by Dana Donovan
“The twins’ involvement?”
“Yeah.”
“I don’t know. There’s still so much that doesn’t add up, like if the saw wasn’t new, then where did the girls get it? And why did they set the gazebo on fire?”
Carlos considered the questions briefly before offering his version of a likely scenario. “Maybe…” he started slowly, as though the complete theory had not yet formed in his head. “Maybe the girls drove to the gazebo to perform a voodoo ritual of some kind, a ritual involving Doctor Lieberman’s liver and a sacrificial fire. Then maybe something happened; the fire got out of control. They got scared and ran.”
“That’s a lot of maybes, Carlos.”
“All possible, though.”
“Yes, but you think they would run instead of taking their car?”
“I suppose. I mean, if they panicked and they just wanted to get out of there in a hurry.”
“Okay. So you’re saying you think they haven’t come forward to reclaim the car because they knew the bloody handsaw was in the trunk, and that we’d find it?”
“Sure, Tony. Think about it. Would you return? The first thing they probably figured out was that we would search the car. Once that happened, they would have to go into hiding. My guess is that they’re back in South Africa by now.”
I nodded, acknowledging the plausible scenario. It wasn’t as though I hadn’t thought of it myself, but coming from Carlos it sounded more credible. I leaned back in my chair and propped my foot up on the desk.
“So tell me about the jumper cables. Got anything on them yet?”
“Ah, yes the cables…” he said, and the trademark dimples returned. I took that as a sign he had saved the best for last. “Well, Tony, we just might have something there for you.”
I pulled my foot from the desktop, dropped it to the floor and squirmed to attention in my chair. “You have something on the cables?”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small plastic bag with tiny strands of fibers inside. “Know what this is?”
He handed me the baggie. I smiled curiously. “Carpet fibers?”
“You got it. We pulled them from the clamps on the jumper cables. Those fibers are from material used to line the trunks of automobiles, and it’s not the same color as the carpet in the Lexis. I did some checking. They came from matting used to line the trunks of late model General Motors vehicles. We’re still working on narrowing down the make, model and year. I’ll know more in a day or two.”
The news absolutely rejuvenated me. I sprang to my feet and kissed Carlos on the cheek. “Rodriguez, my friend,” I grabbed my coat and hat, “in an hour or two, I’ll not only tell you what make, model and year that car is, but I’ll also have it in the pound, dusted, stripped and tagged for evidence. And if my hunch is correct, I’ll only need to check out a few leads before that happens.”
I sprinted off before Carlos could ask me where I was going. By the time he figured it out, he could likely have kicked himself in the butt for not thinking of it first.
It didn’t take long for me to run through the database at the Department of Motor Vehicles and track down the registration of all the cars owned by the surviving workshop members. In all, there were two Fords, one Jaguar, a Toyota and a Chevrolet. They belonged to Michael, Leona, Valerie, Lilith and Gordon, respectively. Within twenty-four hours, we had Gordon down at the station, questioning him on the murder of Doctor Peter Lieberman while officers from my precinct executed a court-ordered search warrant on his apartment.
“Do you know why you’re here?” I asked Gordon from across a small table in the interrogation room.
“Yeah,” he said, his fingers drumming nervously on the tabletop. “You think I killed Doctor Lieberman.”
“I do have to ask you some questions about that. Before I do, I also have to inform you that you’re entitled to have your attorney present.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No, son. You’re not under arrest, but this is a formal interview. Anything you say to me now can and will be used against you in a court of law, if it comes to that. So, do you wish to have an attorney present?”
“No. I don’t need one.”
“Are you sure? Because if you cannot afford one, we will—”
“I said I don’t need one.”
“Very well.”
I took a deep breath before shifting my eyes to one side of the room and giving a nod at the mirror on the wall. Gordon followed my lead, also turning his attention to the wall. He assumed he was looking at a two-way mirror and that several officers and a video camera were on the other side documenting everything. He exaggerated a wink and blew a kiss into the mirror. I tried not to smile, but the camera caught me doing so anyway.
“All right, Gordon. Let me start by asking you where you were the night of Doctor Lieberman’s murder.”
Gordon smiled. “I already told you, I was at the Plaza, playing video games with Michael all night.”
I nodded. “Do you own a late model Chevy Impala, Massachusetts License BXK-278?”
“Yes.”
“Do you ever let anyone else drive the car?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you keep it locked up at all times?”
“Of course. It’s not the nicest car on the road, but I still don’t want it stolen.”
“No, of course not. Is it fair to say then that since you keep it locked up, there is nobody else in a position to put something into your car or take something out without your knowledge or permission?”
“That’s fair. Not unless they also have a key, and I doubt that.”
“I see. The reason I ask is that Doctor Lieberman was murdered out front of the research center the other night, and during our investigation at the scene we found, among other things, a set of automobile jumper cables. It appears they were used to tie Doctor Lieberman to a tree limb.”
Gordon’s face grew instantly pale. I expected him to put an end to the interview at that moment, changing his mind about wanting to have a lawyer present. He did no such thing, and so I continued.
“I’m not going to beat around the bush, Gordon. Even as we speak, I have officers searching your apartment, your car and even the trash receptacle outside your building. It’s only a matter of time before we complete a fiber analysis on the lining in the trunk of your car and match it to the fibers found on the jumper cables. You can save me some time and trouble by telling me that those cables are yours and that you used them in the Lieberman murder.”
Gordon shook his head, disbelieving the dirty reality that the cables had betrayed him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t own jumper cables.”
“Oh, don’t you? What about a spare tire? Do you own one of those?”
“Yes,” he answered. “I own a spare.”
“Of course, you do. Everyone carries a spare.”
“It’s silly not to.”
“Sure, it is. So, naturally if you carry a spare tire then you carry a tire iron. Correct?”
Gordon snorted when he laughed. “Yes, of course. What good is a spare tire without a tire iron?”
“Exactly. So, tell me. Do you know where your tire iron is now?”
The farm-boy smile slipped from his face. “Where it is?”
“It’s a simple question. Do you know where your tire iron is right now?”
“Well, I…I guess it’s in my trunk.”
I shook my head. “It’s not in your trunk.”
“No?”
“Uh-uh. We have it locked up in our evidence room, along with the jumper cables. I suspect they will eventually become people’s evidence A & B at your trial.”
“My trial?”
“Sure. You see we found the tire iron in the trunk of Shekina’s car, along with a carpenter’s handsaw covered in Doctor Lieberman’s blood. The tire iron doesn’t go with the jack set found in Shekina’s car, but it has blood, hair and tiny carpet fibers all over it. My guess is that the tire iron came from your
car, Gordon, along with your jumper cables.”
I waited for a response, but the hapless young man sat motionless, paralyzed with fright. I leaned forward over the table. “Gordon. Do you want to know what I think? I think you just got yourself caught up in something very bad with some very bad people. If you come clean and tell me what I need to know, I’ll see to it that the DA goes easy on you. What do you say?”
Gordon’s gaze began to thaw. He swallowed back the lump in his throat as beads of sweat, coaxed by the interrogation lights, formed a horizontal line along his forehead. It was no coincidence that only my chair sat directly below the ceiling vent that blew cool, refreshing air across my face, teasing my thinning gray hair with its subtle breeze. The insult, by design, was supposed to help wear his resistance; instead, I think it may have strengthened his resolve.
“No,” he said. “I know where you’re trying to take this, Detective. I had nothing to do with Doctor Lieberman’s murder. Anyone from the institute could have taken those things from the trunk of my car. I have an alibi and a witness. You can ask Michael Dietrich. We were together all night.”
I rocked back in my chair, lacing my fingers across my chest. “Yes, I don’t doubt it,” I said, “but if you two were together all night, you were not at the Plaza playing video games.”
“Excuse me?”
“Michael alleges he was home alone all night. After you told me your alibi, we checked the surveillance cameras at the Plaza. You’re nowhere on the tapes. Face it, Gordon. You have no witnesses. You have no alibi. You have nothing.” I leaned forward again and whispered low, under the listening ears of Carlos and the cameras on the other side of the mirror. “I hope your friends appreciate your loyalty while you sit in prison rotting away for the rest of your life. I doubt they would do as much for you.”
Gordon withdrew his folded hands from the table. He lowered his head, tucked his chin to his chest, buried his face in his hands and began to weep. The pathetic sobbing continued openly for several minutes before he pulled himself together enough to speak again.
“Detective?” he peeked out from behind splayed fingers. “I think I’d like to talk to a lawyer now.”
A featureless black phone, void of dial and buttons, hung on the wall next to the two-way mirror. It rang. I picked it up.
“Yes.” I listened. Gordon might have imagined I had been expecting the call. What he heard of the conversation was “Oh? Uh-huh. I see.” I hung up without saying goodbye, turned to Gordon and said, “Son, I think getting a lawyer is a good idea. You probably should get yourself a good one. That call was from one of the officers searching your apartment. I forgot to tell you earlier, but at the crime scene, we also found a button from a man’s shirt. We suspect it broke off during the scuffle Doctor Lieberman had with his assailants. The medical examiner found it wedged between the doctor’s collar and the back of his neck. It didn’t come off the shirt the doctor wore that night. In fact, we searched Doctor Lieberman’s home. He doesn’t own a shirt with those same buttons. But do you know who does?”
“Yeah,” said Gordon, his head dropping to his chest again. “Me.”
“You should have gotten rid of everything, son. That’s the number one rule. Get rid of everything.”
I turned toward the mirror and made a slashing motion across my throat. The camera on the other side of the glass stopped taping.
“Gordon, I’m afraid I have enough to hold you on suspicion of murder for the death of Doctor Peter Lieberman. When you pull yourself together, we’ll let you make your phone call. Use it wisely.”
Fourteen
The following morning, I called again on Lilith Adams. In my entire career, I had never met a person so perplexing, so complicated and so intriguing that I actually worried about doing the interview for fear of revealing more information than I got in return. Of course, in my entire career, I had never met another like Lilith Adams.
I drove to Lilith’s home, imagining what surprises awaited me. Having never known a witch before, I worried about walking into a situation more dangerous than I perceived. It was not the sort of paranoia I was known for, but my imagination had grown remarkably vast in the preceding weeks, allowing me to conceive of far greater probabilities in a world I perceived most improbable. I began to believe there was nothing I could do that seemed too ridiculous if it safeguarded me from harm. As an added deterrent, I even began carrying the witch’s ladder Lilith made for me. I kept it in my coat pocket, not so much for the magical powers, (I was still not entirely convinced of that) but more for the general luck one might expect from a lucky rabbit’s foot or a four-leaf clover. I had come to recognize that many people attributed good luck to various object of faith, but that bad luck seldom found its blame in anything other than just plain old bad luck. I considered the validity of an object’s worth as a lucky piece could only be what the holder believed. So it was exactly that logic I employed to conclude why carrying the witch’s ladder was a reasonable precaution.
From the beginning, Lilith contended that the ladder would be useless unless the holder believed in its powers. Several months ago, I would have scoffed at the notion of a simple piece of rope possessing magical powers, but then several months ago I had not yet met the unusual members of Doctor Lieberman’s workshop.
I arrived at Lilith’s home shortly before noon. I don’t know why, but I envisioned a medieval-looking building framed in a tangle of muddy-gray skies. I imagined crumbling brownstone walls, thick with mold and covered in blankets of creeping ivy. As I pulled my car into the driveway, however, a scene very different materialized. I found a house more pleasant than my own with white vinyl siding trimmed in soft hues of peach and gray pastels, and garden gnomes peeking out mischievously from behind miniature plastic windmills along the walkway. I found her lawn, meticulously manicured, green and lush, framing beds of multicolored annuals already in full bloom. It eased my mind and helped set my trepidation aside.
I approached the front entry, stopped at the door and pulled the wrinkles from my coattail. My fist clenched as I reached for the doorknocker, a large lion’s head with a brass ring in its mouth and a snarl so real I almost heard it growl. My knuckles whitened; my arm felt heavy and dull. I drew back on the brass ring, but stopped when I noticed the doorknob turning slowly on its own. The door crept open several inches, moaning on its hinges. I stepped closer. It opened wider, and a tiny white kitten poked her head out, managing to barely muster a squeak.
I looked down and smiled at possibly the cutest little kitten I had ever seen. She bravely ventured outside and approached cautiously on shaky legs, as though just learning how to use them. The irony was not lost on me. I laughed to myself, comparing how only moments ago I, too, felt skittish about the unknown, intimidated like the kitten before me.
I watched the kitten curiously sniff the tips of my shoes, her scrawny tail pointing straight up in the air as she explored yet another new scent in her bold and wondrous new world. A sight to behold, I thought, and one too irresistible to refuse. I made a move to bend down, hoping to befriend the kitten when my foot slipped backward, scuffing the pavement and startling the timid creature. The kitten jerked her nose back with a snap and then turned tail, scampering off into the house, presumably under a nice safe bed.
I straightened up and reworked the creases in my pants. I peeked into the house through the slight opening, pushing on the door gently to open it further. I saw no one inside, and if not for the stereo playing low, I would have believed that no one was home. I pushed again on the door, this time enough to cause it to open fully. It swung back until the doorknob bumped into the wall behind it.
“Anyone home?” I called, though just slightly louder than the music on the stereo. “Hello? Ms. Adams?”
There was no answer.
I convinced myself something was wrong. Police instincts took over. I reached behind my back, under my coattail where I kept a holstered.38 in my waistband. I drew my weapon and stepped over the threshol
d in a classic police stance, announcing my presence properly.
“This is Police Detective Anthony Marcella. If anyone is inside, come out slowly with your hands up!”
Again, there was no answer.
I moved in on a cushion of air, clearing the house room-by-room. Having made a clean sweep of the residence and finding no one, I holstered my weapon and headed back toward the opened front door. I passed through the kitchen and into the living room when a voice called from behind.
“Leaving so soon?”
I wheeled about on the ball of my foot, reaching instinctively for my revolver.
“Oh, come, Detective. I hardly think you need that in here.”
I looked around the room and then back at Lilith. She seemed to have appeared from nowhere, and stood in the corner of the kitchen far from any door or window. She wore a long white robe that hung nearly to the floor, and on her feet, unbelievably, were a pair of fluffy white slippers that looked remarkably like the little white kitten I saw on her doorstep earlier. I stood motionless, stunned and a little scared.
“How did you, I mean what—where did you come from?”
“Where did I come from?” She laughed, and for the first time it sounded like the laugh of a witch. “I live here, Detective. Perhaps I should ask you the same thing. Why are you in my home?”
“I came to see you. The door opened. I mean after your cat came out, so I let myself in. I called for you. Didn’t you hear me?”
“My cat? You’ll have to do better. I don’t own a cat.”
“Sure you do. You have a cute little white kitten. She looks just like….”
I stopped before embarrassing myself further. Lilith smiled at me hauntingly, shaking her head, as if anticipating my next words. I smiled back, though not as easily. I straightened up and my smile fell away.
“Never mind. The cat’s not important. I’m sorry for the intrusion, but since I’m here, if you don’t mind I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
She shrugged. “Hmm, I suppose.” She looked back at the kitchen table and seemed to point to it with just the arching of a brow. “Why don’t you have a seat? I’ll brew us up a nice hot cup of herbal tea. I think you’ll enjoy it. I grow the herbs myself you know, right outside in my garden.”
