“Mr. Magruder... what’s the ‘killin kind?’”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re telling us that even though you were caught, literally red-handed... covered in blood and gore, in the actual throes of committing yet another murder... that you took a polygraph saying you were innocent—and passed?”
Magruder nodded, nervously. “Y-yes.”
Gordon chuckled in confusion. “Mr. Magruder... could you please explain that to me? How can that be? Either you did it or you didn’t. It can’t be both. Maybe you have a certain mental prowess that enables you to evade these tests?”
Magruder cast the court room an anxious look. “As I told the Miss Benét, I can’t explain it. All I know is that I know I couldn’t possibly have committed any murder—”
“Mr. Magruder—the human condition has proven itself time and again that once-thought peaceful men and women can and do, indeed, commit the most heinous of acts, given the proper circumstances.”
“I did not kill those people!”
“Mr. Magruder—”
“Look, I don’t know who did—but it wasn’t me!”
“Mr. Magruder, if you can’t control your outbursts, I will be forced to remove you from this court,” Stoker admonished.
“You did kill, shoot, then brutally bludgeon to death eighty-six-year-old Matilda Jenkowicz?”
“No, I did not!”
“Roll her up in a carpet, then tenderize the hell out of her with a number 34 Rawlings baseball bat?”
Harry tossed pictures of her battered and brutally deformed corpse on the stand’s railing before him.
“No!”
“Mr. Magruder, I am warning you—” the judge reminded.
“Or seventy-three-year-old Henna Pearlman? Tying her dead-or-dying corpse between a post and her car—” Gordon continued, also tossing her mutilated corpse pictures before Magruder. Magruder shoved them all off the stand, onto the floor.
“I did not!”
“Brutally ripping her apart—”
“Lies! All lies!” Magruder shouted, his voice cracking as he shot to his feet. He stood in the witness box, visibly shaking, tears streaming down his face. “I don’t know who did these things, or why you think I did—but I didn’t! I didn’t! Why won’t anyone believe me!”
Before Stoker could utter the command, three bailiffs were on him, but Magruder fought them off. Stoker pounded his gavel trying to restore order to the court room, as those in the gallery again grew agitated. Benét tried to shout above the din that her client’s testimony be stricken from the record, as Harry Gordon calmly returned to his seat, a faint smile across his face. He cast Benét a triumphant look.
“Mr. Gordon!” Judge Stoker admonished, “if I find you resorting to such theatrics in my court room, again, I will consider you in contempt. Do you understand me?”
Gordon nodded. “Sorry, your Honor. I didn’t realize how agitated Mr. Magruder would get.”
“I don’t believe that for a moment.”
“Your Honor—” Benét continued, but was interrupted by the Stoker.
“Ms. Benét, I am leaving the last witness’s testimony intact. We will recess until tomorrow morning.” Stoker banged his gavel. “This court is in recess until eight-fifteen a.m., tomorrow.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
1
“Dr. Preston,” Harry Gordon said, “would you kindly tell the court your profession and why you are here?”
“I am a state psychologist and was ordered to examine each of the defendants for mental competency to stand trial.”
“Dr. Preston, with your indulgence, I’d like to revisit some of our facts, if you would.”
Preston nodded.
“Could you please, again, tell the court your findings?”
Preston sighed. “I found them all, without exception, fit to stand trial.”
“What about Mrs. Roberts? Was she not catatonic?”
“Later, I was able to get through to her and get her to communicate.”
“And by what means did you ascertain this judgment?” Harry asked, facing the jury.
“All the standard battery of tests, direct and indirect interrogation, passive observation, and so on.”
“So, in your professional opinion, these defendants are psychologically and emotionally fit—capable of undergoing these proceedings?”
“In my professional opinion, yes, they were all quite aware and cognizant of who they were, and why they were arrested and incarcerated, however... a few did deny their actions—”
“Yet denial is not a prerequisite to insanity nor murder?”
Preston nodded. “No, sir, it is not. Just because someone denies a crime—or an alleged crime—doesn’t mean they didn’t do it.”
“So, in your concerted, expert, opinion, each of the defendants are sane enough to stand trial. Our defendant, there, is sane to stand trial.”
“Yes, they are. He is.”
Gordon nodded, returning to his seat.
“Counselor,” Stoker said, looking to D.A. Benét, “do you wish to cross?”
Benét got to her feet, slowly and pensively approaching the witness stand.
“Dr. Preston—do you believe in past lives?”
“Excuse me?”
“Did you or did you not discuss the topic of past lives with your patients?”
Dr. Preston remained calm, but paused before answering. “We only discussed what my patients wanted to discuss.”
Benét quickly returned to her table and grabbed a thick folder, flipping it open.
“And did you discuss with Mr. Billy Williams, and our defendant, Tiger, here—or anyone else—just such topics?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“During the course of my examination these patients all brought up the subject—so we discussed it.”
“In what way?”
“Well... during the course of my observation of Mr. Williams, for example, I found him doodling barren landscapes and ancient warriors. He talked of... being attacked, and killed in a sand storm... in a desert. When I pressed him on this, he refused answers, insisting I wouldn’t understand.”
“He just started talking about this to you, out of the blue? Just like that?”
“Yes.”
“And the others? The defendant?”
Dr. Preston looked to Tiger, who unnervingly stared back at her.
“Tiger, as he calls himself, was a bit more vocal about the whole thing—”
“How so?”
“At first... he talked about hearing all this wind when there really wasn’t any.”
“Wind?”
“Yes, like Mr. Williams described earlier. Apparently, since he first became homeless, he said it had all started with this hollow wind screaming through his head—curiously, this is a common link between all the suspects I am unable to explain. Tiger also told me of a warrior on horseback he’d met in the middle of winter in New York City.”
Benét snickered.
“You’re telling us that a ghost warrior appeared to a homeless man in the middle of New York City, in the middle of the winter—and you believed him?”
“Ms. Benét, I believe he believed it.”
“Is there anything else?”
“Yes.” She again looked to Tiger, who, this time, just stared straight ahead into space.
“Go on.”
“Tiger and the others believed this aberration compelled them to commit these crimes. That the wind, horses, and voices inside their heads had forced them on. Niggled them—”
“They hear voices in their heads, telling them to kill, yet you still declare them sane?”
“How do you interact with your own mind, ma’am? We all have some form of a ‘voice’ in our heads... we just don’t always act out what we’re thinking. In every other manner of my investigation they are all, as unequivocally as anyone in my position can determine, sane.”
“Go on.”
“When I l
eft the suspects alone in the observation room, they all doodled out depictions of ancient warriors. Battles.”
“How did you know they were ancient?”
“Well, in Tiger’s case, for example, they looked it. He’s an extremely accomplished artist for someone in his situation. But both Mr. Williams and Tiger—as well as others—told me so. When I asked who they were drawing, they all—even Tiger—became fearful of these images... angry even.”
“Dr. Preston, I must insist—the subjects are on trial for murdering seventy-two individuals, talk of past lives—yet you continue to deem them mentally competent?”
“As I’ve said, despite traditional methodology, my findings show they exhibit no psychological disorders during my investigation of them. All subjects know their position in time and space, where they are, what they’re charged with, and—”
“Doctor, they believe wind and long-dead warriors made them kill!”
“That is their belief.”
“Do you believe in them, Doctor?”
“I believe they believe it...”
“Do you believe in reincarnation?”
“I do... but, whatever the reason—”
“Do you believe these murders are past-life related?”
“Objection!” Harry shouted. “Past lives? Hocus-pocus... Ms. Benét already stated—”
“Overruled,” Stoker said.
“In your professional opinion,” Benét continued, “do you believe the voices, wind, and drawings indicate my clients were exacting past-life vengeance?”
Preston inhaled, then answered, “Yes,” sending the court room into a blizzard of whispers and chuckles.
“Order, people!” Stoker shouted.
“Thank you, Doctor,” Benét said, returning to her seat.
“Mr. Gordon?” Stoker asked.
Prosecutor Harry Gordon returned to the stand.
”Reincarnation? Past lives? With the court’s indulgence—and at the risk of going all Juan-Martinez-and-the-seven-dwarfs—I’d like to examine this for but a moment, if I may?”
Stoker nodded.
“Doctor... do you think murderers should be freed because they're just getting even from other lives, since—using reincarnational theory—we all never really die, anyway, so what’s the point, right?”
“We’re all responsible for our actions. Events from one life do not justify murder in another.”
“But, we all know how fallible memories are... well, most of us, anyway. Do people with photographic memory ever recall past lives?”
“I have no data on this—”
“Then who's to say our suspect's memories are accurate? Do you remember what you ate three weeks ago? What you wrote in your diary when you were six?”
Preston remained stoic; looked back to Harry without supplying an answer.
“The witness would be testifying to somebody else's life... this person testifying wasn't there... or may have been, but certainly not in the subject’s present body. It would be hearsay—inadmissible in court.”
“That certainly sounds logical—”
“Normally, when a witness testifies, we cross-examine, redirect, as we’re doing now. Call other witnesses... but how could we find witnesses from other lives...,” Harry smirked as he turned to the jury, “unless we’re all part of the same ‘Past-Life Mystery Club’ and hang out together across our various lives?” He turned back to the court. “And even if no other witnesses exist—in or out of our time—we always have physical evidence, can investigate sensory abilities... did they wear glasses? Are they deaf? The jury can evaluate how he or she appears. But, if he or she's testifying about a past life, can we really pursue any of this?”
“Counselor,” Stoker admonished, “get to the point.”
“Your Honor, I'm trying to put this past-life fable to bed.”
Stoker impatiently waved him on.
“Doctor... does our present-day defendant know whether his memory is accurate or edited? What if it is part of reincarnation to reset—distort—any so-called past-life memories?”
“I can't answer that. You've thrown a lot at me, but until this is studied further—”
“Studied further? I don’t think so! As much as I've rattled on we're not here to study past-life theory, Doctor. We’re here to solve a murder. A mass murder. Thank you.”
“I think you've said quite enough for several lifetimes, counselor,” Stoker said. Muted chuckles filled the court room. “Ms. Benét, redirection?”
D. A. Benét smiled and rubbed her hands as she came to her feet. “I’m not sure I could follow such a stunning display of legal soliloquy, your Honor, however, in any case—no redirection.”
As Preston departed the stand, Banner, who’d been checking a text message on his cell phone, got up and whispered into Harry’s ear. Harry nodded, then got to his feet.
“Counselor? Is there a problem?” Stoker asked.
“May we approach the bench?” Harry asked, looking to Benét. The judge motioned Benét and Harry forward.
“Your Honor,” Harry began, “I’ve just been informed that another of our suspects has committed suicide, exposing new evidence that may directly impact this trial. I request a recess.”
“Who is this person and what is the nature of this evidence?” Stoker asked.
“Ronda Ettbauer, your Honor, she was in the Punta Gorda facility, and was found... well, suffocated... with an as-yet unidentifiable script covering her cell walls. Once translated and analyzed it may affect the outcome of this case.”
“Very well.” Stoker pounded the gavel. “Court is adjourned until eight-fifteen a.m., Monday, so that counsel may incorporate new evidence.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
1
Fisher, Gordon, Benét, and a uniformed officer entered what had been Ronda Ettbauer’s Punta Gorda detention center cell before her transfer and subsequent suicide. Large sheets of semi-transparent plastic covered the entire floor, and in the center of the cell stood an older, professorish-looking man adjusting his glasses and studying the walls. A camera was slung over one of his shoulders. On nearly every inch of available jail cell space—including most of the ceiling—were strange, vertically scripted characters.
“Oh... my God... this is... incredible,” Harry said, mesmerized.
Equally awestruck, Benét was speechless.
“This is Dr. Arty Ofo,” Fisher said, introducing them to the man in the center of the cell. “He’s a linguistics expert from Tampa.”
Ofo placed his face up against a wall, better repositioning his bifocals. “Fascinating,” he said, “every stroke... meticulous; perfect. From the same direction. Written by someone who looked as if they’d been scripting this their entire life.” Ofo turned to the group. “Who did this? Are they still here?”
“No,” Fisher said. “She took her life this morning.”
“Most distressing, most... unfortunate,” he said, absentmindedly returning to the wall. “I would have loved to have met her. And you say she’d never written this before?”
“Unknown, sir, but highly doubtful—she’d been a grade-school teacher from Wyoming.”
“What do you make of it?,” Harry asked.
“Uighur Script, Middle Period Mongolian, thirteenth century—”
“Mongolian?” Harry asked.
“Yes—why? You expected something else?”
“It just looked... Arabic, I guess....”
“Oh, no, Arabic—to the untrained eye, anyway—is smoother in construction, written horizontally,” Ofo said, gesturing before the wall. “This is all vertically constructed. Arabic also uses a small circle, or sukuun. You see all these little dots? Mongol, or Uighur Script, doesn’t have—”
“We’ll take your word on it. Thanks, doctor,” Harry said.
“Forgive me. Suffice it to say this is definitely Mongolian. Adapted from the Sogdian, or present-day Iranians. So Arabic was a good guess, actually,” Ofo said, momentarily turning back to Harry.
“Sogdian was derived from older Aramaic. The Uighurs and Mongols are now thought to have coincidentally developed their language from the Sogdians, versus the Mongols borrowing the thirteenth-century Uighur tongue, as had been previously considered. This script was popularly used only up until 1941 when Cyrillic became the standard. But it’s still called ‘Uighur Script’ in—”
“Ah, thanks,” Harry said, chuckling, “I only understood—well, not even half of what you just said. What does it say?”
“Again, Forgive me. It’ll take me a little while to translate it all.”
“How long?” Harry asked.
“A couple a days....”
“Can we get something by Sunday? We return to trial Monday.”
Ofo nodded, pensively. “I suppose so.”
Ofo unslung his camera, took a light reading, then began snapping pictures. Harry and the others stood back out of the way. Harry turned to Fisher.
“She’d stuffed rags into her nose, mouth, and ears? The nose and mouth I can understand—but ears?”
Fisher shrugged. “Maybe she just wanted some quiet time.”
2
Mark dumped his bag on the floor, the mail on the counter, and set Emily down in the living room. He removed his jacket and flicked on the TV with the remote, immediately changing the channel to HLN. Sitting on the edge of the couch, Mark began to separate Emily from her jacket. The TV came to life with a court scene already in progress. The Safe Harbor Murder trial.
“Laddle-laddle-laddle,” Emily merrily intoned, now free from her jacket, tongue dancing between her lips. She stalked off toward her toy pile, rocking her elbows and shoulders in that mock-marching-band parade across the living-room floor. On the televised HLN In Session replay, Judge Stoker declared court recessed until Monday.
“Damn!” Mark said, getting to his feet. He tossed the remote onto the coffee table and snatched up a giggling Emily up from the floor.
“You silly little Buckaroo!” he said, playfully rubbing his nose into her belly, blowing raspberries. “You hungry?” He swung her through the air and deftly inserted her into her highchair.
Emily giggled wildly, also continuing to sing her “laddle-laddle-laddle,” then opened her mouth in her wide birdlike fashion.
The Uninvited Page 27
