“Thank you for your time, Miss Lamb. You have been most helpful.”
The principal finally spoke up after sitting there quietly and letting Anna Lamb have her say.
“She’s right, you know. I was here and I saw it. She’s not just making this up. If you had been here and had seen the way they acted around each other, it was like watching that movie Lolita. You just knew that this wasn’t how fathers and daughters acted toward each other. I have two daughters. One of them is just a little older than Jennie and I have never touched her the way Mr. Cozen touched his daughter . . . not with that level of intimacy and familiarity. If you had a daughter you would understand. When they hit puberty, you notice and your attitude changes. When they start to develop breasts and want to dress sexy and you notice that they are almost women, it makes a father a little uncomfortable. There’s a stiffness in your posture when you hug them that wasn’t there before, because you notice that she has breasts now and you almost try not to rub up against them when you embrace, as if even that would be perverted. It’s a subtle thing, but it happens. You become uncomfortable with the idea of your little baby girl becoming a sexual creature. Mr. Cozen did not seem uncomfortable. He was a little too damned comfortable.”
“Detective, you don’t think this has anything to do with why they were murdered do you? I mean, I thought you already had a suspect?” Anna Lamb asked. She looked horrified.
“We have a suspect, not a conviction. Thank you very much for your time. Here’s my card. If you think of anything else, please call me.”
Detective Titus Baltimore left Frankford Elementary, beginning to believe that perhaps something was going on with Reed and his daughter. The thought made him sick . . . and angry. At least now he had something to do rather than sit around twiddling his thumbs while he waited for Malcolm Davis to get picked up. He slipped behind the wheel of the Mercedes and headed back to the Cozen house.
As he drove, he thought about the first case he’d worked involving allegations of sexual molestation. A guy named Mitchell Allen murdered his babysitter and her boyfriend because he claimed he caught them sexually assaulting his son. He bludgeoned them both to death with a two-and-a-half-pound welding hammer, broke nearly every bone in their bodies. They had been, quite literally, beaten to bloody, misshapen pulp. He was arrested and tried for second-degree murder. Titus gave his testimony about the forensic evidence linking Allen to the crimes, but since Mr. Allen was admitting that he did in fact kill the couple, Titus’s testimony had been brief.
A medical examiner testified that they’d found no physical evidence of sexual assault on Mitchell Allen’s little boy. All they had was Allen’s word on what he saw and the word of his young son and Allen had refused to allow his son to testify. He didn’t want the kid put through any further trauma. Baltimore stayed to hear the outcome of the case. Finally, on the third day of the trial, Mitchell Allen himself was called to the stand. The assistant D.A. asked him if he felt any guilt or remorse for the death of the couple.
Mr. Allen replied, “You know I’ve been thinking about that ever since the night it all happened.”
“And . . . ?” The prosecutor probed
“Well, I guess I can’t really answer that until I know how this all winds up affecting my son, Johnny. I mean, years from now, when he’s an adult, I might find out that I caused him more harm than good by killing those two. Then again, I might have just saved him years of emotional trauma. Right now, I just don’t know.”
“Mr. Allen, I think you may have misunderstood my question.’
“No, I understood you perfectly.”
“What about your victims, Mr. Allen? Do you feel anything for them? What about their families and their loss?”
“The only victim in this was my son! Those two pedophiles, their families, the City of Philadelphia, the State of Pennsylvania, they weren’t the ones being raped! I hope those two burn in hell for what they did! And as for their families, I read somewhere that behavior like this is passed down. The abused becomes the abuser. The victim becomes the victimizer. So, if those two sons-of-bitches molested my kid because they were molested by their parents when they were young, then my only consolation in all this would be to know that their parents were suffering. That every day they feel the pain that they caused my child.”
That wasn’t what the jury wanted to hear. Mitchell Allen was found guilty of second-degree murder and sentenced to fifteen years behind bars. As far as Baltimore knew, the man was still there, still unremorseful, still unrepentant and the detective still agreed with every word the man said. Now, more than ever, Detective Baltimore wanted to nail Mr. Cozen’s ass to the wall. If he had molested his daughter, Jennie, and then had gotten his friend Malcolm to murder his own family to keep anyone from finding out about it, Detective Baltimore was determined to make the man pay.
XVI.
Detective Bryant was back at his desk, staring at the computer screen as it tossed up possible matches from the over three million prints on file. Many of the prints were from convicts already dead, currently incarcerated, or drifters who had moved on years ago, but there were some that looked pretty good. But the computer, as good as it was, didn’t replace the naked eye and, again and again, he dismissed the computer’s suggestions. The AFIS had already gone through over a hundred thousand prints last night and nearly double that this morning. Finally, it tossed up a print for a guy who was arrested on Pine Street for soliciting for prostitution and again for public indecency (apparently got caught giving a blow-job in an alley). James shook his head in disbelief as the computer downloaded the suspect’s picture.
“No! Oh my God. This is crazy!”
It wasn’t Malcolm Davis, but it might be the next best thing, his accomplice, a longhaired, gay prostitute named Paul Cooper. There was even a recent address. James sprang from his chair and rushed into the Captain’s office to give him the good news.
“Captain Kelly! I think we’ve got that sonuvabitch! The computer found a match for one of the prints lifted from the murder weapon. It matches the fingerprint of a male prostitute we picked up a few times for solicitation and get this; he looks just like Mr. Cozen! I mean they could be twins! Is that some creepy shit or what? But it’s definitely a different guy. I already checked Mr. Cozen’s prints against those on the murder weapon and nothing. This is a different guy walking around with his face!”
The captain was silent. His elbows rested on the desk. His clasped hands supported his square, dimpled chin. He was staring at James as if he hadn’t heard a word he’d said. James was about to repeat himself but he paused, giving the captain time to respond.
Captain Roy Kelly was a huge man in his early forties. He was nearly six four with shoulders like a fullback and arms like Lou Ferrigno. He was often in the gym lifting weights in the morning when James got there. Kelly was a stern and serious man who almost never yelled. He didn’t have to. Kelly’s demeanor did his speaking for him, and it was clear he would rather not talk unless it was absolutely necessary. He was economical with his words, his deep gravely voice and unwavering dead man’s gaze carried weight. When he spoke, it was like the rumbling of an earthquake and could always be heard, even across a noisy room.
“Detective, where is your partner?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since last night.”
“And why don’t you know? You guys are supposed to be working together.”
“Captain, Tight Ass just has his own way of doing things. The guy just . . . I just can’t work with . . .”
The Captain raised his left hand to silence him and James’s mouth snapped shut obediently. He hated the way the Captain could do that to him. The man was definitely a born leader, even if he was a reluctant one, but what did that say about James? He hated to think of himself as a born follower, reluctant or otherwise.
“James, before you go to arrest this suspect, the first thing you are going to do is pick up Detective Baltimore. He’s at the crime scene trying
to dig up leads. I want you two sharing leads and working together. Right now, you’re both pursuing two entirely different lines of investigation and I want to see you come together on this and solve this fucking case. I will have patrolmen standing by. As soon as you rendezvous with Titus call for back up, and I will have them meet you at the scene. One more thing, I know you and Baltimore are on long leashes. That’s my fault. You and I were in the academy together and I know you should have been promoted long ago if it wasn’t for your anti-authority kick. So maybe I feel like I owe you. But I want you and Baltimore to start reporting in to Lieutenant Woo. He’s the head of the task force and he should know everything you too are up to.”
“If he brought his ass out to the crime scenes every once in a while he’d know what was going on.”
The Captain lowered his eyes from where they had been burrowing into James’s and went back to some crime scene photos he had been examining before the detective walked in. Lieutenant Woo rushed into the captain’s office as if he’d heard his name called. He began talking excitedly to the Captain. James considered himself dismissed and left to find his partner. He couldn’t even remember Baltimore’s cellular number. He hadn’t used it in months. Maybe Baltimore had his radio turned on for once. James started to try him on the police band and then decided to try later. He needed a few more minutes alone to think.
The squad room was bustling with nervous energy. This case had everyone uptight. It was the type of case that could either put a detective on the fast track to a promotion or put a black mark on his permanent record that would guarantee a stalled career. Half the department was trying to get in on the case and the other half was trying their best to avoid it.
Officer Webb, a young black kid who, despite his crisp blue uniform and Kiwi-black, spit-shined shoes, looked more like a gangsta rapper than a cop, rushed up to James waving a yellowing eight-by-ten. It almost made James nervous to see the guy with a gun, which in turn made him feel guilty. He offered the guy a weak, insincere smile and then looked at the picture. It was Malcolm Davis’ graduation photo sans cap and gown.
“Here’s the picture we got from Mrs. Davis, Malcolm Davis’ mom.”
The picture showed Malcolm in the same type of somber attire that Mr. Cozen described him in the night of the murders—black suit, black shirt, black tie. His head wasn’t shaved then - but it was cut very short. His eyes were preternaturally focused and intense, boring into the camera, seeming to come right out of the photo. The photograph looked alive like those portraits with the eyes that follow its viewers wherever they went. He was leaning forward as if he was about to spring off the stool. Officer Webb was looking over James’s shoulder at the photo. He let out a long hissing breath and shook his head in disbelief.
“Does that look like a teenager to you? Intense sonuvabitch isn’t he? Those eyes! The original thousand-yard stare—I’ve got homies on death row with eyes like that . . . assassin’s eyes.”
James tried not to wonder what a cop was doing with “homies on death row.” He looked at Malcolm’s eyes, the smirk that was almost a snarl, the flared nostrils, and the slightly furrowed brow. The kid looked savage, feral, like something dragged from the wilderness that had gotten off its chain. James thought it was the face people would give to a murderer when they imagined one without ever actually seeing one, all the features melodramatically menacing.
“I thought serial killers were supposed to look normal . . . you know . . . ordinary . . . like the guy next door? This guy looks like a comic book super villain, like he should be chasing James Bond through Venice in a speed boat,” Webb joked.
“Yeah, he is an unsettling, disturbing looking muthafucka ain’t he? Take this photo, make copies, and get it out to the press. It’s old, but we can still use it. He ain’t really changed very much.”
“James!” the Captain was slipping his sports coat on and rushing toward him. Lieutenant Woo was right behind him. James looked at the Lieutenant and thought he must be getting old because every officer he saw looked young to him except for the Captain. The Detective was younger than Captain Kelly, but the years of witnessing one grisly example of man’s inhumanity after another had prematurely aged him. He was only in his forties, but looked like he was in his mid-fifties.
“Forget about picking up Titus. You’re coming with me.”
“What’s going on, Captain?”
“Malcolm just killed again. He slashed a bodybuilder at a gym downtown.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Captain Kelly turned to Lieutenant Woo and told him to call Detective Baltimore and have him meet them at the Atlas Gym. James watched as the tall lanky Chinese detective hurried off to do the Captain’s bidding. Once again, he would be a no-show at the crime scene. The only photo opportunities this time would be for someone to lay the blame on for this latest fuck up, a front-page crucifixion. No way Woo was going to make the scene for that. If his luck held out, James probably wouldn’t see the Lieutenant again until the case was solved and there was glory to be usurped. That’s the way he preferred it anyway. He would much rather have reported directly to the Captain than to one of his bootlicking underlings.
“Make sure Titus comes right away. Tell him to drop whatever bullshit he’s up to.”
“Great, that’s just what we need,” James lamented.
The Captain grinned sardonically. It was the only type of grin the man seemed capable of.
“Teamwork, remember, James?”
“Oh, yeah. Teamwork. Right.”
When Captain Kelly and Detective James arrived at the Atlas Gym, they found the worst possible crime scene imaginable. Over a dozen different people from customers, friends and co-workers, to EMTs and cops, had touched the body and were now milling about, contaminating the crime scene. Someone had had the sense to put yellow police tape around the scene, but the tape had been torn down and trampled. It was complete pandemonium.
The Captain was incensed. Detective James Bryant was doing his best to limit his reaction to merely incensed. He felt like punching someone’s teeth out.
“Who the fuck is supposed to be controlling this crime scene?” the Captain growled
“Who the fuck is in charge here!” James yelled
The uniformed officers on the scene all stared at each other and then back at the Captain. Finally, a tall Italian officer with sergeant stripes and a thin moustache that looked like it had been plucked rather than shaved, stepped forward. Both the Captain and James rolled their eyes and shook their heads. The guy looked like he should be on the cover of some fashion magazine from the 1920’s or at a gay pride parade.
“Uh . . . I’m the ranking officer here, sir.”
“Great. Get all of these people out of the fucking crime scene so maybe we can gather whatever evidence hasn’t already been contaminated or destroyed. Get the witnesses outside! Get statements from them and then get them the fuck out of here! The man is dead right? So why the fuck do we still have EMTs here? Get them the fuck out of here and call the ME! Until the forensic guys get here, I want everybody but Detective Bryant and me the fuck out of here! Oh, and when Detective Baltimore shows up, send him in here, too.”
The Sergeant walked off, looking like he’d just been smacked. His face was red and he was cursing under his breath.
“You can’t blame the guy, really. All they’re used to doing down here is catching shoplifters and harassing kids for skipping school to play video games,” the detective said
“Yeah, that and taking bribes from the Mafia, flirting with the tourists, and eating pizza all damn day,” the captain growled back.
The sergeant and the rest of the officers began herding the huge crowd outside, happy to have something to do that kept them out of the captain’s direct line of sight.
“Who was the first officer on the scene?”
A young redheaded kid who looked barely out of his teens stepped forward.
“Uh . . . I was, sir.”
“What’s your na
me?”
“Officer Wyatt. John Wyatt.”
“Wyatt, next time you arrive at a one-eight-seven, the first thing you do is secure the goddamn scene! If I ever see some shit like this again, I’m going to snatch that badge right off your chest and stab you with it. Look at this shit! Now, almost anything we find a defense attorney will shove right up our asses if we try to bring it into a courtroom. Did you interview any of the witnesses?”
“Uh . . . yes sir. The sales lady was standing right by the guy when the suspect sliced him. She said the TV had just showed a picture of Malcolm Davis and the guy pointed at the suspect and yelled out ‘That’s him!’ Then Malcolm opened up the guy’s throat with some kind of little knife that he whipped out of a gym bag he was carrying. After that, the suspect just walked out the door, got into his car, and drove away. Obviously, no one else tried to stop him.”
“Tell me the sales lady is still here.” James said.
“Oh yeah, she’s the one with the incredible body standing over there in the red spandex.”
“I want you to make sure you get a complete statement from her,” the captain said
Captain Kelly and Detective James Bryant knelt to look at the body. There were bloody towels everywhere from where the gym staff had attempted to stop the bleeding. Blood formed a huge puddle on the floor. People never realized how much blood was in the human body until they saw it pooled around a corpse. Kelly and James studied the victim’s lacerated throat, helplessly outraged.
“What the hell kind of monster would do something like this for no reason? He almost took the guy’s head off.”
Pure Hate Page 9
