Silent Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense bk-9

by William Bernhardt

  “Got it.”

  “Second only to the three other most important words. I—don’t—remember.”

  Cecily frowned. “Doesn’t that sound a little feeble?”

  “Who cares? They’ll be asking you about things that happened years ago. They’ll ask you about where you grew up, what you studied in school, every job you’ve ever had. No one can remember everything. So when you don’t remember—say so. Don’t guess. Don’t speculate.”

  Cecily pressed her hand against her forehead. “Fine. Anything else?”

  “Yeah. Don’t make jokes. They may sound funny at the time, but typed up and set down on paper the humor won’t play. Sarcasm could end up sounding incriminating. So don’t do it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t bother trying to cozy up to the opposing attorney. Some deponents insist on believing they can charm the guy, win him over to their side. It’s a fool’s dream. It won’t happen. So just answer the questions succinctly and get it over with.” She paused. “Any questions?”

  “Yes.” Cecily’s eyes widened. “Is there any way I can get out of this?”

  “Not unless you want to dismiss your lawsuit.”

  Her hesitation suggested she was actually considering it. “No,” she said finally. “I owe this to Billy.”

  “I agree.” Christina squeezed her hand once more. “Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. Remember—Ben will be with you at all times. He won’t let them beat up on you. It won’t be pleasant, but you’ll survive.”

  “I hope so.”

  “You’re in the right here, Cecily. Your cause is just. There’s nothing they can do to you.”

  Cecily didn’t reply, but her eyes expressed her disbelief in Christina’s statement more plainly than words could ever have done.

  Mike was in the office of the Tulsa County medical examiner, Bob Barkley. Bob, an amiable man even younger than Mike, was new to the job. He had replaced Dr. Koregai, who’d served in this office since the dawn of time, or at least as long as Mike had been a cop, until he died recently of a heart attack. Koregai had been as irascible as Bob was amiable. Talking to Koregai was always a game. Koregai never wanted to tell him anything; Mike had to bend over and scrape just to pry out the most rudimentary information. He was pompous, arrogant, and difficult in the extreme.

  Mike missed Koregai, damn it.

  “How did this woman die?” Mike asked, referring to the corpse that had been dragged back from Blaylock’s backyard.

  “Extensive punctures to the lungs. Also to the heart.” Bob was fair-haired and clean-shaven; indeed, Mike wondered if he had to shave at all. “The puncture wound to the heart would’ve been almost immediately fatal. But I think she may have been dead before that happened.”

  “Then what was the point?”

  “That question falls outside my area of expertise.” He removed the blue sheet, exposing the corpse. Under the harsh fluorescent lights of the examining room, it almost seemed to glow, a milky gray color.

  “D.R.T.?”

  “No way. She’s been moved. A fair distance, I think. Then stuffed into that drum.”

  “Why?”

  “Can’t say. Perhaps the killer thought she’d be taken out with the rest of the trash.”

  “Hell of a way to get rid of a corpse. But I suppose it might’ve worked. No one’s too anxious to open a can of industrial waste. Especially if it starts smelling bad.” He glanced down at the woman’s body, then quickly looked away. “Can you speculate as to the weapon?”

  Bob nodded. “Corkscrew.”

  Mike’s eyes widened. “Corkscrew?”

  “You heard me. And not a very nice one. Probably cheap plastic, like the kind you see in hotel rooms. Put the handle beneath your fingers and twist.”

  Mike wiped his brow. “A corkscrew? Jesus Christ.”

  “At first I thought maybe it was a drill. You know, like a power drill. A little electricity would’ve simplified this nasty piece of work. But there would’ve been more tearing, more striation. No, I think it was a corkscrew.”

  Mike’s face was ashen. “For God’s sake—why?”

  “I can only tell you what I know. It would’ve hurt like hell, like nothing you can imagine. Worse than a gunshot. And death would not have been instantaneous.”

  “You think she was being tortured?” The thought of it made Mike’s gorge rise.

  “Clearly the killer wanted this woman to feel some major pain. Just like that last one you brought in.”

  “Harvey? The guy with all the smashed bones?”

  “That’s the one. Clearly his killer also wanted him in serious agony before he actually expired. Probably got his rocks off by inflicting pain.”

  “Maybe,” Mike said quietly. “Or maybe there was another reason.”

  “What other reason could there possibly be?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If the killer isn’t a psycho—what the hell is he?”

  “Something far worse, I fear.” Mike shook his head. “I don’t know enough to say. But this isn’t like a pure serial killer, someone who kills just for the pleasure of it. There’s a pattern here. A method.”

  “So you’re saying the killer is someone who isn’t insane—but is still capable of inflicting pain of this magnitude?”

  “Scary thought, isn’t it?”

  “Damn straight.”

  “Give me your opinion, Bob. Were both of these victims killed by the same person?”

  Bob shook his head. “I can’t say with certainty. The M.O.s are different. Still, how many people can there be who are capable of inflicting this kind of pain?

  “Too damn many,” Mike spat back. “But there’s a difference between capability and actuality. Most people are capable of extreme behavior in extreme circumstances. But that doesn’t mean they’re out on the street wielding corkscrews.” He pulled a notepad out of his back pocket. “We’ve learned that the woman’s name was Margaret Caldwell. She worked at Blaylock. She was in the legal department.” He put away the notepad. “Which means both victims had a connection to Blaylock. Which is pretty damn coincidental. And I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “There is one similarity between the two killings.” Bob crouched over the corpse and elevated her right hand. “See these marks on her wrist? Those were left by some kind of heavy-duty tape. Electrical tape. Duct tape. And I found similar marks on Harvey’s wrists. What was left of them.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s not an altogether uncommon way of restraining a victim these days. Everyone’s seen it in the movies.”

  “Still, it doesn’t happen every day.”

  “No. It doesn’t.” He drew in a deep breath of mentholated air. “So, give me the bottom line, doctor. Am I looking for one killer, or two?”

  “Impossible to say, based on the medical evidence. There’s not nearly enough here for me to assume a common killer.” He gently pulled the blue sheet back over the corpse’s head. “But however many of them it is—I hope to God you catch them. Soon.”

  Mike thrust his hands deep into his coat pockets. “So do I.”

  Ben sat at a conference table at the Raven, Tucker & Tubb law firm opposite Myron Blaylock, easily one of the most unpleasant men he had ever met in his entire life. It was a beautiful room; it spoke volumes about the kind of money this firm had at its disposal. Lush Oriental carpet, porcelain vases, rich mahogany table. A large bay window with an expansive view of downtown Tulsa. Unfortunately, Ben was not in a position to appreciate any of it.

  The deposition had gotten off to a rocky start. Blaylock had barged into the conference room twenty minutes late, refused to shake Ben’s hand, and immediately launched into a hot-blooded tirade.

  “How dare you question the integrity of H. P. Blaylock?” he shouted indignantly. “This corporation has served this state for more than sixty years, since it was founded by my granddaddy, and we have never done anything to harm anyone. Never!”

  Once the man was finally seat
ed and sworn in, Ben tried to begin the deposition, but Blaylock stopped him before he could ask the first question. “I want to state for the record that I am grossly offended by these entire proceedings. These claims have no basis in fact and are utterly without merit. I am only here today because my attorneys inform me that I have no choice, but I am indignant about being forced to participate in these sham proceedings.”

  “Indignation noted,” Ben replied, and he began the deposition.

  The hostility only escalated. Ben’s initial questions dealt with Blaylock’s employment background, as was traditional with corporate deponents. “What business is it of yours?” Blaylock exclaimed on repeated occasions. “What the hell has this got to do with this lawsuit?”

  Ben refused to be baited into justifying his own questions. He maintained a placid face (regardless of how much he secretly wanted to wring the man’s scrawny neck) and reasked the question until it was answered.

  An hour into the deposition, Blaylock was treating Ben with open contempt. Ben’s tongue grew sharper in response; it had to. If he hadn’t toughened up, he’d never have gotten an answer to anything. War was being waged amongst burnished curtains and mahogany furniture.

  Colby interrupted repeatedly. “There’s no reason to make this unpleasant.”

  Ben ignored him. There was a reason. It was sitting across the table from him.

  Finally, about two hours from the start, Ben got to the heart of the matter. “Have you or any of your employees ever used TCE or perc at your plant?”

  “No,” Blaylock answered, his voice dripping with hate. His eyes were small and narrow, almost porcine. “I have not.”

  “What industrial solvent do you use?”

  “Do I look like the janitor? I have no idea.”

  “If you don’t know what you use, how can you know that you don’t use TCE?”

  “I know I didn’t cause those kids" cancer, that’s for damn sure!”

  “That wasn’t the question, sir. How can you know that you don’t use TCE?”

  Blaylock sneered. His message was clear. I’m not giving you anything. And you can’t make me. “I assumed you were asking whether I had knowledge of any such use.”

  “No, sir. That was not the question. Let me ask it again. Have you or your employees ever used TCE or perc?”

  Colby leaned forward. “If you know.”

  “Don’t coach the witness!” Ben said.

  “I’m not coaching,” Colby said calmly. “I’m counseling.”

  “If there’s a question pending, you should keep your mouth closed. Period.”

  Colby rose slightly out of his chair. “Don’t presume to instruct me on how to perform my job, Mr. Kincaid.”

  “Don’t you coach the witness!” Ben shot back.

  “If you can’t control yourself, Mr. Kincaid, I will remove the witness and cancel this deposition.”

  “I issued a subpoena for this deposition. You try to leave and I’ll have the sheriff drag his cranky butt back to the conference room!”

  Colby glanced at the court reporter. “Are you getting all this?”

  The court reporter nodded. She glanced up at the screen of her laptop. “ ‘You try to leave and I’ll have the sheriff drag his cranky butt—’”

  “That’ll be enough,” Ben said, cutting her off. None of this colloquy of counsel was getting him answers to his questions. “Mr. Blaylock, have you or your employees ever used TCE or perc?”

  “If you know,” Colby interjected.

  Ben gnashed his teeth.

  Blaylock glanced at his lawyer and took the cue. “I … don’t know.”

  “Then it’s possible?”

  “Objection,” Colby said.

  “Anything’s possible,” Ben insisted. “The witness will answer the question.”

  Colby gave Blaylock the nod. “I don’t know what solvent every single person has used since the dawn of time. But it doesn’t matter. Because whatever it is, it was properly disposed of, as we do all our waste.”

  “Please describe your waste-disposal procedures.”

  Blaylock waved a hand in the air. “I have people who take care of that.”

  “Does that mean you don’t know?”

  “We store it in steel drums.”

  “What do you do with the drums?”

  “We have them hauled off to an authorized and regulated disposal site. Exactly as we’re supposed to do.”

  Ben didn’t let up. “How is the waste transferred to the drums?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I mean, how does the waste get put in the drums?”

  “How do you think?”

  “I don’t know, sir. That’s why I’m asking.”

  “Like this.” Blaylock leaned across the table, grabbed the end of Ben’s tie, and dunked it in his coffee. “Understand, now?”

  Ben jumped to his feet. “Let the record reflect that the witness has just soaked my necktie.”

  “Not true,” Colby interjected. “Only the tip of the tie.”

  They took a short break, but relations between witness and examiner did not improve. Ben asked a question; Blaylock dodged it. Ben pressed harder; Colby made an objection. Blaylock made a rude remark; Ben made a ruder one. And in this manner they proceeded to argue a dispute potentially involving millions of dollars and the lives of eleven innocent children.

  Chapter 16

  MARK AUSTIN SAT QUIETLY, his hands folded in his lap, and watched his mentor, Charlton Colby, prep yet another Blaylock employee for deposition. This" was the seventh one they had drilled tonight—and there were still several more waiting in the wings.

  Mark’s early expectations regarding this case had been fulfilled—and then some. He had hoped this case would boost his billable hours, and that wish had come true beyond his wildest dreams. He’d billed eighty hours a week since the case began, and he wasn’t the only one, either. At least a dozen other associates had worked on the case in one capacity or another—doing legal research, drafting briefs, reviewing and cataloging documents. Colby himself had also billed high numbers, which at his hourly rate added up to some significant dollars. Colby had reportedly been billing time seven days a week, fifteen and sixteen hours a day. Elkins v. Blaylock had become the biggest cash cow Raven, Tucker & Tubb had seen in some time.

  Mark had also hoped this case would give him an opportunity to work with Colby closely, to study under the man commonly considered to be Tulsa’s master of corporate litigation. That wish had also come true. Mark had been involved in every aspect of Colby’s work—the motions, the discovery, the tactics. The experience had been extremely illuminating if, at times, surprising. And a bit disturbing.

  The current witness was a man named Archie Turnbull. Although Colby had allowed Mark to prep some of the witnesses on his own, he had insisted on personally preparing all of the top executives and anyone who was personally involved in waste disposal. Turnbull fell into the latter category.

  Turnbull was a tall, thin man with an elongated countenance; he looked rather as if he had been grabbed at both ends and stretched. He was beyond balding; there were two patches of graying hair over each ear, with a few pathetic wispy strands stretched across his head, masking nothing from no one. He was nervous, but then, so was everyone when they came in here. And even more so when Colby started in on them.

  “I want to impress upon you the importance of what you are about to do,” Colby said in solemn tones. It was late at night, and Colby had been working all day, but he still cut an impressive figure. He was athletic and handsome for his age; his gray pinstriped suit was well-tailored and immaculate. “Sometimes corporate employees think, "Oh well, I don’t really know anything, so my deposition won’t be important." But they’re wrong. Every statement is important. The tiniest slip could change the course of an entire lawsuit.”

  Turnbull nibbled at the corners of his fingernails. He had been nervous before, and this lecture from Colby evidently wasn’t helping.<
br />
  “Make no mistake about what is happening here. These plaintiffs are after the heart and soul of H. P. Blaylock. They want to suck out its profits and drain it dry. They are greedy and undeserving, but they wouldn’t be the first undeserving plaintiffs who succeeded in the courtroom. If they prevail, there may well be nothing left of this company. You’ll be out of work—you and all your friends. And if that happens, what will you do? Where will you go?” He paused, allowing Turnbull to contemplate this unpleasant prospect. “Do you hear what I’m saying?”

  “Of course I do,” Turnbull said. He had to remove his fingers from his mouth to speak. “I’ll do whatever I can to help.”

  “Good. That’s what I like to hear.” Colby briefed him on basic deposition procedure. “Here’s the most important thing for you to remember—don’t volunteer anything. Answer the question succinctly and then be quiet. If it’s a yes-no question, then say yes or no and clam up. Don’t explain. Don’t try to please the questioner. Don’t try to make everything clear to him. You’re not there to help, and you wouldn’t succeed, even if you tried.”

  Turnbull’s voice squeaked a bit as he spoke. “Surely we don’t want to leave them confused.”

  “And why not? Confusion is good. They can’t prove a case if they don’t understand what’s going on. Listen to me, my friend. I’ve been in the litigation game for a long time now. You start trying to be Mr. Helpful and you’ll end up putting a noose around your neck. So you just answer the question succinctly and clam up.”

  “All right,” Turnbull said meekly.

  “This assumes you know the answer. If you don’t, by God you just say so. You don’t guess. You don’t say what probably happened or what usually happens. Got it?”

  Mark noticed that Turnbull’s left eye was beginning to twitch. “Got it.”

  “Now let’s talk a moment about your testimony.” Colby eased back in his chair, relaxing his intimidating posture a hair. “Of course, I wouldn’t presume to tell you what to say. That would be improper and unethical. I would never encourage a witness to do anything but tell the truth.”