Mystery Writers of America Presents the Prosecution Rests

by Inc. Mystery Writers of America

  Mike Chapman was working with Sully when the third victim walked into the station house the week before last. She was an ingénue who had played in a few television soaps and had been referred to Trichner by her brother when she needed a root canal.

  “This gotta be some kind of wonder drug,” Chapman remarked. “No other dentist in town has this problem, but all Melvin’s patients are dreaming that he’s slobbering over’em.”

  The circumstances were unique, and no one in the department had ever investigated a matter like this before. Lieutenant Borelli wanted to explore a way to get evidence against Trichner that couldn’t be attacked in a courtroom as the product of a witness’s imagination. He took his idea to the chief of detectives for approval.

  “Borelli asked the chief if he could send in an undercover policewoman and apply for a court order to conceal a video camera in Trichner’s office, both to protect the patient and to secure the evidence,” Mike said.

  “That’s legal?” I asked.

  “You’ll make history, kid,” Chapman said. “First time it’s ever been done. The chief had to call the district attorney’s office to draft the order. They analogized it to a wiretap. The prosecutor told the judge that an audio bugging device like they use in taps wouldn’t do any good in a situation like this. This bum doesn’t need to utter a word to these women. You could send a dozen undercover cops in, but they’ll be sedated too. Without a camera, we don’t have any way to prove what’s going on inside. We don’t even know what crime he’s committing.”

  “What makes you think he’ll hit on me?”

  Chapman gave me the once-over. “You’re his type, Atwell. Long and lean, dark hair, mid-twenties. And a little bit flaky. I’m betting he’ll want to touch, Sam.”

  “What’ll you charge him with? I mean, what does he do, exactly?”

  “That’s the mystery, Sam. Nobody remembers, nobody knows.”

  ____

  I GOT TO the precinct at six a.m. on Thursday. It was a steaming hot summer day, so my tank top and tube skirt looked appropriate to the season and didn’t leave much to the imagination. The tech guys from the department had broken into Trichner’s office the night before—a court-authorized burglary—and hidden their camera behind the louvered air-conditioning duct, which was perched conveniently above the dental chair. A video monitor was set up in the basement of the building and wired through to the recording device, so Borelli could supervise the operation from underground. In the bottom of my shoulder bag, a Kel transmitter had been secreted, so that the backup team could hear all the conversation between Trichner and me, and I could summon them at any moment if I was aware of trouble.

  Mike was to accompany me to the office and pose as my boyfriend. The minute Borelli observed any improper conduct while I was sedated, he would beep Chapman so he could race down the hallway, open the door to the examining room, and interrupt Trichner in the act. I had signed on for a little bit of sexual abuse—caressing and kissing at worst—but not for anything more invasive than that.

  The Muzak was piping in a soulless orchestral rendition of Diana Ross’s “Touch Me in the Morning” when the receptionist waved me into the rear of the office to begin the procedure. Mike was singing the lyrics as he watched me walk away. A routine teeth-cleaning appointment makes me tremble under the best of circumstances. My anxiety about the procedure seemed palpable as I entered the narrow corridor to surrender myself to Trichner’s wandering hands.

  Melvin, as he told me to call him, closed the door of the small room after he entered and flipped on the light switch, unknowingly starting up the camera as he gave it the juice. He chattered with me about my personal life as he scooted around on his stool, setting his tools in place for the extraction. Then he lifted my shirt and put the stethoscope against my chest, announcing to me that I had a good, strong heartbeat.

  “Think loving thoughts,” Trichner told me, stroking my arm as he wrapped the tourniquet in place before he gave me the injection. “You look nervous—they’ll calm you down.”

  The last things I remember before going under were the sound of the Boston Pops segueing into a syrupy version of “Feelings,” the sight of a flock of shocking-pink flamingos on Trichner’s shirt, and the warm whoosh of the sedative as he pumped it into my slender arm.

  ____

  I WAS LOST in a thick fog. Somewhere off in the distance, I could hear the scraping noise of the door pulling open along its metal tracking, the sound of a familiar voice, the scuffling of several feet, and the words “You’re under arrest, Doc.”

  The fog thickened and my head rolled from side to side. Someone lowered the headrest on the dental chair and leaned me backward. My eyes flickered open to a display of the pink flamingos, swaying now against a turquoise landscape that was moving with them in undulating waves. The lids closed again, as I continued fighting the nausea.

  The noise was gone, and this time there was only a woman in a nurse’s uniform, holding my shoulder back against the chair. When I tried to move, she explained that I needed to rest in that position, to increase the supply of oxygen flowing to my brain. I was awake, and conscious only of the intense pain in my jaw.

  Lieutenant Borelli insisted that Chapman drive me to Roosevelt Hospital, in order for a physician to draw blood so that we could be certain of what drugs Trichner had administered to me. On the way over there, I asked what had happened while I was under.

  “Melvin went right to work extracting your tooth. The moment he finished, he pushed the tray which was holding all the dental equipment out of the way. Then he actually lifted you out of the chair and propped you up against his body, holding you in place by wrapping his legs around you.”

  “But didn’t I do—?”

  “Do anything? You were in the twilight zone, pal. You were as limp as a rag doll.”

  “Do I want to know the rest?”

  “He lifted the back of your shirt and unhooked your bra. Then he started to caress you, moving his hands around in front, to touch your breasts.”

  “Didn’t I feel that? Didn’t I try to stop him?”

  “Are you kidding? It’s like necrophilia, Sam, only your body was still warm. No wonder these women can’t remember anything. None of them even realized he pulled them out of the chair.”

  “How could he take the chance that I wouldn’t come to in the middle of all this and just start screaming at him?” I asked.

  “Not a chance. By standing you up, he makes sure the oxygen doesn’t flow to your brain fast enough. You’re not gonna regain consciousness until he settles you back in the proper position. You’d never know what happened, as all these complaints prove.”

  “How long did you let it go on?”

  “The guys beeped me as soon as he started to fondle you. Sexual abuse in the first degree. We had our felony—didn’t need another thing. When I pulled open the door, he had his hands on your rear end, squeezing it and rubbing himself against you. That’s where I stopped him.”

  “Did he say anything when you burst in?”

  “Yeah,” Mike answered. “Trichner told me he was just trying to resuscitate you. That you had gone into respiratory distress and he was trying to help you breathe. Cool as a cucumber.”

  “What if the judge believes him?”

  “Like the DA said when I called to tell her how it all went down, squeezing the buttocks is nota recognized means of resuscitation in the medical community. Let him test it out in the Riker’s Island infirmary, Sami. I’ll be taking Melvin downtown to his arraignment from here,” Chapman told me as he left me in the ER. “Call you later.”

  The lieutenant had one of the guys drive me home, where I spent the rest of the afternoon napping off the anesthesia, nursing my sore mouth, and calming my fatigued nerves after a sleepless night. I was too drained to bother with a can of soup. When the pain hadn’t let up by dinnertime, I spent some time in front of the bathroom mirror, surveying the damage of the excavation.

  Mike called me at eight o�
��clock. “Meet me in an hour at the Palm.”

  “Let’s do it another night. I really don’t feel like—”

  “Don’t be such a wimp, Sami. Bring an ice pack for your jaw and get over there.”

  The cab let me off in front of the restaurant on Second Avenue. It was a New York classic, with lobsters so big you wouldn’t want to meet them in a dark alley and enough beef to give a cardiologist nightmares. I walked inside to meet Chapman, who was sitting at the bar with Sully and the team of detectives who had worked the case.

  “I’m buying,” Mike said. “The judge just set bail for Trichner at fifty thousand dollars. He told the defense attorney that if the videotape showed that his client’s hands were anywhere south of Ms. Atwell’s mouth during this dental appointment, he didn’t want to hear any argument on the merits of the People’s case.”

  “Why did you have to pick thisplace?” I asked, massaging my swollen cheek as I tried to ignore the incredible smell of the grilled sirloins, fried onion rings, and hash browns the waiters kept bringing out of the kitchen to the surrounding tables. “The last thing I want to think about right now is a thick steak.”

  Mike bit his lip as he realized my problem. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking. We just didn’t want any more courthouse quiche. I had a real craving for red meat. C’mon, have a drink.”

  “I can’t do that either. I’m on painkillers, remember?”

  “Give her a Shirley Temple, straight up,” Chapman told the bartender.

  The throbbing in my jaw was still intense.

  “What are you still so crabby about, Sami?” he asked me, as the maître d’ told us our table was ready and we carried our drinks over to sit down for the meal.

  “You’re not gonna believe what that creep did, Mike. He pulled the wrong tooth.” An hour ago, when I had examined myself at home, I had discovered that the tooth that had been giving me all the trouble was still there, surrounded by the inflamed gum. In front of it was a gaping hole, where a perfectly healthy molar had been when I awakened this morning.

  “The poor fool was in such a hurry to get his arms around you that his fingers must have slipped a bit, Sami. You thought undercover work would be easy? C’mon, we’ve got something to take your mind off your discomfort, right, guys?”

  In front of my seat was a serving platter with a domed lid over it, like they use in restaurants to keep the food warm when it’s being served.

  Sully reached across me and lifted the handle. More welcome than the choicest filet, there sat a blue-and-gold shield, with my name engraved below the most beautiful word in the English language: Detective.

  “Cheers, Sami. Borelli says you’ll get the real one next Friday, at the promotion ceremonies. And Trichner, he’ll get a new degree too. DDS—Dentist Desires Sex. I think they call it a conviction where I come from. You put that pervert out of business for us. Welcome to the squad.”

  I popped a couple of Tylenols with my drink and sat back in the chair, repeatedly stroking the smooth surface of the shiny badge with my fingers and feeling no pain.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  Phyllis Cohen is a native New Yorker and a resident of Manhattan. After retiring from a thirty-five-year career in the New York City public schools, she undertook a mini (micro?) second career as a freelance writer, writing nonfiction at first and then moving on to fiction. About her fiction, she writes: “The short stories I have written are of many genres—crime, science fiction, relationships—but there is a common element throughout them of character and human interest.” She is married to Herbert Cohen, a semiretired electronics engineer and a member of MWA, whose published work includes several mystery stories and a science-fiction novel.

  Jo Dereske is originally from western Michigan, but has lived in Washington State since 1978. She is the author of seventeen books, including the Miss Zukas mystery series set in Washington and the Ruby Crane mystery series set in Michigan. She currently lives in the foothills of Mount Baker.

  Charlie Drees admits that when it comes to his literary preferences, he’s a mystery-genre snob. “Chances are, if someone doesn’t die, I won’t read it.” “By Hook or by Crook” is his first story accepted for publication. (Everyone remembers the first time, right?) A licensed psychotherapist with over twenty years’ experience, he lives with his wife in Manhattan, Kansas—the Little Apple.

  Eileen Dunbaugh currently makes her living in the publishing industry, where over the years she has worked at a variety of jobs. She is a dedicated mystery reader who decided it was time to try her hand at writing the type of fiction she loves.

  Linda Fairstein, one of America’s foremost legal experts on crimes of sexual assault and domestic violence, led the Sex Crimes Unit of the District Attorney’s Office in Manhattan for twenty-five years. A Fellow at the American College of Trial Lawyers, she is a graduate of Vassar College and the University of Virginia School of Law. Her ten bestselling crime novels have been translated into more than a dozen languages. The eleventh book in her series, Lethal Legacy, was published in February 2009. Her nonfiction book, Sexual Violence, was a New York Times Notable Book of the Year. She lives with her husband in Manhattan and on Martha’s Vineyard. For more information, visit her Web site at www.lindafairstein.com.

  Kate Gallison lives in Lambertville, New Jersey, with her musician husband and their cat. She has three private-eye novels and five traditional mysteries to her credit. The New York Times called her writing “excitement of an off-beat variety”; Booklist, “superb black comedy”; Kirkus Reviews, “Well-bred work.” Her Mother Lavinia Grey stories were the talk of the Episcopal Church. Under the name of Irene Fleming, she writes a series about a woman producing silent movies in the early days of the industry. She is descended from a convicted Salem witch.

  Joel Goldman is the author of the Lou Mason series of legal thrillers, which have been nominated for the Edgar and Shamus awards. Shakedown, the first book in his new series featuring FBI agent Jack Davis, was published in 2008. Joel lives in Kansas City. Learn more about him and his books at www.joelgoldman.com.

  James Grippando is the national bestselling author of sixteen novels, including Born to Run, the eighth installment in the acclaimed series featuring Miami lawyer Jack Swyteck. “Death, Cheated,” is the never-before-published short story that transformed Jack Swyteck from a stand-alone hero in The Pardon (1994) to a recurring character in Beyond Suspicion(2002). James is also the author of “Operation Northwoods,” another Swyteck short story, and Leapholes, a novel for young adults that was a finalist for the prestigious Benjamin Franklin Award. James’s books are enjoyed worldwide in twenty-six languages. He lives in South Florida, where he was a trial lawyer.

  Agatha Award–winning author Daniel J. Hale is a past executive vice president of Mystery Writers of America. Hale holds an MBA from Cornell University and a JD from Arkansas’s Bowen School of Law. He teaches creative writing at Southern Methodist University, his alma mater. Learn more at www.danieljhale.com.

  Diana Hansen-Young was born in Bellingham, Washington, in 1947, into a community of depressed Mormon Swedish farmers. In 1966 she moved to Hawaii, ran for the State Constitutional Convention in 1968, and won a seat by ninety-three votes. She went on to run for the Hawaii State House of Representatives and won. After losing a congressional race, she started painting scenes with Hawaiian women. For the next twenty-five years, she turned her paintings into a business of postcards, clothing, books, and children’s videos. In 1996, she developed severe arthritis in her right arm and hand and could no longer hold a paintbrush. For years she had also been writing plays, novels, and short stories, and tossing them in boxes. Now she dusted them off, closed the business, and traveled to New York, where she earned an MFA in musical theater writing from New York University. Her Off-Broadway musical, Mimi Le Duck, starring Eartha Kitt, premiered in New York City in 2006. A member of Mystery Writers of America, she now writes full-time.

  Edward D. Hoch (1930–2008) was a past president of Mystery Writer
s of America and winner of its Edgar Award for best short story. In 2001 he received MWA’s Grand Master Award. He was a guest of honor at Bouchercon, twice winner of its Anthony Award, and recipient of its Lifetime Achievement Award. The Private Eye Writers of America honored him with its Life Achievement Award as well. Author of more than 975 published stories, until his death he had appeared in every issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazinefor the past thirty-five years.

  Paul Levine is the author of four legal thrillers featuring Steve Solomon and Victoria Lord, squabbling Miami trial lawyers. Solomon vs. Lord was nominated for the Macavity Award as best mystery novel of 2005 and also for the Thurber Prize for American Humor. The Deep Blue Alibi was nominated for an Edgar Award in 2006, and Kill All the Lawyers was a finalist for the 2007 Thriller Award. His most recent book is Illegal, a thriller set in the world of human trafficking. The winner of the John D. MacDonald Award, Levine also wrote the Jake Lassiter novels and 9 Scorpions, a thriller set at the U.S. Supreme Court. Levine was co-creator and co-executive producer of the CBS television series First Monday,starring Joe Mantegna and James Garner. He also wrote twenty-one episodes of the military drama JAG.More information at www.paul-levine.com.

  Leigh Lundin, a Florida resident, has lived and worked in both the United States and Europe, and only recently turned to writing. Leigh was honored with the Ellery Queen Readers’ Choice Award in April 2007, the first time it has been won by a first-time author.

  Michele Martinez is the author of the critically acclaimed thriller series featuring Manhattan federal prosecutor Melanie Vargas. Her books—including Most Wanted, The Finishing School, Cover-Up, and Notorious—have won awards, been named to numerous “best” lists, and been published in many languages. Her short fiction has been published in several anthologies. A graduate of Harvard College and Stanford Law School, Michele spent eight years as a federal prosecutor in New York City, specializing in narcotics and gang cases. She lives in New Hampshire with her husband and two children.