Cary stared at the ceiling, not really thinking about anything in particular, until Detective Jorgensen arrived, this time solo.
"I understand you wanted to see me?" said the pale police detective as he entered the equally pale room. "Would you care to make your statement now?"
"Yes."
"Do you wish for your attorney to be present?"
"No," Cary answered. "I don't think I'll need one. Once you see this is all a terrible mistake..."
"Proceed."
"First of all, I did not kill anyone. I know it looks bad. I found Diana like that, dead already. I panicked. I knew I would be a suspect. But I have no motive. I loved Diana. I wouldn't have any reason to kill her."
"Not because you were cheating on her and she found out? We've got the note from your girlfriend, Cary, and the photo. We also got some interesting photos from the police department in Los Angeles. You haven't been charged in the murders of those women yet, but just as soon as we find out who they are--and we will--you'll be going down for them, too."
Things were going from bad to worse. "I didn't kill those women! Honestly, I didn't!"
"Interesting fact, Cary: I learned in my college psychology class that most false statements are prefaced with the word 'honestly.' Isn't that interesting?" Detective Jorgensen was now sitting on the chair beside Cary's bed, smoking a cigarette, leaning in close.
The smoke stung Cary's good eye and made breathing even more difficult. But he'd be damned if he'd let the detective see that it was getting to him. He knew what Jorgensen was doing, trying to make him uncomfortable so he'd confess. Well, he had nothing to confess to.
"Let me state once again: I did not kill Joshua B. Ryan. I had no motive. You have no physical evidence connecting me to the crime. Now, the women in the Insta-Pics," he began to cough, bringing a searing stab to his perforated lung. It was a struggle to both speak and breathe, but he pushed on. "The LAPD thought it was a publicity stunt on my part. Even they didn't think the women were really dead."
"They do now," Jorgensen interjected in his steady, almost toneless voice.
"Well, I didn't take those pictures. They were given to me. I think maybe some crazed horror fanatic is after me. Maybe someone out there identifying with my Bonfiglio character. I don't know...I think that person has been trying to drive me insane. And now, that person has probably killed Diana. Don't you see? I'm the victim here."
"So, you're saying that you are innocent."
"Haven't you been listening to me? Yes, yes. I am innocent."
"If that's how to you want to plead it, fine. But I'll tell you, we've got evidence. And not just the body of Diana Moon. We've got more. Much more," he smiled enigmatically and left the room.
Eight weeks later, when Cary was well enough to leave the infirmary, he was placed in the jail cell where he would remain throughout his trial. It had been impossible to convince anyone of his innocence, and Cary was denied bail. Even if it had been granted, he might have chosen to stay--he was afraid to go back home. He decided he would be safer behind bars and under the watchful gaze of an armed guard for the time being.
While still in the hospital Cary secured a new attorney. He had called the law office that was handling his suit against Old Scratch Press, but they had refused to take his case. Desperate, he'd selected an attorney from the Yellow Pages.
Cary could tell Charles Macintosh III, Esquire, didn't really believe in him. The evidence against him was rather overwhelming--even Cary had to admit that.
As they sat across from each other, under the watchful glare of the ever-present armed guard, Macintosh told Cary about what had been disclosed in the discovery motion he had made to the court earlier that week. He had a detailed evidentiary catalog, as well as a list of witnesses slated to testify.
A surveillance tape had turned up, supposedly showing Cary entering the art gallery at 9:00 P.M. on the night of Joshua's murder, then exiting again at 10:30 P.M. Cary of course had not seen the video, but he knew it had to have been doctored. Why would it suddenly come to light, over two years later? Didn't anyone besides himself think that was odd?
Since Cary's accident, two of the three girls in the Insta-Pics had turned up...dead. One in Texas, rotting beneath a pile of compost, and the other in Los Angeles, found hanging from a treetop somewhere in the Angeles National Forest. The bodies were too decomposed to do very much with, but the photographs that had been in Cary's possession would serve as extremely strong circumstantial evidence against him.
Marlisa Moon's body had been exhumed and it was found that her heart attack was brought on by an overdose of medication that she had apparently unwittingly consumed just before her death. It was surmised that Cary poisoned the mother, in hopes of marrying the daughter and thus inheriting the great fortune.
Cary had never heard anything more ridiculous. He had plenty of his own money. Had. After this trial he knew he would be back to square one.
It was further surmised that Diana had refused to marry Cary after having found out about his lover, and Cary had killed her, too.
Cary had almost laughed out loud when Jorgensen told him that one. That was hardly a motive for murder.
They were even looking into his parents' deaths in the fire, all those years ago.
"I suggest you plead man-one," his attorney said for the umpteenth time that week. They would be going to trial soon, and Cary would have to come up with a plea. He wanted to plead innocent. Macintosh told him it was suicide. "At least you'll be able to go up for parole in a few years. What about pleading insanity?"
"Absolutely not!" Cary shouted, practically lunging at the young attorney. "I am not insane!"
The hallucinations seemed to have stopped. Again. Cary often wondered why they came and went as they did. When they were with him he wished for nothing more than that they would go away; and when they did, he lived in fear of their return. He remembered the last thing he saw before the crash was a letter-opener in his very own eye. Deep down, he wondered if maybe he was guilty and the hallucinations had been his mind's way of punishing himself for the crimes, and now that he was caught there was no more need of them. He now wore a black eye-patch over the empty socket that had once contained a window to his soul.
Although the hallucinations had stopped, Cary still had a great fear.
Fear of himself. Was he really the killer? That surveillance tape...he hadn't seen it yet, but he was scared. He had blacked out that night. But he would admit this gnawing self-doubt to no one. To the world he must appear completely blameless. He had to prove his innocence beyond a shadow of a doubt--and if he doubted himself, how could a jury not be expected to do the same? That's all he needed...one person on that jury to doubt him. That was why he had refused to take a polygraph. Its results wouldn't be admissible in court, but he was terribly afraid he would fail and if he failed, it might show in his face. He could not take that chance.
He stayed awake most nights, lying face-up on his bunk in the stark, impersonal cell, staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out where things had gone wrong. His happiness had been so short-lived! He was on top of the world for only a fleeting moment--in love with a beautiful woman, wealthy, famous--and then it had all been snatched away from him. He had fallen into the deepest nadir he could ever have imagined. Accused of murder, disfigured, and completely alone in the world. No one cared if he was found innocent or guilty. If he lived or died. Carousel Books had not contacted him, nor offered any support. The calls from his old co-workers at JBR Art Associates had abruptly stopped. He got no support even from his fans. He had not received a single call or letter since his incarceration.
Fuck them all, he thought.
"Okay, okay," Charles Macintosh III said placatingly after his client practically lunged across the cell at him. "It was only a suggestion. I'm trying to do what's best for you."
"I know," Cary said quietly.
But he didn't know. He was afraid he had made an awful mistake in retaining Macinto
sh, but the trial was drawing so near it was too late to find another attorney and get him or her up to speed on the case. Cary could represent himself; after all, no one knew the case or believed in his innocence like he himself did. He decided he would keep that open as an option as he sat looking at Macintosh.
Macintosh had no experience with murder trials, but he had come very cheap and assured Cary that he had excellent council from experienced colleagues. Macintosh was quite young; younger than Cary, but unlike Cary he was handsome and self-assured. He seemed to be the kind of person who could charm a jury, and Cary, as pessimistic about himself as ever, felt that he could not.
He and Macintosh had talked about whether or not Cary should even testify. This was one right Cary refused to relinquish--he knew that he had to speak up for himself. He himself had always been suspicious of people who wouldn't testify in their own defense. It made them look like they had something to hide. Macintosh warned him that the prosecution would try to tear him apart up there on the stand. They would be viscous and unrelenting--and, they had strong evidence on their side.
"What do we have?" Macintosh asked, eyebrows raised. "You have no alibi for the times Ryan or either of the Moons were killed..."
"Diana was with me when Marlisa died," Cary interjected.
Macintosh shot him a withering look and continued. "Great alibi. You have a family history of mental instability, you wrote the blueprint for the murders of those girls in Dallas and L.A. and were caught with photos of them. In a nutshell, things don't look too good."
"But I'm innocent," Cary insisted with a lingering whine. "Doesn't that count for anything?"
Macintosh said nothing. It didn't mean much these days, he had to admit. He wasn't sure if his client was innocent, but he had promised to defend him to the best of his abilities, and that he would do. It wouldn't be easy. Cary Bouchard had a tight, unsmiling face, a defensive stance and an almost palpable bitterness about him. He wrote horrible, trashy books that glorified death and the destruction of human life. The black eye-patch only enhanced his image of a twisted, sick murderer. Cary reminded him of Shakespeare's Richard III character--sullen, sinister, repulsive, afflicted, pathetic. The media hadn't treated him kindly, either. Macintosh had kept the papers away from Cary, but he knew his client would eventually find out that he'd already been tried and convicted in the press.
Cary gave up on waiting for an answer. Macintosh didn't exactly have a poker-face. Cary hoped grimly that Macintosh would stand up better in court. "Okay, so I'm guilty until proven innocent. What's next?"
"Witnesses. The prosecution has got quite a list. First, they are going to call upon Sarafina Rutledge, one of your former co-workers. What would she have to say about you?"
"Nothing good," Cary had to admit. "But nothing too bad, either. What could she possibly be a witness to?"
Macintosh didn't answer. He had yet to find out, but he had investigators working on it "They're also calling Detective Jorgensen, Officers Joseph and Ramirez, whom you met in Los Angeles, as well as Detective Gray." His eyes scanned the list. "One forensic expert, and a hooker from Dallas."
"What? I don't know any prostitutes."
"Are you sure? You'd better be on the level with me, Bouchard, because if we look bad out there it could mean the case. We don't have much, but we'd better have the truth." Macintosh searched Cary's eye. He would definitely have to get him a matte, flesh-toned eye-patch for the trial.
Cary stared back. "I do not know this prostitute, nor any other," he said stiffly.
Macintosh looked down at the list again. "Do you know a Suzet Montage?"
"No."
"Hmmm...okay. I'll try and find out who she is. Father Peter Balsam is testifying against you."
"Why?" Cary was shocked. "He couldn't possibly be a witness to anything. He only saw me twice--once at Marlisa Moon's memorial service and then the next day at her funeral."
"He will probably be testifying as to your state of mind. Diana was killed on the night of her mother's funeral day, and if your manner was odd, he could say that."
"What kind of expert is he? He's not a psychologist. How would he know?" Cary himself thought his manner was odd--as with the deaths of his parents and Tweetie, Cary felt almost nothing about Diana's death. Of course, those in shock often reported a certain numbness.
"Hey, settle down," Macintosh said softly but firmly. "Don't let it get to you. He's a nothing witness. I'll completely tear him down, because you're right; he has no business testifying." He went back to his list. "They are also calling Roger Maye, the security guard for your building."
"It looks like we'll have a lot to rebut," Cary said, a note of hopelessness creeping into his voice. "I never have been very well-liked. I didn't realize how important it was to make nice before now," he grinned weakly.
"Don't worry, we've got a couple of character witnesses for you. I'm going to call Susan Montgomery and Al Jackson."
"Al Jackson?" Cary sputtered in disbelief. "That character assassin? The one who got me into trouble in L.A. in the first place? You've got to be joking!"
"No, I'm not. He came forward, said he felt you were getting a raw deal, to use his words, and said he'd be happy to explain why you were out wandering in the middle of the night. He feels responsible."
"Don't believe him," Cary pleaded. "It's just a publicity stunt for his show."
"I've interviewed him myself, and I feel that he has something to add to your case. Beggars can't be choosers, Bouchard. You've got someone willing to stand up for you; you ought to be thankful." Macintosh straightened his chocolate silk tie and continued. "We'll enter your plea, go through the jury selection process, then there's no turning back. Are you sure you want to plead innocent?"
"Yes," Cary said resolutely.
"Okay, Bouchard, I believe in you. We're going to win this case."
It sounded as though Macintosh was finally starting to trust in him. Cary gave him a wan smile and said, "Thank you."
Three days later Charles Macintosh III returned to visit Cary. He, as usual, was impeccably and expensively dressed and his blonde hair was styled to perfection. Cary felt like a bum in his prison blues and too-long, scraggly hair. He longed to get back into one of his gray pin-striped Armani suits and Gucci loafers. Come the start of the trial, he would be able to. Macintosh told him he was having a new, less obtrusive eye-patch made for him, and Cary was grateful. He hated the ugly, itchy black thing, but hated even more the way his face looked without it. Someday he hoped he could have a glass eye made, but if he was to spend the rest of his life in prison, there would be no need for such vanities.
"This is what I have, Bouchard," said Macintosh, seating himself across from his client. Cary looked forlorn, and painfully thin. Macintosh hoped that putting a suit on him would help his scarecrow appearance somewhat. "I found out the hooker, whose name on the streets is Ice, is going to testify that you picked her up, took her to your hotel room, and tried to strangle her while you two were doing the dirty."
"That's a lie! That is absolute rubbish!" Cary protested, rising from his chair. The guard put his hand on the butt of his gun and looked over at Macintosh. Macintosh nodded that everything was okay.
"Calm down, Cary," he said, under his breath. "I know it's a lie, and we'll prove it. This woman is a friend of the other prostitute who was murdered in Dallas. It's clearly a vendetta. The jury will see that.
"Now, as for the security guard, he's going to testify that he saw Diana running out of the building crying on the night she was killed. He is then going to testify that he saw you about twenty minutes later, running through the lobby and the building with an angry look on your face."
"How do you know this?" Cary asked, elbows on the table, holding his head in his hands.
"My investigator spoke to him. Now, as for this Suzet Montage, I can't find her. I can find no record of her, either. Very strange. She must be using an alias. Anyhow, she is their star witness--she claims to have been 'the oth
er woman' Diana got killed over. I don't know anything else."
"But the prosecution has to give you full disclosure, don't they?"
"Technically, they have. I just can't seem to find her."
"This woman who says she's my lover. Ridiculous! I never cheated on Diana. Ever. Not even after she broke up with me and married someone else. I always knew she'd be back." That wasn't entirely true; he'd never stopped loving Diana and hoped that someday they would get back together, but he hadn't dated only because he hadn't been able to find anyone else. "Who do you think she is?"
"She could be on the take. Could be a publicity hound. I don't know, but I'll find a way to prove she's lying."
"She is. But the photograph of us. I saw it. That's me, that's my house, no question." Cary's pale brow was furrowed with consternation. He hadn't thought the photo was real but the police had it now, so it had to be.
"It's really not that clear. Besides, you were away from home a lot. Someone could have broken into your place and set it up."
"Any leads on that so far?"
Cary had told Macintosh about the kid in Dallas and the Indian man driving the Caddy, but Macintosh's investigators had turned up nothing. For one thing, the details were sketchy at best, and for another, it was hard to image anyone going to such lengths to set Cary up. Who could possibly hate him that much?
The only conclusion that really rang true was that Cary was guilty. No one had set him up. He did it all. One of Macintosh's partners had theorized that Cary Bouchard was a split personality, and one of the personalities was the killer, while the other remained innocent.
"No, we haven't found any evidence of a conspiracy."
"Conspiracy. That word makes me sound paranoid. I didn't say I thought it was a conspiracy. I just said that I think someone is setting me up," Cary explained.
"Why?" he asked. "I know you don't know why, but we'd better come up with something before we go into court. 'I didn't do it,' only works as a defense when you're ten years old."
The Tragedy Man: A Serial Killer Thriller Page 21
