by Ray Flynt
I spun the tale Rachel had told me, via her mother, of Martin’s fateful elevator ride to have a cigarette during a break in the trial.
I felt it was important to keep talking, not only to show my sincerity, but to give him time to cool off. So I added a few embellishments to Rachel’s original story, like what a strong family man Martin had been, and how he’d wanted to use a pay phone to call home—in addition to walking outside for a smoke.
The menacing punch line remained the same, as I explained how a man had joined Martin in the elevator, and before the doors opened on the lobby level, had said, “I hope Rachel sleeps well tonight.”
When I’d finished the story, I paused, then said, “Who, other than you, had an incentive to threaten bodily harm to Tetlow’s nine-year-old daughter?”
Pancavetti pulled his chair forward again, leaned across the table, and whispered. “And if I tell you, what’ll you give me? Five years off my sentence? A piece of pumpkin pie with my Thanksgiving dinner?”
I knew I didn’t have any bargaining power, and figured he might just ask such a question. “You’re right,” I said. “I can’t give you anything… other than the knowledge that you’ll provide a young woman much-needed peace of mind, which might make every future day you spend here a little bit easier to take.”
He cupped his hands, palms down, on the table. I saw that he bit his nails, and observed a slight tremor in his left hand. “I got nothin’ for you,” he said. “I didn’t kill your guy, and I sure as fuck don’t know who did. Sorry you wasted your time comin’ out here.”
With that he pushed back and stood.
I gazed up at him. “You have nothing to lose by telling me the truth. Confessing isn’t going to add time to your sentence.” In one last desperate plea, I said, “Maybe you’ll sleep better at night.”
He sneered. “I sleep just fine, missy.”
The couple with the infant at the next table stood to say their goodbyes. The inmate embraced the woman, and they kissed, which I knew was permissible—within limits—under the visitation rules.
Pancavetti hooked his thumb in their direction. “You gonna kiss me goodbye?”
“No, but call me missy again, and you can kiss my ass.”
18
I’d lost my cool with Pancavetti, which made for a long ride home. Too long. I’d seen him for less than twenty minutes, he’d pissed me off, and I’d walked away with squat. If not for keeping my foot on the gas pedal, I would’ve been kicking myself.
I kept replaying the interview with Pancavetti in my mind, analyzing what I might have done differently. Maybe he was just an asshole, embittered after sixteen years of incarceration, and incapable of doing anything nice for his fellow creatures—like fessing up to murder.
What bothered me most was feeling like a failure on my first major solo case for the Frame Detective Agency. I had handled a few missing persons cases on my own, furnished proof of infidelity for spouses anxious to file for divorce, and served as a key player for Brad on a couple of his big cases. But this was my chance to shine, and it felt like I’d crash landed. Fuck!
Given my mood, even the sunshine failed to make the barren trees and rolling hills look appealing as I traversed I-68.
By the time I reached Cumberland, Maryland, stopped to gas up my car, bought lunch and drank my second cup of coffee for the day, my gloom had lifted a bit.
I began contemplating that Pancavetti might have been telling the truth. He claimed no responsibility for killing anyone. If he hadn’t ordered a hit on Martin Tetlow, then the same would be true of… Damn. Who is the other juror killed during that trial?
His name came to me: Kinkade. I’d once had a biology teacher by the same name.
What’s his first name? Roger? Nah. Norman! That’s it. Norman Kinkade.
An image of Hitchcock’s Bates’ Motel flashed in my brain as I recalled the first name.
With half a cup of coffee remaining in a to-go cup, I climbed in my car, retrieved my cell and called Nick Argostino.
“What’s up, Sharon?” he answered, thanks to caller ID.
“I met with Hugo Pancavetti this morning, and I’m on my way back home.”
“Did he confess?”
“Nope. Denies everything. I need your help.”
Nick sounded wary, as he said, “What can I do?”
I explained how a second juror had died during Pancavetti’s first trial, and asked if he could find out if that case had ever been cleared.
“You got a name for me?”
“Yeah. Norman Kinkade. Summer of 1995.”
Nick repeated the information, obviously making notes, and said, “I’ll get back to you.”
He disconnected before I could say thanks.
I turned on the radio, trying to convince myself that I was once again making progress. Spotty reception in the mountains of western Maryland made it difficult to find a station. Unlike Brad, I hadn’t subscribed to satellite radio for my car. I pushed the pre-set buttons trying to find a station, and soon heard the familiar tune announcing, “KYW, news radio,” Philly’s twenty-four-hour news station. My amazement that I’d pulled in KYW—more than four hours from home—was short-lived. I heard the newscaster say, “Explosive testimony this morning in a Montgomery County murder trial,” but the signal faded as my car dipped into a valley.
They must have been talking about the trial where Brad was serving on the jury. I tried to get the signal back, edging the tuner slightly to the right and then left, but to no avail. I knew that they repeated the news every twenty minutes, updating as events warranted, so I’d periodically tap that preset button.
It took more than an hour after I’d turned north on I-81 before the station’s fuzzy static gave way to words I could understand. I listened to weather and traffic before they finally reported on the story I wanted to hear.
Dramatic testimony this morning at the Montgomery County murder trial of David Nesbit. Detective John Cordes revealed that a letter mailed to police led them to the discovery that Nesbit had rented a $2,500-a- month apartment in Haverford for twenty-seven year old Heather Sanders during the six months prior to his wife’s murder.
Neighbors in that apartment complex claimed Nesbit had been a frequent visitor. Ms. Sanders had vacated the apartment and not been seen for several weeks prior to Genevieve Nesbit’s death. The detective said that they’d been unable to locate the young woman.
Prosecutor Cunningham produced bank records confirming David Nesbit’s payment of her apartment rental.
The detective recounted his questioning of Nesbit at the Philadelphia airport following his return from Europe, but noted that he was not arrested until a week later, after they’d had time to “dot i’s and cross t’s” in their investigation.
Defense Attorney Shane Asher will have his chance to question Detective Cordes during this afternoon’s court session.
So that’s what Brad’s dealing with in his spare time? If it weren’t for the fact that a woman had been murdered, it sounded more like a soap opera. I was sure Brad would rather be helping me on the Martin Tetlow case.
My cell hadn’t sounded, and with about three and a half hours remaining on my journey home, I wondered if I’d hear from Nick Argostino that afternoon. I hoped so.
19
During their break on Monday morning, Jerry had asked Brad if he planned to go to the Court House Diner for lunch. Brad had smiled and nodded, but he had no desire to dine with Jerry. He felt a creepy vibe from that gregarious juror. When lunchtime came, and he saw Jerry duck into the restroom, Brad hustled down the hallway and caught up with three other jurors on their way to the diner.
He recognized Mary Ellen, and asked, “Mind if I join you?”
“By all means,” she said, and introduced Brad to Carl and Alyssa.
The four of them were already seated and studying their menus before Jerry showed up and gawked crestfallen in Brad’s direction. Jerry quickly recovered as he spotted two other jurors, yoo-hooed
them, and grabbed an empty seat at their table.
“That guy’s a bit over the top,” Carl whispered, behind the cover of his menu.
Alyssa chuckled. “He’s campaigning for jury foreman.”
There were silent nods around the table.
Before their food arrived, Brad learned that Carl worked as a manager for PECO, the electric and gas utility in the Philadelphia area, and Alyssa owned a card shop in Norristown.
The only thing they shared in common was jury service, but since they couldn’t discuss the case, conversation turned to the upcoming Thanksgiving holiday. The judge had promised an early dismissal on Wednesday, and they were all looking forward to spending time with their families before tackling Christmas shopping over the weekend.
Brad grinned as he envisioned the enjoyable weekend he’d just spent with Beth in New York City. They’d dined at a few of their favorite places, seen Nice Work If You Can Get It at the Imperial Theatre, and snuggled in front of the fireplace at her apartment.
Beth had invited him to share Thanksgiving dinner with her brother’s family in neighboring Bala Cynwyd, and surprised him with an invitation for a post-Thanksgiving weekend—just the two of them—at the Hotel Hershey in Hershey, PA. Surrounded by chocolate will be a great respite from the trial.
Plates of food arrived. As he ate, Brad reflected on the morning’s testimony. The courtroom had buzzed at the news that the defendant had paid for an apartment in which a young woman resided and with whom Nesbit was described as a “frequent visitor.”
Brad found Cordes’ testimony on their search of David Nesbit’s phone records to be of greater interest. From forty-eight hours before and throughout Nesbit’s trip to Tripoli, there had only been one call from his cell: to the organizers of the conference he attended. This was not surprising, since Nesbit reported having signal issues while overseas. But the prosecution presented his cell phone records for the three months prior to Genevieve’s death, all of which could be traced to personal friends, former colleagues in the State Department, or conference organizers. None rose to the level of being considered evidence of a man about to kill his wife. But perhaps that was the point Cunningham was trying to make, that Nesbit had covered his tracks. Did he use a separate disposable phone for illicit conversations?
The prosecution had also introduced records—with accompanying affidavits—for the Nesbits’ landline and Genevieve’s cell phone. The landline was the source of three calls to the apartment house where Heather Sanders had stayed. Brad found it surprising that a man would use a phone line he shared with his wife to make such calls.
Brad also noticed that Genevieve was a frequent but brief cell phone user. Most of her calls lasted less than three minutes.
The graphic prosecutors flashed on the screen showed the dates and times of her calls. For privacy purposes, the last four digits of the numbers were blurred. Each call was categorized as one of the following: family, friend, shopping, business, and personal services. Cordes described business calls as those to banks, brokers, etc., while personal services included calls to hairdresser, spa, massage therapist, landscapers, caterers, and interior designers. In the forty-eight hours before her death, Genevieve had contacted the landscapers, hairdresser, and her daughter.
The waitress intruded on Brad’s thoughts by asking if anyone wanted dessert. Everyone at the table demurred.
Fellow juror Carl stood. “It’s such a nice day, I figure I’ll walk around the block before we have to sit all afternoon.”
They all agreed that his idea was a good one.
There had been a few empty seats in the spectators’ gallery that morning. As the jury paraded in for the afternoon session, Brad noticed full benches all the way to rear of the courtroom.
This was a tribute, he thought, to Shane Asher, who’d get his shot at tarnishing the police investigation into the murder of Genevieve Nesbit.
“All rise,” the clerk intoned. Even Judge Whitaker seemed to gaze out in appreciation of the full house as he took his seat on the bench.
Detective Cordes strode back into the courtroom for his cross-examination, and he smiled and nodded toward the jurors as the judge reminded him he was still under oath.
Asher strolled toward the witness stand, yellow legal pad in hand. “Detective Cordes, I know you’ve had a couple of long days testifying. I’ll try to be brief. During the course of your career, how many homicide investigations have you participated in?”
Cordes stroked his chin. “I’d say three or four hundred.”
“In your direct testimony you reported questioning Mr. Nesbit on two occasions, first via telephone at his hotel in Tripoli, and the second time after you met his return flight. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“Would you characterize Mr. Nesbit as a cooperative witness?”
“Yes.”
“During those two occasions, were there any questions that he did not answer?”
“Ah….” Cordes appeared to hesitate before saying, “No.”
“What did David Nesbit say to you when you asked him about Heather Sanders?”
“I never asked him about Heather Sanders.”
“And why was that?”
“We didn’t learn about her until after he was arrested, and his lawyer advised him not to respond to any more questions.”
“Let’s talk about the circumstances under which you learned about Ms. Sanders. David Nesbit was arrested on March 15th, is that correct?
“Yes.”
“Arrested at his home, correct?”
“Yes.”
“There was a substantial media presence at the time of his arrest?”
“Yes.”
“Including quite a few video cameras, reporters, and onlookers?”
“Yes.”
“As a result, David’s name, the police department, and you were well publicized on the evening news?”
“Yes.”
“How many days later was it that you received an anonymous letter informing you about Ms. Sanders?”
“May I consult my notes?” Cordes asked.
“Of course,” Asher said magnanimously.
Cordes pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped through several pages before responding. “Two days later—March 17th.”
“Did you analyze the note for fingerprint or DNA evidence to determine who might have sent it?
“No.”
“Why not?” Asher’s question made it sound preposterous that they hadn’t. Brad felt Asher’s accompanying frown was exaggerated.
Cordes squared his shoulders and looked at the jurors. “We corroborated the information by checking David Nesbit’s phone records, verifying rent payments through banking records, visiting Ms. Sanders’ apartment building where we spoke with the lease manager, and later interviewing a neighboring tenant.”
“I see.” Asher grasped the wooden wall in front of the witness stand. “But you weren’t able to locate Heather Sanders?”
“We weren’t able to find a Heather Sanders who fit the description of the woman who occupied the rental unit.”
“Detective, wouldn’t the apartment manager have requested photo ID from tenants?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ask the manager to provide you with a photocopy of Ms. Sanders’ ID?”
“He didn’t have a copy, but was able to furnish us with the address that he’d written down from her ID.”
“Did you visit that address?”
“Yes.”
Asher turned to face the jurors. “Please tell the jury what you found.”
Cordes looked directly at Brad as he answered. “The address was for a vacant lot in Germantown.”
Asher paused for so long that Judge Whitaker asked, “Have you concluded with this witness?”
“No, Your Honor. Detective Cordes, based on your experience in three or four hundred homicide investigations, what did her false address suggest to you?”
“The woman d
id not want her identity known.”
Brad looked down the row at his fellow jurors. They were paying careful attention. Even Frank, who had sketched a centerfold-worthy blonde bombshell during the direct examination of the witness, left his pen dormant on the pad.
“Sooo,” Asher said, drawing out the word. “We have an anonymous note identifying an anonymous woman.”
Cunningham stood. “Objection. Argumentative.”
“Sustained,” Whitaker said. “Please ask your next question.”
“During your earlier testimony, you described finding bank records that documented payments from the defendant’s account to the Briarwood Apartments. Did you see checks in those amounts with Mr. Nesbit’s signature on them?”
“No. The payments were bank transfers using Mr. Nesbit’s PayPal account.”
“Then anyone with access to David Nesbit’s PayPal account could have made the transfers without his knowledge?”
Cunningham leaped from her chair. “Objection. Calls for speculation.”
Judge Whitaker peered across the top of his glasses at Asher. “Sustained.”
“Alright, let’s talk about the taxi ride from Nesbit’s home to the Philadelphia airport.” Asher studied his notes. “Detective, you told the court that an anonymous phone caller reported that, quoting from your testimony, Nesbit had taken a taxi cab from his home at 8:22 p.m. on the night of the murder. Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“You never spoke directly with the anonymous caller?”
“No.”
“And no recording of that call exists?”
“That’s correct.”
“The caller actually said ‘8:22 p.m.?’”
Cunningham rose. “Objection. Asked and answered.”
“Your Honor,” Asher pleaded, “I’m trying to get to the precise nature of the information.”
“Then get to it,” Whitaker said. “Objection sustained.”
“Well then, detective, are callers usually that exact when it comes to time?”
Cordes clenched his jaw, and glanced toward the prosecutor before saying, “Not often.”
