Jake Lassiter - 02 - Night Vision

by Paul Levine

  NO. NO. NO. TRY THIS. “I’M A GOOD GIRL, I AM”

  WHAT?

  TRY IT. “I’M A GOOD GIRL, I AM. AND I KNOW THE LIKES OF YOU, I DO.”

  WAIT!!! THATS FROM A PLAY.

  BY JOVE, SHE’S GOT IT. I THINK SHE’S GOT IT.

  SURE. MY FAIR LADY. YOU WERE DOING THE REX HARRISON PART, RIGHT?

  I PREFER TO THINK OF THE PLAY AS PYGMALION, AND I WAS DOING HENRY HIGGINS AS WRITTEN BY SHAW. I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT TRY A FEW OF ELIZA’S LINES.

  OH PRINCE. YOU’RE VERY LITERARY. I LIKE THAT. MY HUSBAND NEVER HAD ANY TIME FOR PLAYS. FOOTBALL, BUT NOT PLAYS. AND TRY TO GET HIM TO THE BALLET. HE CALLED IT FAIRIES’ BASEBALL.

  WELL THEN, PERHAPS WE COULD GET TOGETHER.

  LOVE TO. CALL ME AGAIN. BUT GOT TO GET CLEANED UP, CHANGE CLOTHES NOW. HEY. I MEAN IT. CALL ME TOMORROW.

  I put the file down and thought about it. Charlie went back to his maggots, Rod to his paper, and Nick Fox sat down at his desk beneath the wall of commendations and merit badges. Pam Maxson studied me from across the office. It was the professor, all right, sliding in and out of an old role. According to the printout, they signed off at 10:05 P.M. Priscilla said she had to get cleaned up, change clothes. Not get cleaned up, go to bed. She was going out. Or someone was coming over. Late. And not the Passion Prince. Someone she already knew. But who?

  Nick Fox, maybe.

  Or Alex Rodriguez, her pal.

  Now, those were thoughts best kept to yourself. I opened the file again. When they found Priscilla Fox, wearing a silk negligee, strangled in the foyer near the front door, there was a faint light from the corner of what had been Nick’s study. A steady hum came from the IBM compatible on the desk. On the screen, white on black, a message from hell.

  MAN IS THE HUNTER; WOMAN IS HIS GAME;

  THE SLEEK AND SHINING CREATURES OF THE CHASE,

  WE HUNT THEM FOR THE BEAUTY OF THEIR SKINS.

  Tennyson again, they told me. I didn’t know the poem, but I can read English. Regardless of the poet’s meaning, there was no mistaking the intent here. Someone was collecting the sleek, shiny pelts of the female of the species and bragging about it.

  Got to get cleaned up, change clothes now. Who was it? Some sick creature out of the swamps who looks just like you or me? Or Nick Fox or Alex Rodriguez? There it was again, the thought hanging on like a summer cold.

  I told everybody I was going to put the top down and take a little ride just to clear my head. No one seemed to care. As I stood up, Nick Fox said, “Jake, let me give you some advice. You’ve got to look out for your reputation. This case could make you look like a bozo.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “Don’t get defensive. I’m trying to help you out. Look, I know stories about you when you just started practicing. A lot of people thought you played ball too long without a helmet.”

  “I made some mistakes,” I admitted.

  Nick turned toward Rodriguez, his one-man fan club. “One day when Jake was just out of the PD’s office, he went to federal court. Remember, Jakie, the story was all over town. The judge had assigned the motion to a magistrate. Jakie had never appeared before a magistrate before and didn’t know how to address him. So when he’s asked whether the plaintiff is ready, Jakie here says—”

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  Rodriguez snickered. Pam smiled politely. Charlie kept reading.

  “It seemed right at the time,” I said.

  “I checked up on you, Jakie,” Fox said. “At Harman and Fox, your first deposition in a big civil case, one of the senior partners tells you it’s a formal proceeding. So you show up—”

  “In a tuxedo,” I said.

  Even Charlie laughed at that, and he’s my best friend.

  “So the point is, Jakie, like I told you before, keep your ass down, it won’t get shot off.”

  ***

  I took the expressway west past the Orange Bowl, pale and faded now that the Dolphins had moved uptown to a new amphitheater with massive replay screens and sky boxes for the heavy hitters. I turned south on the Palmetto, past Flagler Street and Calle Ocho, past Coral Way, and exited at Bird Road. I was sandwiched between two semis, and I inhaled equal portions of carbon monoxide and diesel fuel. I headed west again, past the same car dealers and gas stations, gun shops and XXX videos, beauty parlors and rental furniture stores. Plastic signs proclaimed the lowest prices, the largest selections, the newest models, and the biggest, bestest, beautifulest products money can buy.

  The afternoon sun still hung above the horizon, the day soggy and sweltering, the shadows long. My white shirt stuck to my back, my striped tie was at half-mast. The house was buttoned up tight and wrapped in yellow tape courtesy of Metro police. I rooted around in the trunk of the 442 until I found an old pair of windsurfing gloves. They were nylon and fastened at the wrist with Velcro straps. I looked like a burglar who didn’t want to leave prints. Appearances are not always deceiving, Charlie old buddy.

  The garage door handle was rusty. I hoped it would hold. I bent at the knees and, keeping my back straight, grasped the handle with two hands. I slowly straightened my legs, pulling up. Everybody has different talents. Some can hit high C, others can paint landscapes on bleached bones. I can lift deadweight. Lots of it.

  The handle bit into the meat of my palms, even through the gloves. Cords and strings in my back snapped and screeched curses at me and the lactic acid pooled in my triceps until they nearly cramped. I kept pulling. Hey, if Atlas could hold up the world, a guy with decent lats and traps ought to be able to…

  Crack. An old pin snapped in two and the door rumbled up under my chin. I ducked inside, pulled the door down, and found the way to the kitchen. Inside, the air-conditioning was pumping away, all those kilowatts keeping the emptiness cool.

  I walked into the living room where Priscilla Fox had fed me bland and healthy tidbits and asked me to rub her feet. I went to the study that had been Nick’s, where Priscilla spent her evenings, gabbing the boredom away. The computer was still there, turned off now, the message from the screen preserved on hard copy.

  Whoever wrote it, I thought, knew a little something about computers. You can’t just turn them on. You have to get into the word-processing directory. You have to type. And you have to know some poetry by heart, I figured, unless the killer totes his Tennyson with him. I saw the dust layered among the keys, the lab boys scouring the keyboard for prints. But the killer had either worn gloves or wiped the place clean.

  What else? He had to be calm. He’d just strangled a woman and he sits to type his little message, and does it with no typos, no sweat. Freaky.

  I looked around the study, opening drawers, alert for notes or letters, hoping to find it laid out for me: See you Sunday night at 10:30, your place. Signed, Joe Jones, the hunter. With an address and phone number attached. But there was nothing. If there had been, Metro would have found it.

  So what was I doing here? Trying to prove Nick Fox wrong. He had put me down good. Right in front of the crusty ex-coroner and the beautiful lady who were my little team. Why? And what are you going to do about it, Jakie? Run home crying to Granny Lassiter? Hey, you’re a big boy. You can bench-press large buildings in a single bound. Or something like that.

  I tossed a few ideas around and dropped a couple on my toes. If Nick Fox thinks you’re such a loser, why does he appoint you to head a murder investigation? Because he thinks you’re such a loser, that’s why, dummy! Which means what? That Nick Fox is afraid a smart guy would find things out that are not good for the health and welfare of Nicholas G. Fox.

  Okay. So time to get smart.

  I walked into the foyer, the chalk outline of Priscilla’s body still on the floor. I wandered back to the master bedroom and looked through a closet, then walked into little Nicky’s room and finally the guest room.

  The guest room.

  Marsha Diamond had stayed there overnight. Pajama party. It was barely ten by ten, an oak floor, grass-cloth wallpaper. On the wa
ll was a still-life watercolor—a bowl of fruit and a bottle of wine. Jalousie windows overlooked a small backyard. A dresser was stuffed with women’s clothes that hadn’t been worn in some time. There was a double bed with a fluffy beige comforter. I looked under the bed for nothing in particular and found just that. I lay down in the bed and stared straight up. No bright ideas were written on the ceiling.

  I stood and opened the folding door to the closet. Old clothes, a couple of suitcases. With a hand, I pulled out some women’s dresses and looked into the darkness. On the floor something green. Army green. I reached down and pulled it out by a canvas strap. An old duffel bag stuffed to the drawstrings.

  I loosened the strings and yanked out some fatigues, a pair of boots, a vicious sawtooth knife, and a Colt .45 pistol. There was more. There were socks and shirts and a little velvet case lined with medals and ribbons. There was the smell of age and mustiness. I turned the bag upside down and shook it. A pair of dog tags clattered to the floor. Nothing else. I fondled the old duffel bag and tried to feel the vibrations. No magic. I tossed it aside and it landed with a slap. Not a canvas-on-wood sound. I picked up the bag and turned it over. Under a flap, a zippered pouch. Zip. I reached inside and pulled at something. It slipped from my hand and hit the floor. I had a case of fumble-itis. It lay there on the floor next to the dog tags and boots and green undershirts.

  A small book just staring at me. Underneath a plastic cover, neatly printed so long ago, so far away: Officers Log, Lt. Nicholas G. Fox.

  I picked it up and turned to page one. “Now, Nick,” I said. “Talk to me now.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Habeas Corpus

  The writ is an ancient one, Your Honor, as holy as the Scriptures, mightier than any sword. The crown may imprison, but the court, Your Honor, the court may always set free.”

  Arnold Two-Ton Tannenbaum slipped his right hand inside his bulging vest and held his heart. Either he was pledging allegiance or imitating a blimp-sized Napoleon. He wore a freshly pressed suit of friendly brown and a look of sincere concern.

  “Habeas corpus ad subiciendum,” Tannenbaum intoned. Charlie Riggs would have been proud. Judge Dixie Lee Boulton peered down from the bench through her bifocals, wrinkled her forehead, and waited.

  “Ha-be-as cor-pus,” the corpulent mouthpiece proclaimed, as if the words would cast a spell. “Bring the body to the court. How can the state justify holding such a man without a formal charge? A man with no prior arrests of any kind. A man renowned on the stages of two continents. A man who devotes his time to imparting wisdom to the young. An actor, yea, but also, Your Honor, this is a man.”

  Two-Ton extended a massive arm toward Gerald Prince, who sat proudly at the defense table. Prince wore a green jailhouse smock and had swept his silver hair straight back. He jutted his fine chin forward and appeared to be looking somewhere over Dixie Lee Boulton’s head.

  I moseyed over behind the defense table and bent down toward Prince.

  “Are we going to hear one of your soliloquies today?” I asked.

  He put a finger to his lips. “Silence,” he whispered, “is often the greatest achievement of an actor. Make them watch your face. Only the face. Like the Indian in Cuckoo’s Nest.”

  “Or Harpo Marx in Animal Crackers,” I agreed.

  “In sum, Your Honor, it is indefensible, unconstitutional, and utterly intolerable to detain this famed thespian without a formal charge,” Tannenbaum concluded.

  “Thank you, Mr. Tattlebum,” the judge said. “Who speaks for the people of the state of Florida?”

  Just little ole me, I thought.

  “Under the statute,” I began without pleasantries, “the state has twenty-one days to indict Mr. Prince. He can be held until then unless the defense demonstrates that the proof is not evident and the presumption of guilt is not great. Now, Mr. Prince has been incarcerated only four days, and the state submits there is sufficient evidence to detain him.”

  I ran through the evidence for the judge, the computer messages, the blood type, the lack of alibis, and reminded her of the seriousness of the crimes.

  “Additionally,” I said, “we had hoped to have the DNA results ready for today’s hearing. Unfortunately, they’ve been delayed. When they are received, we expect the grand jury to return indictments for three homicides. Three first-degree murders, Your Honor.”

  I was a reluctant warrior. It had gotten too complicated. Three women were dead, the state attorney was married to one and sleeping with another. The chief homicide detective was a pal of the wife. The third woman didn’t belong to the happy little Fox clan, but all three played nighttime chitchat on their computer’s sex channel. The state attorney had expanded my duties to prosecute all three. Pretty soon you would need a scorecard. How did I get into this? And what was going on?

  The judge looked at me, perplexed. “I don’t like to hold defendants without the issuance of indictments or criminal information,” she said. “Is there any formal charge you can file today?”

  Nothing I could think of, unless overacting was a misdemeanor, in which case Two-Ton would be jailed along with his client. Before I could reply, the courtroom door swung open and a young man in a white lab coat came hustling in. He said something to the bailiff, who pointed at me. Just like on TV, the missing witness bursting in to save the day.

  “Your Honor, may we present some brief testimony in support of the state’s position?” I asked with grateful charm.

  “I suggest you do,” the judge said.

  I tossed an arm around the young man and hustled him to the witness stand. He looked like an earnest graduate student, bushy mustache and unkempt hair. He held a manila folder and glanced nervously at the judge.

  “Ever testify before?” I whispered.

  “No…and maybe we should talk—”

  “No time, the judge is about to grant the writ.”

  He placed his left hand on the Bible and raised his right hand with a jerky motion that tossed his folder across the courtroom like a Frisbee. I retrieved it. He sat down and told us his name, Dr. Sanford Katzen; his profession, mathematician and geneticist; and yes, he performed various tests on semen samples from two of the decedents and the blood of the defendant.

  “What do you call these tests?” I asked.

  “Restriction fragment length polymorphism analysis.”

  Don’t you just love doctors? “Is there any other name…?”

  “Oh, you probably know it by its colloquial term. Genetic fingerprinting.”

  “And how do you perform these tests?”

  “Oh my, that would take several hours to explain.”

  Judge Boulton cleared her throat. “Young man, I have nine more hearings before lunch, so perhaps you could just cut to the chase.”

  “Well, simply stated, and grossly oversimplifying, so you must forgive me, we compare the deoxyribonucleic acid from two different samples. If the size of the genes match, the acid came from the same person. It would be a mathematical impossibility for two random samples to match up.”

  He opened the folder and pulled out several X-rays. I mounted them on the viewer usually used in auto-accident cases. Dr. Katzen came down from the witness stand without tripping and stood humbly at my side.

  “Please describe what the X-rays show,” I said.

  These are the autoradiograms. First we chop the DNA into small fragments using enzymes. Then they’re placed on a gelatin slab, shot with an electrical current, transferred to a membrane that’s exposed to a radioactive probe, and pressed against the X-ray film which you see—”

  “Dr. Cashman,” the judge interrupted. “Could you please get to the point!” Dixie Lee was ready to deny the request for the writ, if only the witness would say the magic words.

  “Sorry. Well, as you can see, there are three parallel tracks representing DNA from each sample. The distance between these bands is measured down to one hundredth of a kilobase. That’s about one thousand rungs on the DNA ladder, which has so
me three billion lines. So, as you can see, the measurement is quite precise.”

  The judge was fidgeting. “Doctor! The results, please.”

  “Well, if the length of the polymorphic loci match, there’s no chance that the samples came from different people. Oh, I shouldn’t say no chance, should I? There is perhaps one in one-point-five quintillion, but for statistical purposes—”

  “Dr. Katzen,” I said, “the results. What does your autoradiogram show?”

  “Oh, quite clearly, the kilo bases from each decedent match exactly.”

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “So that the semen taken from Ms. Rosedahl and Mrs. Fox obviously came from the same man.”

  “Obviously,” I agreed.

  “Of course, as you can see with the naked eye, there is no match with the blood from Mr. Prince.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  Wait a second.

  What did he say?

  “No match at all,” he continued. “Not the slightest chance that the semen from either of the bodies came from Mr. Prince, though, as I said, they did come from the same man, whoever he might be.”

  A thousand blowflies could have laid their eggs in my mouth and still had room for an apple. I was nailed to the floor. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gerald Prince get to his feet at the defense table and nod toward the judge. The nod became a bow. He did it again. Waiting for the curtain call. Someone was saying something. What was it?

  “Mr. Lassiter, does that conclude your presentation?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” I said.

  ***

  The sky darkened at precisely three o’clock, huge thunderheads gathering over downtown, hanging low, bashing each other, lightning crackling. At ten past the hour, the rain came, swirling with the winds, sweeping across Okeechobee Road. An old Pontiac had flooded out and sat, hood up, blocking traffic for five miles. The rain pounded on my canvas top, cold drops sliding inside the window and splatting my left leg.