by David Ellis
“The defendant was placed in one of our questioning rooms.”
“Who was in the room with him?”
“At first, it was just me. I asked him again how well he knew Rachel Reinardt. He said again that he didn’t know her that well. I told the defendant that we suspected that Mrs. Reinardt was having an affair.”
“How did the defendant respond?”
“He said he didn’t know anything about it.”
“Please continue.”
“I told him that we suspected Mrs. Reinardt might be involved in this.”
I’d bet my mortgage on Rachel goin’ down on this, he’d said to me at the station.
“And, Detective,” Flaherty says dramatically, “how did the defendant respond?”
“He said, ‘She had nothing to do with this.’”
“Those were his exact words?”
“His exact words.”
“Did you ask him to explain that statement?”
“After that, he sort of clammed up. So I left the room for a while.”
“Okay. Now, did you return to the police room where the defendant was?”
“Yeah, about a half hour later. I returned with Lieutenant Walter Denno.”
“Did you continue to interview the defendant?”
“Yes.”
Flaherty nods. “Describe what happened next, Detective.”
“I continued to talk to him about Mrs. Reinardt, how we suspected she was involved. The defendant continued to deny this.”
“So what did you do?”
“I finally told him that I didn’t believe him, and that I was going to have to pick up Mrs. Reinardt for questioning. I was bluffing, of course. But I said it to him.”
“What did the defendant say?”
“He said—actually, he shouted—‘She had nothing to do with this!’”
“And then?”
“Then,” Cummings says to the jury, “the defendant started shaking his head. And then he said, ‘I’m not sorry I killed him.’ Then he said it a second time.” Once more, Cummings turns toward me. “‘I’m not sorry I killed him.’”
62
DETECTIVE THEODORE CUMMINGS REMAINS ON THE stand for the prosecution into the early afternoon. He describes interviewing people I worked with, how he attempted to determine my whereabouts on the evening of November 18.
We had to give the prosecution a written notice of our alibi, that I was working at McHenry Stern until 3:20 the morning following the murder. So Cummings describes how he checked the records at my firm and how someone using a McHenry Stern security card entered the building at 3:10, just ten minutes before I signed out for the night. He describes how I easily could have doctored the whole thing.
At the finish, Gretchen Flaherty reemphasizes my confession. “One more thing, Detective—you testified earlier that the defendant confessed to you on Saturday, December the fourth?”
“I did.”
“Well, sir, let me represent to you that there may be some debate over what words, exactly, the defendant used. So can I ask you to repeat them to the jury, sir?”
I expect Paul to object, but he just shakes his head in amusement.
Cummings turns to the jurors. “He said—and I quote—‘I’m not sorry I killed him. I’m not sorry I killed him.’”
“He said the same thing twice, Detective?”
“He did.”
“Any chance you heard it wrong? Any chance he said, for example, ‘I’m not sorry he’s dead’?”
“Absolutely no chance,” Cummings says. “If that’s all he’d said, I wouldn’t have arrested him. I remember those words as plain as day.”
Gretchen Flaherty takes her seat triumphantly.
Paul Riley walks to within about five feet of Detective Cummings and leans against the railing near the witness stand. “Good afternoon, Detective,” he says politely enough. Paul starts in nice and easy. He will establish that this was a headliner case, and the cops weren’t making any progress at the time they started looking at me. This was a big case, wasn’t it? he asks. The biggest of your career? Lots of press. Lots of pressure to find the killer. Cummings fights with him a little on this last point. All cases are important, he says; there’s always pressure to find the perpetrator. Oh, so this case was no more important than, say, a purse snatching? No no, he admits. It was a higher priority. Yes, he agrees, he was determined to conduct a very thorough investigation. Follow every lead.
Paul next turns to Cummings’s theory of what happened on November 18. Cummings tells him what he has managed to piece together from the physical evidence. I forcibly entered the home of Dr. Reinardt by using that piece of patio furniture that sits over by the prosecution table. I struggled with Dr. Reinardt. I knocked Dr. Reinardt to the floor of his den. Then I walked over to the bar, opened the cabinet, removed the gun, walked over to the doctor, stood over him, and shot him twice. These, Cummings agrees, were the conclusions he drew from a very thorough investigation.
Paul has not gone out on a limb yet, not really pushed the detective at all. But his skill is nonetheless apparent in the courtroom. He stands with authority, decked out in his three-piece navy-blue suit, crisply starched white shirt, and subdued red tie, his hands resting comfortably in front of him, about three steps away from the lectern. His voice is commanding, his manner courteous but edged with an air of control: He will not tolerate evasion or equivocation.
And then we hit one of the high points, something that the prosecutors cannot fight in any way: the lack of physical proof. They dusted the den, the whole house, for fingerprints: not a one belonging to old Marty. No hair follicles matching mine. None of my blood on the carpet or anywhere else. Paul asks about the various strands of hair the cops found in the den. Four different kinds. Some matched Rachel’s hair. Some matched the maid’s. One, a piece of gray hair, is believed to have belonged to the doctor himself. Prior to trial, both sides agreed that neither party needed to call an expert to discuss the hair. We didn’t challenge the findings because they didn’t hurt us at all; and Roger Ogren was in no hurry to bring in an expert to say the cops found nothing good.
It’s the fourth kind of hair found in the house to which Paul next turns his attention. “The final hair sample found was a long, dark curly hair.”
“Yes.”
“You found that long, dark curly hair in the den.” Paul is going to say long, dark, and curly as many times as he can. The jurors occasionally glance over at my reddish-blond mop.
“Correct.”
“You found one of the long, dark curly hairs on the couch.”
“I believe we did.”
“The same couch,” Paul says with a turn to the jury, “where you claim there was a struggle between Dr. Reinardt and the intruder.”
“The same couch.”
“And you found another long, dark curly hair on the carpet in the den.”
“Yes. But no one with long, dark curly hair confessed.”
Paul turns to Judge Mack, who doesn’t require any prompting. “That last statement is stricken from the record. Detective, that is improper, and you know it. You’ve testified before, sir; you know the rules. The jury will disregard the statement.”
Cummings nods solemnly and mumbles an apology.
“To this day, Detective, you don’t know who those long, dark curly hairs belong to, do you?”
“That’s correct.”
“Interesting,” Paul muses. He does a little stroll along the jury box. He stops near the end of the railing, near an Asian woman, juror number six. Then he turns again.
“Detective,” he says, “at the outset of this case, you believed that Dr. Reinardt’s disappearance might be a kidnapping for ransom, isn’t that right?”
“The physical evidence did not tend to point that way.”
“Oh. Then why were you recording and tracing the incoming calls to the Reinardt house, Detective? For kicks?” Paul waves a hand flippantly. “To pass the time?”
Cu
mmings smirks. “Obviously, we couldn’t rule out a kidnapping.”
“And it made some sense, didn’t it? That Dr. Reinardt might be kidnapped?”
“Not really.”
“Well, Detective—we’re not just talking about your everyday citizen, are we? Wouldn’t you describe Dr. Reinardt as a prominent member of the community? Ran in the big leagues? Mixed with the politicians? Chaired a well-known charity?”
Gretchen Flaherty objects. Compound question. The judge groans but tells Paul she has a point.
“I would say he was well known,” Cummings says.
“And quite wealthy, too.”
“He was, yes. But most kidnappers don’t fatally shoot their victims first, Mr. Riley.”
“Assuming he’s dead. I mean, surely you don’t know for a fact that Dr. Reinardt is dead, do you?”
Oh, he’s dead.
“We believe he is,” Cummings says. “We have every reason to believe it. But I can’t say for absolute fact, no.”
Unless he was holding his breath for over an hour.
“And you’d agree with me, Detective, that the presence of the blood in the house does not speak one way or the other as to whether this was a kidnapping. I mean, a kidnapper could very well use force in abducting his victim, couldn’t he?”
“Anything’s possible, counselor. But that’s not a likely scenario.”
Paul nods, one eye to the jury. “You base that on experience?”
“I base that on common sense and training.”
“Training,” Paul repeats. “You mean, classes? Textbooks?” The two men face each other a moment, silent. “My point being, Detective, you’ve never investigated a kidnapping, have you?”
“I’ve never been part of a kidnapping investigation. It doesn’t mean I don’t have training.”
“You’ve never investigated a kidnapping?”
“No, Mr. Riley, I have not.”
“Hmm. Well then, I’ll have to ask you to base this on your—training, but I suppose it would also be possible that the kidnapper came into the house, and it was Dr. Reinardt who produced the gun, in an attempt to ward off his abductor?”
“It’s possible.”
“Isn’t it also possible that Dr. Reinardt was not fatally shot?”
“I suppose.”
“Maybe Dr. Reinardt was simply shot in the leg? That’s possible, right?”
“Possibly.”
“I mean, you have no idea, right?”
“I suppose anything is conceivable, Mr. Riley. Like I say.”
“So what I’m getting at is”—and Paul moves toward Cummings—“Dr. Reinardt might still be out there somewhere, alive, and no one’s looking for him.”
This draws an objection from Gretchen Flaherty. Speculative. Argumentative. Compound question. The judge overrules.
“Highly unlikely,” Cummings says, “but conceivable, yes.”
“Well, Detective, there isn’t any physical evidence in this case that would disprove that possibility, is there?”
Cummings searches for something. “I suppose if you killed someone, and threw him in an incinerator or buried him or something, you could always claim it was a kidnapping, and there would be nothing to disprove it. As long as you hid the body well.”
Nice one, Teddy. Nice jab.
“Well, sure,” says Paul. “Your scenario’s possible, my scenario’s possible. True?”
“Yours is possible. Anything’s possible.”
“All these possibilities,” Paul says absently, moving a few steps forward. “Now, I gather from your tone of voice—it sounds to me like you don’t place much credence in my scenario.”
“You’re right about that.”
“Well then, Detective, why don’t you tell the jury what evidence you have to disprove my possibility? Since you don’t believe it, tell the jury why. Because it seems to me, Detective, that there is not one piece of physical evidence to refute the possibility that Dr. Reinardt was kidnapped, and that he was alive when he left the house. And that he still is alive. Isn’t that true?”
Cummings is agitated. “It’s just such a ridiculous thought—”
Paul stands straight again. “But there’s no evidence to disprove it.”
“There hasn’t been a ransom demand.”
“A ransom demand, yes, yes.” Paul brings a finger to his mouth. Jurors number nine through twelve are women, and at least two of them—the accountant and the retired nurse—seem to enjoy watching Paul in action.
“Well, indulge me another second, Detective. This lack of a ransom demand you mentioned. Now, isn’t it possible that in the course of an abduction, Dr. Reinardt was shot but not killed, but that maybe he died later from his wounds? I mean, the kidnappers can’t very well take him to a hospital. Isn’t that all possible?”
“Again, conceivable, not likely.”
“So the kidnapping is pulled off with force—Dr. Reinardt is wounded but not killed—then he is taken away to some unknown location, where he dies from his wounds, maybe that day, maybe the next. At that point, the kidnappers aren’t likely to make a ransom call, are they? For a dead person? I mean, based on your training, sir—those books you read, what the instructors told you at kidnapping school—wouldn’t that adequately explain the lack of a ransom demand?”
A couple of the jurors laugh at the detective’s expense. Gretchen Flaherty objects to the form of the question. Paul volunteers to rephrase; he’s happy to repeat his point.
“Isn’t it possible, sir, that kidnappers abducted Dr. Reinardt, who ended up dying, and that’s why you haven’t received a ransom demand?”
“It’s pure fantasy, counselor. Your client confessed. You’re turning this into a wild goose chase when the killer is sitting right over there.” He points to me. Here you go, Marty: Give ’em the dignified-calm-personable-easygoing-innocent look. So what do I do? I look away from everybody, toward the court reporter.
“I believe you’re avoiding the question,” Paul says calmly, drawing the jury’s attention off me and back to him, standing near the witness. “Haven’t I just given you an adequate explanation why there’d be no ransom demand?”
Cummings sighs in exhaustion. “Anything’s possible.”
Paul wastes no time in moving on. All right, he says, enough of this kidnapping theory, let’s assume this was a murder. Paul wants to talk about what I supposedly did with the body after I left the house. He scores a little here. Isn’t it uncommon for someone to murder someone and then pick him up and run out of the house with him? Cummings says there’s no set pattern to what people do in these situations. Paul jabs with him a little, draws a few objections from Gretchen Flaherty. Cummings won’t budge, but Paul has made his point. So Paul returns to the assumption that I carried the doc out of the house.
“As an experienced investigator, where would you expect the intruder to take Dr. Reinardt?”
“We would expect Dr. Reinardt to be buried somewhere, or perhaps dumped somewhere, a landfill or something. Who knows? Maybe he was thrown into a river.”
At Paul’s request, Cummings summarizes the search for the corpse. The two rivers near Highland Woods, the Bailey River and the Swan Harbor River, were dragged with no success. Two landfills that service the county were searched, in part by Cummings himself. That one, I wish I could’ve seen, my favorite cop knee-deep in excrement.
The woods behind the Reinardts’ house were also combed over.
“Do you believe that Marty Kalish took the doctor through those woods on November eighteenth?”
“We don’t know. But it’s likely. It’s the most logical route.”
“Any sign that Marty Kalish had been in those woods?”
“He didn’t pin his business card to a tree, if that’s what you mean.” This draws a laugh from the gallery. None of the jurors laugh, I notice. “The boot prints match your client’s shoe size.”
“But you didn’t find an Explorer boot at my client’s house, did you?”
/> “No, your client wasn’t dumb enough to leave those around for us.”
“Well, let’s be fair with this jury, Detective.” Paul’s tone carries a hint of a rebuke. “Do you have some way of knowing that Marty Kalish owned a pair of Explorer boots?”
“No, I don’t. How could I?”
“My point is, you don’t.”
“I couldn’t possibly, counselor.”
“And size eleven is a fairly common shoe size for men, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know if it’s usual or unusual.”
“Aside from this business with the boots, there’s no physical evidence to suggest that Marty Kalish took Dr. Reinardt through those woods?”
“On November eighteenth, the winds were gusting at around thirty-five miles an hour. I can’t imagine how we would be able to tell who was in those woods.”
“So you have no idea.”
Cummings sighs. “No.”
“For Marty Kalish to have transported Dr. Reinardt to whatever location, wouldn’t you expect him to use his car?”
“Objection. Speculative.”
“Ms. Flaherty, you know very well that the question is proper. Overruled.” Judge Mack is getting testy as his stomach growls. And this is about the fiftieth objection from Flaherty. If she thinks she’s throwing Paul off balance, she should know by now that she’s not. And the jury is getting a little annoyed with her. Their attention seems to heighten whenever the prosecutor objects; her complaints are magnifying the importance of the questions.
“Using his car would seem logical, yes.”
“So you searched his car after you arrested him.”
“Yes. Two weeks after the crime was perpetrated.” Giving me ample time to clean the car out, Cummings implies. Actually, I needed only that night to do it. By the time the cops got to my car, you could’ve eaten breakfast off the trunk’s carpet.
“You didn’t find any trace of Dr. Reinardt in that car?”
“No.”
Paul runs through the failed search. No hair. No blood.
“You search anyplace else?”
“After the defendant confessed to the crime, we searched his house.” A nice jab.
“You searched Marty Kalish’s home?”
