Mortal Wounds

by Max Allan Collins

  “I am?” she asked, bewildered.

  “Don’t be modest,” Grissom said, with a tiny enigmatic smile. “Let’s finish up here, guys—then we’ll go back and I’ll tell you how we’re going to nail Barry’s hide to our non-federal wall.”

  19

  Befitting the bitter December weather, the Federal Courthouse in Kansas City might have been fashioned from ice by some geometrically minded sculptor, not an architect working in glass and steel. The interior of the structure, however well-heated, remained similarly cold and sterile. No straight-back wooden chairs for the jury boxes in this building, rather padded swivel chairs and personalized video monitors—though the latter were seldom used, as lawyers so frequently arranged plea bargains before trials began. The justice meted out here seemed to contain no compassion, no humanity, also no punishment in some cases—just judgments as icy as the steel and glass of a structure that seemed a monument to bureaucracy…and expediency.

  In a courtroom on the second floor, Gil Grissom—in a dark jacket over a gray shirt with black tie, a gray topcoat in his lap—sat in the back row, his eyes on the three-sided frame screen whose white cheesecloth concealed the witness box. Another set of screens blocked any glimpse of the witness’s entrance by way of the judge’s chambers. Onlookers took up only a third of the gallery.

  The twelve jurors—evenly divided between men and women—sat blankly, though the unease of several was obvious; one individual looked as if he’d rather be in a dentist’s chair. Behind the bench, the judge was moving his head from left to right, and front to back, apparently trying to work a kink out of his neck.

  At the prosecutor’s desk a wisp of a woman in a gray power-suit sat next to a bullish federal prosecutor. At the defense table, a nationally known attorney—at least as well-known as the late Philip Dingelmann, whose murder had finally hit CNN, the day the owner of A-to-Z Video disappeared—wore a gray suit worthy of a sales rack at Sears. He had the wild long hair of an ex-hippie, the tangled strands now all gray; he was a character—the kind of lawyer Geraldo loved to book.

  Right now he was sucking on a pencil like it was a filterless Pall Mall, speaking in quiet tones to his client. The lawyer had made his bones defending pot farmers and kids charged with felony possession. When the drug of choice shifted to cocaine and the cartels moved in, the attorney had changed—and grown—with the times.

  Back here in the cheap seats, Grissom could see only the lawyer’s profile, and that of his client, Eric Summers, whose black hair, with its hint of gray, was tied in a short ponytail, his face angular, clean-shaven, with a sharp, prominent chin. Despite his conservative dark suit and tie, this defendant in a major RICO case looked more like a middle-aged rock star, and why not? His forays into the distribution of controlled substances, escort-service prostitution and big-time dot-com scams—the local papers referred to him as “a reputed leader among the so-called new breed of K.C. gangsters”—had allowed him to enjoy a rock-star lifestyle.

  Up front, just behind the prosecutor’s table, a blond head bobbed up, in conferral with the female prosecutor. Grissom leaned forward, to get a better view—Culpepper, all right.

  The witness was escorted in, shadows playing behind the cheesecloth curtain—probably a federal marshal back there, with him—and then the witness took the chair of honor. The bailiff, on the other side of the screen, swore the witness in, referring to him only as “Mr. X.”

  Grissom sat forward, not breathing, not blinking, focused solely on the two words that would now be spoken—the words he had shown up to hear, the sound that would make worthwhile his CSI unit finding time for this case, over these last six months, despite whatever demands other crimes might make. It might even justify the overtime Sara Sidle had maxed out on….

  And the witness promised to tell the truth, and nothing but, in the traditional fashion: “I do.”

  Grissom smiled.

  The voice was an arrogant voice, self-satisfied…the distinctive voice of Barry Hyde.

  And Grissom could breathe again. He even blinked a few times. Hours of work, weeks of tracking, months of waiting, had come down to this. Outside were freezing temperatures, an inch and a half of snow, and his colleagues—Warrick Brown, with Sara Sidle, guarding the building’s side entrances, Jim Brass covering the back, Nick Stokes standing watch out front.

  Grissom and Catherine Willows—in a black silk blouse, black leather pants, a charcoal coat in her lap—sat in the courtroom watching the proceedings, just two interested citizens. Next to Catherine sat Huey Robinson, a Kansas City detective, black and burly, big as a stock-yard, barely fitting into his pew. O’Riley knew Robinson—they had been in the army or Marines or something, together—and Brass had recruited the hard-nosed cop, in advance, from the local jurisdiction.

  That minor debacle with the Henderson PD had reminded Jim Brass that a little interdepartmental courtesy went a long way; and Grissom had seen from Culpepper’s example how a show of contempt for another PD’s concerns could rankle.

  Sending Grissom, his unit, and Brass to Kansas City for this trial had been expensive; but Sheriff Brian Mobley had been so furious with Culpepper that he’d have spent half a year’s budget, if it meant settling scores with the conniving FBI agent.

  So with Mobley’s help, all the jurisdictional i’s had been dotted, and the t’s painstakingly crossed. For this exercise to work, everything would have to be by the book.

  And right now the object of that exercise was testifying behind a cheesecloth curtain—a vague shadow, but a specific voice.

  “It’s him,” Grissom whispered to Catherine.

  Catherine nodded as she looked around the gallery, slow-scanning the faces for possible undercover FBI agents, mixed in with the citizens.

  The judge said, “Your witness, Mr. Grant.”

  Rising slowly, milking the dramatics, the prosecutor said, “Mr. X, you performed a certain task for Mr. Summers, did you not?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What was that task?”

  “I killed people.”

  The prosecutor turned to the jury box, letting that sink in; then said, “On more than one occasion?”

  “Yes. Three times.”

  “Did he pay you to assassinate one of his competitors—a Mr. Marcus Larkin?”

  “He did.”

  The prosecutor started to pace in front of the white curtain. “When was this, Mr. X?”

  “Just about eight years ago…. It’ll be eight years, February.”

  For three and a half hours in the morning, the prosecutor led Barry Hyde through a description of the assassination of Marcus Larkin, a local pimp and drug dealer. When the judge called the lunch break, Grissom and Catherine ducked out of the courtroom, leaving the building, to prevent Culpepper from seeing them. Kansas City cop Robinson—who was unknown to the FBI agent—stayed behind to keep an eye on things.

  Catherine suggested grabbing Hyde at the lunch break, but Grissom knew that could put them at odds not just with the FBI, but with a pissed-off federal judge.

  “Better we wait,” he told her, in the corridor, “till Hyde’s testified and the judge doesn’t have any further use for him.”

  So they sat in the rental van, eating sub sandwiches for lunch. The car heater thrummed, throwing out more hot air than the attorneys inside, though never enough to satisfy these desert dwellers, who were literally out of their element in this cold, snowy clime.

  “There’s Culpepper,” Catherine said, pointing to the FBI agent, as he strode up the Federal Courthouse’s wide front walk. They watched him disappear into the building.

  “That’s our cue,” Grissom said.

  “Yeah. Remember, we got deliveries to make first.”

  Grissom carried the sandwiches and Catherine the tray of cups of hot coffee—the latter at least a token effort toward thawing the CSIs assigned to standing outside in a wind chill barely above zero.

  They came to Sara’s station first. In her black parka with the hood
pulled up and drawn tight, only her nose seeming to peek out, she looked like a reluctant Eskimo. Hopping from foot to foot, she wore huge black mittens that made her hands look like useless paws.

  “Oh, God,” she said when they approached. “I thought you’d never get here. I’m freezing. Do people really live in this crap?”

  “Stop whining,” Grissom said. “How did you survive in Boston?”

  “Alcohol—lots and lots of alcohol.”

  Catherine said, “You’ll have to settle for caffeine,” and handed Sara a cup of coffee.

  “Th-th-thanks.”

  “Go sit in the van for a while,” Grissom said, and he handed her the keys. “This may go all afternoon. The prosecutor took most of the morning, and the defense will take even longer. When you get warmed up, relieve Nick out front.”

  “I’ll never warm up,” she groused, accepting the keys and putting them into her pocket.

  “This isn’t any colder than Harvard yard, is it?”

  Sara flipped him off, but the mittens ruined the gesture. He held a sandwich out and she took it and trudged toward the rental vehicle.

  “She did a hell of a job on this,” Grissom said, watching the young woman trundle off.

  “Yes she did,” Catherine said.

  For these past months, on top of all of her other duties, Sara had kept tab on every mob-related federal trial across the country in an effort to determine when and where Barry Hyde would surface, to testify.

  “Somebody better take this post,” Catherine said.

  “Right.”

  “Are you staying here or am I?”

  “You.” He took the tray of coffee cups from her.

  “Power corrupts, you know,” she said.

  “Absolutely,” he said.

  As he moved off, she called, “Don’t be a stranger. Feel free to stop back.” She pulled up the hood of her gray coat and jammed her gloved hands into her pockets.

  But Grissom was actually on his way to relieve Brass, who in turn took over for Warrick. After an hour, Nick had replaced Catherine, and Warrick had taken over for Grissom, in the back of the courtroom. With a still-shivering Catherine beside him, Grissom finally got back inside the court around three-thirty, easing into their seats beside Detective Robinson.

  The defense attorney was attacking Mr. X’s credibility. “Mr. X, isn’t it true that you would be on Death Row if the government had not intervened and cut a deal with you?”

  Behind the curtain, the shadow bounced a little as Hyde chuckled. “No, that’s not true. The authorities attempted for years to catch me. Truth is, most federal officers couldn’t catch a cold.”

  This elicited a nervous laugh from the gallery, and a banging of the gavel from the judge—also a warning from His Honor to Mr. X. Frowning, Culpepper turned his head away from the witness stand—almost far enough to spot Grissom….

  Catherine glanced at Grissom, who shook his head. Didn’t see us, he mouthed.

  Culpepper was facing front again.

  “I turned myself in,” Mr. X went on. “I wanted out of that filthy life. You see—I’ve been born again.”

  That caused Catherine to smile and shake her head. As for Grissom, despite his antipathy for Hyde, he was enjoying watching the defense attorney search hopelessly for a ladder to help him climb out of the hole he had just dug himself.

  Realizing too late his error, the defense attorney finally muttered, “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  The prosecutor sat back, relaxing just a little.

  Grissom rose and moved to the door, Catherine and Detective Robinson falling in behind him.

  The judge asked, “Any redirect, Mr. Grant?”

  “None, Your Honor.”

  Pushing the door open, Grissom stepped into the corridor just as Culpepper was getting to his feet. Throwing on his overcoat, Grissom strode quickly down the hall, pulling the walkie-talkie from his pocket. He pushed the TALK button and spoke rapidly. “It’s going down now. Everybody inside. Second floor Judge’s chambers.”

  He turned a corner to the right and practically sprinted down the hall so he could be at that door when Hyde came out. Behind him, he heard Catherine and Robinson pounding along step for step.

  Opening the door, stepping into the hall, was a marshal, maybe fifty years old with a crewcut on a bowling ball head, and a shabby brown suit jacket a size or two too small. Barry Hyde emerged next, wearing an expensive gray suit and a matching Kevlar vest. Behind Hyde came a second marshal, this one younger, probably in his early thirties, longish brown hair combed straight back, his charcoal suit a better fit than his partner’s.

  Grissom stepped in front of them, holding up the folded sheets of paper. All three men froze. The older marshal eyeballed Grissom, the younger one reflexively reaching under his jacket.

  “Las Vegas Metropolitan Police—I have a warrant.”

  “Mr. Grissom, isn’t it?” Hyde asked, the pock-marked face splitting into a typically smug smile. “How have you been? Couldn’t you find a warmer place for your winter vacation?”

  “Sir,” the older one said to Grissom, giving Hyde a quick glare to shut up, “I’m afraid you’ve wandered off your beat…. ”

  “This warrant is legal, Marshal.” He held it up for the man to see.

  But it was the younger marshal who leaned in for a look.

  “Wrong guy,” he said. “That’s not our witness’s name…. Now, if you’ll excuse us.” His hand remained under his coat.

  Catherine and Robinson formed a wall behind Grissom.

  Then Culpepper’s voice came from behind Grissom. “Aw, what the hell is this nonsense?”

  But the young marshal was curious, despite himself. “What’s the charge?”

  “First-degree murder—three counts.”

  The two marshals exchanged glances, and Hyde’s smug grin seemed to be souring.

  “You have no legal grounds, Grissom,” Culpepper said, moving into the midst of it, anger building to rage. “No jurisdiction…This man is a federal witness granted immunity for his crimes.”

  Warrick, Nick, Sara, and Brass all seemed to appear at once—in their heavy coats, they looked ominous, a small invading army.

  Grissom was well-prepared for this assertion from Culpepper; and for all to hear, he said, “This man has no immunity for murders he committed after making his agreement with the government—specifically, the murders of Philip Dingelmann and Marge Kostichek.”

  The marshals exchanged frowning glances, and Hyde’s smirk was long gone.

  Brass slipped between Culpepper and the rest of the group.

  Handing the warrant to the older marshal, Grissom said, “Read it over, Marshal—I think you’ll find everything in order.”

  The older marshal pulled a pair of half-moon reading glasses from his inside suit-coat pocket, and read.

  Steaming, Culpepper said to the marshals, “If you two surrender my witness to this asshole, your careers are over.”

  People down in the main corridor were clustered there now, watching the goings-on in this side hallway.

  Robinson, his basso profundo voice resonating throughout the corridor, introduced himself to Culpepper, displaying his badge, and saying, “If you do not surrender this prisoner to these officers, you will be accompanying me, them, and the prisoner to the Locust Street Station.”

  Brass added, “After which, you can come home with us, to Las Vegas, where you’ll be charged with obstruction of justice.”

  Culpepper’s lip curled in a sneer. “Officer Robinson, this is a federal courthouse—and you’re in way over your head.”

  Ignoring this, Robinson moved in beside Grissom, his Kansas City cop’s glare firmly in place as he stared at the younger marshal, to whom he also displayed his shield. “And you, sir, would be well served to get that hand out from under your coat.”

  The younger marshal looked over at his partner who nodded. Slowly, the empty hand came out of the coat and dropped to his side.

  �
��Thank you, sir,” Robinson said.

  Anger had turned Culpepper’s face a purplish crimson; looking past Brass, at the marshals, he said, “We need to get the witness out of here. March him the hell out.”

  Robinson turned toward him, but Brass was closer, and held up a hand, as if to say, Please…allow me. Grabbing Culpepper roughly by the arm, Brass said, “You want to be the next FBI agent to go down for obstruction? I got no real problem helping you do that.”

  Culpepper glared at him, but said nothing, his glibness failing him at last.

  The older marshal said to Grissom, “You really think this man,” he glanced at Hyde, “killed Philip Dingelmann?”

  “It’s not an opinion,” Grissom said. “I have the evidence to prove it.”

  “I’ll die of old age before you prove it,” Hyde said, blustering now, his smugness, his self-confidence a memory. “You haven’t got anything!”

  “We have something,” Brass interjected. “We have the death penalty.”

  Hyde managed a derisive grin, but the bravado had bled out.

  “You’re almost right, Barry,” Grissom said to the object of the tug of war. “We don’t have much. Just you on casino videotape, bullets and shell casings matching your gun, with your fingerprints; then there’s your footprints, matching DNA from the Fortunato and Kostichek murder scenes…”

  Hyde’s face drained of color.

  “…but why spoil your attorney’s fun? We should leave something for the discovery phase.”

  “This time you may want to go to a different law firm,” Brass advised him, “than Dingelmann’s.”

  Culpepper’s hand dropped to his pistol and he said, “This is my witness. This is an illegal attempt to hijack a protected government witness—all of you step aside.”

  Culpepper didn’t see the older marshal draw his weapon, but he certainly felt the cold snout of it in his neck. “Put the gun away, Agent Culpepper—Jesus, didn’t you assholes learn anything from Ruby Ridge?”