“For good reason.”
“Yes. In terms of the end results of their acts, a Jeffrey Dahmer was no different from a Raymond Shawcross. Both took their sadistic sex acts to the extreme. The gender of the victims was irrelevant.”
“Because the killers’ heads were screwed up the same way.”
“Precisely. All cases of serial murder are basically sexual in nature. And in most of them, the killer derives intense sexual pleasure from killing his victim. He may have sex with the victim before, during, or after the victim is dead, but to him, the killing and the sex are all part of the same act. That’s especially true in cases where torture is involved and the process is strung out over a period of time—where it takes hours, even days, for the victim to die. And there is nothing the killer can do, or even imagine, that approaches the excitement he experiences from committing his crimes.”
“Okay, but let’s get back to the senator. You’re not putting him in that category, are you?”
“It’s only a matter of degree, Lieutenant. In the extreme, sadism manifests itself as murder. In lesser instances, the cruelty inflicted is not as severe, but the spirit is the same. At what point on the scale would we place Senator Cunningham? We may never know for sure, because the man is dead. Then again, perhaps your investigation will produce a definitive answer.”
“I hope it does.”
“So do I. But whether it does or not, I’ll say this unequivocally. If he was the one responsible for burning that young woman’s body, then all my experience tells me the man was incapable of obtaining sexual satisfaction without inflicting pain. And I’d be equally certain he enjoyed himself hugely while he was inflicting it. Now, to what extent did he indulge himself in that pleasure? Not only with this journalist but with other women? That, I can’t say.”
“But the odds are pretty good she wasn’t the only one, right?”
“Absolutely. What’s more, the senator was one of those rare people who had the wherewithal to do any damn thing he wanted to do. He had the money and the power to live on a scale most of us can’t comprehend, able to buy anything or anyone he wanted. Laws and the rules of society were for the rest of us, not for him. The problem is, that has a corrupting effect not only on the people such a man controls, but on the man himself. To a personality of that type, women would be regarded simply as possessions, something he could use and then discard. He’d throw them away, get new ones. They were disposable.”
“I see.”
“How about some more coffee, Lieutenant?”
“No thanks, Doc. I have to move along, and you’ve got patients coming. But you’ve given me a couple of good ideas.”
“Good. That’s what I’m here for. Call me anytime.”
44
As soon as he reached his office, Tolliver telephoned police headquarters in Washington, D.C., and said he wanted to speak to Captain Arnold Jurasky.
As he waited, Ben thought about the last time he’d seen the captain. Jurasky had been a lieutenant then. He and Tolliver had met when they attended the course for police officers that was given once a year at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. Each city in the United States was invited to send one officer, so to be selected was a considerable honor. Attendance also formed a lifelong bond among the cops who went; they became members of an elite group.
The captain picked up. “Jurasky.”
“Hey, Arnie. Ben Tolliver.”
“Ben! How the hell are you?”
“Terrific. How you doing?”
“Not bad. You in Washington?”
“No such luck. I’m in New York, on an investigation for the DA.”
“Yeah? I figured you’d make PC by now.”
“I turned it down,” Ben said. “Didn’t want to lose the common touch.”
Jurasky laughed. “That’s my man. What can I do for you?”
Ben told him about the assignment.
“Ah, the senator. That got a lot of play here, as you’d expect. The Post and TV did their usual job of blowing up every rumor they could find, especially after the woman took her dive. How’s it going?”
“Hard to say. Still a cuppi.” That was copspeak, an acronym for circumstances unknown pending police investigation.
“But suspicious, right?”
“Yeah, very.”
“I thought so. He had a reputation, you know.”
“Anything specific while he was in the Senate?”
“Sure. We had several incidents. Each time, the women said they’d been knocked around by him, but then they retracted, refused to sign a complaint. Said they were mistaken, that it must’ve been somebody else. One of them wound up in the Georgetown Medical Center. But she wouldn’t press charges, and that was the end of it.”
“Anything more on him?”
“No, just gossip. That’s what this town operates on.”
“There’s something else I wanted to ask about.”
“Shoot.”
“The Cunninghams have their own security force, headed by a guy who used to work for your department. The senator hired him. Name is Evan Montrock. I’m curious about his record.”
“Is that M-o-n-t-r-o-c-k?”
“Correct.”
“No problem, thanks to the wonders of our marvelous mainframe—when it works. You want to hang on, or should I call you back?”
“I’ll hold,” Ben said. Thinking, Thank God for contacts. If he had to go through interdepartmental channels, it would take days to get the information he wanted.
Looking out through the glass walls of the office, he observed the usual beehive, investigators juggling reams of paper, talking on the telephone, leafing through file drawers. “When men become robots, they descend into madness.” Who wrote that—Kafka? Sounded like him.
Jurasky came back on. “Okay, here we go. Evan Montrock joined the force on five June, nineteen seventy-eight. Metro Police Training six months, graduated third in his class. One year patrol officer, then … uh-oh. Twice reprimanded for violations, code of conduct. Disciplined, put on probationary status. Month later brought up on charges. Accused of beating a suspect, resulting in suspect’s death. Insufficient evidence for indictment, but discharged from the force after investigation by Internal Affairs. Must’ve been before civilians started using video cameras.”
“Yeah. Then what?”
“That’s all we have on him in departmental records. You want me to see if he’s got a rap sheet?”
“I’d appreciate it.”
Ben hung on again, continuing to watch the activity on the floor outside his office. What would come after the madness? Maybe the investigators would lose it, the way postal employees had been doing. Freak out and start shooting up the work site.
The captain returned. “Ben? Nothing. Not even the arrest for battery, because it wound up like I told you.”
“Anything else on him?”
“Nope, that was it. No forwarding address, whereabouts unknown.”
“Okay, Arnie, thanks. Come to New York soon, I’ll buy you a drink.”
“How about a show girl instead?”
“What flavor?”
“I’ll leave that to you.”
Ben hung up. So Montrock had lied about his background. So what else was new? Had anyone in the case provided straight information? And what more might the security chief have lied about? Had he related everything he knew about Jennifer Silk’s visit to the senator?
Montrock came off as smug and highly self-satisfied about his soft job and his perks. Ben wondered whether he knew his boss was readying him for the scrap heap—if in fact that was what was going on.
After making notes on what Jurasky had told him, Tolliver unlocked a drawer and got out the thick stack of folders on the Cunningham investigation. He was studying the reports when a knock sounded at the door of the cubicle. He looked up, to see Jack Mulloy come in with a worried look on his face.
“What’s with you?” Ben asked.
Mulloy shut the door. �
�We got trouble. Brannigan heard you had the files on the Cunningham case and went batshit. Told me to get them back.”
“What’s his problem?”
“Shackley’s been on his ass. I saw the two of them huddling together in Brannigan’s office, and then after that the captain had me in there and read me out. He said you’re getting a lot of people pissed off, sticking your face into things that don’t have anything to do with you. He said you could’ve had your report finished and in to the DA a week ago.”
“Why doesn’t Brannigan tell me himself?”
“That’s not his style. He just said I was to get the stuff back and keep it locked up. Said if you want to be a hero, do it on your own. I tried to tell you how things work around here, remember? How it’s all politics?”
“Yeah, so you did.” Ben went about stuffing the papers back into their respective jackets.
“Look out for Shackley, Ben. The guy’s a buzz saw.”
“Uh-huh.”
Mulloy picked up the stack and rose to his feet, holding the material in his arms. He glanced over his shoulder and then turned back, lowering his voice. “You want to know anything that’s in here, you got it, okay?”
“Now who’s violating Mulloy’s rule?”
“Yeah, maybe I’m crazy, too. See you later.” He left the office.
Tolliver sat back in his chair. If Shackley was trying to make trouble for him, better to face it head-on. Confronting Brannigan would be a waste of time. The captain would simply duck the issue and then later come down on Mulloy with both boots. Tolliver had seen enough of the type in his years on the force. The problem was, nowadays there seemed to be more of them. In his own department, as well as here.
Getting to his feet, he told himself to keep in mind what he wanted to accomplish, not let his emotions run away with him. Then he headed for Fletcher Shackley’s office.
45
Striding through the corridors, Tolliver thought it was amazing, the number of ADAs in this rabbit warren. Hundreds of attorneys, battling thousands more on the private side. Someday, when humanity was in its final convulsions, when civilization was gone and the earth was blackened and scorched, there would be nobody left but the lawyers—fighting over whatever remained.
A clerk pointed out Shackley’s office and Ben went to it. The layout was luxurious—by a cop’s standards. It featured an outer reception area with a secretary at a desk and an inner space occupied by two trial-preparation assistants, one male, one female. Beyond that was the prosecutor’s private abode.
Ben told the young woman at the outer desk who he was and she spoke into a telephone. He waited, fully expecting to be brushed off. But a moment later, the door to the office opened and the senior ADA himself came out to greet him, inviting Ben to come inside.
The interior was even more impressive than the outer trappings: leather chairs, bookcases, a rug on the floor, and a large desk that most likely was Shackley’s personal property. And not only one window but three—with sweeping views of the civic center and city hall.
Shackley spoke in his customary nasal tones. “Well, Lieutenant. Captain Brannigan tells me you have your work just about wrapped up.”
That was news to Tolliver. “Not quite. There are still questions I don’t have answers to.”
“Is that so? What questions are they?”
“I don’t know for sure what killed Senator Cunningham. The death certificate says it was a coronary, but I’m not convinced. And I don’t know the exact circumstances of Jessica’s Silk’s death, either.”
A small smile tilted one corner of Shackley’s mouth. “In other words, you haven’t been able to disprove the facts, regardless of how obvious they might be.”
“They weren’t obvious to me. The district attorney asked for a complete report, and that’s what I’m going to give him.”
“And if this turned into an even bigger news story, that would be all right with you, wouldn’t it? Might even make you a kind of celebrity.”
It was difficult for Ben to sit there, having his chain pulled. “I’m only trying to finish an assignment. I think there’s a connection between the deaths and the situation your group is investigating.”
“What would one have to do with the other?”
“That’s one of the things I want to find out. I need the files.”
Shackley folded his arms. “Lieutenant, let me explain a few things. You may not be aware of it, but I have a total of six assistant district attorneys working on this investigation, and twice that many TPAs. Plus the work being done by the detectives, Mulloy and Chief Brannigan. The captain’s a very experienced man, you know. Been involved with cases of this kind for many years.”
“I’m sure he has.”
“Anyway, the problems we’ve encountered have been considerable. The Cunninghams are represented by a battery of lawyers, some of the best firms in the city. We don’t have their resources, couldn’t possibly match their numbers. The SEC has also been investigating, and they’ve virtually given up on bringing charges.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“You see, it’s one thing to suspect illegal activity, and quite another to pin it down with indisputable evidence. That’s what we’ve been working to put together.”
“For a couple of years now.”
“Takes time. Not like chasing a mugger.”
“I never thought it was. But I want access to those files.”
The prosecutor thrust out his jaw. “That won’t be possible, Lieutenant. The reports are too sensitive to have them shuffled around. As a matter of fact, Mulloy never should have shown you any of them without express permission from me.”
“I asked to see them.”
“All the more reason he should have cleared it with me first. But I’ll tell you what. If there is anything you need to know, feel free to ask me. That way, we won’t be compromising our work. That’s fair enough, isn’t it? Agreed?”
“I’ll give it some thought.” He wondered how it would feel to give this jackass a punch in the nose. Great, probably.
Shackley sat back. “Glad we’ve reached an understanding.”
Tolliver walked out, steaming. He went back down the corridor and got into the elevator.
If Shackley wanted to play rough, Ben had a few moves of his own.
46
Her nameplate was on the wall next to the door: FERN ROSE, ASSISTANT DISTRICT ATTORNEY. At that point, any similarity between her office and Shackley’s ended.
There was a TPA outside, but no secretary. No window in the office, either. The tiny room seemed even more cramped than Ben’s cubicle, every available inch piled high with case files and books and stacks of paper. A computer and a modem were on a stand beside the beat-up metal desk and there was a printer on a nearby bookcase. A filing cabinet stood alongside that, which left hardly enough room for anyone to squeeze inside.
She was on the phone when Ben arrived, standing while she yelled into the mouthpiece. “I don’t give a goddamn, Arturo. You said you’d testify, and I took your word. So don’t hand me that shit about you can’t remember. You pull that with me, I’ll go right to your parole officer. You understand? The hearing’s tomorrow morning at eleven. I want you in my office an hour before that. Diez horas, Arturo. Be here!”
She slammed the phone down. Fern Rose was small, maybe an inch over five feet in heels. She had an elfin face and a spray of taffy-colored hair, and she wore a dark gray sharkskin suit she probably thought made her look determined.
She noticed her visitor. “Hello, Ben. You want some coffee?”
He grinned. “Sure.”
“Black, right? Nancy, bring us two coffees, will you? Both black, no sugar.”
Tolliver moved some books and sat on one of the two straight-backed chairs bolted to the floor in front of her desk, but she remained standing. Her fighting stance, he thought.
She eyed him. “What’s up?”
That was Fern. No nonsense about how’ve you been or
isn’t this a beautiful fall day. “I’m on a special assignment for the DA,” he said. “Looking into the death of Senator Cunningham.”
“I heard. So?”
“I need a favor.”
“Name it.”
“Before I do, anything I tell you has to stay strictly confidential.”
“Understood.”
“I’ve been running into some roadblocks. There’s an investigation into Cunningham Securities that’s been going on at the same time.”
“Yeah, Fletcher Shackley’s heading it up.”
“Right. The problem is, I think there could be a connection between that case and mine. But Shackley wants me nowhere near it.”
“Have you told that to Oppenheimer?”
“No. I don’t want to get him into it if I can help it. He’d most likely back Shackley up.”
“Yeah, he would.”
The TPA came into the office with two plastic cups of black coffee. She put them down on the desk.
“Thanks, Nancy,” Fern said. “Better shut the door on your way out.”
As soon as they were alone, the ADA looked at Tolliver. “You’re not really gonna ask me to do this, are you?”
“Do what?”
“Go around Shackley’s end.”
He picked up one of the cups. “You know what, Fern? You have a blunt way of putting things.”
“But that’s it, right?”
“You said you’d do me a favor.”
“I didn’t say that included cutting my throat.”
“All I want is some information.”
“Look, Ben. I’m no longer in the Rackets Bureau. So I doubt I could be much help to you with whatever it is you’re after. What I do now is prosecute dirtbags. That character I was talking to when you came in? He’s the night clerk in a hot-sheet hotel on West Fortieth Street. A hooker took a john there; the john strangled her. Cops’ve got a suspect, but now the clerk can’t remember what the john looked like, he says. I live in a different world from Mr. Shackley.”
Flesh and Blood Page 24
