“Got to do better than that, Doc. That’s half of our murders. How’d he do ’em?”
“He strangled them after an attempted sexual assault. But at the crime scenes there were weapons found, or rather planted, so that it looked like the victims had been killed where they were found. Clubs, guns, that sort of thing.”
“That doesn’t ring any bells. Anything else?”
“He took some blood from each victim and he’d spatter it around the next crime scene.”
Thibault was silent for a minute. When he spoke his voice was strangely hoarse. “Your boy’s gonna go when, four days, you said?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Let me ask you a question. Your first victim, what kind of blood type?”
“AB, but—”
We finished the sentence in harmony. “The bloodstains were O positive.”
“Yes,” I said, flooded with elation. “When did these killings occur?”
“They started five years ago. There were four of them over the course of a year. Then they stopped.”
“That’s great. Do you have the lab work on these stains?”
“Yeah. They’re in the file. I’d have to go dig it out, but I could fax it to you. Take an hour or so.”
“If the blood’s a match, our guy couldn’t have done it. He was in a residential facility that whole year. This is great. Listen, I don’t want to be rude, but I’ve got to call the lawyer with this news.”
Thibault’s voice was thick and weary when he spoke.
“As soon as you know, Doc, call me right back. You see, if your boy didn’t do it, and that’s our blood at the scene, then I’ve got a call to make. ’Cause our guy didn’t do it, either. And his next of kin aren’t going to like that one little bit.”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: I would like to thank the following people for their help with this story: noted defense attorney Peter Greenspun; Dr. Jane Greenstein; Constance Knott; Officer Adam K. Schutz; Dr. Mark E. Schutz; and my son, Jakob Lindenberger-Schutz, who solved it in a flash.
Expert Opinion
It was winter when the first call came in. That brief lull in domestic warfare that comes right before Christmas. No one wants to be in court that time of year. Not the lawyers, not the families. It has to be a life or death emergency to get on the docket. No judge wants to be playing Solomon in the manger.
I looked out my office window. The sky was gray and cloudy. The air was cold and dry without a hint of snow. Walking to my office, the day had the look and feel of marble.
The phone rang twice before I picked it up.
“Dr. Triplett, this is Larry Fortunato. I’m an attorney in Lawrence, New Jersey. I’d like to use you in a case.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Fortunato, but I’m buried in work right now. I’m not taking on any new cases.”
“How long until you can?”
“I won’t be starting any new cases’ for another six weeks, maybe two months. Can I refer you to anyone?”
“Not really, Doctor. You’re the one we want.”
“Is one of the parents down here?” I asked, wondering why a New Jersey lawyer was so keen to use me here in Virginia.
“No, the parents both live up here. I did some research. Your name kept coming up as the best, so I figured we’d go with the best.”
“That’s very flattering. What kind of case is it?” May as well find out what I was best at. I wasn’t going to take the case regardless of the answer.
“It’s a sexual abuse case. Mother claims the father abuses the little boy.”
“There are some very good people up your way. There’s—”
“I know doctor, but believe me we called all of them. I asked them the same question. If it was your kid, who would you want to do the evaluation? You ought to feel pretty good about this. Your name is always the answer. Well, not always. Some shrink across the state isn’t too crazy about you, but I heard you blew him away in court a couple of times.”
“That is nice to hear. This is a hard area to keep a decent reputation in. People don’t really want evaluations done. They want verification of what they already know is true. A lot of messengers get killed in this line of work.”
“No problem of that here, Doctor. Neither of the parties would be retaining you. It’s the little boy’s—”
“Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Even if I took the case, I wouldn’t want to hear anything without all the attorneys on the phone. These cases are like tar pits. You make one false move and you can’t undo it. These cases are littered with the bones of evaluators who screwed up.”
“Okay. I respect that. Let me ask you one question. Hypothetically, if you were to take the case, how much would it cost?”
“My hourly rate is two hundred dollars. Not knowing anything about this case, I’d tell you the range is eight to twelve thousand dollars. These cases are very, very draining. I can only do two or three at a time. They take at least two months to complete. If I was taking any more of these that is.”
“Of course. Sounds like you need a little R and R.”
“Yeah.” I needed more than that. I needed a new how and why, but that was none of his business.
“Well, thank you for your time, Dr. Triplett. Take care of yourself.”
I cradled the phone and surveyed the cases on my desk. First up Tiffany Pearlman. A child so damaged that she could scarcely go a day without harming herself. Overdoses, auto wrecks, pregnancies, poetry in her own blood. A walking death notice lacking only a date. The county had no money to underwrite treatment. The parents were bankrupt from trying to pin the blame on each other. She was a slow motion suicide heading downhill. If I was lucky, I’d get her committed the first week of January and buy her a little time. She, of course, thought that she was fine and it was the rest of us who were crazy.
The rest of the pile was more of the same. Their trials were strung out over the next month. After that I was going to take some time off. See if I could reinvent myself.
The envelope was on my secretary’s desk a week later. She wasn’t in on Wednesdays so no one saw who delivered it. A large manila envelope with my name typed across the front. I got these packages all the time. First thing a divorce lawyer tells their client: keep a journal. Each parent documenting the outrages perpetrated by the other. Each hurt brooded over lovingly. No slight too small to remember or small enough to forgive. However long they spent preparing their case, it took at least twice as long to recover any sense of proportion. If they ever did.
I took the envelope into my office. I peeled it open and dumped out the contents.
The money was old and in wads held together by rubber bands. One fell on the floor. I picked it up and looked at the door. It was open. I felt naked and closed the door.
There was no letter in the envelope. Nothing. This was definitely not Publisher’s Clearinghouse. I picked up a brick. All hundreds. Did banks ever give people hundreds? I thought they were for interbank transactions. I did a quick total. Six thousand. Twelve bricks. Seventy-two grand.
The phone rang. I picked it up and said nothing. “Dr. Triplett. You received a package today.” The voice was smooth and even and unknown.
“Who is this?”
“That package contained an amount of money twice what you would earn from your caseload for the next two months, am I correct?”
“Who is this? I’m not going to answer any questions until I know who this is?”
“This is your new client, Dr. Triplett.”
“Oh, no, you’re not. I don’t work like this. You tell me who you are and where to send this money. I don’t want it.”
“You can’t return it, Dr. Triplett. No one will accept it.”
“Then I’ll give it away. I don’t want it.”
“If you give it away, it will be considered spent. Lie back and enjoy it, Doc. You’ve been bought and paid for.” After a moment of silence the voice returned, softer. “Take a deep breath, Doctor. Count it again. That’s a lot of R and
R, Doctor. We’ll be in touch.”
I hung up the phone. My heart and mind were racing. I felt like I was swimming through Jell-O with my mouth open.
This was not happening to me. I looked at the money. Oh, yes, it was. I’m a psychologist. I don’t even do criminal work. I obey the law. I don’t even get traffic tickets. This is insane. There has to be something I can do.
I looked at the bricks of money again. Seventy-two thousand dollars worth of serious intent. Maybe I should call the cops. And tell them what? I was being forced at twice my hourly rate to perform unknown services, for an unknown person. I’m sure there is a crime in there somewhere. Any ideas, Officer? Sure. If they want you to do something illegal, or they threaten you with bodily harm, you call us. Gross overpayment won’t do? No.
I had to talk to this guy the next time that he called. That’s what I do best—talk to desperate people. People backed into corners, people who felt they had nothing to lose or everything to lose and no way to win. People who could not compromise or negotiate or yield. That’s what I did every day. End conflicts, build bridges, put doors into corners. That’s what put this guy onto me now. This time I was one of those people. I’d use my skills to get myself out of his life and him out of mine. I felt better already. I had a plan. I knew what I was going to do. I was good at this. The best, he’d said.
I looked at the money. First things first. This had to be put into the bank. I had to be able to return it and that meant guaranteeing its safety. My office safebox wouldn’t do, neither would the one I had at home.
I scooped the money into the bag, put on my jacket, turned off the lights and locked the office door. Outside, I fiddled with my key ring, looking for the front door key. I found it and locked the dead bolt. As I withdrew the key from the sticky lock, I heard a voice.
“Dr. Triplett?”
I turned toward the voice. There were two of them. Left wore a butterscotch leather jacket over a chocolate turtle-neck. His face was deeply pitted. Could have been acne, could have been shrapnel for all I knew. His hands were at his side. Right was the talker. His head cocked slightly to one side, a smile on his face. “Dr. Triplett, would you step this way please?” He turned sideways and pointed to a black limousine with tinted windows.
I looked from Left to Right. “And if I say no?”
Left reached up and pulled away his jacket to show me that the question had been rhetorical.
“Right here on the street. You’d shoot me?” I asked Right.
“In a fucking heartbeat, Doc. You have no idea how angry Mr. G is with you. Getting shot is the least of your worries. Step this way, please.”
He stepped off the curb and opened the door. All I could see was a pair of legs in the middle of the rear seat and an empty bench facing backwards toward the legs. I stepped between Left and Right, holding my bag like it was my lunch. Right’s cologne was cloyingly sweet. I ducked my head and slipped onto the bench with my bag of money in my lap. Right slid in next to me and pulled the door closed. Left came around the car, opened the other door and sat down next to me. I was pressed between them, feeling the pressure of their arms and legs against me from my shoulders to my shoes. I couldn’t move.
My host stroked his beard slowly, rhythmically, like he was petting himself. He lifted his chin, pursed his lips in thought and then backhanded me across the face.
My eyes watered and my muscles tensed. The pressure on me from both sides increased. I relaxed.
“Who the fuck do you think you are? Huh?” he asked. He was short and stocky, with black hair that swept straight back from a widow’s peak. With his sharp, curved nose, thick neck and bulging eyes, he looked like a great horned owl. I felt like a field mouse. His hands were pale and square with short, thick fingers.
“I asked you a question. Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“I think I’m terrified, that’s who.”
“That’s good. You should be. You should be wondering if you’re ever gonna get out of this car.”
He leaned back against the seat. “I called you and told you I had a problem. A serious fucking problem, and you were too fucking busy to help me. What do you think? You’re too good for me?”
The pale hand flew and my head snapped back. I closed my eyes to stop the spinning.
“I came to you with respect,” he said pointing a single finger at me. “We did our homework. You’re the best. You gave us a price and we doubled it. In cash. Up front. But you’re still too busy for me, for my problem. How’d you get so special, Mr. Terrified? You feeling special right now?”
“No,” I whispered.
“So tell me, what is it? I ain’t good enough for you? My money ain’t good enough for you?”
I took a deep breath. Telling him that his attorney had never gotten around to giving me his name was not going to derail this tirade. “It had nothing to do with you or your money. I’m full. There’s only so many of these that I can do at one time. I’m in the middle of three cases. I have to finish them. They’ve got court dates.”
“So? You think we couldn’t fix that? You don’t think we could arrange a continuance or two? Talk to the lawyers, the docket clerks if that’s what you needed? Did you come back and say that was the problem, could we work with you on that? No. Nothing. No interest. Just blew me off. Too busy. You busy right now, Mr. Terrified? I’ll bet you are. Busy holding your water, is what.”
My companions snickered.
“Since you’re not too busy all of a sudden, let me tell you about my problem.”
I smiled weakly. “Sure.”
“When I was younger, I met this girl. You don’t need to know her name. A stripper. Whew, God was she hot. Anyway, that’s another story. She got knocked up. Said the kid was mine. Now I’m married. I got two kids of my own. Coulda been mine, I’m not saying that. But I tell her you push this and he’s an orphan. Let it be and I’ll keep an eye on him. I’ll look out for him. She’s a smart girl. I don’t hear from her again. Until a few weeks ago. She calls me up outta the blue. Says my son’s in trouble. I gotta help him out like I said. So I say okay, what’s the problem. She says he’s getting divorced. I start laughing. That’s the fucking problem? No, she says the wife claims he’s diddling the kid. Won’t let him have no visitation. It’s killing him. He grew up without a father, now he’ll grow old without a son. Help him. Help him. You said you would. He’s your own flesh and blood. Look at him, just see him once and then deny him. Look me in the eye and deny him. Fuck.” He shrugged and rolled his eyes. “She gave me the address. I went by. Stopped me cold. I seen him walking down the street. It’s like I’m watching myself. Little things. The way he walks. The way he laughs. He looks just like me at his age. Okay, he’s my son. So I introduce myself to him. I tell him I’m a friend of his mother’s, that’s all. We sit down and talk. He tells me his wife, she’s getting boned by her boss and she wants out. She says she’s gonna take the kid. He pulls out his wallet, shows me a picture. What do I know? Kids, they all look alike. He tells me his name. The kid’s got my first name. It was his mother’s idea. Now so far neither of my other two kids are married. This is my only grandchild, a grandson. With my name. I say how’s she gonna do that? She’s sucking some other guy’s dick and she’s a fit mother, c’mon, am I right?”
I nodded in the understanding that passeth all reason.
“He says she’s saying the boy don’t want to go with him on visits. That when he comes back, he’s got nightmares. He wants to sleep with her. That his daddy’s mean to him. That he touched him where nobody should touch him. That his butthole’s red and sore when he comes back. My son, he gets down on his knees. We’re in a restaurant. He gets down on his knees and he swears on his mother’s life that he never touched the kid. That it’s a fucking lie. I tell him to get up, he’s drawing eyes. I tell him I’ll talk to her. Hear what she’s gotta say. I’ll get to the bottom of this.”
He leaned back. “You got any questions. Anything else you want to know?
”
“No. Not now. If I do, I’ll ask, if that’s okay, of course.”
He smiled broadly. “Of course it’s okay. That’s why we’re here isn’t it? I tell you my problem and you listen and ask questions, right? I mean, I’m not paying 400 dollars an hour to a deaf mute, am I?” The smile spread. I was invited to reply and managed a wince of relief.
“Okay. So I go meet the wife. Jesus, what a bitch. I tell her how I’m Vito’s uncle and I hear that they’re having some problems, maybe I can help. Well, she unloads on him. He’s never been a provider to her. He’s always losing jobs. She’s worked two jobs to make ends meet. She also says he’s never been a real man in the sack. She thinks he’s maybe a little light in the loafers.” He wagged his left hand and pursed his mouth in distaste. “She liked the way he was at first—real gentle and all. But then she realized he was a mama’s boy. His mother, she never let him out of her sight. She was always afraid he wouldn’t come back, like the father. She was always running his life, calling him at all hours and him always going over there. She got tired of playing second fiddle to the mother. On top of that he was never interested in her as a woman. She had to get him drunk to do it and even then he wasn’t flying at full mast. So I ask her about her boss. She says he’s just a friend, that Vito’s paranoid that she’s sleeping around ’cause he wouldn’t give her what she needed. She says they just talk. I ask her about the kid. She tells me the same story as Vito. I ask if there’s anybody else has seen this stuff. She says no. She took him to the doctor’s to check out his butt. She said they couldn’t see nothing wrong. They stuck some camera up his butt, a colosto—something. I don’t know.”
“A colposcope. It’s called a colposcope.” My voice sounded like it was being piped into the car.
“That’s right.” My host smiled.
“That’s good. It’s a specialist’s instrument. Somebody with some training took a look at him.”
Mary, Mary, Shut the Door Page 20
