by Jason Rose
“He took a new job?” I ask hopefully, while seriously doubting that’s what he meant.
“No, he died.”
“How?”
“Wild animal attack.”
“In Boston?” I ask in surprise. Not believing for a second that Rodrigo Ruiz was killed by a wild animal.
“No. Not in Boston. Other than Sox fans, there aren’t too many animals around here.” Sean lets out a laugh at his own joke. Laughing at yourself, even when you’re not funny, is rule one to being a good lawyer. You’d be surprised how often others join in and nothing creates a quicker bond than a shared laugh. “He went on a hunting trip to Canada. He must have left some food out or something. They think a bear got him in his sleep. The details were quite gruesome. Left behind a new wife and a young child. I really liked Rodrigo; the whole thing is tragic.” Sean gets a faraway look in his eye.
“Sounds like it,” I answer, not wanting to interrupt whatever memory of Rodrigo Sean is experiencing.
Sean’s eyes refocus and make contact with mine. “What case? What’s the name of your client? Maybe I can get you the file.”
“Eirik Varulv,” I answer, all the while watching Sean carefully for his reaction to the name.
“The Butcher of Pittsfield?” he asks in surprise.
“He prefers to go by Eirik, and I’m not sure he did it,” I respond.
“Of course.” Sean knowingly shrugs, likely having given similar responses hundreds of times throughout his career. “I thought that case was closed, being that he confessed and all.”
“The family is concerned about some irregularities.”
“Aren’t they always.” Sean’s brow wrinkles as concern sets in. “Are you investigating the competency of Rodrigo’s representation? Because Rodrigo was a stand-up guy, he—"
“—Nothing like that. Just trying to understand why Mr. Varulv did what he did . . . allegedly.”
Sean smiles, clearly relieved I’m not investigating his deceased coworker. “We’ve switched to digital files. Trying to save trees and all that.” Sean watches me survey the file-filled office and shrugs. “At least we’ve tried to—we still have to print everything and take it to court with us. I actually think we use more paper now than ever.”
I nod, completely understanding his sentiments.
“Let me log into my computer and copy our files onto a memory stick for you.”
“That would be great. Thanks.”
Sean retrieves a plain blue memory stick from his desk drawer and plugs it into his laptop. He enters his password and searches for Eirik’s file. After a few minutes, he looks up from the monitor and gives me a confused look. “It’s weird. None of Rodrigo’s interview notes, case work-up, or even the video of the confession are in the file. It’s like they’ve been deleted, which should be impossible, we have backups of backups. The file is empty other than the generic stuff that would be part of the public record available at the courthouse, stuff you probably already have, like the police report, a copy of the signed confession, and the legal pleadings. I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say.”
“There was a video of the confession?” I ask.
“Sure. There should be. I mean I haven’t seen it, but it’s standard practice to videotape any and all confessions. You know how it is. Clients sometimes get buyer’s remorse and we are always the ones that get blamed. We have to protect ourselves. Video is the best way to do that. I can’t imagine Rodrigo would have allowed his client to make a confession without videotaping it. He was a by-the-book guy.”
I nod, doubting anything about this case was by the book or that there was ever a videotaped confession. Certainly, getting eaten by a bear wasn’t by the book. “Was there anyone who worked on the case with Rodrigo?”
“No, we can only afford to assign one public defender to each client. We’re short on resources.” Sean hands me the memory stick. “I copied what we have. Sorry I can’t be of more help. I’ll talk to our IT guys and see if we have the files backed up somewhere. Do you have a card?”
“Thanks.” I stand and hand Sean one of the new business cards that Sinn had printed up for me. We’re still arguing about the name of our firm.
“Arcane Justice?” Sean frowns. “That’s a strange name for a law firm.”
“It’s a work in progress.”
“Why not just use your name?”
“The Valentine law firm? Sounds like a divorce firm. Marriage and divorce law is not really my wheelhouse. Plus, we offer other services beyond just the law.
“Like what?”
“Investigation and other stuff. Nothing too fancy. Normal stuff.”
“I see,” he answers. “Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.” Sean awkwardly reaches out and shakes my hand. He has a firm grip. The grip of a man who’s moved in circles where men are judged by their handshake. I hate those circles. If I could, I would burn them all to the ground. Too old and stuffy for me. Let’s modernize the handshake and bring the fist bump to the forefront of polite society.
As I turn to leave, I stop. “The family indicated that the case was transferred here from Pittsfield and it was done quickly within hours of the murders—is that normal?”
Sean frowns. “Unusual, but not unheard of. They aren’t really equipped out there in Pittsfield to handle a case like that. Someone probably hit the panic button and asked us to step in immediately.”
“I noticed the confession happened within hours of the arrest and that Ruiz was there in person. Don’t you find that a little odd?”
Sean tilts his head to the side in contemplation. “Are you sure about that? That’s weird. Even if Ruiz was assigned the case immediately, he typically wouldn’t get involved until just before the arraignment, probably days after the arrest. He was a public defender and, although we try to be as efficient for our clients as we can, we have hundreds of active cases and full court calendars. I’m speculating here, but maybe he had a light court day and decided to get involved early. It’s rare, but it does happen.”
“Can you check what his schedule was like that day?”
“Sorry, we don’t really track our employees’ calendars. They do that themselves.”
“Thanks, you have been very helpful. Oh, one more thing, was Mr. Ruiz an avid hunter?”
Sean shakes his head. “No, not at all. In fact, his trip to Canada was the first time I ever knew him to go hunting, or even take a vacation, for that matter. It was unexpected, a last-second thing. Talk about dumb luck.”
“Yeah, dumb luck.” Somehow, I doubt luck had anything to do with it.
Chapter Twelve
I sip my second martini, less olives and vermouth, stirred not shaken, as there was no shaker, and stare out of the oversized boxed windows at the industrial rooftops of Boston. I know a martini without olives or vermouth is just straight vodka, but there were only martini glasses on the rolling bar cart in the corner, and as far as I am concerned, if you put vodka in a martini glass, it’s a martini. A martini is the only drink I can think of that is defined by its glassware rather than its ingredients. You put gin in a martini glass, it’s a martini. You put vodka and chocolate milk in a martini glass it’s a martini. You put rye in a martini glass it’s still a martini. This particular martini isn’t very good. All I was offered was a middling brand of vodka with a charcoal taste to it and sweet vermouth, which is disgusting when mixed with vodka. At least the ambiance isn’t bad. The view from this conference room, which is on the top floor of a metal and glass tower that houses the Pack’s high and probably over-priced law firm, is amazing. Selling it as a million-dollar view would be selling it short. I couldn’t help myself, I took two selfies against the skyline when I got here. I must be careful about when I post them. It might seem odd if I’m in Oakland in the morning, and Boston in the afternoon. Ever since I inherited my gate-pen, my life has gotten complicated, and in ways I never anticipated.
I check my phone again; they‘ve now kept me waiting for nearly a half an hour—
what a bunch of bitches. Time to raise a ruckus. I reach over and grab an empty crystal martini glass from the drink cart and nonchalantly toss it onto the hard, dark-colored floor. For practice, I activate my battle sense and watch in slow motion as the crystal breaks into a million pieces—it’s quite beautiful. The glass makes a harmonic ringing sound as it shatters, echoing through the room. The crystal shards skip across the floor like icebergs across a dark lake. I’m getting better at using my abilities on command and everything looks better in slow motion. Have you seen Beyoncé’s Single Ladies video in slow motion? It’s phenomenal. A work of art.
An assistant comes running into the room, surveys the broken glass on the floor, the full drink in my hand, and gives me a questioning look as if to ask what happened? I merely shrug and say, “Oops.” The assistant cleans up the glass and exits without speaking a word.
After another five minutes of waiting, I top off my drink, grab another empty martini glass and toss it on the floor—this time with a little more force. The crystal really has a nice tone to it when it smashes. The same assistant comes rushing in and gives me an accusatory look. I smile, tip my full martini glass towards the assistant and say, “Oops, I did it again.” Brittany was playing in the elevator on the way up and I just can’t help myself. Her early songs are catchy. I should probably feel guilty about the mess I am making for the assistant—I don’t. I’m tired of waiting and they probably should have checked if I was housebroken. The assistant, finally putting two and two together, frowns and exits this time with some purpose. Now that I’ve figuratively peed on the floor, I take a seat at the conference table and wait for someone to come and scold me.
It isn’t long before two preppy douchebags, who probably played lacrosse in college, wearing thousand-dollar Italian suits over colored oxford shirts with contrasting white collars, enter the room. The bigger of the two sits down at the conference table across from me and does his best to intimidate me with his unblinking stare and onion breath. The other touches a panel on the wall, causing it to recess and slide open, revealing an old dusty bottle of Irish whiskey and two square crystal rocks glasses, the kind with weight to them, that feel like they were meant to be held. I watch enviously as he pours two glasses of aged Irish gold and then closes the panel. He sets one in front of his partner and sits across from me while he sips from the other.
I can’t help but smirk at the entire setup, the huge conference room, the expensive view, the cheap vodka, the martini glass designed to emasculate, and the ancient whiskey in rocks glasses meant to project old-world dominance. The only thing missing is a cigar. I wonder how often this whole intimidation routine works. It’s just my luck, it seems like I can’t go five minutes today without getting into a dick-measuring contest with a dogman. Recognizing the rules of the game, I lean back in the comfortable leather conference chair and sip my martini in the most flamboyant and boisterous way possible. When confronted by wild animals or rich frat boys, it’s important not to show fear.
After an awkwardly long silence, the lead dog finally speaks, “Mr. Valentine, my name is Patrick Conroy and my colleague is Doyle Duddy, Duddy for short; what can we do for you?”
“I take it you know who I am and why I’m here?” Mr. Conroy half nods, half sighs with discontent as if this is a waste of his valuable time and I should get on with it.
“I want to know everything you know about Eirik Varulv.” Neither Mr. Conroy or Mr. Duddy respond to my question. They both just stare as if waiting for me to say more.
“You two are handling his state case?” I ask in a less than friendly tone.
“Mr. Valentine, the case is over. He was convicted.”
“You’re not appealing?” I ask in surprise.
“On what grounds?” questions Mr. Conroy, in a smug know-it-all manner. “Did a California lawyer come all the way to Boston to teach us something about Massachusetts law?” Duddy smirks and continues to stare holes into me.
I pause and take a deep breath to swallow the fear building up inside of me. I freely admit I’m afraid, not of these two knuckleheads, but of what I might do to these two idiots if they keep mucking about. Ever since I woke up months ago wearing this magic ring that won’t come off until I die—at least that’s what I’ve been told, I find myself drawn to violence and liking it. I never used to be much of a fighter; I mean, of course, growing up like I grew up, in the places I was raised, you sometimes had to fight, and I did, but I never liked it or sought it out. The past few months, I’ve been on edge and having a lot of dark and violent thoughts. Right now, I feel like painting my very own Jackson Pollock tribute by tossing one of these morons through the oversized window behind me and then watching in slow motion as he falls, floor by floor, splattering onto the grey concrete canvas below. Art makes me smile and I love it when artists set bright colors against a monochromatic background. Contrast triggers an emotional response in me, and isn’t that what art is supposed to do?
I think it is time to shift tactics and put Conroy and Duddy on defense. Sometimes the best way to get someone to talk is to call the quality of their work into question. It’s a similar trick to what cops use when a suspect won’t talk. They’ll accuse them of something the cop knows the suspect didn’t do. Most people who are wrongly accused get defensive and riled up, and once the spigot is turned on, they won’t stop talking.
“Adrian sent me here to find out if you did your job right.” I use Adrian’s name to intimate a close relationship between us, a bit of an over-exaggeration, but all’s fair in love and lawyering, especially embellishment. “We’re concerned,” I use the royal we to further exaggerate my point, “he’s overpaying you. Tell me what you did to work this case up?”
For the first time since he entered the room, Patrick Conroy looks uncertain. He is probably weighing the likelihood that Adrian really is unhappy and considering the financial hit the firm would take if Adrian pulled his business or just flat out ripped his head off. Adrian is “the Lycanthrope,” and is not someone to fuck with. Patrick’s lacrosse-playing sidekick Duddy is still doing his best unblinking tough guy statue impression, but Patrick’s eyes are moving rapidly, which tells me he’s concerned, at least a little. Curveballs will do that to you; a nasty curve will get you all crossed up, make you sacrifice a chicken—just ask Pedro Cerrano.
“We came into the case late. There was already a confession. His public defender screwed it up before we got involved,” answers Patrick, immediately trying to deflect any potential blame onto the public defender.
I nod in understanding. I think every lawyer can appreciate the frustration associated with being handed a turd of a case after somebody else already screwed it up. “Did he do it?” I ask. “Despite the confession, you did investigate the actual murders, didn’t you?”
Patrick turns to Doyle. “Go get the file.” Duddy makes a grunting sound, clearly displeased with the order, but pushes himself up out of his chair and exits the room. Patrick sips his whiskey, clearly content to wait for Duddy’s return before progressing further in our discussion.
After a few minutes, Duddy returns with a memory stick which he sets on the table in front of me with a grunt.
Patrick leans forward in his chair and motions towards the stick with his glass. “The stick contains our investigation notes and the video footage from the hotel lobby. There is no question that Eirik murdered those people. While a lot of the video is blurry and you can’t see all of the murders, poor camera placement, Eirik was a fucking maniac with that ax. A true artist. Probably deserves his own horror franchise.”
“Do we know why?” I ask, ignoring Duddy’s chuckling.
Patrick shrugs. “Who cares? Other than the princess, they were just a bunch of humans.”
“Is his granddaughter's murder caught on camera?” I ask, ignoring the bait.
“Nope, camera missed the main event.”
This guy is making it really hard on me. I really want to throw his ass through the plate glass windows. The
only thing keeping him alive is my respect for the view. It would be a tragedy to ruin it with blood splatter. “Did you find anything out of the ordinary during your investigation?”
“We had a mage look at the scene.” Patrick pauses and takes a sip of his whiskey.
“Did he find anything?”
“Waste of time. He found traces of magical energy, but he couldn’t confirm the source. For all he knew some other guest had cast a sex spell or applied magical eyeliner before heading to dinner,” replies Patrick.
“Sex spell?” I ask, half afraid of the answer.
“It’s like a Molly and Viagra cocktail. Makes fucking feel amazing and last all night long,” chimes in Duddy, who’s clearly the frat boy he appears to be. I think I liked him better when he was quiet and staring me down.
Patrick shrugs and looks over at his buddy, “Never needed it myself. I always go all night long. I like to beat that pussy up!” Patrick punches Duddy in the arm while he talks and the two laugh like the dicks they are.
“Is that it?” I ask, impatience bleeding into my question.
“No,” answers Patrick defensively. “We also had doctors evaluate Eirik to try and determine if he’s faking it—he’s not. He is fucking gone. I mean he moves, he eats, he shits, but nobody’s home.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen him.”
Both Patrick and Duddy look at me with surprise. When someone is off balance it is important to keep pressing. “What about the confession?”
“We looked into the confession, it’s total bullshit. Eirik doesn’t have the mental faculties to confess to anything.”
I nod in agreement. Just as I’m about to ask another question, Duddy blurts out, “Fucking P.D. got his—.”
Patrick puts his hand up cutting Duddy off, “We heard he got eaten by a bear. Very unfortunate.” Duddy gives Patrick a funny look but doesn’t correct him. I have a feeling there is a story here, one I am probably not going to like, one that involves werewolves tearing Rodrigo Ruiz limb from limb—not a bear. Just as I am about to demand the truth, my cell phone vibrates. I look down at the name, it’s Wilson.