by John Darnton
Jude opened up his notebook. "So who is it?"
"Well, that guy McNichol did some job. The one print was no good. But it turned out the guy was in the DNA database—not ours but one of theirs. He sent it through and he got a hit. What sealed it was that the guy was right from there. A judge, I think."
"Do you have the name?"
"Hold on, I'll get the file."
Raymond put the receiver down. Jude heard a rustling of papers, then Raymond's voice again.
"You know, I'm not supposed to do this. It's not our jurisdiction, so this call never happened."
"Okay, understood."
"Where you calling from, anyway?"
Raymond didn't usually ask a question like that. Where did it matter where he was calling from?
"The office."
"Kind of early to be at work."
"I'm trying to clear up a lot of stuff," Jude replied. Then he added: "I'm thinking of going away for a while."
"Oh yeah, where?"
Jude was sorry he'd opened up that avenue. In fact, he wasn't really planning a trip.
"I don't know yet."
Raymond gave a grunt—it seemed a sound of disbelief. "Well, here's the name. Got a pen?"
"Yeah."
"He's a judge, like I said. Joseph P. Reilly. 197 West Elm Drive. Tylerville."
"Got a phone?"
"Unlisted."
"Yeah, but you have ways."
"Like I said, it's not our case."
"Anything more on the judge? What kind of judge is he—was he?"
"Not sure. Some kind of state court, I think."
"Okay, thanks. Oh, one more thing."
"Yeah."
"How come the judge was in the database to begin with? I thought that was for convicted felons."
"Ours is. So's New York's. But some of these agencies freelance. As an officer of the court, he had to set an example. As I understand it, at least according to McNichol, the guy didn't want to at first. It raised a ruckus in the local papers."
"Interesting. Anything else worth knowing?"
"Nope. Strictly routine. Except, of course, the murderer's still on the loose."
"Yeah. Okay, thanks again."
"Don't mention it. You can write a flattering article about me someday—the way you did with McNichol."
A small alarm bell went off in Jude's head. "But that didn't get in. The story was cut to shreds."
"Enough got in. It was a blow job. You should be ashamed."
After the call, Jude had made Skyler promise to stay put in his apartment. He was getting a little tired of playing nursemaid. After the bathtub incident, he'd felt he had to show him everything if he wanted to keep the apartment in one piece: where the light switches were, how to work the stove, and how to lock the door. Again, he'd cautioned him about the telephone—only answer it, he said, if it rings three times and then stops and then rings again. That was their code. He'd told him again to take the sleeping pill and said he'd be back by evening.
Then Jude had grabbed his jeans jacket and tape recorder. As he was closing the door, something in his conversation with Raymond registered. He went back into the kitchen and left a few minutes later, with two filled Ziploc plastic bags stuffed into the left jacket pocket.
McNichol wasn't at his funeral home in Tylerville, so Jude drove over to the hospital in Poughkeepsie. He walked hurriedly by the front desk, ignoring the receptionist who waved to get his attention, and dashed down the staircase. Below was an office he hadn't seen, and the door was slightly ajar. He leaned around it and saw McNichol sitting at a desk, his glasses propped up on his forehead and a pile of papers spread before him.
McNichol did not seem especially pleased to see him, and the bonhomie of the other day appeared to have vanished. As Jude made an apology for bursting in upon him, the M.E. kept looking distractedly—even longingly, Jude thought—at the paperwork on his desk. Jude concluded he must have been miffed because the story had gotten such measly play.
Jude felt he was working on borrowed time, so he went right to the point—flattery.
"I heard you got a successful DNA match. That's good work."
"Well, yes, as far as it goes."
"And the victim turned out to be a judge?"
"Listen, ah... what's your name again?"
"Jude Harley."
"Mr. Harley. As far as anything about that is concerned, you'll have to go to the police. It's all in their hands now." He paused. "I don't understand what happened. It's been nothing but trouble."
Jude understood. The death of a judge could be big news. The M.E. had undoubtedly gotten into a heap of trouble for letting them observe the autopsy. That reporter from the local paper, Gloria, had probably blown him out of the water. Publishing so many details about the cause of death could definitely put a crimp in the police investigation.
"I'm sorry if the story made your life difficult."
"Difficult—that's an understatement. Would you believe somebody broke into my lab? They stole the autopsy specimens. That's never happened to me before."
"Why would anyone do that?"
McNichol shrugged and turned away.
It was time to switch the subject.
"Actually, I'm not here about that," he said. "I'm here because of a mystery, and I wondered if I could ask your help."
At the word "mystery" McNichol seemed to perk up. His eyes forgot his papers, took on a sheen of curiosity, and bored into Jude's quizzically. Jude reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the two plastic bags filled with dark swirls. He held them up, swinging them ever so slightly, like a present. One contained Skyler's hair and the other had a matching swatch; only someone examining the back of Jude's head with a magnifying glass could have said where it had come from.
Jude left the hospital and found himself in a cluster of municipal buildings. He walked two blocks to the courthouse, a magnificent red-brick structure with a bas relief of blinded justice above the entrance. He stepped inside a phone booth, pulled out his notebook to find Gloria's number at the paper, and dialed it. As soon as she heard his voice, she said she was on deadline on a story about electrical rates and gave him the brush-off. He shrugged. Too bad—she could have filled him in on the judge's death.
He stepped inside. On one wall was the listing of courtrooms and offices, a glass casement of white letters stuck into bands of black velvet. He scanned it. COUNTY COURT JUDGE JOSEPH P. REILY. Room 201. The name leapt out at him—it hadn't yet been removed. A fine example of small town delicacy, he mused.
He thought he might at least drop by the office to see if he could get some information about the deceased. Conceivably, the judge's secretary would have a bio of him or perhaps even a copy of his obit. He walked up to the second floor and knocked on a wooden door with a large frosted glass that had 201 stenciled in black. A female voice told him to enter. He did, and saw that it belonged to a black woman in a red blouse. She looked as if she did not brook fools lightly.
Jude introduced himself and expressed his commiseration, which succeeded only in drawing a dumbfounded look.
"Just what exactly do you want?" she demanded.
"The judge... Judge Reilly..." Jude began.
"He's in chambers, three doors down on the right."
She turned away.
Through his fog of astonishment, Jude found the judicial chambers. He stepped inside, into a crowded room done entirely in oak veneer. The benches were crowded. It was a warm afternoon and three windows were wide open, but they let in little breeze. Up front, on a raised dais, with an American flag on one side and a blue New York flag on the other, sat the judge, a remarkably young man. His nameplate was in front of him. He looked vigorous and, more to the point, he looked very much alive.
And more than that: Jude noticed that the judge did seem to bear a resemblance to the corpse he had seen—more or less the same height, the same build. Other than that, given the condition of the body, he could not say.
His mi
nd reeled. So the judge was not dead. But then whose body was it? And why was there a resemblance?
Jude sat down on an aisle seat. He had the impression the judge had been watching him as he'd entered the room.
Now he was certain of it—the judge was staring at him.
Abruptly, the judge frowned, looked away and looked back at him again. He seemed to turn pale. He rose and turned as if to leave, collected himself and came back to strike the gavel once, and then he did leave. A bailiff followed the judge out of the chambers, looking uncertain. He soon returned and banged the gavel himself. Peering out over the crowd, now milling about, unsure of what to do, he declared: "Court is in recess."
Chapter 14
When Tizzie arrived at Jude's apartment, she let herself in with her own key, juggling her purse in one hand and a gift-wrapped parcel in the other hand. She knew no one was home. Up and down the street, lights were blazing in the windows in the gathering dusk, but those on this floor remained dark.
She had picked up his message on the answering machine—no message, actually, just his name. She'd decided to see him, even though she was tired from her trip, so she'd jumped onto a cross-town bus. She would have preferred to go right to bed, but there was that nagging sense of guilt. She had been distant toward him lately, cold, and she hadn't wanted to be. She had received mixed messages from him; he seemed to want intimacy but every time she took a step toward him, she felt him pull back. And she was holding something back, too. In an odd way, as much as she cared about Jude, she was uncomfortable with him and she didn't know why. That was what made her feel guilty. It was partly to appease that guilt that she had bought him a handsome cable-knit sweater in a tiny shop in White Fish Bay.
She put the box down on a hall table, stepped into the kitchen and switched on the lights. Her eye deconstructed the mess: an empty scotch bottle stood on top of the counter, and the sink was filled with dishes, including two plates with egg stains. There had been company, that much was clear—a night of drinking and then breakfast, no less. But what in God's name was that kitchen towel doing over there with that dark stuff in it? She examined it—bits of hair. What the hell was that doing there?
The living room told her the couch had been slept in, and she had to admit she felt passing relief. At least Jude had not been unfaithful—either that or the woman was a loud snorer, she joked to herself. She nicked her knee on the coffee table and cursed softly.
As soon as she entered the bedroom, she could tell from the faint sound of his breathing, spaced and steady, that he was there, asleep. That was strange—why would he be asleep at dusk? She approached the left side of the bed and looked down at him in the half-light—the smooth cheek, the long eyelashes, the familiar tousle of brown hair on the pillow. He looked defenseless and wholesome lying there, almost like a young boy, and the sight filled her with a complicated rush of emotion, an amalgam of maternal affection and womanly longing.
She thought that perhaps she should try to take a nap, too; the trip home had exhausted her. She walked around the bed, sat in a chair and unstrapped her shoes and took them off, placing them to one side. She stood up and unzipped her dress, letting it fall to the floor in a heap and bent down to pick it up and drape it over the back of the chair. She slipped her thumbs into the waist of her panties and slid them down her legs, placing them over the dress. Then she unfastened her bra and placed it on top. From the bed, she heard his breathing shift as he moved to a different level of sleep.
She walked to the right side of the bed, lifted the sheet and slipped underneath, pulling it up to her chin. The cotton felt cool to her skin. She wiggled her feet, then glanced over at the man sleeping next to her in the semidarkness. He was turned away so that all she could see was his back, rising and falling so minutely the motion was barely perceptible. She contemplated it for a moment. Even in repose, his back muscles looked strong. Then she scooted over and snuggled up behind him, putting one arm around him and pressing her breasts into his back. She slid her legs behind his. They were like two spoons in a drawer.
He stirred a little, still deeply asleep. She snuggled up against him even tighter, lifting a leg up and placing it gently upon his thigh, which was surprisingly warm. She felt again that unsettling ebb and flow of mother and lover. Again, with her encircling him, he stirred ever so slightly. Then his breathing steadied and she pulled back, retreating to her side of the bed.
She thought he was probably dreaming. She wondered idly what it would be like to make love to someone who was dreaming of making love. Then she turned over, lying on her side and bunching the top of the sheet into a small bundle under her chin, she began to quickly drift off.
Some time later—it was impossible to say how much later, in sleep time—a din broke out. It was the phone ringing, insistent, on the little table on her side. Why wasn't Jude answering it? Grumpily, resentful at being dragged back to the land of the waking, she reached over and lifted the receiver. Who in God's name could be calling at this hour? She cocked herself up on one elbow and brought it to her ear. She was vaguely aware of the body behind her, now moving, also gradually struggling to come to the surface. He was sitting up.
"Hello," she said.
The familiar voice over the phone snapped her to attention immediately.
"Tizzie?" said Jude. "What are you doing there?"
She did not respond immediately, so he repeated: "It's me. Jude. Is that you, Tizzie?"
"Yes," she said hesitantly, staring over at the man next to her, who was staring back at her with wide-open brown eyes. It was so bizarre beyond all reckoning—to see Jude's likeness before her and hear his voice on the phone—that she was stunned into silence.
"Tizzie," came the voice over the phone. "You must have met him by now. I know it's a shock. You won't believe what's been happening."
She found her voice, finally.
"I'll say," she said.
¨
Jude couldn't say when he first became aware of the headlights trailing him. In retrospect, he thought it was somewhere in the South Bronx when he turned off the Major Deegan for the Willis Avenue Bridge, a shortcut that saved the $3.50 toll but that also meant driving through a stretch of back streets.
He wasn't really paying attention because he was deep in thought, turning the puzzle over and over in his mind. He looked at it from every conceivable angle—and it didn't make any sense from any of them. Hours earlier, he had driven up to New Paltz with the name of a dead man, suspecting only that the murder victim was somehow connected to the group Skyler was involved with. He hadn't known what he would find, but he had hoped that a little digging into the victim's past might turn up something, anything, one more clue to carry the tracker further down the trail. And what happened? He was driving back to New York even more confused than when he had left. It turned out that the victim was not a victim at all, but a living, breathing person, and a prominent local judge to boot. If that was so—and it clearly was—then who had been killed and mutilated? And why did his DNA perfectly match the judge's? And then, of course, there was the biggest question of all: Why was the judge—whom Jude had never laid eyes on in his life—so upset at seeing him walk into his courtroom? The last riddle was especially disconcerting; it was one more indication that Jude was being dragged by the scruff of his neck into some nefarious plot about which he knew nothing. It was like coming into a movie halfway through—and finding your own face up there on the screen.
Jude had spent the rest of the day trying to unravel the mystery. He checked back in with McNichol, who was doubly annoyed by the second intrusion. Jude didn't want to alienate the temperamental medical examiner for fear he wouldn't perform the little chore he had left with him, but he questioned him enough to ascertain that McNichol stood one hundred percent behind his DNA analysis of the victim.
"Look," the M.E. had finally exclaimed, "I don't see how I could have made a mistake. Some of these hits aren't as clear as others. Some are doubles, some are triples. This on
e was a home run and it was out of the park."
Then Jude had run a check on the judge. He went into the local library, parked his computer in the "electronic work station area" and called up Nexis to retrieve the computerized file of newspaper clippings. He was surprised at how voluminous it was for someone so young—his own age, thirty. There were numerous articles about the various decisions he had handed down; he seemed to have a knack for drawing the big cases upstate. There were sex-abuse charges, school board zoning disputes, income tax violations, even one on silicone-breast implants. There were a few more profiles in the local press—Jude saw a byline by Gloria, and regretted more than ever that their relationship had soured before it had started. She might have proved useful.
He pulled out his notebook and jotted down the details: names of clubs and associations such as the Lions, Rotarians, and the Century Association in New York; judicial organizations like the American Bar Association and the Ulster County Bar Association; and various do-gooder groups like the Hudson Valley Conservancy, the Poughkeepsie Council for Better Hospitals, and Friends of the New York Neurological Research Organization. There were feature articles and brief mentions and photos taken at galas and society affairs. Jude found the clearest picture, which showed a smiling Judge and Mrs. Joseph P. Reilly at the Sacred Heart Benefit for the Physically Disabled, and downloaded it into his computer and then printed it out. There was even a short New York Times article dated June 2, 1998, when the judge had been appointed to a group called the Committee of Young Leaders for Science and Technology in the New Millennium, which was described as an association of "eminent people under thirty-five years of age in business, law, science and politics" whose purpose was to "open the doors to scientific innovations and set priorities for technology in the next century." It seems like our small-town judge cuts a big-time figure, he had thought.
Jude looked in the rearview mirror. Headlights that had been behind him for some time on the Deegan—they were identifiable because one was tilted up a bit and gave off an annoying glare—took the same turnoff that he did. When Jude stopped at a light, the car stopped, too, but it hung back thirty feet or so. No other car was nearby.