Hounded

by David Rosenfelt

  Laurie reaches the front of the house and looks in through a window, and I can see the gun in her right hand, against the backdrop of light from the window. She quickly moves toward the front door and goes inside, apparently leaving me as the only dope outside.

  I reach the house but don’t go to the window; I’ll take Laurie’s unspoken word for the fact that the place to be is inside. So I go in the front door, and hear noises coming from the same den where I had met with Reynolds and his lawyer.

  The scene is somewhat different this time. Reynolds is sitting upright in a chair, but while his body is vertical, his head and neck are horizontal. It is one of the most disgusting sights I have ever seen, which unfortunately makes it one that I will remember for a very long time.

  Looking away, I see Blackman standing against the wall, looking even more scared than I am. Laurie and Marcus are both standing and holding guns, while another man lies on the floor with a gun still in his hand and a bullet hole in his forehead.

  I’ve never met the dead man, but I’ve seen his picture.

  Alex Parker.

  Which is somewhat surprising, since this represents the second time he has died.

  Blackman is almost too scared to speak, and Marcus is Marcus, so it takes a while to extract the story of what happened. As best I can understand, Blackman came to see Reynolds, who was already dead when Blackman arrived.

  Parker was also on the scene, and was just about to make Blackman as dead as Reynolds, when Marcus intervened. Parker attempted to shoot Marcus, but that became moot when Marcus put a bullet in Parker’s head.

  We need to call the police, to have them sort this out, and present our side of what happened. Rather than bring in local cops, I call Lieutenant Coble. He’ll come in educated as to the players, and will easily understand what happened, and why.

  People have lost their lives here, and I suppose on some level I should be reflecting on that, but Reynolds and Parker were slimeball murderers, and I just don’t see their deaths as tragedies.

  All that I really care about is what impact this has on our case. It’s probably positive: Reynolds was not going to testify for me anyway, and I hadn’t even known Parker was alive. Certainly he would be no help, although I’d love to know who got his head bashed in, and how Parker got the fingerprints to match.

  The good news is that Blackman will certainly testify and tell everything he knows. There is no longer anyone for him to protect, or be afraid of. His interest will undoubtedly be in keeping his own ass out of prison, and cooperating will be the only way to do that. I tell him this in no uncertain terms, and we agree to meet tomorrow, at his house, to go over what will be lengthy testimony. I especially need him because he tells me that the records of Mathis’s work are also gone, so he is the only one who can vouch for it.

  Blackman is also going to have to talk to Akers at the FBI, and he understands and accepts that.

  Coble shows up with a small army of state troopers. He takes one look at the carnage and says, “You’re different than most lawyers I know.”

  “Shucks, thanks,” I say.

  Coble sees Parker lying on the floor, and his look is appropriately puzzled. “Parker?” he asks.

  I nod. “Parker.”

  He shakes his head. “Son of a bitch,” he says softly, under his breath.

  Three hours later, we are finally given the okay to leave. All in all, the evening has gone fairly well, unless you’re the guy with the broken neck, or the bullet in his head.

  It’s going to be a long weekend.

  I’ve got a lot to do, both in getting our case ready, and more importantly in convincing the judge that the outside conspiracy is relevant to Pete’s trial. I’m feeling somewhat confident about getting it admitted, but I’m still anxious about it.

  So the weekend will seem longer because of how important Monday is going to be. If I get the testimony admitted, we have a shot. If I don’t, the jury might as well phone the guilty verdict in.

  The newspapers are playing up the death of Carson Reynolds, probably because he was so rich. I hope the jury is reading it, and that they will connect it to what they will be hearing in court.

  The stories on Reynolds are glowing, speaking about the tragedy of such a wonderful philanthropist cut down in the prime of life. They also point out that he and Katherine had no children, and neither had siblings, so there is speculation over who might get their money. I know that his mistress Susan Baird won’t be the one; the gravy train has come to a stop moments before it reached her station.

  I spend some of Saturday morning on the phone with Mitchell Blackman. He is still shaken up, but with Reynolds out of the picture he seems comfortable about testifying. I’m surprised that he hasn’t “lawyered up,” but so far, so good. He claims not to have been part of any murder-for-hire conspiracy, but knows all about Daniel Mathis and his pills, and will testify to Reynolds’s covering up the theft of them.

  He also will say that Reynolds had a key to the company offices, and was listed in the security log book as having been in the building on the day the pills were stolen. With Blackman setting the table, and then Lieutenant Coble coming in to finish the story, I think we have a compelling case, and a definite ability to create reasonable doubt as to Pete’s guilt.

  Coble told me yesterday that he is going to interview Blackman as well. “So you can coordinate your testimony?” I made the mistake of asking.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I told my boss that all that matters is Carpenter’s case. Whether we can figure out what happened with the murder of half the people in our state is unimportant. It’s Andy Carpenter that we should worry about.”

  “You catch on quickly,” I say.

  Click.

  I call Blackman in the afternoon, just to make sure he’s not getting cold feet, and still planning to testify. “You doing okay?”

  “Yes, just wiped out. I’m not used to this kind of stuff.”

  “Get some rest.”

  “I will,” he says. “That state cop is coming back later to ask me some more questions. In the meantime I’m going to try and take a nap.”

  “Good idea. I’ll call you tomorrow so we can go over a few final things.”

  Laurie comes in and says, “You busy?”

  “Is that one of your sexual come-ons?” I ask.

  “No. It was a totally asexual attempt to find out if you were busy.”

  “Oh. Amazingly, I’m not. I’m in pretty good shape. I may even watch the Mets game.”

  “There’s a new Disney movie that just opened,” she says.

  “Good. That will make the 728th one in a row that I missed. But I definitely plan to get around to them; probably on DVD.”

  “I thought we could take Ricky.”

  Suddenly, as if from nowhere, Ricky is standing at Laurie’s side. “Can we go?” he says. “Is it okay?”

  “Sure,” I say, although it’s hard for me to speak between my clenched teeth. “Unless you’d rather watch the Mets game?”

  “Nah,” he says.

  “Nah,” Laurie says.

  “They’re playing the Yankees in an interleague game. Harvey is pitching.”

  “Nah,” Ricky says.

  “Nah,” Laurie says.

  “Super,” I say. As I get up to head out the door with them, I whisper to Laurie, “Any chance the film has gratuitous nudity and violence?”

  She smiles. “Probably. You should watch for it.”

  We get to the theater, which is an absolute madhouse, with what seems like thousands of little people running around like ants, yelling and inhaling candy and soda. I feel like Gulliver, having wandered into a cinematic Lilliput.

  There are other adults like Laurie and myself, but our role is simply to provide cash for refreshments. Ricky, Laurie, and I each get popcorn and a soda, and for the money it cost me, I could buy a serviceable used car.

  The film itself is not bad, with some sophisticated humor obviously designed to make it barely pala
table for adults. But Ricky certainly seems to love it, and he tells us that it is the first movie he has ever been to.

  “That was great. Thanks for taking me,” he says, as we get into the car.

  “Thanks for going with us,” Laurie says to him. “We had a wonderful time. Didn’t we, Andy?”

  “We certainly did,” I say, and I’m only partially lying.

  Lieutenant Coble arrived at Blackman’s house at six-thirty in the evening.

  He brought with him State Police Lieutenant Nick Vasquez, probably the most skilled interrogator in the department. They weren’t going to grill Blackman, but they planned to fully debrief him, so that nothing he said in court on Monday would be a surprise.

  It was important to get it on the record before that testimony, since once he spoke publicly, everything after that would be somewhat tainted.

  Blackman was the key to their case, as it was to Carpenter’s. With him filling in at least some of the blanks, they would have a clear picture of what went on, and at a minimum would be able to claim partial credit for having stopped it.

  The first sign of something being wrong was that Blackman did not come to the door when they knocked. His car was outside, and there were lights on, but no signs of movement.

  The second, more significant indication of trouble was when they peered in the window and saw Blackman’s body lying, facedown, on the hardwood floor in the hallway adjacent to the den.

  At that point they felt free to enter the house, and once Coble called for backup, they did so by breaking windows on either side of the house and climbing in.

  Having seen a number of recently deceased bodies, Coble and Vasquez each estimated that Blackman had been dead for perhaps three hours. There were no signs of violence, either on the body or in the house. No apparent break-in, no blood, no signs of a struggle … nothing. No sign that anything was amiss, except for the human being on the floor that was no longer alive.

  Coble made another call to add a homicide team and coroner to those that would descend on the house. Once they arrived and assessed everything, it certainly seemed like Blackman’s death was from natural causes.

  Coble knew all too well that there was no such thing as obvious death by natural causes anymore, and he knew that Carpenter would understand that when he called him.

  Which he did at eleven-thirty that night.

  It’s been a while since I’ve had a phone call that awful.

  Lieutenant Coble called me about an hour ago to tell me that Mitchell Blackman was found dead in his house early this evening, and Laurie and I have been talking about it ever since. I haven’t called Pete yet, although I probably should. I’m sure he’s sleeping, and there seems to be no upside in keeping him up worrying the rest of the night.

  Coble told me that the coroner’s early opinion is that Blackman died of a heart attack, but he won’t know for sure until he performs the autopsy. If he’s right about the cause of death, and I suspect that he is, it obviously has significant implications unique to this case.

  It’s possible that Blackman’s heart naturally failed; perhaps he had a condition that was aggravated by the substantial stress he was under. He looked healthy to me, but that doesn’t mean he was.

  But I don’t believe in coincidences this great. I believe that his death was caused by one of Daniel Mathis’s stolen magic pills, and that he either committed suicide, or it means the conspiracy is ongoing. I had thought the death of Reynolds and Parker had eliminated all the bad guys, but if Blackman didn’t cave from the pressure and take his own life, then I was wrong.

  If in fact the conspiracy is ongoing, as seems most likely, then there are all kinds of very negative things that flow from that. Not only is there the likelihood that the murder for hires might continue, but there is also the personal danger to myself and our team.

  We have done more investigating of this than Pete ever did, and they have gone to extraordinary lengths to put him and many others out of commission. There is no reason to believe that they wouldn’t ultimately want to eliminate us, either now or later.

  Sitting with the belief that there are ruthless people intent on killing me and people I care about is not my favorite situation.

  In terms of the more immediate consideration, the trial, Blackman was a key witness for me, even more than Lieutenant Coble. He put a face on the conspiracy; he knew the players and was involved in the process, unwittingly if not criminally. His death of a heart attack would actually lend some credibility to my claims, but not nearly enough to offset the loss of him as a witness.

  But in presenting our case, I’ve got to go with what I’ve got. It’s a compelling story, if I can just get it in front of the jury. Coble seemed sympathetic to my plight, and agreed to be there when I need him. I will certainly need him, and more.

  I call Hike first thing in the morning and ask him to come over around noon, so we can talk about witnesses and start lining them up. Then I head over to Pete’s house to give him the bad news.

  “Where was Marcus?” is Pete’s first question when I tell him that Blackman had died.

  “I pulled him off the job of guarding Blackman,” I say. “I thought with Reynolds and Parker dead, there was no one to protect him from.” It was a stupid move on my part, and I tell that to Pete.

  “I would have done the same thing,” Pete says, with incredible generosity considering the circumstances. “You couldn’t have known.”

  “I couldn’t have known is the exact reason I should have kept Marcus in place,” I say.

  “Probably wouldn’t have mattered,” Pete says. “Marcus doesn’t protect people from pills. Blackman either had a visitor, or more likely he committed suicide.”

  I nod. “Suicide is a definite possibility. Maybe he had kept one of those pills for himself, and was afraid he’d be going to jail.”

  Now it’s Pete’s turn to nod. “Speaking from experience, the prospect of going to jail is very unpleasant. So what do we do now?”

  “Monday morning I start presenting our case. Richard will say it’s a fantasy and has nothing to do with the murder of Danny Diaz. Then we fight it out.”

  “And if we lose that fight?” he asks.

  “We cannot lose that fight.”

  I head back home to meet with Hike and go over our strategy and witness possibilities. We quickly agree on the witnesses, some of whom may not be thrilled to be called. But they’ll have no choice; we can subpoena them, even though I doubt that will be necessary.

  Our witness choices are designed to surprise Richard. He will be expecting them to testify to something totally different, and therefore he will be less able to prepare challenges to them.

  Lieutenant Coble will be our last witness. He’ll lend credibility to the proceedings, and hopefully will be able to tie it all together. I’ll then retie it in my closing argument, and then it’s in the hands of the jury gods.

  Let us pray.

  “The defense calls Janet Carlson.”

  It is not exactly unprecedented to call the coroner in a murder case, and although Richard probably can’t imagine how Janet can help our defense, I doubt that he’s particularly worried about what she is going to say. I’ve already announced that I will be recalling Chief Carnow to the stand as my second witness, and he is also not likely to strike fear in Richard’s heart.

  The gallery is packed, and I see more members of the media than usual. Obviously the start of the defense case is the catalyst for the increased interest, though it’s been pretty crowded throughout.

  “Dr. Carlson, was I in your office last month?”

  “Yes.”

  “And was I there to discuss an autopsy you had conducted?”

  “Yes, that of William Hambler.”

  “And did I ask you to also look into an autopsy done on Katherine Reynolds?”

  “Yes.”

  Richard is out of his chair. “Objection, Your Honor. Who are Katherine Reynolds and William Hambler?”

  I respon
d quickly. “Your Honor, unless I missed a class in law school, I don’t think ‘who are Katherine Reynolds and William Hambler’ is a valid objection.”

  Richard doesn’t seem amused by my comment. “Objection, Your Honor, as to relevance.”

  “I will certainly establish relevance, Your Honor. And I will also answer the ‘who is Katherine Reynolds’ question, if I may just continue presenting my case.”

  “Proceed,” the judge says, but then adds the unwelcome caveat, “For now.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor. Dr. Carlson, can you please describe our conversation?”

  “Yes, I told you that Mr. Hambler had died of a heart attack, and you asked me if perhaps he was murdered, if the heart attack could have resulted from other than natural causes.”

  “And you said?”

  “That there was no evidence of that. I qualified it by adding that certain naturally occurring chemicals, taken in combination, could induce an attack of this kind, but that they would have dissipated long before the autopsy took place.”

  Richard renews his objection, but Judge Matthews overrules him again, though I think her patience is wearing thin. At some point she is going to stop me, but the more I can get on the record, the better.

  “And did I ask you to analyze two other autopsies, ones that you had not conducted yourself?”

  She agrees that I did, and goes on to describe the cases, and her acquisition and analysis of the autopsies.

  “Were they deemed to have been heart attacks as well, with no evidence of foul play?”

  “Yes, although there were certain levels of chemicals consistent with the Hambler case.”

  “Enough to cause you to believe them to be murders?”

  “No, I wouldn’t go that far,” she says.

  Richard is up again. “Your Honor, I must object again as to relevance. Mr. Carpenter needs to explain what three heart attack deaths, all ruled to have been natural and not the result of foul play, have to do with the shooting death of Danny Diaz.”

  “I’ll see lead counsel in my chambers,” the judge says. “The jury will retire to the jury room.”