“But isn’t it normal for a perp to lie the first time they’re asked?” Cohn asked.
“And maybe he’s just not a good liar, or he feels guilty,” Davis said. “So all it takes is a little push in the right direction.”
“Could be,” Karp replied. “But there’s a difference between a push in the right direction and being told what to say. I’ve been informed that the defendant has a history of confessing to minor offenses at his school and possibly even misdemeanor vandalism.”
“That’s a long way from confessing to murder,” Cohn said.
“Right again,” Karp said. “But it’s certainly something we should have checked out. Has anybody bothered to ask Detective Fulton if he could have one of his detectives run this stuff down?”
Silence. Karp thought for a moment before continuing. “I also have a problem with Graziani lying to Acevedo about there being a witness who saw him leave the Yancy apartment building.”
“The U.S. Supreme Court has ruled that police officers can lie, or use trickery, to get a suspect to admit the truth,” Davis said. “Cops do it all the time. Such as telling a suspect that he’s been caught on surveillance video or that he left a fingerprint at the scene of the crime.”
Karp pursed his lips and looked around the room. Tommy Mack had buried his face in his hands and was shaking his head. Guma grimaced, closed his eyes, and stuck a cigar in his mouth. Fulton was watching Davis like he expected him to burst into flames. But Murrow just shot the assistant chief and Cohn dirty looks; he knew who he had to blame for the coming media storm.
Very carefully, his voice clipped and hard, Karp leaned forward to look Davis in the eye and said, “I know what the courts have ruled and that it’s common practice with cops and in a lot of DAOs, but there’s a difference between what we can get away with and what’s right. It’s not even worth the damage it will do to you at trial.”
“What do you mean?” Davis asked.
“When the detective eventually takes the stand, we have the obligation to present to the jury all the relevant facts and circumstances regarding the defendant’s confession, including the detective’s tricky tactics, if any,” Karp said. “The defense will then attempt to focus the jury on the detective’s deceit, trying to make a collateral issue into a giant big deal, maybe even the central focus. So instead of keeping the jury’s focus on the defendant’s guilt, the jurors may be led to equate the detective’s deceit with everything done investigatively. We don’t want the jurors thinking, If he was capable of manipulating the defendant into confessing with lies, what’s to stop him from manipulating us with lies?”
Davis tried to respond. “I thought our job was to get at the truth. What’s the harm if it accomplishes that?”
Karp had had enough and pounded his desk with his hand. “What harm?” he growled. “Damn it, Pat, what harm is there in lying to get at the truth? Are you listening to yourself? Lies and cheating to win a verdict are corrupting agents that eat at the foundation of the entire system. And that foundation is the public’s trust, which will be further eroded: You can’t trust cops. You can’t trust the district attorney’s office. Who can we trust?”
Pale and sweating, Davis started to mumble a reply, but Karp held up a hand. “Enough! I let this go on as a reminder that this case is a perfect example of why we bring such cases to the Monday bureau meetings, where we can ask these sorts of questions and make sure we’ve done our job professionally and thoroughly. But all of this back-and-forth now over missing narratives, leading questions, and the ethics of lying is moot. It’s yesterday’s news as far as I’m concerned.”
Standing to look out the large window beside his desk at the busy street below, Karp then turned to face Davis and Cohn. “Now, does someone want to explain to me why no one in this office bothered to corroborate the single most important piece of evidence in this case, or noticed that the investigating detective apparently had not, either?”
“Acevedo confessed that he took it from Olivia Yancy,” Cohn said weakly.
Karp glared at her for a moment before responding. “He was led to say that by Graziani and then he just repeated it to you. And nobody bothered to check it out-the only piece of evidence we had to ascertain the credibility and trustworthiness of the confession. Instead, we just went ahead and presented the case to the grand jury and obtained an indictment against Acevedo, who, as far as I can see, is an innocent man.”
“He’s not necessarily innocent because this wasn’t the ring taken from Olivia,” Davis argued. “Maybe he mixed up which ring he took from which victim.”
“Unfortunately for that theory, his story checks out,” Karp replied. “Acevedo bought it from a guy in the park who’d stolen it from a woman. And unlike our so-called evidence, this was corroborated. And the ring was the only thing that tied Acevedo to the murders of Olivia Yancy and Beth Jenkins.”
“He was identified by an assault victim in the Bronx,” Cohn said. “And confessed to that other murder-Dolores Atkins.”
“Just as Acevedo’s confession to Graziani and the Q amp; A with you is worthless,” Karp said, “I suspect the confessions in the Bronx are as well. I have no idea about the validity of that witness’s ID, but the way this case has plunged downhill, I’d strongly suspect that too.”
Karp looked over at Guma. “So, Ray, what do you think we should do now?”
Guma inspected his cigar for a moment and shrugged. “I think we need to DOR the case,” he said.
Karp nodded. “Yeah, I thought of that, and if dismissing the case on his own recognizance would get Acevedo out of jail, I’d agree we should do it right now. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t do him any good. The Bronx DAO still has a hold on him for its cases, and he’s not going anywhere. My thought was to hold off, at least until the Bronx DA decides what they’re going to do, so we don’t tip off the real killer that we’re now still looking for him. Maybe he makes a mistake. In the end, the only way we recover from this is to catch and convict the son of a bitch who butchered those women.”
Pat Davis stood up. “You’ll have my resignation by this afternoon.”
It took Karp a moment to consider the offer. “You do what works for you, Pat,” he said. “You’re a good attorney, and I’d rather not lose you. But I also can’t let this one slide-there’s too much at stake and quite simply, you knew better. So if you choose to stay, I’ll be transferring you to the Felony Trial Bureau, where you’ll work under close supervision for the time being.”
Davis blinked back tears as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down; he swallowed hard and nodded. Karp turned his attention to Cohn. “Danielle, I believe your mistakes were the result of inexperience. Right now, you will be assigned to assist Ray Guma full-time on the Yancy-Jenkins case. And I hope you’ll learn from this.”
Cohn bit her lip and then bowed her head. “I will. And I look forward to working with Ray.”
“We’ll see if you still feel that way after actually spending a lot of time in his company,” Karp said with a half smile.
“Hey, why am I always the fall guy…,” Guma said, laughing.
“Typecasting?” Mack replied.
When the others left his office, Karp’s intercom buzzed. “District Attorney Sam Hartsfield is on line two,” Milquetost announced.
“Hello, Sam, what’s shaking up north?” Karp said.
“My esteemed colleague the district attorney of New York County, Mr. Roger ‘Butch’ Karp, I presume.” Hartsfield chuckled. “My belly shakes a bit but that’s about the extent of it in the beautiful borough of the Bronx.”
Karp laughed. While Detective Clay Fulton had played fullback in college and was a big muscular man, Sam “Dump Truck” Hartsfield had been the starting left tackle at Tulane, and he made Clay look svelte. His playing weight had been 310 pounds, and that had gone up considerably when he gave up the NFL for law school. He did, indeed, have a belly that shook.
“I believe you called,” Hartsfield said. “How you doing, Bu
tch? Long time no see.”
“I’m doing well, Sam, thanks for asking,” Karp replied. He genuinely liked Hartsfield. He was a few years younger than Karp, but Hartsfield had spent his formative prosecutorial years under legendary DA Francis Garrahy, and the old man’s ethics were ingrained in him, too. The two men thought much alike when it came to how best to run their respective offices and the role of a district attorney in the system. Both were competitive men who’d played major college sports but understood that their job wasn’t about wins and losses in the courtroom. The only game that mattered was justice. As a matter of fact, as cornball as it seemed to the young Turks entering the justice system, and even to the ring-wise old hands, Karp started every summation by reminding the twelve jurors “that a trial is a search for the truth. A sacred, solemn search for the truth under the rules of evidence.”
“Good, good,” Hartsfield said. “Your message said you had some questions about the Dolores Atkins case and the suspect Felix Acevedo?”
“That would be the one,” Karp said. “If I can be blunt, what’s the status of your cases?”
“Well, I believe we’re set for a preliminary hearing next week,” Hartsfield said. “I’m told that the lead detective, an old hand named Phil Brock, wanted to run down a few things.”
Karp frowned. “I haven’t read much about your cases,” he said, “but I understand Acevedo confessed to the Atkins murder before he confessed to our double murder case?”
“That’s correct,” Hartsfield said. “And to the assault of another woman, too; the cops initially picked him up on assault.”
“And don’t you have a witness-the assault victim, if I’m not mistaken-who ID’d him in a lineup?” Karp asked.
“That’s true,” Hartsfield replied. “But it was a pretty shaky ID. At first she wasn’t sure; then she thought it could be one of two guys-one a cop and the other our suspect. She asked if she could hear them repeat the threat he used; that’s when she ID’d Acevedo and said she thought he was the one. But she admitted that she never really got a good look at him and I expect any decent defense lawyer is going to hit that hard. We didn’t find any physical evidence on him, or in his things at his parents’ apartment, that tied him to our homicide victim, Dolores Atkins. Not like that engagement ring; you have an ace on the table with that.”
“How well do you know this detective Phil Brock?” Karp asked.
“Well, I’ve worked with him directly on a dozen cases over the years,” Hartsfield said. “Nothing flashy, but methodical and doesn’t cut corners. Avoids the press like the plague. Just does his job and does it well. He’s got to be getting close to retirement.”
“My kind of cop,” Karp said. “They make the best witnesses on the stand, too.”
“I agree,” Hartsfield replied. He paused for a moment. “What’s this about, Butch?”
Once again, Karp quickly explained what was happening with the Yancy-Jenkins case. “You might want to hold off on that hearing, Sam,” he said. “I know you have a problem because of the witness’s ID, but I think the confessions are pure fantasy. It might be worth it to let me and my guys sift through this before you end up having to dismiss the charges after the fact.”
“Whew, I don’t envy you the hell you’re going to catch,” Hartsfield said. “But thanks for the heads-up. You’ll keep me in the loop?”
“Absolutely,” Karp replied. “In the meantime, if you decide to dismiss, let me know. I don’t want to unnecessarily tip off the killer, but I’d also like to get Acevedo out of jail if he’s not the right guy for your cases either.”
“You got it,” Hartsfield replied. “When this is over, let’s get together; been a while since we’ve had a chance to catch up. Maybe take in a Yankee game. I have some choice tickets to the Red Sox game in a few weeks if you’d be interested.”
“That would be a pleasure,” Karp replied. “Always get a kick seeing the Bronx Bombers beat up on the Sox.”
21
Graziani sat in the sedan across the street and down a block from the aging row house in the Norwood neighborhood of the Bronx. It was a quiet neighborhood and the streets were nearly deserted at midnight.
The headlights of a car appeared from around a corner and moved toward him as he scrunched down in his seat. He’d driven past the row house before dawn that morning and saw the car that was now approaching parked on the street. So he knew that was where his target would park again.
Graziani glanced over at the alley on the side of the row house and thought he could detect the dark figure of a man within the general shadows. Suddenly a wave of nausea threatened to overwhelm him and he thought about calling the whole thing off.
Some part of him, a leftover vestige perhaps of that idealistic rookie cop he’d been some twenty-plus years earlier, was freaking out. He knew that he was crossing a line he’d never have imagined even two weeks ago. This wasn’t taking money from drug dealers, shaking down pimps, or accepting envelopes of cash from businesses looking for a little extra “police protection.” This is a whole new ball game, that rookie cop warned him, but it’s not too late.
Not if you want to finish your career working the traffic division in the Bronx, Joey baby, a different voice said, this one belonging to the street-weary cop whose idealism had been drained away over the years like leaking oil from an old car. And go ahead and stay a detective second grade. That’s if you’re lucky. It will probably get a lot worse if this Acevedo case blows up in your face after the shit that got you kicked out of the Two-Six in the first place. They’ll “make an example” out of you and if they don’t find a reason to kick you off the force and take your pension, they’ll stick you in a basement cubicle, filing reports until you quit or stick a gun in your mouth.
Graziani swallowed the bile that had risen from his gut and hardened himself to the task at hand. It’s the only way, he told himself again. He wasn’t going to let some dirtball meth dealer screw it up.
The other car pulled over to the curb and stopped. He glanced at the alley and saw the dark figure emerge and creep up behind the car. The assassin timed his approach so that when the driver opened the door and started to get out-and was at his most vulnerable-he moved quickly to intercept him.
Something silver in the assailant’s hand flashed in the streetlight as he raised it and then plunged it toward the chest of the driver. It flashed again and again in rapid succession. The victim reached out with both hands for his assailant but then slumped back onto the seat of the car with his legs hanging out.
The assassin stood up and looked toward Graziani, who was nearly overcome with the urge to drive away as fast as possible. But he knew better than to assume that the job was done. Graziani picked up the. 380 pistol with the silencer from the seat next to him and got out of the car. He walked down his side of the street until he was even with the murdered man’s car and then crossed over.
Graziani ignored the assassin and peered inside the car. Detective Phil Brock lay back on the seat, his shirt dark and wet with blood from several knife wounds. He was still alive, his breath coming in ragged, bubbling gasps.
As Graziani started to stand back up, Brock raised his head. His expression changed from one of puzzlement to one of understanding and then scorn. “Just to get out of the Bronx?”
“’Fraid so,” Graziani said as he raised the gun and shot the other detective twice in the head. The quick pffft pffft of the shots was lost in the night as Brock’s body twitched and went still.
“Is the fucker dead?” Ahmed Kadyrov said, smiling as he tried to look in the car at the dead detective.
Graziani pushed him back and pointed the gun at his pale face. “He’s a better man dead than you ever were alive, you piece of shit,” he snarled.
“No, don’t, man!” Kadyrov pleaded, throwing his hands up to ward off the bullet he thought was coming.
Instead, Graziani lowered the gun and stuck it in the top of his pants. He reached in and took Brock’s wallet from his jacket
pocket and the watch off his wrist. Finished, he started walking quickly toward his car, motioning for Kadyrov to follow him. “Don’t worry, asshole, I’m not going to shoot you, as long as you do what you’re told,” he said as they walked. “But let me repeat what I told you earlier: I’d rather shoot a hundred dirtbags like you than the man I just had to kill, so if you fuck with me, I will shoot you without batting an eye. And don’t think for a minute that you could turn on me and get away with it. I don’t care how far you run; even if I can’t get to you myself, I’m a cop, and someday, someone with a badge will coming looking for you.”
Kadyrov looked frightened. “I get it… don’t fuck with you,” he said.
“That’s better,” Graziani said as they reached his car. He got in and rolled down the window to speak to Kadyrov. “Now, like I said, you got a problem with this friend of yours, Vinnie Cassino. It’s what happens when you open your big fucking mouth and tell other scumbags that you killed three women. Take care of it.”
Kadyrov nodded and the smile returned. “I’ll take care of him and his little sooka.”
Driving to his home in Queens, Graziani tried to get the image of Brock’s scornful eyes out of his mind. Had to be done, he reasoned, it was him or me. Was going to choose a loser like Felix Acevedo over a brother cop.
His mind flashed over to Kadyrov. He’d lied when he told Brock he didn’t know him. He’d come across Kadyrov while working Narcotics in the Two-Six and knew him as a small-time burglar and sometime snitch who would sell out his own mother for enough “reward” money to buy another hit of meth.
What really bothered Graziani was that while working with the Yancy-Jenkins task force, he’d been going through case files of perps who did daytime burglaries and Kadyrov’s file had come up. But he’d dismissed him as a poor candidate for a sex killer. The irony that he could have been the hero in all of this-without having to kill another cop or frame an innocent man-was not lost on the detective. Him or me. It was him or me.
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