Three Weeks to Say Goodbye

by C. J. Box

  “Yes.”

  “Without the hard drive, a computer is nothing more than a nonfunctional piece of machinery, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “So without the hard drive of my client’s server, there is no way to know what the computer was used for or where my client went in his midnight forays onto the Internet?”

  “Correct.”

  “Same with the missing memory sticks for the digital cameras?”

  “Yes.”

  “So all that you supposedly have to connect my client to the disappearance of poor Courtney are photos of her not on the missing hard drive from the computer supposedly used in the middle of the night or from the cameras found in his trailer, but from my client’s laptop computer, correct?”

  “Correct.” Cody’s voice was flat.

  “And the photos of poor Courtney we saw earlier, they’re from the laptop?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the other photos of the missing children, they’re from the laptop as well?”

  “Yes.”

  “So did you find other things on the laptop connecting my client to child pornography? Like movies, or other disturbing photos?”

  “No.”

  Blair was again on her feet. “Your Honor, this is going nowhere. Physical evidence of child pornography was found in the trash barrel outside the defendant’s trailer!”

  Ludik said to Moreland, “We don’t dispute that, Your Honor. But no one has testified in this courtroom that they saw my client burning anything. There are no address labels on the magazines, and no subscription or postal records have been introduced that prove my client owned or used that material. For all we know, it could have been put in the barrel outside my client’s trailer by someone else.

  “Or,” Ludik said, taking a theatrical step toward Cody in the witness box, “it could have even been placed there by a third party and burned just before the raid itself.”

  “OBJECTION!” This was from the U.S. Attorney himself, who until this moment had not been involved in the proceedings. “This is nothing but reckless speculation!”

  “Get up here,” Judge Moreland said angrily to the attorneys. “Now!”

  The conference was brief and intense. Moreland was animated. He shook his finger at Ludik and told the U.S. Attorney loud enough for me to hear to “back off.” I found myself admiring the way he ran the courtroom. And wondering what in the hell was happening.

  When Ludik returned to the podium, he wasted no time.

  “Detective Hoyt, back to the laptop. It is listed as ‘Evidentiary Item #6’ on the list, correct?”

  Cody said, “Correct.”

  “Let me ask you something as an experienced detective and investigator. Did you find anything about the photos themselves to be unusual or odd?”

  Cody hesitated. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

  But I did. And it had occurred to me earlier when we saw them but didn’t hit home until now. I felt sick inside. Olive, who suddenly got it as well, reached out and grasped my sleeve.

  “The photos of the children,” Ludik said. “In all of them, the children are at their homes or with their families. They are the kinds of photos all parents take of their kids. We all have these kinds of photos on our desks. Isn’t that correct, Detective?”

  “I’m not sure,” Cody said.

  “Get to the point,” Judge Moreland said.

  “I will do that now, Your Honor,” Ludik said deferentially. But he hesitated and looked down, as if gathering strength, as if preparing himself to do something he really didn’t want to do, but I recognized it as stage acting.

  “Detective Hoyt,” Ludik said, “before we go back to that, let me draw your attention once again to the list of evidence gathered at my client’s trailer. Do you agree that there are 108 pieces of so-called evidence?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, please turn to another document in your file, Detective Hoyt. This is the check-in sheet from the evidence room at the Denver Police Department dated June 8. Can you find it?”

  Cody took his time. Finally, he grunted.

  “Look at it closely, Detective Hoyt. It’s basically a copy of the other sheet, but there is a number on the right of each item of evidence where it’s been officially received by the sergeant in charge of the room. As each piece of evidence is entered, the sergeant assigns it a specific inventory number and date, correct?”

  Another grunt.

  “As I read the document, Detective Hoyt, there is one piece of evidence not registered by the sergeant on June 8. It’s on the list, but it isn’t noted until June 12—four days later. Do you see the item, Detective Hoyt? I’m referring to evidentiary item number 6, the laptop. It appears that the laptop was collected from my client’s trailer on June 8 but wasn’t checked into the authorities until June 12. Is that what you see as well, Detective Hoyt?”

  “Yes.” Barely audible.

  “And whose initials are those near the check-in entry on June 12, Detective Hoyt?”

  “Mine.”

  “So did the sergeant in charge of the evidence room make a stupid error, or was there really a four-day gap between when the laptop was taken and when it was checked in?”

  Cody fixed a dead-eye stare on Ludik.

  “Detective Hoyt, did you answer the question?”

  Cody mumbled something I couldn’t hear. The whispering and murmuring in the courtroom among the spectators and the reporters drowned it out.

  Judge Moreland called for quiet. When he had it, he turned to Cody, said, “Detective Hoyt, please answer the question.”

  “I had the laptop in my custody,” Cody said.

  “You did?” Ludik asked, false astonished. “Is that normal? Isn’t that a breach of departmental regulations?”

  Cody said, “I wanted to see what was on it. I was doing my job.”

  “Your job,” Ludik repeated with sarcasm. “So you’re a computer expert? You’re qualified to root through a suspect’s computer on your own for four days? Four days when real experts could have been going through it? And where were you doing this technical work—in your private Bat Cave?”

  Blair was on her feet. “Judge, that’s argumentative! He’s harassing the witness.”

  Olive whispered, “The judge is letting Bertie get away with stuff I can’t believe. He must be really mad at the detective, is all I can figure.”

  Uh-oh. I tried to make eye contact with Cody, but he wouldn’t look up.

  Cody glared at Ludik. His eyes burned red, his mouth was pinched tight.

  Ludik apologized, then: “I’ll rephrase, Your Honor. Detective Hoyt, where were you on the weekend of June 9 and 10 immediately following the raid in Desolation Canyon? And where were you Monday, June 11, when the Denver PD log shows that you didn’t report for duty?”

  Cody broke his glare from Ludik and looked to Blair and the U.S. Attorney, expecting something, help maybe. None came. The two of them were glaring at each other, obviously wondering who had missed this detail if it were true.

  “Detective Hoyt?” the Judge prompted.

  “Evergreen,” Cody said. The town of Evergreen was in the mountains via I-70.

  “In a hotel in Evergreen?” Ludik asked innocently.

  “No,” Cody answered.

  “Where, then?”

  “Where do you think I was?” Cody asked, baring his teeth at Ludik. “You seem to know everything, and you like drawing it out.”

  “You were in jail, weren’t you, Detective Hoyt? Arrested for public intoxication Friday night, June 8. You were in the Evergreen town jail until Monday morning, weren’t you?”

  Cody said, “I was. I was celebrating our arrest of Aubrey Coates, and things got out of hand, I guess.”

  “You guess?”

  “They got out of hand.”

  Olive whispered to me, “My God. They didn’t know!”

  Blair stood and asked for a recess. Moreland denied it.

  Ludik shook his head sadl
y, as if it troubled him that the prosecution’s case—all those hours of preparation, all those press conferences announcing the capture of the Monster, all of the witnesses leading up to this moment—were an unfortunate waste of time.

  “So where was the laptop while you were in jail, Detective Hoyt?”

  “In my car. Locked in the trunk.”

  “Are you sure? Could you somehow see your car out the window of the jail cell?”

  “Your Honor!” Blair said, standing up, her voice high-pitched. “He’s once again harassing the witness.”

  “It’s a legitimate question,” Judge Moreland answered, disappointment in Cody written across his face. He seemed the most let-down of all. “And one the witness will answer.”

  Not “Detective Hoyt,” but the witness.

  “Of course I couldn’t see it,” Cody said.

  “So,” Ludik said, “for two and a half days the crucial piece of evidence in this case—the piece of evidence the prosecution is counting on to send my client to prison for the rest of his life—was in the trunk of your car in a parking lot outside of a bar in Evergreen, Colorado?”

  Cody tried to swallow, and it looked like it hurt. “No one tampered with it,” he said.

  “Oh? And how can you be sure?”

  Cody looked away. “It wasn’t tampered with,” he said, without emotion.

  Ludik moved in for the kill. “Detective Hoyt, let me follow up on a question that I brought up earlier—something that’s been bothering me ever since I saw the evidence against my client. You say you’re an expert in pedophiles and their behavior, that’s why you targeted my client. But don’t you find it strange that the photos he supposedly had on his laptop computer of the seven missing children were not pornographic or suggestive in any way? That they were candid shots taken mainly by their parents? That, in fact, the photos were the same ones circulated by the various police departments in their missing-persons alerts?”

  Blair, despite herself, let out a little gasp. The U.S. Attorney turned sidewise in his chair, away from Cody. Aubrey Coates slowly leaned back in his chair and looked over his shoulder at the Wingate family, as if saying, “See?”

  “Detective Hoyt,” Ludik asked, after the judge hit his gavel to once again quiet the room, “did you download those photos from your own police files onto my client’s laptop?”

  “No!” Cody nearly jumped from the witness stand. The bailiff took a step toward him, and the judge ordered Cody to sit down.

  “Maybe Monday afternoon, after you were released from the Evergreen town jail and before you transferred custody of the laptop in question to the evidence room?” Ludik asked.

  “I said no,” Cody growled.

  “But you can’t honestly tell the jury that someone else might not have taken the laptop from your car and done it during the weekend?”

  Cody shook his head.

  “What, Detective Hoyt?”

  “I can’t say with certainty, but…”

  “Detective Hoyt, can you recall an important case where the chain of custody of the key piece of evidence was broken quite so badly?” Ludik asked.

  Cody sputtered. “We’ll find that hard drive,” he said. “And when we do, it won’t matter. That man,” Cody said, rising again, pointing at Aubrey Coates, who smiled back at him, “kidnapped and killed at least seven innocent children. You can’t turn him loose to kill more!”

  Judge Moreland, furious, said, “Detective, sit down and shut up, or you’ll be arrested right here for contempt of my court.” Turning to the jury, the judge said, “Please disregard what the witness just said. He was out of line, and what he said cannot be considered in your deliberations.”

  “No more questions at this time, Your Honor,” Ludik said, flipping back the pages of his pad.

  Judge Moreland said, “Miss Blair, redirect?”

  Blair appeared stunned and angry. Her voice was weak. “We may have some more questions later, Your Honor. Right now … well, it’s getting late in the day.”

  Moreland snapped, “I’ll make the decisions to recess for the day, if you don’t mind. I don’t need your help to read the clock. Now, do you have any more questions for the witness?”

  “Not at this time.” Cowed.

  “Bailiff,” Judge Moreland said through gritted teeth, “please escort this witness off the stand.”

  As Cody was led through the courtroom with the bailiff at his shoulder, all eyes were on him. As he passed me our eyes met, and Cody angrily shook his head.

  “Mother of God,” Olive said. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

  I followed Cody out into the hallway. A few of his fellow cops were approaching him, trying to console him. He brushed them aside barking “Leave me alone!” and charged toward the glass doors. A couple of reporters shouted questions, which he ignored.

  I caught the door as it closed and pushed it back open.

  “Cody!”

  He didn’t turn around, just kept stomping down the stairs toward the street.

  “Cody!”

  On the sidewalk, he paused, and I caught up with him. I’d never seen him so furious. The skin of his face was pulled back, slitting his eyes and making his mouth a snarl.

  “That motherfucker!” Cody hissed. “I’d like to go back in there and cap him!”

  “Ludik?”

  “No,” Cody said, shaking me off as well. “Moreland. He fucked me. He just fucked me. And he fucked the families of all those kids.”

  “Cody,” I said, as my friend knocked my hand off his sleeve. “It was Ludik…”

  “You don’t understand anything,” Cody said. “You don’t know how these things work. The judge could have steered it back my way or granted that recess so the prosecutors could regroup. He let it go when he could have stopped it. The prosecution was so stunned they couldn’t think of anything to say. The judge can do anything he wants, and he let it go on.”

  I found myself in the ridiculous circumstance of wanting to defend the man who was trying to take our baby away.

  “Leave me alone!” Cody barked as I reached out for him again, and for a moment I thought he was going to cap me. I watched him walk into the street without even glancing at the oncoming cars, who braked so they wouldn’t splatter my friend, the suddenly disgraced detective, across Bannock Street.

  IT WAS DARK and spitting hard little balls of snow when I arrived home. I’d called Melissa and started to tell her what had happened in the courtroom when she cut me off, saying, “It’s all over the news. They say he’s being suspended.” She said Brian had been at our house most of the afternoon, and they’d been following the case for hours, switching from channel to channel. Cody’s de mo lition had become a sensation.

  I parked in the driveway next to Brian’s Lexus and killed the motor. The falling snow sounded like sand as it bounced off the hood and roof of the Jeep. I sat for a moment, suddenly exhausted, very much confused.

  I felt a hundred years old as I willed myself to open the door and get out. The snow stung my exposed face and hands. I was numb, and not paying attention to the rhythmic thumping of hip-hop music from the street and the sound of a motor that should have been familiar and should have warned me.

  As I reached for the handle on our front door the hiphop suddenly rose in volume. Later, I realized it was because the car had stopped at the curb, and the passenger rolled down his window and aimed the gun out.

  The popping was muffled by the snow, and I was hit twice in the back. I turned on my heel and was struck in the face, hot liquid splashing into my open eyes, blinding me.

  I could hear laughing over the roaring in my ears as the car sped away.

  SIX

  PAINTBALLS. I’D BEEN SHOT four times with a paintball gun. The color of the paint: yellow. The people who shot me? Garrett or Luis or Stevie, I couldn’t be sure.

  Melissa called the police while I wiped paint off my face with a kitchen towel. It took several minutes for my heart to slow down,
for the adrenaline that had coursed through me to dissipate. My hands shook as I wiped the paint from my eyes and ears. My terror faded and was replaced by anger.

  The police officer who responded, who was in his midtwenties, Hispanic, with a wisp of a mustache and a belly straining at the buttons on his uniform shirt, wrote down my statement and took photos of the paint hits on the back of my coat. He shook his head while he did it, saying I wasn’t the first.

  “There were quite a few similar instances this past summer,” he told us. “Kids compete by seeing how many citizens they can ‘kill’ in a given amount of time and tally it up. They get more points for a ‘kill’ in a good neighborhood, like this one. We’ve caught a few of them. Some are gangsta wannabes, but mostly they’re just normal knuckleheads.”

  I bit my tongue, and Melissa and I exchanged glances.

  He continued, “But you didn’t actually see them, right? Or get a description of the vehicle or a license plate?”

  “I was blinded by the paint,” I said. “I told you that.”

  “We’ll follow up and let you know if we find anything,” the officer said in a tone that meant we would never see him or hear from him again.

  WHILE WE ATE—Brian had fetched Chinese takeout—Brian slid his chair back and drew his cell phone out of his breast pocket. “I called Cody earlier and left a message for him to call or come by. He’s not answering.”

  “I hope he doesn’t do anything to hurt himself,” I said, “or anyone else.”

  I rehashed the trial for them, and Melissa shook her head sadly. “Poor Cody,” she said. “Do you think Ludik really thinks Cody set up the Monster?”

  “Hard to say,” I said. “But he injected enough doubt into the proceedings, I don’t see how they’ll get a conviction now. He even had me wondering if Cody or some of his fellow cops might have planted some of the evidence. Not that I don’t think Coates is guilty of something—I’m sure he is. I just don’t know if they’ve got enough evidence that isn’t tainted to convict him.”

  Melissa shuddered. “If he goes free, no parent in Colorado will be able to sleep at night.”

  “And everyone will hate Detective Cody Hoyt,” Brian said, not without a vicious little note of glee.