The Cheater

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  He ran his hands through his bushy permed hair. “Yes, I have, Your Honor. The defendant has been deemed competent to stand trial, so all we need is to set a trial date.” He turned to his computer, already open on the table. “December fourteenth works for me.”

  The public defender checked her calendar. “Not possible,” she said in a snippy voice. “I’m scheduled to appear on three different matters that day.”

  While the two attorneys tried to work it out, Lily stared at a spectator in the otherwise empty courtroom. A proceeding of this nature wasn’t known to interest the media, and the defendant had either killed or alienated whatever relatives he possessed. The person was sitting far in the back, and it was hard to tell if it was a woman or a man. The hair was brown and short. She looked for earrings, but didn’t see any. The distance was too great to make out something as small as earrings. The only other identifying factor was a short-sleeved polo-style shirt, which appeared to be red-and-white-striped. Lily had an eerie feeling, wondering if it might be a criminal she had put in prison during her days as a district attorney.

  Judith McBride was speaking. “We’d like to arrange a private psychiatric evaluation of Mr. Burkell. From the reports, Dr. . . . Hold on, I forgot his name.” She stopped speaking and rummaged through the mess of papers she’d dumped on top of the counsel table. “Here it is . . . Dr. Julian Ackerman. He only spent an hour with the defendant, Your Honor, and he seemed more interested in eliminating an insanity defense than determining if Mr. Burkell was fit to stand trial. We never claimed he was insane. He didn’t talk much, so how could I determine if he was able to cooperate with his defense? We do know the police removed a large quantity of medications from his home, some of them antidepressants and other substances used to treat mental illness.”

  McBride had a habit of stalling as long as possible, hoping the case would magically go away or she could pressure the DA into negotiating a settlement. Getting Lily to agree to ship Burkell to Vacaville for a ninety-day diagnostic was a coup. Lily wished she’d never allowed it. In arguments, McBride wore her down. When she had worked with her as a prosecutor, she had gone home every night with a blinding headache. The attorney’s voice fell somewhere between a whine and a barking Doberman. It didn’t help that she looked like a witch. Her black hair, obviously dyed, was stringy, and she favored black suits or dresses, probably because they didn’t show stains. And she wondered why the defendant wouldn’t talk to her.

  Lily saw Silverstein out of the corner of her eye. He’d been getting his damn hair permed, and it looked like straw. Light a match, and the man would go up in flames. Silverstein claimed he didn’t have time to mess with his hair, and having a perm made it easier. To be fair, the same probably held true with Judith McBride. The criminal justice system was so hopelessly bogged down, the people who held all the pieces together had become slaves instead of public servants.

  Lily heard a noise in the rear of the room and saw the person in the red-and-white-striped shirt heading for the exit. It had to be a guy. The dress and walk were too masculine. She shoved the microphone aside and gestured for the bailiff, leaning to one side and whispering, “See if you can find out who that man was that just left.”

  “What man?” Leonard Davis said, his eyes roaming around the courtroom.

  “It might have been a woman.”

  A tall, stick-thin man in his late twenties, Davis had relocated to California from Wyoming, where he claimed he’d been a champion bull rider. He could barely sit in the chair, let alone on a bull. He either had his thumbs tucked into the belt loops of his pants, or his hand resting on the butt of his gun.

  The bailiff rocked back on his heels. “No one here, Judge, just attorneys and one bad guy. I mean, except for you, me, Susie, and the court reporter.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to keep track of what goes on in this courtroom? Forget it.” Idiot, Lily thought, returning her attention to the matter at hand. Not only had she drawn the worst office, they’d assigned her a comic book character for a bailiff. “Your motion to have the defendant reevaluated is denied, Ms. McBride. If you will recall, you’re the one who advised this court that you believed there was a competency issue, or this case would have already been resolved. I won’t allow you to delay these proceedings any longer. The defendant has a right to due process, and he’s already been in custody for ninety days. Have you agreed upon—”

  “Ninety days and they did nothing,” the public defender blurted out, crossing her arms over her chest.

  Lily leveled a finger at her, her temper flaring. “You’re close to being thrown out of this courtroom, Counselor.”

  She cackled. “I’d never be that lucky.”

  “If you ever interrupt me again, I’ll remand you to jail.” Lily waited so the public defender would know she was serious, then continued, “Now, as I was saying, have both parties agreed on a trial date?”

  The two attorneys finally coughed up the date and Lily asked Susie to see if it would fit into her calendar. If it didn’t, they would have to shop for a mutually agreeable date again. When Susie nodded at her, she said, “Jury selection will begin on December twenty-sixth at nine o’clock in the morning.”

  Judith McBride scowled, then spat out, “I’d like to petition the court to consider bail, Your Honor. My client is a local businessman, owns his own home, and has strong ties to the community. He has no prior criminal record, so it’s unlikely he would flee.”

  “I don’t agree,” Lily said, incredulous. “The police captured him two blocks from the scene covered in the blood of the victims. I consider that a demonstrated attempt to flee.”

  “We acknowledge that,” McBride went on without faltering. “The defendant was in shock. He’d just walked in and found both his wife and son murdered. How did he know the killer wasn’t still in the area? Any man would flee under the circumstances.”

  “The people strongly object,” Silverstein said, fiddling with a button on his jacket. “A bail review was already considered and denied when Mr. Burkell was arraigned on these heinous crimes. The defendant is a dangerous, violent offender who poses a grave risk to the community.”

  “Bail is denied.” Lily scribbled her ruling in the file and handed it back to the clerk. “There were no incident reports from Vacaville, Ms. McBride. The defendant’s conduct appears to have been exemplary. To address your concerns, however, I’ve ordered that the defendant be sent to the infirmary. The jail physician will determine if Mr. Burkell requires medication.”

  Burkell’s expression changed. Had Judith promised she could get him off? He looked so tragic, a disturbing thought passed through Lily’s mind. Was it possible he was innocent? Maybe he had come home that day and found his wife and son butchered. The evidence was overwhelming, though, and it would be up to the jury to decide. Lily’s greatest impact would occur at the sentencing hearing. She reached for her gavel, then quickly pulled her hand back. Unless all hell broke out, only rookie judges and actors used their gavels. The two attorneys were already packing their briefcases and the bailiff was escorting Burkell back to the holding cell. Lily merely left the courtroom and headed down the back corridor to her chambers. Being a judge was beginning to lose its luster.

  QUANTICO, VIRGINIA

  One of the reasons John Adams had brought Mary on board was her excellent track record in solving homicides, as well as her easygoing manner, which he felt would help her stay emotionally afloat while dealing with the world’s most evil and prolific criminals.

  Adams had also hoped Mary had inherited her father’s intuition. The two men had served together in Vietnam, and remained friends until her father’s death nine years ago. Harold Stevens had risen to deputy chief at the LAPD before he’d been gunned down by an armed robber at a Quick Mart. Her breath still caught in her throat when she thought about it. All he’d done was stop to buy a bottle of wine for her mother. According to Adams and the other vets who’d served in the same platoon as her father, Stevens had a sixth se
nse and could spot friend or foe only seconds after making visual contact.

  Mary removed the earphones from her iPod and plugged them into the tape recorder, then inserted the cassette and pushed play. A male voice began speaking. No, she thought, it appeared to be a female. She hit stop and replaced the batteries, hoping that would fix the problem. When the eerie voice began again, she held her breath as she tried to identify the unsettling nuances in the person’s speech.

  “I find it insulting that the FBI doesn’t know about me. I’ve killed so many over such a long period of time.”

  The hair pricked on the back of Mary’s neck. She sat at rapt attention.

  “I’ve sent this recording for two reasons. First, many of the victims’ loved ones are waiting in limbo, and second, to save you the effort of profiling me. I’m sure there are others more worthy of your talents, like the monsters who abuse and kill children. Everyone I kill deserves to die. I do not kill innocent people.”

  She hit the stop button, then rubbed the goose bumps on her arms. The tape was more than likely a prank. A lot of people were upset that Adams had selected her over agents with more time at the Bureau. She saw the looks they gave her. For all she knew, someone inside the agency could have made the tape to make her run to Adams and look ridiculous.

  She played it again and realized why the voice sounded so strange. It appeared to be a myriad of voices. She recalled the days when she’d taught Sunday school at Trinity Baptist Church in Los Angeles before she’d become jaded, and the passage in Mark where Jesus met a man possessed of demons. The quote seemed to apply: “My name is legend and we are many.”

  Mary believed in evil. No one could work this job and deny such a thing existed. The FBI’s Investigative Support Unit exposed her to far more than her previous position as a homicide detective in Ventura, as every awful crime in the world was brought to their doorstep.

  The more she thought of it, the tape reminded her of ransom notes where the kidnapper used words clipped from newspapers and magazines. The only difference here was the killer was using audio clips. How could this be a prank? Then again, what were the chances of her getting a tape from an unknown serial killer?

  EIGHT

  MONDAY, NOVEMBER 27

  VENTURA, CALIFORNIA

  Lily met her husband that evening for dinner at Mario’s, their favorite Italian restaurant. Mario’s was small, but it had outside dining. After being cramped up all day in the courthouse, fresh air was a delicacy. Knowing the temperature would drop as the evening went on, she had worn her jacket. How could she complain about weather when most of the world was already experiencing cold temperatures?

  Bryce was waiting at the table. He stood and rushed around to pull out her chair. He didn’t reek of booze, so she gave him a quick peck on the lips. “Awfully suave tonight, aren’t we? You must have landed a big account.”

  “How was your day?”

  “Oh, you know,” she said, making a wavy motion with her hand. She certainly didn’t want to linger on that topic. After her afternoon session, she’d gone to the bathroom and vomited. Knowing her husband liked to talk, she said, “Isn’t it strange how few restaurants there are with outside dining around here?”

  He rubbed his thumb and his forefinger together. “You’re talking money, honey. A person might need some clout as well. Look where you’re sitting. On the sidewalk, sweetie. They don’t hand out those kind of permits to just anyone. Did you get to the gym today?”

  “Yes,” Lily said offhandedly, her conversation with Anne almost forgotten. A crisp breeze caressed her face. Maybe if she sat there long enough, she wouldn’t feel so panicked. She watched Bryce flip his tie over his shoulder as he began soaking the fresh-baked garlic bread in peppered olive oil. By the time the meal arrived, he would have emptied several bread baskets.

  Just when she was beginning to feel better, her afternoon session crept back into her mind. The parents of a nine-year-old boy were charged with intentionally overdosing him with psychotropic medication, ultimately causing his death. The greater issue at stake was whether or not a child that young could be definitively diagnosed with a mental illness. The victim, Brian Stucky, had been labeled manic-depressive by a child psychiatrist.

  “You’re handling the Stucky murder,” Bryce commented, a trickle of olive oil running down his chin. “I read in the paper this morning that the trial was starting today. It would have been nice if you’d said something to me. A lot of people are following that case.”

  “You know I don’t like to talk about my work.”

  “Every medical professional and teacher who came in contact with that kid should be prosecuted,” he told her, unfurling his white cloth napkin and wiping his mouth and chin. “If you ask me, the shrink should be on trial. I hate psychiatrists. Half of the people in nuthouses don’t belong there. Shit, the real nutcases are sleeping on the streets. My cousin, Ben, had a mental problem and they gave him that kind of medicine. That’s serious stuff. How could anyone give that to a little kid?” He peered through the glass to the interior of the restaurant. “When is the waiter going to bring our wine? That’s the problem when you eat on the patio at this place. They forget about you.”

  Lily glanced over her shoulder, hoping the waiter would arrive before Bryce insisted they leave. He must be making an attempt to bring his drinking under control. She had never seen him drink wine except after three or four gin and tonics. She decided to break her rules and discuss the case in an attempt to distract him. “The boy’s teacher testified today. She admitted that he seemed out of it for several weeks, but she didn’t think it was important enough to notify the parents or the school authorities. Of course, notifying the parents would have accomplished nothing.” She paused and rested her head on her fist. “It’s terrible when the people who are supposed to love you decide to dispose of you.”

  “If these assholes are convicted, they’ll get the death penalty, right?”

  “No,” Lily answered, pausing as the waiter filled their wine glasses. Bryce knew next to nothing about the criminal justice system, and she had no desire to educate him. She suspected it was one of the reasons she’d agreed to marry him. That and the fact that he was an atheist, which meant she didn’t have to go to church and be reminded of her eternal damnation. “Did you call me today?”

  “Yes, I did, Lily,” he said. “And you never called me back. I guess you were too busy.”

  Bryce was an advertising executive at Dunlap and Walker. She could listen to him recount the various machinations in the world of advertising without thinking, relaxing her overtaxed mind as he chattered away. “How’s that big account you’ve been trying to steal? Wasn’t it a hot dog company?”

  “Veggie burgers. No one eats hot dogs these days except kids and fat guys like me.”

  Bryce stood six-one and weighed two hundred and forty pounds. His round face was tan from the golf course, and his stomach spilled over his slacks from too many lunches with clients. At forty-nine, he had already been told he had coronary artery disease, but he refused to adjust his diet. He was a man’s man, the type who believed you lived life to the fullest regardless of the consequences. “Don’t try to change the subject, Lily. Why won’t these people fry for killing their kid?”

  Hmm, Lily thought, he’s actually interested in this case. She wondered if it was because the victim was a child, or due to the extensive media coverage it was receiving. She knew he told his clients she was a judge, and he’d obviously let it be known that she was sitting the Elizabeth and Ronald Stucky murder trial. A person in high-level sales would use anything he could to impress a client and close a deal.

  Bryce was already on his third glass of wine, and she’d only finished half of hers. She wished he’d go to AA, but she knew he’d blow up if she so much as brought up the subject. If she couldn’t get him to stop eating steaks and mounds of butter to keep him from dropping dead of a heart attack, she certainly couldn’t get him to stop drinking.

 
“Bryce, the Stuckys can’t get the death penalty because they’re not being charged with first-degree murder. Proving premeditation would be too difficult in this case.”

  “I don’t see why,” he argued. “The people intended to murder their kid or he wouldn’t be dead. If a person puts poison in someone’s food day after day until he dies, that’s premeditation. I admit I don’t have a big legal brain like yours, but it seems pretty clear to me.”

  “This isn’t poison,” Lily told him, buttoning up her jacket. “The boy was killed by legally prescribed medication. The Stuckys’ attorney claims they mistook the dosage, then simply kept on giving him the same amount. Another thing that will muddy the waters is the fact that the parents say they switched off giving the boy his medication. A jury may believe only one of them is responsible and, not knowing which, may render a not-guilty verdict on both. Their attorney should have insisted they be tried separately.”