Dead Certain: A Novel

by Adam Mitzner

  In the DA press conferences I used to attend, I would stand off to the side, usually just out of the camera’s lens. The speaking was handled by the DA himself, or Lauren Wright, in the rare instance that the DA decided someone who actually knew something about the case was better able to provide information to the press. My one and only star turn occurred when Lauren got a question she couldn’t answer and she called on me to respond. I stepped up to the microphone and said, “At this time, we have no evidence supporting that theory.”

  For the press conference about my sister’s disappearance, more than a hundred reporters are in attendance. That’s more than sat through the last briefing about Jennifer Barnett. An ordinary missing-persons case might only attract four or five, if that many, and that assumes the police even hold a press conference.

  My father and I wait in a small conference room at One PP for Gabriel to arrive. Then we’ll all go to the press room together.

  “There’s something I need to talk to you about,” I say, “and it may be a little difficult for you to hear, but I think it’s important.”

  He looks at me with concern. Given how tragic his world has turned in the last forty-eight hours, I’m certain my father can’t conceive of what I could say that would add to his pain.

  “Charlotte wrote a novel. Or part of one. It’s really good. In fact, it was going to be published. The last time I saw her, she told me the good news and gave me a copy. I think it might contain clues as to what actually happened to her. You know how Charlotte’s stories always have real-life aspects to them?” He nods. “I think this one does too. It’s about a woman named Clare who’s an MFA student at NYU—so no mystery there. This Clare has a boyfriend who’s a stand-in for Zach. And in the book, at least, the boyfriend is abusive and Clare’s scared of him.”

  My father winces as if he’s been struck. “Did Zach ever . . . hit Charlotte?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, ashamed that I don’t have the first clue whether my little sister was being abused by her boyfriend. “I can’t imagine Charlotte putting up with something like that, but . . . the book has a lot of stuff that makes me wonder how well I actually knew her. This Clare character is also seeing two other men: a banker named Matthew and a student she calls Jason. The student’s in a class that Clare TA’s, and you know how Charlotte was a teaching assistant for an undergraduate class last semester? That makes me think that maybe this Jason character is real. And if he’s real, maybe Matthew is too.”

  My father looks at me with a distant gaze. He obviously knows even less than I do about Charlotte’s life.

  “What’s the book about?” he asks.

  Damn. I buried the lede, and now I have to tell him the worst part.

  I exhale deeply. “It’s a . . . murder mystery. In it, I think Charlotte actually foresaw her own death. Her character in the book—Clare, the one based on her—gets murdered. Charlotte never reveals the killer because the manuscript she gave me was only half written. But the reader knows it’s one of three men: Marco, the artist-boyfriend; Jason, the student; or Matthew, the banker.”

  Gabriel arrives a few minutes later. He introduces himself to my father and apologizes for making us wait.

  “We only have a minute before this is going to begin, but I wanted to give you a sense of how it’ll work,” he says. “First I’m going to say a few words, mainly designed to disabuse the press of the idea that a serial killer is on the loose. After that, I’ll answer half a dozen or so questions. Following the Q and A, I’m going to turn the microphone over to you, Mr. Broden. I think only one family member should speak—if that’s okay with you, Ella?”

  I nod. “Yeah. That’s fine.”

  “Okay,” Gabriel says. “Any questions for me?”

  “No,” my father and I say in unison.

  He checks his watch. “Let’s do this, then.”

  Gabriel leads us through the door of the waiting room and into the police department’s press space. The lighting is too harsh, and I shield my eyes slightly with my hand. Gabriel doesn’t flinch, however. He’s done this before. In fact, he did it just last week regarding Jennifer Barnett.

  Once behind the lectern, in a strong, confident voice, Gabriel says, “My name is Lieutenant Gabriel Velasquez. I’m going to make a brief statement, and then I’ll take some questions. Charlotte Broden, a twenty-five-year-old graduate student at New York University, has been missing since Wednesday morning. Although it’s early in the investigation, we’ve already developed a short list of people of interest in the disappearance. Let me say at the outset that we have absolutely no reason to believe that there is any connection whatsoever between Ms. Broden’s disappearance and the previously reported disappearance of Jennifer Barnett. Now, I know that some of the more irresponsible members of the press have raised the possibility that someone might be targeting young women in our city. There is absolutely no evidence to support that conjecture. Obviously, I cannot share with you the leads we have uncovered in either investigation, but I will tell you that at the present time we have a limited number of suspects in both matters, and I can further state that there is no overlap between the two suspect lists. Now I’ll take a few questions.”

  Virtually every hand in the press gallery shoots up. They look like third-graders with the right math answer.

  Gabriel points to an older man sitting in the first row. I recognize him from television.

  “Jack, why don’t you start it off?”

  “Thank you,” Jack says, coming to his feet. “Should the public be concerned about a possible serial killer? Are there any patterns that people should be cognizant about? Like with Son of Sam in the 1970s, when it was known he was looking for couples parked in cars?”

  Gabriel takes a deep breath. “As I said just a moment ago, there is nothing for the public to fear because there is no evidence of any link between these two disappearances. It is extremely irresponsible to claim otherwise, as your question implies.”

  Gabriel next selects a younger woman in glasses sitting in the middle of the press pack. “Is the police department considering imposing a curfew?”

  “No. Next question.”

  This time an African American woman is chosen. “Can you identify the person or persons of interest in the Broden case?”

  “No. Not at this time.”

  “What can you tell us about the suspects, then?” the same reporter follows up.

  “I can tell you that there are a limited number of people who are our primary focus. And I can say that each one was personally acquainted with Charlotte Broden.”

  “Is that also true with regard to the Barnett investigation?” another reporter blurts out without being called on.

  “Yes,” Gabriel says. “The suspects in the Barnett case all knew Ms. Barnett, and the suspects in the Broden investigation all knew Ms. Broden. There is no overlap between the suspect lists.”

  He points toward the back row. An Asian woman stands.

  “Is Nicolai Garkov a person of interest in this investigation? Or anyone related to Garkov or the Russian mafia?”

  I lean closer to my father, squeeze his arm at the elbow. A sign of support that I don’t want the press to witness.

  Gabriel is quick to answer. “At this point we have no basis to believe that Ms. Broden’s disappearance has anything to do with that. Margaret?”

  A small woman in the second row with curly gray hair rises. She’s so short her head is barely visible behind the man seated in front of her.

  “Do you believe Ms. Broden is still alive?”

  My gaze swings toward Gabriel. Would he tell the press anything different than he told me?

  “We pray that she is,” he says. “We have no reason to believe that she’s not.”

  Gabriel nods in our direction. Apparently he views the question about Charlotte being alive as a good segue to my father.

  “Now I would like to turn the microphone over to Charlotte Broden’s father, F. Clinton Broden, to say a fe
w words.”

  My father takes his cue and moves closer to the microphone. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  His voice is a hoarse whisper, barely audible. I know at once that he’s not going to be able to say another word.

  I take the microphone out of his hand and place my other hand on his shoulder.

  “My name is Ella Broden. Charlotte Broden is my sister. My father is obviously overcome with emotion, as we all are. We miss Charlotte so much. On behalf of our family, I want to thank the NYPD for all the work they’re doing to find my sister. I also want to announce that tomorrow we will be holding a search for Charlotte at Riverside Park. It’s open to the public, so please join us. We will be meeting at Ninety-Sixth Street and Riverside Drive at noon. Our family has also established a reward of one hundred thousand dollars for any information leading to Charlotte’s safe return.”

  I stop, trying to hold it together myself. It’s time to go for that sound bite. The clip that will play on the news tonight.

  “If anyone knows anything about my sister’s whereabouts, or has any information at all, please call the police . . .” I wait a beat and then say, “And if you’re out there, if you can hear me, Charlotte, please know that we love you . . . that I love you, Char-bar.”

  Gabriel thanks the press for coming and the reporters begin to depart. My father and I follow him out of the press room. Almost as soon as we step away, I feel my phone vibrate.

  It’s Paul Michelson.

  “Hello,” I say in a whisper, cupping my hand over the phone.

  “Sorry to bother you, Ella. I tried your father first, but I was told that he was in court.”

  My father is obviously not in court. He’s standing right beside me. But that’s what my father likes clients to be told when he isn’t in the office.

  I find it hard to believe that Paul hasn’t heard about Charlotte yet. Her disappearance is all over the media. Then again, maybe it just seems that way to me and Paul is one of those guys who follow only sports and business news.

  “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but my sister is missing. I’m at the police station now.”

  “Oh my God. I hadn’t . . . I’m . . . I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry, Ella. Since when?”

  It’s another one of my father’s rules about criminal defense, to make the client think that his lawyer has no problems, no concerns, no life outside of zealously representing clients. Clients never want to hear that their lawyer is focused on anything else—another case, a pending divorce, money problems, or the possible abduction and murder of her baby sister.

  “It’s only been a day, and I’m sure that . . .” I can’t even articulate the lie that everything is going to be fine. “What’s going on?”

  “I just got off the phone with the police. They want me to meet with them.”

  I look around the room. I’m literally behind enemy lines. Not the best place to discuss the status of the investigation with my client.

  “Who called you?”

  “A guy named Jim McGary.”

  “McCorry,” I correct.

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “I met him today,” I say, using my grown-up-in-the-room-who-needs-to-make-the-client-feel-protected voice. “What did you say to him?”

  “Nothing. I told him that I needed to get back to him.”

  “I have a meeting I’m heading to now, but let’s meet back at my office at three. Until then, don’t say anything to anyone.”

  12.

  The doormen in Charlotte’s building never stop me when I enter, even though they stand beside a sign that says ALL VISITORS MUST BE ANNOUNCED. I normally don’t show up in the middle of a workday, however, so the man on duty now isn’t someone I recognize. I stride by him with a sense of purpose, avoiding eye contact to give the impression that I’m a resident in a hurry to get home. Nevertheless, I half expect him to ask me to stop. But either Zach hasn’t put the word out that I’m to be denied entry or this guy hasn’t seen the memo because he lets me pass without comment.

  In the elevator, I reach for the key to Charlotte’s apartment that she gave me to use in case of emergency. I can’t imagine a greater need than this. If Zach isn’t home, I’m going to let myself in and conduct my own search. Sisters don’t need warrants, after all.

  I knock on the door. Hard.

  “Who is it?” he says.

  “It’s me, Zach. Ella. Open up. We need to talk.”

  I’m prepared for him to tell me to go away, in which case I’m also prepared to use the key. To my surprise, he opens the door.

  He looks absolutely terrible. Clad in sweatpants and a white T-shirt that likely also serves as his pajamas. He clearly hasn’t showered or shaved today, and maybe not since I last saw him at One PP.

  The apartment looks even worse. A pizza box with the remnants of last night’s dinner sits open on the dining-room table, with a single glass, half-filled with some brown liquid—maybe Coke, maybe bourbon—beside it.

  Zach doesn’t say anything to me after opening the door. Instead, he retreats back to the living room and drops himself onto one end of the sofa.

  I follow him inside. Taking the seat opposite him, I scan the room more thoroughly. He hasn’t scrubbed the place clean; that’s for sure.

  Before saying anything, I take a moment to calm myself. I don’t want to come on too strong. I’ll lose him right off the bat.

  “I know Charlotte’s disappearance has been tough on you. For me too, of course. The reason I’m here is because you and me, Zach, we’re the people who know Charlotte best. We need to work together to help find her. And that means you need to cooperate fully with the police.”

  He isn’t making eye contact with me as I tell him this. Instead, he stares at the floor.

  “Zach, look at me,” I say, using a sterner voice.

  This causes him to raise his head. His gaze is unsteady. Alternating between my eyes and my shoes.

  “Are you wearing a wire?” he finally says.

  “What?”

  “Are you tape-recording this?”

  “No. God, no. Zach, I’m here to talk to you. To convince you to help the police. Every hour that you don’t is another hour that Charlotte’s in danger.”

  Zach exhales loudly and then focuses on me with much more conviction than he had a moment ago. “I didn’t kill her. I swear to God I didn’t.”

  “I know you didn’t,” I say, hoping I sound convincing. “You loved Charlotte, and she loved you. That’s why I know that you want to help the police find who did this. If you do that, there’s a good chance that Charlotte’s going to come home safe.”

  “You never thought I was good enough for Charlotte.”

  “No,” I lie. “All I ever wanted was for Charlotte to be happy, and you made her happy. And I also know that you always wanted the best for her. Don’t you still want that?”

  “Of course. I love her.”

  His use of the present tense is a hopeful admission. Then again, Zach is too smart to be tripped up by wordplay.

  “Then why won’t you talk to the police?”

  “They think I killed her. And I didn’t. But they think I did.”

  He says this with an accusatory tone. As if he’s the victim with whom I should sympathize.

  “No, they don’t,” I say softly, as if talking to a child. “I’ve known Lieutenant Velasquez a long time. He may come on strong, but he’s always been honest with me. He would have told me if he suspected you of anything. The truth is the opposite, in fact. He told me there’s evidence pointing to other people. It’s your refusal to cooperate that’s raising suspicions. Until you told him that you wouldn’t cooperate, he’d assumed you’d be just like me—willing to do anything to help them find Charlotte.”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it!”

  I’m shocked by Zach’s sudden flash of anger. It reminds me of Charlotte’s description of the fictional Marco—how his rage could be triggered as easily as flipping a light switch
.

  “I’m her boyfriend, not her sister,” Zach says. “And I’m a goddamn black man! The police were looking to put the blame on me from day one, and they’re not going to look anywhere else if they can pin it on me.”

  He’s right. He knows it, and he knows that I know it too. Nevertheless, I try to convince him that he couldn’t be more off base.

  “The only thing that I can think of worse than Charlotte being gone is the wrong person being accused of it. And look, Zach, I’m not going to lie to you. Like I said, I’ve always liked you, and I liked you with Charlotte because she was happy with you. But Charlotte is my family. If you guys broke up, you and me, we’d probably never talk again. But I don’t want the police falsely accusing you any more than you do. If they did that, we wouldn’t be any closer to getting Charlotte back.”

  “The difference is that I know I didn’t hurt her, but you don’t know that,” he says, calmer now. “And so if the police tell you that I did it, you’re going to believe them. But I didn’t do it, Ella. I swear to God I didn’t.”

  One of the occupational hazards of being a prosecutor—or a defense lawyer, for that matter—is that people lie to your face every single day. I can’t even begin to count the number of suspects who’ve made the exact same pronouncement as Zach. They’ll swear their innocence to God, on their children’s eyes, on all that’s holy, and yet they’re still as guilty as sin.

  Despite my training, I still can’t get my head around the idea that Zach killed Charlotte. There’s something he’s hiding—that I can feel in my bones—but I don’t believe it’s that he murdered her. Perhaps that’s only because I want to believe—hope—that no one murdered Charlotte.

  I stop, and quiet fills the room. My father preaches that silence is the best interrogator. “I learn more about the other side’s evidence by letting them talk than by asking pointed questions,” he told me once. “You’d be surprised what people will reveal if you give them the chance to do it.”