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

by Steve Cavanagh

  “I already told you, I can’t remember. Christ, I wish I knew,” he said.

  As he spoke, he looked at the floor.

  He was lying. I knew it. Arnold saw it too.

  “Bobby, you’ve got no choice in the matter. You have to tell me,” I said.

  Bobby shook his head, said, “I told you, I can’t recall.”

  “Let’s hope your memory improves by the morning. The jury will want to know where you were. If you can’t tell them, you’re in a lot of trouble,” I said.

  We walked Bobby to the hallway and the mass of security men who would take him home. Bobby promised to get some sleep, and take his meds. He left surrounded, headed into a frenzied crowd.

  It was the first time I’d had a real chance to talk to Arnold. I brought him up to speed with the Dollar Bill theory. At first, he didn’t believe it. The more details I gave him, the more he looked interested.

  “You think this jury would buy that?” I said.

  He rubbed his bald head, sighed and said, “It’s worth a try. The key, now that the jury is sequestered, is figuring out the alpha.”

  “The alpha?”

  “A sequestered jury very quickly slips into a pack mentality. The sequestration cuts them off from their normal lives and throws them all together in a stressful, heightened reality situation. It becomes ‘us’ and ‘them’. The jury will bond. And a leader will emerge. Notice how I didn’t say alpha male. Lot of the time it’s a woman who leads the jury pack. Once you figure out who the alpha is, you just need to focus on them. If you win the alpha, the rest of the jury will follow their lead.”

  I nodded. It made sense. I was suddenly glad to have Arnold with me.

  “Thanks, that’s really useful,” I said, with some sincerity. Arnold seemed to take it well. He was pleased to help.

  “I know we haven’t had the best of … well, you know … I’m sorry. I think you’re doing a great job for Bobby,” said Arnold, holding out a hand.

  I took it. I don’t hold grudges.

  “Oh, there was something I meant to say to you earlier,” said Arnold. “It’s about one of the jurors, I saw him … well, this is going to sound a little weird …”

  “Go on.”

  “It’s hard to explain. Ahm, look, a few years ago I saw this movie on cable. Horror movie about socialites in New York. Maybe one was a lawyer, maybe one was a devil, I don’t know. I don’t remember that part. Anyway, I do remember one scene. A girl was changing in a store dressing room, and she smiled at the camera. Just for a second, her face changed. That grin turned into a … like, an evil snarl. She had sharp teeth and devil eyes. The other character, the main actress – her character couldn’t be sure if she saw it or not, you know? Well, that’s kinda how I feel. I saw this juror and he, well, his face changed. It was scary. Like a micro expression of … something. Something bad,” he said.

  Arnold was sweating, he had bags under his eyes that could hold ten pounds of potatoes. He looked gray, tired. And afraid.

  “Who was it?” I said.

  My cell phone buzzed. I took my phone out of my jacket and Arnold clocked it. I didn’t recognize the number on the display.

  “Can you give me a second?” I said.

  “Look, forget it. I’m sorry. I don’t even know what I’m saying. I’ve been working fifteen-hour days on this case for six months. It’s been a long day. Take your call and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Go home. Get some rest, Arnold.”

  I watched him go. Stress causes all kinds of things. I wasn’t sure, but it sounded like Arnold was hallucinating. Or maybe it was a trick of the light, or something.

  I answered the call. It was a guy from the garage. My Mustang had a brand new windshield and it was ready to be picked up. The bill didn’t sound too bad, and the mechanic had taken the opportunity to tune up the engine and change the oil. I thanked him, said I would come by soon as I could and pick it up.

  I had a long night ahead of me. I needed to read the murder files for the new victims. And go over every piece of evidence for tomorrow. Delaney was setting up a crisis team in the New York field office and I had a breakfast meet-up with her and Harper at six a.m. It would be a while before I would have a chance to pick up my car.

  A cab driver dropped me off at West 46th Street. There were no welcome parties this time. As I trudged up the stairs to my office I thought about calling Christine. When I got to the first landing I decided I would tell her that I wouldn’t fight the divorce; I’d give her whatever she wanted. Whatever was best for her and Amy. By the time I got to the door of my office I’d decided to call and tell her I loved her. I loved her more than anything and when I was done with this case I would quit.

  Instead, I turned off my cell phone. There was still a half bottle of whiskey on my desk. I poured a glass. Held it in my hand for a long time before I poured it down the sink and got to work.

  I looked over the Solomon files first. Prepared my cross-examination. Then I turned to the murder files for Dollar Bill. I wasn’t a trained psychologist. I wasn’t a criminologist, or a criminal analyst, or a fed, or a cop. My skills in this area were limited.

  But I knew two things.

  I knew how to deceive. And there was a pattern here. A basic bait and switch. The victims were murdered. Different MOs in different states. The dollars were planted. And missed by the cops. I couldn’t blame them for this. I’d seen the markings on the butterfly dollar and dismissed them just like the NYPD. We all did. All apart from Delaney. Once the evidence was planted it would lead to an innocent perp. And Dollar Bill would move to another state, another town, and start the whole thing over again.

  The second thing I knew about was killing.

  I’d grown up around guys who became killers. When I was a con artist, I’d dealt with trigger men on almost a daily basis. Some were in it for the money. Most were in it for the sport. I’d known men who took pleasure in killing. I could spot ’em a mile away. Only reason I was still breathing was that I made it my business to try and understand these guys so I would know how to stay off their radar and out of their sights.

  When I next checked my watch it was four thirty a.m. Things were a lot clearer in my mind. I called Harper.

  “You still awake?”

  “I am now,” she said. Her voice had a rough edge to it. She spoke slowly with a dry angry throat. “What do you need?”

  “I’ve been over the files. There’s no link between the victims.”

  “Didn’t Delaney tell you that, like, yesterday?”

  “She did. But she was looking at the wrong victims,” I said.

  I heard Harper groaning, and the rustle of bedclothes. I imagined her sitting upright, forcing herself awake.

  “What do you mean, wrong victims?”

  “Delaney looked at the murder victims. I don’t think they were the real target. This killer is murdering people so that he can frame somebody for the crime. The men who were convicted of those crimes – they’re the real target, I’m convinced of it.”

  “Same problem as the murder victims. Some of those men who were convicted never left the state.”

  “There’s no geographic or social connection. I can’t see these men ever having met. They never lived in the same places, they were in totally different social circles, different colleges, some didn’t go to college. I got nothing. But I’m not the FBI. I can only go on what’s in the files or what I can find on the internet. So far it’s not much. I found a few articles online. Like Axel the arsonist. I found a piece on him winning the state lottery, and an article on Omar Hightower’s football accumulator …”

  “What?” asked Harper.

  Saying something out loud sometimes made it real. At least for me.

  “Harper, the real victims are the people who got framed. He chose them because their lives had just changed dramatically. Omar won that money, Axel won the lottery, the drifter who was convicted of the Pitstop killings just lucked out and got a big inheritance … al
l of that was in the local papers. I need you and Delaney to check on each convict and find out what happened. Something dramatic changed their lives. And the killer saw it. That’s why he targeted them.”

  Harper was on the move. I heard her feet stomping around on a wooden floor. And I heard another voice on the line. Faint. In the background, “Who is that?”

  She didn’t answer at first. That hesitation was enough to make me feel like a total dick.

  “Jeez, Harper. Sorry, I didn’t know you had company. I’ll hang up …” I said.

  “It’s okay. It’s Holten. He doesn’t mind,” she said.

  For a long time I didn’t know what to say. Or how to feel. I found myself running my thumb over the wedding ring I still wore. Over the years I’d smoothed down the back of the ring. Worrying at the metal.

  “Oh, okay, cool. I guess,” I said, sounding like a sixth-grader.

  “I’ll check it out and call Delaney. Anything else?”

  There wasn’t. I apologized again. Disconnected the call. I buried my head in the desk, more out of embarrassment than fatigue.

  As I lay there, my mind drifted back to the conversation I’d had with Arnold, earlier that afternoon. This was a finely balanced case, and I needed two things: Arnold with a clear head and a fair and impartial jury. No more rogue jurors.

  Arnold’s concern about one juror giving a strange look – it bothered me. Didn’t matter how crazy it sounded. I needed to know more. Arnold was used to running big cases so he knew sleep was a relative concept in a murder trial. I called him. He picked up after a few rings.

  “Hello?” said Arnold. I didn’t detect any sleep in Arnold’s voice. He sounded fully awake.

  “I didn’t wake you, did I?” I said.

  “Can’t sleep,” he said.

  “Look, sorry to call so early. I’ve been up all night working. I’m going to try and get a half-hour rest before I go meet the feds. But I can’t go to sleep without knowing more about what you said earlier. About the juror? You thought you saw something.”

  “The juror?” said Arnold.

  “The one you talked about. You know, their face … changed. You weren’t sure what you saw, it was just a fleeting thing. It might be important. It might not. I just want to know who you were talking about.”

  “Oh, that,” said Arnold. The penny had dropped. “Yeah, well, like you said, I’m not sure what I saw exactly. Their face did kinda change for a second.”

  “So who was it?”

  He paused. I didn’t know why, but I felt sure this was important.

  “Alec Wynn,” said Arnold.

  Wynn was the gun nut. The guy who liked hunting, fishing, and Fox News. I wondered if Alec liked to hunt men as well as deer.

  “Thanks, Arnold. Look, I know how hard you’ve been working. Get some rest and I’ll see you sometime tomorrow.”

  He thanked me and I ended the call. I set my phone to wake me in thirty minutes. I could grab a power nap, then get ready and get to the FBI office at six.

  I had a feeling today was going to be a long one.

  THURSDAY

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  By the time the sun rose on the other side of Grady’s Inn, Kane had already showered and changed into a T-shirt. He lay in bed and allowed himself to drift off to sleep. The wound on his leg looked clean. It hadn’t bled, despite his exertions during the night. After close inspection he’d reapplied the bandage. No signs of infection. Just to be on the safe side, he’d taken more antibiotics. Checked his temperature. All good.

  He figured it would be an hour, maybe ninety minutes before the guard woke the jury for breakfast. His muscles relaxed. He took two deep breaths and allowed his mind to drift into that realm of half-sleep, where the subconscious takes control.

  Kane felt satisfied with his night’s work.

  Soon the guard would knock on the doors. Then the banging would begin. And the shouting. And then – the screaming.

  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

  Daniel Clay

  Age: 49

  Unemployed. On welfare. Single. No parents, no family. No friends. Financials couldn’t be worse. Enjoys social media and reading sci-fi and fantasy novels. Doesn’t read newspapers and avoids online news. Elvis fan. No criminal record. Interested in Scientology, but has not yet joined the church mainly due to poor finances.

  Probability of Not Guilty vote: 25%

  Arnold L. Novoselic

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Say what you like about the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Their policies. Their secret political agendas. The corruption. The covert monitoring of every citizen in America. The mistakes. And the lives they took.

  At six-oh-five a.m. on Thursday morning the FBI was alright by me. As long as they kept giving me coffee I was prepared to maintain a temporary truce.

  Also in their favor was the speed at which they’d set up an incident room on the Dollar Bill murders. Delaney had enough evidence to force the directors to open the cash register. I’d been shown into a large windowless room. Well lit. Desks everywhere. A murder wall constructed on a long pane of glass that split the room down the middle. Pictures of the victims, their bios beneath, were grouped together with the men convicted of their murders. Arrows drawn in marker shot all over glass.

  “We got one more,” said Delaney, behind me.

  She came forward and pinned up a picture of a girl with tight, black curly hair wearing a leather biker jacket. Pale skin. A cheerleader’s smile. She was in her early twenties. The picture that went up beside her was of a tall, middle-aged man with a mustache. A mug shot.

  “An English professor convicted of murdering a waitress in South Carolina,” said Delaney.

  “When?” I said.

  “2014. The Professor had just sold his first novel to a big New York publishing house. They canceled the contract soon as he was arrested,” said Delaney.

  Across the room, on the back wall, was a timeline of the murders and the criminal trials that convicted the offenders. It began in 1998 with the first of the young women Pena was convicted of killing. It went all the way through to the most recent case, the professor in 2014.

  “Sixteen years,” I said, softly.

  “Maybe,” said Delaney. “We’re still a few states short. New Jersey, Virginia and Rhode Island. Could be longer, but I guess not by much. This one has been busy.”

  I found it hard to focus on the photos of the victims. Each one of them had their lives ruthlessly, brutally ended. Men and women. They had parents, friends, some even had kids of their own. The devastation was too much to take in. I sat down at an empty desk. The room was already buzzing with feds. Just a glimpse of the pain that had been wrought by this man was too great to absorb – it was like a fire burning on the horizon. The faces of his victims seemed to smolder. I felt that if I went too close, or stared too hard at a face, that fire would engulf me and never let me go.

  Delaney had the casual detachment of law enforcement. She looked upon the faces of the victims with a clinical eye.

  “How do you do that?” I said.

  “What?”

  “You can look at all this. And it doesn’t seem to get to you,” I said.

  “Oh, it gets to me. You better believe it,” she said. “When I see the bodies, the sheer scale of this thing – it’s the enormity of the suffering that can put you in the mental hospital if you let it. So I don’t look. When I stare at a picture, I’m not looking at the victim – I’m looking for the killer. I’m trying to catch his scent, or spot a signature or discover a trail of some kind. You have to ignore the wreckage and look beyond it for the monster.”

  We fell silent for a time. I thought about all those people.

 
“So, has he told you how you’re going to catch this sucker yet?” said Harper.

  I hadn’t noticed her arriving. She carried what looked like half a gallon of take-out coffee. The cup was weighing her down. She placed it on the table, took a seat beside me.

  “Not yet,” said Delaney.

  In truth, I didn’t know for sure that it would work. It was a long shot, but after spending a night thinking about Dollar Bill, I was pretty sure I had his number.

  “It seems to me that the real targets are the men Dollar Bill has framed for the murders. The marks on the bills. Three of them. My guess is the arrow is for the victim. The olive branch to society is that the perp is caught and convicted. After Bill has framed them, of course. And the star. That’s for the state. Has to be. But imagine you are this man.”

  Harper took a big sip of coffee, Delaney folded her arms and leaned back. I wasn’t sure she was buying this.

  “This guy has gone to extraordinary lengths to frame an innocent man for his killings. My guess is – that’s got to feel good. You plan a murder, execute it and the cops aren’t even looking for you. It’s almost the perfect murder, isn’t it? Now say you go to all that trouble of framing somebody, wouldn’t you want to stick around and make sure the patsy goes down for your crime?”

  Delaney reached for a pen, brought her chair close to the table and started making notes.

  “What do you mean by sticking around?” said Harper.

  “I think he watches the trials. It’s more than a game for this asshole. It’s a mission. Imagine the power of sitting in a courtroom and watching another man get convicted for your crime and the best part is you made it all happen. The plan is literally unfolding, perfectly, in front of you. I mean, this guy is really good at framing people. Every single person he has targeted he has managed to get convicted. I can’t believe the defense lawyers couldn’t win a single one of those cases. He got a conviction every time. That’s got to make him feel powerful. A lot of killers put people in the ground because of power games. Why should this guy be any different?” I said.