Cruel Justice (39 page)

There was a plate of food on the dining table. More chicken something-or-other. He took a bite. Not bad, even cold. Not bad at all. He wolfed down the entire plate. Mother was definitely recovering her culinary talents.

He tiptoed back into the living room. He thought about waking her, but she seemed so relaxed he didn’t have the heart. He lifted Joey out of her arms and carefully laid him down in his makeshift bed. Then Ben returned to the living room and put a blanket over his mother.

It was then that the memory hit him. He was three, maybe four, and they were back at their house, not the palatial one in Nichols Hills, but someplace they had lived before, someplace smaller, someplace … closer. He was playing in bed—no, he was sick. He had a high fever, a virus or something, and he was stuck in bed but he couldn’t sleep, and his mother was reading to him, keeping him company. She was sitting in the chair beside his bed, but she fell asleep.

Ben saw it all with crystal clarity, even though he hadn’t remembered the incident for years. Little Ben pulled a heavy blanket off his bed and wrapped it around his mother. He remembered it all so vividly, it was as if he were doing it right now, this instant, feeling just as he did then.

He remembered why he did it, too. It wasn’t because he felt guilty. It wasn’t because he was afraid she would be mad at him, or disappointed.

It was because he loved her.

Gently, he kissed his mother on the cheek and tiptoed out of the room.

Maybe it wouldn’t be such a horrible development if she stayed a bit longer. After all, she was helpful with Joey. And she made a dynamite chicken something-or-other.

He was definitely going to have to get her Mercedes off the street, though.

I
T WAS LIKE WAKING
up in the middle of a Rube Goldberg nightmare machine. The shrill ringing of the phone blasted Ben out of a deep slumber. Groping in the darkness, he knocked the phone off the end table. The phone fell on his cat; his cat leaped into the air and landed on Ben’s face. Startled, Ben cried out, if only for a brief instant.

But a brief instant was long enough. A few seconds later Ben heard me muffled sound of Joey crying in the next room.

He grabbed the phone receiver, silencing the offending ringing. “Just a minute,” he whispered.

He heard the shuffling slippered footsteps of his mother trudging toward the baby. What a trouper.

Well, he thought. I’ll relieve her as soon as I get this thoughtless heathen off the phone.

“Who the hell is this?” Ben barked.

“My God, you sure are grumpy. What, did I interrupt a sexy dream?”

“Mike? Is this you?” It was. “What’s going on in that febrile brain of yours? Don’t you know it’s”—he glanced at the digital clock—“three-twenty in the
A.M.?”

“I know the time. Have you got the temperature?”

“Look, just because you stay up all night reading Shakespeare aloud to yourself doesn’t mean—”

“I’m at a crime scene, Ben.”

That slowed him down. “A—you mean a—”

“Yeah. The kind with dead bodies in them.”

“Does this relate to the Abie Rutherford abduction?”

“So it seems. And it relates to your murder trial as well.”

“It does?” Ben tried to clear the cobwebs out of his head. “In what way?”

“Well, I think you can now safely eliminate one of your suspects.”

“Really? Why?”

Mike paused a good long while before answering. “Because he’s dead.”

By the time Ben arrived at the spacious Utica Hills mansion, the corpse had already been removed. Ben was not disappointed.

He thumbed through the crime-scene Polaroids Mike had given him. “I don’t believe it,” Ben said over and over.

“Believe it. This is one weird world we live in.”

“This is beyond weird. This is … grotesque.” He held the first photo out at arm’s length. It revealed the clear image of a blond man in his early forties. He was naked, except that he was wearing women’s stockings and a garter belt and had a plastic bag over his head and an apple in his mouth. “What on earth was he doing?”

“I believe this is what the experts refer to as autoerotic asphyxiation,” Mike explained.

“What?”

“People who are into this stuff have known for some time that orgasm seems more intense when you’re on the brink of asphyxiation. The lack of oxygen induces light-headedness, which reduces inhibitions and, um, enhances the sexual experience. And the appeal to those with masochistic tendencies is obvious. This clown was apparently trying to induce this heightened super-sexual state while engaging in a, um, solitary sexual practice.”

“And?”

“And he got a little too excited and went a little too far and choked to death. It only takes seven pounds of pressure to collapse the carotid artery, and—
boom!
You’re unconscious within seconds.” Mike shrugged. “That’s why they call it dangerous sex.”

Ben dropped the photos. “What’ll they think of next?”

“Oh, this is nothing new. It’s been around for centuries, probably since someone first noticed that hanged men often got an erection while in the noose. De Sade described it in detail in
Justine.
It’s in Beckett’s
Waiting for Godot,
too. Experts attribute about fifty deaths a year to this.”

Ben stared at his friend. “Mike—why do you
know
these things?”

“All in a cop’s job description.”

“Right. Even if some wackos really do this—why would Chris Bentley? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Didn’t you tell me he had a reputation for being a sexual adventurer?”

“Well, yes. But with women.”

“And didn’t he tell you he was having trouble finding his next conquest?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Put it together, Ben.”

“But—Bentley is handsome. Good-looking. Rich.”

“And only ugly poor people engage in deviant sex practices? Welcome to the real world, Ben. The rich dudes are in there pitching, too. They have time on their hands and the money to get what they want.”

“And you guys think Bentley was the child pervert.”

“That’s the official word from Chief Blackwell. We found this.” Mike picked up a paper evidence bag and, using his gloved hand, withdrew a red baseball cap.

“And that cap belonged to the little boy who was hit by the car?”

“Yes. The boy’s parents have definitely ID’d it. The kid’s name is written under the brim.”

“Any other evidence?”

“Not that I know of. Let me check.
Hubbell!
”

Within seconds, a uniformed police officer was standing at attention. “Yes, sir!”

“Tell me what you’ve found,” Mike growled. “Other than the cap. And the corpse.”

“So far, sir, we haven’t discovered anything noteworthy.”

“
What!
” Mike’s eyes widened explosively; his fists clenched. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve been searching for over two hours and haven’t found a damn thing?”

“I—I—” Hubbell swallowed. “We’ve been very thorough, sir. My men have searched the entire house. It’s a very large house—”

“Then you’ll search it again,” Mike commanded. “And again and again, if necessary. And then start on the grounds.” Mike stepped right into his face. “And I hope you find something of interest this time. For your sake!”

Mike stepped back, leaving poor Hubbell dangling in the breeze.

“Dismissed!” Mike barked. Hubbell scrambled away as quickly as possible.

Mike’s face and demeanor gradually returned to their prior states. “Sorry you had to see that, Ben.”

“Not at all. I love to watch you go into your tough-cop routine. You ought to be nominated for an Emmy.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mike switched the toothpick he was chewing to the other side of his mouth. “But I know that if there are any more clues around here, Hubbell’s gonna find ’em.”

“But what if they don’t find anything else? After all, they haven’t so far.”

Mike stepped out of the light cast by the lamp on me marble table. “That’s what troubles me.”

“How do you mean?”

Mike’s voice slowed. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “Chief Blackwell’s treating this child-molestation case like a done deal. Solved. He’s pulling my men off the case. Told me to terminate the watch on Abie Rutherford in twenty-four hours.”

“And that bothers you?”

“Yeah. That bothers me a lot.”

“You think Blackwell is wrong?”

“Blackwell is a politician. He has to answer to the press. If you give him a likely suspect in a high-profile case, he’s going to take it.” Mike’s head slowly turned to face Ben. “But what if he’s wrong?”

“How can he be wrong?” Ben asked. “If Bentley isn’t the one, how did he get that cap?”

“I don’t know,” Mike murmured. “But somehow, the whole thing doesn’t seem right. It’s too easy. Too convenient.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Look, I’ve been chasing this man for months. I’ve studied all the profiles. Bentley doesn’t fit.”

“You’ve said yourself that offender profiles are unreliable.”

“Yeah, but not this unreliable. You have to understand. These pedophiles—they become consumed with this sexual need. This desire. It controls their whole life. Where is the evidence that child molestation played
any
part in Chris Bentley’s life? Where are the dirty magazines? The pictures of little boys? The naughty toys?”

“Maybe he kept them somewhere else to be safe. Just as he took Abie to that North Side ruin with the mattress. It would be stupid to keep anything in his own home.”

“Maybe,” Mike said, stroking his toothpick. “Maybe.”

“And look at these pictures, Mike. You have to admit this guy is some kind of pervert.”

“Yeah—
some
kind of pervert, but not the
right
kind of pervert. Everyone indulging in deviant sexual practices is not a pedophile.”

Ben laid a hand on Mike’s shoulder. “Are you sure you’re not upset just because … you didn’t catch him? I know you’ve put a lot of time in on this case.”

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe I need time for it all to sink in.” He half smiled. “My father always used to say, ‘Mike, the only thing you hate more than doing work is having someone else do it for you.’ ”

Ben grinned. If only half of Mike’s stories about his father were true, he’d been a hell of a character. “Mike … did you like your dad?”

Mike’s eyebrows rose. “My dad? Hell, yeah. He was great.”

“Really?”

“Oh yeah. We used to play basketball out on the driveway, wrestle. We fished, we camped. It wasn’t all just jock-macho stuff, either. He was the one who first turned me on to Shakespeare. And the greatest thing about him was, no matter how busy he got, and he was pretty busy sometimes, he always made sure he saved time for me.”

“Sounds like a pretty spectacular dad.”

“He was. He was my hero, all through my childhood. Hell, all through my life. He was a model father. He’s the reason I always wanted … I mean … you know, when I was married to your sister, we always wanted …” Mike’s voice trailed off. “But we never got any.”

“Yeah,” Ben said quietly. “I know.”

“Hell, my dad was the one who first turned me on to police work. Did you know that? I started showing some interest in crime, reading Sherlock Holmes, and he didn’t discourage me like some fathers would. He took me to the police station, introduced me around, helped me learn how to become a cop.”

“So he approved of your career choice?”

“Oh yeah. Is that so amazing?”

Probably only to me, Ben thought. “I guess I’m not used to the idea of a father charting the course of his son’s life.”

“Ah, but they all do.” Mike smiled. “One way or the other.”

J
UDGE HAWKINS SURPRISED EVERYONE
by arriving early the next morning. Ben was running late; he’d overslept (a nasty consequence of visiting crime scenes in the middle of the night) and he’d barely had time to grab all his files and scramble to the courthouse. Fortunately, he’d done his preparation the night before.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” Judge Hawkins said. He appeared a bit grumpier than usual today. “And counsel,” Hawkins added, looking only at Ben, “some of the examinations yesterday were, in my humble opinion, somewhat over-leisurely. Let’s see if we can pick up the pace, shall we?”

Ben didn’t smile. They had made it through three witnesses yesterday, for Pete’s sake. Hawkins was trying to intimidate him into going easy on the cross-ex of the prosecution’s witnesses. Ben wasn’t about to shortchange Leeman’s defense just to keep the judge from getting antsy.

“The State calls Dr. Martin Paglino to the stand.”

Another expert? Ben was surprised; he thought the State had completed the forensic aspect of its case. The jury was ready to get on with the nitty-gritty. Including the much-anticipated confession.

Paglino was a short man of slight build with an academic bent. Turned out he worked the night shift in the forensics lab at Central Division, and consequently he was assigned the chore of analyzing the physical evidence collected at the Alvarez crime scene.

“Dr. Paglino,” Bullock asked, after the preliminaries were completed, “did you have a chance to examine the blood splatters that were scraped off the defendant?”

“I did.”

“And what did you find?”

“I found that the blood came from the victim, Maria Alvarez. It matched both in type and in rtDNA structure.”

“How reliable is rtDNA blood comparison, doctor?”

“In my opinion? One hundred percent.”

Bullock strolled past the jury box, allowing the jury time to absorb the import of that statement. “And did you find any of the defendant’s own blood on the surface of his skin?”

“No.”

“Was there any indication that he was harmed in any way?”

“Not that I saw.”

“So there was no evidence of self-defense. Or even a struggle.”

“No.”

A bold conclusion, but as an expert, Paglino could get away with it. There was no point in objecting and creating an issue where none existed. Truth to tell, there
was
no evidence of a struggle.

Bullock continued. “Did you search the crime scene for fingerprints?”