The Murder Book

by Lissa Marie Redmond

  “Good. And seriously: what’s for dinner?”

  16

  Lauren nervously got dressed the next morning, flinging outfits across her bed, trying on and taking off blouses, twisting as much as she could to look at herself in the full-length mirror in her bedroom. Not good, she told herself, looking up and down. The freckles that had made her look cute and youthful had faded to brown spots across her nose. She’d gone from thin to gaunt since the incident. People, especially other women, were always saying how lucky she was to be naturally thin. But she also heard the whispers from those same women about how she must have some sort of eating disorder too. Now she looked like she was giving them proof. I look like a washed out, understuffed scarecrow, she thought, touching her shoulder-length blond hair. Complete with straw.

  Taking a step back from her usual uniform of black pants with a black jacket and solid-colored blouse, she chose instead a loose-fitting boat neck tunic her mother had gotten her for Christmas last year. She had never worn it, but it matched perfectly with her navy pants and favorite flats. She was technically off duty, no need to dress the part. Hell, she was the victim in all this. She wondered if she should bring a handkerchief to put in her handbag in case she got emotional.

  Scolding herself all the way downstairs for being insensitive to her victims, she realized why she was so nervous. Because of all the shitty things that had happened to her, including getting her ass kicked on a daily basis by her ex-fiancé, she had never really considered herself a victim. Even when Wheeler came to her house last year intending to kill her. Yes, she had been furious. Yes, she felt like the cops couldn’t help her, and yes, she had to wait until David Spencer’s murder trial was over before she could pursue charges, but she never, ever would have called herself a victim. Victimized, yes. But a victim, no.

  Now she knew there was no other definition for what she had been. Or what she was now.

  Reese was holding the morning paper in his hand as he stood at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in his lone court suit, looking to her much like a character from a 1950s TV show.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. “You have that look on your face.”

  “Did you see the morning paper?” He held it out to her.

  “How could I see it if you have it in your hands?” She snagged it from him and he followed her into the kitchen.

  “Someone leaked our entire timeline of your stabbing. Down to the freaking minute. Talk about giving the bad guy a head start.”

  She shook the paper out to read the headline. It quoted “law enforcement sources” and gave details right down to the time she had logged onto her computer. “This has got to be someone in our office,” she fumed. “Who else would have this information?”

  “It’s either our Homicide squad, the brass, or someone in the DA’s office.” Reese took the paper back, folded it neatly, and placed it on the kitchen table. “Just leave that there for now. I don’t want you to have a stroke before our meeting.”

  Getting up, she poured herself a cup of coffee, ignoring the comment. “Where’s Watson?”

  “In the backyard. He loves to run around back there. I used to feel guilty when I went to work, him sitting in his crate all day at my place.”

  “It really isn’t fair,” she agreed, still thinking about the article. “He should stay here with me when you go back home. It’s much more pet-friendly. You don’t have any yard.” Reese had inherited his great-aunt’s cottage over on Beyer Place in South Buffalo a couple of months back. It was tiny and minimal maintenance, perfect for a bachelor like him.

  “Nice try, but the dog comes with me. Besides, I’m right across the street from Cazenovia Park.”

  She glanced out the window, watching Watson chase a little yellow butterfly around the backyard. “We’ll see,” she told him.

  The drive to the district attorney’s office was uneventful, except for the conversation Reese had with one of his current girlfriends. She was complaining that he hadn’t come over the night before like he’d said he was going to. He countered with the old, “Things have been crazy at work.” Using skills that he had been honing since his teens, he got her calmed down, they made some new plans, and they ended up with the woman looking forward to seeing him again on their next date. Lauren shook her head in mild disgust after they’d clicked off.

  “What?” He was genuinely baffled at Lauren’s reaction.

  “You can’t treat people like that.”

  “Like what? I didn’t feel like hanging out with her last night. I was tired. I don’t owe her any explanation. We’re not a couple.”

  “You are the reason I don’t date,” she said. “I can’t stand the lying and the games.”

  “I seem to remember some lying and games on your part not so long ago, Miss High and Mighty.” He was referring to her affair with her very remarried ex-husband that had sparked and ended over the course of the David Spencer arrest, trial, and acquittal.

  “And look what that got the two of us.”

  “Him, a divorce. And you dumping him after he did the very thing you asked him to do so you could be together.”

  She pulled the elastic band out of her ponytail, shook her hair out, then put it back up again. Reese would have said that action was her tell when he hit too close to a nerve. “He was a cheat. He cheated on me. He cheated on his second wife. Why would I put myself through that again?”

  “Hey, I’m not saying you didn’t make the right decision. I think you did. But don’t go throwing stones at my house.”

  He had a point; she was being unfair. “Sorry.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  Reese parked on Franklin Street in front of headquarters and they walked over to the district attorney’s office across Church Street. Lauren wished she had worn a heavier jacket as they made their way up the stone steps and into the building. The wind had kicked up from the lake, whipping her hair around her face, causing a strand to stick to the pale lip gloss she was wearing.

  The deputies knew Lauren and Reese, so they didn’t make them take everything out of their pockets, remove their belts, or go through the metal detector. An old-timer with two days’ worth of beard and a nasty scar on his chin gave a very loud, “Good morning, Detectives,” so that the seven people in line holding their pants up with their hands didn’t riot.

  Riley and Reese walked past the roped-off medallion set into the floor, which declared that on that very spot in the year 1901 the body of President William McKinley had lain in state after his assassination at the Pan-American Exposition. He’d been hit by two pistol shots from point-blank range, and Lauren had always been amazed at the stories of how the first bullet had reportedly “bounced” off the president’s chest. On the other hand, the second one killed him. A lucky break followed by a tough one. The story of my life, she thought.

  Carl Church’s office was on the sixth floor of the new wing of the Erie County Courthouse. Taking the elevator up, Lauren realized she had not spoken to Carl Church in person since before the David Spencer trial last October. Whenever she and Reese had needed something, they would request it of the DA’s office and either ADA Kevin King handled it, or it got handled by someone else; anyone but Church.

  Prior to the trial, she and Church had worked quite closely together on cold cases. From an elected official’s standpoint, cold cases were a win-win for the police department and the district attorney’s office: cases long thought to have been forgotten were revived, pleasing the families, who were happy just to know their loved ones hadn’t been forever overlooked. If a case was solved, it was like a baseball grand slam; killer off the street, justice to the victim, closure for the family. Good publicity all around.

  Her being hired by David Spencer’s defense had cost her that good relationship with Carl Church, who was running for re-election next year. She didn’t blame him for wanting to cut ties with her. Almos
t as soon as the polls had closed earlier that month, the countdown to the next election had started, and it was projected to be a nasty fight. She knew his opponent, Sam Schultz. He was a former police officer and assistant district attorney himself, now in private practice. Sam was sure to make hay about the loss of Katherine Vine’s murder trial during the campaign, if only because Church had decided to try the case himself.

  Church had always enjoyed a healthy Democratic landslide in Buffalo. This had always been a blue-collar, working-class town. The rise of the Republicans in recent elections meant that next year Church would have a serious contender for the first time since he won his first primary all those years ago. So it was surprising to her that Church was meeting with her personally. She would have thought he’d just call in the lead detectives assigned to the case. Unless he was working on something.

  With a long election season looming, he wouldn’t be a survivor if he didn’t have an angle.

  Carl Church was waiting for Reese and Riley in his office. Homicide Detectives Joy Walsh and Ben Lema were already there, sitting in the brown leather seats in front of Church’s impressive desk. Behind him, an American flag stood in the corner, a reminder of his days serving his country in the Marine Corps. Church rose when they walked in, flanked by the red-headed Kevin King, who was standing to the left of him. Kevin King, AKA The Kinger, as he referred to himself, was the Cold Case squad’s unofficially assigned assistant district attorney. The Kinger strode forward, shaking Lauren and Reese’s hands before stepping back in place. Church motioned for them to sit in the two unoccupied seats next to Joy and Ben.

  “I came to see you in the hospital,” Church began, addressing Lauren directly. “You were unconscious; they didn’t know if you were going to pull through. I was with Commissioner Bennett, and we met with your family after. I have to tell you, in all my years as district attorney, I’ve never felt so helpless.”

  Lauren’s eyes slid from Church’s earnest face to Reese’s and back. She didn’t know how to handle such a heartfelt admission from Carl Church. All could not be forgiven so easily, could it? Lauren couldn’t help feeling skeptical. After all, she’d earned his disappointment in her when she’d gone over to the “other side.”

  “I’m glad you’re back and doing so well,” he continued. “That’s why I thought it was important for you to hear this yourself. I’ll let Kevin tell you what we’ve got.”

  Clearing his throat, Kevin King set a small black digital recorder down on the desk. “About fifteen years ago, the county decided to upgrade our phone system. During the upgrade some of our interdepartmental numbers were inadvertently switched around. One of them was the number for the old confidential tip line we used to use in the early nineties during the crack epidemic. The investigators back then used to call it the Snitch Board. People would call in, leave information, and get an ID number to write down. If the information led to an arrest and conviction, they’d be in line to collect any reward money. When they upgraded the system, that number was reassigned to one of the phone lines down in Archives.”

  That sounded logical to Lauren. When they created the Cold Case squad in 2005, they gave it the old auto impound number. Every once in a while, someone would call about a car that had been seized in some long-ago drug raid. “This is the Cold Case Homicide squad number. Unless someone murdered your car twenty years ago, I can’t help you,” had been Reese’s standard response until Lauren put a stop to it.

  “The phone messages that come into the district attorney’s office directly are carefully recorded and logged. They have to be, for evidentiary purposes. The Archive numbers aren’t made available to the public, so their phone calls and messages aren’t monitored. Two days ago one of the secretaries found three messages on the phone with the old Snitch Board’s number. Luckily, Sharon is sharp and recognized the date and the possible significance and notified her supervisor right away.”

  King pressed the play button on the recorder. A tinny mechanical voice announced the date and time: “Friday, November ninth, eight-oh-one a.m.” Then it clicked over to an older women’s voice. “Yes. Hello. I want to talk to someone about a murder. I—I’ll call back.”

  There was a two-second pause and the next message played: “Friday, November ninth, ten-twenty-six a.m.” Another audio hiccup, then the same woman’s voice. “Hello, I need to talk to someone in your office about a murder that happened a long time ago, and I’d really appreciate it if someone picked up the phone.” The caller paused. “Hello? I need someone to pick up the phone. I can’t call the precinct. Please pick up.” A few seconds passed, then, “Please, someone. Pick up the phone. I’m calling about a murder here.” There were some muffled sounds in the background, then the sound of the caller disconnecting.

  “Friday, November ninth, twelve-sixteen p.m.” The caller was already speaking when the message started recording, “What kind of useless shit is this? I’m trying to report a Goddamn homicide and no one there can pick up the Goddamn phone? This here is eyewitness information and I need to talk to a real person. When I used to call this number, I’d say, ‘It’s Peaches,’ and someone would snatch up the fucking phone.” The frustration in the caller’s voice was spiking. “You know what I’m gonna do? Call the Homicide office. Because this here is the real deal. The real deal. And someone is going to finally pay for this shit.” The speaker cut off suddenly, leaving the listeners in Carl Church’s office straining forward to hear the rest of a message that wasn’t there. Silence followed as the four detectives processed what they had just heard.

  “One of the cops answered the phone in Homicide when she called,” Joy murmured, almost to herself.

  “And maybe didn’t like what she had to say,” Reese added.

  “There’s our motive for the break-in,” Ben said.

  “You think it’s possible?” Lauren asked, looking to the other detectives. “That this woman called the office and said something that caused someone to try to steal a file and the Murder Book?”

  “You said back at the hospital,” Ben reminded her, “that finding a cold case without the Murder Book would be next to impossible. Maybe whoever answered that phone in the Homicide office didn’t want anyone to find the file she was talking about.”

  “We don’t know what to conclude. Obviously, we tried to trace the call.” Church sat back in his overstuffed leather chair. “It was a burner phone. Untraceable. The cell tower information puts the caller somewhere on the lower West Side, which tells us almost nothing.”

  “Is the phone number still in service?” Reese asked.

  “It was shut off later that same day,” King responded.

  “Does anyone recognize that woman’s voice?” Church asked the four detectives. They all shook their heads.

  “Can we get a copy of this?” Ben tapped the face of the digital recorder.

  King reached into a folder on the desk and slid over three discs encased in paper sleeves with the date of the robbery and assault written across them in black Sharpie. “Done. I’ll email digital copies to all of you. You can take this recorder too.” He handed it to Ben. “We’ll leave it up to you to check with your report technicians, see if they recognize the voice. See if they know someone who calls herself Peaches. Maybe she’s a frequent flyer. If she calls a lot, maybe you’ll get lucky.”

  “If she called all the time, she wouldn’t be leaving messages on a tip line that hasn’t been used in fifteen years,” Lauren pointed out.

  Reese reached over and clamped his hand down on her forearm, the signal for her to shut up. He ought to know; she used it on him ten times a week. Lauren swallowed her next comment, and thought to herself, No wonder we don’t let the victims in on every step of the investigation—these people are my co-workers and I’m pissed off that no one answered that Goddamn phone.

  “We’re trying to keep this as quiet as possible. As you know, there have been problems with leak
s to the press lately concerning homicide investigations.” Church steepled his fingers in front of his chin. “Whether that leak is coming from your office or ours, when I find out who it is I will make sure the closest that person ever gets to a homicide investigation is a Law and Order marathon on TV.”

  More of a problem for the regular Homicide squad, someone had been leaking key information on current investigations to the press for the last six months—a lot of it not always accurate—causing problems for both the detectives investigating and the assistant district attorneys prosecuting the cases. Lauren had her suspicions about who the sieve might be, but she’d never put a name out there in something like this without proof.

  Whoever was doing it was jeopardizing the integrity not only of her case, but of all their murder investigations, and compromising the effectiveness of the DA’s office to prosecute the killers.

  “Except for our secretary, her supervisor, and the people in this room, no one knows about the existence of these messages,” Church went on. “Let’s make sure to keep it that way until we know for sure whether they are directly related to Lauren’s assault.”

  “Here’s the phone information, the cell tower tracking, and transcripts of the calls. I did those myself.” King passed a folder to Joy and another to Ben.

  “Thanks,” she said, paging through the records he just gave her.

  “Make sure, when you question your report technicians, they know they’ll be facing charges if one word is leaked of any of this,” Church asserted. “Not a single syllable of this goes to the street.”

  “Marilyn and Tess have both been with us a long time,” Ben said, standing up. “If they weren’t one hundred percent trustworthy, they would have been gone a long time ago.”

  The two RTs were the heartbeat of the Homicide squad. Marilyn worked the day shift, Tess afternoons. It was no exaggeration to say that the Homicide squad would come to a complete and total stop if it weren’t for the two of them. The Homicide detectives were fiercely loyal to their RTs, who kept track of their overtime, vacation days, birthdays, anniversaries, sent flowers when someone was sick, reminded them to call their wives, juggled their messages, and basically managed their work lives. Lauren could see how pissed off Ben was that Carl Church insinuated one of them may be a leak. Following his lead, she stood up. The meeting had ended itself.