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

by Steve Cavanagh

  She wasn’t looking at me. She was doing her final checks. There were agents at the back of the room. Harper was at the defense table, working and listening to the case. She had her laptop open and had been receiving articles all afternoon. Clippings and short videos from the trials of men who had been convicted of Dollar Bill’s crimes. Harper must’ve heard my question. She closed her laptop, and stared at the jury.

  Delaney gave me one look, and a nod, and then we both looked toward the jury as she spoke. Only I was focusing on one man. Alec Wynn. He sat with one hand on his lap, legs crossed, and stroked his chin. Listening intently to every word that fell from Delaney’s lips.

  This was it. We’d discussed it. Debated the pros and cons. And between us we’d decided there was nothing else for it.

  “The FBI believe that the serial killer, Dollar Bill, infiltrated the juries who were trying those cases, and manipulated them to bring back guilty verdicts.”

  There must have been some kind of reaction from the crowd. Intakes of breath, involuntary outbursts of incredulity. Something. I was sure of it. If there was I didn’t hear it. All I could hear was my heart hammering in my ears. My focus was total. I knew every inch of Wynn’s face. I could see the rise and fall of his chest, his hands, even the slight swaying of his leg as he folded it over the other.

  As Delaney delivered her answer, his expression changed. His eyes grew wider, lips parted.

  I thought I would know. A statement like that is the equivalent of pulling off Dollar Bill’s mask in a crowded room. It should have hit him like a two-by-four to the side of the head.

  I wasn’t sure.

  Slowly, the world bled back into my consciousness. Sound, smells, taste, and the pain in my ribs all hit me at once, like I was just surfacing from deep water.

  The rest of the jury had similar reactions. For some it was disbelief. Others it was shock and a very real fear in the realization that such a man could be walking around free as a bird.

  Whoever Bill was, he’d played it super cool. He didn’t give himself away. I took a long, last look at Alec Wynn.

  I couldn’t say for sure.

  There was a follow-up question. A question that raised its head, inevitably, from Delaney’s last answer. I could’ve asked her the question right then and there. I didn’t. If I asked that question, it might look like I was playing for a mistrial. And it might look like I was pointing an accusatory finger at the jury. It might sound better coming from Pryor.

  I let him do it.

  “No further questions,” I said.

  Pryor had fired off his first salvo before I’d sat down. He was like a greyhound out of the gates.

  “Special Agent Delaney, you are making the case that Ariella Bloom and Carl Tozer might have been victims of this serial killer, Dollar Bill, is that right?”

  “Yes,” said Delaney.

  “And you’ve testified that Dollar Bill selects his victims, murders them, and then carefully plants evidence to frame an innocent person?”

  “That’s correct,” said Delaney.

  “But judging by the last question Mr. Flynn asked you, you believe he does much more than that. You believe he infiltrates the jury trying the innocent person for murder to ensure he is found guilty?”

  “I believe so.”

  Pryor moved close to the jury, placed his hand on the rail of the jury stand. His positioning made it look as though he stood with the jury on this; that they were all on the same side.

  “So, by implication, you believe this serial killer is in the room right now. And he’s sitting on this jury, behind me?”

  I held my breath.

  “Before you answer that question, Special Agent Delaney,” said Harry, “I’d like to see both counsel in my chambers right now.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  No matter how many trials Kane had witnessed, there was always something new in every one of them. This one had a number of firsts.

  In this trial, Kane felt like he was truly a part of it. Not simply as a juror, but as a participant. The FBI had finally caught up with him. The agent, Delaney, looked cunning. She had a sharpness around her eyes. Kane could sense a bristling intelligence that lay deep within her. A worthy opponent? Perhaps, he thought.

  It was inevitable, thought Kane. After all these years, all those bodies, all those trials. Someone had to put it together eventually. He hadn’t made it easy for them. Of course not. But Kane had harbored the fantasy that perhaps one day, long after he was dead, someone might be clever enough to piece it all together.

  And, somehow, in doing so, that person would make a connection with Kane. They would see and appreciate his work like no one else had ever done before. His mission. His calling. Displayed to the world.

  He hadn’t expected it so soon. At least not until he had completed his masterpiece.

  Another first came from the judge.

  Before he’d ordered the lawyers into his private room, the judge had given an instruction to the jury keepers. Each juror was to be kept separate. Luckily, there were no trials ongoing in the adjacent courts, which freed up their offices, judge’s chambers, clerks’ rooms and the courtrooms themselves. More than enough room to keep the jurors separated. The jury keeper had called for additional court officers, to assist in escorting the jurors to their separate rooms.

  Kane had never seen anything like it. The judge didn’t want the jury to implode, to begin to doubt one another, to begin to suspect that one of their number might, just might, be a killer.

  It took some time for the court officers to assemble, then they each took one juror from the court. The officer who accompanied Kane was a young man with fair hair and pale skin who couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. He escorted Kane out of the courtroom, down the hall and into a small office off the main hallway. Kane sat in an office chair in front of a dead computer screen. The officer closed the door.

  Another first. In hindsight, it had to happen sometime. Nevertheless, it came as a surprise to Kane.

  He wanted to run. The FBI were closing in. His mask was slipping. Kane looked around the small office. Two desks, both facing a wall with a calendar pinned up. Neither desk could be said to be tidy. Staplers, Post-it notes and pens were scattered around the keyboards, and stacks of files were perched on the edge of the desks or on the floor beside them. Kane took his head in his hands.

  He could wait it out. The case was close to going to the jury.

  He could knock on the door, and ask the officer to come inside. It would only take a minute to close the door and break the officer’s neck. The officer’s uniform would be a tight fit, but he figured he could get away with it if he changed quickly and walked straight out of the door and down the hallway. He’d have to keep his head low, or turn his face to the wall when he saw a camera.

  He hated not knowing what to do. No matter what choice he made, he knew he might regret it in time. Either sitting in a jail cell for the rest of his life, kicking himself that he didn’t run, or far away from New York, sitting in a café dreaming of what could have happened if he’d just hung on a little longer.

  He made a decision, got up and knocked on the door. The officer opened it and peered inside. He had a boy’s face.

  “Say, could I get a glass of water?” said Kane.

  “Sure,” said the officer.

  He began to close the door, but Kane took it in one hand and said, “Wait, just leave it open a little please. I get claustrophobic in places like this.”

  The guard nodded, and left. Kane sat down, breathing hard now. His blood felt hot beneath his skin. The rush of anticipation for what was to come. He could see it all clearly in his mind. The officer would place the water on the desk, Kane would grab his wrist with one hand, twist, and fire his extended fingers into the officer’s throat. What happened next would be a matter of logistics. If the officer went down, Kane would get on top, flip him over onto his front, grab his chin, kneel on his back and pull up sharply. If the officer manage
d to stay on his feet, Kane needed to shoot behind him, get his gun away before wrapping his arms around the officer’s neck and pushing forward, then snapping back and to the left.

  He could almost hear the sound of his vertebrae cracking.

  The officer returned to the room carrying a plastic cup of water.

  “Just put it down on the desk, please. Thank you,” said Kane.

  The officer’s boots made his approach easy to track. Kane stared straight ahead, and watched the officer place the water on the desk in the reflection from the computer screen.

  Kane’s hand shot out and grabbed the officer’s wrist.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

  “What in God’s name is going on out there?” said Harry.

  He hadn’t even got to his desk yet. All three of us stood in his chambers. Harry was pissed, but he was also concerned. Pryor waded in with both feet before I could say anything. He’d fired himself up into a ball of righteous indignation. Or what passed for righteousness from a career prosecutor.

  “The defense are scrambling, Your Honor, that’s what’s going on. They know the evidence in this case is solid and they can’t shake it. So they’re playing for a mistrial. You know it. I know it. They’re not going to get one throwing wild accusations at a jury without any proof whatsoever, no sir.”

  “If we had proof we’d come to you, Harry,” I said. “Look, the FBI don’t go around testifying for the defense in murder trials on a simple hunch. You know that. If Agent Delaney is right, and the killer is on the jury then letting this trial proceed any further is an egregious injustice to my client. I don’t want to point fingers at a jury who holds Solomon’s fate in their hands, but there’s been too much going on in this trial already. Two jurors are dead and one has been kicked for potential jury tampering. You need to see the bigger picture here.”

  “And what’s that? A rogue juror who is actually the real killer in this case? That’s incredible,” said Harry.

  “It’s possible,” I said.

  “It’s ridiculous,” said Pryor.

  “Enough!” cried Harry. He turned away from us, went to his desk and brought out a bottle of ten-year-old and three glasses.

  “Not for me, Judge,” said Pryor.

  The bottle hovered over a glass and Harry fixed his eyes on the prosecutor. Nothing was said. Harry just stared at the guy. The silence grew uncomfortable and Harry’s face retained a stoic impression of disapproval.

  “Just a small one, then,” said Pryor.

  Harry poured three glasses. Handed one to me and Pryor. We put the shots of Scotch away. All of us. Pryor coughed and his face flushed. He wasn’t used to good liquor.

  “When I was a young defense attorney I remember being in these very chambers, with old Judge Fuller. He was a character. Kept a .45 in his desk drawer. He used to say no attorney should give a closing speech in a murder trial unless they’ve had at least three fingers of Scotch,” said Harry.

  I put my empty glass on Harry’s desk. He’d made his decision.

  “I have concerns about this case, about this jury too. I don’t have to tell either of you what a difficult decision this is for me. Ultimately, I have to follow the evidence. There is suspicion about one juror on this panel. I’m not in a position to evaluate that suspicion. There is no evidence before this court to convince me that the jury has been compromised. I have to tell you, Mr. Pryor, I’m not happy about this. But I have to follow the law. I’m sorry, Eddie. I’m overruling your question, Mr. Pryor. Do you have any other questions for Agent Delaney?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Does the defense wish to call any further witnesses?” asked Harry.

  “No, we’re not calling the defendant,” I said.

  I never call my client to testify. If it gets to the stage where you’re relying on your client to protest their innocence – you’ve already lost. The case is won during the prosecution evidence. Or lost. I didn’t rate Bobby’s chances with the jury. Letting Pryor tear him to pieces over his whereabouts would only lessen his odds.

  His only chance was a great closing speech. Clarence Darrow, one of the finest trial attorneys who ever opened a bottle of Scotch, won most of his cases in his closing speech. It’s the last thing the jury hears before they go into their private room and decide the client’s fate. Darrow saved more than one life with the power of his words.

  Sometimes, that’s all a defense attorney has – their voice. Trouble is, it’s the same voice that ordered one for the road: the same voice that broke up their marriage: it’s the same voice that messed up everything. But now it has to save a life.

  Words never weigh so much as when they’re spoken for somebody else. I felt the weight now, sitting on my chest. If the verdict came back guilty, that weight would never shift.

  “We can finish this case today, but I’d like one thing.”

  “What’s that?” Harry said.

  “I want you to give Delaney the name of the cop who has the notebooks that you took off the jury.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE

  “You okay?” said the young, boyish court officer.

  Kane tightened his grip, momentarily. The fingers on his other hand extended, stiffened. They formed a blade of flesh, sinew and bone. Ready to be thrust into the officer’s throat.

  He hesitated.

  Just a few more hours.

  He released his grip on the officer’s wrist and said, “Sorry, you startled me. Thanks for the water.”

  Kane drained the plastic cup, watched the officer leave and close the door. He breathed out and stared at the black screen of the computer monitor in front of him. His thoughts drifted to Gatsby – reaching out his hands to the unquiet, black waters, toward the dim green light far, far away. If he gave up now, if he failed to complete his work then others would waste their lives searching for the green light, dreaming away their lives in the hope of something better.

  There was no hope. Kane’s dreams had always been dark. Full of monsters and boys digging in the earth for bones.

  He didn’t have long to wait. The court officer brought Kane back to the courtroom where he joined the rest of the jury. The judge told them the defense had rested. It was close to five o’clock, but both attorneys felt they could deliver their final speeches before six. The jury could go back to their accommodation, think about the case and then return in the morning to consider their verdict.

  The pace of this trial thrilled Kane. He was glad he’d let the officer live. He didn’t have to run. Not yet. Not until this was over.

  As Pryor got up from his seat to address the jury, a stillness fell on the room. Kane could feel it. The prosecutor broke the silence with a vow.

  “I promise you, each and every one of you, that the decision you make in this case will become part of your lives. I know it will. You have to make the right decision. Get it wrong, and it will become a needle that works its way through your veins a little more every day. Until it reaches your heart. You hold a man’s life in your hands. The defense will tell you that. Mr. Flynn will probably remind you of that a lot. But in reality you hold much more. You hold in your hands the fate of every citizen in this city. We rely on the law to protect us. To punish those who would take our lives. We diminish our very natures if we do not honor that responsibility. We forget the victims, if we do not do our duty. And let’s be clear about this – your duty in this case, if you’ve listened carefully to all of the evidence, is to find the defendant guilty.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  I watched Bobby shrink before my eyes. With every word that Pryor spoke, Bobby seemed to get smaller, frailer, as if the life inside of him was evaporating further with each minute that passed.

  Pryor reminded the jury of the key points. Bobby hadn’t told anyone where he was on the night of the murders. His fingerprints were on the baseball bat. He lied about what time he came home. His fingerprint and DNA were on the dollar bill found in Carl’s mouth. He had motive, opportunity, he had Ariella�
�s blood on him, and the knife used to kill her never left the house. And the theory about another killer? It was a defense trick. Nothing more.

  By the time Pryor took his seat, sweat had broken out on his face. He’d given it his all for a full thirty minutes.

  My turn.

  I reminded the jury that the WiFi router in the Solomon house registered the presence of an unknown device at precisely the same time the person who was dressed like Bobby arrived at the property. I reminded them whoever got inside the property at that time must have turned off the motion sensor on the security camera. Some of the jurors, particularly Rita and Betsy, seemed to be following my logic.

  Wynn sat with his arms folded throughout.

  The murders couldn’t have happened in the way the prosecution described. Carl was most likely taken from behind by a bag over the head, followed by the bat that Bobby kept in the hall. This was why Ariella had still been asleep when the killer stole into her bedroom. And the dollar bill, scrubbed of DNA, save for Bobby and a dead man.

  “Members of the jury, Mr. Pryor reminded you of your duty. Let me clarify his remarks. Your only duty is to yourselves. The only question you have to ask yourself is: are you sure Robert Solomon murdered Ariella Bloom and Carl Tozer? Are you sure? I say that Mr. Eigerson was not sure that he saw the defendant that night. I say we can’t be sure that the bill found in Carl Tozer’s mouth had not been interfered with in some way by forensics. But what I say doesn’t matter a damn. It’s what you know that matters. You know, in your heart, you can’t be sure Robert killed those people. Now all you have to do is say it.”

  The next few minutes in my life passed in a blur. I seemed to be talking to the jury one minute, and the next I’m packing my bag and saying goodbye to Bobby. He was leaving for the night with Holten and his security crew. We would get our verdict in the morning, maybe. The jury were led out, and the courtroom began to empty. Harry had leaned over the bench, talking with the clerk of the court. There were only a few stragglers left in the courtroom. Delaney and Harper were waiting for me. They seemed to sense that I needed a little time to let my thoughts settle. I’d given everything in the final speech. My brain was mush.