Doubt in the 2nd Degree

by Marc Krulewitch

  “She claims you crossed that line with her—once.”

  Manny made a fist and pretended to bite it. “Oh, Lord! Please tell me you’re kidding. She doesn’t think clearly. Drugs are involved, I’m afraid, and she’s in denial that she has a problem.”

  “I suspected. What about Jackie?”

  Manny looked confused. “You mean drugs? Oh, no, I don’t believe that. It was Linda’s continued drug use that pushed Jackie away from her.”

  “Jackie told you this?”

  “Actually, Linda told me.” My brain churned on all the complications drug addicts brought with them. Manny said, “I think I know what you’re going to say, Mr. Landau. Go ahead.”

  “Jackie having money and her close friend having a drug problem—”

  “I wondered too. Was Linda angry because Jackie cut her off financially? Maybe she came here to beg for money and lost her temper?”

  “You never mentioned this before.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. It was just a thought. Pure guesswork on my part. I had nothing concrete. Who am I to talk about others? But I see your point now. I should’ve said something.”

  “Forget it.” I looked around the lobby and spotted a couple of CCTV cameras. “Do you know how the surveillance camera system works?”

  “I know the server is in the IT room and that we have a couple of screens under the desktop, and each day is archived. That’s it.”

  “Did the cops go to the IT room?”

  “I don’t know. Let me see if the security manager is in.”

  Manny walked to a small corridor behind his desk where the maintenance elevators and the utility rooms were located. He knocked on a door. Just as he started walking away, the door opened. He spoke to an unseen person for a while then waved me over and introduced Howard, a gray-haired, ponytailed man with a bushy mustache hanging over his lip. He had a naturally distrustful expression, which I guess was what one wanted in a security manager. We shook hands.

  I said, “Did the police look at any of the CCTV footage from May sixteenth and seventeenth?”

  “Nope,” Howard said without hesitating.

  “Did they even inquire about CCTV video?”

  Howard glanced at Manny. “They mentioned it to Manny, but they never asked me for it.”

  “How long is each day kept archived?”

  “Thirty days.”

  We were approaching the three-week point for May 16. “Would you let me look at the video from the sixteenth and seventeenth?”

  “I’d have to ask my boss. What’s this all about?”

  “I’m investigating a murder that occurred in this building.”

  Howard glanced at Manny again. “It’s true,” Manny said. “I can vouch for him.”

  “You guys still throw money around when you want something done? Like in the movies?”

  From my wallet I produced three fifties. “You mean like this?”

  I tried handing the money over. He glanced at it then said, “Don’t assume CCTV will get your man.”

  “Why?”

  “The building uses wide-angle lenses. They cover the whole lobby but the resolution may not be good enough for the courtroom. You still want it?”

  Disappointing news. “Might as well.”

  Howard accepted the money then took out a small pad of paper and began writing. “I’m sure my boss wouldn’t mind if you watched a little TV,” he said.

  “You have to burn the video on a DVD or something?” I said.

  “Good God, son,” he said, looking at me with utter disbelief. “You’re still in the Dark Ages. Digital video security is all Internet protocol.” He handed me a piece of paper. “As long as you have the proper ID and password—in this case mine—you’ll have access to all the archives. After a week, I’m changing my password.”

  “A week? I doubt I’ll need that long.”

  “No? Well, maybe you can stare all day at a television with nothing going on. My mind would start to wander. At some point I’d realize that I had no idea if I saw anything or not.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” I said. “One more question. Do the service elevators give you access to an outside door?”

  “Course they do.”

  Chapter 17

  Back home sitting on my couch, I leaned over the coffee table and typed Howard’s web address into my laptop. The coroner’s report estimated that Jackie Whitney may have been dead since May 16, so I began looking at video that morning, even though she didn’t return from Palm Springs until the early evening. A split screen represented two cameras, one focusing on the front of the lobby toward the entranceway, the other directed toward the back that included the doorman’s desk and elevators. I remembered Manny explaining how quickly doormen learned to remember faces, and assumed the people they simply tipped their hats to or nodded at were residents or their guests. Howard was correct on both the resolution issue and the lack of mental stimulation. Observation would have to be done in small allotments in order to ensure I knew what I didn’t see. I gave it an hour, stopped, wrote down the time stamp, then started scratching Punim under the chin.

  The public-defender-hating Detective Brookstone concerned me. I drove to Debbie’s office without calling first. She was still in court, but I was invited to wait in her office. Stacks of books piled high on top of already full bookshelves. Numerous articles about prisoners exonerated from life sentences or death row filled bulletin boards. Amid the clutter of her desk sat a glass triangle trophy, the Champion of Justice Award from the National Association of Criminal Defense Lawyers.

  As I read through articles, Debbie walked in with an armful of files. She showed no surprise or curiosity at my presence.

  “Detective Brookstone,” I said.

  “Asshole,” Debbie said, piling the folders on the credenza before sitting down behind her desk.

  “He’s on the Kate McCall case. He’s the guy that punched me in the nose.”

  Debbie eyed my nose. “He hates my guts,” she said.

  I moved some books off the guest chair and sat. “Brookstone was waiting for me outside Penguin House yesterday,” I said. “They escorted me to meet DeWeldt in some West Belmont office. He offered to pay me off.”

  Debbie appeared deep in thought. I thought she nodded her head before saying, “Okay, so DeWeldt’s paying Brookstone to keep tabs on you. Me, they know. They don’t scare me. You, they want to intimidate. But just because DeWeldt’s freaking out about something doesn’t mean I’m going to drag him into Kate McCall’s defense, unless there’s some seriously compelling reason.”

  “There are rumors of other people hanging around Jackie Whitney’s apartment during the time period she was killed and that someone had a duplicate key.”

  This irritated Debbie. “Rumors. I don’t want to hear it.”

  “And you were right, the cops did not look at the surveillance video.”

  “See? You learned something.”

  “But what could DeWeldt possibly have to do with Jackie Whitney’s murder? That’s what I need to find out.”

  Debbie swore loudly under her breath. “Jules, you need to focus on Kate McCall’s innocence. Otherwise, you’re wasting my time.”

  “But if he’s mixed up—”

  “This isn’t about DeWeldt. It’s about whether Kate McCall picked up a hammer and bashed in Jackie Whitney’s skull. That’s it. That’s all that matters. Got it? Once and for all?”

  I rested my forehead in the palm of my hand, knowing full well she’d be staring at me when I looked up. Humor me, I was about to say when an unknown caller interrupted.

  “Landau Investigations.”

  “Come to Linda Napier’s house for another visit,” a male voice said.

  “Who is this?”

  “Just go to her house. She has more to tell you.” The call dropped.

  Debbie was leaning back in her chair, arms crossed against her chest. “Do we understand each other?” she said in that most condescending of tones. />
  I stood and said, “Understand this, Debbie,” then stopped myself, stuffed the urge to say Go fuck yourself, and just walked away.

  I returned home and spent more time reviewing the CCTV video. The substandard resolution prevented me from swearing under oath anyone was Kessler, but I did identify Jackie Whitney’s return, unmistakable if only for the numerous suitcases Lenny hauled into the lobby. My phone rang again with the same unknown number.

  “You’re missing all the fun,” the male voice said. “C’mon down to Linda’s place. It’s going to get crowded soon.”

  “Who the hell is this?” I said, but the caller hung up.

  —

  Two police cars, a police van, and an ambulance were parked outside Linda’s townhouse. The door was slightly ajar. I pushed it open with the toe of my shoe and the grisly scene opened before me. On the couch, slumped on her side, Linda Napier lay with a gaping wound on the top of her head. Her hair was a dark, viscous mess contrasting with the red liquid soaked into the white couch. The room crawled with uniformed police, forensic investigators, a photographer, and a couple of detectives, one of whom was Brookstone.

  “Hello, private investigator,” Brookstone said. “That was me on the phone disguising my voice. Not bad, huh? You want to explain your whereabouts the last couple of hours?”

  “No.”

  “You may want to reconsider. I’ve got a pretty reliable source who tells me you was here not too long ago.”

  I noticed Linda Napier’s cellphone on the coffee table. “The cellphone,” I said. “You called the last numbers Linda had logged on her phone. One of them was George Mason. He told you that I was going to Linda Napier’s house.”

  “Excellent work! You’re a crackerjack PI, no doubt about it. Kalijero gave me your phone number, by the way, which is also in the victim’s call log.”

  “Did you tell George Mason that Linda Napier was dead?”

  “Of course.”

  The floor rolled on a nausea wave. Empathy did not serve a private investigator.

  “What’s the matter, Landau? You just figure out you’re in an unpleasant business?”

  His grin squeaked like Styrofoam. “I get it. As a joke, you’re treating me like a suspect.”

  “A joke? I don’t know. You got anything on that doctor you want to share?”

  “I want to take a closer look at the victim.”

  “Sure. But mind the yellow tape. And I don’t have to tell you I’m watching your every move.”

  Linda was slouched over on her side in the same position I imagined Jackie Whitney lay before her body was moved. No sign of struggle. I stepped around the couch to get a better view of Linda’s head. That the bloody mess itself didn’t affect me was testament to how callous I’d become. The wound resembled the description the coroner gave of Jackie Whitney’s head. A forensic officer used tweezers to put bits of something into a plastic bag. I looked closer and saw what looked like dead skin shavings, similar to the ones I saw in the photos from Jackie Whitney’s apartment. Also in the bag were tiny tufts of black fur.

  “DNA, Brookstone,” I said. “Test the DNA on these skin shavings. They were documented at Whitney’s murder scene too.”

  “Don’t order me around, Landau. Tell the state’s attorney.”

  “You find the weapon?”

  “Nope.”

  “Looks a lot like Jackie Whitney’s head.”

  Brookstone motioned for me to step over to him. I obeyed. “You’re right. What do you know about that doctor?”

  “Kate McCall hated him.”

  “Sure, now that she got caught, she hates him. They both knew the victim and both had access to the victim’s apartment.”

  “Let me tell you about a lawyer named Henry DeWeldt. I think you’re acquainted. He dated Jackie Whitney. She may have had damning information on him.”

  “Napier was a junkie. The doctor’s number was on her phone. Maybe they was transacting drugs for sex.”

  “Did you hear what I said about DeWeldt?”

  Brookstone laughed. “What were you doing here earlier today?”

  “Can you prove I was here, Detective Brookstone?”

  “Well, there is that surveillance camera on the telephone pole out front. So if you’re lying, that’s just going to make you look worse.”

  You should’ve looked for that! I heard Frownie moan. “I asked her a few questions, like a private investigator does.”

  “What time did you get here?”

  “I drove here around nine or nine-fifteen then followed Linda to Jackie Whitney’s building. I watched her talk to the doorman then followed her back here. It was probably around ten. We chatted for fifteen minutes then I left. That was the last I saw of her, although she called me one more time. That was probably around ten-thirty, which you already know from her cellphone log.”

  “Maybe you came back and killed her after she called you.”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  “The killer used the victim’s phone to dial 911 at 11:06.”

  “Check your damn surveillance camera. You’ll see I came and left long before 11:06 and that I didn’t return. And why would the killer dial 911? Maybe it was the victim who dialed.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll be looking at the surveillance camera. You just pray someone else besides you shows up on it. Where did you go after you left her house?”

  “To see the doorman and find out what they talked about.”

  “And?”

  “The doorman claims Linda Napier was in love with him, wouldn’t leave him alone, that kind of thing. He also made a call as soon as she left.”

  Brookstone nodded. “The doorman,” he said to himself, staring at the ground. “Manny Alvarez. He may have been the last person to see Linda Napier alive. You say he made a call right after she left. Maybe he called someone to kill Linda Napier?”

  “No, I ordered the hit on Linda Napier.”

  “Maybe Alvarez called the doctor.”

  “No, damn it. I killed her.”

  Brookstone was too impressed with his own genius to hear me. “Have you made any kind of connection between Alvarez and McCall?”

  “Just a doorman-visitor thing. Anyway, you interviewed him, right?”

  Brookstone stared at me thoughtfully. “You’re right, Landau, I did. Yeah, I should’ve caught on that Alvarez also could’ve been the last person to see Jackie Whitney alive. But you don’t seem too hot on the doorman. Why not?”

  “He’s not my type.”

  “Asshole. You’re so damn smart. Remind me when McCall found the body?”

  “May nineteenth.”

  Brookstone started again with the nodding. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. You know, we should get some probable cause to subpoena Alvarez’s phone records.”

  “Just make that shit up like you usually do.”

  “Fuck you! We know the doctor hated Jackie Whitney. Alvarez may have hated her too.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Do you believe it would’ve taken two people to move Jackie Whitney’s body to the closet shelf?”

  “Kate McCall didn’t move anyone anywhere.”

  “And I say the person who killed Linda Napier is the person who helped Kate McCall move Jackie Whitney’s body.”

  “No, it’s the person who killed Whitney.”

  “Did you see all that cash from McCall’s apartment? That’s just the cash we found. We don’t know how much was in that safe-deposit box to begin with.”

  “She’s a thief. I’ll give you that. What about your employer, DeWeldt? What if I show you evidence?”

  “Whatever you find isn’t gonna convince anyone to do anything.”

  “You’ll make sure of that.”

  “You flatter me, Landau. We can be friends, you know. Tell me what you and that public-defender bull dyke are doing. Lots of reasonable doubt?”

  “You’ll find out at the trial, won’t you?”

  “There’s not going to be a tria
l—”

  “Don’t be so sure. You probably said the same thing when that bartender filed a lawsuit.”

  Brookstone didn’t like that comment. “Kalijero tried telling me you weren’t such a bad guy. But you’re a prick, just like your old man.” I turned to leave. “Where’re you going?” I ignored him. Brookstone shouted, “I said where are you going?”

  I shouted back, “You’ve got nothing to hold me on, Brookstone. So you’ll have to excuse me while I go back to doing your job.”

  I walked away with my gut telling me Brookstone might be partially correct. Whoever killed Linda Napier also killed Jackie Whitney. Maybe two people were involved in both murders, but I was pretty damn sure neither person was Kate McCall. Once back in the alley, I examined every telephone pole within one hundred yards of Linda Napier’s front door. I saw nothing resembling a surveillance camera. Eighty-five hundred bucks for DNA tests would be money well spent. Hopefully, Kate McCall felt the same way.

  Chapter 18

  There wasn’t a private room available, so Kate McCall and I were stuck talking to each other through Plexiglas. “You have eighty-five hundred bucks lying around?” I said. The question made her uncomfortable.

  “You want more money?”

  “For DNA testing. Flakes of skin were found in Jackie Whitney’s apartment. Could they be yours?”

  “I don’t rightly know. I never thought nothin’ of my skin flakin’.”

  “Dry skin does that.”

  “Lord, no. My skin is oily as hell.”

  “Okay, then. If someone else’s DNA shows up, that means someone else was at the crime scene. That means you got a good chance of walking free.” McCall mulled over my words. Something was bugging her. “Kate,” I said. “I don’t care if you’ve got a pile of cash somewhere. But for God’s sake, use it to get yourself out of a murder charge.”

  “Go’n talk to Mr. Chao at Youji Lu Grocer. Tell him how much.”

  “Mr. Chao’s got your money?”

  “Have friends you trust and spread your cash around. I learnt that as a child.”