“All you have to do is whisper it.”
“So you said.”
“In his ear, after the explosion.”
“The explosion is coming?”
“Oh, yes it is.”
“What’s the word?”
“‘Uncle,’” I said. “The word of the day is ‘uncle.’”
“ARE WE ready to proceed?” said Judge Tifaro from the bench. She was an efficient jurist, keeping the trial moving, witness after witness, brooking no delays as she pushed toward a verdict. No long, drawn-out, chatty proceedings for her, no months and months of keeping the jury in virtual lockup. She had set up a timetable and kept us to it. I liked that about her.
“Yes, Your Honor,” said Troy Jefferson. “But before we bring in the jury, we have some housekeeping matters that have already been agreed upon by both sides.”
“Excellent,” said the judge. “It’s gratifying to see you gentlemen working so smoothly together. What do we have, Mr. Jefferson?”
“A stipulation as to the admissibility of the ballistics report, People’s Exhibit Twenty-three.”
“Mr. Carl?”
“No objection.”
“The report will be entered. What else?”
“A stipulation as the admissibility of People’s Exhibits Six through Nine and Twelve through Twenty-two.”
“Mr. Carl?”
“No objection. We retain the right to object to Exhibits Ten and Eleven on the grounds of relevance.”
“People’s Exhibits Six through Nine and Twelve through Twenty-two are entered into evidence. Anything else?”
“And we also, Your Honor, have certain technical, factual stipulations that have already been agreed upon and that will speed up the trial considerably.”
“Let’s have them, Mr. Jefferson. Put them in the record now, and I will read them to the jury with the appropriate instruction.”
“Stipulation one: That the location of the killing subject to the indictment was 1027 Raven Hill Road in the Township of Lower Merion, Montgomery County, in the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.”
“Mr. Carl?”
“No objection.”
“Stipulation two: that on the date of the alleged crime the owner of the said property of 1027 Raven Hill Road, according to the deed on file in the County Clerk’s Office of Montgomery County, was Hailey Prouix.”
“Mr. Carl?”
“No objection.”
“Stipulation three: that the cause of death, as reported by the coroner, was a single gunshot wound in the chest portion of the body that pierced the victim’s heart.”
“Mr. Carl?”
“No objection.”
“Stipulation four: that the gun in question, People’s Exhibit One, is a King Cobra .357 Magnum, registered by the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania to Guy Forrest, with a Social Security number the same as the defendant’s and an address given on the application as 1027 Raven Hill Road, Township of Lower Merion, Montgomery County.”
“Mr. Carl?”
“No objection.”
“Finally, Your Honor, stipulation five: that the murder victim found at 1027 Raven Hill Road, as stated in the indictment, was indeed Hailey Prouix.”
“Mr. Carl?”
“Well, Judge,” I said, “as to stipulation five, that the victim was Hailey Prouix, there we seem to have a problem.”
The explosion wasn’t loud, Jefferson had more control than that, but it was angry and sustained. Troy Jefferson did a classic double take, and then he let me have it.
“It was agreed to, Your Honor. We went over these stipulations carefully, word by word, Your Honor. Mr. Carl agreed, explicitly, and we relied on that agreement. He’s backstabbing us now, backstabbing us. There is no doubt who was the victim. We have the birth certificate. We have the death certificate. Mr. Carl himself saw her lying there. I don’t know what kind of crazy theory he is postulating here, but, Your Honor, he agreed, and he is bound by that agreement.”
And the whole time I was standing calmly, smiling, and letting him roar, until Judge Tifaro put a stop to it. “Mr. Carl, is it the wording you are concerned about?”
“No, Judge, it is the fact.”
“Did you agree?”
“Yes, Judge, but now I have questions that need answering, and so I am simply asking that the prosecution prove that the victim, as stated in the indictment, was Hailey Prouix and not just some woman who was going around using that name. It is a basic element of the case. He needs to prove it was her.”
“Can you do that, Mr. Jefferson? Can you prove it was Hailey Prouix who was killed?”
“Of course, Your Honor. This is just a cheap delaying tactic, just another low blow from the defense team.”
“Maybe it is, but don’t get mad, Mr. Jefferson,” she said with a note of sweetness in her voice, “get a witness. And preferably somebody who knew her well and long and who can link up the name on the birth certificate with the pictures of the corpse you’ve already admitted into evidence. Would that satisfy you, Mr. Carl?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Is there a parent?”
“Both dead,” I volunteered.
“A sibling?”
“One sister,” I said, “in a West Virginia insane asylum.”
The judge stared at me when I told her that and then, without taking her eyes off my face, said, “Identifying the victim is a pretty crucial step, Mr. Jefferson. You couldn’t have just expected the dead woman to identify herself. Can you get a witness?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You were going to rest next week, isn’t that right?”
“We planned to have the lab technician at the start of the week and a few other minor witnesses, and that was to be it.”
“I guess that won’t be it, will it? You’ll be allowed to amend your witness list as you require, and I’ll allow you additional time in your case due to the surprise, but I’ll want the witness here next week, understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Good. Get the name of the new witness to Mr. Carl as soon as possible. Any questions?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Anything else? No? Excellent. Bailiff, let’s bring in the jury.”
I sat down as Jefferson gave me his “you’ll pay for that one, you bastard” stare before he spun around to talk with his team. I’m no lip-reader, but it didn’t take one to know what he was saying.
“Why the hell did he do that?” said Jefferson.
Only shrugs in response.
“Who can we get? Who’s our witness?”
More shrugs, heads turning one to the other to see who had an answer, and then Breger leaned forward. Then Breger leaned forward and put his lips close to Troy Jefferson’s ear and whispered. There were a lot of possibilities, a lot of names could have been pulled out of the hat to do what the prosecution needed to do, but it was Breger who leaned forward and whispered in Jefferson’s ear.
Jefferson pulled back. “You sure he can do it?”
Breger nodded.
“Then get him, damn it. Get him now.”
The jury was just starting to enter when Breger stood, straightened his jacket, gave me a quick wink before he headed out the door of the courtroom.
Good, that was done. Now for the hard part.
46
THAT NIGHT, back at my apartment, I gathered together my brain trust. I like the sound of that—brain trust—it connotes images of men and women in stark suits and tense poses, talking on cell phones and working on laptops as they draw on the entire breadth of their mighty resources to solve the seemingly unsolvable. Of course, I didn’t have the resources or clout to have a brain trust that resembled a fashion ad in GQ, so I had to settle for Beth and Skink.
They hadn’t yet formally met. I had told them each of the happenings in Pierce, related to each the whole brutal story of love, perjury, blackmail, the defiant priest, the suicidal poet, the crooked poker game, and, finally, the murder of a boy on the edge of his
manhood. I had told them each what I had learned about Cutlip but had kept them apart for obvious reasons. I didn’t want Skink spilling all he knew about Hailey and me to my partner, and I didn’t want my partner wondering what I was doing with a creep like Skink. But now I had to come up with some possibilities, fast, and they were, well, my brain trust.
“Do I know you?” Beth said when she entered the apartment and I introduced her to Skink, sprawled out now on my couch, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his tie loose, his shoes off, leaning back with a proprietary casualness.
“Not in a personal way, missy, no,” he said.
“What other way is there?”
Skink chuckled. “Let’s say I had the pleasure of helping yourself out of a tight situation.”
Beth stared at him bemusedly.
“Skink pulled you out of the car after the accident in Las Vegas.”
“You were the one,” said Beth to Skink. “I do know you. You were the one who saved my life.”
“Glad to be of service to a lovely young lass such as yourself, I was. No reward necessary, though if you’re considering buying me chocolates, think low-fat, please, as I gots myself a problem with cholesterol.”
Beth pursed her lips first at Skink and then at me and then again at Skink. “So why are you here tonight?”
“I thought he could be of some help,” I said.
“I am definitely confused.”
“Skink wasn’t in Las Vegas by chance. He was following us. At the time he was working for someone else.”
“Who?” said Beth.
“Can’t say, now, can I?” said Skink. “Disclosing that information would be a violation of my duties as a professional.”
“A professional what?”
“Investigative services, ma’am, specializing in the brutal, the debased, and the carnally depraved.”
“What are you, the HBO of detectives?”
“And now he’s working for us,” I said.
“Oh, is he?”
“Once again, I am glad I can be of service.”
“Victor,” said Beth. “Can I see you for a moment?”
“Go ahead,” said Skink. “Why don’t you two young folk head off into the other room and discuss this among yourselves. Don’t mind me.”
“Don’t worry,” said Beth. “We won’t.”
I stoically withstood the harangue, being as it was absolutely justified. We were partners, working together on the Guy Forrest trial, and all the time I’d had an investigator working on the sly. It made her wonder, she said. It made her wonder what the hell was going on. I could have tried to lie my way out of it, I could have squirmed like a worm to get free, but when you are dead wrong, it is not time to make excuses. When you are dead wrong, it is time to give a half smile and move right to the meat of it. So I let her blow up at me, get it out of her system, and then I tossed her that half smile and said simply, “He can help.”
“How?”
“He knows things. Before he worked for us, he worked for Hailey Prouix. He knows things. He won’t tell me all he knows, but he knows more than we do. He can help.”
“That’s good, Victor, because after what you pulled today in court, I think we could use all the help we can get.”
“Exactly,” I said.
“THE QUESTION,” I said, when my brain trust was reassembled in the well of my living room, “is why. Let’s assume that Cutlip sent Bobo out to do the killing. We still have to figure out why. Why? Why?” I turned to look at Skink. “Why? And how does it relate to what happened to Jesse Sterrett?”
“Maybe she was threatening to tell someone what had happened,” said Beth. “Maybe he had crossed some line and she was about to tell the whole story.”
“Not bad,” I said, “except there’s nothing to back that up. She was still taking care of him, was still apparently close to him. He was still the beneficiary on her insurance. There’s no indication she was ready to do such a thing.”
“Look at the money,” said Skink. “It’s usually about money, innit?”
“Yes, it usually is,” I said. “The insurance money was pretty high, and he seemed pretty damned interested in it when we came to visit.”
“But she was the goose laying his golden eggs,” said Beth. “Why would he kill her for money when she was giving him everything he wanted as it was?”
“Maybe he was worried it was running out,” I said. “Especially with Guy starting to raise questions about the missing funds. Or maybe he was sick of the place, Desert Winds, maybe he thought it was some sort of pre-morgue and he felt halfway already on the slab. Maybe she was using her support as a cudgel to keep him there, and he thought he could gain his freedom and a stake both with one fatal blow. He and Bobo would have themselves a hell of a time before the insurance money ran out and Cutlip’s body fell apart.”
“An interesting idea, that,” said Skink. “A man used to freedom, as was our Larry Cutlip, it must chafe like a pair of iron knickers to be supervised, sanitized, and anesthetized in a place like that.”
“You know him?” said Beth.
“Who, Cutlip? Yeah, I knows him. But the thing about your insurance theory there, Vic, is that he wasn’t even sure he was the beneficiary before she died and he got a gander at the policy. He was just hoping.”
“How do you know that?” said Beth.
“I just do, is all. I just do.”
“What’s he like?” she said. “I apparently met him, but after the accident I don’t remember a thing about it.”
“He’s a saint,” I said, “just ask him. Oh, he’s done some tough things in his life, gone through some hard stretches, but everything he’s done he’s done for the right reasons. He sacrificed his best years to take care of his nieces, and he did the best he could, and he needs you to know it. Anything that went wrong, it was some other person’s fault. The dead father, the meddling local minister, his sister, the girls themselves. But he provided a firm hand when a firm hand was needed. When he thinks tears will be effective, he’ll break down and cry. When he thinks he can bully you, he’ll get as vicious as a cornered rat. His surface is all ornery and hard, he doesn’t like Jews much, or lawyers, or, really, anyone, but he likes to have someone around who will stroke his ego and tell him how good, how strong, how important he is, even as he sits in a wheelchair in a sad desert boomtown with a line feeding oxygen into his withered lungs.”
“Sounds like you didn’t like him much,” said Beth.
“Actually, I was suckered. Before I knew the truth, I admired what he had done. I bought into his act. I guess he didn’t spend fifteen years banging around Vegas without learning how to con gullible folk from back east. It was you who didn’t like him, not at all.”
“I didn’t?”
“For some reason I couldn’t fathom he terrified you, as if you had seen something in him that I completely missed. You said he reminded you of Murdstone.”
“Murdstone?”
“From David Copperfield.”
“The stepfather?”
“Yes, and you seemed particularly concerned with some of the things he said about Jesse Sterrett’s death. He called it an accident, but you kept asking questions. He didn’t like that, didn’t like that at all. It was those questions, in fact, along with the letters, that started me digging in West Virginia.”
“Wasn’t I the perceptive little thing?”
“And then, while we were riding out of Henderson, you said you wouldn’t be surprised if…”’
“If what?”
“I don’t know. It was just before the accident. You never got a chance to finish.”
“What I meant was that I wouldn’t be surprised if it was Guy and not Hailey who was supposed to die.”
Skink and I looked at each other for a moment and then back at Beth. “How do you remember that?”
Beth herself look stunned. “I don’t know. I’m not sure. I was just listening to what you said about Cutlip and the beginning of the sentence and so
mething slipped out of the recesses of my mind and became clear, and that was it.”
“What a strange idea,” I said.
“Is it, now?” said Skink. “Is it, now? Wouldn’t that change everything? We’re wondering here about motive, because why would Cutlip want to kill his loving niece? But Guy, now, that’s a different story, ain’t it? There are half a dozen blokes who wouldn’t have minded seeing Guy Forrest bite the proverbial big one. And wouldn’t Cutlip be one of them? Guy was starting to ask questions about where his money had gone. Guy was threatening his luxury existence. And the worst crime of all is that Guy was pumping it to Hailey—no offense, ma’am—pumping it to Hailey just like Jesse Sterrett was pumping it to Hailey. They was two men she was looking to marry. Maybe he killed them both.”
“Out of some raw emotion,” I said. “Something beyond him, something he couldn’t control.”
“Slow down,” said Beth. “She was on the mattress right in the middle of the floor. You couldn’t shoot her from outside the room, and you couldn’t step into the room without seeing her there, clear as day.”
“Really, now,” said Skink. “Clear as day, you say. Vic, you was the first one to see her after Guy, right?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Was the light on?”
“Of course, the overhead light.”
“Not a lamp or anything else, just the overhead.”
“As far as I remember, yes.”
“Guy told us,” said Beth, “that after he hit her, Hailey told him to turn out the light, and he did.”
“Then, what about if it was Guy himself who turned it on, that overhead light, not the killer?” said Skink. “Think about that. Maybe it was off when she was killed.”
“But still, even in the imperfect darkness,” Beth said, “it would be hard to mistake petite Hailey Prouix for a lummox like Guy.”
“Yeah, maybe, except our suspected shooter, Bobo, ain’t no Einstein, is he? If you wanted a killing to be messed up to hell, I suppose he’s the one you’d send to do it. And maybe there was another reason he made the mistake. You got the forensics reports hereabouts?”
“As a matter of fact,” I said, “the lab technician is testifying Monday.”
Fatal Flaw Page 36
