by Unknown
The Shooting Club occupied the corner building of a shopping strip a mile or so from Delaney's office. Inside, glass-enclosed islands displayed the latest in friendly firepower: pistols, automatics, shotguns, assault weapons, Russian night-vision goggles, laser scopes, zoom eyes, robo lights. Patches from US and foreign armed forces lined the top of the wall. At the rear, a steel door led to the shooting range. Viewed through tinted glass, thirty slots offered target shooters the opportunity to shoot human silhouette targets to bits. The range was soundproofed. There were three or four customers in the showroom and a half-dozen people were firing away behind the glass.
The owner was a ramrod-straight man in his forties with bad skin, wearing a tactical black camouflage parka and trousers and heavy Special Forces boots with thick lug soles. His black cap was pulled down to just above his eyes. Johnson showed his badge. The man in black introduced himself as Roy Bennett.
'No problem, is there?' he asked in a hard voice he tried to make friendly.
'We're interested in talking to whoever teaches on the range.'
'We take turns,' Bennett said. 'All our personnel are ex-military and qualified expert.'
'We're checking on a woman, probably come over either at lunch or right after work,' Irving said. 'The name Edith Stoddard wake ya up?'
'Older lady? Maybe fifty, fifty-five, 'bout yea high?' He held his hand even with his shoulder.
'Yeah,' Irving said. 'She purchased a .38 Smith & Wesson from Sergeant York's. They sent her over here to learn how to use it.'
'That's the lady.' Bennett reached under the counter and brought out an appointment book, then flipped back through it a few pages.
'Yeah, here you are. She started coming on the twenty-second of last month…' He flipped through the pages, running his finger down the list of names each day. 'And stopped last Monday. Fifteen days in a row. I remember her pretty good now. Didn't say a whole lot. You could tell she was uncomfortable with her weapon. Personally, I would've sold her a .25, certainly nothing heavier than a .32. That .38 was a lot of gun for her.'
'How'd she do?' Johnson asked.
'I can teach a Dodge pickup to shoot straight in two weeks,' Bennett said with a smile.
'So she done good, that what you're sayin'?' said Irving.
'She was really interested in becoming proficient at short ranges. Twenty-five yards. Yeah, she could blow the heart outta the target at twenty-five. Something happen to her?'
'Not her,' Irving said. 'But I'll tell you this, you taught her real good.'
Johnson and Irving got into the police car and headed back towards Back of the Yards.
'You wanna good-guy, bad-guy her, Shock?'
'Christ, we're not talking about Roger Touhy here, Irving, it's a fifty-year-old-woman, for God's sake.'
Irving shrugged. 'One in the pump, one in the noggin,' he said.
'So she owns a .38 and took shooting lessons. Do you know how many women in this town fit that bill? A lot of scared ladies out there.'
'A lotta scared everybody out there. But they don't all have a key to Delaney's place and they all ain't been kicked out on their ass to make room for Little Annie Fanny. It's lookin' awful good to me, Cap'n.'
'We'll talk to her, Si.'
'One in the pump, one in—'
'Yeah, yeah, yeah.'
'Do we read her her rights?'
'Damn it, Si, we're just talking at this point!'
'Okay, okay. I just don't want that fuckin' Vail pissin' in my ear over this. If we're gonna get into the gun, I say give her her Miranda.'
'Let me worry about Vail.'
What Johnson had first thought was fatigue in Edith Stoddard's face took on different connotations as she sat across the desk from the two officers. Her eyes were flat and expressionless. The lines in her face seemed to be lines of defeat. It was the face of a woman who had been dealt badly by life; a woman tied to a crippled husband, trying to get her daughter through college, and suddenly thrown out of a prestigious job that was absolutely essential to the welfare of her family. What Shock Johnson saw in Edith Stoddard's face was humiliation, betrayal, anxiety, frustration - everything but wrath. Her anger, if she was angry, had been satisfied, if not by her, by someone.
Irving saw guilt.
He was tapping his pen nervously on the table, waiting to get past the amenities to go in for the kill. Johnson reached over without looking at him and laid his hand gently over the pen. Mrs Stoddard sat stiffly at the desk with her hands folded in front of her. Johnson repeated the same instructions he had given to the other interview subjects earlier in the day.
'You understand,' he said, 'if, at some point in this interview - see, we could stop and read you your rights, ma'am, but I don't say that as any kind of a threat. By that I mean we aren't planning to do that at this point, we tell everyone the same thing when we start, so I don't want you to feel that bringing it up now means we're going to go that far. Okay?' She nodded.
'Please state your name.'
'Edith Stoddard.'
'Age?'
'Fifty-three in May.'
'Are you married?'
'Yes.'
'Where does your husband work?'
'He's disabled. He has a small pension.'
'Disabled in what way?' Johnson asked.
'He's a quadriplegic. Crippled from the neck down.'
'I'm sorry,' Johnson said.
'Charley loved to work around the house. He was fixing some shingles on the roof and slipped and landed flat on his back on the concrete walk. Broke his back in two places.'
'When was that?'
'In 1982.'
'He's been bedridden ever since?'
She nodded.
'And you have a daughter?'
'Angelica. She's twenty-one, a junior at UC. Studying physics.'
'Mrs Stoddard, how long did you work for Delaney? Delaney Enterprises?'
'Seventeen years.'
'And how long were you Delaney's executive secretary?'
'Nine.'
'Were you happy in that job?'
At first she looked a little confused by the question. Then finally she said, 'Yes. It was a wonderful position. Mr Delaney was… very helpful, sympathetic, when we had the accident.'
'You say "was", Mrs Stoddard,' Irving said. 'Is that because Delaney is, uh, deceased?'
'I was… Yes.'
'You was about to say…?'
'Nothing.'
'Ain't it true, Mrs Stoddard, that you were about to retire? That today was to be your last day here?'
She hesitated for a moment. 'Yes.'
'So when you say "was", you really meant you don't work here no more, is that correct?'
'I don't see that… I mean…'
'I think what Detective Irving is driving at here is that you were leaving the firm,' Johnson said softly.
'Yes, that's true.'
'And were you satisfied with the arrangement? Retiring, I mean?'
She did not answer. She fiddled with her fingers and her lips trembled. Irving could see her beginning to crumble and decided to go for the throat.
'Mrs Stoddard, you had a key to Delaney's penthouse on Astor, didn't you?'
'Yes.'
'Go there often, did you?'
'It was part of my job. Mr Delaney didn't like to work here in the office. Too many disruptions.'
'So you were familiar with the surroundings there, at the penthouse, I mean?'
'Yes, of course.'
'And you could more or less come and go as you please, right?'
'I only went when I was told to go there.'
'Uh-huh. Point is, ma'am, you had free access, din'cha?'
'Well, I guess you might say that.'
'And how many other people do you know had keys and access to the apartment?'
'I don't know, I wouldn't know that.'
'So what you're sayin', what you're tellin' us is, as far as you know, nobody else had that kind of access to the premises? As far as
you know?' said Irving.
'As far as I know.'
'Did Mrs Delaney have a key, as far as you know?'
'I wouldn't know… I mean, I assume… uh…'
'Ain't it a fact, Mrs Stoddard, that you know she don't have a key, didn't even know the place existed? Isn't that right?'
'That really wasn't any of my business.'
'Uh-huh. Well, ain't it a fact you were told not to talk about that apartment? That it was kinda a secret place for him?'
'Sir, I was privy to a lot of information that was confidential. Mr Delaney never mentioned Mrs Delaney specifically.'
'But it was a confidential kinda place, right?'
'Yes.'
'Now, did you ever go over to Mr Delaney's penthouse on Astor when you weren't specifically invited?'
'Of course not!'
'Never kinda busted in on the place, y'know, looking for records or files or somethin' like that, and Mr Delaney wasn't expectin' you?'
'No. I don't understand what your point to all this is,' she said, becoming passively defensive.
'Will you excuse us for just a minute, please,' Irving said, and motioned Johnson to step outside the office. He leaned close to the captain and whispered, 'We're gettin close the skinny, here, Cap'n. I think it's time we Miranda her.'
'Not yet,' Johnson whispered back. 'She brings in a lawyer and we're in for a long haul. We'll find out as much as we can before we start that.'
'Yeah, if she starts takin' the fifth, we got problems. I just get nervous, gettin' too far into this without lettin' her know her rights. I'm goin' for the gun here any minute now, okay? Then we're into it.'
'I'll let you know when I think it's time to Miranda her,' Johnson said, his voice edgy and harsh.
'I just don't wanna fuck up at this stage.'
'I'll say when, Si.'
'Yes, sir.'
They returned to the room.
Edith Stoddard was slumped in her seat, her hands now in her lap, staring at the wall. Johnson thought to himself, This lady is verging on shock. Johnson and Irving sat down.
'Now, Mrs Stoddard,' Johnson said, 'we were talking about your access to the apartment. Did you ever go over at night?'
'Sometimes,' she said numbly. 'If he wanted me to.'
'So this was kind of like a second workplace for you, is that correct?'
She nodded. She was still staring past them at the wall. 'And it was natural for you to spend a lot of time there?'
'I suppose you could say that.'
'Let's move on,' Irving said. 'Mrs Stoddard, do you own a gun?'
She looked at him sharply, as if suddenly drawn out of her daze by his question. 'A gun?'
'Yeah, a gun.' He pulled back his jacket and showed her his weapon. 'A gun.'
'I…'
Johnson stepped in. 'Mrs Stoddard, we know you purchased a .38-calibre handgun at Sergeant York's on January twenty-second of this year. Where is that gun now?'
'Oh, yes, the gun.'
'What about it?' Irving asked.
'It was stolen.'
'Stolen?' Irving said, turning to Johnson and raising his eyebrows.
'From my handbag.'
'You were carryin' it in your handbag?' Irving said.
'There's been a lot of crime, you know, muggings and the like, and I—'
'Do you know how to use a handgun, Mrs Stoddard?'
Johnson asked.
'I thought… I thought it would scare them.'
'Who?'
'People who steal from people.'
'So you didn't know anything about this weapon, you just wanted it as a scare card, that it?' said Irving.
'Yes. To scare them.'
'But you were not familiar with the weapon, is that what you're saying?'
'Yes. Or no. I mean, I don't know much about guns, that's what I mean.'
Johnson looked down at his fingers for a moment and then finally he looked her straight in the eye and said, 'Mrs Stoddard, I have to interrupt these proceedings at this point and advise you that you have the right to remain silent. If you say anything more, it can, and will, be used against you in a court of law. You are entitled to an attorney. If you do not have one or - '
She cut him off. 'I killed him,' she said without emotion and without changing her expression.
Johnson and Irving were struck dumb by the admission.
'Excuse me?' Johnson said after a few seconds.
'I killed him,' she repeated without emotion.
'Christ!' Irving muttered.
'Mrs Stoddard,' Shock Johnson said firmly but quietly, 'you understand, don't you, that you are entitled to have a lawyer present now?'
She looked back and forth at them.
'I don't understand anything anymore,' she said mournfully.
Twelve
The felony and misdemeanour history of the county was stored in canyons of documents in an enormous warehouse that covered a square block near the criminal courts building. Row after row and tier upon tier of trial transcripts, bound between uniform brown covers, filled the enormous warehouse with faded and fading files. Many more had been misplaced, lost, destroyed, or misfiled; simply transposing the numbers in the index could send a record into file oblivion. Physical evidence was harder to come by. Returned to owners, lost, or destroyed, it was hardly worth the effort to track it down. St Claire signed in and quickly found the registration number of the trial transcript: 'Case Number 83-45976432, the State versus Aaron Stampler. Murder in the first degree. Martin Vail for defence. Jane Venable for prosecution.' He was pointed down through the narrow passageways. Dust seemed to be suspended in shafts of lights from skylights. It took fifteen minutes before he found a cardbox box with STAMPLER, A. 83-45976432 scrawled on the side with a Magic Marker. He carried the box containing the transcript, three volumes of it, to a steel-framed table in the centre of the place and sat down to study Vail's most famous case.
Something had triggered St Claire's phenomenal memory, but he had yet to finger exactly what was gnawing at him: an abstract memory just beyond his grasp. But in that box St Claire was certain he would find what he was looking for, just as he now knew it would have nothing to do with the bodies in the landfill.
He started reading through the first volume but realized quickly that he would have to categorize the material in some way. He leafed through the jury selection and the mundane business of preparing the court for the trial; scanned ahead, looking for key words, piecing together bits and pieces of testimony; and made numerous trips to the copy machine. Then he began his own peculiar version of link analysis, categorizing them and working through the trial in logical rather than chronological order.
But St Claire was also interested in how Vail had conducted a defence that almost everyone believed was hopeless. And also the adversarial cross-examination of Stenner, who was the homicide detective in charge of the investigation. The fireworks began in the opening minutes of the trial.
JUDGE SHOAT. Mr Vail, to the charge of murder in the first degree, you have previously entered a plea of not guilty. Do you now wish
to change that plea?
VAIL: Yes sir.
JUDGE SHOAT: And how does the defendant now plead?
VAIL: Guilty but insane.
JUDGE SHOAT. Mr Vail, I'm sure you're aware that three professional psychiatrists have concluded that your client is sane.
VAIL:… they screwed up.
That started what St Claire realized was ultimately a battle of titans - Venable versus Vail - both at the top of their game, both keen strategists and intractable jugular artists. Venable's opening statement to the jury was short, to the point, and almost arrogantly confident. Obviously, she figured the case was in the bag.
VENABLE: Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I'll be brief. During the course of this trial, you will see pictures and they will shock you. You will see overwhelming physical evidence. You will hear expert witnesses testify that Aaron Stampler - and only Aaron Stampler - could have commit
ted this vicious and senselessly brutal murder of a revered community leader. Aaron Stampler is guilty of coldly, premeditatedly killing Archbishop Richard Rushman. In the end, I am sure you will agree with the state that anything less than the death penalty would be as great a miscarriage of justice as the murder itself.
Vail, in sharp contrast, set up his entire defence in a complex and obviously impassioned plea to the jury.
VAIL: Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my name is Martin Vail. I have been charged by the court to represent the defendant, Aaron Stampler. Now, we are here to determine whether the defendant who sits before you is guilty of the loathsome and premeditated murder of one of this city's most admired and respected citizens, Archbishop Richard Rushtnan. In criminal law there are two types of criminals. The worst is known as malum in se, which means wrong by the very nature of the crime. Murder, rape, grievous bodily harm, crippling injuries - purposeful, planned, premeditated crimes against the person's body, if you will. This is such a crime. The murder of Bishop Rushman is obviously a case of malum in se. The accused does not deny that. You will see photographs of this crime that will sicken you. And you will be asked to believe that a sane person committed that crime. And you will be asked to render judgement on what is known as mens rea, which means did the accused intend to cause bodily harm - in other words, did Aaron Stampler intentionally commit the murder of Archbishop Rushman? Aaron Stampler does deny that he is guilty of mens rea in this murder case… The extenuating circumstances in the case of the State versus Aaron Stampler are of an unusual nature because they involve mental disorders. And so you will be made privy to a great deal of psychological information during the course of this trial. We ask only that you listen carefully so that you can make a fair judgement on mens rea, for in order to make that judgement you will be asked to fudge his conduct. Did Aaron Stampler suffer a defect of reason? Did he act on an irresistible impulse?… These and many more questions will hinge on the state of Aaron Stampler's mental health at the time the crime was committed. And as you make these judgements, I would ask also that you keep one important fact in the back of your mind at all times: If Aaron Stampler was in full command of his faculties at the time of this crime, why did he do it? What was his motivation for committing such a desperate and horrifying act? And if he did, was he mentally responsible at the time? In the final analysis, that may be the most important question of all. And so, ladies and gentlemen, your responsibility will be to rule on the believability of the evidence the prosecutor and I present to you. Whom do you believe? What do you believe? And most important of all, do you accept the evidence as truth 'beyond a reasonable doubt'?… In the end, when you have heard all the evidence, I sincerely believe that you will find on behalf of my client, Aaron Stampler.
