Deck the Hounds--An Andy Carpenter Mystery

by David Rosenfelt

  The fact was that he didn’t know who those employers were.

  He knew Carl, the man who gave him his assignments. But he also knew that Carl was not the man’s real name, and he did not even know how to contact him. Carl did the contacting, when he had a job that needed doing. But Ernie didn’t have any way of knowing if Carl was the top guy; in fact, he suspected that he wasn’t.

  Squealing on someone without being able to tell the cops who he was squealing on, or where that person could be found, did not exactly guarantee a witness protection ticket. So that option was closed to him.

  Another possibility was to hope Carl contacted him, and then to confess his sins and rely on Carl’s understanding and compassion. Carl somehow always knew how to find him, which until now was a good thing. Ernie didn’t spend more than a few seconds on this approach; Carl had already demonstrated that understanding and compassion was not part of his makeup.

  The fourth option was the one Ernie would take. It included no guarantee of success; in fact, its ultimate failure was all but inevitable. But it might buy some time, and allow Ernie to live another day.

  Ernie would run.

  I’m not big on experiencing stuff.

  I understand that this sets me apart from most of humanity, but I’m okay with that, because I think that logic is on my side.

  For example, last summer Laurie roped me into going apple picking with her and Ricky at a farm in upstate New York. So we bathed ourselves in completely ineffective antimosquito spray and went out in ninety-degree heat to take fruit that had reached the second stage of rotting off trees.

  I pointed out that there were supermarkets where we could get any kind of ripe, clean apples we wanted in air-conditioned, mosquito-free comfort, but was informed that we’d be missing out on the “experience.”

  Today’s similar experience is driving to a Christmas tree farm to pick out a tree and cut it down for use in our house. It’s absolutely freezing out, so Ricky and I take turns swinging the damn ax, trying to keep warm. Laurie takes a cell phone video of us doing it, probably so she can post it on Facebook and humiliate us. That doesn’t bother me; if she puts it on my page, Ricky is the only one who will see it.

  We finally finish beating the hell out of the tree, getting it out of the ground and then strapping it to the top of our car.

  “You sure that will hold?” Laurie asks.

  “Sure it’ll hold,” I say, even though the extent of my Christmas tree car-strapping knowledge is skimpy at best. “I don’t think it will,” Ricky says, based on his well-documented years of experience in tree transportation.

  Of course it doesn’t hold; it starts to slip off twice on the highway, and we have to pull over and restrap it. We had left a sharp edge in the tree trunk where we cut it, and it wound up scratching the car trunk. I hope Laurie doesn’t see it; she might not appreciate the irony of trunk scratching trunk.

  “It scratched the trunk,” Laurie says, pointing.

  I nod. “I know, but it’s worth it, because we’re having so much fun.” I don’t mention that since Laurie keeps the tree up until the end of January, by the time we’re finished with this one it will belong in the Petrified Forest.

  We stop at a store to buy a new stand and extra lights, and in the process we walk by at least fifty perfectly cut trees that they are selling, with home delivery included. “We could have gotten a tree here, Mom,” Ricky says.

  “Your father likes to cut down his own,” she says.

  “When I was a kid we used to chop down trees in the morning, and then chew on the bark for breakfast,” I say. “That’s why I never had a cavity.”

  “You make up a lot of stuff,” Ricky says.

  So I’m not necessarily into experiencing things when there is an easier way to get them done, but the one thing I love doing, and have always loved doing, is going to live sporting events. There is something about sports stadiums that gets to me; even driving by empty ones gets me excited. I take Ricky to as many games as I can, in all different kinds of sports, and I’m happy to say that he seems to share my love for it.

  I would say that it’s obvious he is my son, except for the fact that he likes picking apples.

  When we finally get home and drag the stupid tree into the house, we find the initial discovery documents that Hike has dropped off. I settle into the den and prepare to read them, a prospect I always dread.

  Reading discovery for the first time reminds me of a show Laurie occasionally watches; I think it’s on the Food Network. A couple of wannabe chefs get into a cooking contest with each other, and some judges eat the food they’ve prepared at the end to determine who did a better job.

  But just before the time clock starts, the chefs open a box which contains all the ingredients they will have to use to make their dishes. This is it; this is what they will be forced to work with.

  Reading discovery documents reminds me of that show. I am about to learn the facts of the case as the prosecution sees it, and more important, I will find out what ingredients they will be using to make their case. I won’t get any choice; the chefs and I have to make do with what we are given.

  In this case the ingredients are skimpy but powerful. Carrigan has a history of some violence. After two terms in Iraq, he was stationed domestically and got into a couple of fights. The implication is that although he wasn’t court-martialed, both he and the government came to the mutual agreement that his military days were over.

  Once he was a civilian, Carrigan was arrested for getting into a few more fights in various places. The charges were all dropped, although one of his adversaries apparently wound up in a hospital. There are reports that Carrigan was, and no doubt is, suffering from a substantial case of post-traumatic stress disorder.

  The evidence connecting Carrigan to the murder of Steven McMaster is simple and circumstantial, but powerful. A woolen cap was found in the garage of McMaster’s house, where the man was apparently accosted. The hat contained a number of hairs, as hats are wont to do, and the DNA of those hairs matched Carrigan’s.

  Additionally, Carrigan kept a locker at the facility which provided food and shelter to the homeless, and one of the items found in that locker was a ring that Karen McMaster has identified as belonging to her deceased husband.

  Game, set, and match.

  The documents contain other investigative work that the police did at the time, but it is obvious that once the DNA match was made, they didn’t consider it a whodunit.

  In terms of the facts of the crime, McMaster’s neck was broken, a fact that the police found consistent with Carrigan’s military training and combat experience. McMaster’s wife was out of town, but when she couldn’t reach him, she called a friend to check on the house. It was the friend who discovered the body.

  According to the wife, a large amount of jewelry was taken, as well as a considerable amount of cash. None of the stolen merchandise or cash was ever recovered.

  A warrant went out for the arrest of Carrigan, but he had moved out of his most recent apartment, and was nowhere to be found. He had only a couple of distant relatives, and they disclaimed any knowledge of his whereabouts. So he was not found until I blabbed his name in the newspapers.

  These are not great ingredients for Chef Andy to work with.

  The parking lot was an aging five-story structure.

  Parking was free, part of an effort by the city of Passaic to get more people to come and spend their money at the downtown stores. It had never worked; the malls of nearby Paramus were far more appealing.

  So the lot was rarely crowded, and the top floor was always virtually empty. There was no reason to drive up there if there were spots available on floors below it. Also, the top floor was uncovered rooftop parking, and no one would want to leave their car in the baking sun all day in the summer, or risk it getting stuck in snow in the winter.

  The shooter had been assured that the sightline was sufficient and that there were no security cameras. The target
location was the front of a restaurant three blocks away, a distance that for a shooter of his talents might as well have been five feet. There would be little chance of him missing.

  The shooter arrived at the parking lot at 1:15. Based on frequent observation, the target would leave the restaurant between 1:25 and 1:30. He was not there every day, only when he had business at the nearby courthouse. Court resumed at 2:00 P.M., and as an attorney, he had to be in place when his case was called. But he was going to be there this day; his case was next on the docket. The shooter had confirmed that.

  The target’s name was Ronald Lester, and among his specialties was family law. That was a dubious claim, since most of his work was in the area of divorce, which meant he was involved in the dissolution of families. But Lester handled other matters as well, and he was considered the dean of New Jersey lawyers, mainly because he had practiced for thirty-five years and counting.

  The weather on this day was ideal for the shooter’s task: a bright sunny day requiring him to bring sunglasses, but with no wind and obviously no precipitation.

  By 1:20 he was in place. There were no bystanders, but even if there were it is likely that his car would have shielded him from being seen. In any event, if there were any chance of his actions being observed, he would have aborted and waited for another day.

  But all was perfect; today would be the day.

  At 1:27 Ronald Lester walked out of the restaurant with a colleague, and at 1:28 he was dead of a single bullet to the heart.

  Chaos erupted in front of the restaurant, as everyone sought cover, not knowing whether other bullets were to follow. The shooter did not pause to admire his handiwork; he quickly put his rifle back into its case, loaded it into the trunk of his car, and drove down the five floors and out into the street.

  But it was not correct to say that he left no trace of his presence behind.

  He failed to retrieve his sunglass case.

  “I find myself to be of two minds,” Carrigan says.

  This is in response to my asking him how he is doing when he is first brought into the lawyer’s meeting room. I’ve asked a lot of jailed clients how they are doing; it’s a clever conversation starter that I use. But his answer is a first for me; most of my clients usually opt for “terrible,” “miserable,” or “shitty.”

  “How so?” I ask.

  “I simultaneously do not want to be convicted of this crime, yet I have little concern for what might happen to me. Maybe my wanting to prevail is an involuntary need to regain some long-lost dignity.”

  I nod. “I wouldn’t describe your dignity as lost. But for now, let’s concentrate on the part of you that doesn’t want to be convicted.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I tell him what I’ve learned by reading the discovery documents, and the circumstances of the crime he has been charged with. I’m not great at reading faces, but his looks almost amused as he listens to what I have to say.

  “So I made off with large amounts of cash and jewelry?”

  “That’s what they’re contending.”

  “I must have invested the proceeds badly,” he says. “Very badly.”

  “So you had nothing to do with this?”

  “Absolutely nothing.”

  “What about the other violent incidents?” I ask.

  “Guilty as not charged. But I was definitely involved. I understand that it demonstrates a propensity towards violence. I was trained to be violent.”

  “The documents also say you are suffering from PTSD,” I say.

  “The documents are correct.”

  “I need to know more about it. It can contribute to our defense.”

  He shakes his head. “No. I’m not going to say that I killed this person because the demons made me do it. They did not, and I did not.”

  I nod. “Fair enough. But I still want to know more about it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I need to know everything. I’m your attorney; if you know something, I have to know it. It’s the only way I can be prepared.” Then, “It’s the way I was trained.”

  He smiles. “Okay, but no PTSD defense. If we go that route, I’d just as soon say I pulled the trigger.”

  I hadn’t said how McMaster had died, and the fact that Carrigan assumed it was by a gunshot makes me feel better about him. Of course, he could have said that deliberately for just that purpose, but I don’t think so. “McMaster’s neck was broken,” I say.

  He frowns. “That’s not good. Deadly hand-to-hand combat was part of my training, and I remain very good at it.”

  “There are two main pieces of evidence tying you to the crime. The first is that a hat was left at the scene; the theory is that it fell off during a struggle in the garage, before he was forced to go into the house to open the safe. It included strands of hair that have been identified by DNA as yours. Any idea how your hat got there?”

  “None.”

  “Think about it. Because those were definitely your hairs, which means it was likely your hat.”

  “I will. What was the second piece of evidence?”

  “You have a locker at the shelter where you have some meals?”

  He nods. “I do.”

  “A ring was found in there which has been identified as belonging to the murder victim.”

  “I’ve never seen any such ring. I don’t own a ring.”

  “Then think about how it could have gotten there. Now, back to the PTSD. Tell me about it.”

  He shakes his head. “You’d get a slanted view. I can send you to someone who knows more about me than I do.”

  He gives me the name and number of a shrink at the VA hospital that he used to see, and signs a short letter authorizing her to talk to me. The truth is that I don’t see how it will be useful at trial if it’s not the centerpiece of our defense, but I was telling Carrigan the truth. I like to accumulate all the information I can, and then some of it will come in handy, and some of it won’t.

  At this point I’ve sort of eased into the case, without making an affirmative decision to do so. I basically like Carrigan, not something I can say with all of my clients. I have no idea if he committed the crime; he probably did, based on the DNA evidence.

  There could be extenuating circumstances; maybe his mental challenges are such that he is not even aware of what he’s done. But I’m feeling like he’s entitled to a real defense, if for no other reason than it’s the best way I can think of for getting to the truth.

  I have reached a point in my career where I have only been defending innocent clients. It’s nice to have that freedom, but in this case I’m treading close to the edge. I’m not sure about Carrigan yet, but I’m hopeful, and that is going to have to be enough.

  So I guess I have a client.

  The legal world of Passaic County, New Jersey, is grinding to a halt today.

  A beloved lawyer, Ronald Lester, was gunned down by a sniper’s bullet in front of a local restaurant near the courthouse. “Beloved” and “lawyer” are not words that are commonly grouped together in a sentence, but Lester certainly fit the bill.

  He practiced mostly family law but was what might be called, to use a medical term, a general practitioner. He dabbled in criminal and civil law, and even did some estate and probate work. But the point is that he did everything with a smile, and very few people walked out of court considering him an enemy, even when he represented the other side.

  I wasn’t close to Ronald, but I knew him well enough. He was actually closer in age to my father, Nelson, who was himself a legend in legal circles. Nelson was the county prosecutor, and when Ronald was starting out he briefly worked in the prosecutor’s office. My father sort of mentored him, and they stayed close until my father’s death. Ronald always called me “kid.”

  Everybody is here at the service: lawyers, court staff, police officers … everybody, including me. Many of the judges also found reasons to empty their docket for the day, and they are here as well. It’s a deser
ving tribute to a life well lived.

  There is unfortunately an undercurrent of concern, if not fear, among the people gathered here. There is something about a shooting by an apparent sniper that inspires an extra dose of terror. There feels like no way to protect oneself; the bullet can come at any time, without any warning, or any ability to see it coming.

  But the word I hear is that law enforcement doesn’t think Ronald was shot randomly; only one bullet was fired and it hit him in the heart. They traced the source of the shooting to a parking garage three blocks away, meaning that the shooter was a remarkable marksman. If he wanted to hit other people, he could have.

  After it’s over, and we’ve listened to a bunch of great stories extolling Ronald’s many virtues, many of us gather outside to reflect on what has happened.

  Pete Stanton is here, and I ask him if the police have any idea who did this. He’s the captain of the Homicide Division, so if anyone would know, he would.

  “Yeah,” he says. “We know.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Why? You looking for a client?”

  “Come on, Pete.”

  “I can’t tell you yet. We’ll be going public soon. We don’t want to scare him off yet; it will make him harder to find.”

  “Can you tell me how you know?”

  He looks at me for a few moments, considering it.

  “If you tell anyone, we’ll be going to your service next week.”

  “I won’t.”

  “He left something at the place he shot from. An eyeglass case; at that hour the sun would have been in his eyes, so he must have put on sunglasses.”

  “You can trace it back to him?”

  He nods. “We got a print.”

  “Really? That’s something that even you shouldn’t be able to screw up.”