Mortal Crimes 1

by Various Authors

“I see,” Waverly said. “Yet you didn’t feel Ms. Baldacci deserved the same benefit of the doubt?”

  “Not when I saw the forensics.”

  “But you’ve now testified twice that you kept going back to Ms. Baldacci as your potential prime suspect. Which would indicate to me that you’d had her in mind even before you had the forensics report or found the sweatshirt in her garbage bin. Is that a fair characterization of your thinking?”

  “We had several people in mind, but yes, she was the one who stuck out.”

  “But doesn’t that contradict your earlier testimony, detective?”

  Meyer frowned. “How so?”

  “You’ve said several times that when you investigate a crime, you learn very quickly that the evidence is all that matters. That you follow it to see where it leads.”

  “That’s right,” Meyer said.

  “Yet early in this investigation, when you had only a few phone calls to go on, it was Ms. Baldacci who, as you said, stuck out. And even though ADA Lutz had called the victim several times himself and fit the statistical profile to a T, you almost immediately dismissed him as a potential—”

  “Is there a question in there somewhere?” Abernathy barked.

  Judge O’Donnell said, “I assume you have one, Ms. Waverly?”

  “I do, Your Honor.” She looked at the witness. “Detective Meyer, prior to the discovery of the forensic evidence—in fact, prior to even questioning my client—why did you consider her a suspect over Mr. Lutz?”

  Meyer opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. For the first time he seemed to be at a loss for an answer, his cocksure demeanor vacating him like smoke up a chimney.

  “Detective Meyer?”

  Hutch could almost see the gears grinding inside Meyer’s head. He regained his composure, then said, “Because of the nature of those phone calls. Ms. Keating’s secretary said they were quite heated.”

  “Yet you didn’t feel it was necessary to ask Mr. Lutz about the nature of his. You just assumed they were friendly, isn’t that right?”

  Meyer was again at a loss for a response, and Hutch could see the anger rising inside him. He hoped the jury could see it as well.

  “You seem to be struggling for answer, Detective, so I’ll withdraw the question and ask you another. You’ve stated several times that your experience as an investigator has taught you how to spot a liar, correct?”

  “I don’t know about several times,” Meyer said. “But, yeah. Most people aren’t very good at it.”

  “What about a woman by the name of Rebecca Tyler? Was she a liar, too?”

  Abernathy jumped to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. Detective Meyer’s previous cases have no bearing on these proceedings.”

  The judge waved a hand at him. “Sit down, Mr. Abernathy. We’ve been over this ad infinitum and I’m allowing it.”

  “I want my objection noted for the record.”

  “That’s why we have a court reporter. Now sit down, please.”

  Abernathy made a show of his unhappiness, demonstrating for the jury the unfairness of it all, then sat back down.

  “Detective Meyer?” Waverly said. “Was Rebecca Tyler a liar?”

  “The Tyler case was complicated.”

  “Oh? Can you give us the particulars, please?”

  “This was about seven years ago,” Meyer said. “A child abduction case. Ms. Tyler’s daughter Kayla went missing from her home, and Ms. Tyler was convinced that her ex-husband—the girl’s former stepfather—had taken her. Three days later Kayla’s dismembered body was found in a supermarket dumpster in Bronzeville.”

  Several of the jurors’ faces blanched in horror, while others nodded their heads as if remembering the event. Hutch had no memory of it himself, but it had happened after he’d left for California, and apparently had never gotten any national airplay.

  Waverly said, “And you were the lead detective, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you question the girl’s former stepfather?”

  “Of course. Based on Tyler’s statements, he was initially our prime suspect.”

  “Yet he wasn’t immediately arrested, was he?”

  “No,” Meyer said.

  “Why not?”

  “He had a solid alibi for the time of Kayla’s disappearance. He had been fishing with his father and brother, both of whom corroborated.”

  “So you turned your attention to the mother, correct? Rebecca Tyler.”

  “Yes.”

  “And why was that?”

  “A number of reasons.”

  “Can you give us an example?”

  Meyer cleared his throat. “Well, we’re back to statistics again, but studies have shown us that the mother is most often culpable for the murder of a child under the age of five, a phenomenon known as maternal filicide. Kayla was six, but that was close enough in my book.”

  “But you’ve already told us that you don’t rely on statistics—at least not as they apply to the case at bar. Was there any other reason you focused on Ms. Tyler?”

  Meyer nodded. “Every witness we spoke to said that she was a terrible mother. She drank a lot, smoked marijuana, had multiple boyfriends. She would often put Kayla to bed at night, then go out and party.”

  “That may be poor judgment,” Waverly said, “but it doesn’t make her a murderer. Did she have an alibi for the night her daughter disappeared?”

  “Yes. She claimed she went out clubbing with her friends and when she came home, Kayla was gone.”

  “And did her friends corroborate?”

  “Yes.”

  Waverly frowned. “Then I don’t understand. Why was she detained? You didn’t believe them?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Meyer said. “Not for a New York minute.”

  “You thought they were covering for her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lying?”

  “Yes.”

  Waverly mulled this over for a moment, then said, “So please explain something to me, Detective Meyer. Why is it that you didn’t believe Ms. Tyler’s friends, yet the moment her ex-husband’s brother and father gave him an alibi, you dismissed him as a suspect?”

  Meyer shrugged. “I considered them more credible witnesses.”

  “Why? Because they were men, not slutty little party girls?”

  Abernathy was on his feet again. “Objection, Your Honor. This is outrageous.”

  “Sustained,” the judge said, glowering at Waverly. “Reign yourself in, counsel.”

  “My apologies, Your Honor.” As she turned to glance at Ronnie, however, she had a slight smile on her face. “Detective Meyer, did you have any physical evidence against Ms. Tyler?”

  “No,” Meyer said.

  “Nothing to prove that she had murdered her daughter?”

  “No,” Meyer said.

  “Yet isn’t it true that you pushed for her continued detention, forcing her attorney to seek a writ of habeas corpus for her release?”

  “I believed she was guilty.”

  “That’s not really an answer, Detective, but it’ll do. Can you tell me what the ultimate outcome of the case was? Were any formal charges against Ms. Tyler ever filed?”

  “No,” Meyer said.

  “And why is that?”

  Meyer shifted uncomfortably now. “A witness came forward and confessed to his involvement in the crime.”

  “And who was that witness?”

  Meyer shifted again. “The ex-husband’s brother.”

  “The very same brother who had corroborated the alibi? The one you felt was so credible?”

  Meyer was silent.

  “Detective?”

  “Yes,” he said reluctantly. “The same man.”

  “And what exactly was his involvement in the crime?”

  “He helped dispose of the body.”

  “And who did he help?”

  It was clear by Meyer’s expression that he didn’t want to answer this question. “Kayla’s f
ormer stepfather. The ex-husband.”

  “So Ms. Tyler’s suspicions about her ex turned out to be correct? That he had kidnapped the child from her home?”

  “Yes,” Meyer said.

  Waverly paused, then said, “So tell me this, Detective. Based on your experience with the Tyler case, and the case currently at bar, would you say that your self-professed ability to spot liars often demonstrates a bias against women?”

  “Objection!” Abernathy said, jumping to his feet once again. “This is a specious attempt at character assassination, Your Honor, and—”

  “I’d like to hear his answer,” the judge said. “Overruled.”

  Abernathy’s jaw tightened and he sat down as Waverly repeated the question.

  Trying his best to look unruffled, Meyer said, “My instincts aren’t always perfect. But every case is different. I’m not a woman hater, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  Waverly smiled slightly and shrugged. “I’m just looking at the evidence, Detective. Trying to see where it leads.”

  There were titters around the courtroom as the jab sank in, then Waverly crossed to the defense table and picked up a small stack of paper.

  “Detective Meyer, is it true that approximately four months after the Rebecca Tyler case was concluded, you appeared on a late night radio talk show called The Danger Zone?”

  Hutch saw something flicker in the detective’s eyes. Meyer hadn’t been expecting this and glanced at Abernathy as if to say, Stop her. This won’t be good.

  “Uh… yes,” he managed.

  Waverly handed one of the sheets of paper to the court clerk. “Your Honor, I have here an excerpted transcript of that radio show, which I’d like to enter into evidence as Defense Exhibit A.”

  Abernathy shot her a look and began thumbing through the stack of binders in front of him on the table. “Objection,” he said. “This transcript wasn’t provided to us.”

  “Keep looking,” Waverly told him. “We have proof of service.”

  Gus, who had been sitting next to Hutch, leaned toward him now and whispered, “Looks like a good old game of hide and seek.”

  When Hutch pulled a blank, Gus explained that attorneys sometimes played fast and loose with discovery. They’d place potentially volatile material amid the more innocuous documents that normally received only a cursory glance. If opposing counsel wasn’t diligent in its review of what was sometimes a mountain of paperwork, he might be the victim of a surprise attack.

  As Abernathy continued to search, Waverly stepped over to him and dropped a copy of the transcript on the table. “Free of charge.”

  Looking agitated, Abernathy snatched it up, glanced at it and said, “Your Honor, I don’t see the relevancy of this document in regard to these proceedings.”

  “Its relevance will become clear in just a moment,” Waverly told the judge. “The court ruled that the defendant would be allowed to explore the witness’s previous cases, and this is part of that exploration.”

  Judge O’Donnell nodded. “Please continue, counsel.”

  Waverly looked at Meyer. “Detective, can you tell us the nature of the show you appeared on?”

  “I believe it was a call-in show about politics and current events.”

  “And what was the topic under discussion that night?”

  Meyer shifted again. “That was a long time ago. I don’t really remember.”

  “May I approach the witness, Your Honor?”

  “By all means.”

  Waverly moved to the witness box and handed Meyer a copy of the transcript. “Maybe this will refresh your memory.”

  Meyer took it reluctantly, then glanced down at it.

  “If you look at the top left corner,” she said, “there’s a show number, the date, and the title of that night’s show. Can you please read that title for the court?”

  Meyer fished for a pair of glasses and put them on. “‘The Ones Who Got Away,’” he read.

  “Not very original, but does it refresh your memory at all?”

  He nodded. “The host wanted to talk about criminal cases throughout history in which the prime suspect was either acquitted by a jury or was never charged with the crime.”

  “People like Lizzie Borden and OJ?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Rebecca Tyler?”

  He hesitated. “Yes.”

  “Which is why you were invited on the show, correct? To talk about the case.”

  “Yes,” Meyer said, looking like a man in a desperate search for his swagger.

  Waverly paused, then pointed to the transcript in Meyer’s hand. “Detective, there are numbers on the side of that document. Lines thirty-two through thirty-four are a comment and question posed by the host of the show, a Mr. Alan Crane. Can you read that passage aloud for us, please?”

  Meyer hesitated, then dropped his gaze to the transcript. Then he read, “‘Crane: It looks to me like it all worked out, Detective Meyer. The brother confessed. The ex-husband got twenty to life for what he did. You got your man. So why do you seem so dissatisfied with the outcome?’”

  Waverly nodded and gestured to the sheet of paper again. “Now can you read your response? Lines thirty-five through thirty-nine.”

  “Objection!” Abernathy shouted, seeming to have forgotten the famous dictum, never let them see you sweat.

  “Overruled,” Judge O’Donnell said immediately. “Read the passage Detective.”

  Meyer once again shifted in his seat and stared down at the page. All the fight had gone out of him. “‘Meyer: Yeah, I’m dissatisfied, because I don’t think the guy and his brother were the only ones involved. I think that little slut manipulated him into murdering her kid, so she could go out and party all night and screw anyone who winked at her.’”

  The courtroom was silent. Even though Meyer had read it in a weary monotone, the statement said more about him than the hours of testimony preceding it, and his claim of not being a woman hater had been rendered as hollow as a bamboo saxophone. The women on the jury were looking at him in a whole new way now.

  This didn’t negate the fact that the prosecution still had some pretty damning evidence against Ronnie, but Waverly had successfully managed to remove Meyer’s teeth and set the stage for a wrongful prosecution rap. And everything Meyer had said, everything he would say from here on out, would be regarded with deep suspicion.

  Bravo, Hutch thought. She had played it expertly.

  “Isn’t it true, Detective, that you were reprimanded and suspended for this remark?”

  “Yes,” Meyer said.

  “And didn’t Ms. Tyler’s attorney threaten a lawsuit against both you and the department for defamation of character against his client?”

  “Cops get threats all the time,” Meyer said. “Most of them don’t amount to much.”

  “What about this one? What was the outcome?”

  “It was eventually withdrawn after a deal was made by the city’s Corporation Counsel.”

  “And what were the terms of that deal?”

  “Objection, Your Honor. I doubt those terms are for public consumption.”

  “Overruled.”

  “The terms, Detective?”

  Meyer shifted once again. “Ms. Tyler agreed to forego the suit in exchange for a small sum of money and a personal apology.”

  Waverly arched a brow. “I think you’ve left something out. What else did Ms. Tyler ask for?”

  Meyer clearly didn’t want to answer, but knew he had no choice. “My enrollment in a two-week gender sensitivity class.”

  “Gender sensitivity,” Waverly said with a nearly imperceptible smile. “I think I’ll leave it to the jury to decide whether or not it was effective.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  “IF YOU EVER need a helping hand,” Matt’s father used to say, “you’ll find one at the end of your arm.”

  It was a Yiddish proverb that his old man, a strong believer in self-sufficiency, would drag out whenever times wer
e tough. And Matt’s family had certainly seen their share of tough times over the years.

  Matthew Isaacs, Sr. was a bank clerk who never quite worked his way up past the halfway point of the ladder, and when Matt was fourteen years old, his father was laid off in the midst of a restructuring deal. A couple of very lean years had followed, with Matt Sr. struggling to get any job he could find—mostly temporary day labor that involved his hands more than his brain, and paid just enough to keep them a half-step ahead of the bill collector. But he was a proud man who refused to take any kind of assistance.

  Matt himself wasn’t a stranger to tough times. Two marriages and divorces in the span of eight and a half years tend to take their emotional toll. And with the death knell of the newspaper business ringing loudly around the world, and his year-long relationship with a married woman coming to an abrupt and messy end (surprise, surprise), he felt as if he needed to regain some control of his life.

  Channeling his energy into Ronnie’s survival was his way of doing just that.

  Last night, when Hutch had proposed that they all do what the cops had failed to do—what the cops had no real interest in doing—that Yiddish proverb had immediately come to mind.

  If you ever need a helping hand, you’ll find one at the end of your arm.

  In short, Hutch was right. They couldn’t rely on fate or Waverly’s legal team to get Ronnie out of this mess. They’d have to do it themselves.

  So, first thing this morning, as the others cued up at the courtroom to watch the trial, Matt paid a visit to the Wyndham Academy of Pet Grooming.

  The place was run by an officious little bitch (and, yes, that was the appropriate word here) whose disdain for reporters, or men, or both, seemed to run very deep. It was a case of detest at first sight, and all the ammo in Matt’s charm locker couldn’t penetrate this woman’s Kevlar. Matt didn’t know who had done her wrong, but he’d done it good.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Isaacs,” she’d said through lips pursed so tight you could use them for a band seal, “but I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

  He had just finished showing her his Post credentials and a photo of Frederick Langer, telling her (to the accompaniment of several barking dogs) that he was trying to locate the man for a human interest story. Did she perhaps remember Langer or anyone he may have interacted with while he was a student at her school?