Final Juror (A Brad Frame Mystery Book 5)

by Ray Flynt

  FINAL JUROR

  A Brad Frame Mystery

  Ray Flynt

  Copyright 2015 Ray Flynt

  All rights reserved.

  DEDICATION

  David and Judy Matthews

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The author acknowledges his Maryland and Florida writers’ groups for their valuable edits, critiques and suggestions: Jennifer Cook, Mary Ellen Hughes, Becky Hutchison, Zame Khan, Debbi Mack, Sherriel Mattingly, James Newman, Bonnie Settle, William Speir, and Marcia Talley. Thanks also to Mary Jeddore Blakney for her talents as a line editor.

  I appreciate the assistance of Stephen Kaminski, author of the Damon Lassard Dabbling Detective series, for reading an early draft and sharing his advice.

  I am grateful to Robin Dile Cuneo, Sue Dirham, Kevin Filippelli, Marjie Klein, and Robert Martin for offering useful comments on the completed manuscript.

  Finally, I am indebted to the Honorable Marie N. Cavanaugh (retired) and the Honorable Joanne Cisco Olszewski, Jury Commissioners of Montgomery County, Pennsylvania. In 2013, they and their staff walked me through the process of jury selection, and we toured areas of the Montgomery County Courthouse where the action of this story takes place. They also provided valuable feedback on the final draft

  This is a work of fiction. Any errors or omissions are solely the responsibility of the author.

  FINAL JUROR

  A Brad Frame Mystery

  1

  Rachel Tetlow’s tan, gray and green camouflage bore the insignia of a corporal, with tapes at each breast identifying her as TETLOW and US ARMY. Rachel perched across from Brad Frame, on one of the leather sofas in his office, her long brown hair pulled back. She had a pretty, freckled face, but the uniform robbed her of a distinctive shape.

  Brad studied his client. Rachel wasn’t what he’d expected based on their brief phone conversation. He decided the uniform was the reason. She seemed composed, except for the constant fidgeting with her cap.

  Sharon Porter, seated next to Brad, also hovered on the edge of her seat, gazing intently at the young woman who had come to them for help. Sharon had worked in his detective business for several years. When it came to analyzing cases, they often thought alike, so it was no surprise to Brad when Sharon said, “Seventeen years is a long time. I’m not sure what we’ll be able to find.”

  Rachel sighed. “I know. It might take a miracle. My whole life has been filled with questions. I need to know who killed my dad.”

  Sharon glanced at Brad before she added, “My concern is that a lot of witnesses will be dead or they’ll have moved away from the area, which will make the investigation very expensive.”

  “I don’t care about the cost.” Rachel sounded determined. “I’ll make E-5 next month and will get a bonus for re-enlisting. And there’ll be my mother’s estate; she recently died.”

  Brad detested the idea of Rachel using her service bonus to pay for his services.

  “I never thought about hiring a private detective,” Rachel said. “I took a few days off to get Mother’s house ready to put on the market. While I was there, I heard a story on KYW News about the Alex Nagel case.”

  Alex Nagel was a young veteran of the Afghan war who returned to Philadelphia after his third tour of duty in the war zone, found his wife in bed with a city councilman and shot them both. Archibald “Archie” Greer, Philadelphia’s most famous criminal defense attorney, had asked Brad to investigate the background of the woman’s lover, at-large Councilman Calvin Morrissey Jr.

  “The reporter mentioned that you’d become a private detective because of the murder of your mother and sister,” Rachel continued, “I figured you were the type of person who would understand what I’ve been going through all these years.”

  Sharon shot Brad a pointed look. Corporal Tetlow had just tugged at Brad’s emotional core, and Sharon knew he’d be taking the case.

  “Let’s not worry about money right now,” Brad said.

  Sharon heaved a sigh as she leaned back in her seat. He knew she’d complain later—after the client left—about how he was turning the detective agency into a charitable endeavor by refusing to accept fees for his services. Brad had sufficient wealth that he didn’t care; justice was what mattered most to him. If she weren’t so valuable to his work, Brad would happily tell Sharon that she could open her own agency and charge whatever she wanted.

  Brad gave Sharon a knowing smile, before turning to Rachel. “Over the phone, you told me that your mother lived in Manayunk. Is that the same house where you grew up?”

  Rachel nodded.

  Brad pointed to the pile of yellowed newsprint on the table next to him. “Aside from the newspaper clippings you brought, what do you remember about his death? You were only a nine-year-old at the time.”

  Rachel laid the well-crumpled cap on the seat next to her. “I’ve thought about this a lot, as you can tell. I’m not sure what my actual memories are, or what might be something my mother said or that I’ve read about. I’ll do my best. It was summer, because I wasn’t in school—July 1995. My parents took turns reading me bedtime stories, and the night before his death my dad read from A Celery Stalks at Midnight. That’s the third book in a series about a vampire bunny, and I loved them. A few years later, when Mother got me a kitten, I named it Chester after the cat in the stories.”

  “I remember Bunnicula,” Sharon said, and the two women shared a laugh. Brad wasn’t familiar with the stories.

  “I didn’t sleep very well that night,” Rachel said. “At one point I heard a crash. Sounded like the lid had blown off the garbage can. I remember that my dad had taken the garbage out after supper.”

  “What night of the week was that?” Brad asked.

  “It was a Monday. Shortly after I heard the noise, my dad came into my bedroom. I pretended to be asleep, but I saw him walk over to the window to make sure it was locked.”

  “Did you live in a one- or two-story house?” Sharon asked.

  “Two-story. The bedrooms were on the second floor.”

  A gust of wind shook the windows in Brad’s office, and mini-tornadoes of fallen leaves swirled on the cobblestone drive outside. About half of the leaves still remained on the beech tree, and they glowed golden yellow in the sunshine.

  The rattling windows pulled Rachel’s attention away for an instant before she resumed her story. “After he checked the lock, Dad stared out the window for a long time. Finally, I asked him, ‘Is everything all right?’ He apologized for waking me—I never told him I was already awake—and then he bent down and kissed me on the forehead. ‘No worries,’ he said, and those were the last words I ever heard him speak.”

  Rachel told her story earnestly, Brad thought, but without much emotion. It had been nearly fifteen years since his own mother and sister were kidnapped and murdered. He had recounted the details of those events many times; even if his own story now sounded well-rehearsed, deep down he still felt the ache. Brad suspected Rachel did, too.

  “You didn’t see him on the morning he died?” Sharon asked.

  Rachel shook her head. “I heard him go out the front door the next morning, but I must have fallen back to sleep. Then I heard Mom calling, ‘Rachel, breakfast.’”

  “What time was that?” Sharon asked.

  “I only know from reading the news reports that my mother was notified about the crash at 9 a.m., and the police arrived at our front door just as I sat down to eat breakfast.”

  Brad laced his fingers together as he listened.

  “There were two police officers, a man and a woman. I don’t remember their names. Mom went into the living room to answer the doorbell, and I was still a
t the kitchen table. I couldn’t make out their conversation, but I wasn’t really paying attention. Then I heard my mother scream.”

  Brad saw Sharon scribbling a few notes. As he turned his attention back to Rachel, he noticed the camouflaged cap was back in her hands. She tightened her grip on the bill.

  “After Mother screamed,” Rachel continued, “I jumped up from the table and ran into the living room, still wearing my pajamas. The female officer was helping my mother to a seat. But when my mother saw me, she leapt up from the sofa and ran toward me. I remember that she kept saying ‘Oh baby… oh baby,’ and she hugged me so tightly it hurt. The police never sat. I remember thinking, why are they staring at us? I still didn’t know what had happened. Finally, they asked my mother if there was anybody else they should call. Mother told them to call my Aunt Kay—that’s her sister. The male police officer used the phone in the living room, and that’s when I heard him say that Martin Tetlow had died. I started crying.”

  An eerie silence settled over Brad’s office, located in a wing of his Bryn Mawr estate. A log on the fireplace crackled, and the resulting shower of sparks drew Brad’s attention.

  “When did you learn the cause of your dad’s death?” Sharon asked.

  Rachel puckered her lips. “It was a blur after that. All I knew was that he’d been killed in a car crash. For the next three days people were coming and going, neighbors bringing food, friends stopping by to offer their condolences. Grandma and Grandpa came and stayed in my room, and I slept with my mother. Of course, there were the hours spent at the funeral home. I… can’t…” For the first time that morning, words caught in her throat. “I can’t get the image of that gray metal casket out of my head. His injuries were so bad that they couldn’t have an open casket.”

  Sharon coughed.

  “I’ll get to your question,” Rachel said.

  “I’m not rushing you,” Sharon apologized. “I’m getting a cold.”

  “The day after the funeral, a Friday I think,” Rachel continued, “was very quiet, especially after all the activity over the previous few days. It seemed like my mother never left my side after the news about Dad, like she was trying to be strong for me. I remember sitting in the living room watching TV. Ironically, the O. J. Simpson trial pre-empted All My Children, which my mother watched religiously. She loved Susan Lucci and was upset she couldn’t watch the soap. The doorbell rang, and it was a police officer. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but he showed his badge. Mother offered him a seat, and pulled me onto her lap.” Rachel smiled. “The officer pointed to the TV and said, ‘Could you turn that off?’ He seemed gruff to me.”

  From her brief description, Brad wondered if the plainclothes detective might have been his mentor and business partner Nick Argostino. If so, it might offer them a head start on the investigation.

  “The officer told Mother they’d examined the car my dad died in. It appeared as if the brakes had been tampered with and his death had not been an accident. He asked her if she knew anybody who might want to harm him.”

  Sharon took more notes as Brad asked, “Are you remembering the specifics from when they happened or a later re-telling?”

  Rachel sighed. “I don’t remember much of what the officer said, except for him asking her to turn off the TV. But I can still picture my mother’s face—shifting in slow motion—as she absorbed what he told her. She looked apprehensive, then surprised, shocked and finally like she’d seen a light bulb lit, when she said, ‘It must have to do with that jury he was on.’” Rachel pointed to the newspaper articles.

  Brad figured there was a reason Rachel had shared the story of her dad visiting her bedroom and double-checking the window to make sure it was locked. “Had your dad received any specific threats?”

  “Back then I never heard. By the time I was thirteen I started investigating. I found a box with the newspaper stories my mother had saved. I practically memorized them. I started questioning my mother, and she shared her own memories about Dad’s death. At family gatherings I’d ask questions—made a pest of myself, really—getting everyone’s theories.” Rachel laughed. “One day I asked my mother if Dad had ever been threatened. She hemmed and hawed a lot. Finally she told me that during a break in the trial Dad wanted to go outside for a smoke. He got on the elevator, and another man followed him on. Dad hadn’t paid attention to what he looked like, but just before the elevator doors opened on the ground floor, the man said, ‘I hope Rachel sleeps well tonight.’”

  Sharon took a sharp breath.

  “Did your mother say any more?” Brad asked.

  Rachel shook her head. “Whenever I’d ask her about it after that she’d say, ‘I already told you’.”

  Brad leafed through the clippings Rachel had brought and spotted a story titled, “Juror’s Death Prompts Mistrial in Drug Kingpin Case.” He scanned the lead paragraph before passing the article to Sharon just as Rachel consulted her wristwatch.

  “Are you pressed for time?” Brad asked.

  “I’m on duty this afternoon,” Rachel said. “When I requested last Thursday and Friday off, the tradeoff was that I would work a shift on Veteran’s Day. It’s a two-and-a-half-hour drive from here to Fort Meade, Maryland, where I’m stationed. I have to be back by 2 p.m.”

  Brad hadn’t considered that November 12th was a Federal holiday when he’d scheduled the meeting, and Sharon never complained when he added it to her calendar. He’d watched a story on the news that morning showing the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknowns in Arlington Cemetery, along with the announcement that the President would lay a wreath at the tomb later that morning.

  “We won’t keep you. I’ll go through all this material,” Brad said, as he rose from his chair. “I’ve been summoned to jury duty myself tomorrow morning, but they don’t pick detectives like me for a jury, so I’ll probably be home in an hour. And then we’ll get working on your case. I just want to make sure we have your e-mail and phone information, since I’m sure we’ll need to talk further.”

  Rachel stood. “My contact information is on the envelope with the newspaper articles.”

  “Great. One more question. Is there a real estate agency handling the sale of your mother’s home?”

  “Yes, Woodbine Realtors in Manayunk.”

  “I’ll want to visit,” Brad said, “just to get a feel for the place.”

  “Thanks for your time.” Rachel offered a firm handshake and snugged her cap onto her head. She left the office and walked stiffly toward her Ford F150.

  Brad continued to watch through the windows until the gates of his estate had rolled closed behind her pickup. Then the swirling leaves in his driveway caught his attention, and he made a mental note to call the grounds-keeping service.

  When he turned around, Brad noticed Sharon standing next to the fireplace. She’d draped a throw around her shoulders and appeared engrossed in the newspaper clippings.

  “There’s one thing she never mentioned,” Sharon said, her voice raspy.

  “What’s that?”

  “Martin Tetlow was the second juror killed during that trial seventeen years ago.”

  2

  Brad’s juror summons ordered him to report to the Montgomery County Courthouse in Norristown, Pennsylvania, on Tuesday, November 13th at 8:15 a.m.

  He was on the road from his Bryn Mawr home at 6:30 a.m. From prior visits to the county seat, he knew there was a diner adjacent to the courthouse where he could grab breakfast.

  During the twenty-minute drive to Norristown, Brad thought about Rachel Tetlow’s case. The previous afternoon, he and Sharon had reviewed all of the information Rachel had provided and brainstormed the best way to approach a very cold case. That morning, while Brad fulfilled his jury obligation, Sharon would reach out to Nick Argostino to find out which detective had investigated Martin Tetlow’s death. She would also request a transcript from the 1995 trial of Hugo Pancavetti, on whose jury Tetlow had served. Past experience told him it could take w
eeks to receive the transcription.

  The newspaper clippings Rachel had provided noted that Pancavetti had been tried in Federal court under RICO—the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act—on multiple charges including drug trafficking, money laundering, and assisting illegal aliens. Martin Tetlow’s death prompted a mistrial.

  Brad had done an Internet search and found that Pancavetti was re-tried and convicted on the same charges in 1996. Pancavetti was sentenced to a total of sixty-five years in prison, which amounted to a life sentence for a fifty-seven-year-old man. The story mentioned the earlier mistrial, noting that two jurors had died “under suspicious circumstances.” The 1996 jury had been sequestered. Brad wanted to know more about the other juror who died. He found no indication in the newspaper accounts of the Federal prison where Pancavetti had been incarcerated, but they might want to pay the man a visit. He’d be seventy-three years old now, and with nothing else to lose, he might be ready to confess responsibility for the killing of Martin Tetlow.

  Free parking was provided for jurors across from the courthouse. Brad brought the automated ticket with him so it could be validated. Exiting the garage, he walked about fifty feet to the Court House Diner where the proprietor, a balding man with rolled up shirt sleeves, directed him to a seat near the front window.

  He watched as Norristown came to life.

  In addition to coffee, he ordered a cheddar omelet with mushrooms and onions along with an English muffin, no butter. Brad loved diner food. He’d gladly skip the foie gras at those fancy museum receptions for a “blue plate” special.

  Jurors had to fill out a questionnaire that would be used by the attorneys to determine their suitability for jury service. Brad had completed his online and answered yes to two questions that he felt would knock him off any jury: 1) He’d had family members who were victims of a crime, and 2) He worked as a detective. He’d probably be on the road back to Bryn Mawr by 9:30 a.m. and regretted he wouldn’t be around at lunch time to sample the diner’s Reuben with fries.