Sly Fox

by Jeanine Pirro

  “Don’t you get it?” Jones snapped. “This isn’t your problem anymore. You’ve done enough damage. Now why don’t you just get lost?”

  “Let me know where you’re going to be,” O’Brien said.

  “Why? So you can have your officers watch me like they did her?”

  Before he could answer, I said, “I’ll go to my mom’s place.” But as soon as I said it, I knew that was a mistake. Hitchins had just killed Mary Margaret’s mother, and I didn’t want him murdering mine, too.

  “I’ll go out of town. Albany. A friend.”

  “Then get the hell out of here,” Jones said.

  I glanced at Mary Margaret, whispered, “I’m sorry,” and walked toward the woods. I was so preoccupied that I’d gone about a hundred feet before I realized I had no idea if I was headed in the right direction. I stopped and turned off my flashlight. I thought I might be able to see the headlights from the squad cars parked on the dirt road. Like a lighthouse, they could guide me in. But everything was pitch-black.

  Just as I was about to turn on my flashlight, I heard a sound and saw a sliver from a flashlight cutting through the woods about sixty feet to my left. I started to call out but suddenly caught myself. What if it was Rudy Hitchins? Like an arsonist who lingers at a fire to watch the carnage that he’d caused, was Hitchins still prowling the woods? The flashlight beam moved quicker as the figure picked up speed. He seemed in a rush. I stayed frozen, not sure how to react. I couldn’t make out a face.

  As soon as the figure disappeared in the darkness, I began walking without my flashlight. “Ouch.” Something had pricked my calf. I flipped on my light and saw that I’d wandered into a patch of thorny vines. I was bleeding. Damn it.

  Dani, I told myself, stay focused. The road is minutes away. Don’t let your imagination run wild. I never knew how frightening a forest could be. Maneuvering around the thorns, I continued walking, and in another thirty feet, I finally emerged from the pines. The three police cars were about a hundred yards north of me. When I reached them, I didn’t bother to speak to the officers. There was another car parked next to mine and I assumed it belonged to Pisani. That must have been who’d passed by me in the woods—not Hitchins.

  As I was unlocking my car, one of the officers yelled, “Hey, did you see those two guys from your office in the woods?”

  Two guys? I’d only seen a lone man. I yelled over to the cops, “Did you get their names?”

  “Yeah, it was Paul Pisani and your D.A. They came personally.”

  I walked over and explained that I had just seen an unknown man in the woods.

  “Did you arrest him?” one of them said, laughing.

  “You might want to see who it was.”

  “Okay, sure, we’ll get right on that,” another said.

  Idiots. I got into my car and drove away. When I got to the interstate, I finally released my emotions. Tears filled my eyes, forcing me to pull over. I opened the car door and vomited.

  15

  I hurriedly packed a suitcase when I got home and headed for Albany. The Saturday-morning sun had risen by the time I reached the apartment building where Bob lived adjacent to the medical school campus. I pushed the button that connected to the intercom in his apartment. When there was no response, I punched it again and again. I checked and it was a few minutes after eight a.m. Where was he?

  I decided to drive to a pay phone, but as I was walking across the parking lot to my car, I heard his familiar laugh and spun around. Bob was coming up the sidewalk with a drop-dead gorgeous blonde walking next to him.

  “Bob,” I called. “Bob.”

  I waved and he saw me. He said something to the woman and the two of them came to me.

  “I thought you weren’t coming until next weekend,” Bob said.

  “Change of plans. Something horrible has happened.”

  Bob said, “This is Linda, a friend from my study group.”

  She stuck out her hand. “Bob and I are coming back from an all-night study session at the medical library. We stopped for coffee and bagels.”

  I shook her hand and she said, “I got to run and get some sleep.”

  Watching her walk away, I felt jealous. She had killer long legs, a confident gait, and long locks that bounced on her shoulders with each step.

  “What’s wrong? Is it your mom?”

  I said, “Hold me, tight.” He wrapped his arms around me and I put my face against his chest and whispered, “I may have gotten two people and an unborn baby killed. That case I told you about.”

  He pushed me back so he could see my face and said, “How? I’m sure it’s not your fault.”

  As we walked to his apartment, I recounted what had happened. Once inside, he said, “I don’t have any Dr Peppers left from your last visit, but I can get you coffee.”

  He started toward the kitchen.

  “What I want is for you to come back here and hold me.”

  Bob hugged me tight. “I’m sure everything is going to be okay,” he said, patting my back.

  “The cops hate me. They blame me.”

  “Well, I can kind of see why.”

  “What?” I said, clearly hurt.

  “I mean, I understand why they are upset, but they certainly can’t hold you responsible, especially since they dropped the ball when they were supposed to be watching Hitchins.”

  “You think I should have filed those bogus charges?”

  “Dani, you’re exhausted and emotionally upset. You’ve just been through a horrific incident. Let’s get you into bed. You’ll feel better after you get some sleep.”

  He led me into his bedroom, where I stripped down to my bra and panties and climbed under the covers. “Aren’t you joining me?” I asked. “I thought you guys were up all night.”

  “We were and I’m exhausted. But the coffee I just drank is giving me a buzz. I want to make a few notes and take a shower. Then I’ll join you.”

  I curled up in a fetal position. I was disappointed. I wanted to feel him holding me. I wanted to have him spoon with me and feel the warmth of his body and feel loved. I also wanted to get that image of Mary Margaret out of my mind.

  “Don’t take long,” I said.

  “Okay.” He bent down and kissed my forehead.

  “Bob, I should have done something to protect them.”

  “Think about something else.”

  When I woke up, it was late afternoon. Bob was snoring next to me in bed. For a brief moment, I felt happy, and then I remembered what had happened during the past twenty-four hours.

  16

  The banner headline on the white plains Daily’s Sunday edition screamed in all capital letters: KILLER MURDERS THREE. A subhead on the page added: Mother, Daughter, Unborn Baby Dead: Boyfriend Suspected. The newspaper published a large photo of Mary Margaret and Mrs. Finn standing next to each other in happier times at what appeared to be an amusement park. A second photo showed a body covered with a white sheet being pushed into the back of a medical examiner’s van. In a sensational account, reporter Will Harris told readers that Charleston Taylor, an Elmsford-area farmer, had been doing his early-morning chores when he’d heard a woman screaming from a clearing not far from his barn. “I’ve done enough rabbit shooting to recognize the sound of gunshots and that’s what I heard next. Two of ’em.” Alarmed, Taylor called the police.

  Harris quoted White Plains police chief Harvey Cutler stating that Rudy Hitchins was “a person of interest.” Hitchins’s mug shot was published inside the newspaper where the story jumped from page one. The paper also published a photograph of Chief Cutler and D.A. Whitaker standing outside the courthouse holding a Saturday press conference.

  Whitaker was quoted liberally, explaining how his office had been in the midst of prosecuting Hitchins with felony assault because of his earlier attack on Mary Margaret. He further noted that Hitchins had been freed from jail by Judge Morano despite strong protests from the D.A.’s office. “My staff was actively going after t
his man in an extremely violent domestic case,” Whitaker declared. “In some communities, domestic violence is ignored, but not here, especially not while I’m the district attorney. I only wish Judge Morano had been as alarmed as we were.” There was no love lost between Whitaker and Judge Morano.

  In the final paragraphs of the news story, Harris identified me as the prosecutor who had been overseeing the Hitchins case.

  I’d read the Sunday paper as soon as I returned home from Bob’s apartment in Albany. After my weekend respite, I was eager to return to work. I needed to talk to Whitaker about teaming me with Pisani once Hitchins was arrested. But when I got to work in the morning, Steinberg told me that Whitaker had decided I needed to take “a few extra days off.”

  “I want to help,” I protested.

  “Look, Dani,” Steinberg said, “the cops are still angry and Will Harris has been fishing around for a story. He’s asking to interview you. We don’t want you talking to him right now, especially while Hitchins is loose. No reason to make you a target.”

  Was that really the case, or did Steinberg simply want to keep me out of the limelight so Whitaker could bask in it? The reason hardly mattered. I was being told to stay scarce and I didn’t like it. For two days, I was like a caged animal at my house until Wednesday when I decided to attend a funeral mass at St. Mary’s Assumption Catholic Church for Mary Margaret and her mother.

  As I approached the church, I spotted two television news trucks in the parking lot. Reporters were interviewing mourners, so I kept driving and parked my car on a side street. I waited until the mass had begun before discreetly slipping into the sanctuary through a side door. About two hundred attendees had come to pay their last respects. The church could hold as many as a thousand, so only the pews in the front were full. I took a seat in the back. From my vantage point, I could see the backs of the heads of Police Chief Cutler, D.A. Whitaker, and Paul Pisani sitting in the front row. Our mayor and a slew of candidates running for election in November for various Westchester County posts were seated close by them. Several pews were filled with uniformed police officers, a testament to how popular Mary Margaret had been at O’Toole’s.

  I exited the church several minutes before the mass ended, hoping to avoid attention, but as soon as I stepped outside, someone called my name.

  “Ms. Fox, Ms. Fox.”

  The man approaching me had a runner’s slender build. He stood about six feet tall, was in his late twenties, and had a mop of brown hair that needed to be trimmed. He was wearing a dark blazer, a white collared shirt that had its top button undone, and gray pants that were too long in the cuff. I noticed his trousers were frayed in the back where he’d stepped on them.

  “I’m Will Harris with the Daily—the reporter who telephoned you after you were first hired—and I wondered if I could speak to you now.”

  “Now’s not a good time. Besides, I can’t talk to the media unless my boss okays it in advance.”

  “Sure, I understand, but you’re an important part of the Rudy Hitchins story. The only reason Whitaker filed felony assault charges against him was because of you. Otherwise, none of this would have happened.”

  I couldn’t believe he was blaming me for the murders. I spun around and began walking.

  “Wait, wait,” Harris called. “That didn’t come out right. I didn’t mean the murders were your fault. What I said was supposed to be a compliment—that no one really cared about domestic violence around here until you were hired.”

  “For a man who makes his living with words, Mr. Harris, you seem to choose them poorly. You need to speak to Mr. Whitaker.”

  I turned my back to him and started toward my car.

  “I’ll run it by Whitaker,” he yelled.

  Hoping to avoid other reporters, I picked up my pace. I was just about to my car when I noticed its right rear tire was flat. The left rear tire was flat, too. Hurrying forward, I saw both front tires were flat. Obviously, someone was sending me a not-too-subtle message.

  A car moved slowly up the street and then stopped next to me. Its tinted windows and the antennas sticking from its trunk meant it was an unmarked police cruiser. The driver lowered the passenger window.

  “Need a lift, Counselor?” O’Brien asked. He reached across the seat, grabbed the interior latch, and shoved open the passenger door. “The two of us need to talk.”

  17

  O’Brien drove to a greasy spoon on the fringes of White Plains that only cops and truck drivers would patronize. Given the warm reception he received from Ellen, our busty, middle-aged waitress, it was a favorite.

  “I’ll take my usual,” he announced.

  “That’s one chicken-fried steak, piled with French fries smothered in white cream gravy,” Ellen revealed with delight as she scribbled on a notepad. “And what would you like, dear?”

  “Do you serve salads?”

  “Only when I have to!” She chuckled.

  “They serve food here that sticks to your ribs,” O’Brien said.

  “And your arteries,” I replied. “Surely you can fix me some sort of salad in the kitchen.”

  Ellen gave me a disappointed look and then waddled away.

  “I heard the boys were playing a little rough with you,” O’Brien said. “So when I saw you duck out of the church, I followed you. I’ve already called a tow truck. The driver will pump up your tires and drop off your car at your house. I gave him the address. No harm done.”

  “No harm?”

  “The boys just let the air out. They didn’t puncture your tires.”

  For that I was supposed to feel grateful?

  “Where’s Rudy Hitchins?” I asked.

  “His girlfriend claims he fled south, which makes us think that he probably headed to Canada. We have contacted U.S. Customs and also the Mounties.”

  “I think he’s still here.”

  “Oh, so now you’re a detective?”

  “The other night in the woods, I saw a man. I couldn’t tell who he was. But he was hurrying through the woods, all alone. I know it wasn’t Pisani and Whitaker.”

  “This guy—did you see him right after you left the clearing?”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  O’Brien grinned. “That was me. I was looking for you. I thought you might get lost. Obviously, you didn’t.”

  Ellen brought coffee and a Dr Pepper.

  “How do you drink that stuff?” O’Brien asked. But he didn’t wait for me to reply. Instead, he said, “I’m gonna tell you a story. My old man worked as a correctional officer all his life at Attica. Ten of his pals died during the big riot there in nineteen seventy-one.”

  “Was he hurt?”

  “Naw, he’d retired a month before. But he watched the riot on TV and he wished like hell that he’d been part of it. He was angry as hell that the state lost control to the inmates. A few weeks later, he died unexpectedly.”

  “A heart attack?”

  “Him? Naw. Not sure he even had a heart. It was retirement that killed him. He wasn’t cut out to sit at home.”

  O’Brien didn’t seem too upset about his father’s death.

  Ellen arrived with food and the plate she plopped down in front of O’Brien was gigantic. He tucked a paper napkin in his collar and cut into the battered steak. “What you got to understand is that my father didn’t have anything in his life but his job. At Attica, he was a somebody who could crack heads and push people around. After he retired, he was just another retired schmuck.”

  He took a sip of coffee and a huge bite. “Now to the point of my story. At Attica, whenever a new hire showed up, the other officers would test him. They’d wait for an inmate to go nuts. When inmates did, most would throw soapy water on the cell floor to make it slippery. They’d rub butter all over themselves for the same reason, and finally they’d break off a mop handle to use as a weapon. They’d scream at the officers, challenging them to come into the cell. That’s how they did it back then.”

  “That’s aw
ful.”

  “Are you kidding? My old man loved it. Four or five officers would gather outside the cell and they’d talk about how they were going to rush in and tackle the inmate. Meanwhile, the inmate would back as far as he could against the cell’s rear wall and then the officers would pop open that cell door. Only the old-timers would always hesitate to make sure the new guy went through first.”

  O’Brien paused to take another bite. “Do you know why they wanted the new guy to go first?”

  I shrugged. I wasn’t in the mood for guessing games.

  “Because they wanted to see what he was made of. Was he going to hold his mud and fight or was he going to run? The ones who got scared—the older officers would let that inmate whup on him for a while because they knew he was a coward and they wanted him to get injured or scared enough that he’d quit. But the ones who went toe-to-toe with that inmate—as soon as the others saw that, they’d race in and kick the shit out of that prisoner.”

  I nodded.

  O’Brien said, “What you got to understand, Counselor, is you’re being tested—especially because you’re a skirt.”

  He pointed a gravy-smeared fork at me. “There are three types of people. The wolves: people like Hitchins. The sheep: the good, law-abiding folks in our communities who have nine-to-five jobs, nice families, and go to church each Sunday. And the shepherds: the cops, correctional officers, state troopers, deputies, and, yes, even the prosecutors. We’re the only thing standing between the wolves and the sheep.”

  “I get it.”

  “I’m not sure you do get it, Counselor. When you refused to back up Jones and his buddies outside O’Toole’s, that made you suspect. They don’t know if they can trust you. Now that Hitchins has killed Mary Margaret and her mother, well, some of the guys are blaming you. So they’re testing you to see if you’re going to run back to Whitaker and cry. They’re watching to see if you are going to complain to our chief. Or maybe you’ll even quit.”

  “I’m not going to run away because someone let the air out of my tires. But you’ve got to understand. I don’t break rules. Most things are black and white to me. There’s not much gray.”