by Ed Gaffney
Neil leaned down to say something to his father that Paul couldn’t hear, and it looked like the old man nodded.
And then, like he was paying attention to something else, Mr. Heinrich looked away from Neil, straight up at the ceiling, took a breath, let it out, and that was it.
Paul stood there for a minute, quietly paying his respects to the man who had been his boss for so long.
Then, so as not to disturb his new boss, he silently left the two of them alone.
“I have done nothing wrong, and I see no reason to avoid saying so. I am a recovering alcoholic and I am no longer afraid of the truth. I did not kill anyone, despite what you may think.”
Vera watched through the two-way mirror as Malcolm Ayers was questioned by the arresting officers. She had a very good eye for liars, and Malcolm Ayers sure didn’t seem like a liar to her.
Of course, that didn’t explain how he had come into possession of a .22 caliber handgun that ballistics was testing right now for a possible match to the weapon used in the serial killings.
The officers left the room and turned the questioning over to her.
She already knew how she was going to play this.
Malcolm Ayers was very intelligent. If he was the killer, he might be one of those perps who enjoyed talking to cops. Some serial killers got off on it. As long as they knew something the cops wanted to know, they figured they were in control, so they relished dangling the possibility of a confession in front of authorities. They declined representation, and talked at length with cops, just to see how much they could jerk them around.
Vera walked into the room carrying a file folder. It contained a copy of the written statement that Malcolm Ayers had given the officers when he was arrested, and little else of value—a few old police reports—but they sometimes came in handy as props. You never knew what might put a particular suspect under pressure.
As she sat down, she began to introduce herself, but Ayers cut her off. “I remember who you are, Detective,” he said brusquely. “You spoke to me after I reported that I thought this killer was stalking me.”
“Okay, Mr. Ayers,” she said. “I have a copy of your statement here, and I’d just like to go over it with you, if you don’t mind.”
“Forgive my lack of tact, but I mind everything about this entire business. I did nothing wrong, and I demand to be released immediately.”
Vera looked up from the statement to the face of her suspect. She was going to play this out by the book, but she would be absolutely stunned if he was the killer. She was picking up nothing from this man except honest outrage.
“I’m sure you can understand our position, Mr. Ayers,” she said. “We got an anonymous tip that a man matching your description was in the area of Francis Street, acting suspiciously, at about the same time the coroner has determined to be the time of Mr. Englewood’s death. We then received another tip, from a different source, telling us that you were seen carrying a weapon.”
“That gun was anonymously mailed to me. I merely put it in my pocket until I figured out what to do with it.”
Vera looked steadily at the man, trying to pick up any signs that he was not being truthful. “Of course you have no way to prove this.”
“I threw out the package it came in, if that’s what you mean,” the suspect replied. “But my AA sponsor, Thomas Prieaux, was there when I opened the package. He saw me take the gun out of the box.”
Whoa. A new version of a lie that Vera must have heard a hundred times before.
I have no idea how those drugs got there. I got nothing to do with them.
It wasn’t mine, but I picked it up anyway, ’cause I didn’t know what else to do.
I don’t know what you’re talking about. But whatever it is, it ain’t mine.
But somehow, when Malcolm Ayers said it, it rang true. She still had to press him, though. “You understand that a guilty person would probably say exactly the same thing.”
“Do you honestly think I would be so stupid as to carry around with me a weapon I used to murder someone?”
“I don’t know,” Vera replied. “But it’s hard to understand why someone who suspected that another person planted a gun in his home wouldn’t call the police and report it.”
“I did call the police.”
“You said you were afraid that you were being stalked. You said nothing about receiving a gun in the mail.”
“Maybe it would be easier to understand if the last time you’d dealt with the police, they wrongly accused you of murder, and your entire career was destroyed.”
Vera nodded. It was a fair point. “Okay. So a gun is mailed to you, and because of your bad experience in the past with the police, you decide you’ll tell them you’re afraid you’re being stalked, and in the meantime, you just drop the weapon in your pocket until you figure out what to do. How does that explain the fact that the murderer used a stun gun on his victims, and we found one in your bedroom closet?”
The officers had not revealed that to Ayers. Vera had wanted to spring it on him, to see his reaction.
It was dramatic. The man was clearly shaken badly. “What? Where? You found a stun gun in my home? That’s outrageous. I’m being set up. You must know that. I’ve never owned such a thing in my life. I wouldn’t even know what one looked like. I guarantee you that my fingerprints are not on it. That was a plant. I am being framed, just like the last time. This whole thing is outrageous.”
And again, all of Vera’s truth bells were ringing. The lab had not come back with the results of fingerprint testing on the Taser, but she’d be willing to bet that it was clean. Still, there were an awful lot of interesting facts that lined up with Malcolm Ayers.
“You know, we considered that someone might be trying to frame you—”
“Well that’s terribly comforting,” he shot back, sarcastically.
“But we think that this killer is extremely intelligent, and that leaves us with two very interesting possibilities.” Vera sifted through the papers in the file folder for effect. “Either you are the victim of a very sophisticated set up, or, you have decided to take advantage of the fact that the original Springfield Shooter chose to try to deflect blame toward you.”
Ayers sat back and smirked. “And how, pray tell, might I have taken advantage of that?”
“By assuming that once you were cleared of the original killings, no one would ever suspect that you might actually be a murderer. In fact, there’s even a possibility that you were the original Springfield Shooter in the first place.”
At that, Ayers’s cynical facade cracked a bit. “Are you serious? Are you telling me that you think that Alan Lombardo was wrongly convicted? That I did those crimes?”
Vera flipped through the pages of the file folder again. “Well, I don’t know about that. But it’s a fascinating theory, don’t you agree? After all, if you were the Springfield Shooter, wouldn’t it have been terrifying if Russell Crane was right? But not if you spun it the way you did. Not if you took advantage of the Russell Crane accusation to turn yourself into a martyr and deflect suspicion away from you.”
Ayers was looking at her like she was as crazy as she sounded.
“So Crane says you’re the Springfield Shooter, and you decide to start killing people near where you live, making it look like someone is trying to frame you. And in your diary, you write as if you are another person, and tell the world that everyone is so stupid for believing that the real Springfield Shooter is Malcolm Ayers.”
By this time, Ayers had recovered, somewhat, from the shock of facing new suspicion that he was the original Springfield Shooter. “So I played along with that empty-headed Crane’s accusation by pretending to frame the supposedly innocent Professor Ayers.”
“Exactly. And when the computer journal was finally discovered, you, a professional novelist, had done such a good job writing the fictional story of the Springfield Shooter that you managed to convince everyone that it wasn’t you.”
&n
bsp; “I see. And then I waited twenty years before starting to kill again?”
“It’s happened before,” Vera answered. “But now you’re a little older, a lot wiser. So you use a Taser to stun your victims, rather than overpowering them with physical force. And you enjoy intellectual games, so now you leave little clues and word puzzles, all consistent with a man who is familiar with writing, and Shakespeare. To up the ante, you mail yourself one of your own guns and you open it up in front of your AA sponsor. You even call the police and tell them you think the killer might be stalking you. Brilliant touch. Who would ever suspect that the person who seems to be framing you is actually you?”
As Vera’s speech came to a close, Ayers just sat there, looking at her carefully, breathing evenly. He was obviously coming to some kind of decision. Vera decided to wait him out.
After about fifteen or twenty seconds, he cleared his throat. “Do you know what I think?” he asked. “I think that you don’t really believe that I’m responsible for any of these murders. I think that an anonymous tip led you to my house, where you had to conduct a search, and where you found evidence that is somewhat incriminating.”
Vera wasn’t sure where this was going, but she was happy to let the suspect speak. It was much easier to learn things when other people were talking.
“And I think you have a great deal of evidence, including some of the old evidence from the Springfield Shooter, that just doesn’t add up. By the time the investigation was over, all of the evidence in the Springfield Shooter case pointed to Alan Lombardo, so he got convicted. But now, somebody’s started murdering again, and just like the Springfield Shooter. So either Alan Lombardo wasn’t the Springfield Shooter in the first place, or somebody new is copying him. And now you’re trying out a scenario where I’m the bad guy to see if I get overwhelmed, and just admit to it all.”
Vera said nothing. What Ayers was saying was pretty close to the truth, but acknowledging it wasn’t going to do her any good in the investigation. Until she was able to put this whole thing together, she was going to have to treat Malcolm Ayers like the suspect he was.
Ayers shifted in his seat. “With due regard for your considerable story-telling abilities, Detective, your scenario with me starring as the villain fails to explain how in the world the journal I supposedly wrote ended up in Alan Lombardo’s computer. Nor does it explain how a container full of fingers found its way into his freezer twenty years ago. Believe me, before I saw him on the television during the trial, I had never laid eyes on Alan Lombardo in my life.”
Ayers straightened and took a deep breath. “Detective Demopolous, I did not plant evidence in Alan Lombardo’s house, and I did not shoot anyone. Not twenty years ago, not twenty days ago, not twenty hours ago. And the sooner you realize that is the truth, the sooner you will catch the real killer.”
At that moment, Ellis knocked on the door. He brought a file folder over to Vera, who opened it and turned to the ballistics report inside.
But before she could read it, Ayers said, “Officer Yates, thank God. Would you please tell Detective Demopolous that I am innocent.”
Ellis responded coldly. “It’s Detective Yates, now.”
Vera looked up from the folder at Ellis. “You know Professor Ayers?” she asked.
Ellis ignored the question. Instead, he said, “This time, Professor, I’ve got different news.” He turned to Vera. His expression was grim. “I didn’t have much to do with the Springfield Shooter case, but at one point during the investigation a couple of guys who were working on it were out sick at the same time, so I ended up getting assigned to tell this loser that we were releasing him.”
That was funny. Ellis never mentioned working on the case before. And it was really unlike him to be so obviously hostile.
Then he spoke again, but this time not to her but to Professor Ayers. “It turns out that ballistics tested the gun you had on you earlier today—the .22 caliber handgun—and it had nothing to do with your latest murder.”
“My latest murder,” the old man sputtered. “I don’t know what you think—”
“Enough!” shouted Ellis. “I don’t want to hear another word out of your sick mouth.”
Vera had never seen Ellis like this before. His normally placid features had been replaced by a mask of fury. He looked downright scary.
“The gun we found on you was used last month to kill your first two victims—Corey Chatham and Iris Dubinski.”
TWENTY-FIVE
My Dearest Stephanie,
Please accept these flowers not only as a token of my affection, but as a small apology for whatever I might have done to upset you in the past.
I hope you believe me when I tell you that I never intended to hurt you in any way, whether through my writings or with my other work. I don’t pretend to have all the answers, but when I am asked for my opinion, I feel honor-bound to give it, even if it might not be popular with the people I care about.
In any event, I remain hopeful that you can see your way to understanding my position, and recognize that my attentions are nothing more and nothing less than those of a smitten admirer, who wishes to spend time with you so that we can get to know each other better.
As you know, I have a home in New England and another in Los Angeles, so meeting with you would not be difficult.
I merely await your sign.
With great affection and even greater hope,
Russell Crane
Terry looked up from the letter at their new client—her name was Stephanie Hartz. Terry could have sworn when she walked into the office, Zack’s eyes started to spin around in his head.
Whatever. She wasn’t that hot. Maybe if you went for women with shiny brown hair with slightly exotic-looking but obviously intelligent eyes, a trim, tight body, and a really nice mouth…
Okay. Come to think of it, Stephanie Hartz was hot. Maybe not Vera-hot, but hot enough.
Zack had overcome his initial shock, and was asking why she looked familiar. He wasn’t kidding—there was something about her that reminded Terry of someone or something, but he couldn’t place it. Zack, though, was totally checking her out. Oh, he was being slick about it, but his body language was a lot more nightclub than law office. And every time she smiled or laughed or tucked that strand of hair back behind her ear, she was mercilessly jumping up and down on his Sandra Bullock weak spot.
“No, I don’t know why I’d look familiar. I’m pretty sure we’ve never met. I got your names from one of the court officers at the courthouse.”
Zack turned to Terry, who said, “I told you they liked me.” Then he faced Stephanie Hartz again. “Did you consider taking this letter to the police?”
The woman hesitated, and then shook her head. “No. We, uh, my father contacted the police about something else before this, and that’s, well, it’s sort of complicated, but that’s why I thought I’d come to see you first.”
Zack leaned forward. “So, were you hoping to talk to us about dealing with whoever sent this letter?”
Again, Stephanie hesitated. There was something going on here that was starting to smell a little interesting. Or dangerous.
She took a breath, and said, “Before I tell you why I came, I need to ask a question.”
Zack was all smiles. “Of course.”
“You know how anything that is between a lawyer and his client is secret, right?”
Uh oh. Terry’s experience with clients whose first question is about confidentiality usually involved someone who had done something spectacularly stupid. No matter how good they looked in their blouse with little flowers on it.
Zack nodded. “Right.”
“Well,” Sandra—Stephanie—continued. “I want to tell you something, but I don’t know if, I mean, if I’m not your client yet, how do I know that…” She just sort of let the question hang there, unfinished.
“No problem,” Zack said. “I know what you’re asking, and I’m glad you did. It’s something not many people kn
ow, but it’s a good thing to understand, and it should help you out. Even though Terry and I are not your attorneys, and even though this meeting might end without you hiring us as your attorneys, this conversation is covered by the attorney-client privilege, just as if you were a client. So you don’t have to worry about telling us something that you need to be kept in confidence. We guarantee that whatever you tell us will be kept secret.”
Stephanie took that in, and seemed to make a decision. “Okay. I need to hire you to represent my father, but I think you are going to need to represent me, too.”
Zack nodded, like she’d said exactly what he hoped she would. “Well, why don’t you just tell us why you think you need a lawyer, or why you think your father needs a lawyer. We can take it from there.”
Again, Stephanie hesitated, but then she finally plunged in. “Well, the reason I think my father needs a lawyer is because he’s been arrested for murder.”
Good thinking. Zack and Stephanie both turned to face him. Had he said that out loud?
“And the reason I think I might need a lawyer, is because I think I might, uh, I might know where some evidence against my father is hidden, even though I know it was planted to frame him, because he absolutely is innocent.”
Okay. So that smell was interesting, dangerous, and irritating.
“What kind of evidence?” Zack asked.
At that, Stephanie looked first at Zack, and then at Terry, then back to Zack. She was stalling. But clearly she knew she needed help. She wouldn’t have come to a lawyer’s office if she didn’t.
“A frozen human finger,” she answered bluntly.
Terry closed his eyes. He imagined what the accompanying sound effect would be if this were a movie. High-pitched violins squealing a menacing chord? A scream?
A gong?
Instead, there was only silence.
