In all that time it had never occurred to me how amazing her eyes looked.
“Arrh—hhh-hhh-mmm,” said a voice. I sat up and saw Holten, standing in the doorway and clearing his throat.
“Did I interrupt your nap? Or something else?” he said.
Both of us rolled out of the bed. Harper tore the sheet off the bed, rolled it up and walked past me to put it back in the linen closet. Her cheeks were flushed, but the corners of her lips were still turned up in a smile.
“We were working on saving Bobby Solomon’s ass. Looks like he could be innocent after all,” said Harper.
Her phone rang. She took the call, stepped out onto the landing. While she talked on the phone, Holten and I exchanged a few uncomfortable looks. When Harper finished, she came back in and was about to say something when Holten beat her to it.
“I’m not tired, I think I’ll call Yanni and tell him I can cover this shift. Just wanted to make sure we were still on for a drink later?” he said.
Harper took a step back, touched her hair but it was already neatly tucked back with a hair band.
“Sure,” she said. “Guys, I just got a call from Joe Washington. He talked to a Bureau contact and we might have something, but we need to go now.”
“Where?” said Holten.
“Federal Plaza. It’s a long shot, but we might have a possible alternative suspect for the murders.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Kane followed the line into a courtroom. The potential jurors emerged from a side door, and he immediately saw that the public gallery and benches were empty. The jurors would sit there. No public and no press for this part of the trial. Kane saw Rudy Carp sitting at the defendant’s table beside Bobby Solomon. Arnold Novoselic sat at the corner of that table, beside Rudy. Solomon sat with a passive look on his face.
The prosecutor wore a smile. Kane had researched the man extensively. Art Pryor. He was taller than Kane anticipated, having watched him dish out a few press conferences in the last six months. A pale-blue, made-to-measure suit hung off wide shoulders. White shirt, yellow tie and a matching yellow handkerchief peered out of the breast pocket of his suit. Light brown hair, a tanned face, soft hands and a twinkle behind those green eyes made Pryor an interesting figure to behold. His movements were slow and graceful. This was the kind of man who kissed grandmothers on the cheek and dipped his light fingers into their purses just as cold lips touched their skin. He was an Alabama man. Born and bred. He primarily practiced in the south, and he always prosecuted. Even though he’d been pressured many times, he had never run for DA, or governor, or mayor. Pryor had no political ambitions. He liked the courtroom.
Kane thought that he had timed the point when he joined the line with perfection. The first twenty jurors sat in the front bench, and Kane started the line that filed into the second row. Being the first row sometimes made people look too keen. He’d learned that lawyers are suspicious of people who want to be jurors. Usually they want to serve their own agenda. Kane could not afford anyone to know he had a purpose.
He sat down and for the first time his eyes went to the front of the court. He did his best, but he found it hard to mask his surprise. The judge. The blond female judge who was due to hear the case was no longer sitting in the judge’s chair. Instead, it was the man Kane had seen getting out of the green convertible at Eddie Flynn’s offices, yesterday. For a moment, he froze. He didn’t dare move in case the judge saw him. Kane didn’t like surprises. This was intolerable. What if he recognized him? He thought about that exchange. Kane had used his own voice when he’d asked this man for directions. Not the voice he’d been practicing. Not the voice he was using now. And he’d done his best to hide his features beneath the ball cap.
The judge looked upon the jurors as they took their seats. His eyes fell upon Kane, and he stared back. Kane’s heartbeat rocketed. Nothing registered with the judge, as far as Kane could see and he turned toward the lawyers. Kane gave himself a little shake, just to let the nerves settle.
He was so close now.
Two hours into jury selection and the judge was still working on the second row. Trouble was, he’d started at the opposite end of the row from Kane. How a jury found its way from the well of the court to the jury stand was largely up to the judge. Kane had seen it done a number of different ways. As long as there was some random factor involved, the judge escaped too much scrutiny. Some judges called out the juror ID numbers from the list, choosing them at random. Other judges found that potential jurors filed their way into court and sat down on the benches in a random order anyway, so to take a bench at a time into the jury box had a strong element of chance already built in. Judge Harry Ford, as he’d introduced himself, favored this method.
The judge had given a speech on the role of the jury and he’d explained how a criminal trial works. Kane had heard it all before, but never so clearly illustrated.
Then the culling began. First, it was the jurors. Half a dozen said they had vacations booked and paid for, they had sick relatives or hospital appointments and systemically they were given a pass.
Then the lawyers got their teeth in the panel.
One by one, jurors were questioned, accepted or dismissed by the defense and the prosecution. The defense had a finite number of challenges to a juror without having to show cause. They could do this twelve times. After that, they needed to show a reason why a juror could not serve. One woman had been dismissed by the defense without them even asking her a question. It seemed that a number of jurors met their fate this way, and the defense was down to its last challenge. The prosecutor had only dismissed one juror, by showing that the juror was a long-time fan of Bobby Solomon.
Kane let his fingernails dig into his skin. Not for the pain. There was none. It stopped him moving his hands, fidgeting. He didn’t want to show his anxiety. Not now.
Ten jurors had been accepted by both sides. Only two spots left. There were four empty chairs on the jury stand. Two for jurors. Two for alternates. A man took his place on the witness stand for questioning. He’d given his name as Brian Dale. Married, but no kids. Manager in a Starbucks. Moved to New York with his wife six years ago from Savannah, Georgia. Rudy Carp didn’t ask any questions. Arnold had already done his research on Brian and Rudy accepted him as a juror. Kane noticed that this was a first. No other juror had been accepted by the defense without question. They must really want Dale on the jury, thought Kane. He thought back to the photographs he’d taken of Brian. The man was closer in size to Kane’s natural weight. Slim, muscular. Average height. Similar bone structure, especially the nose. It had come down to a choice for Kane between his current persona and Brian Dale.
“Does the prosecution have any questions,” said Judge Ford.
“Just one or two, Your Honor,” said Pryor, rising to his feet and buttoning his jacket. Kane loved hearing Pryor’s voice. It sounded like honey being poured into a gun barrel.
“Now, Mr. Dale, I see that you have been blessed with the sacrament of marriage?”
“That’s right. Sixteen years now,” said Dale.
Kane watched Pryor stride toward the witness stand. The man had a swagger in his step, but it looked good on him. Not arrogant. A well-earned grace.
“Wonderful, there’s nothing more important than the bond of husband and wife. What is your wife’s name?”
A smile fought to show on Kane’s face. He knew Pryor already had this information at his fingertips. This was a dance. Pryor was ready to waltz Dale right off the jury and Dale didn’t even know it.
“Martha Mary Dale.”
“A fine name if I may say so. Now, imagine you go home tonight to Martha Mary. You smell that delicious home-cooked meal as soon as you walk through the front door. Martha Mary has been working at that stove for hours. You wash up, sit down to dinner together and Martha Mary asks where you’ve been today. Imagine, if you will, that you didn’t give Martha Mary an answer. Can you imagine that scenario, Mr. Dale?”
&nb
sp; “I can, but I would always tell Martha Mary where I’ve been. We don’t have secrets in our marriage.”
“And can I be the first to commend you both. But imagine you didn’t answer Martha Mary. Do you think Martha Mary would be suspicious about your silence?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“What if Martha Mary then accused you of meeting another woman for an illicit liaison. If you didn’t dispel her fears she would be entitled to think the worst of you, would she not?”
Kane noticed Dale nodding his head.
“She would be justified in thinking something bad happened, sure,” said Dale.
“Of course she would. If a person is accused of committing some kind of heinous crime and they keep their mouth shut, and choose not to tell a jury that they’re innocent – well don’t you think that’s suspicious?”
“I sure would, Mr. Pryor,” said Dale.
Pryor’s charm knew no bounds. He strode right up to the witness stand, slapped Dale on the shoulder and said, “Thank you for you service, Mr. Dale. Do give Martha Mary my best.”
He swung around and spoke to the judge over his shoulder as he walked back to the prosecution table, “Your Honor, challenge Mr. Dale, with cause. He cannot render an impartial verdict.”
“Granted,” said the judge.
Kane thought Pryor was probably one of the best attorneys he’d seen. He’d just watched him bump a favorable juror to the defense by using their own tactics. The only thing that mattered when it came to jury selection was impartiality.
“Did I do something wrong?” said Dale, holding his hands wide. An embarrassed look in his face.
“Take a seat back in the waiting area, Mr. Dale. I’m sure a court officer will explain all to you,” said the judge. “And just a reminder to remaining jurors who have reported for service. As I explained at the top – a defendant doesn’t have to prove anything. If a defendant chooses not to testify, as they are entitled to do – you are not to imply anything from that decision.”
One of the court officer’s approached Dale, gently coaxed him out of the witness stand. Kane let out a small sigh. He’d almost decided to adopt Brian’s identity for this job. Now, he felt nothing but relief that he’d decided against it. In the end, it was Martha Mary that became the deciding factor. She was almost six feet tall and weighed close to three hundred pounds, dwarfing Brian.
Kane knew he couldn’t fit both of them in their bathtub.
“Next juror candidates, in order please,” said the judge.
Kane stood and followed the court officer to the jury stand.
CHAPTER TWENTY
On the way to the FBI’s New York field office at Federal Plaza, Harper filled us in on what her partner, Joe Washington, might have turned up. Holten drove, with Harper in the front passenger seat and me in the back. I leaned forward to catch Harper’s story. Trying to persuade a jury that your client didn’t commit murder is one thing. It’s a hell of a lot easier if you can show your client didn’t do it while pointing the finger at somebody else for the crime.
Harper set out the position for Holten. I just listened.
“I didn’t leave the Bureau on the best of terms. My partner, Joe, did. He’s more of a people person. So he called one of his old buddies and got him to run a search through ViCAP and NCIC. He got nothing. On a whim, Joe’s pal suggested talking to BAU-2. See if anything rang a bell. Turns out there’s an agent who might have something useful.”
The FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit 2 focused on serial murders of adults. This team knew more about serial killers than pretty much any law enforcement unit on the planet. The Violent Criminal Apprehension Program (ViCAP) and the National Crime Information Center (NCIC) ran federal databases hooking up law enforcement to unsolved crimes across the nation.
“Who is the agent?” I said.
“She’s an analyst – Paige Delaney. Joe says she’s working out of the New York field office this past month. She’s been helping the locals with the Coney Island killer,” said Harper.
“What’s her connection to our case?” I said.
“Maybe none. Maybe something. The one thing I didn’t like about the scene is how clean it was. If Solomon was the killer, he did a hell of a job his first time out. No DNA on the bodies, no defensive wounds on the victims, no scratches or cuts on him. He killed two people clean. Then he leaves a dollar bill with his fingerprint and DNA on it in Carl’s mouth? I don’t buy it. There’s something off about that, but then again I don’t really buy our client’s story either.”
“A lot of things in this case don’t make a lot of sense – think about the murder weapons,” I said. “Somehow, without leaving the house, Bobby hides the knife that killed Ariella, but leaves the bat that he used to kill Carl on the bedroom floor – with his fingerprints on it – and then calls the cops telling them he just found the bodies? Doesn’t add up, does it? But the DA won’t paint it that way. It’s Bobby’s bat. It’s got his fingerprints on it already. They’ll say he didn’t want the crime scene to look too perfect. Otherwise it looks staged. And the butterfly is probably there to send the cops on a wild goose chase, or he’s sending some kind of sick message. He messes up and leaves his DNA on it. A small mistake. Either way, they’re gonna say Bobby planned it.”
Burying the back of her skull in the headrest, Harper raised her eyes to the ceiling and thought it over.
“That’s possible too, Eddie. Like I said, maybe the DA has the right man? Let’s see what Paige has to say. I sent over a list of what could be signatures from the killer, and something on that list caught the FBI’s eye, otherwise they wouldn’t agree to meet.”
Holten dropped us off at Federal Plaza, parked, and met us in the lobby of the Jacob K. Javits Building. He decided to wait. I took the laptop. Holten figured it was safe in here. After a thorough search, my shoes and the laptop passing through an X-ray scanner, Harper and I were allowed up to the twenty-third floor. I let Harper lead the way. She’d been stationed here for a couple of years, and she knew the lie of the land.
It didn’t stop her getting filthy looks from a couple of agents in the reception area while we waited for her contact. And we waited. And waited. And after twenty minutes I was ready to leave Harper to it when a woman in faded gray jeans and a black sweater approached both of us. Paige Delaney looked to be in her early fifties, and aging well. She was in good physical shape and had allowed her hair to lighten with age. She wore glasses on a thin nose. Her mouth curled up at the outer edges of her lips giving her a welcoming appearance.
She shook hands with Harper. I got a look, the kind of look defense attorneys get used to, eventually. We followed her down a long, narrow corridor to a conference room. A laptop sat closed on the table. We sat down, Harper and I on one side, Delaney across the table in front of the laptop. She took off her glasses, placed them on the table.
“How’s the PI life treating you?” said Delaney.
“It’s good to be your own boss,” replied Harper.
I kept quiet. This wasn’t my world. Law enforcement has its own bond. I let Harper work her magic.
“Joe Washington sends his regards,” said Harper.
“He was always very polite. I’m glad you’re working with him. Joe is a good man. So, I guess you don’t have much time, let’s get to it. I took a look at your signatures,” said Delaney. She opened the laptop, turned the screen toward the center of the table so both of them could read Harper’s email.
“Most of these don’t really qualify as signatures for search purposes,” said Delaney, “We collate information on as many individual crime scene details as possible, but only what’s distinct and relevant. If the killer used a particular weapon, or left a particular mark on the bodies, wrote a message or seemed to be following a narrative – all of that could be a signature. We identify victims of repeaters through their signatures. Sometimes signatures are deliberate: a killer playing out a fantasy of some kind. On other occasions, it’s a subconscious act. If it s
hows a pattern, or gives some potential insight, we treat it as a potential signature which goes into ViCAP.”
“Nothing showed up on ViCAP for our case,” said Harper.
“The system isn’t perfect. Not all law enforcement agencies use ViCAP. Some cops just aren’t natural administrators. And of course, killers can change patterns. Mostly, the system relies on the officers inputting the data and checking on system alerts for new crimes. Plus, if the crime is solved, it doesn’t go on the system at all. The system is designed to help police catch violent offenders, identify persons unknown and find missing persons. We don’t post up details of the perps we caught and convicted straight away. That’s the major weakness.”
Harper leaned back, folded her arms. “How is that a weakness?” she said. “Surely closed homicide cases aren’t relevant.”
“The system makes no allowance for wrongful convictions,” I said.
For the first time since we’d sat down, Delaney acknowledged my presence. She took a moment, then nodded.
“He’s right. Research at the National Registry of Exonerations tells us that out of every twenty-five people who are convicted and given a death sentence in the United States, one of them is innocent. There are fifty to sixty murder convictions overturned every year. That’s a lot of cases that aren’t on our databases and aren’t being tracked for signatures and that’s not counting the innocent people who don’t have a lawyer or can’t overturn their convictions. The agent Joe talked to knows me. He thought something you sent through might be of interest. I don’t know if it is yet, but I’m glad you came in. It’s the last signature on your list – the dollar bill—”
Thirteen_The serial killer isn’t on trial. He’s on the jury Page 11