Eye of the Beholder (42 page)

That motion was heard on August 11, 1989—the Friday before this note was received.

“Oh, Christ.”

On August 11, 1989, we asked, and received, permission to drop Cassie Bentley’s murder from the case.

Betty runs into my office. “Paul, you just got another messenger delivery. They stopped the man at the front desk. He says a guy in glasses and a baseball cap stopped him in the lobby and paid him fifty dollars to deliver it.”

“Let me see it,” I say. “And get me Detective McDermott”

McDERMOTT STANDS alone in the interview room where Paul Riley sat thirty minutes ago.

“He ran back to his office,” a uniform says. “He said you could call him there.”

“He did, did he?” McDermott frowns at the officer, but Riley wasn’t in custody, he was free to waltz out. He goes to his desk just as the phone rings, startling him. Why does that always happen to him?

“McDermott.”

“Mike, Bentley just got back from whatever meeting he was in.”

“Tell him to get his ass in here right now. Tell him right now, Tom, or I come to him, and it’s not pretty.”

“Okay, Mike. Listen, he won’t be coming alone. He’s got a lawyer.”

A lawyer. “Paul Riley?”

“No, not Riley. Some other guy. Don’t know him.”

Now, that’s interesting. Bentley isn’t using Riley.

He places the phone in the cradle and it rings immediately. “Dammit.” He lifts the receiver. “McDermott.”

“It’s Paul Riley.”

“Oh, well, speak of—”

“He just dropped off another note. He stopped a messenger in the lobby, about ten minutes ago.”

“Bring it to me,” he tells Riley. “I’ll get some uniforms over there.”

“He was wearing glasses and a blue baseball cap. A button-down shirt and trousers,” says Riley. “But he’s probably in the wind by now.”

“Yeah, thanks, Riley. Get the hell in here.” McDermott makes a call, dispatches some uniforms to the scene, but he’s less than optimistic.

 

SWITCH NOW, after dropping off the note at Riley’s building, back to the parking garage, take the elevator to eight, get in the Chrysler LeBaron with state license plate J41258—the one they just described on the radio, be on the lookout, calling all cars, but, guess what, everyone—

Back out the car and drive down one floor to the beige Toyota Camry, another rental car, different rental company, he’s not stupid, different rental company, different fake name, it’s a good time of day to make the transfer, not first thing in the morning or quitting time, good time, not many cars, not many people, transfer the contents, transfer quickly, okay, good, that’s done, that’s done, now, one more thing, they always underestimate him, crazy Leo, he must be stupid, he’d never think of this—

Go to a secluded corner, a small alcove off the main strips of the parking garage, look at the cars parked against the cement wall, a sedan, parked nose in, but with a little space to maneuver between the front of the car and wall, enough space to duck in with a screwdriver, remove the front license plate, they’ll never know, won’t be looking at the front of the car when they get in, won’t see it until later when it’s way too late—

Take that license plate, exchange it with the LeBaron’s plate, they probably won’t search a parking garage, but, if they do, if they drive by and see a Chrysler LeBaron, they’ll see the license plate doesn’t match and move on, lazy, stupid cops, this is easy, he’s smarter—

Pull out into traffic and head toward the interstate. Almost done now.

 

I TAKE A CAB to the police station, carrying the manila envelope in a plastic shopping bag Betty gave me. I also bring the coded note I received on August 15, 1989, still encased in plastic. I give the cab bie a twenty and don’t wait for change. McDermott is waiting for me at the top of the stairs and waves me past the desk sergeant.

“You just come and go as you please now?”

I hand him the shopping bag and follow him to his desk. Ricki Stoletti, at her desk nearby, comes over.

“Where’s Gwendolyn Lake now?” she asks.

I tell her I have no idea. “I gave you her cell number.”

“Yeah, and she didn’t answer.”

“I told her to call you,” I say, but my focus is on McDermott, who is wearing latex gloves and opening the top of the manila envelope with a letter opener. He dumps out a regular-sized white envelope.

He nods to me. “What else is in here?”

I show it to him, the note I received from August 15, 1989.

“A job well done,” he says, reading the Post-it I attached to it. “Any idea what a ‘job well done’ might have been?”

I clear my throat and tell him. The letter was referring to the dismissal of Cassie’s murder from the case.

“Oh.” He coughs out the word, like a laugh. “How’s that Burgos case looking now, Counselor?”

“She had a secret,” I say. “Whoever wrote this was glad it stayed a secret.”

McDermott stares at me. “Y‘know, Riley, for a guy who everyone says is so smart—”

“Open the note, McDermott.”

He takes the white envelope and slices open the top, dumps out a single piece of paper, folded in three. With his gloved hands, he smooths out the paper.

I grab a notepad and pen off his desk as all three of us read it:

I scribble it out as quickly as I can:

McDermott says, “If you—”

I brush past him and pick up his phone, dialing the numbers so quickly I mess it up the first time.

“Children’s Advocacy Project.”

“Shelly Trotter, please.”

“Shelly—is not in. Can I—”

“Has she been in?”

“Has she—who am I speaking to?”

“This is Paul Riley,” I say.

Voices in the background. I make out Rena Schroeder, the supervising attorney. Shelly’s boss. I hear my name thrown out, then the phone changing hands.

“Paul, this is Rena.”

“Rena, where’s Shelly?”

“I was going to ask you that. She didn’t show up today. She missed court, she missed our monthly—”

I drop the phone.

McDermott says, “Write down her address.” Stoletti runs to get her coat. I scribble the address on the notepad and jog toward the exit, as I hear McDermott say into the phone, “Dispatch, I need all units to respond. We have a possible 401 in progress...”

 

THREE SQUAD CARS HAVE already double-parked in front of Shelly Trotter’s brownstone when McDermott pulls up his sedan. For the third time he says to Riley, “We go in first,” but before the car has even come to a stop Riley’s pushing himself out of the passenger’s door.

A couple of uniforms, standing at the door, look at McDermott. He points at Riley and shakes his head. He jogs toward the door with Stoletti.

“This is the governor’s daughter, right?” she asks.

“It sure fucking is.”

The uniforms block Riley, who struggles with them. “Paul, you can come up in a minute,” McDermott says. “Let us do our job first.”

“Shelly!” Riley is calling out as McDermott heads up the stairs. At the second-floor landing another uniform awaits them, shaking his head.

“I’ve never seen anything like it.”

McDermott and Stoletti bound up the final sets of stairs and slow their pace as they walk through the entrance to the apartment. They step in and see another uniform standing next to a bloody chain saw.

They walk slowly toward the bathroom, pure dread filling McDermott’s stomach. Wanting to do anything but—the damn
bathroom,
of all places—he sticks his head in, the putrid smell nothing compared to what he sees.

Blood spatters have reached well beyond the bathtub to the sink, the walls, even to the entrance. Inside the tub is a bloody mess, like remnants from a butcher shop.

“Mary, Mother of God,” McDermott mumbles. He takes a careful step into the bathroom and looks in the tub. Stoletti looks in and draws an abrupt breath.

He caught her in the shower. The body appears to be naked, which is only to say there is no evidence of clothing. There is little to draw from the body because, as one would define a body—a torso with limbs, a neck, a head—there is no body anymore.

“He took his time with her,” he says, trying to keep a clinical perspective. The body has been sawed into a hundred pieces at least. No arms, no legs, no neck, no head. Everything has been sliced through. Just little parts.

He hears commotion on the staircase. He steps out of the bathroom and moves to the doorway. Paul Riley looks like a running back trying to shed tacklers. Halfway up the final staircase, with two officers clutching at him, he makes eye contact with McDermott, still a trace of irrational hope on his face.

“I’m sorry,” McDermott says.

“I want to see her.” The struggle begins anew between Riley and the officers. McDermott takes a few steps down and grips Riley’s arm.

“There’s nothing left to see, Paul,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

Riley collapses on the staircase, crying out Shelly’s name. McDermott looks back at Stoletti, who says to him, quietly, “We have to call the governor.”

SEVEN O‘CLOCK. Radio still mentioning his name, Leo Koslenko, wanted for questioning, armed and dangerous, Chrysler LeBaron, and now the new scoop, Trotter, Michelle Trotter, governor’s daughter, daughter of the governor, might be a connection, wanted, dangerous, armed—

Guide the Toyota Camry off the interstate, follow the signs through town. New construction at this intersection, not what he’s seen before, weird, feelings return, but the place looks different, he’s never come back here, always stayed away, no reason to go back, but now he feels like he’s back in every way, he’s back to work, back in the game—

Mansbury College, welcome to Mansbury, where vision meets opportunity.

 

McDERMOTT TAKES ANOTHER REPORT from the neighborhood canvass, another report of nobody seeing anything. One neighbor did hear a chain saw earlier today, midday, but that was not terribly out of the ordinary in the summer, near the tree-lined park on the lake.

Midday, on a weekday.
Koslenko must have subdued her while she was in the shower, getting ready for work, and then waited for the apartment building to clear before going to work on her. The guy may be crazy, but he isn’t dumb.

The County Attorney Technical Unit and the medical examiner have nearly completed their work. They will run prints but everything was wiped down, and, anyway, they know who the hell it is. They just can’t find him. They’ve had an all-points bulletin out on Koslenko and his car since this morning to no avail.

He takes a call on his cell phone from the squad room, where, apparently, Harland Bentley and his lawyer have had their fill of waiting for McDermott. They were there solely as a courtesy, his lawyer said, so they were free to leave.

“Albany left, too, Mike. We couldn’t very well—”

“That’s fine,” he says. He has his hands full tonight. But he tells them to post a car at both houses, Bentley’s and Albany‘s, and follow them if they go anywhere.

He looks into the living room, where Paul Riley sits on the couch, his face buried in his hands, his toes tapping on the carpet. They tried to get him into a squad car, but he refused. McDermott let him stay when he promised to keep out of the way.

Riley is wearing more than sorrow, more than shock on his face. He is wearing guilt. This is his fault, no matter what anyone tries to tell him. Over time, he’ll work on the same rationalizations. He will tell himself that he did the best he could with Burgos’s prosecution. He will tell himself that it was Leo Koslenko who killed Shelly, not him. But he won’t accept any of that. He will put this squarely on himself.

McDermott knows that better than anyone.

He had the ability, the right, to have his wife institutionalized against her will. With a three-year-old child involved, he had more than that—he had the responsibility. How could he have left Joyce with Grace that day? After seeing her unglued the night before?

How could he do that to little Gracie?

She blames herself,
the doctor said.

How could
she
do that to their daughter? No matter how sick, no matter how consumed by her illness—how could Joyce do that to Grace?

He finds himself standing at the threshold of Shelly Trotter’s bathroom. What happened in here was evil, whatever the face you paint on it, no matter that it was the product of mental illness. Death has no exceptions, only victims.

The
angle.
The crime-scene technician, thinking he was out of McDermott’s earshot. Thinking that McDermott, devastated, clutching his three-year-old daughter, wasn’t listening intently to every word from the next room.

“Mike.”

“Mike.”

Then that’s how it happened,
said Ricki Stoletti, his partner of four months at the time.
That’s how it happened.

Stoletti touches his arm. She avoids looking into the bathroom, but the situation is not lost on her. They’ve never discussed it, not even at the time. Back then, after that conversation with the technician, Stoletti had avoided eye contact with McDermott.