Brenda was getting excited. “You know what something like this might be worth? Most of these guys are receiving close to their full salary. When you’re injured on duty and retire on full benefits, you make only slightly less than you did when you were working. That means these guys are getting paid for doing nothing, and not only that, they’ll keep getting checks until they die.”
“That’s it, don’t you see?” Stella said. “Over the course of their lifetime, depending on how old they are when they retire, we’re talking about hundreds of thousands of dollars. Also,” she added, “think of this. If these men aren’t legitimately disabled, and obviously they aren’t or they wouldn’t have to pay my uncle to get them approved, they can take extra jobs and double their income. That means they could end up making more money this way than when they were cops, and no one’s going to take a shot at them. On the outside jobs, they just keep a low profile and ask to be paid under the table.”
“They don’t even have to do that,” Brenda said, leaning forward over the table. “Let’s say they’re injured for a bad elbow, making it impossible for them to draw their weapon and remain a cop. They can’t perform their duties, so they’re technically disabled. But they could be an accountant, a salesman, any number of other occupations and still draw a disability check for the rest of their lives. If they get paid on the books, they lose some of their pension, but only a small percentage.”
Once she stopped speaking, Brenda’s face fell. “This is fascinating stuff, Stella,” she said, “but how does this relate to the fire? I’m not here to clean up police corruption in Houston. Growman instructed me to work on your case and nothing else.”
“It may not relate to the fire,” Stella told her, “but it could be connected to Randall’s death. If Victor Pilgrim is a member of the Knights of Columbus and was also retired on disability, he’s probably a beneficiary of my uncle’s little pension scam. Therefore, my uncle could have orchestrated him stepping forward as a witness. You know, claiming he saw a woman in a white Hertz rental car leaving the scene of the crime.”
“I see what you mean,” Brenda said, staring at the cursor blinking on the computer screen. “For all we know, Pilgrim might owe your uncle money. Maybe he didn’t have the whole sum, and your uncle took care of him anyway. All he did was call the debt due. But how did your uncle know you were driving a white rental car?”
Stella stood, too tense to remain seated. “Easy,” she said. “He’s got dozens of eyes and ears, remember? The entire Houston P.D. is at his beck and call.” Was there really something to pursue, or were they just wasting valuable time?
Stella paced back and forth in Mario’s small kitchen, going over in her mind what they had learned. Thirty-one men, all retired on disability after a brief period of employment, all members of the Knights of Columbus, all transfers from other departments. The more she thought about it, the more energized she became, the way she always felt when a case started to come together. In the early stages of an investigation, suspects and possible scenarios seemed to blink on and off like dots on a radar screen. Stella would look at them and see nothing. Then she’d examine them a week later, and see something entirely different. When the blinking dots moved closer together, though, an alarm always sounded. “Conspiracy,” Stella said, as if she were issuing a proclamation.
“Okay,” Brenda said. “I agree with you that something’s going on. But even if your uncle is dirty, it doesn’t mean he has anything to do with these killings.”
For Stella, though, the puzzle seemed to be falling into place. She sat down, searching for the remaining pieces. “My dad was a straight shooter, Brenda. He decided my uncle was a crook only a short time before the fire. Maybe he learned about my uncle’s scam and threatened to expose him.”
“His own brother?” Brenda said. “You really believe he would do that?”
“Maybe,” she said. “He was terribly jealous of my uncle. Clem seemed to have everything while my father was barely getting by.” Her voice softened. “Our house, well, it wasn’t much. My dad built it with discarded lumber he found on various construction sites. The walls were paper thin. I don’t think he used drywall, because it was too expensive. The walls were made of reinforced plywood, I think, and the house wasn’t insulated at all. During the winter, we froze to death, and in the summer months, the heat was unbearable.”
“Didn’t your father make a fairly good income as a building inspector?” Brenda asked. “The way you’re describing it, you were dirt poor.”
“He was behind the eight ball,” Stella said. “He tried to imitate my uncle by opening up his own construction company, but all he did was run up enormous debts. He could never get the company off the ground. I don’t think he had the necessary business skills.”
“If your house was that poorly constructed,” Brenda said, “no wonder it burned so fast.” She stopped speaking and thought it through, trying to test Stella’s reasoning. “Let’s say your father did threaten to expose your uncle and your uncle tried to stop him, do you think he would be willing to kill an entire family to protect himself? The person you’re describing would have to be enormously cruel to do something like that, particularly to his own relatives. Wouldn’t he have realized his nephew and niece were inside that house, along with his sister-in-law? It’s one thing to kill the person posing the threat,” she added, “but it takes a real son of a bitch to risk the lives of an innocent woman and her two children.”
“He could have hired someone else to do it,” Stella said. She went over to pour herself a cup of coffee and refilled Brenda’s cup as well. “Maybe my uncle had one of his police pals take care of it for him. Possibly he didn’t intend to kill anyone, only scare my dad into backing off. Then something went wrong, and the fire got out of hand.”
“Like someone tried to scare you off last night?” Brenda said, a tense expression on her face. She stood and disappeared into the other room, returning a short time later. She was carrying something in her hands, but took her seat, keeping the object concealed in her lap.
“What’s that?” Stella said.
“Have you ever fired a gun?” Brenda asked.
“Never,” Stella said, recoiling. “I hate guns. Besides, Brenda, I’d never be able to fire a gun at a human being.”
“Once we get the court to hand over a copy of the Randall tape,” the investigator told her, “I’m going to have to fly back to Dallas. I’ve found a lab in Dallas that’s willing to create the program we need, but I have to work alongside them and help them to design it correctly. If you’re going to stay here in Houston, you need protection.” She placed a 9mm Ruger on the table, the gun striking the butcher block with a resounding thud. “This is from my personal collection. I want you to keep it.” She picked up the gun and removed the clip. “It’s fairly easy to use,” she said, slamming the clip back in place and setting the gun in front of Stella. “All you have to do is point it and fire. I’ll give you another ammo clip just in case you need it. There’s fifteen rounds in every clip.”
Stella shook her head. “I don’t want it,” she said. “I could never point that thing at someone and pull the trigger. Just the thought of it makes me sick.”
Brenda’s voice was loud and jarring. “If someone tried to set you on fire again, do you think you could pull the trigger? You know what it feels like to be burned. Could you suffer that kind of agony again? Maybe next time, Stella, they’ll make certain you don’t survive.”
“I’d rather die than go through what I went through before,” Stella said, touching the right side of her face.
Brenda said, “Take the gun, Stella. If what you suspect is true, and your uncle has been running a disability scam, the people you could be up against will definitely be armed. They’re all ex-cops. Think about it.” She grabbed a doughnut out of the box on the table and took a bite. Then she set it back on her napkin. “Your father and uncle were from Sicily, right? This little scheme of your uncle’s smacks of the mob. Mayb
e your uncle was connected to one of the crime families out of Sicily and your father didn’t realize it.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Stella said. “They were both children when they came over here.”
“What about your grandfather?” she asked. “If he was involved in organized crime in Sicily, your uncle could have gotten his feet wet as a young man. Don’t kid yourself, Stella. These people start early. Who was the older of the brothers?”
“My father,” Stella said. “I think that’s why he became so envious of my uncle’s success.”
“Well,” she continued, “have you ever thought of the possibility that both your father and uncle were involved in this scam together both of them connected to organized crime? You know how many people bribe building inspectors?” She stopped and sighed. “A building inspector and a police captain. Shit, Stella, can’t you see how valuable these occupations could be to the Mafia?”
“My father wasn’t a wiseguy,” Stella said, finding the mere thought preposterous. “He was about as far from a criminal as a person can get. He was a simple man, a workingman, just trying to raise his family and give us a decent life. If he had been a gangster, don’t you think we would have lived in something nicer than a shack?” She laughed. “You’ve been watching too many old movies, Brenda.”
“It’s your neck,” Brenda shrugged. “But if you stay here in Houston, you better have a way to protect yourself. I feel certain your life is in danger. Last night was just a tease, a little wake-up call. Someone wants to give you a taste of what you can expect if you don’t stop digging.”
“I don’t want the gun,” Stella said, pushing it back across the table. “If I ever get out of this mess, I want to build my political platform on this very issue. I can’t very well tote a gun around and claim I’m a gun control advocate.”
“You’ll never get elected in Texas on a gun control platform,” the investigator said.
“I’ll probably never get elected, anyway,”
Stella answered, disappointment etched on her face. She wasn’t one to throw her hands up and quit, but in this regard, she knew her dreams were light-years from reality. Even if she were completely cleared, she would always be “that Stella Cataloni”—the prosecutor who had been charged with murder.
“If you won’t take the gun,” Brenda continued, “then you’d better get out of Houston. As long as you stay in this town, you’re a sitting duck.”
“I’ll go back to Dallas, then,” Stella said. She went to pack her things, leaving the gun on the table.
At one o’clock that afternoon, Stella appeared for an evidentiary hearing in Judge Maddox’s courtroom. Brenda had insisted that she get the court to release a copy of the Randall tape, along with the melted metal samples they had found in the evidence room.
“Your Honor, I don’t have a problem with the Randall tape,” Holly Oppenheimer responded once Stella had set forth her request, “but why do they need a few pieces of metal? We’re conducting tests on these items as we speak. I sent them to the crime lab just this morning. What am I supposed to do? Abandon our tests and just hand over anything they want?”
“The prosecution has had these samples in their possession for sixteen years,” Stella argued, “and they still haven’t been able to identify them. The law affords the defense the right to conduct independent testing. If we don’t acquire these samples immediately, we won’t be able to conclude the tests prior to the prelim next week.”
They argued back and forth for the next thirty minutes before Judge Maddox finally issued her ruling. “I think Ms. Cataloni has made her point,” she said. “The People,have been in control of the evidence and have had ample opportunity to conduct any number of tests should they have desired to do so. The evidence in question will therefore be transported to the lab Ms. Cataloni has designated on Thursday of this week, to be returned the following Tuesday. As to the Randall tape,” she continued, “I would assume a copy of it could be made available today. Is that correct, Ms. Oppenheimer?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Holly said, slapping back in her seat.
Brenda Anderson slipped in the back door of the courtroom and quietly made her way to the counsel table. Taking a seat next to Stella, she leaned over and whispered in her ear.
Stella sprang to her feet just as the gavel was about to come down. “Your Honor,” she said, “a serious discrepancy has just been brought to my attention. One of the metal pieces has disappeared. It’s listed on the inventory sheet, but no longer physically present in the evidence room.” She pointed at Holly. “Ms. Oppenheimer is purposely trying to sabotage any tests we might conduct. If the missing evidence isn’t located by tomorrow,” she said, “I shall have to ask the court to continue the prelim to a later date. We have to be able to examine the evidence in order to prepare a proper defense.”
“Are you aware of this problem?” Judge Maddox asked Holly, a scowl on her face.
“This is a sixteen-year-old case. Your Honor,” Holly said. “The defense knows perfectly well how difficult it is to control a large quantity of evidence for so long. They’re using this as a ploy to buy additional time and delay the court proceedings.” She glanced at Stella and snarled, “We resent the implication that a member of the prosecution team would purposely tamper with evidence. Ms. Cataloni can’t make allegations like this without proof.”
“Settle down, Ms. Oppenheimer,” Judge Maddox said. “Why don’t we handle it this way?” She jotted some notes in the file and then rendered her ruling. “A complete and thorough search of the police evidence room is hereby ordered to locate the missing evidence. This search shall be conducted immediately and the results made available to this court by nine o’clock tomorrow morning. If the evidence isn’t located, I’ll consider the defense’s motion for a continuance at that time.”
“There’s no way we can comply with this order,” Holly shouted. “It could take weeks to sort through all the items contained in the evidence room. The sample they’re referring to is only a little larger than a thumbnail.” She dropped her voice and continued, “There’s no way to arrive at a positive identification, Your Honor, no matter how many tests they plan to conduct. The metal pieces have been already examined at an earlier date and described as an aluminum alloy. Due to the intense heat inside that house, the metal is melted and unrecognizable. There’s no way to tell what type of object this metal came from, therefore, the defense’s request is invalid.”
“But your agency is testing this material right now,” Judge Maddox said. “Isn’t that what you said, Ms. Oppenheimer?”
“Well, yes, Your Honor,” Holly said reluctantly, realizing she had talked herself into a corner, “but these are only perfunctory tests. We don’t anticipate discovering anything earth shattering. The object is probably something innocuous like a piece of cookware or an aluminum teapot, not exactly the type of evidence Ms. Cataloni needs to prove her innocence.”
“My ruling stands,” Judge Maddox said abruptly. “This court is adjourned until nine o’clock tomorrow morning.”
As soon as they got out of court, Stella and Brenda Anderson picked up a copy of Randall’s taped statement from the D.A.‘s office, then rushed back to Mario’s apartment to play it. After the tape clicked off, Stella shook her head in disbelief. “If Randall had only told this story sixteen years ago,” she said, “he might still be alive today.”
“What do you mean?” Brenda asked.
“When Carl Winters first contacted him after the fire, he didn’t mention seeing my father arguing with an unknown man in the front yard. Don’t you see, Brenda?” she said. “This person must have been my uncle. Randall even heard my father call the person a crook, and my dad had started calling my uncle a crook right before he died. This confirms everything we talked about this morning.”
“Possibly,” Brenda said, a look of concern on her face. “It also confirms what I’ve been trying to tell you. You’re in danger, Stella. I’ve been making inquiries into your uncle�
��s affairs all day, calling and faxing all the various police departments throughout the state, asking specific questions as to why these men decided to transfer to Houston, and whether they ever tried to claim disability. How long do you think it will be before someone puts two and two together and alerts your uncle? Police officers are very clannish. If he doesn’t know already, I guarantee he’ll know by tomorrow or the next day.”
“He killed Randall, see,” Stella said. “He must have got his hands on his statement through his connections at the police department. Then he became terrified that I’d figure it out once I heard Randall say he had seen my father arguing with someone that night on the lawn. So, he shoots Randall, thinking that will put an end to it. The state no longer has a witness, and therefore no reason to reopen the case. His nasty little secrets stay buried forever.”
“Why did he have Victor Pilgrim step forward, then?” Brenda countered. “Once he gave the state another witness, he erased what he had accomplished by killing Randall.”
“How do I know?” Stella snapped, tense and irritable. “Maybe he did it just to make certain I took the fall for Randall’s death. He’s always believed I killed my father.”
“I just think there’s more to this than meets the eye,” Brenda said. “If you could just remember the night of the fire, I’m certain you’d recall something significant. Maybe you saw the killer himself and that’s why you suppressed it.”
Stella’s head was spinning. Was it possible? When she tried to think back to the night of the fire, it was as though a wall came down and there was no way she could pass through it. “There’s no use discussing it,” she told her. “I can’t remember. I’ve tried for years and I just can’t.”
Brenda said, “I have an idea. It’s a little radical, but it might work. We have to circumvent your memory somehow and get you back to the night of the fire, tap directly into your subconscious. It’s all there, Stella. All we have to do is find a way to get to it.”
Trial by Fire Page 18
