Thirteen_The serial killer isn’t on trial. He’s on the jury

by Steve Cavanagh

  Pryor took the bat, wrapped in a clear evidence bag, and held it above his head.

  “This is the bat?” he asked.

  “That’s the one,” said Anderson. The bat was logged into evidence, and Pryor gave it to the clerk.

  “So, if as you say, Mr. Tozer was struck by this bat, what happened next?”

  “Ariella Bloom was stabbed five times in the chest and abdomen area. One of the wounds penetrated the heart. She would’ve died very quickly.”

  At least Pryor had the good sense to pause and let the jury glance up at the photo of Ariella on the screen. He let everyone take a second to consider the way she died. Pryor knew an angry jury brought back guilty verdicts, nine times out of ten.

  “The victims were examined by Sharon Morgan, the medical examiner, both at the scene and at the morgue. Were you informed of the outcome of those investigations?”

  “Yes, the ME called me to attend when she’d found something in the back of Carl Tozer’s mouth.”

  “What was it?”

  “A dollar bill. It had been folded into the shape of a butterfly, then folded in half at the wings, and was placed inside Carl’s mouth.”

  The ADA was Johnny-on-the-spot with the remote. He brought up a photograph of the bill on screen. The murmurs broke out amongst the crowd. This was all new to them. Nothing of this had been in the media before. The strange origami insect lay on a steel table. Shadows beneath its wings. I noticed some staining on the corners of the bill, maybe saliva or a tiny amount of blood.

  Knowing that it had been in a dead man’s mouth made it feel otherworldly. A macabre insect, beautiful and ominous, that only hatched within the dead.

  “Was the butterfly examined, Detective?”

  “It was, I had the NYPD forensic team do a full work-up. We found two sets of DNA on the bill. The first DNA profile came from another individual, but it’s felt that this was unconnected to the crime. An anomaly. Unimportant. What was important was that the team found the defendant’s fingerprints on the dollar. Thumb on the front of the bill, partial index finger on the reverse. In the same area as the thumbprint, the forensics team found DNA material. Touch DNA, from sweat and skin cells. The DNA matched the defendant.”

  That last sentence hit the room like a shockwave. People didn’t talk, or exclaim out loud. It brought a deeper, total silence to the room. No one shuffled their feet, no one rustled their coats, or coughed or made any of the noises you’d expect from a large static crowd.

  The silence broke with the sound of a woman crying into her hands. A family member, no doubt. Probably Ariella’s mother. I didn’t turn around. Some moments were best left private.

  And Pryor played it perfectly. He stood still, and let the sound of a mother’s grief echo through the minds of every person in the court. Looking around the room, most were stunned. Apart from one person. The reporter from the New York Star, Paul Benettio. He sat with his arms folded in the row directly behind the prosecution table. He didn’t react to Anderson’s testimony. My guess was he knew about it already. When the silence became uncomfortable, and he’d waited long enough, Pryor spoke again.

  “Your Honor, we shall be calling the forensic officer who conducted those tests in due course.”

  Harry nodded, and Pryor got back to business.

  “Detective, you spoke to the defendant at the scene, correct?”

  “Yes. The defendant had blood on his sweatshirt, track pants, and his hands. He told me he’d gotten home around midnight, went upstairs and found his wife and chief of security dead in his bedroom. He then said he tried to revive Ariella, then he called 911.”

  Pryor swung around, pointed at one of the ADAs, who picked up a remote control and hit a button.

  “We’re just going to play the 911 call. I would like you to listen to this, please,” said Pryor.

  I’d heard it before. This was the first time for the jury. I thought the call supported Bobby’s defense. He sounded like a man who’d just found his wife murdered. There was panic, disbelief, fear, grief – everything was there in that voice. I found the transcript on the laptop and read along to the recording.

  Despatcher: 911 emergency, do you need fire, police or medical assistance?

  Solomon: Help … Jesus … I’m at 275 West 88th Street. My wife … I think she’s dead. Somebody … Oh God … somebody killed them.

  Despatcher: I’m sending police officers and paramedics. Calm down, sir, are you in any danger?

  Solomon: I … I … don’t know.

  Despatcher: Are you in the property right now?

  Solomon: Yeah, in the bedroom, I … I … just found them. They’re in the bedroom. They’re dead.

  (sounds of crying)

  Despatcher: Sir? Sir? Take a deep breath, I need you tell me if you know of anyone else in the property right now.

  (sounds of breaking glass and someone stumbling)

  Solomon: I’m here. Ah, I haven’t checked the house … Oh shit … please get the ambulance here right now. She’s not breathing …

  (Solomon drops phone)

  Despatcher: Sir? Please pick up the phone. Sir? Sir?

  “The call only lasts a matter of seconds. Detective, at the time you first attended the crime scene, had you heard this 911 call?” said Pryor.

  I didn’t like where this was headed.

  “No, I had not,” said Anderson.

  I took Bobby’s arm. “Bobby, when you made the 911 call, you fell, or something toppled over or got smashed. What was it?” I whispered.

  “Uh, I’m trying to remember. I don’t know for sure. Maybe I knocked something over on the bedside table. I wasn’t paying attention,” he said, his words trailing off as he felt himself in that moment again, in the room with the bodies.

  I called up the crime scene photos on the laptop and started flicking through them, looking for the bedside table. In one shot, I could see most of the table. A picture lay smashed on the floor. He might have knocked it over and not noticed, in the circumstances. I had a bad feeling Pryor might have an alternative suggestion of where that sound came from.

  “Detective Anderson, just tell the jury about photograph EZ17,” said Pryor, as the ADA called it up on the screen.

  It was a shot of the hallway on the second floor, with the upturned table and the smashed vase beneath the rear window. I had no idea where he was going with this line of questioning, but it seemed like he was winding up to deliver a knockout punch.

  “Sure, when I got to the property I saw this table overturned on the landing. The vase had broken,” said Anderson.

  “Where is that table now?” said Pryor.

  “It’s at the crime lab. It had been disturbed, somehow, maybe before or after the murders. When I questioned the defendant in the precinct I asked him if he’d knocked over the table. He said he couldn’t remember. He maintained that he had found the bodies, and that someone else had killed his wife and head of security. At that time in the investigation, the defendant was a suspect, but we weren’t ruling out the possibility he was telling the truth. If he didn’t knock over the table, maybe someone else did. We took it in for testing together with the shards from the vase.”

  “And what did you discover?” said Pryor.

  I flicked through the inventory on the Solomon case file. There was no forensic report on the antique table. I was about to object when Anderson said, “Nothing. At first.”

  “Go on,” said Pryor.

  “Yesterday I visited the lab, and we looked at the table. See, the one piece of evidence we didn’t have was the knife that was used to kill Ariella Bloom. An extensive search had been made of the house and the surrounding area. The table is old, an antique. I thought maybe there was a hidden drawer.”

  “And was there?” said Pryor.

  “No. But I took a look at the prints again. We’d had some unusual results. The lab were looking for fingerprints, and there was nothing out of the ordinary there, but they also found an unusual pattern of markings o
n the table. I ordered further investigation on these marks and we just got the report this morning.”

  An ADA approached the defense table with a bound report. I took it. Opened it. Skim-read it.

  It could’ve been worse. But not by much. I handed the report to Bobby. Last-minute, new evidence. I could rage and shout and prepare a motion to exclude it. But I knew there was no point. Harry would allow the evidence to be admitted.

  Things had just gotten a lot more serious for Bobby.

  The screen changed and we were looking at what appeared to be two sets of three parallel lines across part of the table. Like someone had just taken three brushes in their hand and smeared it across the table twice.

  I wished it were brushes.

  “What is this, Detective?”

  “Tread marks,” said Anderson. “The tread pattern matches a pair of Adidas sneakers that the defendant wore that night. It looks as though the defendant stood on the table and then it toppled, so his feet slid off of it.”

  Bobby said, “He’s lying. I’ve never stood on top of that table.” He said it loud enough to be heard, and Harry shot him a look that told him to shut the hell up.

  Anderson continued, “So I visited the crime scene this morning. A little way away from the table is the hallway light. It’s a suspended ceiling bulb with an ornate, colored glass lampshade in the shape of a bowl. I stood on a pair of step ladders and retrieved a knife that someone had placed in the lampshade.”

  Bobby’s hands started to shake.

  “And is this the knife?” said Pryor, signaling for another photo to be added to the screen.

  I looked up and saw the same photo I’d just seen in the report. A switchblade. Black handle, with an ivory base. There was blood on it. And dust.

  The only saving grace – no prints.

  “Is this the knife that killed Ariella Bloom?” said Pryor.

  Everyone in the courtroom knew the answer to that one. Bobby’s chin dropped to his chest. That knife just cut the last strings holding Bobby’s defense together.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Anderson confirmed the blood found on the knife matched the victim’s blood type, and they were working up a DNA profile to confirm it. I whispered to Bobby to hold his head up. I didn’t want him to look like he was beaten.

  Not yet.

  Pryor fired another question at the cop.

  “Detective Anderson, it would be unusual for an intruder who uses a knife to stab someone to death, to hide that murder weapon in the victim’s home?”

  I stood up fast. Too fast. My side burst into a shockwave of pain, and I struggled to find the breath to speak.

  “Objection, Your Honor, Mr. Pryor is testifying, not asking questions.”

  “Sustained,” said Harry.

  Slowly, I sat down. There wasn’t much point in objecting. Pryor would rephrase the question – but Anderson was in no doubt about the answer he was supposed to give to the jury.

  “Detective, in all your years on the force have you ever encountered a domestic stabbing scene where the perpetrator hid the offending weapon at the scene of the crime?” said Pryor.

  “No, I’ve never seen that before. Not in my whole career. Normally, they take the knife with them. Either they keep it or dispose of it. There’s no point in hiding it in the house. The only reason to hide it would be to create the impression for law enforcement that the murderer had left the property, and taken the weapon with them. Listening to that 911 call, it sounds like the defendant was standing on the table when he made the call. You can hear heavy, rapid footfalls. Like someone stumbling, and then something breaking. It sounds to me like the table went over with the defendant standing on it, and the vase broke.”

  “Thank you, Detective Anderson. Nothing further from me at this time. Now, I believe my colleague is about to complain about your police work and seek to have it excluded from this jury’s consideration. In fact, I’m surprised he hasn’t objected to the knife testimony already,” said Pryor.

  I whispered an instruction to Arnold. He left the courtroom. I stood and made my way toward Pryor. The pain was manageable if I took my time. Pryor leaned on the prosecution table, his left hand on his hip, looking mightily pleased with himself.

  “We have no objections, Your Honor,” I said, “In fact, this evidence assists the jury.”

  Harry looked at me like I’d gone mad. Pryor’s cat-who-got-the-cream expression dropped faster than a mob informer in an elevator shaft.

  A hush fell on the courtroom. I was in the zone. There was only Anderson and me. Nothing else mattered, no one else was watching. I blanked out the crowd, the prosecutor, the judge and the jury. Just him and me. I let the anticipation build. Anderson took a sip of water and waited.

  I waited too. I didn’t want to get into my cross until Arnold arrived back. He would be back any second, it wouldn’t take long to move the equipment. From the store.

  “Detective, I wanted to ask how your arm got broken,” I said.

  He had a jaw like a vise hanging off a workbench. And on either side of his face I saw those massive jaw muscles working, flexing, as he gritted his teeth real tight.

  “I fell,” he said.

  “You fell?” I said.

  Hesitation. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his throat.

  “Yeah, slipped on the ice. After we’re done here I’ll tell you all about it,” he replied, through dry lips. He took another sip of water. I’d seen a lot of witnesses go through anxiety on the stand. Some tremble, some give their answers much too fast, some give basic monosyllabic answers, some get a dry mouth.

  I didn’t expect him to tell the truth. And I didn’t mention what really happened, but I wanted him to think that I might. Just to unnerve him. And in turn he’d threatened me.

  The rear doors of the courtroom opened. Arnold returned, and he’d brought some of the court security staff with him. Around five of them. They formed an unlikely procession; carrying bags, boxes, and a heavy mattress between the two of them. I stopped asking questions and waited while the line made its way down the central aisle of the courtroom toward me. The procession of strange objects brought some mystified looks from the audience.

  I heard Pryor scoring points with the crowd.

  “Is there a marching band bringing up the rear of that procession?” he said.

  Leaning over the prosecution table I said, “Yeah, there’s a band. It’s playing your funeral march.”

  Before Pryor and I got into it, I told Harry I needed to make a formal motion to allow a reconstruction during my cross-examination of Anderson. Harry sent out the jury and Pryor and I approached the bench.

  “How scientific is this reconstruction?” asked Harry.

  “I’m not a scientist, Judge, but we do have an expert witness and the rest is physics,” I said.

  “Your Honor, the prosecution has not been given any notice of this motion. We have no clue what Mr. Flynn is proposing and we move to have this motion denied. It’s ambush.”

  “Motion granted,” said Harry, “And before you get any ideas about stopping this trial to appeal my ruling you should think about one thing. I saw your little trick with the murder weapon. If Mr. Flynn had asked for time to deal with that evidence I would’ve granted it. My guess is you’ve had that in your back pocket for a while. You delay this trial and I might pass the time by deposing the analyst from the NYPD crime lab about when he really found those marks on that table.”

  Retreating, hands raised, Pryor said, “As your Honor pleases. I have no intention of delaying this trial.”

  Harry nodded, turned toward me and said, “I’m giving you a little leeway here. But from now on if either of you have evidence you want to admit – serve it on each other.”

  “Actually, there are some photographs I need to use. They were taken yesterday at the crime scene,” I said.

  “Serve them now,” said Harry.

  I took out my phone, brought up the photos Harper took in the be
droom yesterday morning and emailed them to the DA’s office. I then took Pryor aside and showed him the photos on my phone. He didn’t have a problem with me using them. Probably because he didn’t know what was coming. If he had an inkling about what I was about to do, Pryor would’ve raised hell. I prayed it was a decision he would come to regret.

  CARP LAW

  * * *

  Suite 421, Condé Nast Building, 4 Times Square, New York, NY.

  Strictly Confidential,

  Attorney Client Work Product

  Juror Memo

  The People -v- Robert Solomon

  Manhattan Criminal Court

  Rita Veste

  Age: 33

  Child Psychologist in private practice. Married. Spouse is Executive Chef at Maroni’s. No children. Parents both retired and living in Florida. Democrat but did not vote in last election. No social media presence. Fine wine enthusiast. Never been called as expert witness. Financials sound.

  Probability of Not Guilty vote: 65%

  Arnold L. Novoselic

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Pryor’s direct examination of Detective Anderson enthralled Kane’s fellow jurors. The detective gave the jurors their first taste of the evidence. He was the opening act. And all of the jurors seemed to be focused on the witness.

  This certainly pleased Kane. For the testimony had proven to be a useful distraction. While Anderson testified, Kane took all the time he needed to examine Spencer’s notes, which rested on his knee. None of the other jurors in the back row were tall enough to see over the shoulders of their fellow jurors in front. Except Kane. He’d made half a page of notes himself. Key words and phrases which formed an aide memoir of the testimony. He flicked over a page, and wrote a single word.

  “Guilty.”

  He looked back at Spencer’s notes. Then his own. Scribbled out the word “Guilty” heavily. Then he rewrote the word on a fresh sheet of paper. This time he made the “G” a little straighter and smaller, and put a longer tail on the letter “y”. While he worked he was careful to lean over his notes, making sure no one on either side of him could see what he was writing. He was also careful to keep his pen raised, and not to touch this page with his bare hands.