice choked. “He liked Paula, too.”

  “Don’t talk about her in the past tense, Jones.”

  “I didn’t mean to. I just—I—” His voice dwindled aw
ay to nothing.

  Ben walked to the door. He had felt it was important to stop in, but he had no sense that his presence was a comfort to Jones—almost the opposite, in fact. He wondered if his being here reminded Jones of how this tragedy came about—and whose fault it was.

  “Is there anything I can do?” Ben asked.

  Jones’s eyes turned toward the still figure on the hospital bed. “Got a miracle in your pocket?”

  “ ’Fraid not.” He shoved his hands deep inside his coat. “I do have some leftover cheese puffs, though.”

  Jones almost smiled. “Then I guess that’ll have to do.”

  39

  KIRK HAD BARELY TEN seconds to wait after he knocked on the faded, warped-wood door of apartment 12.

  She smiled. “I knew you’d be back.”

  Kirk entered the room. He did not make eye contact, but chose instead to walk right past her, sullen and silent.

  “And you couldn’ta chosen a better time. I was thinkin’ ’bout going back out. I called my girlfriend, but she said, ‘Girlfriend, whatchoo wanna go out there now for? There’s no one out this time of night. No one you wanna see, leastwise.’ ”

  Kirk jabbed his hand into his tight jeans pocket and withdrew what seemed like a huge wad of cash. He tossed it down on the end table beside her sofa. “That’s for you.”

  The expression on Chantelle’s face, which had been lively from the start, became positively animated. “Why, you generous boy.” She untied the scarf from her neck and wrapped it around the back of his head, tugging him closer. “For that kind of money, my little man, you can do anything you want. Anything at all.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Kirk grunted. A second later, he was on top of her. There was nothing subtle about this approach. His mouth was on hers, pressing hard. His arms were flailing all over her, probing, groping, half fighting against hers. Their teeth actually scraped, then Chantelle opened her mouth wider. Kirk’s tongue plunged inside, exploring with an urgency that almost gagged her.

  “Whoa, slow down, boy,” she said, as soon as she was able, but Kirk did not comply. She had told him he could do anything he wanted, and he meant to do it. There was nothing tender about what they were doing, in his mind. There was no pretense that this was lovemaking. This was brutal, animal, and he wanted it to show. He wanted to feel what was happening to them. He wanted it to hurt.

  He slung Chantelle backward, missing the sofa by inches. She fell onto the floor, which fortunately for her was carpeted. He pounced on top of her again. He was breathing hard and audibly now; they could feel one another’s breath.

  “My, my, you are in a hurry, sugah.” Despite her position, she did not seem in great distress. She had seen it all before, Kirk supposed. A small smile creased her face and she nuzzled into the crook of his neck and waited to see what would come next.

  Kirk bit her. Hard.

  Chantelle screamed. It was perhaps a scream more of surprise than pain, but at any rate, it sent her into action. Her hips rocked; her legs locked around his.

  “Now don’t you be damaging the goods,” Chantelle said, rubbing the place on her neck where he’d bitten her. “Don’t want you gettin’ in trouble with my main man.”

  “You said I could do anything I wanted,” Kirk growled. He pushed himself up with one strong arm and, bringing the other around faster than she could follow, slapped her hard on the side of the face.

  She screamed again, and this time she meant it.

  Kirk began ripping off her clothes, her dress, her panties, her bra. When he couldn’t figure out the clasp, he tore it apart. I’ve paid for this several times over, he told himself. This belongs to me. He clawed at her relentlessly, never resting until she was totally naked. Using one hand to undress, while the other kept her firmly pinned in place, he soon had his clothes off as well.

  She raised an arm against him, but he knocked it away effortlessly. She followed up with a raised knee, but he stopped that with another sharp blow to the side of her face. He was stronger than her, plus he had a fury inside him that she couldn’t hope to match. She was powerless against him.

  He came at her like a hurricane, wrapping himself around her, enveloping her. She eventually realized she could not fight him, so she clutched him and held on tight, just trying to minimize the damage. He pounded and pounded her, sex as violence, pummeling her with his raw passion. At last, he entered her, hips locking, and he began thrusting and thrusting, beating at her, bruising her, coming at her with all the finesse of a drunken teenager. He continued ramming himself against her, over and over again, and to his surprise, Chantelle’s resistance evaporated. Her eyes became wide and interested; her back arched against his stomach. Soon she was rocking with him, back and forth, back and forth. The intensity magnified until all at once, she let out a brief shuddering cry, part sob, part ecstasy. Kirk thumped away, finishing, shouting out his release in her ear.

  And then, all at once, the frenzied motion was over. They lay beside one another on the floor, chests heaving, struggling for breath. They were both wet with sweat, naked bodies glistening under the subdued light.

  A few moments later, Kirk was surprised to feel Chantelle’s fingers tickling the back of his neck, then the spider’s touch of her lips pressed against his cheek.

  “Je-suss,” she whispered into his ear. “I ain’t felt nothin’ like that in ages.” He heard a small chuckle in the back of her throat. “But next time, give a girl some warnin’, okay? We’ll get out the handcuffs and ropes and do this thing proper.”

  “Don’t talk dirty,” Kirk gasped, between breaths.

  “Course not.” She snuggled closer to him. “You just keep comin’ to see me, sugah. I’ll make you forget all about … whoever it was.”

  “Don’t,” Kirk said. His heavy breathing intensified. “Don’t.”

  “Just relax,” Chantelle said, licking his shoulder. “I’ll take her place. I’ll be whatever she was to you.”

  “No!” Kirk jumped to his feet, screaming. He gathered his clothes as quickly as possible and ran out the door. As he tumbled down the stairs, he felt an aching in his gut, intense and unavoidable. It was back again, back with a vengeance, back with such intensity that he knew in his heart he could never be free of it. He had forgotten it for a moment. He had managed to put it out of his mind. But it was back—back to stay. No matter what he tried. No matter what he did to whom. No matter what.

  He raced all the way to his delapidated apartment building, ran up the stairs, raced inside, and slammed the door shut. He pressed himself against the inside of the door, as if blocking the path to the demons he knew lurked beyond.

  It didn’t work.

  “You can run, Kirk, but you can never hide.”

  Kirk’s eyes exploded. “Who is that?”

  “Aren’t you tired of this game, Kirk? The running, the hiding. Punishing yourself. As if that could ever make a difference.”

  “Who is that?” He paused, then felt the most horrible clutching at his heart. “You!”

  “Yes, me. The realization of your worst fears.”

  “But, you—I—are you—are you real?”

  “Well, that’s a problem for your sick little brain to work out, isn’t it?”

  Kirk pressed harder against the door, clinging to the woodwork. “Wh-Why are you here?”

  “I’ve come to see what the hell is taking you so long.”

  “I—I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do. I thought you’d be dead long before now. How long are you going to go on with this foolishness? Punishing yourself. Punishing others. Pretending that it might somehow make you feel better. When you know damn well that nothing is ever going to make you feel better.”

  “That isn’t so!”

  “It is. There’s only one thing that will ever give you any relief. And you know what it is. So why don’t you get on with it?”

  “No! I—I don’t have that—that guilt anymore. I—I got rid of it. I—”

&nbs
p; “Rid of it?” the voice said incredulously. “Kirk, have you been doing something naughty tonight?”

  “No! I—I—”

  “Kirk, tell me the truth.”

  Kirk covered his face with his hands.

  “And you thought that would make things better? All you’ve done is make it worse. All you’ve done is prove you can never compensate for what you’ve done.” The voice took on a tone of harsh finality. “It’s over, Kirk. End it.”

  “Noooo!” Kirk flung open the door and ran, ran like the devil was chasing him. He tumbled down the stairs, taking them three at a time. The crotchety landlord emerged from his room, shouting something about the noise, but Kirk didn’t stop for him or anyone else. He ran and ran into the night, never stopping.

  But where could he go? There was nowhere left to run, he knew that now. Nothing left to try. It was over, just as the voice in the dark had told him. It was done.

  There was nothing else left for him, no alternative. It was time to end it. Once and for all.

  40

  KERI SEEMED CALMER THIS morning, although Ben sensed it was only a temporary respite, like a wounded sparrow clinging tenuously to a slippery eave. The pressure bearing down on all of them was more intense than ever. Ben could literally feel the burning gaze of the jurors as they constantly scrutinized Keri’s face, checking her reactions, looking for insight on an insoluble problem. Keri might be steady, but she was not strong, and Ben knew she could break down altogether at any moment.

  “This one still mine?” Christina asked, as she nestled between them at the defendant’s table.

  “With my compliments,” Ben replied.

  “Is that because you think I’d be particularly good at crossing her, or because you particularly don’t want to do it yourself?”

  The corner of Ben’s mouth turned upward. “Am I under oath?”

  “The State calls Dr. Margaret Fulbright to the stand,” LaBelle announced, as soon as Judge Cable was in the courtroom.

  Immediately thereafter, a surprisingly attractive woman began the long walk to the witness stand. She was thin and delicate in appearance, with long brunette hair that fell behind her shoulders. She was dressed professionally but not unattractively and she walked with a calm, if slightly uncertain, manner.