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

by Steve Cavanagh

  I slung my laptop bag over my shoulder, and pushed open the gate that separated the public seating area from the rest of the court. Delaney and Harper ahead of me. I felt tired. Sore. Done. Yet I knew a night’s work lay ahead. There was still a chance we might catch a break in the Dollar Bill case. I had a bad feeling that this was Bobby’s only chance.

  Something moved on my left. Fast. Low. I only caught sight of it in my peripheral vision. Someone had been kneeling down in the row of seats to my left. I turned to see what was happening, but not fast enough.

  A fist cracked into my jaw. I heard Delaney shout out. Harper too. I was already going down. The floor came up fast. I put out my hands and managed to stop my head from breaking open, but the impact of my ribs on the tiled floor caused me to cry out. I couldn’t breathe. Through the waves of pain, I had a dim sense of what was going on around me. Harper got thrown to the floor ahead of me. She landed on her back. I heard footsteps behind me; Harry running to see what the hell was going on.

  I felt a strong grip on both of my wrists, then my arms were folded behind me. Instantly, I knew what was happening. I’d been arrested enough times before to know how cops operate. No sooner had the thought occurred, than I felt the cold sting of cuffs wrapping around my left wrist, then the right. My arms were pinned behind me. Hands underneath my arms hauled me backward and up onto my feet. I tried to speak but my jaw barked out a protest. It had almost dislocated with the first strike.

  I managed to crane my neck back and to my left.

  Detective Granger. And behind him I saw Anderson.

  “Eddie Flynn, you’re under arrest. You have the right to remain silent …” said Granger. He continued to mirandize me as he pushed me forward. Ahead, waiting at the courtroom doors was a uniformed cop with his hands on his gun belt.

  “You can’t do this,” shouted Harry. “Stop right there, right now.”

  “We can do this. We are doing this,” said Anderson.

  Harper got up, and Delaney held her back.

  “I’m a federal agent, what the hell are you doing? What’s the charge?” said Delaney.

  “This isn’t a federal matter. You got no jurisdiction here. We’re taking this man to Rhode Island PD for questioning,” said Granger.

  I couldn’t breathe. The pain came in waves now. Each one crushing my lungs. I looked up and saw the cop waiting at the end of the aisle wore a slightly different uniform. Rhode Island PD. Anderson and Granger had a liaison officer with them. They were making the arrest and taking me out of state.

  “Wha – what’s – charge?” I managed to say. If I asked, they had to tell me. I had a right to know. The sheer effort to get those words out of me almost shut my lights down. Granger tugged on my arms, sending fresh hell into my ribs. I could feel my feet growing heavy. I was almost out when I heard Anderson’s answer.

  “You’re under arrest for the murder of Arnold Novoselic,” he said.

  Jesus. Arnold. Until a couple of days ago I wouldn’t have been sad to hear that Arnold had bought the big ticket. Now, I felt differently. I’d just spoken to him early this morning. The shock of hearing about his death almost dulled the fact that I was being arrested.

  “Why would Eddie murder his own jury consultant?” said Delaney. She was following me and shouting questions at Anderson.

  “Maybe you should ask Flynn,” said Anderson. “Ask him why he didn’t wear any gloves when he stuffed thirteen one-dollar bills down Novoselic’s throat.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  The bus pulled out of the lot at the back of the court. The jurors were silent. Each of them weighing the final arguments in the case. Most just seemed glad that it was nearly over. Kane looked out of the window as the bus passed the courthouse just in time to see Flynn being brought out by the police and bundled into a plain Sedan.

  Kane allowed himself a smile. The benefit of friendship.

  He’d gotten from Jamaica, New York, to Arnold’s apartment in Rhode Island in record time. Initially, the jury consultant didn’t want to let him in. Kane had promised him a revelation. Inside information on a rogue juror, sitting on the jury right then. It was too much for Arnold to resist. Kane had entered the luxury apartment, asked for water, and strangled Arnold from behind then laid him out on the kitchen floor. He’d taken the dollar bills in a baggie that he’d retrieved from the glove box of a drop car he had hidden in a long-term parking garage at JFK. He had to work quickly, and he used a spoon to wedge some of the bills deep into Arnold’s throat. However, Kane had made sure to leave one bill protruding from Arnold’s mouth. The bill he’d marked with a red pen – coloring in all the stars, the arrows and the olive leaves on the Great Seal. The final bill.

  The bill that carried Eddie Flynn’s fingerprints and DNA.

  The one that would put Eddie Flynn behind bars, just when his legal career was about to enter the stratosphere. Flynn was all over the news, and the papers. The hottest lawyer in New York City. Kane had seen it coming.

  Eddie Flynn’s American Dream was over.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Granger took the cuffs off, told me to turn around, then cuffed my hands to the front. It was a small act of mercy. Sitting in a police car with my hands cuffed behind my back would’ve put more pressure on my ribs. I would’ve passed out before we’d gone two blocks. He pushed my head down and forced me into the back seat of an unmarked police car. A detective’s car from the pool. It smelled of stale food and the seats were ripped.

  The thought of Arnold, murdered, choked on money, made my skin crawl. Dollar Bill had set me up. Just like he’d set up all the others.

  It took everything I had to calm myself down. I had to ignore the pain and think.

  The driver’s door opened and Granger got in. The Rhode Island cop entered the vehicle on my side and sat in front of me in the passenger seat. I felt the car dip and Anderson got in beside me on the left. He still wore that cast. I looked into his face and saw something that frightened me.

  Anderson was sweating. Trembling too. Granger pulled into traffic and set off. I couldn’t keep my eyes off Anderson. I’d gone hard at him in court. I’d busted up his hand pretty good, too. He should’ve been gloating right now. Staring me down, enjoying the victory. Granger and Anderson should’ve been cracking jokes and pissing on my defense. Scaring me. Telling me it was all over – that I’d spend the rest of my life in jail.

  Instead, the air inside the car felt thick with atmosphere. It reminded me of the times I’d spent in the back of vans, or sitting in cars, waiting to start a con job.

  “Thanks for letting us pick this guy up,” said Granger. He started the engine and pulled into traffic.

  “No problem. Evening, Mr. Flynn, my name’s Officer Valasquez,” said the Rhode Island cop, before turning his attention back to Granger. “Glad your precinct put me in touch with you, and it saves any hassle on jurisdiction. I could tell you guys had a hard-on for Flynn as soon as we spoke.”

  “Oh yeah. We’ve got a history,” said Granger. He looked in the mirror, and instead of a satisfied, smug look I saw something else. Excitement. If I sat up straight I could still see Granger’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. His gaze darted around, frantically. He was checking the road, the sidewalk, glancing back at Anderson, and making sure he kept an eye on the Rhode Island cop, Valasquez.

  I knew something was going down. The only thing I didn’t know was whether Valasquez was in on it. I guessed not.

  As we drove along Center Street, I leaned back, felt my phone in my jacket pocket. No one had searched me. I figured between the three of them, bearing in mind their ages, and the way they held themselves, they probably had fifty years on the job between them.

  It would be unusual for one cop, ten years in, to forget to search a suspect. It made me nervous. Granger made a couple of turns, and we headed north. That didn’t help my anxiety. They were supposed to be taking me to Rhode Island. Fastest way was south, straight onto the FDR, hug the river until the freeway s
tretches onto I-95. No homicide cop in New York would go any other way. They knew the city better than most.

  “Where are we going?” I said, slowly dropping my hands to the bottom of my jacket and sliding both arms to the right, over my jacket, toward the door handle.

  “Shut the hell up,” said Granger.

  “Blow me,” I said.

  “Do what he says, shut your Goddamn mouth,” said Anderson.

  I didn’t.

  “If we’re going to Rhode Island why aren’t we using FDR Drive?” I asked.

  The cop in front of me in the passenger seat turned and stared at Granger.

  “Much as it hurts me to say it, the lawyer has a point,” said Valasquez, and checked his watch.

  “Too much traffic. It’ll be jammed up to hell at this time,” said Granger.

  The last rays of daylight were fast disappearing. Every car we passed had lit up its headlights. The squad car remained dark as Granger hooked a left. Now we were headed west. A series of quick right and left turns kept us headed in that direction.

  I looked out of the window and said, “West 13th Street and 9th Avenue? What are we doing in the Meatpacking District?”

  “Shortcut,” said Granger.

  The car turned left into a side street. Steam billowed up from the sewers, illuminated by the streetlights it looked like hell lay beneath Manhattan.

  “I gotta make a quick stop,” said Granger.

  This was it. Granger wasn’t making a stop. And I wasn’t going to make it to Rhode Island.

  Anderson leaned toward me. He was fishing something out of his jacket with his left hand. Because of the cast on his right arm, Anderson was basically one-handed. He tilted back toward the driver’s side of the car and I saw something shiny in his left hand. He threw it at my feet, then dived back into his jacket with the same hand. A glance was all I had time for. It was all I needed. Between my feet lay a small pistol.

  “Gun,” cried Anderson. His arm came up with his weapon drawn. He was going to kill me and claim self-defense. That’s why I wasn’t searched before they put me in the car. All of these thoughts flashed through my mind as I dove toward Anderson. My head cracked against his nose, I reached out and caught his left arm with both of my hands. The handcuffs bit into my wrists as I forced his left arm down.

  He was struggling, wildly. I threw myself off the seat and managed to catch the back of Granger’s head with my elbow. He fell to the side and his foot stretched out, flattening the accelerator. The car lurched forward and I was thrown back into my seat.

  So much pain. The adrenaline let me fight through it.

  Anderson had dropped his gun too. He was leaning forward trying to reach it. It must have fallen underneath Granger’s seat. I could see his arm stretching out for it. The car shuddered and I saw sparks outside Anderson’s window. We must’ve been sliding into a parked car.

  Anderson sat up and pointed his gun at me.

  Then his head shot into the roof of the car. The gun went off and glass sprayed over my face. He’d shot out my window. I was thrown around and landed on my back, on the back seat. I sat up and saw Valasquez holding his head. He hadn’t worn a seat belt. A lamp post was now buried in the front of the squad car.

  Before Anderson could take another shot, I drew my knees up to my chest, pinned my arms against the door behind my head and threw both soles of my feet at Anderson’s face. The effort started with my back, and I used my arms, my chest muscles, my abdominals and my legs. My body unfolded like a bow that had just let an arrow fly. I’d kicked as hard as I could, and I’d missed. I hit him in the body. The force of the impact sent Anderson bursting through the passenger door, out onto the street.

  That last kick took everything I had left. I tried to sit up, but the pain was too great. I flopped back down and tried to scream it all away. I needed to move. I had to get the hell out of this car, but I couldn’t even sit up. My breath came in ragged gasps, each one a blaze of agony.

  “You’re gonna die, you son of a bitch,” said Granger. I looked up, saw him step out of the driver’s door. The door itself had burst open in the impact, half throwing him out of the car. I heard his feet crunch on the glass that lay on the street. I could only see him through the side windows of the car, but I saw him draw his weapon from a shoulder holster. He stepped over Anderson, cried, “He’s armed,” as he fired a shot.

  I covered my head.

  I didn’t feel the bullet strike. No shockwave of pain. I only felt the spray of something warm hit my face.

  Valasquez was holding his shoulder, crying out.

  Granger had shot him. I heard Granger’s gun kicking again as Valasquez’s head ripped open.

  “You just killed a cop. This is what happens when you threaten one of us with internal affairs. You mess with us, you catch a bullet,” he said. Then, I saw Granger’s face. He’d ducked down onto his knees. He held the gun in a two-handed grip. The sight pointed at my head. Anderson lay on the sidewalk beneath him, I could just see his arm raised in the air behind Granger.

  I wanted to cry out. To scream. No sound came. If I had, I wouldn’t have heard it anyway. All I could hear was the blood thumping in my ears like the ocean. My heartbeat was a soundwave in my head.

  The anger came fast when I thought of my daughter. This man was robbing her of a father. A shit father, but a father nonetheless. I put one hand beneath me on the leather seat, gritted my teeth and put everything I had left into sitting up. The small pistol Anderson had thrown in the footwell was just inches away from my fingertips. It may as well have been at the other end of a football field.

  My hand slipped and I collapsed. I tilted my head toward Granger.

  The son of a bitch had a smile on his face. He straightened his arm, lined up the shot, and then disappeared in a storm of sparks, shearing metal and sound.

  I shook my head. Shut my eyes. Opened them. I was looking at the flank of a car. A blue one. The car backed up, at speed. I heard the familiar growl from a V8. The car left my line of sight. The door behind me opened, and I saw Harper’s face above me. Her eyes were wide and she was out of breath. In one hand she held her phone. My name was lit up on her screen. I’d hit the voice command button on my cell, and said the name I’d listed for Harper.

  “You owe me a new car,” she said, her eyes wet. Gently, she placed a hand on my chest.

  “Blow me,” I said.

  I heard Harry’s voice, and he appeared beside Harper.

  “I said is he okay?” said Harry.

  I heard sirens in the distance, getting closer.

  “I’m okay, Harry.”

  “Thank God. Remind me never to get into a car with Harper again. I think I’m going to have a heart attack,” he said.

  “Delaney said she’d call Rhode Island PD. Dollar Bill set you up. We can get all this straightened out,” said Harper.

  I knew Delaney would be persuasive.

  “Anderson and Granger, are they …?”

  “They’re not going to make it,” said Harper.

  I nodded, closed my eyes, tasted the blood in my mouth and swallowed it down. This was going to be a long night.

  FRIDAY

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  Two seventeen a.m.

  Kane lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. Too much excitement to even contemplate sleep. He’d never brought two missions so close together. The risk was great, but with the end of his dream in sight, Kane had decided to take the chance. Throughout his life, he had felt a certain invulnerability.

  He was special. Just like his momma always told him.

  Somewhere on the landing there must have been an old clock. Kane heard it ticking, faintly. In a dark, silent room, in the middle of the night, all such sounds became artificially amplified. He turned his head, checked the digital clock on the bedside table.

  Two nineteen a.m.

  He sighed. No point in even trying to sleep. He flung back the covers, swung his feet to the floor. The wound in his leg was hea
ling nicely. He’d changed the bandage before going to bed. No pus, no smell, no angry swelling around the cut.

  He stretched his back, let his finger reach for the ceiling and yawned.

  That’s when he heard it. Kane froze. The clock still ticked away somewhere in the hallway, but now he heard something else.

  Movement. Feet on the stairs. Lots of them. Kane got up, silently. Put on his underwear, pants and his socks.

  When he was tying his laces he heard the floorboards creak. Once. Twice. Three times. The second or third row of floorboards in the hallway had a loose board. He’d noticed it yesterday.

  No time to even grab a shirt, he tucked his knife into his pants pocket and crept toward the door. He put his ear to the wood, held his breath and listened. Someone was in the hallway. Slowly, Kane stood and put his eye to the peephole in the door.

  Outside his room were four men in full SWAT gear. Black, Kevlar armor. Jackets, gloves, helmets with cams on the side and each of them cradled an assault rifle. Kane slid away from the door, put his back to the wall beside it and struggled to control his breathing. They’d found him. After all these years, they’d finally done it. In one way, Kane felt a certain sense of pride. The FBI had finally recognized what he was doing. He hoped that at least one of them would see his method, and understand his work.

  The digital clock on the nightstand read two twenty-three a.m.

  He took a deep breath, blew it out and started running when he heard the sound of wood splintering as the door crashed open and the SWAT team yelled out to get on the floor.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT