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

by Steve Cavanagh

  “If Mr. Tozer did not die in the bed, it’s likely he was murdered elsewhere in the house. As you can see, there are no bloodstains anywhere, are there?” I said.

  This time he was quick to answer.

  “None whatsoever. The only blood we found that came from Mr. Tozer was in that bed,” he said, somewhat triumphantly.

  “Detective, if an intruder managed to gain entrance to the property and he placed a bag over Mr. Tozer’s head, and pulled it from behind you could expect to find similar bruising on his throat, is that not so?”

  Anderson put on the brakes. He hadn’t seen this coming.

  “Maybe, but Mr. Tozer didn’t die from asphyxiation. He was beaten over the head with a bat.”

  “It seems so. Detective, do you know where the defendant normally kept that bat in the house?”

  “Can’t say I do,” he said.

  “In the hallway, by the front door,” I said.

  Anderson shrugged, shook his head. As if to say, so what?

  “An intruder who’d managed to gain entry, say on false pretenses, could then place a bag over Mr. Tozer’s head from behind, pull on it causing the bruising, then grab the defendant’s bat and kill Mr. Tozer with a massive blow to the back of the head. That’s possible, isn’t it?”

  The detective shook his head while I asked the question. He wasn’t ready to concede this and he thought he had an answer for it. Pryor could’ve objected, but seemed happy to let Anderson try and swat the question away.

  “No way. If he did that, then where’s the bloodstain? A single drop of blood on that carpet would stand out. We wouldn’t have missed blood on this carpet.”

  “But if the intruder had a bag over Mr. Tozer’s head, maybe even a drawstring bag, then he could still deliver that blow anywhere in the house because the blood spatter from the impact would be sealed in the bag, wouldn’t it?”

  It made sense. It explained the bruising on his throat, and the lack of blood from Tozer on the carpet, and it explained why Ariella Bloom hadn’t bled on Tozer in the bed. By the time Tozer had been hauled up the stairs and placed beside her body, her heart would’ve stopped pumping. Which meant no more bleeding. Any blood already there would stay compressed beneath her weight, and would have soaked into the sheet.

  “I don’t get it. If that happened, why kill Ariella Bloom and then put Tozer’s body beside her in the bed?” asked Anderson.

  It was a rookie mistake. Harry was about to tell Anderson not to ask counsel questions. Witnesses never asked questions – they only answered them. On this occasion, however, I was happy to answer it.

  “Because if Tozer’s body was found beside Ariella, it makes it look like someone found them in bed together and killed them. It provides a motive for Bobby Solomon and diverts all of the investigators’ attention toward him, and away from the identity of the real killer, doesn’t it?”

  “That’s your opinion,” said Anderson.

  “Let’s move away from opinions, shall we? It’s a plain fact that there were no defensive wounds, of any kind, found on Ms. Bloom’s body, correct?”

  “Yes. I guess she was still asleep when she was attacked,” said Anderson.

  “May I have exhibit eight, please?” I said, to the clerk.

  The clerk reached down behind her, produced the baseball bat wrapped in a sealed, plastic evidence bag. I stepped over the mattress, swung the bat softly at the kettlebell on what would have been Tozer’s side of the bed.

  The dull thunk echoed around the room. I gave the bat back to the clerk.

  “A maple-wood bat striking metal sure makes a hell of a sound. When that bat hit Carl Tozer’s skull, there would’ve been a loud crack, wouldn’t there?”

  “There would have been some noise, I accept that.”

  “And Ms. Bloom, who you say was asleep just inches from the source of that sound, wouldn’t have been woken by it?”

  He breathed out through his nose. A long breath that got rid of his frustrations.

  “I can’t say,” he said.

  Time to move on, the table and the knife were important points in the case.

  “How many times was the property searched for a possible murder weapon?” I said.

  He thought about it, said, “Maybe a dozen times.”

  “And the knife was not found on any of those searches, was it?”

  “No, like I said, I found it yesterday.”

  “It was a good hiding place, wasn’t it?” I said.

  He nodded, with a wry smile on his face. Said, “I suppose it was a good hiding place, but we found it in the end.”

  “The only reason the weapon was placed in that light fitting was because the killer didn’t want it found, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Correct.”

  “So, let’s say the defendant uses the table to stand on, and the knife, why then didn’t he pick up the table and set it back in its original position?”

  “I don’t know,” said Anderson.

  “You only found the knife because the table was knocked over?”

  “I suppose you could put it that way,” he said.

  “And it indicated to you that there may been some activity involving the murderer and that table, yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “If the killer had put the table upright, you wouldn’t have found the knife?”

  “Probably not,” said Anderson.

  “There’s almost seven minutes between that 911 call and the first police officer arriving on scene?”

  “I believe so.”

  “Plenty of time to hide the fact that the killer had been at the table by simply turning it the right way up, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Again, it’s possible.”

  “Let’s say you’re right, and the defendant was the murderer, trying to hide the knife. He doesn’t want it to be found. He takes great pains to hide it in a place where no one would look for it. A light shade. And then he breaks a vase, and knocks over the table beneath the light. Are you telling me the defendant then left the table overturned and the smashed vase on the floor? Surely those items would lead the cops directly to the murder weapon, as you’ve already admitted. It doesn’t make sense for the defendant to leave the table in that state if he was the killer, does it?”

  “Killers make all kinds of mistakes. That’s why we catch ’em.”

  I brought up the crime scene photo of the bedroom with the broken picture frame beside the bedside table.

  “Detective, the sound of breaking glass on the 911 call, it could’ve been this picture frame being knocked off the bedside table by my client, couldn’t it?”

  “It’s possible.”

  He was pleased with that answer. I was almost done with Anderson. I just needed to let the jury know we weren’t ignoring the dollar found in Tozer’s mouth.

  “Detective, you didn’t personally carry out any of those forensic tests on the dollar bill, did you?”

  “No, no I didn’t.”

  “That’s okay. We can deal with that evidence with the forensic officer.”

  I thought about the night before, and decided I wanted to leave Anderson with a bad taste in his mouth. Rudy Carp’s team had done their homework on Anderson, and I thought it would be rude to waste it.

  “We only have your word that you found the murder weapon in that light fitting. How many times have you been investigated by internal affairs?”

  Anderson’s eyes narrowed, and he spat his answer at me.

  “Twice. And I was cleared of any wrongdoing – twice.”

  I met Anderson’s scowl and said, “When this case is over, it might be third time lucky.”

  Pryor objected. The jury was to disregard my last question.

  “Thank you, Detective. Nothing further at this time,” I said.

  Pryor had no re-direct examination. As Anderson left the witness stand, he gave me a look like he wanted to kill me. I knew he was dirty. He was Mike Granger’s buddy. His little party outside my office last night con
firmed Anderson was as bad as they come in New York homicide. I’d made an enemy there. A real bad one.

  It was getting close to one o’clock. I saw Harry looking at the time.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it’s approaching the lunch hour. The jurors have some business to attend to over the lunch break. I propose we meet again at three o’clock. Court adjourned,” said Harry.

  When I returned to the defense table, Arnold gave me the rundown on the jury.

  “They like you. Never thought I’d say that, but I can’t deny it. I figure we’ve got four jurors on our side. Two of the women were nodding when you were talking about leaving the table overturned. And hitting the kettlebell with the bat went down well.”

  At this, Bobby leaned into the conversation and said, “Thanks. I’m glad I’ve got you on my side, guys.”

  “Let’s not get too excited. There are still a lot more prosecution witnesses who can put you in serious trouble. And I have a feeling Pryor’s got a few more surprises up his sleeve,” I said.

  As the courtroom began to empty, I saw a dozen men in suits lined up along the back of the court. Bobby still had a security detail. There were ready to take Bobby out of there safely, get him to a small room in the court building where he could eat a burrito and hold his secrets. I could almost see it weighing him down. The man had guilt on him. A truth he’d chosen to hide. No doubt connected to the night of the murders. What are you holding back, Bobby?

  Before I could dwell on that, the crowd thinned and I saw two women pushing their way forward.

  Harper and her FBI pal, Delaney. I didn’t know what they’d found. It was hard to tell from the look on their faces. All I knew was that they’d found something big. They were pushing their way through the last of the audience, Harper made it to the defense table and said, “We need to talk, right now. You’re not going to believe this.”

  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

  Bradley Summers

  Age: 64

  Retired postal worker. Widower. Good financials with government pension. No debts. No assets. Estranged from both children (one lives in Australia and one in California). Plays chess in the park, occasionally. Democrat voter. No online presence. Reads the New York Times.

  Probability of Not Guilty vote: 66%

  Arnold L. Novoselic

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Not for the first time, Kane was given a ride in a police cruiser. Together with his fellow jurors, he’d been led out of a side entrance to the court. Blue-and-white NYPD Crown Vics lined the sidewalk. They couldn’t get the vehicles round front. Traffic management had to close half of Center Street because of the crowds outside the courthouse.

  There was no talk from the cop who drove him to the apartment. Together, they took the elevator up three flights. The cop, Officer Locke, waited silently in the cramped hallway of the apartment while Kane went into the bedroom and packed a bag.

  Pants, underwear, socks, two shirts and two pairs of pants in a bag. A special bag. Kane had it made for him in Vegas many years ago. It had been hand stitched, made from thick Italian leather and looked just as good as the day he’d picked it up from the shop. A razor, toothbrush and his pills also went into the bag. Antibiotics. He packed his digital thermometer, but not before checking his temperature, which was normal.

  Kane felt around in the bag, running his hands along a seam on the inside. He found the thumb-shaped nick and pulled. A hidden sleeve lined with aluminum foil to throw off the metal detectors. The sleeve sat on the opposing side of a metal badge bearing the brand name of the manufacturer. Cops would assume their detectors were picking up the metal in the logo.

  Kane fetched some essentials. The smaller items that made up a basic murder kit. These he placed in the hidden sleeve, zipped up the bag and joined the officer in the hall. Officer Locke flicked through one of the magazines that lay on the hall table.

  “You fish?” said Locke.

  “Yeah, when I get the chance,” said Kane.

  “Me and a couple of buddies go up to the Oswego river twice a year. Some good fishing up there.”

  “So I hear. When the season opens I’ll be sure to check it out,” said Kane.

  They passed the ride back to Center Street by swapping fishing stories. Both men talked about the big one that got away. All fishing stories were the same. Locke led Kane back into the courthouse via the back entrance. The cop left. Kane was alone in the room. The first juror back. The trial shouldn’t prove too difficult. He knew he had the measure of his fellow jurors. Kane’s thoughts wandered beyond the trial. His next move had been planned for months. The trial had made him wonder whether he should change his plans.

  Kane placed a dime on the table.

  Heads – he stuck to his plan.

  Tails – he made a new plan.

  He tossed the coin.

  Life and death spun in the air. Fate itself, decided purely by chance. Kane would be careful, no matter what way the coin landed. The uncertainty excited Kane. He could feel it low down in his stomach.

  The coin bounced onto the table and became still.

  Tails.

  He put the dime away, and tucked into a sandwich. As he ate he thought of the man who would now live out his life, spared by the dime. He would never know the horror he had evaded. In fact, Rudy Carp would never even know he’d been in danger.

  Of course, that meant someone else would have to pay that toll.

  Picking up his bag, Kane left the room, went down the corridor, found the bathroom and made sure it was empty. He locked the stall, took his disposable cell from the hidden sleeve and made a call. It was answered almost immediately.

  “Change of plan for Rhode Island,” said Kane.

  “That coin of yours will get you into trouble one of these days. Let me guess, Carp gets a pass,” said the voice.

  “The coin chose wisely. Flynn will be on every newspaper and social media feed in America by morning. He’s perfect. Now, can you get me what I need?” asked Kane.

  “I thought you might go this way. Flynn was always going to steal the headlines. I think you’ll be pleased. I left what you need in your car out by JFK,” said the voice.

  “You already have it?”

  “I saw an opportunity. Took it. Flynn is asking too many questions, anyway. Anderson almost dropped the ball in court a couple of times. We have to protect him.”

  “Of course, that’s what partners are for. I think Anderson will enjoy this,” said Kane, “He hates Flynn.”

  “I know. I almost feel sorry for Flynn. He has no idea what’s headed his way.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  The cramped consultation booth two floors down stank of cheap aftershave and body odor. Delaney didn’t seem to mind. It proved more of a problem for Harper, who took a few minutes to adjust to the smell. She was sensitive about such things.

  Both of them carried files and loose pages which they placed on the table in the consultation booth. Harper went first.

  “Richard Pena’s victims are linked to the Dollar Bill investigation,” she said.

  It was Pena’s DNA on the dollar bill found in Carl Tozer’s mouth. Along with the fingerprint and DNA for Bobby Solomon. Yet Pena had been dead for twelve years before the bill even got printed. Executed by the great state of North Carolina for quadruple homicide. The number of victims attributable to Pena made him stand out. Surely not all of them could have been linked to this killer.

  “Were dollar bills found at the crime scenes?” I asked.

  Neither of them answered immediately. Their eyes flicked toward each other asking who should be the one to tell me. In the end, Delaney opened a file and laid out some photographs.

  Four photos. Four women. All
of them white. All of them young. All of them dead. From the photos, they’d all been found on a lawn, or grassy area of some kind. They had been posed. Their limbs splayed out like they were performing jumping jacks. No, not jumping jacks. Star jumps.

  Livid bruising stained their throats. There were no other signs of violence, yet it was difficult to tell just from the pictures. All of the girls were fully clothed. Hoodies, cardigans, T-shirts and jeans.

  “They were all students at UNC in Chapel Hill. Their bodies were dumped on campus, probably from a van. The oldest girl was twenty-three,” said Delaney.

  A cracking sound interrupted my concentration. Without knowing it, I’d been holding the flimsy leg of the table and I’d damn near broken it in two.

  I shook it off, tried to get past my rage and really look at the photos. At first, I didn’t see it. Then, on one photo I saw something protruding from the blouse of one of the victims. A dollar, tucked inside her bra.

  No sooner had I seen it, than Delaney whipped out another photo. This one was a collage of all four victims. Dollar bills slipped beneath the fabric of their bras.

  “Shit,” I said.

  “Cops kept this out of the media. They found DNA on one of the dollars. At first they got no match for it on the database. Then the police and campus security carried out voluntary DNA testing of fourteen hundred males who lived or worked on campus. They got a hit on Richard Pena. He was a janitor, but he’d also briefly dated one of the victims. The last one, Jennifer Esposito. And yes, the dollars were marked,” said Delaney.

  She held up another four photographs. The great seal had been marked in the same places for each. Same arrowhead, same olive leaf, same star.

  “The cops photographed the bills for evidential purposes. They didn’t spot the markings, or if they did spot them, they didn’t make much about it at the trial. The DNA and the strangling MO for all four victims proved to be their smoking gun,” said Delaney.

  “And Pena gave DNA voluntarily?” I asked.