Private Sector

by Brian Haig

  Janet walked over to the desk, picked up the picture, and studied it again. She asked, “How did he get into her apartment?”

  Spinelli scratched his nose. “He picked her locks.”

  “Can you be more detailed?”

  “Miss Cuthburt had two locks. He employed a special tool to get past the tumbler lock . . . a bolt cutter to get past the chain.”

  “Thank you.” She very insightfully asked, “And how did he keep her silent?”

  Martin explained, “A halter . . . like a modified dog halter with a strap for her throat and a bit that went into her mouth. The killer seems to be into bondage, humiliation, and possibly sadism.” After a moment, he added, “An FBI profiler will be studying the case in the morning.”

  Janet threw the photo back on the desk and concluded, “You’ve got the worst nightmare possible.”

  “Why’s that?” asked Spinelli. But I suspected he already knew.

  “At both murder scenes he left a paucity of evidence. He wore gloves so you couldn’t match his prints, indicating this was a matter of concern to him. But he knew you’d get his DNA, indicating confidence that he’s not in your, or the FBI’s, DNA database. Nor will he likely be found in your sex offender databases. But his fingerprints could be on file. You should think about what that means.”

  “Maybe he’s just stupid,” Spinelli replied.

  “You know he’s not.”

  “Do I?”

  “Danny, the man’s a planner. He studies his targets and prepares. He somehow manages to get close to them. He brings along a rape kit, all the right tools, and he knows how to use them. He’s a sexual predator, but when his prey bucks his scenario, he shuts down his sexual impulses and coldly terminates the problem.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “He’s done this before. And his ability to control his urges and rages is worrisome.” She observed, “You don’t see many like that.”

  It was a very impressive display of conjecture. Both cops nodded appreciatively. I also was impressed. But I was even more mystified. In case you haven’t noticed, her sister was murdered three days before, and she shows up, cool and icy calm, and insinuates herself into the investigation. Now she’s professionally hypothesizing about the guy who may have brutally murdered her sister, her emotions completely in check, her brain firing on all cylinders.

  Weird? Right.

  But a knock on Martin’s door showed three impatient detectives waiting for us to exit so they could enter. We had fulfilled our purpose, and aside from the normal troubles and nightmares the Alexandria Police Department had on its hands that chilly evening, with two women murdered by a maniac, clearly Martin and Spinelli were busy staring off the edge of a cliff.

  Janet and I found our own way out, leaving Martin with Spinelli, which I regarded as less than a favor.

  Outside, I asked Janet, “You eat yet?”

  “No. And I’m famished.” She was shivering and had her coat pulled tightly around her body. It was cold, but not that cold.

  I said, “Me, too. And I know the perfect place.”

  In truth, Julia Cuthburt’s photo had ruined my appetite. When you’re in a cop station everybody’s working hard to keep it light and insensitive. Part of that’s just macho horseshit, but also passion and emotion cloud up logic, logic solves crimes, and there’s this forced, almost competitive effort by all parties to treat the whole thing like a clinical discussion. It’s all phony. Under the surface, I think we were all picturing the final hour of Julia Cuthburt’s life and feeling a bit green in the gills. The killer had turned a living, breathing human being into a vulgar calling card to say, Fuck you, I’m here, I’m very good at this, and I’m not through.

  So we needed to decompress and clear our minds, and I knew a great place with brick ovens, genuine pan-baked pizza pies, and a nice mix of artery-cloggers you could pile on. We both kept it light on the short drive over.

  Bertolucci’s, by the way, is a popular establishment, very the matic, though some of the locals seem to feel it goes a little overboard; in fact, the walls are painted with guys in funny clothes shoving around gondolas, and Venetian palaces, and spewing volcanoes, a collage of another world and another place, so wildly ridiculous that it almost works. But, like everything in the suburbs, it is part of a strip mall. Also, the waiters and waitresses speak with these goofy, half-baked Italian accents and call one another Dom This and Dom That, which adds to the hilarity because they’re all local teenagers with names like O’Donnell and Smith. Only in America. But it was late and the usual family crowd had thinned out, so no line, and no squalling kids, and we ended up at a nice quiet table by the roaring fireplace.

  I ordered a bottle of vino as we got settled. A kid showed up, said, “Buon giorno, signores, my name is Dom Jimmy Jones, and I’ll be your sommelier and waiter this evening,” uncorked our bottle, poured our glasses, and took his Disney act somewhere else. At least the pizza’s real.

  Janet took a few deep sips of wine, then asked me, “What do you think about Julia Cuthburt?”

  “There’s no dignity in death.”

  In a sort of rushed tone, she said, “I know this sounds odd, but maybe Lisa was lucky. If she hadn’t forced his hand—”

  “I know.”

  “I couldn’t have stood it if she died like that.”

  “Amen.”

  “A bunch of strangers sitting around . . . studying her photo . . . naked . . . that way Julia Cuthburt was posed—”

  “Drink some wine. Dream you’re in Italy.”

  She drank some wine. After a moment, she asked, “Did you ever try a case like this?”

  “No. Our serial killers have chests filled with ribbons and are called heroes. Some of our graduates make a big name for themselves after they leave the service, but Army life tends to discourage them from acting out their fantasies.”

  “But you’ve handled rapes, sex crimes?”

  “Yes. A few.”

  “What about Lisa?”

  “Probably. The JAG Corps likes us to be well-rounded. Great efforts are expended to round out our trial experience.”

  “Could she have been involved in a case with her killer?”

  It was an insightful question, one I should’ve thought of. I replied, “I wouldn’t rule it out. She couldn’t have handled many violent sex crimes, because we do generalize. It shouldn’t be too difficult to back-check her case records.”

  “That would be helpful.”

  “Maybe not. Even if Lisa and the killer met in connection with her legal duties, it wasn’t necessarily a sex crime.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re familiar with criminal profiles. Those who would commit murder and rape have a disdain for all laws. He’s as apt to have been prosecuted for DUI, shoplifting, military disciplinary problems.” I added, “I’ll check her record on sex crimes, but don’t hold false hopes.”

  But since she’d raised the subject, I also suggested, “You know, now that it appears Lisa’s murder was at the hands of a serial killer, there’s not much you and I can do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know what I mean. The customary motives of jealousy, greed, revenge, and cover-up have just been eliminated. Why she was killed is no longer the mystery. Catching serial killers requires strong procedural police work.”

  “Are you suggesting I should go home?”

  “Yes. Grieve with your family. Wait for the cops to find this guy.”

  She stared at me for a few seconds, then said, “And if it wasn’t a serial killer?”

  “If it . . . Didn’t I just hear you tossing theories at Martin and Spinelli about this guy?”

  “What if they’re wrong?”

  “But you agreed with them.”

  “You didn’t listen carefully. I neither agreed nor disagreed. I speculated.”

  “All right. Do you have a reason to suspect something else?”

  “I’m keeping an open mind.”

&
nbsp; When I said nothing in reply, she added, “Consider the differences between Cuthburt’s and Lisa’s murders. Cuthburt’s was inarguably a sexual assault. We’re presuming that was the motive with Lisa. Cuthburt was attacked in her home, Lisa in a public parking lot. I could go on.” She paused, and then added, “In fact, the only similarities were pieces of the victim profile and the broken neck. That could be coincidental.”

  She was right. But she was not convincing. I said, “I would think an assistant DA would have confidence in cops.”

  “Really? I thought it made us experts in their mistakes. I’ve lost more cases off their blunders. Also, they’re human. When a live person is around every day checking on their progress, they keep the case on the front burner and pay attention to the details.”

  Okay, I appreciated her logic. Spend a few years as a defense attorney exploiting cop screwups, or as a prosecutor trying to wallpaper over them, and you’ll be damned sure to lock your doors and sleep with a gun under your pillow. Truth and sincerity, however, are different things.

  But Dom Jimmy Jones arrived with our pizza pie and the awful Italian accent he had lifted from The Godfather or something, and I said, “Grazie,” and he looked back with a dumbfounded look until I clarified, “Thank you.” Mamma mia—welcome to the suburbs.

  Janet laughed and commented, “Maybe it’s your pronunciation.”

  “No wonder I had such a lousy time in Italy. I was there with your sister, in fact.”

  “I don’t think she ever mentioned it.”

  “A few years ago. We were taking statements from some soldiers who were being kept in a jail there.”

  “Oh, the Kosovo thing. She did tell me about that. She called right after you returned, in fact. She was smitten with you.”

  “Smitten?”

  “It’s how we say it in polite Boston society. It means—”

  “I know what it means. What else did she tell you about me?”

  “All of it? The good, the bad, and the ugly?”

  I smiled. “I have a strong ego.”

  “Funny, that’s the first thing she mentioned—no, she mentioned a big ego.”

  “The good, the bad, and the ugly. You start with the good.”

  “I did.” She laughed, her first genuine laugh since we’d met. I don’t mean she’d been dour or bitchy or anything—the woman could frown and look pleasant. But she’d been concealing her feelings, smothering her grief, trying to accomplish the task she’d set for herself; but you had to know things were a little brittle underneath. I was glad I’d brought her here. I was glad I was diverting her mind for the time being. I liked her laugh. I was pretty sure I liked her.

  She said, “Actually, Lisa described you as this big manly hunk who snorts testosterone at breakfast . . . bullheaded . . . trouble with authority figures . . . Should I go on?”

  “I thought you said she was . . . what was that word again?”

  “Smitten. She was. She also said you were smart, clever, sexy, and very funny without meaning to be funny.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “That’s hard to explain.” She added, “But I think I see what she means.” Then she looked at me pointedly and asked, “Why didn’t you ask her out?”

  “A lot of reasons.”

  “All right. Give me one good one.”

  “After Bosnia, a long case in Korea, three cases in Europe, a long case that kept me in Russia, and so on. I know this is difficult to understand, but Army life’s not conducive to starting relationships.”

  “Of course.” After a moment, she said, “Have you thought of a good one yet?”

  Right. I allowed a few seconds to pass, then said, “Your sister scared the hell out of me.”

  She put down her wineglass and studied me. “Why?”

  “You know why.”

  “I want to hear it.” But she already knew, and she chuckled. “Maybe you’re not as brave as she claimed.”

  “I don’t see any engagement rings on your finger, sister.”

  “I have an excuse.”

  “What’s your excuse?”

  “I’m much younger than you.” She laughed. Again. She then said, “You should have asked her out. She got involved with another man. We weren’t all that happy about it.”

  “What was his problem?”

  “Problems. Older, married twice before . . . a charming, successful guy, just definitely not right for her. My father lost a lot of sleep over it.”

  Well, for some reason, perhaps guilt or perhaps a need to change the topic from the dead to the living, I asked her, “Well, what’s your life story?”

  She appeared amused by this question. “The same as Lisa’s.”

  “I know you were sisters, but—”

  “No, Sean. Literally almost identical. We were eleven months apart, Irish twins. Still, you’d swear we sprang from the same egg. Same height, clothing size, tastes, grades in the same courses . . . perhaps you’ve noticed we even sound alike? We did everything together. She was a track star, I was a track star. She went to a girls’ prep, I went with her, then to UVA, then to Harvard Law.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Because I’m darker, and she was a year ahead of me, they called me her shadow. I know this sounds strange. We were sisters, but more than sisters.”

  “You miss her.”

  “He cut out my heart. It’s like he killed me.”

  I didn’t respond to that, but it brought some clarity to why she was here, and the scale of her emotional stake in this case.

  But recalling that the purpose of this dinner was to take our mind off more serious matters, I asked, “And did you like the same men?”

  “No. Poor Lisa was always attracted to creeps and jerks.” She laughed.

  Interesting.

  “So you never fought over boys?”

  “Actually, I was seriously involved until recently.”

  “What happened?”

  “Old story. Business mixed with pleasure, and it didn’t work out.”

  “Another lawyer?”

  “He has a law degree, but wasn’t practicing. He was in the FBI. I met him on a case a few years ago, we moved in together, got engaged, and . . .” She brushed some hair off her forehead and said, “You don’t want to hear about this.”

  “Am I getting too personal?”

  “No. It’s just such a common tale.”

  “These things are never common. What happened?”

  “George was a real hotshot in the Boston Field Office. Early promotions, a drawerful of citations, a real up-and-comer. We worked a case together, some mob murders actually, that he had broken and developed. I had just moved into the felonies section, it was my first big case, I needed help, and he got me through it.”

  “Go on.”

  “I was madly in love with him. We lived together three years.” She looked away and said, “I broke it off.”

  “Why?”

  “We worked another case, and it didn’t work out.”

  “His problem, or yours?”

  She paused a moment, then said, “George was very ambitious. The more successful he became, the more ambitious he got. You know how that happens?”

  “It happens to some people.”

  “George had been working this case for a year. He was under unbearable pressure from the mayor’s office and his bosses to break it. Car theft is a major problem in Boston, everybody pays for it in high insurance rates, and the case involved a massive interstate auto theft ring. Whoever brought it down and got the convictions was going to be a hero. George somehow got to some people on the inside, treated it like a conspiracy, used one source to roll up another, and a number of the indictments landed on my desk to take to the grand jury.”

  I nodded but wasn’t expected to comment, so I didn’t.

  “The ring was large, several hundred people, from street kids who collected the cars, to chop shops, to the millionaires who controlled it. A few of the defense attorneys approa
ched me. They

  said George had broken the rules, and complained that the discovery elements that had been turned over to them were partial, that certain critical pieces of evidence were withheld. They were talking about witness coercion, some strongarming, and perhaps unauthorized wiretaps. There was enough there that I went to George and asked him. He insisted they were lying. But I knew George. He was lying. The next day his office approached the DA and asked to have me removed from the case on the pretext that I hadn’t shown sufficient enthusiasm and dedication.”

  “And your boss bought that?”

  “The part he bought was that no DA is successful without the full and friendly support of your local FBI office. Also, this was your basic checkbook case. He also wanted credit for bringing down insurance rates.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Well, George got his grand jury indictments, his promotion, and his reassignment to FBI headquarters.”

  “When was this?”

  “About six months ago.”

  “What did you say to him afterward?”

  “I didn’t. Oddly enough, I was still in love with him, and I wasn’t sure how I’d do in a confrontation. I left him a note, moved out, and took a thirty-day vacation. When he tried calling, I hung up.”

  “The cathartic solution in these things is to look them in the eye and tell them to screw off.”

  She smiled and said, “Next time, I’ll call you and ask how to handle it.”

  I didn’t seem to be having much luck staying on cheerier topics, so I tried again. “Why didn’t you follow Lisa into the JAG Corps?”

  “I actually considered it. But my father’s getting older, my youngest sister was just starting high school, my mother’s dead . . . you understand? . . . Somebody had to stay nearby. Lisa did the heavy lifting when we grew up. It was her turn to go into the world and follow her dream.”

  Sometimes in the midst of a pleasant conversation, something perfectly innocuous gets said, but it isn’t at all innocuous. We both, I think, experienced the same jarring, nasty realization that Lisa’s dream had just ended in a nightmare. And like that, the mood was killed.