First Degree

by David Rosenfelt

  I start out by taking Dorsey’s file and randomly picking out items from his time in Vietnam. I then compare them to the two others, in the hope that there might be some overlap. For instance, if Dorsey went to the hospital for a vaccination, I look to see if by chance Cahill and Murdoch were there the same day. Their meeting could have been brief and appear inconsequential in these reports, but it could have somehow triggered the devastating events that have led us to where we are today.

  I’m on my fourth glass of wine, and Tara has long ago fallen asleep with a chewy half hanging out of her mouth, when I notice something startling. Though the chronology of Dorsey’s Vietnam stay covers eleven single-spaced pages, on page nine there is an entry dated August 11, 1972, and then the next entry bears the date February 4, 1973. The two notes seem to be completely ordinary events, and there is no indication of any reason for the six-month gap.

  I can feel my pulse start to race as I grab Cahill’s file and look for his records during that same six-month period. Sure enough, he is unaccounted for in that time as well, and Murdoch’s file, as I expect, is identical in that respect. I’m so excited that if Tara’s paws weren’t under her chin as she sleeps, I would high-five her.

  I can’t keep this to myself, so I wake Laurie and tell her what I’ve discovered. Her reaction is identical to mine: She understands that this could be the break we’ve been searching for, yet she’s all too aware that we have no idea what it means.

  I place a call to Captain Reid’s office at Fort Monmouth, knowing he isn’t there but leaving a message for him to call me back as soon as he can tomorrow morning. I hang up and go upstairs to the bedroom, barely reaching the top of the stairs before the phone rings.

  “Hello?”

  “Captain Reid here. How can I help you?” he says in his crisp, professional tone.

  I’m amazed he has called me back so quickly, and I apologize for disturbing him this late at night. He doesn’t react either way, so I quickly get down to why I called, describing the six-month gap in the records of all three men.

  There is a noticeable delay in his answer, and when he does speak, it is the first time I have heard him sound tentative and unsure of himself. “There are a number of possible explanations. Record keeping in wartime is not the most accurate, and—”

  My bullshit meter is clanging so loud I’m afraid it will wake the neighbors. “Captain Reid,” I interrupt, “it is vitally important I get to the truth, and really quickly. I believe that what I’ve discovered can be very significant, and I need your help in explaining it to me. Please.”

  Another pause, and then his voice is softer and even more serious. “I was not in Vietnam, so what I’m about to tell you is not something I know from personal experience. As it relates to your case, you should simply consider it informed speculation.”

  “Fine.”

  “It may not be true, and even if it is, it may not be true in this particular case. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “I must have your word that you will never reveal where you heard this.”

  “You have my word.” I hope this preamble is over before the jury reaches a verdict.

  “I am told there was a practice of bringing together the most elite members of the Special Forces, often from different divisions, and sending them out in small groups to operate behind enemy lines. Actually, the way the battlefield was drawn in Vietnam, it would be more correct to say ‘among the enemy’ than behind their lines.”

  “Operate in what way?” I ask.

  “In any way they saw fit,” he says. “There were no rules, there were no restrictions. Their mission was to create havoc and destruction, by any means they deemed appropriate.”

  “Was there any accountability?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure you understand what I’m saying. During the times these men were operating, they did not exist. Existence is a prerequisite for accountability, don’t you think?”

  I’m afraid I know the answer to my next question. “Is there any way I can obtain proof, written proof, that these men were together in one of these squads?”

  He hesitates again. “I doubt that even Lieutenant Colonel Prentice could access that information.”

  I thank Reid, and warn that I may be calling upon him again. Then I spend the next hour processing what I’ve learned and trying to figure out how I can learn more.

  I have no concrete proof that these three men were together in Vietnam, yet I’m certain they were. But even if I do prove it, so what? How does it make Laurie any less guilty, in the eyes of the jurors, of the murder of Alex Dorsey?

  Unfortunately, not only are the jurors’ eyes clear, but their stomachs are healthy, and the trial resumes at nine in the morning.

  Every subject you can name, every single one, comes with a coterie of experts. And the places these experts hang out are the courtrooms of America.

  Our first witness today is Dr. Brian Herbeck, widely considered the nation’s foremost authority on the spattering of blood. We are paying him ten thousand dollars to impart that expertise to the jury, who will hear how much he is making and will no doubt hate him for it.

  Once I establish Dr. Herbeck’s considerable credentials as an expert, I have him examine the bloodstained clothes of Laurie’s that were behind Hinchcliffe Stadium. He has of course previously examined them, and we’ve rehearsed exactly what he is prepared to say.

  Dr. Herbeck points out in excruciating detail the pattern of blood spatter on both the front and the back of the blouse. His position is that they are essentially matching, which means that, while the blouse may belong to Laurie, neither she nor anyone else was wearing it when it became bloodied. The blood was applied to the front, and it caused a contact stain by going through to the back. If there had been a person in the blouse, he contends, the blood would never have reached the back.

  It is a logical, albeit boring presentation, and as Dylan rises to cross-examine, his expression is sort of bemused, as if he and the jury have to deal with eccentrics like this and they might as well do it with a smile.

  Dylan has obviously been well schooled in this area, and his cross-examination is impressive. He takes the good doctor back over the clothing, stain by stain, pointing out those areas that don’t match quite so perfectly. Dr. Herbeck has answers for each of Dylan’s points, but by the time it’s all over, there’s no way the jury could find any part of the testimony particularly compelling.

  All in all, it’s a depressing morning. My hopes are beginning to rest almost entirely on the outside investigation we are trying to conduct into the experiences of the three men in Vietnam. An investigation that has every possibility of going nowhere.

  Kevin, Marcus, and I have lunch together in the court cafeteria, and they bring me up to date on our progress, or lack of it. Kevin has talked to the lieutenant colonel, who checked and confirmed Captain Reid’s view that the information is not accessible. Marcus has learned about the crimes Murdoch committed to get himself put in jail, but this doesn’t seem to shed much light on our case.

  Having finished his lunch, Kevin cleans up the leftovers on Marcus’s tray and my own. He seems about to ask the people at nearby tables if they’re going to finish theirs, when Pete Stanton comes over. He had been in an upstairs courtroom testifying on another case and is just checking in to see how we’re doing and to lend moral support.

  “There have been happier days in defenseland,” I say.

  He nods and throws a light verbal jab. “Maybe you should let Kevin take over.”

  “That would help,” I counter. “But what we really need is a bozo like you to cross-examine.”

  We both realize that this banter is halfhearted at best, and he inquires as to how Laurie is doing. He’s been a great friend and supporter to her, which she and I will both appreciate pretty much forever. I tell him that she’s doing okay and is stronger than I am. Both statements are basically true.

  Across the room, having just finished his lun
ch, is Nick Sabonis. Nick and I haven’t talked since he was on the stand, though our paths have crossed on a couple of occasions. My sense is that Nick has not forgiven me for implying that he could possibly be the mysterious lieutenant that Celia Dorsey spoke about.

  “I’ll be right back,” Pete says, standing. “I’ve got to talk to Nick.”

  I’m not sure why it hits me this time, but it does, right between the eyes.

  “What did you say?” I ask, though I know exactly what he said.

  “I said I’ve got to talk to Nick.”

  “Call him over here,” I say. “Please.”

  I’m sure that Pete, Kevin, and Marcus can all hear the strange tone in my voice, but I’m not concerned; my focus is totally on Pete and Nick.

  “Hey, Nick,” Pete calls out, waving. “Come here a second, will ya?”

  Nick looks over, a little tentatively, obviously not wanting to be drawn into an uncomfortable situation with the enemy, meaning us.

  But my mind is already elsewhere, and I turn to Kevin, just about dragging him out of his chair. “Come on, we need to talk.”

  On the way to the phones, I tell Kevin what I’ve just come to understand. We call Captain Reid, who characteristically comes to the phone immediately.

  I get right to the point. “Captain Reid, we need a list of every Special Forces lieutenant who was in Vietnam at the same time as Dorsey, Stynes, and Murdoch.”

  He doesn’t burst out laughing, which I take as a good sign. After a few moments he says, “It’ll take the better part of an hour.”

  I thought he was going to say week, so I’m thrilled. “Can you fax it to me at the courthouse?”

  “Give me the number.”

  I do, and the list arrives an hour and five minutes later. It’s five pages, and on page two is the name that is going to blow this wide open.

  I’VE NEVER CONDUCTED A STAKEOUT BEfore, and I’m not sure this would qualify as one. I’ve got the obligatory donuts and coffee, but I don’t have a radio to say “ten-four” into. I just sit in my car outside the FBI regional office, downing donuts and listening to an Eagles CD, while remaining ready to hunch down to avoid being seen.

  I’m listening to “Life in the Fast Lane” for the fourth time when Agent Cindy Spodek comes out at about six-forty-five. She walks to her parking space and drives away. I let her move out a little, then I smoothly start following her without being detected. You would think I’ve done this all my life. Ten-four.

  She leads me across the George Washington Bridge, up the Palisades Interstate Parkway, and into Rockland County. Rockland is on the New Jersey side of the Hudson River but is a part of New York State. It’s not much farther from Manhattan than northern New Jersey or Westchester County, but almost as nice and much less expensive.

  My fervent hope is that Agent Spodek is heading home, and not out to dinner or a book club or a rifle range or whatever it is that FBI agents do at night. This stakeout thing is tiring, and I’m very anxious to talk to her.

  She gets off the highway and drives into a small town called Pomona. It’s a residential area, and since she may be nearing home, I start following her a little more closely. It would be beyond annoying to lose her now.

  After a few more minutes she pulls into the driveway of a one-story redwood home. Kids play on the street, but none pay attention to her arrival. I realize I have no idea if she has kids or whether she’s married or single. For my own limited purposes, I’d rather she lives alone, since I don’t want her to have to consider other people when she hears my request.

  I park on the street directly in front of her house, and she’s looking in my direction when I get out of the car. I think I see a flash of panic in her eyes, or maybe it’s anger, or maybe it’s an eyelash. I’m not that good an eye reader.

  She strides directly toward me. “What the hell are you doing here? I don’t want you near my house.”

  She thinks that will intimidate me; she’s unaware that women have been saying stuff like that to me my whole life. “I was hoping we could continue our conversation,” I say.

  “What conversation is that?” she challenges.

  “The one about Terry Murdoch.”

  This time I’m pretty sure the eye flash is panic, but she doesn’t back down. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. Now, please, I—”

  I interrupt. “Did you know that Terry Murdoch is dead? Someone killed him to stop him from talking to me.”

  She sags slightly and closes her eyes. “Oh, God …”

  “Can I come in?” I ask.

  She doesn’t answer, just nods in resignation, turns, and walks toward the front door. I follow her inside. Chalk up another successful stakeout for the good guys.

  We’re no sooner in the house than she asks me, “How did you figure it out?”

  I don’t want to tell her the truth—that I wasn’t even absolutely positive I was right until I saw her reaction to the news about Murdoch’s death. So I simply say, “Dorsey’s wife said he called someone ‘Lieutenant’ I assumed it was someone within the police department, until I realized Dorsey was a lieutenant himself, and people of the same rank don’t talk that way.”

  I pause for a moment, preparing to drop the bomb. “It had to have been Dorsey’s commanding officer in the army, the special unit he was in with Murdoch and Cahill. It turns out that your boss Hobbs was a lieutenant in Vietnam at the same time as Dorsey, which makes him the logical choice. Also, the 911 call referred to Garcia as the ‘perpetrator.’ It’s a word you might use.”

  She doesn’t react with any surprise at all; she’s been living with this truth for a long time. “You can’t prove it. Nobody can.”

  “I don’t have to prove it,” I say. “I just have to shine a light on it.”

  “I can’t help you,” she says.

  “You’re the only one that can help me. And you’ve already tried to. But now it has to be out in the open. No more phone calls, no more masking your voice.”

  She smiles at my naïveté. “Do you have any idea what it would be like to come out publicly against a man like Damn Hobbs? Do you know what they would do to me?”

  I nod. “Laurie Collins faced the same decision with Dorsey two years ago. She knew it would be bad, and it’s been worse than she could have imagined. It may well ruin her life. But she’d do it again ten times over.”

  She speaks quietly, as if she’s really talking to herself. I have a feeling this is a conversation she’s had with herself quite a few times. “I’ve wanted to be an FBI agent my entire life.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know you, but I’d bet you didn’t want it like this. I don’t think you can live with it like this, knowing what you know …”

  “I’m telling you, I have no proof that your client is innocent. I have no information about her at all.”

  “I know that.” I sense that she is weakening, and I am going to stay here and beg and plead and persuade until she caves. It is realistically the only chance Laurie has to stay out of prison. “I just want the information you have about Hobbs.”

  She nods. “I’ve got plenty of that.”

  I’m definitely making progress, and I want to be extra careful what I say so I don’t blow it. “Would you tell me about it?”

  She sighs her defeat. “Are you hungry? This is going to be a long night.”

  “The longer the better,” I say. “Besides, I had four stakeout donuts in the car.”

  “What is a stakeout donut?”

  This woman is an FBI agent? J. Edgar would snap his garters if he could hear this. “It’s a technical term,” I say. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  The next three hours are the most exciting I’ve ever spent, with a woman with my clothes on. Cindy has made a study of Hobbs from her vantage point as his subordinate/punching bag, and she has the goods on him.

  From his high-level perch in the FBI, he has essentially been providing protection for his elite army squad, which has come toget
her for some domestic work. There were at least four men under Hobbs, probably more, though it will take investigatory work to find any others.

  All were involved in different types of criminal activity, still under Hobbs’s command. But his blanket of protection was not total. Dorsey, for instance, drew too much attention to himself, and Hobbs couldn’t keep him out of trouble without exposing himself. Murdoch had the bad luck of having his counterfeit plates found by the fire department, and it became public so quickly that Hobbs was powerless to intervene.

  For all intents and purposes, Cindy can prove what Hobbs has been up to, but with some glaring gaps, the main one being the Dorsey murder. She believes that Hobbs either murdered Dorsey himself or more likely sent Cahill to do it, but the evidence simply does not exist to get Laurie off the hook.

  By the time I leave her house at eleven o’clock, I’ve got a plan formulated. I call Kevin and bring him up to date, then I give him a list of subpoenas to start serving. I also tell him to call Captain Reid and ask for some special help. For us to have any chance to pull this off, we’ve got to start now.

  Laurie is waiting up when I get home; she would have stayed up if I didn’t come home until November. She devours what I have to say and wants me to tell her exactly what we’re going to do from here on in. I describe it as best I can, but a lot of it is going to be reactive, and she’s just going to have to trust me.

  We get to sleep at two and we’re up at six-thirty. I’ve got to be ready to play a different role today. I’ve spent most of my adult life in courtrooms, but today, for the first time, I’m going to be a witness.

  Kevin and I meet at the coffee shop to do a crash preparation for my testimony, since we didn’t have a chance to go over it last night. What I learned from Cindy Spodek has changed our goal for my testimony. Rather than provide the crucial basis for our defense, I am in effect a setup man, helping the jury understand what they will later be presented with.

  Dylan again objects to my testifying, and Hatchet shoots him down. Kevin takes me through the basics of my relationship with Laurie, from our first meeting until today. I openly admit our romantic attachment; the jury knows about it anyway, and it’s better that we acknowledge it voluntarily than let Dylan appear to be exposing it.