Doubt in the 2nd Degree

by Marc Krulewitch

  “I don’t know anything about a dog. The police report was absurdly vague about neighbors who were interviewed.”

  “The doorman said Whitney was friends with everyone and everyone called her Jackie.”

  Debbie had no discernible reaction, but handed me a packet containing the police report, coroner’s report, and evidence photos. The first page was an outline of the basic events. “Okay,” Debbie said. “Let’s go over what the state’s attorney thinks are facts. Jackie Whitney returned from Palm Springs on May sixteenth. Her flight landed around two forty-five in the afternoon. The doorman estimated she arrived home sometime between four and five o’clock. On May nineteenth, two thirty-three A.M., Kate McCall called 911, hysterical, said she found Jackie Whitney’s body, and immediately fingered the doctor who was renting the place.” Debbie looked at me.

  “The doorman didn’t seem that surprised Jackie Whitney gave a key to Kate McCall.”

  “McCall told the cops their friendship had grown into Kate becoming Jackie Whitney’s personal assistant. And that included acting as a kind of leasing agent for when Whitney went out of town and rented her place to other traveling millionaires.”

  “The most recent renter was a doctor?”

  “Dr. Joshua Kessler. Orthopedic surgeon at Rush. He moved out early, left a note complaining about the water not getting hot and an infestation of bedbugs, or something like that.”

  “Bedbugs? In that fancy building?”

  “I didn’t say it was true, only that he wrote it in a note. Anyway, after that, Whitney flew back from Palm Springs. But she didn’t phone Kate McCall like she normally would when getting back in town. And Whitney didn’t return Kate’s calls. Finally, Kate decided to check things out herself and that’s when she found Whitney’s body. The coroner thought she’d been dead at least thirty-six hours.”

  “Where’s the doctor?”

  “His number is on that list I gave you. He told the police he moved out on Friday, May fifteenth. He left the key with the doorman.”

  “What’s the evidence they’re using against Kate?”

  “Kate going over there in the wee hours, finding the body—i.e., knowing where the body was—and immediately blaming the doctor in the 911 call raised suspicion. Then Kate’s grocery store boss finds a bloody hammer, Whitney’s prescription pill bottles, her vehicle registration, and two keys, all in a plastic bag in the dumpster behind the grocery.”

  “Where she works? And why was her boss rummaging through the garbage?”

  “He checks to see if someone is illegally using the dumpster, then has the cops write them a ticket. One more thing. Kate’s thumbprint is on the hammer.”

  “So Kate is stupid enough to hide incriminating evidence in the same dumpster where she knows her boss will find it?”

  “One key was for the bedroom closet door, the other was for a safe-deposit box.” The closet key struck me as odd. I wasn’t sure why. “Is anything missing from the safe-deposit box?”

  “Jewelry and fifteen thousand in cash were found in Kate’s apartment.”

  “How did anyone know about the safe-deposit box or what was in it?” Debbie reached into her bag without answering and began digging through it. I said, “Kate’s being framed.” Debbie straightened up with several folders in her hand.

  “That’s the route we’re taking.”

  I waited for more. “And you feel strongly about her innocence?”

  Debbie leaned a bit forward over the table, looked me straight in the eye. “Jules, my job is to provide the best defense possible for my client. If the state wants Kate to spend the rest of her life in prison, they better damn well prove their case. So until a jury decides she’s been proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt, she’s innocent.”

  Her tone had officially become patronizing. “So what do you think of me working with you instead of a PD investigator? And don’t hold back.”

  She was reading something but I knew she heard me. “I think it’s great,” she finally said, sounding downright pleasant, but still studying a page from her folder. As I tried to gauge the sincerity of her statement, she put the file down. “You wanna know why?”

  “I’d really like to know why.”

  “On any given day, I’m juggling at least twenty-five clients. That’s twenty-five murderers, drug dealers, child molesters, rapists—you name it. If you’re working with me, that frees up an investigator to help another lawyer.”

  Something about the unabashed logic of her words made me feel better. I guess I wanted to be wanted. I said, “So the cops really think they got the right person?”

  “They think they got one of them. They’re pretty convinced someone else helped her, maybe the doctor. I’m sure there’s still a police detective on the case. He’ll undoubtedly want to know what you’re up to. They all hate my guts, by the way. And I hate their guts even more.”

  “Why can’t we all just get along?”

  The humor escaped Debbie. “After we meet with Kate, go have a look at the crime scene. I’ll have an ID made up for you.” Debbie took her phone and held it up. “Smile,” she said simultaneously with the flash. “Then hunt down those friends of Whitney. Oh, and Whitney has a twenty-four-year-old son, Phillip. I’m still trying to locate him. He might only talk through a lawyer.”

  I cringed upon hearing his age, thinking Phillip a spoiled Millennial brat. “A lawyer? That would be kind of weird behavior, no?”

  “I don’t know if it’s so weird. He’s the sole heir to an auto-parts fortune. He was probably told to lawyer up because that’s what rich people do. But we still need to find out what kind of relationship they had.”

  Debbie checked the time then started digging around in her bag again. I watched for a while then said, “So why hide the body there? I mean, if you’re going to hide it, wouldn’t you take it somewhere else? Away from the crime scene?”

  She glanced up at me then turned back to the bag and resumed digging. “Hard to say,” she said. “A killer’s brain probably isn’t thinking rationally.”

  Looking at the top of Debbie’s head was growing tedious. “I gotta go,” I said. “What time tomorrow?”

  Debbie swore under her breath, but not at me, I assumed. “Just meet me in front of the courthouse,” she said, “around nine o’clock.”

  Once back home, I ate a large bowl of spaghetti then plopped down on the couch. Punim settled across my thighs, her forelegs folded under her chest. The volume of the Cubs game was just loud enough to sound like muffled voices through a wall. I should’ve gone to bed since the effort to keep upright interfered with what little concentration remained. Slowly, I rotated to my back, careful not to upset Punim’s positioning. Once I was horizontal, thoughts of Tamar took over. I thought about our conversation earlier in the day. It was amazing how worries like Kate McCall’s overconfidence in my ability to get her freed, Dad’s deteriorating brain, and Debbie’s abrasive personality disappeared with the thought of a single kiss.

  Chapter 6

  The next morning I took the outer drive to the Stevenson Expressway and got to the Cook County Jail in about forty minutes. A short flight of stairs led to three Roman arches not unlike the arches of Jackie Whitney’s East Lake Shore Drive building. One could’ve drawn upon this similarity to contemplate the gateways to justice and the gateways to privilege. Instead, I stood on the bottom step watching for Debbie, marveling at the sheer number of government workers, lawyers, cops, associates, and their juvenile clients, all advancing on the building.

  Debbie emerged with what I took as her signature look of preoccupation. Her first words, “If you want coffee, there’s a roach coach over there,” were spoken with the same charm as the previous night.

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  “Here, put this around your neck.” She handed me an identification badge with my picture. “Let’s go,” she said.

  I followed Debbie into the jail. After going through security, we were led to a private interview room
. A guard stood outside the door. Several minutes later, Kate McCall was brought in. Debbie and I sat on one side of the table, across from Kate.

  “Let’s talk about the money,” Debbie said.

  “I’m fixin’ to have an envelope brought to your office,” Kate said. “And then you might could give it to Mr. Landau.”

  Debbie stared at Kate for a second. “I meant the money missing from Jackie Whitney’s safe-deposit box. And the jewelry.”

  Kate looked at me. I said, “We’ll talk about our arrangement later.”

  “The state’s attorney will claim a financial motive,” Debbie said. “The police found fifteen grand and Whitney’s jewelry in your apartment. They said you took it from the bank the day after you reported finding the body. How did the cops find out about the box?”

  “I was a signer on Jackie’s safe-deposit box. I was sure the bank was going to tell them, so I done told them first. And they would’ve seen me on them spy cameras they all have anyhow.”

  “Did you really say you took the money and jewels to keep them safe?” Debbie said.

  “I never said nothin’ like that! I said to keep the money safe for Jackie’s son. I promised her the jewelry and cash would get to Phillip if anything happened to her.”

  “You had the jewelry and cash for almost two weeks before you were arrested—”

  “I couldn’t find the boy! I didn’t know where to look.”

  Debbie sighed deeply as she read through some notes. “What’s with all the cash anyway?”

  “Rent for January, February, and March. The doctor paid cash. When Jackie returned, she was gonna spend it or deposit it slowly, so as not to draw attention from the tax man.”

  Debbie wrote furiously in her notebook. We watched her for several minutes. Still writing, she said, “Just jump right in, Jules.”

  “Can you account for your time on May sixteenth and seventeenth, the days Jackie Whitney was most likely killed?”

  “I worked Saturday, six until two, then spent the rest of the day at home. I hadn’t heard from Jackie since speakin’ to her on Thursday. She was supposed to come back from Palm Springs that afternoon. Anyway, on Sunday I worked at the grocery from six to noon. We close at noon on Sundays. T’was a nice day. I went home, ate somethin’, laid down, then walked a few blocks to Jarvis Beach. I followed the shoreline to Loyola Park beach, then spent a few hours just hangin’ out in the sun, people watchin’. I stopped at the Heartland Café around five. Had a nibble, read The Partisan, home by six-thirty. In for the night.”

  “Can you prove any of this?” I said. “Can you prove you were home all night?”

  “No,” Kate said quietly. “I wish I had kept the receipt from the restaurant.”

  “On Tuesday the nineteenth you decided to go to Jackie Whitney’s apartment,” Debbie said. “Why at two-thirty in the morning?”

  “I was worried. I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to see for myself she had really come back.”

  Debbie said, “How did you find the body?”

  Kate hesitated. Her eyes filled. She blinked a few tears down her face. “As soon as I walked in—there was a stink. All them windows in the front room were wide open, but the stink was still strong. As I walked to the back it got more powerful. The closet was open. I could barely keep from throwin’ up. The smell had to be comin’ from one of them shelves. There was no other place. I just started pushin’ clothes and shoes away. On the top shelf I saw the tote—I mean bag. I touched it. I knew it was a body.”

  “You knew it was Whitney’s body?” Debbie said in a way that would’ve pissed me off.

  “ ’Course it was Jackie. T’was her apartment! I hadn’t heard nothin’ from her. Why wouldn’t I think it was her body?”

  “You said the closet was open, right? No need for a key?”

  “Yes, sir, the door was wide open.”

  Debbie took a deep breath. “Okay. How did your thumbprint get on the hammer?”

  Kate frowned. “Oh, Lord, you’ll find screwdrivers and a measurin’ tape also with my fingerprints. I been doing all kinds of things for Jackie. The hammer was for helpin’ her hang pictures.”

  Debbie continued writing. I said, “Who could’ve put Whitney’s personal items in the trash where you work?”

  Kate sighed. “It must’ve been that doctor. I think he come back to get some things. Jackie was there. They quarreled. He killed her then took those things to put in the trash. He knew where I worked because he met me there once, to give me the rent. He planned it all out.”

  “What was the doctor’s motive?”

  “He was fixin’ to leave before the lease was up.”

  “That’s not a murder motive.”

  “He stopped payin’ in April. He was supposed to stay until October first. Jackie wanted to be around for the fall and stay through the holidays. We thought we’d find another renter if she decided to go back to Palm Springs after that. But Kessler owed six months of rent. Thirty thousand dollars. He said the hot water was broke. Then he said somethin’ about roaches. All damned lies.”

  Debbie and I knew that to a surgeon, thirty grand wasn’t worth killing for. I said, “Would the doctor have known your boss goes through the garbage looking for illegally dumped trash?”

  Kate blinked her eyes repeatedly. “I don’t rightly know,” she said.

  “What kind of person was the doctor?”

  “A goddamn peckerwood.”

  “Okay,” Debbie said as she stood up then knocked on the door. The guard entered. “We’ll be in touch.”

  I followed Debbie out of the jail. Neither of us spoke. At the courthouse steps she stopped and turned to me. “You remember your assignment?”

  “Don’t you at least tell your clients to keep their chins up or something?”

  Debbie remained agnostic. “Call me after you’ve checked out the crime scene and started tracking down those people. A child rapist and two murderers need my attention now.”

  —

  This time a much older gentleman stood outside the door of Jackie Whitney’s building. He wore a long red overcoat with black-trimmed sleeves and a black satin top hat. Two medals hung from ribbons pinned above his left breast. He remained stone-faced as he held the door open, his vision locked straight ahead. Once inside the lobby, I watched Manny from behind as he leaned against the doorman’s desk conversing with a dapper middle-aged couple I assumed were residents. The couple listened intently, occasionally nodding their heads and touching Manny’s arm as he spoke. After a few minutes, Manny removed his wallet from his back pocket then laid out several photos on the counter. The couple spent time examining the photos, grinning, laughing. The woman looped her arm around her husband’s arm then looked at her watch. They took turns embracing Manny and left. Manny returned the photos to his wallet, took off his jacket, then began sweeping it with a lint brush.

  “You’re back,” Manny said, extending his hand. For a moment, I thought he might kiss my cheek.

  I said, “If someone invented a brush that would take everything off a jacket like yours in one or two swipes, they’d be pretty damn rich.”

  “I know I’d buy one,” Manny said then held up the brush. “A tool of my trade.”

  “I guess grooming comes with the job. How many residents’ dogs have you taken care of?”

  “Oh, just Gloria’s. Of course, management insists on wool jackets—”

  “Which are fur magnets.”

  “Exactly.” Manny peered at the badge around my neck then glanced at my police report folder. “You want to go up to the apartment?”

  “Yes, please. How long did the cops hang around?”

  “They came and went for a couple of days. The crime scene tape is still up, but I’m authorized to give out keys with the right ID.”

  “The cops questioned you?”

  “All of us.”

  “Were you told not to talk about it?”

  Manny shook his head. “Nobody really knew anything, except what I t
old you about Jackie.”

  “What about CCTV footage?”

  “They asked about our closed circuit video. I don’t know if they looked at it or not.” Manny gave me a key. “Don’t leave the building with the key in your pocket,” he said with a wink.

  On the tenth floor, the elevator opened into a private hallway of polished granite and Persian rugs. Once through the apartment’s door, I found myself standing on marble arranged in black and white diamond-shaped tiles. Queen Anne furniture and porcelain urns lined buttery yellow walls. A large brass luggage cart was also present. The wealthy traveled with lots of baggage, I thought, and knew a metaphor lurked close by. I turned right, followed the foyer to the dining room that also connected to a living room featuring a baby grand piano. Picture windows overlooked Oak Street Beach.

  The back of the couch was flush against the wall. This surprised me. The killer would not have been able to sneak up on Jackie Whitney. The coroner cited death from two or three blows to the top of the skull, all striking within centimeters of each other. The victim was almost certainly sitting down. Blood had soaked thoroughly into the couch’s leather upholstery, over the back of the cushions and down to the seat. Those stains were never coming out. More blood collected where Jackie Whitney’s head came to rest. The coroner’s report stated that blood had pooled into Whitney’s lower extremities. This starts to happen about thirty minutes after the heart stops. The assailant must have come upon her suddenly and then let the victim sit around awhile before moving her.

  I took out the police photos of the hammer. Another photo encompassed the couch and surrounding furniture. The magazine on the coffee table was still there. It was opened to a display ad for Senior Tricks, a bridge club for old folks. A wrinkled piece of paper lay partly under the coffee table. I dropped to my knees then straightened it out enough to identify a few paragraphs of meeting proceedings. Another photo was enlarged to show Kate’s thumbprint on the metal just above the rubber grip. The grip itself had no discernible prints. Also included was a photo of a plastic bag containing several tiny shavings of a substance that looked vaguely familiar. Maybe dead skin, I thought.