Hounded

by David Rosenfelt

  “Did he search the house?” she asks.

  “He did, but didn’t find anyone. He thinks the shooter might have gone out the back door.”

  We walk to the back of the house, and see telltale fingerprint powder all over the door and windows. If they lifted any prints that didn’t belong to Danny or Ricky, we’ll find out when we get the discovery.

  We go out the back door. There’s a small backyard, which borders on the equally small backyard of the house behind it, on Thirty-second Street. At night it would have been easy for somebody to get away undetected, especially since no one would have been looking for them.

  On the way home, I ask Laurie what therapeutic advice Rosie Benson gave her. The thrust of it is that Ricky’s reaction will not be entirely predictable; he could bury the trauma for a length of time, only for it to suddenly present itself. Or it could just be a slow process. Either way, we are to be loving and welcoming and sensitive, none of which are qualities for which I am particularly well known.

  “What if he asks me questions about what happened?” I ask.

  “It’s important you be honest with him, Andy. Be gentle and supportive and loving, but tell the truth.”

  “The truth?” I ask, trying not to moan.

  She nods. “But make sure you really hear the question; people sometimes have a tendency to expand their answers to include things that the child hasn’t asked about. Be very specific.”

  “Expanding the answer will not be my problem,” I say. “Did you find out if he has other family anywhere?”

  “He does not, except for his stepmother, whose whereabouts are unknown. Andy, for the moment we are all he has.”

  Hike is waiting for us when we get home, and fortunately he is not with Ricky. Compared to Hike, exposing Ricky to Marcus and Vince is like letting him hang out with Mr. Rogers and Captain Kangaroo.

  Hike has brought the initial discovery documents, which Richard Wallace had sent to our office. There isn’t that much, just one boxful, and that amount of paper will increase dramatically as the weeks go by. Every time there is a significant murder case, a forest dies.

  Evidence takes time to get processed in, and this case is literally unfolding in the moment. But what is here is not good.

  Danny had indeed been a police informant, although the activities he was informing on are not in these documents. Apparently, he had implicated Pete with one of his reports, just before he died.

  Danny had expressed concerns for his own safety, explicitly revealing a fear that Pete was a threat to exact revenge on him. While the prosecution does not have to prove motive, the jury likes to hear it, and this very definitely fills the bill.

  There is also a neighbor’s statement in which he claims that Pete was on the scene shortly after the shots were fired, and in fact he was. The timing of that will have to be carefully scrutinized, and we’ll attack it in cross-examination.

  The most damaging evidence, at least as far as these documents go, has to do with the murder weapon. It was tied to a shooting murder a year ago in Paterson, one in which a woman named Carla Kendall was killed. Pete was one of the first to arrive on the scene and investigated the case. The murder weapon was never found—at least that is what Pete reported—and no arrest was ever made. But if ballistics are to be believed, that’s the weapon that killed Danny Diaz.

  Even worse, a pair of gloves was found tucked beneath the backseat of Pete’s car. On those gloves was gunpowder residue, and the conclusion investigators reached was that Pete fired the shots while wearing the gloves, and then quickly hid them away.

  It is a powerful case, which explains why an arrest was made so quickly. And it’s early on, so likely to get worse.

  Laurie and Hike read through the documents as I do, and they of course come to the same conclusion.

  We’ve got problems.

  The discovery information tells us some of what we’re up against.

  But it also says something far more revealing. Pete isn’t just an innocent man wrongly accused. He is an innocent man wrongly accused because someone specifically set it up that way.

  If Pete is not guilty of the murder, which is something I am positive about, then he’s been set up to take the fall. The gloves hidden in his car make that an absolute fact: they had to have been planted there, with the gunpowder residue on them.

  I call Pete, and he denies putting them there, so the person who did so would have known that it would be seen as significant evidence of Pete’s guilt.

  On one hand, this is very bad news, in that it means we’re against a smart, determined enemy, in addition to the prosecution. But it also presents an opportunity, in that the conspirators must have a reason for doing what they’re doing to Pete. So we can search for them, and we can also search for that reason. If we achieve either goal, we win.

  Of course, Pete’s occupation makes the task more daunting. He’s a cop, and has been one for many years. That means there is no shortage of people, in and now out of jail, who have a reason to hold a grudge against him. And those people are by definition criminals, and dangerous.

  Of course, the best person to tell me who those people might be is Pete himself, so I head back to the jail. Once again I’m treated with deference when I arrive and ask for Pete; maybe I am likable after all. I make a mental note to bring and hand out lollipops next time I come.

  I get to the room first, and Pete is brought in a couple of minutes later. “It’s a weird feeling being happy to see you,” he says.

  He’s saying that as the casual insult we as friends always hurl at each other, but this one has some meaning behind it. As Pete’s lawyer, not only am I the one true friend he has in his current predicament, but I am his lifeline to the outside world.

  If he is going to hear any good news, he knows that I am the one that will deliver it. It’s the same way with all my clients, and it’s not a position I relish, because good news in these situations is always in short supply.

  “It’s nice to be loved for who I am,” I say.

  “Yeah. What have you got?”

  I describe the prosecution’s case against him, or at least what we’ve received so far. I’m not really into face-reading, but even if I was, I wouldn’t be able to venture a guess this time. I don’t see anger, or fear, or even frustration. All I see is someone listening.

  When I finish, he says, “It’s a setup.”

  That simple sentence illustrates one advantage I have with Pete that I don’t have with other clients. He’s a detective, an investigator; this is his profession. Not only will I not have to take the time to explain every nuance to him, but he’ll be a valuable resource for Laurie and me to call on.

  I nod. “So it appears.”

  “There are a lot of bad guys that don’t like me.”

  “There are a lot of good guys that don’t like you,” I say, in a misguided attempt to bring sports bar banter into a decidedly un-sports-bar environment. “We just have to figure out which guys would go to these lengths to bring you down.”

  “Right. I’m going to have to think about this.”

  “Yes, you are. And while you’re thinking about it, consider two categories.”

  “Which are?”

  “People who have a grudge against you for something you did in the past. But also current cases: people who want you out of the way to stop you from doing something to them in the future.”

  He nods. “Good point. There are a bunch of people in that first category who might be my future roommates.”

  He means that many of the people who would have reason to seek revenge are in prison, mainly because of his efforts. “I know that,” I say. “Once you give us names, we’ll track down where they are now.”

  “I’ll get right on it,” Pete says. “And you should talk to Stan.”

  He means Lieutenant Stan Phillips of the Paterson Police Force. He was Pete’s partner for years before Pete got promoted up to captain.

  “He can’t stand me,” I say. I
once won a case by basically demonstrating that Phillips conducted an investigation incompetently, rendering certain key evidence inadmissible. “The extent of his conversations with me for the past five years has been to call me an asshole.”

  Pete smiles. “He tells it like it is, that Stan. He’ll talk to you; I’ll get the guards to let me call him. He’ll be as good a source for coming up with suspects as I am.”

  “And you’ll mention that he shouldn’t shoot me?”

  He shrugs. “I’ll do my best, but Stan makes his own decisions.”

  There’s no way around it: I am lovable.

  It’s not a status I’ve gone out of my way to achieve; it has come to me naturally. I’m charming, fun to be with, kind to animals … basically I bring joy wherever I go.

  And it can be a burden. Sometimes I admit I would just like to be Andy Carpenter, Ordinary Person, not Andy Carpenter, Mr. Wonderful. But I grin and bear it, because that is who I am.

  Yet occasionally, impossible as it may be to believe, I will run into a person who fails to grasp that essential truth, who seems not to want to bask in my reflected wonder.

  Lieutenant Stan Phillips of the Paterson Police Department is such a person. If I didn’t already know this, his verbal greeting when he sees me waiting for him in the precinct lobby would have tipped me off. “Well, looks like the wind is blowing in a lot of garbage these days.”

  I’m not feeling particularly tolerant of that attitude, in fact I’m not at all in the mood for this crap, so I smile, turn, and start walking toward the door. “Where are you going?” he asks.

  “To speak to my client about finding someone more cooperative to aid in his defense.”

  “Damn, you’re a pain in the ass.”

  “Is that an effort to be conciliatory? Because if it is, you need some work on your technique.”

  “You made me look like a clown and let a guilty guy walk.” He’s still bitter about my blowing up his investigation with him on the stand.

  “First of all,” I say, “the jury said he was not guilty, and they were right. Second of all, I didn’t make you look like a clown. You are a clown. I just peeled away a few layers of bullshit so everybody could see it.”

  He stares at me for a few moments, probably to decide whether to kill me, or talk to me. What I have on my side is that he is Pete’s friend.

  He makes his choice. “You want to talk about Pete?”

  “That’s all I want to talk about.”

  “Come on,” he says, and turns and heads for his office, with me following. It’s a win for me, though I don’t think I’m going to see him at Andy Carpenter Fan Club meetings any time soon. It’s just as well; they’re overcrowded anyway.

  On the way to his office, we pass by Pete’s, which I have been in a bunch of times. It’s closed, the shades are drawn, and there is KEEP OUT tape blocking the door. It doesn’t surprise me, but it pisses me off.

  Phillips sees me looking at the door, and then we make eye contact, sharing our common feelings about what has happened to Pete. We don’t hug, but it’s a bonding moment.

  When we get to his office, he hands me a legal pad that was on his desk. “This is all I have so far. There will be more.”

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “A list of scumbags who could be setting Pete up. I left off the two-bit guys who wouldn’t have a clue how to go about it.”

  “This is great,” I say, impressed by how fast Phillips has put this together.

  “In cases where I know where the guy is, I wrote that down. A bunch of them are still doing time, but I included them anyway.”

  I guess he thinks I don’t understand that, so he adds, “Cell phones. They’re so easy to come by that half the inmates spend most of their time ordering pizzas.”

  I briefly look at the list, and then say, “I’m going to have questions about some of this.”

  “You ask, I’ll answer,” he says, and then writes something on a piece of paper and hands it to me. “It’s my cell phone number; you can call me twenty-four/seven.”

  “Thanks, I will.”

  “Just get Pete out of this. He is good people.”

  I nod my understanding, and start to put the list into an envelope that he hands me. Then, I ask, “So if you had to pick one person on this list, gut instinct, who do you think it is?”

  “I put him on the top. Tommy Haller.”

  Humans are creatures of habit, a basic truth that Alex Parker has always known.

  It’s a mostly helpful trait; it helps one organize one’s life, often allowing order to cut through the chaos.

  Of course, there is a negative side to it, way worse than simply limiting one’s experiences to the tried and comfortable. When habits are observed and chronicled by someone wishing to do harm, the practitioner of the habits becomes vulnerable. This most often takes the form of financial fraud; when a person becomes predictable, bad things can happen.

  Parker is a student of habits, most often those of strangers. He doesn’t choose the people he observes; they are assigned to him. But once he has spent a few weeks with a particular subject person, he can literally predict virtually everything they will do in the course of a day.

  Alex is not interested in the finances of his subject. He is not looking to use their credit cards, or tap into their bank accounts. Alex’s method of operation is to find a person’s most bland, commonplace, everyday patterns, and then kill that person with his own habits.

  He followed Daniel Stockman for five weeks, slightly longer than usual, but not substantially so. It’s not that Stockman was unpredictable; rich people are as susceptible to habit-forming as their less wealthy counterparts. But Stockman was smart, and he was careful.

  Almost as careful as Alex.

  It took four weeks for Alex to decide which habit to focus on, and to feel comfortable with the scenario. Stockman had breakfast every Monday morning with five other men, all business leaders of considerable personal wealth. They ate in Lucy’s Diner, a busy, nondescript place that Alex felt they chose so they could appear to be “regular people.”

  They were not. They were rich and privileged, which by itself did not make them evil, not in Alex’s eyes. In fact, Alex was anxious for the day to come when he himself was rich and privileged. He was getting there already, at a rapid pace.

  Unwittingly, Daniel Stockman was about to help make it happen even faster.

  Alex had become a regular at the diner, going there twice a week for breakfast. He was there every Monday, at the same time as the businessmen met for breakfast, as well as every Thursday. He did not want his presence there to be seen as in any way unusual.

  Alex was not surprised that in the weeks he watched the men have breakfast, each one of them ordered the same thing every single time. Habits.

  The one thing that Stockman ordered that was unique among the group was orange juice. He had it every time, and none of the others did. And best of all, at least as far as Alex was concerned, the orange juice often sat on the counter between the kitchen and the bar, waiting to be picked up by the server. It sat there an average of four minutes, but never less than two.

  Once the juice was brought to the table, it was no longer a viable target. There were too many men sitting there; any diversion that would do the trick would have to be large, and therefore attention attracting. That was simply not Alex’s style.

  But while the juice was sitting on the counter, it was fair game. It was even easy for Alex to approach it; there was a wastepaper basket in front of it and slightly to the left. Alex would have a reason to go there, to deposit a piece of trash.

  That’s not all he would deposit.

  He tried it on the fourth week, but had to abort the operation. The server picked up the juice and food slightly faster than usual, and he was approaching as Alex was about to make his move. So instead he just put the trash in the can, and went back to his table.

  On the Monday of the fifth week, the coast was clear, and Alex smoot
hly dropped the small pill into the orange juice. He was positive he was unobserved in the process, and he went on to the bathroom before returning to his table.

  If the men took their usual amount of time at the breakfast, the pill would take effect about the time they were getting the check. But on that day they got up slightly earlier than usual, so it wasn’t until he was outside and nearing his car that Daniel Stockman fell to the pavement.

  The commotion reached into the restaurant, and Alex went outside along with everyone else to see what had happened. They were already administering CPR to Daniel Stockman, which Alex knew was a complete waste of time.

  The newspapers would publish stories in which his colleagues and family members professed shock, since Stockman had been a runner and the picture of health. They would go on to report that the autopsy results revealed that Daniel Stockman died of a massive heart attack.

  And those results were correct: the cause of death was in fact a heart attack. But unless the autopsy was performed within one half hour of death, an obvious impossibility, there would be no way to know the cause of Daniel Stockman’s heart attack.

  The cause was the little white pill, and Alex Parker.

  Arraignments are very boring, and usually inconsequential.

  They are basically a formality. The charges are read, though everyone already knows what they are. The defendant pleads not guilty, which also comes as absolutely no surprise to anyone. Bail is set or not set, again with the decision basically preordained, and a trial date is scheduled, albeit tentatively.

  There is nothing that takes place that couldn’t be accomplished between the judges and the opposing lawyers in thirty seconds, if it were done in an office. But it’s in court, with all the trappings, so it moves way too ponderously.

  It’s the setup that makes it so anticlimactic. A crime has been committed, and the state is about to try to take away a man’s freedom, or even his life. All the important players are put into a room for the first time, and it’s a human reaction to expect fireworks, or at least drama.