Jack Davis Mystery - 01 - Shakedown

by Joel Goldman

  Yates cleared his throat. “Jack, I’d like to have a word with you.”

  I picked up the crime scene photos and waved them at the whiteboards. “We’re pretty busy right now. I’ll stop by as soon as we get a fix on the preliminary forensics and I’ve got my people back out in the field.”

  “Now would be better.”

  Troy was halfway to the door, Jim Day, Lani Haywood, and Ammara Iverson in close formation behind him. Colby hadn’t moved.

  “Looks like I didn’t get the memo,” he said.

  I dropped the photos on the table, not believing that Troy had gone to Yates behind my back. I understood why, or at least why he would say he did it, that it was for my own good, the good of the squad, and that it was in the best interests of the case—the rationales of every loyal mutineer.

  “Makes two of us.”

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Never better. By the way, I haven’t said anything to Wendy about the shaking.”

  Colby stood. “Don’t worry, Jack. Your name doesn’t come up much, anyway.”

  Ben stayed where he was, across the room, eyeing me like a suspect, waiting for me to confess. I didn’t want it to happen, not like this, not now. I tried deep breathing, tried gripping the table with one hand, the front of my chair with the other. I even tried pinching the inside of my thigh. Nothing worked. I was tumbling inside, about to blow. Powerless, I gave in, closed my eyes, and let it happen, bending forward in my chair, my chest tight against my thighs, grunting and cursing. The one surprise was how relieved I was, how it almost felt good.

  “Two minutes,” Ben said when the shaking stopped.

  I was breathing like I’d just woken from a bad dream. “Thanks, but I’m not keeping track.”

  “You should have told me.”

  “It was personal.”

  “Nothing is personal if it affects the job.”

  “I’m doing my job.”

  “There’s something wrong with you. You don’t know what it is and you don’t know whether it puts you, your team, or your case at risk. From what I understand happened in the field and from what I’ve just seen, all three are likely. I’m not your mother or your father. I can’t make you eat your vegetables, get enough sleep, or go to the doctor. But I’m not going to let you take chances with our people and our mission. I won’t tolerate that.”

  “Troy didn’t waste any time telling you, did he?”

  “Troy understands our mission. I’m not certain you do.”

  I wasn’t moving but the ground beneath me was. “I’ll see a doctor, today if I can find one. In the meantime, I’ve got five dead bodies and I’ve got to get back to work.”

  Yates sat in the chair Colby had used, his voice quiet but unyielding.

  “This isn’t about you, Jack. You’re a good agent, one of the best we’ve got. Go find out what’s wrong. Do what you have to do. Take all the time you need. We’ll handle this case.”

  I looked at him. His eyes were steady and calm. His mouth closed. There was no give. No room for debate.

  “You’re right. I should have told you.”

  “Would have come out the same way. You know that. I’ll need your gun and your credentials.”

  “I’m on sick leave. Why are you treating me like I’m under investigation?”

  “You’re not under investigation.”

  “Then why do you want my credentials and my gun?”

  “Don’t make this harder than it is, Jack.”

  “Then make it easy. Let me do my job.”

  “That’s the point, Jack. Right now you can’t do your job and we don’t know why. Until we do, I need your badge and your gun. Talk to Anita in HR on your way out. She’s got some disability forms for you to sign.”

  “So that’s it. You think I’m having a breakdown, that I can’t be trusted?”

  I let the time pass waiting for Yates to answer. When he didn’t, I pulled my gun from the holster on my hip, put it in his outstretched palm along with my ID and badge, and made my way to the door, turning back toward him.

  “Who’s got my squad now? Troy?”

  Yates didn’t hesitate. “He’ll do a good job.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The only doctor I’d seen in the six years I’d been in Kansas City was the one the Bureau used for our annual physical. Nice guy. Soft touch when he checked my prostate but not much personality.

  No matter what they said about physician-patient privilege, I wasn’t taking a chance with someone on the FBI’s payroll. I needed a doctor who could tell me what was wrong, fix it, and get me back to work, and I didn’t want someone who might have the same fit of self-serving conscience that had put me on the shelf and Troy Clark in charge of my squad.

  Joy had a doctor for each limb, organ, and hemisphere of the brain, enough to start her own hospital. None of them were able to save the part of her that died with Kevin. I didn’t have any more confidence in them than she did.

  The rest of my close friends, the ones I would normally confide in, were people that worked for the Bureau. That world had always been enough for me. Now I was on the outside looking in.

  That left Kate Scranton. I was always careful when I denied Joy’s accusations that I was having an affair with Kate, repeating that there was nothing going on. I couldn’t tell her that Kate had touched my heart in a way I never thought would happen again. It didn’t matter that I had never acted on my feelings and that I only suspected that Kate felt the same way. Feeling the way I did was betrayal enough.

  I had reconciled myself to the way things were with Joy, accepting it as penance for having let her and Kevin down. When she left me, I realized that we had both served out our sentences.

  Kate had just returned from a lengthy jury trial in which former executives of an energy company were accused of looting it and misleading investors, resulting in a bankruptcy that had wiped out thousands of jobs and retirement accounts and billions in shareholder equity. I hadn’t seen her since Joy moved out, though we’d talked on the phone while Kate was away. She knew about Joy but not about my shaking, unless she could feel it over the phone.

  I met her a year ago when she was working with a lawyer defending a pharmacist who was accused of dealing in black-market painkillers. The case hinged on the credibility of the government’s informer. I sat through the whole trial not just because it was my case but because of her.

  At first, I told myself it was because she was so good at what she did. She scanned everyone in the courtroom like her eyes were bar-code readers, whispering advice to the defense attorney about jurors and witnesses. A case I thought was airtight unraveled before my eyes, collapsing completely when our star witness was caught lying on the stand. Everyone in the courtroom was watching the witness stammer and stutter. I couldn’t take my eyes off Kate, her satisfied smile saying gotcha.

  She had an angular face and lithe body with long ebony hair, fair skin, and blue eyes. She was tall, like me, smarter than me; her smiles came more easily than mine.

  It was at that moment that she got me, though I didn’t tell her when I asked her to lunch the week after the trial, saying only that I wanted to learn more about what she did. I’d never been unfaithful to Joy and had never thought I could be until I met Kate.

  We ate at D’Bronx Deli on Thirty-ninth Street, gorging on their special pizza that had more than everything on it. We ran through the mutual background check. I told her about Wendy and Colby Hudson. Kate’s reaction hit home.

  “And you wish they weren’t seeing each other.”

  “What can I say?”

  “You didn’t have to say anything. Your face did all the talking.”

  Kate was forty-one, divorced from her husband, Alan, after a fifteen-year marriage she described as a war of attrition. The one thing they agreed on was each other’s talent. They were both psychologists. Alan conducted mock-jury trials, using the results to craft questionnaires for the real jurors. She knew of no one better. Congratula
ting themselves on being mature adults, they agreed that their business relationship as jury consultants would survive their divorce. Her father, Dr. Henry Scranton, had started the firm and she and Alan were his partners. Alan, Kate said, had regretted the divorce the moment the ink was dry on the decree, but she knew it was the right decision.

  Her thirteen-year-old son, Brian, split time between his parents. Her sister, Patty, was the poster child for happily married soccer moms, always nagging Kate to quit her job, patch things up with Alan, and provide their son a more stable home. Her father agreed on everything except quitting her job.

  “How do you do it?” I asked her.

  “Do what?”

  “Get it so right in the courtroom.”

  “It’s how my father raised me.”

  “Not good enough.”

  Kate shoved the leftover scraps of olives, pepperoni, anchovies, and onions into a small mound, scooped them into her mouth, chewing and then smiling.

  “My father is an expert in the Facial Action Coding System,” she explained.

  “I was absent that day in school.”

  “It’s a catalog of over three thousand facial expressions people make every day. A psychologist, Paul Ekman, developed the system. The majority of our facial expressions are involuntary. They ?ash by in milliseconds, too fast for most people to even see them. But they are there. You can videotape someone and break down their expressions frame by frame.”

  “I thought the eyes were the windows into the soul.”

  “Very romantic, but the eyes are cloudy windows at best. Facial expressions can reveal whether someone is cheating on their spouse or their taxes or whether their heart is filled with mercy or murder, if you can put their expressions in the right context.”

  We debated whether that was true, matching our experiences. I told her about Kevin. She eased back in her chair.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she explained. “You didn’t know what to look for.”

  “That’s not an excuse. My job is to know what to look for.”

  “Even so, it’s hard to see beneath the surface. My earliest memories of my father are of him staring at me, taking notes, staring some more, studying my every move and mood. While other kids played outside, I played face ?ash cards with my father, every card a different facial expression. I had to tell him what emotion the person was expressing.”

  “I bet he gave you ice cream when you got them right.”

  “Chocolate, and a lot of it. He discovered that I had an unusual aptitude for recognizing micro facial expressions in, literally, the blink of an eye. I was eight when my mother died. I grew up as my father’s research subject. Eventually I became his assistant and then his partner.”

  “So, you’re like a mind reader.”

  “No. A mind reader works Las Vegas lounges, her name lit up on the bottom of the casino marquee, pulling silver dollars out of customers’ ears, making them admit they’ve never met before telling the audience the names of everyone the customer slept with in high school.”

  I was still a skeptic. “No ESP either, huh?”

  “Not a drop. And I don’t bend spoons just by looking at them and I don’t see dead people.”

  “What do you see?”

  “I see people’s smiles, frowns, raised eyebrows, and ?ared nostrils. I see their ?ickering eyes, quivering cheeks, laugh lines, crow’s feet, and wrinkles.”

  “So do I. Everyone does.”

  “Except I see more. I see the involuntary, uncontrollable, soul-stripping micro expressions that lay people open like an autopsy.”

  There was more resignation than bragging in her voice.

  “What’s that like?”

  “It depends on who I’m looking at. I see things people don’t want me to see. It’s great for business but it’s hell on relationships. There are times when I’m grateful for my skill and there are times when I wish I had cataracts.”

  I took a chance. “What do you see in my face?”

  She hesitated, setting her fork down, folding her arms across her chest, a half smile creeping out of the corner of her mouth.

  “Well, Agent Davis, I can tell whether you just want to have lunch or whether you want to take the rest of the day and the night off.”

  “Which is it?” I asked, stunned to hear her say what I was thinking.

  Kate laughed. “You’re married. It doesn’t matter what we want since lunch is the only thing that we can have.”

  I liked that she laid it out so there was no misunderstanding. And I liked that she said it didn’t matter what we wanted, not that it didn’t matter what I wanted. We both understood why she was right.

  I found excuses for more lunches, always on the pretext of talking about a case I was working on, asking her advice about how to read suspects and witnesses. I would never trust myself when it came to reading faces after what happened to Kevin, but I loved listening to her talk. We let our lunches linger and wander, often coming back to the similarities between what we did. I caught bad guys. She caught lies. We both feared that we would be deceived by the guilty and fail the innocent.

  We argued about the polygraph. I trusted it. She didn’t.

  “The polygraph measures the response of the body’s limbic system, which controls emotion. It assumes that someone telling a lie will experience an involuntary increase in heart rate, pulse, temperature, breathing, all of which are controlled by the limbic system,” she said. “But a pathological liar can beat the polygraph.”

  “How?”

  “Wrong question. They answer is they lie. The right question is why aren’t their lies detected.”

  “You’re going to tell me.”

  “Of course. It’s my obligation to show you the errors of your ways,” Kate said with a grin. “A psychologist at the University of Southern California did a study on the brains of liars. It’s not conclusive, but it is interesting. He found that liars average 22 percent more white matter in the prefrontal cortex of their brains and 14 percent less gray matter.”

  “So what?”

  “The gray matter contains neurons, which are the brain’s networking material. Think of neurons like telephone wires that connect phones. And neurons link the prefrontal cortex to the limbic system. The fewer neurons someone has, the fewer connections there are to the limbic system. Pathological liars get away with lying because they don’t show any nervousness. They are genetically designed to lie.”

  “But you can see it in their faces?”

  “A psychopath or a natural liar is hard for anyone to catch. A psychopath doesn’t care about anything, so why get emotional? A natural liar, or someone who is trained to deceive, like actors or trial lawyers, they can be just as hard to figure out. The rest of us are a lot easier because micro facial expressions are almost impossible to control.”

  “Aren’t they tied to emotions just like heart rate and breathing, which the polygraph measures?”

  “You’re right, but people can learn to regulate their breathing and their heart rate. They can’t do that with micro expressions. And the polygraph is so unreliable no court will allow the results into evidence.”

  “No court will allow a videotape of a defendant’s micro facial expressions into evidence either.”

  “I don’t need them admitted into evidence. I just need to see them.”

  “How can you be so certain what each expression means?”

  “Facial expressions are universal in type and meaning across all cultures and ethnic groups,” she said.

  “Show me the one that says you’re a liar.”

  “That’s not how it works. Facial expressions, especially micro expressions, are clues. Someone pretends to be angry, but their face says they are afraid. They should be devastated but a smile lasting a fraction of a second shoots out of the corner of their mouth. I look for inconsistencies, asymmetries, things that don’t fit.”

  “Like the dog that didn’t bark.”

  “Exactly. If you know what to loo
k for, they are the closest things to money in the bank for a lie catcher.”

  “Well, then. I better not lie to you.”

  “Not unless you want to get caught,” she said, her grin firmly in place.

  Chapter Twelve

  I needed sleep more than I needed a doctor. It took me thirty minutes to get home, detouring around construction on I-35 to my house in Overland Park, a suburb on the Kansas side of the state line that bisects Kansas City.

  The house looked like it always had from the outside—a boxy two-story with a two-car garage, beige stucco, short trees, and shorter grass. Walking inside, finding it almost empty after I agreed that Joy could take whatever furniture she wanted while the lawyers worked out the rest of the property settlement, it reminded me of a house whose owners I had arrested for selling dope to their kids’ friends. They held an estate sale to raise money so they could pay their lawyers. I took a tour when it was over. Everything worth having was gone, the picked-over remnants all that remained. They went to jail for a long time.

  My dining room was empty; my beer-stained easy chair and ring-marked end table sat alone in the den, ruts in the carpet where the cherrywood entertainment center had stood. There was no kitchen table, just a pair of stools with their white paint chipped by careless heels, tucked under the black granite lip of the island anchored in the middle of the room. The walls were scarred with holes where pictures had hung. The drapes had been stripped from bare windows and my footsteps echoed off hardwood ?oors.

  Joy left me the nineteen-inch TV with a built-in DVR she kept in the kitchen to watch the Today Show and to tape soaps, along with a futon that I moved from the basement into the master bedroom. Looking around, I missed the comfortable familiarity from the furnishings of a bad marriage. This was my new normal.

  I woke up in the late afternoon to an undercurrent of tremors—sensations, I called them—shakes in the making. I showered, nicked my chin shaving and shaking at the same time, and then left Kate a message that I needed to talk to her.