Bury the Lead (16 page)

• • • • •

“H
E TOLD ME HE KILLED
my wife.” Daniel says this after considerable prodding, actually berating, on my part. He says it after I told him that he was going to lose this case unless I knew all the facts, every single one of them. And he says it with a shaky voice, the emotion of that night and the night his wife died coming back to him in torrents.

He seems so upset that I restrain my very real desire to strangle him with his handcuffs. This represents something that was critical for me to have known at the very beginning, not now, at the beginning of the end.

“When did he tell you that?” I ask, maintaining a calm demeanor.

“The night he killed Linda Padilla. That’s what he said when he first called me.”

“What else did he say?”

“That he would meet me in the park. That he would tell me who paid him to kill my wife . . . to kill Margaret.”

“And you believed that he killed her?”

He nods. “He was telling the truth. Absolutely.”

“How do you know that?”

“He knew what she was wearing . . . a bracelet I had given her for her anniversary. He said he took it . . . he described it.” He nods vigorously to punctuate his point. “There’s no doubt, Andy. He killed her.”

“Okay. So you got to the park . . . and then what?”

“I went to the place we were supposed to meet, the steps near the pavilion. He must have come up on me from behind, because the next thing I remember I was lying on the steps and talking to the cop.”

“Why didn’t you call the police in the first place?”

“He said if I did, or said anything to them, I’d never find out who ordered Margaret’s death. I needed to know that . . . I still do.”

“Is that all?”

He shakes his head but is silent for a few moments, apparently weighing his words. “No . . . he said he had the power to frame anybody he wanted for Margaret’s death,” he says, then more quietly, “He said he could make me appear guilty.”

“So that’s why you never told this to the police?”

“Partly, I guess. But mainly, it was because I didn’t want to lose contact with this guy. You’ve got to understand, I never dreamed they would charge me with Padilla’s murder. Hell, when I first spoke to the cop, I didn’t even know she
was
murdered. When they arrested me, I felt like I couldn’t change my story.”

I’m trying to process all this new information but having a difficult time. Right now all I can think about is what a selfdestructive asshole my client has been. It would make me feel better to tell him so, but I’m not sure his psyche could handle it.

“You’ve been a self-destructive asshole,” I blurt out, choosing my feelings over his psyche.

“I know,” he moans, making me sorry I said it. “Is all this too late to help?”

“I don’t know,” is my honest reply. “What else haven’t you told me?”

“That’s it. I swear.”

“Do you believe that someone paid to have your wife killed?”

He thinks this through for a few moments. “I know he killed her, and I doubt very much that Margaret knew him. So I have no reason to doubt that he was paid for it.”

I head back to the office to brief Laurie and Kevin on what I’ve just learned. We talk about the possible ways we can get this information to the jury, but it’s a short conversation because at this point there is just one possible way, and that is to have Daniel testify. It is not something I’m inclined to do, but fortunately, it’s not a decision I have to make right now.

I call Pete Stanton at the precinct, but I’m told that he has the day off. I try his cell phone number, and he answers on the first ring. I tell him that I need to discuss something with him, and I can actually hear his ears perk up through the phone, as his mind races to figure out how he can cost me money. Pete has never really handled my wealth very well, so he tries to reduce that wealth in any way that he can.

“Maybe we can talk after the Knicks game,” he says.

The Knicks are playing the Lakers tonight, and I was thinking of going over to Charlie’s to watch it, so Pete’s request is surprisingly painless. “You want to meet at Charlie’s?” I ask.

“I don’t think so. I’m getting tired of that place.”

“So where do you want to watch the game?”

“Courtside.”

The game is starting in four hours, is completely sold out, and Pete is expecting me to get tickets. He knows that the only possible way I could do that would be to call a scalper and pay a small fortune.

“You know,” I say, “you’re a greedy lowlife who has no understanding of the meaning of friendship.” I didn’t want to have to come down on him so hard, but he needs to understand that I feel strongly about this.

“Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah,” he counters. “Pick me up at the airfield at six.”

“You’re still doing that?” I ask.

“It’s more fun than sex,” he answers.

There’s no logical response for that, so I don’t offer one. Pete earns extra money at Teterboro Airport by taking pictures of people while they are skydiving and selling them the pictures if they make it to the ground alive. They are mostly beginners, out for a fun time, and Pete has been skydiving for many years.

I understand skydiving about as well as I understand Swahili and women, which is to say not at all. People jump out of planes so that they can get to the same ground they were safely on before they boarded the plane in the first place. Why is that exactly?

Of course, they are given equipment that guarantees their safety. Specifically, that equipment consists of a pack of nylon that they open up while hurtling toward the ground at about twelve million miles an hour. Now, I had never realized what an incredibly powerful substance nylon is. For instance, I’ve never heard of prisoners in maximum security prisons trying to cut through their nylon bars in a futile attempt at escape. Nor have I overheard a father at the lions’ exhibit at the zoo telling his frightened son not to worry because the nylon cage provides all the protection they could ever need.

Of course, the nylon is not the last resort. Sky divers also wear a little helmet for protection. Since they don’t wear body armor, if the nylon doesn’t open or hold up, are they supposed to try to land on their heads?

Death-defying acts like this are to me nonsensical. Why would I do them? What is the upside if everything goes perfectly? That I live? I can do that at home on the couch.

I arrive at the airfield just as Pete floats down. He sells his pictures and is in my car by six-fifteen. We’re at Madison Square Garden in less than an hour, first stopping at the will-call window so I can pick up the eight-hundred-dollar courtside tickets left by the good people at Irwin’s Ticket World. We then head for the seats, stopping only so that I can buy Pete a pair of thirty-six-ounce beers, one for each hand.

The first half is a disaster. The Knicks commit fourteen turnovers, are outrebounded on both ends of the floor, and head to the locker room down by sixteen, which represents one point for every hundred dollars I spent on the tickets.

The arena is understandably quiet during halftime, so I try to address the reason I’m here in the first place. “So let’s talk,” I say.

“Now? In the middle of Madison Square Garden? Come on, man, let me enjoy the game. We can go to Charlie’s afterwards and talk all you want.”

“I thought you were tired of Charlie’s.”

He nods. “I was, but I’m over that now.”

The Knicks are down by twenty-seven at the end of the third quarter, which is also when they stop selling beer, so I’m able to get Pete to leave. I start our talk on the way, since I’d just as soon this date not turn into an all-nighter.

“Do you know anything about Tommy Lassiter?” I ask.

He becomes instantly alert, no small feat considering he’s carrying around a bathtub full of beer in his gut. “What have you got to do with him?”

“He murdered Linda Padilla.”

He shakes his head. “He’s a contract killer; the best there is. But he’s not a serial killer.”

“I’m not speculating, Pete. I’m positive.”

“So take the proof that makes you so positive, show it to the judge, and get your case dismissed.”

“I have nothing to show the judge. But there’s no doubt in my mind.”

“Tell me how you know,” he says.

“We got one of the prisoners at County to talk. He said Lassiter arranged Randy Clemens’s murder.”

“You got someone to turn on Lassiter?” he asks, not concealing his incredulity.

I nod. “Marcus was persuasive with someone.”

He knows Marcus, so no further explanation is necessary. “So what are you asking me?”

“To help me catch him.”

Pete laughs, not the reaction I was hoping for. “Okay,” he says, “park over there and wait, and I’ll chase him toward you.”

“I’m serious, Pete. This guy keeps killing people; now might be a good time to get him off the streets.”

He’s now controlled himself to just a few chuckles. “Is he currently in the area?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I’ve got a feeling he might be. I know he was here the nights those people died.”

“Andy, you don’t know if he’s within a thousand miles of here. You have no evidence that he killed those people. What the hell do you want me to do, close the state borders?”

“Isn’t Lassiter already wanted for murder?” I ask.

“Of course. He was born wanted for murder.”

“So I’m a credible source telling you that I have information that he was recently in this area. Isn’t that enough for you to put out an APB or whatever the hell you guys put out?”

“You want me to go to my captain with this?”

I nod. “And tell him that somebody you trust, a goddamned officer of the court, came to you with this. Get him to send his picture out to every cop in the state. And get me a copy of his picture as well.”

“Come on, Andy . . .”

“What’s the downside, Pete? That he’s gone and we don’t find him?”

He nods. “Okay.”

Satisfied with this concession, I bail out of the trip to Charlie’s and drop him off at his house. When I get to my house, it’s almost midnight and Laurie is already in bed.

“Hi,” she says sleepily. “How did it go?”

“He said he’ll do the best he can.”

She smiles. “Good. Come to bed.”

I start to get undressed. “I forgot to tell you. Cindy’s getting married.”

“That’s nice,” she says, though I think she’s more intent on falling back to sleep than hearing what I’m saying.

“She says that when you know, you know.”

“Mmmm” is all she can muster, now almost completely out of it.

“I think she’s right about that. Don’t you?”

“Mmmm.”

I’ll take that as a yes.

• • • • •

C
APTAIN
T
ERRY
M
ILLEN
is Tucker’s final witness and the one that ties his case up quite nicely. Millen was in charge of the murder investigation from the early point in which the state police were called in, and he had the most connection to Daniel of anyone in law enforcement.

The physical evidence has already been powerfully introduced, so Tucker will undoubtedly let Millen’s testimony focus on Daniel’s unique knowledge of the murders. His contention is that Daniel knew these things only because he was the killer, while our defense is that the killer was simply communicating the information to Daniel.

Before Millen takes the stand, I lose a heated argument during which I again oppose the introduction of testimony concerning the three other victims and especially photographs of them. This defeat makes it official: We have received no benefit at all from Tucker’s decision to limit the charges to the Padilla murder.

Tucker starts off Millen’s testimony by showing all of those photographs and letting the full impact of their gruesomeness inflame the jury. Daniel tries to obey my instructions to remain as impassive as possible, but I can tell from the look on his face that he is having an emotional reaction to them. I’m sure part of that reaction must be that he is aware the world thinks he is responsible for this carnage.

During a break, Daniel leans over to me. “Can I have copies of your files on the other victims besides Padilla?”

Until now, Daniel has been studying up on the Padilla murder but hasn’t come up with any helpful insights. He hasn’t looked at the other files because he hasn’t been charged with those murders. “Why?” I ask.

“I don’t know, maybe it will jog something in my mind. Some way to prove I couldn’t have been at one of the murders.” He shakes his head. “It’s not like I’ve got a lot of other things to do, you know?”

I agree to get him the copies, though I have little hope he’ll come up with anything at this late date.

The break ends, and Tucker again starts to question Millen. “When did you become involved in this case, Captain?”

“After the second murder, Mrs. Simonson. We were called in to consult. It was after the third murder—all we have for her name is Rosalie—that we took over, and I was officially placed in charge.”

“What did the defendant tell you about that murder?”

“He told us that she was murdered in her own apartment, that her hands were cut off, and that her body was left behind a particular Dumpster,” Millen says.

“Did the defendant say how he knew all of this?”

Millen nods. “Yes, he said that the killer phoned him and bragged about it.”

“Did the information turn out to be correct?”

Again Millen nods. “Every word of it.”

“By the way,” Tucker asks, “have there been any more murders of this exact type since the defendant’s arrest?”

“No.”

Tucker takes the next three hours getting Millen to recount every communication he had with Daniel, emphasizing the many facts that Daniel knew about the murders that turned out to be true. By the time he turns Millen over to me, the words “the defendant” and “the killer” seem to be interchangeable.

“Captain Millen,” I begin, “during all these conversations with Mr. Cummings, when he was giving you all this information, did you believe he was communicating with the killer?”

“I wasn’t sure,” he says. “I had my doubts.”

“When you say you had your doubts, do you mean you thought he might have been lying?”

“It certainly crossed my mind.”

“And if you thought he might be lying, but he had all this accurate information, then you must have thought he might have been the killer?”

“That’s correct.”

“Maybe you can help me, Captain. The prosecution turned over copies of their evidence in discovery, but they seem to have left out the surveillance report. Do you have a copy?”

He looks puzzled. “What surveillance is that?”

“The surveillance on Mr. Cummings.”

“To my knowledge, he was not placed under surveillance.”

“I see. So you believed Mr. Cummings was very possibly lying, which means you believed he was very possibly the killer, but you did not have him watched? You had no fear he would murder again?”

Millen is in a box. My guess is, he did not suspect Daniel until the cell phone story proved a lie, and therefore had no reason to have him followed. Claiming now that he doubted Daniel’s story all along makes him look partly responsible for Linda Padilla’s death.

“He was not followed,” Millen says, tight-lipped.

“Why not?” I ask. “You didn’t consider him a potential danger to the public?”

“It’s very easy to look back and judge decisions; hindsight is twenty-twenty. But we were in the middle of an intense investigation . . .”

“So you thought he might be the murderer, but you didn’t have him followed because the investigation was too intense? You operate more efficiently in mellow investigations?”

He doesn’t have a good answer for this, so I ask basically the same question another half dozen times until Tucker objects and Calvin orders me to move on.

“In your dealings with Mr. Cummings, did he seem like an intelligent man?”

“I suppose so,” he says grudgingly.

“Were you familiar with his work as a crime reporter?”

“Somewhat.”

“When you searched his car and apartment, were you surprised that the evidence was right there for you to find it?”

“Nothing surprises me anymore. If the world operated solely by logic, these people wouldn’t have been killed in the first place.”

“So you admit it would be illogical for Mr. Cummings, or any guilty person, to keep the evidence in his apartment like that?”

“Serial killers are not logical people.”

“Are they self-destructive?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do they want to be caught?”

“Often they do.”

“Captain, do you believe my client hit himself in the head in Eastside Park that night?”

“I do.”

“With what?”

Millen reacts, though he certainly had to know this was coming. The police never found anything that could be shown to have hit Daniel’s head.

“I don’t know. He must have gotten rid of it.”

“Where?”

“I can’t be sure,” he says. “We couldn’t test every piece of wood in the entire park.”

“But you tested everything within five hundred yards of the pavilion?”

“We tried to.”

“You
tried
to?” I say with mocking disbelief. “Any chance you succeeded?”

He stares a dagger at me, but his voice is controlled. “I believe we did.”

“No DNA evidence tying anything to Mr. Cummings?”

“No.”

“So you believe that Mr. Cummings was self-protective enough to hide the incriminating weapon he used to hit himself, but self-destructive enough to leave the severed hands in his car?”

I’ve trapped him in a small corner, and he looks worried. He finally comes up with, “As I said, serial killers are rarely logical. It would be nice if what they did made sense, but it often doesn’t.”

“It would also be nice if your testimony made sense. No further questions.”

My eye contact with Kevin as I head back to the defense table confirms my fears. I made headway, but not nearly enough.

Since this is Tucker’s last witness, Calvin adjourns for the day, giving me until Monday morning to come up with some kind of defense case. As I leave the courtroom, I find myself alongside Eliot Kendall. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in almost a week; I had assumed that his business interests had called him back to Cleveland.

“Mind if I walk with you?” he asks.

“Not at all,” I lie. I’d rather be alone to rehash today’s testimony in my mind, but he asked nicely and I don’t feel like insulting him.

We go down the courtroom steps and start heading toward the parking lot. “I haven’t seen you around for a while,” I say.

He nods. “I was back home. My father died.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Eliot’s father was Byron Kendall, an enormously powerful trucking magnate, possibly a billionaire. If I weren’t so consumed with the trial and oblivious to the world, I probably would have learned about his death from the media.

He nods sadly. “Thank you. He was eighty-four and very sick for years, but it still comes as a shock.”

“Is your mother alive?” I ask.

Another sad shake. “No, she died almost fifteen years ago. What about you? Parents alive?”

“No. My mother died four years ago, my father last year,” I say. “Being an orphan, even a middle-aged one, takes some getting used to.”

He nods, and we don’t say anything for a while, each reflecting on what we have lost. He breaks the silence. “How’s the case going?”

I want to tell him the truth, that his friend is in deep, deep shit, but I don’t. “We’re plugging along,” I say. “It’s a struggle.”

“My investigators have drawn a blank,” he says. “I probably should have hired local rather than bringing guys in from Cleveland.” He grins a wry grin. “We don’t have the home-field advantage here.”

A good idea hits me, a rarity these days. Eliot has been offering his help all along, and I’ve been fending him off, but that’s about to change. “Can you come back to my office?” I ask. “There might be a way you can help after all.”

He practically salivates at the opportunity, and ten minutes later we’re back at my office. I get right to the point. “Have you ever heard the name Tommy Lassiter?”

His expression is blank. “No. Who is he?”

“He’s a professional murderer, a hit man. I have reason to believe that he murdered Linda Padilla and the other women.”

“You know that for sure?”

I nod. “Pretty much.”

“This is great. You want me to have my investigators look for him?”

“No, I’m about to let the media do that. Did you know Daniel’s wife?”

“Margaret? I knew her . . . I mean, not very well . . . but I went out to dinner with her and Daniel a few times.” He looks confused. “Why? What does she have to do with this?”

“It’s important that you keep this in confidence,” I say.

“Of course. Sure.”

“I also have reason to believe that Lassiter murdered Margaret.”

“Why? Why would he do that?”

“That’s where you come in. Lassiter works for money; if he killed Margaret, he was hired to do it. What I need to know is who might have done the hiring. Who would have wanted her dead and had the money to make it happen.”

Eliot sits down, lost in thought. “I don’t know . . . I can’t think of anybody that might have done that. I’ve always assumed it was a random murder . . . some psychopath.”

“It’s something you could look into, if you’re so inclined. Since it’s on your turf, you’d have home-field advantage.”

He promises to do so and expresses his appreciation for the opportunity. I lead him into the outer office, where Willie and Sondra are waiting for me. Sondra looks gorgeous and is decked out in even more jewelry than the last time I saw her, having added a ruby bracelet to the gold watch and alexandrite locket. I make a mental note to gently suggest to Willie that he slow down on the expensive gifts, though it is certainly none of my business.

I introduce Willie and Sondra to Eliot, who seems to be more interested in staring at Sondra than Willie. I briefly wonder if Eliot would be more or less interested in Sondra if he knew her employment history, then I wonder if Willie is noticing Eliot staring at her. Because if he is, Eliot could soon be skydiving out the window without a helmet or Pete to take his picture.

Just in case, I rush Eliot out the door, then return to them.

“You see that guy staring at Sondra?” Willie asks me.

“Come on, Willie,” Sondra says. “You think everybody is staring at me.”

“Damn right,” he says.

Willie goes on to say that they stopped by to tell me the foundation was going to be closed on Monday and Tuesday, that they were going to head down to Atlantic City for a couple of days of gambling and relaxation.

I’m hit with a sudden wave of envy. I would like to forget Daniel and Tucker and Calvin and Dominic Petrone and especially Lassiter by planting myself at a blackjack table. Nobody’s life would be at stake, and my toughest decision would be whether to stand, draw, or double down.

But I’m not going to go. I’m going to stay here and be miserable. It’s what I do for a living.

But first I’m going to go on television.