"It must have been horrible," Macintosh said softly, pausing to let the jury think how it might feel if they were in Cary Bouchard's shoes. He let the thought linger, then said, "And it was made even worse by your run-in with the LAPD."
"Actually," Cary said in an almost conversational tone, "it was a blessing in disguise. At the time the police confirmed my suspicion that the photos were a set-up. My mind was put to ease. The LAPD did not place me under arrest. The only thing they accused me of was that I had set up these scenarios myself and gone running down the streets of downtown L.A. for the sole purpose of being caught and making the police think there really was a Brandie killer. They thought it was a publicity stunt," he snorted. "Ridiculous. Why would I place myself in such jeopardy? What if I had been placed under arrest?"
"Did you receive any more photos after that night?"
"No. They say they found some in my apartment after my arrest. They had to have been planted, along with all that other stuff."
"Mr. Bouchard, why did you cut your book tour short?"
Before Cary could answer, Charles Macintosh suddenly swooned and fell to the marble floor of the courthouse.
Chapter 17
"What happened to you?" Cary asked with genuine concern--for himself and how it might affect the outcome of his trial, not for Macintosh's health.
It was the day after Macintosh's dramatic and inauspicious faint. The most embarrassing part of all was when Winesapp, suddenly looking fit as a fiddle, picked him up and carried his prone body back to his table. Macintosh had been too weak to protest.
Through swimming vision, Macintosh surveyed the room. The jury was looking at him like he was something sticky on the bottom of their shoes. He'd been coughing constantly that morning and felt incredibly ill.
"I'm feeling better, thanks," he replied absently.
They were sitting at their table in the courtroom, waiting for the trial to continue. Winesapp, dressed in a crisp navy-blue suit and completely free of any body odor, sat in his usual place just a few feet away. He seemed to feel the weight of Macintosh's stare. He turned and smiled with pseudo solicitation. "How are you, old boy? You're looking a bit peaked."
"I'm fine," Macintosh replied stiffly. "How are you?"
"Top of the line," Winesapp answered with a big smile. "Haven't felt this good in ages."
Cary's heart froze. What was that Winesapp had said? Top of the line? But that's what the Old Scratch Winesapp used to say. He looked down at the table, trying to keep his head from reeling. His hands were trembling, practically jumping like severed frog's legs, so he put them in his lap. Macintosh was busying himself with a sheaf of notes, choking back coughs he was unable to suppress. Cary looked at the attorney's hand and noticed the black nail. How could he have forgotten about that? He remembered his shock at seeing it the first time, remembered his vow to try and find out about it, and remembered his fright. He looked at Macintosh's face. It was gray and drawn. His blonde hair was lank and dull. He didn't look as though he could hurt a fly. Cary decided it was now or never. "Charles," he asked, "why is your pinkie nail painted black?"
Charles looked at him blankly for a moment, then looked at his hand as though noticing the affected nail for the first time. "Oh, that?" he said faintly, tiredly. "It means--"
Two things happened almost simultaneously. Judge M. Stafleese burst through the door into the courtroom from his chambers, and Charles Macintosh began coughing uncontrollably. He was hacking so violently, Cary was afraid the man might hurl up a lung. Judge Stafleese looked at Macintosh for a moment, then sat down. As soon as he sat, the other man's coughing stopped. "Are we ready to proceed?"
"Yes," Macintosh gasped.
"Please continue where you left off yesterday. Mr. Bouchard, remember: You're still under oath. You swore on the Bible."
Cary shuddered. He glanced at the lettering on the spine of the black book that sat on the judge's podium: Satanic Bible. His addled, trick-playing mind was so cruel! Would it ever stop?
Macintosh walked with the slow deliberation of a very old man to the front of the witness stand. "Mr. Bouchard," he said carefully, "Why did you cut your book tour short?"
"A number of reasons," Cary replied, squirming inside. He'd never forget his flight from L.A., the vision he'd had on the plane, his return home...he tried desperately to leave all his troubles behind, but they had not only caught up with him, they'd overtaken him. "The main one being that I hoped I could shake my stalker. But of course, he--or she--followed me.
"The other reason was my disgust with the turn my career was taking. I no longer wanted to write horror. Not only because of the whole ordeal I was going through, but also because it was never a subject that I had intended to write about in the first place."
"Excuse me," the judge interjected, leaning down toward Cary. Cary could feel Stafleese's hot breath singe the top of his head. "But did you not contact Old Scratch Press of your own volition? Did you not go to them and sign a contract of your own free will?"
"Yes," Cary replied vaguely. What did Old Scratch have to do with anything at this point? That was yesterday's news, but the judge didn't seem to be willing to let it go.
Macintosh smiled weakly in the judge's general direction and continued, "How do you know the alleged stalker followed you to New York?"
"The pranks that were played on me...somehow this person got into my home and put maggots in my aspirin bottle, put...filth in my shampoo bottle. I was almost out of my mind with fatigue, so I went to see Diana's doctor, who prescribed some sedatives for me. Unfortunately, I think the doctor must have been paid off, because whatever he gave me brought on ever more horrible hallucinations. After taking the pills my food tasted awful, and I couldn't control my impulses...it was awful, truly awful."
"And then Marlisa Moon died. Mr. Bouchard, were you ever suspected of killing her at the time?"
"Of course not!" Cary snorted indignantly. "That's just another trumped up charge. Just because I was a houseguest of hers certainly doesn't mean that I killed her! Next thing you know, the humane society will be after me for Criminal Canary Carnage," he shook his head with disdain and rolled his eye.
"That will be enough impertinence from you!" The voice came from above, and it sounded like a sledgehammer crashing into solid rock. It was the judge.
Cary, cowering, turned his head and looked up. "I'm sorry," he squeaked. "It's just that this trial has been a living hell..."
The judge snickered, his yellow-brown eyes flashing. His gaze came to rest on Macintosh, who was also cowed by the outburst. "Control your client and proceed."
"Yes, my Lord--"Macintosh broke off, looking discomfited. "I mean, sir." He shook his head as though to clear it and proceeded to ask his next question. "Mr. Bouchard, why did you run out on Marlisa Moon's funeral? Were you feeling guilty about something?"
"Absolutely not. I had nothing to feel guilty for. Truth be told, I was running from my anguish; Mrs. Moon's funeral reminded me of my own mother's death. After all I had been through in the last few months, the lack of sleep, the long hours working on my new novel, et cetera, it all caught up with me. I feel terrible about my behavior. Poor Diana. Thank God I had a chance to explain to her why I did that before she, too, was murdered--" His voice broke and he swallowed hard. He hoped that he looked suitably grief-stricken to the judge and jury. He mustn't let his sarcasm out again! That was stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. His life was on the line here. "She understood."
"But she didn't understand about the alleged affair you were having, did she? Cary, please explain to the court what happened after you and Diana arrived home to your penthouse on the day of Marlisa Moon's funeral."
"Okay." Cary took a deep breath. "This isn't easy," he said, "but here goes. When we got home, I immediately began to go through my mail. I opened the letter with the photo and knew right away that it was some sort of attempt at blackmail. The photo and all...what else could it be about? I tried to hide it from Diana, because I didn'
t want her feelings to be hurt, and we had already had enough pressures over the last week to last a lifetime. I just didn't want to burden her. But she saw the envelope and took it from me. I tried to explain to her, but she wouldn't listen. I don't blame her. She was stressed out, and I had trouble making sense of the whole thing. Then she found the canary in the tea kettle--Tweetie must have crawled in somehow before the water got hot--and accused me of killing her. She wasn't thinking rationally. Diana and I loved each other. She knew in her heart of hearts that I would never do a thing like that. She left.
"A little while later, I noticed that she had forgotten her overnight bag and went after her. I knocked on her door, but there was no answer. Since I had a key to her apartment--one that she had made for me, I might add--I let myself in. I thought I'd just leave the bag, and maybe write her a note. I thought she wasn't there. But she was there. Dead."
He could scarcely remember the scene in his mind anymore, but he'd told the story so many times now it was ingrained and he could repeat it by rote.
Had he ever really loved Diana? Love seemed like such an alien concept at this point. His life now was prison, court, lawyers and judges. His life as a free man seemed like a story he had read once, a long time ago. He remembered the words, but not the feelings they had once wrought. How sad, he thought distantly. Cary almost felt as though he was outside himself, watching the whole nightmarish process.
He tried not to appear as he felt. To the jury he must seem full of emotion, despair, and innocence. "I didn't know what to do. Imagine my shock and despair. The woman I loved, the woman I had planned on growing old with, had been murdered because of me. I knew it was no random act of violence. I knew it was the Bonfiglio copycat. I also knew at that moment that the girls in those Insta-Pics really were dead and that I could be in big trouble. My first impulse of course was to call the police. But Diana was already dead; beyond help. I, although completely innocent, knew that if Diana's body was found I would be the first suspect. So I panicked. I decided to dispose of the body--" Uh-oh, sounding a bit too callous "--to bury Diana myself."
Macintosh clucked sympathetically. "That must have been a tough decision. You must have known that what you were doing was highly illegal." No mention was made of the heinous dismemberment.
"Yes."
"Tell me, Cary, what happened after you put the body of Diana Moon in the trunk of your car?"
"I began my drive to Marlisa Moon's house. That's where I'd planned on burying Diana. In the rose garden. She loved flowers." Cary paused uncomfortably when someone on the jury gave a loud hoot. "While I was driving, a white Cadillac--one just like the phony driver in L.A. had--begun to follow me very closely, honking its horn and flashing its lights. I don't remember too much after that. I woke up in the hospital and was arrested."
"What a devastating experience," Macintosh said. He was overcome with a sudden coughing attack and doubled over, but he managed to gasp, "The Defense rests."
Winesapp looked in the mirror with satisfaction. His opponent had sapped some of his strength, but now he was on top again. Top of the line. And he knew his purpose. It had been this way for almost a century, he and Macintosh, as his mortal enemy was known this time around, battling it out to the death--symbolically speaking, of course. They were both dead already. He smiled wickedly as he held his left hand up in front of his face. The long, black talon on his pinkie was cut and filed into a sharp point. He wondered how long it would take before Macintosh became aware. He hoped it wouldn't be until the trial was over and he, Winesapp, had won.
But now it was time. Time to go to court and kick ass. He laughed softly to himself, and reluctantly left his beaming reflection behind.
Winesapp, standing tall and erect, stood before the witness box. He smiled slowly. This would be fun, watching the little earthworm squirm as he was asked the same questions over again. "Mr. Bouchard, let us begin at the beginning, with the first murder you are accused of: Joshua B. Ryan. Do you have an alibi for the night Mr. Ryan was murdered?"
"No," Cary admitted, trembling. "As I said before, I was home alone."
"Yes, I believe that," Winesapp said with a cruel sneer.
Cary's panicked eyes looked to his attorney for support. Macintosh was sitting, but just barely able to hold himself upright. He looked horrible, and he kept coughing.
"Mr. Bouchard, this is a tough question, but you must answer honestly. Did you hate Joshua Ryan?"
Cary blinked. Hadn't he been asked the exact same question already? Macintosh told Cary he would steal Winesapp's thunder by asking the tough questions himself...but the strategy obviously hadn't worked. "Yes," he said again, hating to make the admission for a second time. "But that doesn't mean I killed him."
"Of course it does," Winesapp said lackadaisically, picking a piece of lint from his coat sleeve.
Objection, I object! But the words wouldn't come out of Macintosh's ravaged throat. Why am I so weak?
Cyrus Winesapp went on in his lazy, wheedling tone. "Mr. Bouchard, do you own a hooded jacket and a pair of blue jeans?"
"No, sir, I do not," Cary replied fervently.
"Did you have anything to gain from the murder of your employer?" Winesapp asked next, just as Macintosh had.
"No, sir. I was about to be fired in fact, so I quit."
"But you weren't fired, were you? You had a guilty conscience and couldn't bear to stay there, isn't that right?"
Cary sat there, his mouth hanging open. No one spoke a word on his behalf as Winesapp continued his verbal assault.
"That was when you wrote Vengeful Ghost and were subsequently put under contract with Old Scratch Press. Then, after this fledgling company took a chance on you, a completely untried, unpublished author, you showed your thanks by dumping them the minute a better offer came along. You have all the loyalty of a bitch in heat, Mr. Bouchard," Winesapp added contemptuously.
Cary was almost dumbstruck, but he managed to utter, "No, no, it wasn't like that at all. They tried to take advantage of me-"
"Pu-lese!" Winesapp barked with mirthless laughter. "You've got to be kidding. Besides, how does the jury know you didn't just 'imagine' these supposed grievances?" He moved his finger in a circular motion around his ear, and the jury giggled like school kids.
I object! How can he do this to my client? Why isn't the judge--oh, yes. The judge is enjoying the swordplay. I must prepare for battle...
"And the Insta-Pics. That was pretty stupid to take pictures like that, Bonfig--oh, excuse me. Bouchard."
"I didn't take those pictures!" Cary said, practically shouting. He noticed with dismay that his attorney was still staring off into space, and he was afraid to look at the judge. "Didn't you listen to the witnesses? That man, Newman, is after me! It's too much of a coincidence his wife just happens to be Suzet Montage, don't you see?" Cary's head was pounding. He couldn't believe this was happening.
"Let's not deviate, Mr. Bouchard. Why did you cut your book tour short?"
"As I explained before, it was due to a number of reasons," Cary replied, whining.
"Not because you thought you were a murderer? Not because you thought you were nuttier than a fruitcake?"
"No, no," Cary cried desperately. "I'm not crazy. I'm not like Mommie," he whimpered.
"Who? Oh, yes. Your sainted mother. The dear woman who tried to kill you at birth. She tried to break the chain of sickness like a wild animal acting on instinct." Winesapp clapped his hands together. "Well, how lucky for us she didn't spoil our fun. I'm having fun. Aren't you, Cary?"
Cary was feeling uncomfortably hot and dizzy. Just like he did in that dream he used to have. The one where it so hot, so unbearably hot. He wiped the sweat from his furrowed brow and said nothing.
"Mr. Bouchard, why did you run out on Marlisa Moon's funeral? Were you feeling guilty about something?" Winesapp grinned. He was using Macintosh's exact words again, but his tone was quite different.
"Absolutely not," Cary bleated. "I didn't kill h
er, or anyone else!"
"You were feeling guilty," said Winesapp, completely ignoring the Defendant's outburst, "about slipping poison in that poor old woman's tea, weren't you Cary? You told Diana you had to go back to the house to get some antacid, but the truth was, you wanted to go back and admire your handiwork. Were you there, standing over her sad old body, gloating as her heart stopped beating? Were you the last thing she saw? Did she know it was you, Cary?"
Objection, Macintosh thought, wheezing aloud, but unable to voice his protest. Badgering the witness...
Winesapp went on. "And then you killed Tweetie. You remember, don't you? You stuffed her in the tea kettle while the water was bubbling hot but not yet boiling. She dug her tiny talons into your hand in a vain effort to save her little birdy life, but you didn't care, did you?"
Cary shook his head. He vaguely remembered a stinging sensation on his hand that night, but...how could Winesapp have known that? Cary shook his head again and again but could not stop the sobs from escaping. He sat there in utter terror as the tears flowed down his sallow cheeks.
Winesapp stood before him, arms crossed over his chest, and watched in silence for a long moment. "I have nothing further," he said with quiet contempt.
The jury filed out, ready to make its decision.
Cary walked stiffly back to the Defense table, where Macintosh still sat in a stupor. Cary took the young attorney's arm and helped him to his feet.
Flanked by armed guards, Cary left the courtroom wondering how much more agony he would have to endure.
Chapter 18
The Tragedy Man: A Serial Killer Thriller Page 27
