The Tragedy Man: A Serial Killer Thriller

by Staci Layne Wilson

  "A customer of prostitution."

  "Yes." Ice was still wiping the running mascara from her cheeks.

  "Did you and Mr. Bouchard have sex?"

  "Yes."

  "Can you please elaborate for the court?"

  Ice stared at him blankly. Winesapp sighed. He could tell she'd shot up. Damn whore. He rephrased his question. "What happened?"

  "Well, he took me to his hotel. Nice big room, big bed. While we was doin' it, he put his hands around my neck and I told him no way, I don't do that shit. He asked if I would if he paid for it. I told him no, but I knew someone who would. Corinna. It's all my fault," she sniffled.

  "You are referring to Corinna Stubbs, the victim named in this murder case?"

  Ice nodded.

  "Please indicate for the records that Ms. White nodded for 'yes,'" Winesapp said, turning toward the stenographer.

  Cary also looked at the stenographer. Funny he'd never noticed her before. Of course, she was quite mousy. Her only outstanding feature was her left pinkie nail. It was painted to a high ebony gloss and each time she stuck a key the overhead lights would glint off its glassy surface and reflect back onto the ceiling. Cary's heart hammered in his chest at the sight of it. How could he have forgotten about Soren Gray's black nail, which he'd seen just the day before?

  Winesapp continued with his questions. "What was your relationship to Ms. Stubbs?"

  "Rin was my sister. I mean my sister in the life, not really my blood. She was my friend," her voice broke and she stifled a sob.

  "And you recommended that Mr. Bouchard seek out Corinna Stubbs for the kind of sex he wanted?"

  "Yes. I was always telling Rin not to get into that crazy shit. But all she saw was the green and the brown."

  "That's money and heroin, respectively," Winesapp clarified for the jury before turning back to Ice. "And when was the last time you saw your dear friend, Corinna Stubbs?"

  "The night I gave her Mr. Bouchard's room number." Ice dipped her head low and a single tear meandered down her rouged cheek.

  Cut, that's a print, Cary thought. Could she have been any more damaging to his case? Cary turned his head. Macintosh looked unconcerned.

  "Thank you, Ms. White," Winesapp said softly, he too, bowing his head in reverence to the dearly departed. "Your witness," he said sharply to the waiting defense attorney.

  Charles Macintosh III, Esquire, stood and walked stiffly to the front of the witness box, his back ramrod straight and his jaw set. "Ms. White, have you ever been to New York before?"

  "No," she answered sweetly. "But it's very nice."

  "Did you once dream of acting on the stage? On Broadway?"

  "Yeah. How'd you know?"

  "And now you're in New York, your air fare and hotel paid. Do you plan on staying here?"

  "Objection," Winesapp said, "Relevance."

  "I'd like to know if this witness has an ulterior motive for testifying today," Macintosh argued, his blonde brows knit, his fists clenched at his side. He knew the woman was flying high, probably on drugs supplied to her in payment for her testimony. Heroin didn't leave a paper trail. It was highly illegal, but Macintosh knew that most lawyers were not above bending the rules a little to win a big case.

  "Objection sustained," said the judge in a bored monotone.

  Damn. Macintosh would have to change his line of questioning. "Ice White," he spat, "how long have you been a hooker?"

  "About ten years," she replied defiantly. "I gotta eat, you know."

  "And you've seen a lot of your friends get killed, haven't you?"

  "Sure, I guess," she conceded.

  "So prostitution is a dangerous business, yes?"

  "Yeah..."

  "Corinna Stubbs could have been killed by any of her johns, couldn't she?" Macintosh barked, getting so close to Ice that she shrank back against the back of her chair.

  "But she wasn't," Ice insisted, twisting uncomfortably in her seat. "That man killed her, I know it!"

  "How do you know?" Macintosh asked, eyebrows raised. "Were you there?"

  "No, but--"

  "Did you actually see Corinna Stubbs walk into Cary Bouchard's hotel room?"

  "No," Ice admitted stubbornly after a pause.

  "Did you ever see the two of them together?"

  "No." The edge to her hoarse voice was razor sharp and her eyes flashed with annoyance. The tears had completely disappeared.

  "So you don't know for a fact that Corinna Stubbs ever even met Cary Bouchard."

  "Objection!" Winesapp snapped without rising.

  "Sustained. Ask a question, Mr. Macintosh," said the judge.

  "Ms. White, do you know for a fact that Corinna Stubbs and Cary Bouchard met?"

  "No, I don't, but--"

  "Thank you, Ms. White," said Macintosh sternly. "I have nothing further."

  Since the commencement of trial, Cary's days and nights blurred into nothing but a nightmarish collage of hateful witnesses and shocking evidence against him. The forensic expert, while conceding there was no physical proof against Cary, like traces of sperm or hairs, had been most damaging. The descriptions of the brutally murdered bodies, then the color photographs, had shocked and repulsed the jury. Cary could almost taste the animosity emanating from them.

  He couldn't wait until the Prosecution rested its case. He'd never felt so helpless in all his life; he just had to sit there and listen to those awful lies day after day and bite his tongue. Macintosh told him to just take it easy, that he would have his chance to speak, but Macintosh simply couldn't know how it felt to be so persecuted! Cary felt like taking a shank--a handmade knife that prisoners made--and slashing the throat of that smug judge who always seemed to sustain Winesapp's objections while denying almost all of Macintosh's. It just wasn't fair.

  Cary despised that judge with a passion. His waking thoughts were consumed with smoldering hatred. Hatred and frustration. Frustration, because the moment he left the courtroom he could not recall the judge's face in his mind's eye. The judge was the single most important person in Cary's life--the man who had the power to overturn the jury's final decision, no matter what it might be--and Cary couldn't even remember what the hell he looked like!

  Cary grew more withdrawn and depressed with each passing day. It all seemed so hopeless. He would rot in jail until they killed him. It wasn't supposed to be like this. He had worked hard all his life, been a fairly honest citizen, and this was how he ended up. Sure, he'd been a little bit superior and prideful at times, he'd sought fame and fortune and stepped on a few toes along the way, but didn't everyone? Why had he been singled out for punishment?

  Although he'd been in jail for a long time--he wasn't sure just how long--Cary had not personalized his cell one iota. He did not want it to become his home. He made no friends, either. Child molesters, murderers and thieves weren't exactly his clique, anyway. Cary pretty much spent his time staring at the ceiling and thinking. He couldn't bear to read and was not allowed access to a radio or television, and no computers with internet either. Such links to the outside world would only depress him, anyway.

  But one day, the outside world came to him.

  It was oppressively hot inside the jail. Cary was stretched out on his bunk, staring at the ceiling as usual. He could hear the raucous voices of the other prisoners and could smell their sweating flesh. He longed to be in a quiet, cool room, all alone. He thought about his stark white penthouse and wondered who would be living in it after it was sold. He longed to be there. Or any place but in a cell.

  "Bouchard!" The warden's voice shattered his reverie. "You got a visitor." She sounded irritated at having to give him the message, and perhaps even envious.

  "Macintosh?" he asked, turning his head to that he could see her. The warden was an ugly cuss who looked for all the world like a human bulldog. Cary hated her. He hated everyone in that God-forsaken place.

  "How the hell should I know?" she snapped. "What do I look like, a psychic? I was just sent to com
e and get you."

  He wasn't due to see Macintosh until the next day when they met in court. He wondered who might be coming to see him; he certainly didn't have any friends. The fact that the visiting room had a working air conditioner decided him. He wouldn't have to stay, after all, and he had to admit his curiosity was piqued.

  "You wanna go?" the bulldog asked, tapping her big brown shoe with feigned impatience.

  Cary jumped down from the bunk and stood in front of the barred door. The warden sighed and unclipped the keys from her wide leather belt. As she was unlocking the door, Cary noticed that her left pinkie nail was painted black. He'd forgotten all about checking into that. Again! It had to be a part of the conspiracy against him. Now he was afraid to go with the woman...what if he didn't really have a visitor?

  The warden opened the door and Cary took a step back. "Never mind," he said. "I don't want to see anyone today."

  The woman rolled her eyes and grumbled something unintelligible. She locked the door back up and left.

  Cary paced his cell, wracking his brain for answers. What the hell was going on? He thought back, trying to remember everyone he had seen with a black nail. There was the boy in Dallas, Soren Gray, the court stenographer, the warden. Even Diana. No, not Diana. She'd merely had a bruise. He had to believe that. So, what connection did those four people have? Were there more people with the black nail that he hadn't even noticed? He simply had to watch more closely. He stopped and cautiously held out his left hand. It was unblemished. He breathed a sigh of relief and continued his pacing.

  "I demand to see Cary Bouchard!" he heard a woman's voice screech hollowly from way down the corridor. Then he heard the clicking sound of spiked heels on the cement floor moving quickly toward his cell.

  Cary went to the door and peered through the bars. There was a woman running toward his cell, all right. The other prisoners reached out through the bars and whistled as she passed their cells. She came to a stop in front of Cary's door, her face only inches from his.

  She was a blonde with frizzy hair and wild pale green eyes. She was breathing heavily and looked highly agitated. "Cary, Cary," she whispered, "You must save your soul!" Cary then noticed that she wore a cross around her neck and that she carried a Bible. She thrust the Bible at him and it slipped through the bars, landing heavily on his feet. "Accept Jesus Christ as your savior! It's not too late!"

  Crazy God-botherer. How did she get in here? This must be the mysterious visitor. He sighed with disappointment. He needed someone to save his ass at this point, not his soul.

  As Cary was about to turn away in disgust, he saw the hated warden and two other armed guards come up behind the woman and grab her roughly. The woman struggled briefly, then her body fell limp when the warden cold-cocked her on the side of the head. Cary watched in open-mouthed amazement as they dragged the woman back down the corridor. He watched until they closed the heavy steel door behind them and wondered what would happen to her.

  No sooner had the door clanged shut than the prisoners started a cacophony of bestial howls and wails. Not their usual boisterous yells, they sounded as though they were in pain. Agonizing pain. Cary craned his head, trying to catch a glimpse of at least one of his fellow inmates, but it was so hot that the sweat pouring from his forehead got into his eye and blurred his vision. Waves of heat rose from the floor and Cary fell to his knees. Why was it so goddamn hot? When the fell to the floor he saw the Holy Bible lying there, where the woman had dropped it. He reached for it, his hand touching the corner. It was like touching a scorching iron.

  A searing pain shot through his hand. As he snatched it away, Cary saw that it was a mass of pustules and blood blisters.

  Chapter 15

  Cary went into court the next day with his hand bandaged. Macintosh did not ask him about it.

  Although Cary was feeling pretty rough, he was glad he didn't look as bad as Winesapp. Although the attorney still moved confidently and asked his questions with conviction, physically he seemed to be fading. His clothes were limp and wrinkled, his hair disheveled, and he had a body odor that was not to be believed.

  Cary leaned in to Macintosh and whispered, "He's not looking so good, is he?" His spirits rose. Maybe Winesapp was getting worried.

  "He never did," Macintosh said with a low, derisive chuckle. "He won't beat me this time."

  "This time?" Cary repeated. "I thought you said you'd never seen Cyrus Winesapp before this trial."

  Macintosh was about to reply when the judge called the court to order and asked Winesapp to call his first witness of the day. There were only three prosecution witnesses left.

  Then it would be Cary's turn. He was terrified. He couldn't believe Macintosh could find only two people to testify for him. Macintosh was putting all of his eggs in one basket. The deranged fan angle. Cary hoped and prayed that it would work. It was probably the truth, but he'd learned the truth was pretty much a stranger in this court of law.

  Father Peter Balsam strode purposefully into the room and took his seat. Cary felt a blast of cold air as the priest passed him by, but he couldn't be sure if it was real or imagined. He shivered and watched intently as the man was sworn in. He wore his black robes--ones almost as impressive as the judge's--his white collar, and his gold cross. The cross had snagged in a fold and hung upside down, as it rested snuggled against the priest's beating heart.

  Winesapp, his usual obsequious self, smiled and thanked the Father for taking time out of his busy life to testify. "Father Balsam," he said after the niceties were over with, "on how many occasions did you meet the Defendant, Cary Bouchard?"

  "Twice," Father Balsam replied simply in his deep, rich voice. A voice that had filled the nooks and crannies of many a church, it now permeated the courtroom and everyone's ears were pricked to attention.

  "Did Mr. Bouchard appear normal to you?" Winesapp asked.

  "The first time I saw him was at the memorial service for Marlisa Moon," he answered. "I did not have occasion to speak to him at the time."

  "And the second time?" Winesapp prompted. "Did he behave normally?"

  "Objection!" Macintosh bellowed. "Is the Father a psychologist?"

  Winesapp shot him a look, then said the judge, "Father Balsam is not only a priest, but a certified counselor as well. He is fully qualified to answer the question on what he observed."

  Stafleese glanced up at Macintosh and said, "Overruled."

  "Please," said Cyrus Winesapp in his ingratiating manner, "Father Balsam. Answer the question."

  Father Balsam sat up straighter, and looking out at the court with studied righteousness, said, "The second time that I met Mr. Bouchard was one that I will never forget. That was the day that later he would kill Diana Moon. They, among a few other mourners, were at the graveside when I arrived. I noticed that Mr. Bouchard kept staring at the crypt to our immediate right, then he would glance back at Diana with a wild look in his eyes. Diana, of course, was crying and leaning against Mr. Bouchard for support. Mr. Bouchard, for no apparent reason, suddenly sprinted away, causing Diana to lose her balance. She almost fell right into the grave!

  "That poor child. I felt so sorry for her. Mr. Bouchard ran off into the woods, and Diana was visibly mortified. I helped her up, and she just stood there, trembling. I could not believe the man would do that. There was no reason. He just bolted. I thought he was very, very strange to say the least."

  Winesapp smiled with satisfaction. "Thank you so much, Father." He turned and went back to his chair. "Your witness," he said to Macintosh as the other attorney rose.

  "Father Balsam," he said in a staccato-like burst, his words shooting like fire from a tommy-gun. "You don't like Mr. Bouchard, do you?"

  "What does that have to do with anything?"

  "Everything. Your testimony is tainted. You already decided to you didn't like Cary Bouchard before you even met him in person. I've read Angel's Voice," Macintosh said, producing an amateurishly produced orange circular from his coat pocket.
"This is your church newsletter, dated six months prior to the day of Marlisa Moon's funeral. On the front page is an article written by you, Father Balsam. I'll be lenient and call it a book review. A review on The Brandie Killer. A negative review, it goes without saying."

  "Objection," said Winesapp calmly. "The Defense is making speeches."

  "Sustained. Ask a question, Mr. Macintosh."

  "Did you have a preconceived notion of Mr. Cary Bouchard before you met him, Father Balsam? Now remember, you swore on the Holy Bible."

  "Cut the snide remarks, Macintosh," Stafleese growled.

  Peter Balsam nodded in thanks to the judge, then shifted his steely stare to Macintosh. "Yes. I did. I knew from reading that disgusting piece of trash they call fiction, that Cary Bouchard was the Devil's conduit. He is a sick, sick man. May he burn in the fires of Hell for all eternity!" The Father's voice rose to a shocking volume and filled the room from floor to ceiling with its righteous indignation.

  Macintosh was taken aback. "I have no more questions," he mumbled, cowed. He walked quickly to the Defense table, sat down gratefully and watched, riveted, as the priest passed by on his way out of the courtroom.

  Cary just held his head in his hands and wondered if lethal injection was a painful way to die.

  The judge called for a recess and Macintosh went with Cary into the holding room. Their lunch was already there, waiting for them in pristine white containers. Cary didn't have much of an appetite, but he nibbled at his tuna sandwich as Macintosh talked.

  "That damn priest almost did us in," he said, talking with his mouth full. "But I think we're still okay." He had been so sure that Father Balsam was a nothing witness, he hadn't been prepared for the man's unshakable conviction. "The jury will see through him. Just another religious whack-o who can't see straight."

  Cary almost told Macintosh about the woman who had come to see him the day before, but thought better of it when he saw, as Macintosh picked up another sandwich, the black pinkie nail on the lawyer's left hand. Had he always had it? Cary couldn't remember. He was starting to realize that he was forgetting more and more. He was even having trouble remembering what Diana had looked like. Cary opened his mouth, ready to ask Macintosh what the black pinkie nail meant, when a sudden sense of fear overtook him, paralyzing his larynx. Don't ask, said his inner voice. Don't ask.