Capitol Offense (5 page)

“Cop?” Ben took a deep breath. “In the first place, Dennis, you won’t get life. You kill a cop, you’ll almost certainly be executed. In the second place, what are you talking about? I haven’t heard about any cops out on murder sprees.”

“He refused to investigate. Wouldn’t even open a file. I asked him repeatedly. Every day from the moment she disappeared. He wouldn’t do it.”

“He must’ve had a reason.”

“He had lots of reasons. But he didn’t do it because he didn’t want to. He’s just occupying oxygen, waiting to put his twenty on. My wife wasn’t enough to get him off his butt.”

“So you blame your wife’s death—”

“She didn’t just die, Senator. She suffered. She was seriously wounded, trapped in a car for seven days, slowly dying. In excruciating pain. Can you imagine what that felt like, to experience that kind of agony, and dehydration, and starvation? For seven days? Eventually, I got someone else to authorize an investigation. Do you know how long it took them to find her? Three hours! She suffered for seven days because that dirty cop couldn’t spare three hours!”

“I can tell you’re upset, and I don’t blame you. But believe me, revenge is not the right course of action. File a civil suit if you must.”

“Civil suits against the police never succeed.”

Sadly, Ben knew he was largely correct. “I can’t condone crime. And I certainly can’t in any way support you in a crime that hasn’t even happened yet.”

Dennis drew himself up slowly, folded his hands, and took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. You must’ve misunderstood me. What did you think I was proposing—murder? Gosh, I guess I didn’t explain myself clearly. The truth is, I’m writing a book.”

Ben looked at him levelly. “Go on.”

“That’s life in academia. Publish or perish. And I’m sure you know how important research is for a scholarly book. You’ve written books yourself, haven’t you?”

“Yes. Nonfiction.”

“Well, I’m planning a literary novel, something different from my usual critical analyses, and in my totally fictional story, a man commits murder, but then tries to get a pardon to get himself off. Or failing that, takes steps to establish a claim of temporary insanity.”

“Do tell.”

“So my point in coming here is to find out what would be the best steps to take to support a subsequent claim of temporary insanity. You can help me with that, can’t you? Since you are an author as well as a lawyer?”

“But I’m not a total idiot.”

“I understand that you—I mean, the lawyer in my book—would need to be able to show that I was unable to distinguish right from wrong at the time the murder was committed.”

“Yeeeeeesss …”

“What if I were on some kind of drug? Would that help? Or maybe if I forgot to put my clothes on? That would certainly show diminished capacity, wouldn’t it? If I were standing there starkers wearing nothing but a gun?”

Ben rose to his feet. “Look, I don’t know who you think you’re dealing with, but this has gone far enough. Despite what you’ve said, this sounds a whole lot like you’re planning a murder and trying to get advice on the best way to do it!”

“What about irresistible impulse? I’m thinking that might be the best way to go.”

Ben’s brows knitted together. “Exactly what kind of research have you been doing?”

“I think the jury would believe that I was unable to control myself, after all that’s happened to me. And that’s all you need, right? Just an excuse for jury nullification. Getting the jury to ignore the law and reach a verdict based on sympathy for the defendant.”

“Why temporary insanity? Why not just claim you’re absolutely totally stark raving insane?”

“Ah, but then I—I mean, my character—would be committed, right? If he succeeds on a claim of temporary insanity, however, he goes free. No jail because he wasn’t responsible for his actions, and no commitment because the insanity was only temporary.”

“You wouldn’t go free. Not after killing a cop, not even on a temporary insanity defense. You’d be committed for observation.”

“Yes, but for how long? Until the doctors think I’m well and won’t be a threat to society? That shouldn’t take long.”

“Look. I’m not going to have anything to do with what sounds to me like a very twisted little scheme.”

“I’m just doing research!”

“Yeah, and I’m just waiting for my Yankees tryout. I’m a member of the bar, Mr. Thomas—”

“Dr. Thomas, if you don’t mind. I’m a Ph.D.”

Ben drew in his breath. “—not to mention a U.S. senator. I’m an elected—well, appointed official. I can’t assist you in the commission of a crime. In fact, I have a duty to report any plans to commit a criminal act.”

“I said nothing about any plan to commit a crime. I told you, I’m just researching a book. Although …”

“Although you might just lose your head and take drugs and go commit a murder with your clothes off? I want you out of my office.”

Dennis picked up his briefcase. “Fine. If you say so.” He stood, then hesitated a moment. “You know, Mr. Kincaid, I have to say—I’m disappointed. I heard you were different. I heard you didn’t just take care of yourself. I heard you cared about other people.”

“Way too many people are talking about me these days. Look, I care about other people, but—”

“No, you’re covering your own butt, like everyone else. Playing by the rules. The same attitude that got my Joslyn killed in the first place.”

“That’s not fair.”

“It’s disappointing. I heard you weren’t afraid to bend the rules here and there in the name of justice.”

“Bend the rules? You’re talking about murder!”

“No. I’m talking about the man who killed my wife. Deliberately.” He hunched forward, leaning against Ben’s desk. “Did I tell you that my wife’s liver failed? Totally shut down. The buildup of toxins in her body was horrifying. Physicians have told me that’s the worst kind of pain it’s possible to experience. Constant. Inescapable. Imagine enduring that for seven days, helpless to do anything about it.”

“My heart goes out to you for your loss, but—”

“Her left leg was gangrenous. Even if she had lived it would’ve had to be amputated. She was so hungry she tried to eat the vinyl upholstery on the seat she was pinned down against.”

Ben felt a dryness in his throat. “You have my sympathy, but—”

“You’re a married man, senator. Do you love your wife?”

“Of course I do. More than—”

“Would you want to see her tortured for seven days?”

“Of course not.”

“I know you wouldn’t. I can see it in your eyes. If you were in my shoes, you would feel exactly the same way I do.”

“But I would never contemplate murder,” Ben replied, realizing how weak and unconvincing he sounded.

“Did I tell you I didn’t get to say goodbye?” He collapsed on the desk, his head falling onto his arms. “I saw her for only a moment, when they pulled her out of the car. Then the … the bastard cop had me arrested for hitting him. What self-respecting husband wouldn’t?”

Without even thinking about it, Ben placed his hand on Dennis’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

“I was locked up late on a Friday. I couldn’t get an attorney, couldn’t get released before my arraignment. By the time I was out—” His voice cracked. “They had already cremated Joslyn. That was her wish—but it was implemented before I was released. She was gone. I never got to see her, Mr. Kincaid. I never even said goodbye!”

Ben pressed against his shoulder, hoping to somehow feed the man the comfort that eluded him. “I know how hard dealing with grief can be. But murder is not the answer. It won’t help anything. And you won’t get away with it. You’ll be convicted. Would your wife have wanted that? The best thing you can do is move forward, get on with your life. If you want to bring some action against the police department, I will help you. Sure, the odds are long, but I have personally experienced police misconduct like you wouldn’t believe. I know it happens—much more frequently than anyone wants to acknowledge. I will fight to the last to see that your wrong is righted. I promise you.”

Ben knelt down beside him. “Will you let me? Will you let me do that for you?”

Dennis slowly rose to his feet. He brushed his wet face, then tugged at the lay of his shirt. “I’m sorry you weren’t able to help me, Mr. Kincaid.”

“Dennis …”

“Even though you won’t be representing me, I assume this conversation is protected by attorney-client privilege. Since I came in as a prospective client.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t extend to planning criminal—”

“I didn’t say anything about any plan. I’m researching a book. So the privilege applies. And we have nothing more to talk about.”

Christina peered across the fifteen-by-fifteen grid, obviously not pleased.

“There is no way I am accepting this, Ben.
Za
is not a word.”

“It is.”

“What does it mean?”

“It’s slang for a slice of pizza.”

“If it’s slang, it shouldn’t be in the dictionary.”

“But it is. And that makes it a valid Scrabble word.”

“Use it in a sentence.”

Ben contemplated a moment. “Whenever I look at you, I think, Wow-
Za
.”

She gave him the look that he had come to recognize as the sort of serious irritation that only total acquiescence or pizza from Mario’s could fix. “I am not going to let you make sixty-two points for playing one lousy tile!”

“There just happened to be an opening on the triple-letter space. I got lucky.”

“It might be the last time.”

“You mean I can’t play
qi?”

She closed her eyelids. “No, you innocent waif. That is not what I mean.”

Ben normally looked forward to these evenings when no one was in trial and they were both home at a decent hour and they could unwind with a round of the greatest of all board games. But Christina seemed uncommonly stressed tonight.

“Something on your mind?”

She flopped around and lay down in his lap. “As a matter of fact, yes. I’m concerned about that client you saw today. Dennis Whatever. The professor.”

Ben stroked his two young cats, Mellisandro and Dellisandro, and they curled themselves against his foot. Their mother, Giselle, watched from her cushy bed in the corner. The cats loved Ben, followed him everywhere, mostly to the exclusion of all others. Christina patiently tolerated their unmitigated partisanship. “He was a little creepy.”

“He was more than just creepy, Ben. He’s planning to kill someone!”

“He never actually said that.”

“He didn’t have to. It was obvious. That’s why he was there.”

“He said he was there because he wondered hypothetically if I would be able to arrange a pardon. Because he was researching a book. A work of fiction.”

She took his hand. “Ben, I don’t want to see you get in trouble over this. Especially not when you’re planning a reelection campaign. Maybe you should report it to the bar association.”

“If he had said he was planning to commit a crime, I would agree. But unless and until he does that, prospective client interviews are protected by privilege. Even though I didn’t help him, I’m still bound not to reveal anything I was told.”

“Unless he says he’s going to commit a crime.”

“Which he did not. The test is whether I believe he’s planning to hurt someone. And I don’t.”

“And that’s based on what? Your profound understanding of human nature? Give me a break, Ben. You’re clueless when it comes to people. You couldn’t psychoanalyze a Barbie doll.”

She had a point. He wanted to argue and defend himself, but unfortunately, he could never win an argument with her, especially when she was right.

“I know what you’re saying. I’ve been agonizing over this, too. I just don’t know what to do.”

“You have to protect yourself.”

“I have to protect the victim. If there is one.”

“That’s another problem. You don’t even know who it is.” She raised her hand to the side of his cheek. “Well, sleep on it. Perhaps in the morning it will all be clear.”

“Good idea.”

“Sleepy yet?”

“Not really.”

She sat upright and smiled. “Good. Let’s go to bed.”

And then he heard the Blue Danube waltz. His cell phone. This sort of untimely interruption seemed to happen more frequently these days. Or perhaps it just seemed that way because, being newlyweds, something else was happening more frequently …

He flipped open his phone. “Yes?”

“Boss? Jones. Having a good evening?”

“Trying.”

“Still wringing your hands over whether to report that guy who might be planning to kill a cop?”

“Pretty much.”

“Well, you can stop.”

“Can I now? Why is that?”

There was a brief static-filled pause before Jones continued. “Because he just did it.”

After Ben showed his ID, the uniform at the door allowed him to pass beyond the crime scene tape. The room at the Marriott Southern Hills was a spacious suite, but it didn’t take him any time at all to determine where the action was. Crime scene techs scrambled all over the site where the body was found. Videographers recorded everything. Two outlines had been drawn on the carpeted floor.

Major Mike Morelli stared at the scene, standing just above one of the outlined figures and a huge patch of bloodstained carpet, his hands deeply thrust into his coat pockets. Ben had seen this expression before. Mike was not pleased.

“That looks … awful,” Ben said, staring down at the carpet.

Mike nodded. “April really is the cruelest month, huh? ‘The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere / The ceremony of innocence is drowned … ’” He exhaled heavily. “Miles to go before I sleep.”

“So if I’m not mistaken,” Ben replied, “that was Eliot, Yeats, and Frost, all in one breath. That may be a new record for pretentious allusion, even for you.”

Mike shot him a wry smile. “Good to see you, Ben.”

“Thanks for letting me in.”

“I gather from your presence here that you will be representing the alleged perpetrator?”

“He’s called for me,” Ben said, not filling in all the details. “I haven’t taken the case.”