* * *
Ragman returned to their house, but this time he wasn’t alone.
It was easy to follow the young lawyer home, always easy to follow a Tesla. They stood out like a rose in a weed garden. He had to admire the kid’s taste. Truth be told, the guy wouldn’t be able to afford the cost of a battery jump by the time Ragman had finished with him. It would all be gone. Along with his firstborn.
From the ambiguity of a million beige Camrys just like it, Ragman sat low in the seat and watched. He was disappointed when the Tesla pulled into the garage and the door articulated down. The outside keypad wasn’t touched.
* * *
He watched the house for hours at night. From a distance, outside the view of the security agents who roamed the premises at all hours. Different vehicle each time he came; he figured they would notice nothing unusual.
He didn’t know yet if it would happen at night, in the morning, at noon, or in the evening. He would find the crack in the armor and slide in and be gone like a whisper.
Next day, he abandoned the Camry and went to a different lot. Twenty-five hundred bucks cash for a used Impala. Pale blue, a million just like them on the road. He was down the street from their house by ten o’clock in the morning, and he watched until the kid came home again in his Tesla. This time they went out.
He followed them to Chuck E. Cheese. He went inside and took the table next to him. They noticed nothing, of course. They were there with the little girl and were seeing the world through her eyes instead of through their own. Had they been alert, they might have noticed his glassy eyes, his salacious gaze at the little girl.
But they didn’t.
They prayed before eating, ate and drank and laughed, and carried the little girl, who had fallen asleep in the booster chair, to the car. She was tucked inside, fastened carefully in the car seat, where she awoke briefly and cried because it was past her bedtime. He watched this in pantomime two rows over in the parking lot. Then he broke off the chase and drove away.
On the third night his suspicions were confirmed. The BAG agents didn’t spend the night inside the house, which was interesting. Now he needed fifteen minutes alone with the security panel.
That came at 2:30 p.m. when Katy left the house with the little girl and walked her over to the park. The dark-skinned mother wore a T-shirt that confirmed she was enrolled at UNLV med school, and white shorts. The little girl wore blue jeans, tennies with sparkling soles, and a T-shirt featuring Elmo.
“Perfect,” Ragman said to no one, as a single BAG agent fell in behind, walking a deferential half-block behind the mother and daughter.
From his previous observations, Ragman knew the house was empty and the security was off making rounds. They would just be arriving at the rear lot boundary.
He scurried across the street and walked boldly up to the front door and punched rapidly at the keypad. The numbers were memorized from the day before, when the mother had walked the little girl to the park, returned, and used the keypad to gain entry through the front door. The 300mm Nikon lens had blown it up in the video such that a blind man could have read it: 0-3-7-7. Obviously someone’s birthday, probably the woman’s.
The security panel was just inside and he popped the cover. It took all of twenty-five seconds to disable the alarm between three and four a.m., and he was back outside, gliding like a ghost into his Nissan Altima ($2,200 cash), and was gone. He rolled the latex glove from his right hand and tucked it in his jeans pocket. The left hand had gone in and out ungloved, as it touched nothing.
It didn’t matter what night. He would only come when he was fully prepared.
First he had to make a nest for the little girl. It had to be remote, quiet, and invisible.
He knew just the place.
48
Kiki’s trial was underway and Thaddeus had called his first witness. His name was Gunner Andersen and he was an armorer from San Diego.
“And are you able to give an opinion whether the gun was discharged accidentally by Kiki Murphy?”
“I am.”
Thaddeus paused to allow the suspense to build. The jury—five women and seven men—had their eyes glued to the witness.
Gunner Andersen was polished and perfect. Plus, he was accessible, a real person, someone with whom the jury could connect. His specialty was police shootings and the use of deadly force. He had testified in over 5,000 shooting cases, exonerating nearly 4,900 cops who were under investigation. When a cop shot someone, it was usually Andersen who was called.
He had testified in Kiki’s trial that he held a bachelor’s in mechanical engineering from Caltech, a master’s from Caltech, and a Ph.D. from Stanford. There was also a master’s degree in human factors from a school in Florida. Together, the formal education qualified him to testify on matters such as the human element in firearms cleaning, shooting, and examination post-shooting.
He had testified in federal court in all but four states, and had been accepted as a weapons expert in courts in all states.
He was seventy-two years old, had his first great-grandchild, and refused to retire, despite his family’s protestations.
As of the date of Kiki’s trial, Gunner Andersen had written over 1,200 published articles on firearms and firearm safety and the use of deadly force in police shootings. But he didn’t come cheap. In private shooting cases, such as Kiki’s, the retainer was $25,000, which Thaddeus had gladly paid. It couldn’t be overstated, the importance of using the best armorer in the nation in such as case as hers.
Thaddeus’ use of Dr. Andersen had two goals.
One, he wanted to cloak the actual shooting with an air of responsibility. He wanted the jury to see that Kiki’s carrying and handling of the weapon was done in accord with accepted firearms safety and techniques.
Second, he wanted to prove to the jury that the shooting was purely accidental, that it was completely unforeseeable by her—at the time and place of the shooting—that the firearm would accidentally discharge.
Andersen testified that, according to the videotapes the prosecution had shown the jury during its case, when the two men ran up to Kiki and grabbed her arms it was totally foreseeable that she would wrest her way free and go for the gun to threaten them. She was a single female, alone at night, in an unfamiliar place, there was no one around to lend assistance, and she had only herself to rely on when the attack came. He used the word “attack” repeatedly and it was effective. At this point in his examination he had succeeded in portraying her as a victim of an assault that must have “scared her to death.” He had managed to frame it as a justified shooting even if it hadn’t been accidental, which was pure icing on the cake.
The jury was furiously making notes of everything Gunner Andersen had to say. The state’s case provided no comparable witness and certainly no such testimony. Moreover, for its rebuttal Thaddeus knew the state had no witness who could even begin to refute what Dr. Andersen was telling the jury.
So Thaddeus repeated the question, just for the effect, and just to make sure every member of the jury heard it.
“Are you able to give an opinion whether the gun was discharged accidentally by Kiki Murphy?”
“I am.” The white-haired, blue-eyed, professorial witness looked directly at the jury when he spoke. He was educator and advocate, emphasis on the educator part.
“And what is your opinion?”
“Objection, the witness hasn’t been qualified as an expert.”
The judge looked down at the District Attorney and shook her head. “Seriously?” her face said. “Counsel, the court finds that the doctor is qualified to render the opinion he has been asked to render. Please proceed.”
Thaddeus turned to the court reporter. “Please read back the question.”
“Question: ‘Are you able to give an opinion whether the gun was discharged accidentally by Kiki Murphy?’”
“I am.”
Thaddeus: “And what is that opinion.”
“
It is my professional opinion that the gun discharged accidentally due to the lipstick tube in the purse catching inside the trigger guard and pulling the trigger.”
“Objection!” cried the D.A., who had jumped to her feet and whose face was contorted with rage. “There’s been nothing about a tube of lipstick and a purse until now. We don’t know anything about a purse, Your Honor!”
“Judge, if I may?” Thaddeus said, holding aloft the purse that Kiki was carrying that night. “May I have this marked as Defendant’s Exhibit Thirty-three?”
“You may.”
Thaddeus had the clerk mark the purse, and then handed it to the witness.
“Doctor Andersen, I’m handing you what has been marked as Defendant’s Exhibit Thirty-three. Would you identify that for the record?”
“It’s a woman’s handbag. It’s made by a company known as Gucci.”
The women on the jury all nodded. All had heard of Gucci bags.
“Have you had the opportunity to study that bag while forming your opinion in this case?”
“I have.”
“Please tell the jury how and when and what your conclusions were.”
“Objection, multiple.”
Thaddeus nodded. “Fine. Let me rephrase. How did you first come into possession of that bag?”
“You sent it to me. At least the first lawyer, Priscilla X. Persons, sent it.”
“When was that?”
“I received the purse three days after the incident.”
“What if anything did you do with regard to the purse?”
“I first logged it into my laboratory. I inventoried its contents. Then I did a visual examination. Then I performed a microscopic examination and a chemical examination.”
The doctor then went on to recite the handbag’s contents when he received it, and went on from there to describe the tests he had run on the purse and its contents.
Thaddeus then asked, “And do you have an opinion how the firearm came to be discharged on the night in question?”
This time there was no objection. Foundation had been laid beyond anyone’s doubt.
“I do have such an opinion.”
“Please tell us that opinion.”
“It is my opinion that the tube of lipstick had become lodged inside the trigger guard of the gun and caused it to discharge when Miss Murphy went to retrieve it from the bag. It was a pure accident and I see no intention on her part to shoot the decedent. If there was such an intention, then it would have to be in the form of intending to have the lipstick get caught, intending to have the lipstick pull the trigger, intending to have the bullet pass through the purse and into the decedent’s heart, a series of events which I find not only unlikely but impossible beyond all doubt. It just couldn’t have happened with intent on her part. That would be impossible. In my professional opinion.”
Objections were made, motions to strike interposed, but the judge allowed it all in. It was true that it somewhat invaded the province of the jury, as the D.A. was complaining, but the judge allowed it anyway. “The jury is entitled to hear the entire opinion,” she said, and overruled the objections.
Andersen offered the jury a small smile and they returned it. All men and all women on the jury smiled back and nodded. Now their hands were still, there was no writing; they had clearly made up their minds about the night in question. Thaddeus was about to walk his sister out the door, a free woman.
The state’s attempts to cross-examine the doctor were grossly unsuccessful. He was abjectly polite to the prosecutor, seemed to seriously consider all of her alternative theories on how the shooting might have happened and how the requisite intent to shoot might have been formed, and then he slowly built a case against each and every suggestion a pebble at a time, totally dismantling the state’s efforts to make its case through the defendant’s expert witness.
When she was done, the District Attorney sat down with a blank look on her face. The investigating detective, who had sat beside her all through the case, whispered heatedly in her ear. But she only shook her head. Shook her head and stared at the table. She refused to make eye contact with him and in fact was leaning away from him. It was clear he had missed the handbag, had failed to notice the bullet hole in the fold, and had returned the bag to the defendant when she was released from jail. A key piece of evidence had been overlooked and, as Thaddeus told the jury during closing argument, “this case probably wouldn’t even have been filed had the District Attorney been told about the purse. But the police missed it and so we had to have this trial. My client had to wait all these months, in terror, while the State of Nevada sought to execute her. Your job now is to return her to life. Thank you.”
They were out fifteen minutes before coming back with a verdict of Not Guilty.
There were tears, hugs, and huge thank yous to Dr. Andersen, who shyly retreated and headed for the elevator to make his escape.
The District Attorney was gracious and for just a moment Thaddeus thought she might even apologize to Kiki for putting her through the hell of the trial, but she turned away at the last instant and said nothing more. The point was made; the prosecution had been ill advised and the case never should have been filed. Now the State could only stand helplessly by and hope Kiki didn’t file a lawsuit for malicious prosecution.
Which, she decided, she just might do.
49
He found the perfect holding unit in North Las Vegas. It was located three miles off the 15 Freeway, east on 147, then dirt roads.
The building was a small, abandoned office with two outbuildings where munitions were once made during World War II. It could not be seen from any paved road; no one would ever spot a vehicle parked there unless they drove into the desert 3.4 miles and knew what they were looking for.
He knocked down the wasp nests and forced open the door on his first visit.
It was dark, extremely dry, and maddeningly hot, as it was without electricity and without any form of cooling. It was outfitted with cupboards, up and down, and he made a mental note to pick up a bike lock to keep her safe inside.
Outside at night he could look west and see the moonlit peak of Harris Mountain, Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area. The mountains reminded him of whales swimming through the earth. He wondered what they would remind her of. Probably very little, he laughed.
* * *
He visited a local Kmart that was running a sale on prepaid cell phones. He paid cash for ten. They would either have the money wired to them in less than ten calls or that would be the end of it. He would simply drive away and leave her locked in the cupboard. She might last a morning locked inside there without water. But she wouldn’t make it through an afternoon, not in that heat. It wouldn’t even be necessary to worry about bloodstains or fingerprints on the body. Simply drive off and let the desert do the rest.
He drove back into Las Vegas and traded cars. The final solution was a black GMC that he’d had his eye on. A used car dealer was only too happy to get rid of it as it was an eight cylinder and those were very hard to move. Cash deal, no paperwork except the title and bill of sale. Both fictitious, of course.
He drove off the lot and found his way to Mel’s Auto Body, where, for $250 cash, they painted over the black and he now had a beige van. People noticed black; they never noticed beige. It’s just how it was, and it was a lesson he had learned and never forgotten, early on.
Ragman rented a cheap room off the Strip and scored a glassine bag of meth crystals. He lay back on the bed and fired up. Within seconds he was floating, then racing, then all pain soared away like a blackbird off Harris Peak.
Then he had no feeling inside and his soul turned black.
Now he could do the job.
50
It was the second day after Kiki’s trial ended and Thaddeus had the afternoon totally free. Which was a minor miracle in itself.
He called Sparky and Bat into his office, got their tasks lined out, and told them not to call him agai
n that day—no matter what.
Then he called Albert in Chicago and checked things there. Every case was smoothly perking along; Albert had it all under control, plus. Thaddeus told Albert he was off the rest of the day and that was understood as a Do Not Disturb.
He flew home in the Tesla.
It was a sunny Nevada day, hot on the desert, and the air-conditioned home welcomed him. He called to Katy when he walked through the door but there was no answer. “Out back, I’ll bet anything,” he muttered. So he climbed the stairs and changed clothes. He selected his Orchid pattern swimming trunks because, unless he missed his guess, Sarai would want to romp in the wading pool.
The house came with a swimming pool with a deep end and a shallow end. Of course. But Thaddeus and Katy were so concerned for the safety of Sarai and the neighborhood kids that, rather than trust the kids’ lives to the mandatory security fence, they had had the pool rebuilt. First it had been broken up and hauled away. Then came a dirt fill that mostly filled the yawning hole where the pool had been. They had the pool builders back at that point, and put a wading pool in the ground where the swimming pool had been. It was cement, it was surrounded by skid-proof Cool Deck, and it was no deeper than twelve inches at its deepest point, three inches at its shallowest. Now Sarai had her own pool. Her parents could easily sit waist deep in the water and play with her, splashing and tossing beach balls, lying down and kicking legs, until the child was exhausted. Sarai loved it. She had a pink two-piece, sand buckets for the sand pile at one end of the pool, and there was a low slide at the deep end. A child’s dream.
Which was where Thaddeus found mother and child, just as he’d predicted. Katy was in her two-piece and Thaddeus was immediately aroused, feelings which he stuffed for later. They were both lying prone in the deep end, kicking legs while they swam. Swimming consisted of kicking legs, basically. The whole idea was to get the little girl accustomed to lying flat in the water and moving her legs up and down. Sarai had quickly taken to it and loved the romp.
Attorney at Large (Thaddeus Murfee Legal Thriller Series Book 3) Page 23
