Web of Justice

by J J Miller

  “So you said you were interested?”

  “Dude’s offering me a grand—I’m all ears.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He said he needed somebody to help him out with a prank. Said it was for his YouTube channel. So I listened, and he told me what he wanted me to do.”

  “Which was to go find Luke Jameson at VidCon and deliver him a message.”

  “Right. I said, ‘What sort of message?’ And he said that he was some sort of big shot on YouTube who had turned against God and that he needed to be humbled.”

  “So you had to say, ‘You’ve been served by God?’”

  “Right. And Toby said at that point someone else was going to smash a cream pie in this guy’s face. He said the dude needed to be taught a lesson in humility. He needed to stop putting sin into the minds of young people and use his celebrity for good.”

  “And so?”

  “And so I agreed to do it. He gave me five hundred dollars then and there. He gave me a pass and then drove me out to Anaheim.”

  “How were you supposed to find Luke?”

  “He showed me a photo. One look at the hair, the face metal and there was no mistaking that guy. Toby said he’d be doing a concert, gave me the time to go and the place to wait for him.”

  “It all sounds pretty harmless.”

  “That’s what I thought. And that’s exactly how it played out, except...”

  “Except instead of a cream pie, he catches two bullets in the chest.”

  Demarco nodded.

  “Why didn’t you run after he was shot?”

  “I told you already. I just saw this dude die right in front of me, man. I felt sorry for him. I knelt beside him after he collapsed. I was in a bit of a daze, you know. I felt kind of still with all this crazy shit going around me. Then I stood up and two guys rushed me.”

  “Demarco. Do you think you were set up? And if so, who would do that to you?”

  “I dunno. Not Toby. I mean, he was just some white kid from the ’burbs.”

  “He seemed legit to you?”

  “Yeah, on the way over to the center he was talking about how this would be good for his channel, you know. He was saying that having a Luke Jameson prank video would get him a lot of views. He was lit.”

  “What else did he say?”

  “Well, he was saying he might think of other YouTube stars he could target, that if his subs went up from Jameson, he might be able to give me more work. It was like a kind of career move for him.”

  “And so he dropped you off at the venue, and you walked in.”

  “Yeah, he said he’d meet me inside the theater.”

  “How was he going to find you?”

  “He just said he knew where to find me and he would be there to catch it all when the lights came on.”

  “But you never saw him again?”

  “No, the dude said he had to do something before he parked the car, then he would come in after that.”

  “Are you sure this Toby guy was as innocent as he seemed?”

  “I may only be seventeen, but I know how to judge whether or not a dude has it in him to bury someone.”

  “And he didn’t?”

  “No man. That Toby dude was no cold-blooded killer—he was as soft as a fucking puppy.”

  ✽✽✽

  The bartender placed two beers in front of me and Jack and took my card. I was done for the day, and it was one that made me half want to reflect on my job and half want to forget it. The Varnish, a nice dimly lit speakeasy on 6th Street, seemed as good a place as any to put a little five-beer perspective on things. Around my brain swirled everything that was on the line: why I’d taken the case in the first place and how Demarco wouldn’t stand a snowflake’s chance in hell in the hands of a public defender. It was possible he had only a slightly better chance with me.

  “Well,” said Jack. “You’ll be pleased to know my mission at the morgue was successful.”

  “That is good news. What have you got?”

  “All Connors’ recent messages and phone calls. Plus folders for his encrypted messages.”

  “He was using Wickr Me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there a way to hack into it?”

  “I think so. But I’m not the expert. I have a friend.”

  “So your other friend, the one at the morgue—sweet on you too, I take it?”

  Jack took a sip of his beer and smiled.

  “I just needed her to turn her back for a couple of minutes and I was done.”

  I didn’t want to know the specifics of how he’d gotten the information off the phone. Scraping someone’s phone was not legal. I could subpoena the phone records, but I was after more than that, and time was of the essence. Jack knew various ways to get the information off the device, though. If it was an iPhone, he could have used Siri to access the recent phone calls and messages. If the phone needed a fingerprint ID to unlock it, he would have simply taken Connor’s thumb and pressed it onto the home button. As I said, this wasn’t playing by the rules, but I needed leads and I needed them fast. I was desperate to add a ring of truth to Demarco’s story because it would be hard for a jury to swallow. And if and when it came to trial, that’s what would matter most—the story.

  “How fast can your hacker work?” I asked.

  “No one’s quicker, I can tell you that. But cracking these kinds of files can take a long time, if it can be done at all.”

  Jack drained his beer.

  “Gotta go,” he said.

  “Got a date tonight?”

  “I do, as it so happens. Jane, the medical officer, wanted me to buy her a drink after work.”

  “Ha. Thought as much. Just try and keep the conversation lively or she might go cold on you.”

  “Very funny.”

  “No, I’m dead serious. They can be a bit stiff at that place.”

  “You need to go home.”

  Just then a waft of perfume hit me, and a woman’s body leaned against my shoulder.

  “Not leaving now are you, Brad?” said Jessica Pope. “I came here especially to see you.”

  “So now you found me. Jess, this is my investigator Jack Briggs.”

  The two of them looked at each other with mutual admiration.

  “Lovely to meet you, Jessica.”

  “And you, Jack. Thanks for keeping my seat warm.”

  Jack’s eyes told me he was tempted to make a crack but thought better of it.

  “I’ll leave you two to it.”

  As he made for the door, Jessica settled onto his stool.

  “Dry gin martini, please,” she said to the bartender before turning back to me. “You ready for another?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ll have the same.”

  “So Brad, when are you going to come visit?”

  “You are talking about your office, right?”

  “Or my place. It all depends on whether you’re interested in business or pleasure.”

  “It’s going to have to be strictly business while we’re on the same case. You know that.”

  “That’s a shame. I understand. So long as you don’t take it personally when you lose.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Why haven’t I heard from you yet? I’ve been waiting for you to come see me about a plea bargain.”

  “I would if Demarco was willing to plead to a lesser charge, but he’s not.”

  “Oh, I don’t want you to misunderstand me. There’s not going to be a lesser charge on offer. The only thing I might be able to swing is taking the death penalty off the table. Even then, I’d first have to discuss it with the victims’ families. The Jamesons are quite pious, so they may be amenable to the idea. But Toby’s mother, well, I think she’d plunge the needle in herself.”

  “So that’s it? Not that I’m bargaining.”

  “Brad, you know what’s going on. The state would happily see more cases settled quickly with a plea. What with all the bud
get cuts we don’t want trials choking up the courts and everyone’s time. But this case is different. It’s the golden child of our justice system.”

  “Are we talking about you or the case?”

  “The case. It will be a shining light for everything that’s right about the law. They want to see Lady Justice in all her glory.”

  “Again, it’s the case you’re talking about? And who’s they?”

  “Are you kidding? Everyone who matters, that’s who. A double homicide, black on white, with criminal gang connections. Everyone from the Governor down wants your boy to go down hard for what he did.”

  “You’ve yet to prove he’s guilty, Jessica.”

  “Well, I’ll have everything riding on it. From the evidence I’ve seen, our case will be bulletproof.”

  “You have witnesses, I believe.”

  “For the Jameson murder, yes.”

  “They say they saw Demarco kill Jameson, don’t they?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t have a compelling motive,” I said, knowing full well Jessica believed otherwise.

  “I beg to differ. Defending the honor of the Crips and winning favor with Ramon X. I’d say what he did was a pretty certain way to rise up the ranks.”

  “What, commit two daylight murders? That amounts to a suicide mission. It’s absurd. Demarco was not of a mind to throw his life away.”

  Jessica looked at me, touched my face, and smiled.

  “You’re very sexy when you’re all stirred up. I can see this boy means something to you. I’ve been wondering why you stepped in to take on such a loser case.”

  I took a sip. “His father and me. We were buddies back in the Marines. Fought together in Afghanistan.”

  Jessica’s face softened. She only knew a little about my military experience, but she liked to listen. Or, at least she made a point of listening on the rare occasions when it came up in our conversations.

  “So you owe it to the father to be the son’s champion?”

  “In a nutshell.”

  “Doesn’t it matter to you if he’s guilty?”

  “You know that’s not the question to ask.”

  “Then what is the question to ask?”

  “Can you prove beyond a reasonable doubt that he’s the killer?”

  “Yes, I believe I can.”

  “Well, it won’t be enough.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, from my experience, in murder trials where the fate of a young man is at stake, the jury wants to walk away with a conscience as pure as the driven snow. They won’t want to put a boy on death row on the strength of reasonable doubt. They want to be convinced beyond a shadow of a doubt. And I’ll make sure they aren’t.”

  As Jessica weighed my words up and took a sip of her martini, my phone buzzed. It was a text message from a blocked number.

  “Demarco Torrell is innocent.”

  Another text arrived.

  “I can help you prove it.”

  And another.

  “Got your attention? Meet me at the Paragon in thirty minutes.”

  The Paragon was a sleazy downtown dive a few blocks away. I didn’t have any time to waste.

  “Something tells me you’re about to walk out on me,” said Jessica.

  “Sorry, Jess. I have to go. Thanks for the drink.”

  “You’re wrong, you know, Brad.”

  “About what?”

  “The jury. After they hear what I’ve got to say reasonable doubt will be plenty.”

  I hit the streets, thinking Jessica could well be right. Which was why I was so desperate for a break. Desperate enough to go meet whoever sent me those text messages despite feeling certain I’d be wasting my time. It was probably a set up. Someone wanting to have a laugh at my expense. A jaded cop or a bitter reporter. The chances it was for real were slim.

  What the hell. If I ended up being the butt of someone’s joke, so be it.

  11

  The Paragon was a smoke-filled speakeasy with lushes at the bar and freaks in the booths. As I walked in, an elderly woman smoking a cigarette through a long-stemmed holder talked loudly to her companion—another elderly lady—about how she detested sports and craved a better class of conversation. Her gaunt face was painted with make-up, and huge jewel-encrusted rings hung off fingers tipped with inch-long nails. At the bar, the bartender was shaking the shoulder of a large man who’d fallen asleep beside his basket of wings.

  “Joe, Joe. Eat your food. You should eat.” A moan rose from underneath Joe’s buried head. “Eat up or I’ll have to kick you out.”

  With that, Joe’s head sprang up, his eyes locking straight onto the TV screen ahead. He felt for his of beer, took a gulp, and then grabbed at his wings.

  I scanned the bar for eye contact and got it from just about everyone. Six strangers were checking me out like I was the only tumbleweed of the day to roll through town. And then I remembered I was wearing a suit. I guessed some were worried I’d managed to track them down.

  In the end booth a large man with dark hair combed over a balding scalp flicked his eyebrows at me. I slid into the seat across from him. The guy had the physique of Buddha. But he was not a picture of peaceful transcendence. His face was round, framed by fleshy cheeks and a triple chin. He pallid skin had a sweaty sheen and his breathing was shallow.

  “You expecting me?” I asked.

  “I didn’t think you’d come.”

  “Why wouldn’t I? How could I pass up on this place?”

  The guy looked at me like I took him for a drunk.

  “It’s good for our purposes.”

  “Our purposes? Who are you? And what do you know about my case?”

  “I’m Dino. Dino Cassinelli.”

  He extended his big paw towards me. We shook hands. Mine disappeared into a fleshy mitt that squeezed with machine-like strength. It was a relief when he eased off—it felt as if he could have crushed my bones at will. Dino Cassinelli. The name ran elusively around in my head.

  “Should I know you?”

  “Detective Dino Cassinelli.”

  It still didn’t register, so Cassinelli proceeded to jog my memory. He told me that five years ago his career had been ticking along. But then things started falling apart. He was struggling to control his weight. His wife cheated on him. A year later they split up, and she got the two kids. He drank more and more until it affected his work. Then he made a mistake that sent his twenty-year career as a detective into a downward spiral. He gave a television interview about a cold case he’d been assigned to and said the case was only getting resources thrown at it because Bob Viner, a Californian Republican Senator, had a direct interest in the case. Viner’s cousin had been killed in an apparent gay-hate crime, and he had pushed the LAPD hard to make the case a priority. Cassinelli told the media that while he didn’t deny the case needed attention, there were many more worthy cases affecting a lot more families that he and his colleagues should be working on. When the interviewer sought to clarify his comments, Cassinelli had basically said outright that the LAPD was working to please one powerful man rather than serving the most important needs of the public. He said he wasn’t alone in thinking that.

  After the interview aired, Cassinelli found himself more alone than he could have ever imagined. He was yanked off the case and given a desk job. Humiliated and disillusioned by the lack of loyalty and support shown to him, he became an outsider in the community he once thought of as family. So, Cassinelli took to the bottle even harder. But he didn’t turn his mind off homicide altogether. He still maintained a keen interest in particular cases, and when he’d looked over Demarco’s file, he realized something wasn’t right.

  “A black kid steps out of Skid Row and kills two white guys he’s never met?” he said. “To me, that just didn’t add up.”

  “Well, it adds up nicely for the rest of your colleagues.”

  “Yeah, I know. Listen, I don’t know what you’ve got, but if you treat th
is as a case of did he or didn’t he murder two people in cold blood, you’re going to lose.”

  “And you think you can help?”

  Cassinelli took a swig of beer and paused.

  “This ain’t no hate crime. It ain’t no revenge hit. It’s got nothing to do with gangs. Your boy wasn’t the trigger man.”

  “I believe that. I want to believe that. But if it wasn’t him, who was it?”

  “A serial killer.”

  I looked at Cassinelli, thinking maybe his colleagues had been right to sideline him. Just the words “serial killer” made him sound like a crackpot with a conspiracy theory. And since word had gotten out that I’d taken Demarco’s case, my inbox had been getting jammed with emails from crazies wanting to give me their two cents’ worth about who was behind the killings. I’d read a few for amusement, but the humor wore off quickly. Everyone from the Ku Klux Klan to Kayne West was behind it, and every suspect had been explained away with some whack-job string theory. I felt deflated as I realized I’d been called to this bar to hear nothing more than booze-addled gibberish. But I did my best to hide my disappointment.

  “You’re going to have to explain this one. What, in short, makes you so sure it’s the work of a serial killer?”

  “This is the fourth killing in six months. All victims were prominent social media ‘influencers’, except for that Connors kid, of course.”

  “Someone’s picking off famous YouTubers?”

  Cassinelli gave me a blank stare that dried up my cynicism pronto—or at least made me tuck it away out of courtesy.

  “Kyle Chambers, Puerto Escondido, in August. Aaron Rybka in Miami a month later.”

  “Never heard of them.”

  “Both had millions of followers, and both were regarded by some as the bad boys of the internet.”

  “How so?”

  “There’s a lot of creators out there who make a big name for themselves doing stunts—it’s a proven formula to win over subscribers, mostly in the form of American kids. And then some have used that platform to play the bad boy. These two were at the more vile end of that spectrum. Their YouTube channels were nasty, but on other platforms and forums they were extremely offensive. Anything from misogyny to saying the US needed to wipe out Syria and be done with it.”