Temporary Sanity

by Rose Connors

  I steal a glance at the defense table. Harry winks. It worked.

  The last person Stanley wants in front of this panel is the Hammonds’ hysterical neighbor. If Stanley persists with his objections-even the valid ones-I’ll call the neighbor to the stand to fill in the blanks. If Stanley keeps quiet and lets the Chief tell the whole story, then the neighbor’s testimony won’t come in. It will be excluded as cumulative.

  Judge Long looks at the jurors, then at Stanley, and finally at me. “I’ll allow it.”

  I face the witness box again. “Chief, you were telling us about a conversation between Billy Hammond and his neighbor.”

  The Chief looks comfortable in the witness chair. He always does. He enjoys the ease of a man who plans to tell the truth-nothing more, nothing less.

  “Yes,” he says. “The neighbor told Billy he looked like he’d grown three inches since she’d seen him last. Billy laughed and said he probably had. She turned back to her weeding but stood up a few moments later to stretch.”

  The Chief pauses for a sip of water.

  “She was facing the beach at the time. She saw Billy approach a van idling at the far end of the parking lot. He was reaching out to pat a dog in the front seat. Then Billy vanished. She ran to the road and started for the beach, but the van peeled off before she got there. She found a fishing pole where the van had been.”

  “Billy Hammond’s fishing pole?”

  “Yes.” The Chief turns from the panel and looks-apologetically, it seems-at Patty. “His mother identified it.”

  The members of the panel turn toward Patty too. Her eyes are wide, tear-filled, and she’s biting her lower lip, all the horror of that moment written on her face.

  It takes a while for the jurors to return their attention to the Chief. I remain silent until they do.

  “What happened next?”

  “Well, as I said, it was a Saturday. One of my men called me at home and I joined the officers at the scene right away. The neighbor had gotten a good look at the van. She’d also had the presence of mind to memorize its license plate. We traced the plate immediately. Then I alerted the state barracks and they set up checkpoints at both bridges. We didn’t want that van leaving Cape Cod.”

  “Did it?”

  The Chief looks at the hat in his lap and shakes his head. “No.”

  “Where did it go?”

  He looks up at the panel again and takes a deep breath. “A state trooper found it the next day-Sunday-at about five in the afternoon. It was backed into a thicket of bushes at the Cape Cod Canal.” The Chief looks down at his hat again, then up at the panel. “Empty.”

  “Let’s back up a moment, Chief. You say you traced the plate. What did you learn?”

  “The van was registered to a Hector Monteros. We did a background check on him as soon as we got the ID, then put out an APB.”

  Stanley clears his throat yet again.

  “What did the background check tell you about Monteros?”

  Stanley jumps up and his chair topples backward once more. “Objection, Your Honor!”

  “Counsel”-Judge Long waves his arms like a traffic cop-

  “approach.”

  Stanley and I hurry to the judge’s bench, to the side farthest from the jury.

  “Where are you going with this, Counsel?” Judge Long directs his question to me, in a whisper.

  “Monteros was on the county’s registry of known sex offenders, a repeat pedophile.”

  The judge shakes his head emphatically before I complete the sentence. “Not coming in.”

  “State of mind, Judge. That information was conveyed to the parents-to the defendant-before Monteros was arrested. Surely it goes to state of mind.”

  Judge Long shakes his head even harder. “No way. I’ll allow testimony about what happened to this child. That’s all. No prior acts.”

  He’s right, of course. Even if Monteros were alive and sitting in the courtroom, evidence of his prior bad acts wouldn’t be admissible. Not unless he opened the door by offering evidence of good character. And no lawyer with a license would let him do that.

  Stanley rights his chair again and sits, and I return to my post in front of the jury box. Twenty-eight eyes search mine. They want to know what information I’m being forced to swallow. They want to know what I know-more important, what Buck Hammond knew-about Hector Monteros.

  I’d like to tell them to remember this moment. I’d like to tell them to keep it in mind as they listen to the Chief’s testimony. I’d like to tell them to read between the lines, to fill in the blanks, to figure it out for themselves.

  I can’t, of course. I can’t say any of those things. Not now. Not ever.

  Chapter 22

  Silence settles on the courtroom like cloud cover. The jurors’ gazes rest on Tommy Fitzpatrick. Mine does too. But I’m in no hurry to resume questioning. The longer the pause, the more memorable the hole in the testimony. At least that’s my theory.

  Finally, Judge Long leans forward and catches my eye. “Counsel,” he says, “you may proceed.”

  I smile up at him, as if I’d been awaiting his permission.

  “You told us yesterday, Chief, that Hector Monteros was the main suspect in the disappearance of Billy Hammond, is that correct?” I turn to scan the faces in the jury box as I ask the question.

  “That’s right,” he answers.

  I face him again. “Who were the other suspects?”

  His smile is barely perceptible. He knows where this is going.

  “There weren’t any other suspects,” he says.

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  “To this day?”

  He nods. “To this day.”

  “You also told us you were hoping-initially, at least-that Monteros would lead you to Billy Hammond, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “That wasn’t necessary, though, was it?”

  “No.”

  “Why not, Chief?”

  He takes a deep breath. Stanley shifts in his chair and Judge Long looks over at him, no doubt anticipating an objection. Stanley doesn’t get up, though. I walk to the jury box and lean forward on its banister, my back to the witness.

  “We found the boy,” the Chief says. “We found his body. Early Monday morning, the twenty-first, at about half past one.”

  I continue to stare at the panel. “Where did you find Billy Hammond’s body?”

  Water pouring from pitcher to glass is the only sound in the room. Silence surrounds us, weighs on us, while the Chief sets the pitcher down and pauses for a drink. “We had canine units working the canal. Two of them; one on each side. They started combing the area late in the day Sunday, as soon as the van was located.”

  Another pause. Another swallow.

  “One of them found the boy’s body. It was buried in a shallow grave, under thick brush, about a hundred yards behind the power plant.”

  The jurors are silent, their eyes riveted to the witness box. Their expressions are fixed; no emotion in sight.

  “Tell us about Billy’s body, Chief. What condition was it in?”

  Stanley’s creaking chair tells me he’s getting up again. “Your Honor, please. Counsel is crossing the line here. This is nothing but inflammatory.”

  Judge Long shakes his head. “I’ve already ruled on this, Mr. Ed-gar-ton the Third. I’ll allow testimony about what happened to this child. The information is relevant to the defendant’s state of mind and I’ll allow it for that limited purpose.”

  The judge turns toward the witness box. “Chief Fitzpatrick, keep it brief. Just the facts.”

  The Chief nods up at the judge. His eyes rest briefly on Buck before he faces the panel again. The jurors stare back at him, not blinking. “The boy was bound and gagged,” he tells them. “Naked.” Tommy Fitzpatrick almost swallowed the last word. If the jurors got it, their faces don’t say so.

  “An oil-stained towel was stuffed in his mouth. Thin metal cables were twiste
d around his ankles and wrists. They’d worn through the skin in some spots, exposing the bone.”

  The Chief takes a deep breath, shakes his head, and looks at Buck again. “There were no other marks on his body.”

  Two jurors in the front row close their eyes. The other twelve don’t move a muscle. I wait until all eyes are open and on me, then turn to face Buck and Patty. Buck’s head rests in his arms on the table, his body rigid. Patty lifts her face skyward, eyes closed, cheeks drenched. Neither one of them makes a sound.

  The Chief wipes his eyes. “Twenty-seven years I’ve been on the force. I’ve never seen anything worse.”

  “Objection!” Stanley’s face is beet red, his forehead vein bulging.

  “Sustained!” Judge Long isn’t happy either. “Chief Fitzpatrick, please, sir. Answer only the question asked. And give us the facts, nothing more.”

  More than a decade I worked in this courtroom as a prosecutor. Not once did I hear Tommy Fitzpatrick express an emotion. Until now.

  The Chief looks up at the judge, wiping his eyes again. “I’m sorry, Your Honor. I apologize.”

  Judge Long turns to the panel. “The jury will disregard the witness’s last statement.”

  They nod at him, compliant.

  “How did you know the dead child behind the power plant was Billy Hammond, Chief?”

  The Chief shifts in his seat. “Well, we felt pretty confident about it from the start. Everything fit. We couldn’t say for sure, of course”-the Chief gestures toward Buck-“until his father identified the body.”

  I cross the room again to stand behind Buck, who manages to lift his head from the table to face the Chief. “When did he do that?”

  “Right away,” the Chief says, looking back at Buck. “Mr. Hammond was waiting at the morgue when the body arrived-at about two forty-five that morning. We’d called from the road and asked him to meet us there, so we could get a positive ID as quickly as possible. We’d also called the coroner in to do an immediate autopsy. Mr. Hammond identified his boy before it started.”

  “Were you present, Chief Fitzpatrick, when Mr. Hammond identified his son?”

  “I was.” The Chief stares at the hat in his hands.

  “Describe for us, if you can, Mr. Hammond’s demeanor at that time.”

  Stanley stirs but says nothing.

  For a few moments the Chief seems unable to tear his eyes from his hat. Finally he looks up, his eyes glistening, and speaks directly to the panel. “He collapsed. Fell to his knees at first, then put his face down on the floor, his cheek pressed against the linoleum. I knelt beside him, said I was sorry.”

  The Chief shakes his head slowly. “Hell of a thing to say to a man at a time like that. Words are no good sometimes.”

  “What did Mr. Hammond say?”

  The Chief shrugs and looks down at his hat again, blinking. “Mr. Hammond didn’t say anything. Banged his head against the floor. Kept banging it, harder each time. It took three of us to stop him.”

  “What happened next?”

  The Chief’s expression grows puzzled. “He quieted. He just stopped. He got up and sat on a bench in the hallway, outside the autopsy suite. Said he wanted to wait. To wait for Billy, he said. I assumed he meant wait for the coroner’s report on Billy.”

  “Do you know what Mr. Hammond did next?”

  The Chief takes another swallow of water. “He was still sitting on that bench when I left the building. I remember because I asked if I could get him a coffee-or anything.”

  “What did he say?”

  The Chief shakes his head. “He didn’t say a word. Didn’t even seem to hear me.”

  “Chief Fitzpatrick, why did you leave the morgue?”

  “I’d just gotten a call from my dispatcher. The army chopper transporting Monteros back to Chatham was in transit, due in Chatham a little before five. My night shift is thin to begin with. I needed to call in extra officers, make preparations.”

  “And when was the next time you saw Mr. Hammond?”

  “When I went back. He was sitting in that same spot on the bench outside the autopsy suite. I don’t think he’d moved.”

  “Why did you go back to the morgue, Chief?”

  “To talk to the coroner. I wanted to issue the charges before Monteros landed. Didn’t want to wait for the written autopsy report.”

  Buck loses his battle with gravity and lowers his head to the defense table again. I leave his side and walk slowly across the courtroom toward the jury box. “Charges against Hector Monteros?”

  “Yes.”

  I lean against the wooden railing, facing the jurors again. “After speaking with the coroner, Chief, how many separate charges did you file?”

  “Three.”

  I study the jurors as they stare at the Chief. “What were they?”

  “First-degree murder. Kidnapping. Forcible rape of a child.”

  No visible reaction in the box.

  I travel the length of the courtroom again, back to Buck’s side, and face the jurors in silence. I want them to look at me. When they do, I turn my own eyes to Buck.

  They do too.

  Silence. I want them to look hard at this man. I want them to digest the fact that on the morning of June 21, he received the same information they just did. I want them to imagine what it was like for him, receiving that information about his little boy. And I want them to react.

  But they don’t.

  “Chief Fitzpatrick, what was the cause of Billy Hammond’s death?”

  The Chief turns from the panel to Buck, then looks up at me. “Asphyxia. The medical examiner found minute hemorrhages in the lungs and heart, meaning death was caused by a lack of oxygen. The boy suffocated.”

  “Did you give Mr. Hammond that information while you were both at the morgue?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you tell him what specific charges you planned to file?”

  The Chief nods and turns back toward the jurors. “Yes, I did. I felt I owed him that much. Otherwise he and his wife”-the Chief gestures toward Patty with his hat and shakes his head-“they’d hear it on the radio. Or on TV. I couldn’t let that happen.”

  “How did Mr. Hammond respond?”

  The Chief shakes his head again, slowly. “He didn’t. He never said a word.”

  “Your office later received the results of DNA tests conducted on both Monteros and Billy Hammond, is that right, Chief?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were they conclusive?”

  He nods. “They were.”

  “Tell the panel, if you will, what was found beneath Billy’s fingernails.”

  The Chief nods again and swallows hard. He knew this was coming. “Skin fragments,” he says. “The coroner scraped skin fragments from under the boy’s fingernails. DNA testing established that Hector Monteros was the source. The boy fought. He fought for his life.”

  At least half of the jurors shift in their seats, look away from the Chief, away from me too. Their faces are closed; they don’t want to hear any more.

  I look over at Harry. He runs four fingers across his neck as if decapitating himself. He’s telling me: You’re done. Sit down. Shut up.

  But I can’t. Not yet. I have one final, burning point to hammer home.

  “When Billy Hammond disappeared, Chief, did your office open a file?”

  He takes another drink of water and his eyes open wide. He seems surprised by the question. “Of course.”

  “An accordion pocket with manila folders inside, a place to file reports, record telephone numbers, organize correspondence?”

  “That’s right.”

  “A file you planned to use throughout the investigation?”

  “Yes.”

  “A file you’d need to consult until the investigation ended, is that right?”

  “Well, of course.”

  “What’s the current status of that file?”

  The Chief stares at me for a moment, a glimmer of understanding in his ey
es. Then he turns to the panel and looks slowly at each person. “It’s closed.”

  Chapter 23

  The conference room looks like a paper recycling center gone amok. Documents, manila folders, and legal pads litter the table, chairs, and floor. A half dozen courthouse-generated printouts hang from the ceiling-high bookcases, thumbtacked at eye level. They’re rap sheets, a couple of them long enough to touch the floor.

  The Kydd sits in the midst of it all, jacket and tie gone, sleeves of his wrinkled shirt rolled up to his elbows. He’s traded his contacts for an old pair of horn-rimmed glasses. He’s immersed in a file, leaning into the single arc of soft light thrown across the table by an old brass lamp. He doesn’t look up-doesn’t seem to notice-when I join him.

  “A little light reading, Kydd?”

  He lifts his eyes from the page and blinks, then points with his file toward the printouts. “Any of these guys…,” he says, shaking his head and tossing his glasses on the table. “Any one of them could’ve done Howard Davis. They all had trouble with him. And they’re all up to the job.”

  I sink into one of the old upholstered chairs, and the Kydd leans back in his. “I took a look at the crime scene photos,” he says, “then decided to start with the most recent releases.”

  That makes sense. Whoever murdered Howard Davis was enraged. If it was one of his parolees, it was almost certainly a recent release. Not someone who wasted much time planning; not someone who weighed the pros and cons in any detail.

  “Howard Davis got six new assignments during the past four weeks.”

  I rest my head against the chair’s soft spine and look toward the rap sheets. “Anybody interesting?”

  The Kydd leans forward and points to one of the shorter printouts. I recognize the intensity in his eyes. He’s on to something.

  “Yep,” he says. “Frank Sebastian. He’s pretty interesting. Out three weeks and already hauled in once for violating parole. Nothing big-just failed to check in with Howard Davis when he was supposed to. He got off with a warning.”

  The Kydd stares at the floor, elbows on his knees, then looks up at me. “He screwed up again, though-big this time. Knocked over a gas station with two other thugs late Sunday night. One of the conditions of parole was that Sebastian refrain from enjoying the company of these particular gentlemen. The surveillance camera got good shots of all three of them. The station owner fingered them, too, in a photo lineup on Monday.”