Ethan sat down in a chair at the foot of his bed. “What evidence, Ms. Templeton?”
“Not on the phone.”
“Do you want to meet somewhere and give it to me?”
There was a long pause—as if she was trying to make up her mind. “That might be a good idea, Mr. Benson.”
“When, Ms. Templeton?”
“Right now, before I change my mind,” she said, her voice trembling. “Where can we go?”
Ethan racked his brain, trying to come up with a place that was private. “There’s a restaurant not too far from here on Madison Avenue and Ninety-Ninth Street. The Caribbean. It’s small and out of the way and usually empty at this time of the day. We can meet there if you like.”
“Will anybody recognize you?” she said dubiously.
“I rarely go there,” Ethan said sincerely. “I’m sure nobody will know who I am.”
“How fast can you get there?”
“It shouldn’t take me long.”
“Well, hurry. I wanna get this over with,” she said, abruptly hanging up the phone.
• • • • •
Fifteen minutes later, Ethan climbed out of a taxi, checked to make sure he wasn’t being followed, and slipped into the restaurant. Sitting at a table in the back was an older woman wearing a big floppy hat and sunglasses and clutching a satchel in her arms. She was the only woman in the restaurant. It had to be Ms. Templeton. Ethan hurried across the room, past a handful of construction workers eating breakfast at the counter, and sat down in a chair across from her. He called the waiter and ordered two cups of coffee.
“I was surprised to hear from you again, Ms. Templeton.”
“And I’m more surprised I’m about to give you this package, Mr. Benson.”
“What is it?”
The paralegal nervously glanced around the room as the waiter placed two mugs of hot coffee on the table. “More information about the case. Information nobody, and I mean nobody, has ever seen before. I’ve been wrestling for days with whether I should give it to you.”
Ethan waited patiently, Ms. Templeton still struggling with her decision. “Can I ask you to be more specific?” he said delicately.
“Promise me you won’t tell anybody where you got it.”
“I won’t, Ms. Templeton. I gave you my word the last time we talked, and I give you my word again this morning.”
Ms. Templeton clutched the satchel closer to her chest. “This could get me into a lot of trouble with the assistant district attorney.”
“Ms. McGregor will never know I got it from you,” he said soothingly. “It’ll be our secret. So tell me. What is it?”
“I made copies of the crime scene photos you wanted and have a copy of a police report that was purposely omitted from the court docket. I was told not to give this to anybody and especially to you.”
“Who told you not to give it to me?”
“I can’t tell you,” she said.
“Ms. McGregor?”
“Please, Mr. Benson, don’t ask me.”
“Why not, Ms. Templeton?”
“Because it goes all the way to the top—well beyond Ms. McGregor,” she said reluctantly, unzipping her satchel and pulling out a small box carefully wrapped in the same brown paper as her first package. “It’s in here, Mr. Benson. And there’s one more thing.”
Ethan waited for her to continue.
“There’s somebody you need to meet.”
“Who, Ms. Templeton?” Ethan said curiously.
“The cop who wrote the police report. I wrote his name on a piece of paper. It’s in the box—along with all the information you need to track him down.”
Ethan took the package, then looked at Ms. Templeton. “Do you want to tell me where you got all this stuff?”
“From a locked file cabinet.”
“Whose file cabinet?”
“Please don’t ask me that question. I can’t tell you, Mr. Benson,” she said, paranoid.
“Why not?” he said, trying to keep his voice level. “I need to know, Ms. Templeton. It’s very important.”
“I can’t tell you. I just can’t,” she said pleadingly.
Ethan thumbed the paper on the box and decided not to push any harder. “Why are you giving this to me?” he said.
“Because if I don’t, you’ll never know what really happened to that sweet girl, and that’s all I’m gonna say, Mr. Benson.” She pushed her chair away from the table and stood. “If there’s anything else you need, call Nelson Brown. It always trickles down to my desk, and if he won’t give it to you, I’ll make sure you get it.” She turned, pulled her hat over her eyes, and dashed out of the restaurant.
CHAPTER 25
ETHAN CLIMBED OFF THE ELEVATOR and hustled down the hallway, Ms. Templeton’s package tucked in his briefcase. Mindy was standing in front of his office sliding a document under the door. “Mornin’. Where’s David?” he said excitedly as he pulled out his key.
“He just went out for coffee. Should be back in a little while,” she said questioningly. “What’s goin’ on, Ethan?”
“I just got another care package from my source,” he said, picking up the document and quickly glancing at the latest production schedule for the Rikers Island shoot.
“The same source who gave you the crime scene video?” she said, following him into his office.
“Same one,” Ethan said as he tore off the brown paper and pulled out a file folder containing half a dozen new police photos.
“What are they?” Mindy said as she watched Ethan spread the pictures side by side on his desk.
“Better shots of Cynthia Jameson’s body.”
“What do they show?”
“Come around and take a look.”
She scooted around his desk and stared open-mouthed at the images. They were a series of tight shots taken from different angles—showing Cynthia’s body sprawled on the sidewalk. “Well, this confirms what I suspected,” Ethan said triumphantly as he pointed at the pictures. “There’s no blood at either the entry or the exit wounds, and no blood pooling around her body.”
“Jeez, Ethan. Detective Jenkins and the other cops all lied in their police reports. And that son of a bitch lied to us when we walked around the crime scene.”
“The prosecutor and the public defender lied too. They both said she was swimming in blood.”
“Why would they all do that?” Mindy said as she picked up a tight shot of the bullet wound just above Cynthia Jameson’s left breast.
“To cover up the truth.”
“What truth?” Mindy said uncertainly.
“I don’t know for sure,” Ethan said, hesitating. “But I don’t think Pavel Feodor murdered Cynthia. I think she was already dead when he shot her. That would explain the absence of blood in all these pictures.”
“Are you saying he’s innocent?”
“Maybe.”
“But you can’t prove that, Ethan,” she said skeptically.
“You’re right. I can’t. But it sure stands to reason. If she was alive when he shot her, there’d be lots of blood—like everybody’s claiming.”
“But he confessed and a jury convicted him. You’re gonna need much more proof than these crime scene photos before the network brass buys into your theory. Did your source give you anything else?”
Ethan reached into the package and pulled out the police report. It was written by an Officer Colin Haggerty. “Just this,” he said, holding up the document. “My source says this police report was never entered into evidence. That nobody has ever seen it before.” He lined up the three pages and scanned the document. “Take a look at the last page, Mindy,” he said, handing her the sheet of paper.
She sat and carefully read a section he’d circled with a red pencil:
The victim was found sprawled on the sidewalk—her left arm pinned under her body and her right arm twisted at a funny angle. Her head was bent awkwardly forward and tilting unnaturally from her shoulder. CSI a
t the crime scene who examined the body thought her arms and neck were broken. There was a bullet wound in her chest right above her heart, but no blood on the front of her coat at the entry wound or on her back at the exit wound. There was no blood on the sidewalk. Confirmation of the cause of death will be made by the coroner after the autopsy.
Mindy handed the document back to Ethan. “This is more proof there was no blood and that maybe something happened to Cynthia before she was shot. This guy says her upper body was pretty mangled when they found her—like she’d been beaten by somebody and maybe dumped there. But why wasn’t it included as evidence at the trial?”
“My guess,” Ethan said, “is that whoever approved all the paperwork told Detective Jenkins to omit it from the case file. This is part of the cover-up—just like the crime scene photos of her body and the police video.”
“But who would do that?”
“Can’t answer that yet.”
“Think it was McGregor?”
“Could be. But my source hinted she was taking orders from somebody else.”
“But who, Ethan?”
“Maybe somebody she works for?”
“We need to talk to Haggerty,” Mindy said thoughtfully. “Maybe he knows. But how we gonna find him, Ethan? We don’t have much time before our interview with Feodor.”
“This is how,” Ethan said, showing her the slip of paper Ms. Templeton had included in the packet. “Haggerty’s a beat cop out of the Sixth Precinct in Lower Manhattan. My source says he works the noon to eight p.m. shift. What time is it now?” He checked his watch, his eyes flashing. “Almost eleven. If we hurry, maybe we can catch him before he goes out on patrol. Email David and tell him where we’re going. Then find a picture of Haggerty on the Internet. I’ll meet you in the lobby in fifteen minutes.”
• • • • •
An hour later, they were sitting under an umbrella at an outdoor café on the corner of Hudson and Tenth Street in Greenwich Village right across the street from the precinct. Ethan was clasping a photo of Haggerty in his left hand and watching a parade of cops as they walked in and out of the station house. Haggerty was a small man, maybe five foot six and a hundred and fifty pounds, with a neatly trimmed mustache and tufts of gray hair rimming an otherwise bald head. His face was long and thin and his ears stuck out—his thick tortoiseshell eyeglasses making him look more like an accountant than a police officer.
“Do we know anything else about this guy?” Ethan said, dropping the picture on the table.
“A little,” Mindy said, passing him a newspaper clipping she’d found on the Internet when she was looking for his picture. “He’s thirty-seven and should be wearing the same standard-issue NYPD uniform as those guys across the street. Oh yeah, almost forgot. He was shot two years ago during a bar fight. It left him with a slight limp in his right leg.”
“That’ll help us spot him,” Ethan said. “Let’s hope he’s still in the precinct.”
“How long you planning to wait here?”
“All day, if we have to. We’ll keep moving around so the cops don’t figure out we’re watching them.” He glanced down at the picture, then back up at the station house.
“Do you want anything from inside?” Mindy said, pushing back her chair. “I’m gonna use the ladies’ room.”
“No. I’m good.”
“Okay. Back in a few minutes.”
Ethan lit a cigarette. A dozen patrol cars were parked diagonally along the sidewalk, and small groups of cops were shooting the breeze in the sunshine, oblivious to everybody and everything going on around them. Ethan decided it was time to find a new location, and as he reached for his wallet to pay the bill, he spotted Haggerty pushing his way out the front door of the precinct and limping down the steps.
He studied the picture to make sure.
It was definitely him.
Haggerty stopped to joke with a couple of officers, then waved good-bye and took off by himself down the street. Ethan quickly searched for Mindy, and when he couldn’t find her, got up and headed after him. Hanging back, he weaved in and out of the heavy foot traffic and ducked into doorways whenever Haggerty slowed down to chat with a shopkeeper. Then when he was sure he was far enough away from the precinct that he wouldn’t be noticed by a random patrolman walking his beat, he picked up his pace, angled across the street, and stepped out in front of him.
“Officer Haggerty?”
“Yes.”
“Can I have a few words?”
“Of course. How can I help you?”
“My name is Ethan Benson. I’m a producer for The Weekly Reporter. I’m doing a story on Pavel Feodor and the Cynthia Jameson murder.”
Haggerty reared back, bug-eyed. “Sorry, I can’t talk about that case.”
“Why, Officer Haggerty? Who told you not to talk to me?”
“All I can say is I’ve been told to say nothing about the murder. Not to you or to anybody else,” he said, shoving Ethan aside and limping away.
Ethan hurried after him—down the block and across Hudson Street. “Please, Officer Haggerty, I read your police report. I just wanna know what you saw that night.”
“Don’t ask me that question,” he said, refusing to look Ethan in the eyes as he picked up his pace.
“Did you see blood on Cynthia Jameson’s body?” Ethan said, not letting up. “Every other cop who was there said she was covered in blood. But I know that isn’t true, and so do you. I’ve got crime scene photos of her body. There was no blood. None. Not a drop. What did you see, Officer Haggerty?”
Haggerty abruptly stopped and faced Ethan. “Okay, Mr. Benson, you’re right. The pictures don’t lie. I didn’t see any blood, and that’s what I put in my police report.”
“So you’re standing by what you wrote?” Ethan said hopefully.
“Yes. And that’s all I’m gonna say. No more questions, Mr. Benson.”
Haggerty started walking again.
Ethan followed.
“Why wasn’t your police report included as part of the evidence?” he said, continuing to press the police officer.
Haggerty didn’t answer.
“Why didn’t you testify in court?”
Haggerty still didn’t answer.
Ethan hurried around in front of him, forcing him to stop. “Talk to me. Tell me who told you to keep quiet. I already know from the crime scene video. I just want to hear it from you.”
Haggerty’s face turned white as a ghost. “The lead detective, Edward Jenkins,” he said, sounding defeated. “I refused to rewrite my report. So he left it out of the case file and threatened to get me fired if I ever said anything to anybody.”
“And who was he working for?” Ethan said, pushing for a response. “I know he passed everything up the chain of command. I need names, Officer Haggerty. Who told him to withhold your police report and change the evidence?”
Haggerty took a deep breath, then whispered, “Nancy McGregor and that sleazeball public defender, Frankie O’Malley. That’s who, Mr. Benson. That’s all I know.”
“So all three of them were working together?” Ethan said, not surprised. “Were they working for somebody else?”
“I’ve already said too much, Mr. Benson. No more questions!” He pushed his way around Ethan and slowly limped down the block, never once looking back.
Ethan stood stone still until Haggerty disappeared around the corner, then turned and headed back to the restaurant. He now had an eyewitness corroborating what he already suspected—that Cynthia Jameson was dead before she was shot, and that at least three people involved in the case—Edward Jenkins, Nancy McGregor, and Frankie O’Malley—were doctoring evidence to pin the murder on Pavel Feodor. The question was why? And who was pulling the strings? He was still trying to make sense out of everything he’d just learned when he got back to the café.
“Where’d you go, Ethan?” Mindy said frantically.
“After Haggerty.”
“You found him?”
/> “He walked out of the precinct just after you left for the bathroom.”
“Did you talk to him?”
“Indeed, I did,” he said, smiling.
“What did he say?”
“He’s sticking to what he wrote in his police report. He said there was no blood.”
“Are you gonna go with it?”
“Yup. We have plenty of proof—Haggerty, his police report, and the pictures. The GBS attorneys will definitely let us report it in our story.”
“Did Haggerty say anything else?” Mindy said soberly.
“Enough to blow the lid off the entire case.” Ethan was about to tell her when he noticed a detective staring at them from across the street. “Time to go, Mindy,” he said, dropping enough money on the table to cover the bill. “I don’t want that cop to put two and two together and figure out I just talked to Colin Haggerty.” Then they collected their belongings, hailed a taxi, and headed uptown to the Broadcast Center.
CHAPTER 26
MINDY HANDED ETHAN A Grande Mocha she’d purchased from the Starbucks across the street and plopped down on the old leather couch in his office. “Jeez, Ethan, how we gonna tie up all the loose ends before Sampson sits down with Feodor? We only have one more day.”
“It ain’t gonna be easy,” he said, booting up his computer. “My biggest concern is nailing the ring leader who ordered the cover-up. It could be Alexey Kolkov. We know O’Malley’s in bed with him, but I can’t figure out why the prosecutor or the lead detective would be working for the Mob. It doesn’t make sense, does it?”
“Not to me. None of this makes sense to me.”
“Tap into your sources in the US attorney’s office and see if they have any active investigations linking Kolkov to Nancy McGregor or Edward Jenkins. Call David and ask him to do the same thing with his sources in Washington.”
“We’ll get on it right away,” Mindy said, sipping her coffee and moving to a swivel chair closer to his desk. “I know you’ve got a lot on your plate, Ethan, but we need to talk about the logistics at Rikers Island.”
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