Thirteen_The serial killer isn’t on trial. He’s on the jury

by Steve Cavanagh

“He didn’t have much of a choice,” said Harper. “The college pretty much made it compulsory for their staff. Maybe he thought there was no trace evidence left. The killer had been careful, after all. That DNA match was enough to convict him in record time. Before the murders, Chapel Hill was terrorized by a serial rapist on campus. They couldn’t pin the rapes on Pena, but reading between the lines the cops figured Pena was the rapist and had just upped the ante. The town had been living in fear for months and they were ready to put someone in the chair for this. Trial lasted two days. The jury deliberated for all of ten minutes. I guess you could say Pena didn’t have much of a defense. He couldn’t afford a lawyer and the public defender was asleep at the wheel, or didn’t care. His appeals were declined fast and hard. The public wanted this guy dead and the state obliged.”

  That was fast. Justice took its sweet time about most things. Not in this case.

  “Did Pena maintain his innocence?” I said.

  “To his very last breath,” said Harper.

  “They all did,” said Delaney.

  I pushed the photos away and said, “What do you mean, they all did?”

  Harper rose from the chair opposite me, and strode around the small space behind Delaney.

  “We found more,” said Delaney. “After you left I got approval to run fresh search bulletins. The dollar bill in the Solomon case gave me the ammo to go to my superiors. I ran alerts in all the sheriff and county police homicide bureaus in the thirteen states on the East Coast. The original states who signed the Declaration of Independence. I’m guessing you figured that out. Good. It took me a while. It was a theory with three victims, and not enough to go asking law enforcement to dig up closed cases with solid convictions. With Solomon, my director gave me the all-clear to run the alerts. I also got permission to post alerts to judges and clerks in each of the counties within those states. That was a first. We’ve never done that before. And it got results.”

  I pulled my chair closer to the table and watched Delaney pull documents out of her file. Four separate bundles held together with elastic bands. She placed them in front of me one by one. There were newspaper clippings, police reports, files for the DA.

  “An arson attack on a black church in Georgia. Two people killed. A dollar bill found partially burned next to a can of gasoline. The dollar had been used to light the fire, then the arsonist stamped out the flames on the bill. Fingerprints on the gasoline sent away a white supremacist loser called Axel who’d just won two million dollars in the state lottery.”

  She slapped the next one down.

  “The Pennsylvania ripper. Three women torn to pieces in their own homes, partially cannibalized and mutilated post-mortem. All three were found inside of two weeks in the summer of 2003. Attacks occurred all over the state. Dollar bills found stuffed into their panties. Jonah Parks, a paranoid schizophrenic, confessed to the murders despite the protests from his new wife who gave him an alibi. It wasn’t enough to save him from jail.”

  Another bundle. Another dead face staring at me. This time a man sitting behind the wheel of a rig.

  “The Pitstop killer. Five men, all truck drivers. Picked up a hitchhiker in Connecticut and ended up dead. Shot in the head at close range and robbed. Dollar bill left on the dash. Cops thought it was a tip for the ride from the hiker. Fingerprint on the bill led cops to a drifter who’d just got re-housed after a distant relative died and left him a substantial inheritance. The man never got time to enjoy it.”

  Last one.

  “Sixteen-year-old Sally Buckner. Maryland. Abducted, raped, murdered with a double-edged knife. Cops found the dollar bill in her hand when they pulled her body out from beneath her neighbor’s porch. Eighty-one-year-old Alfred Gareck denied the killing. No DNA, but there was circumstantial evidence. She used to go to the store for him on Saturday mornings and he always paid her a couple of dollars for her trouble. Gareck’s fingerprints on the bill. He died a week after his murder conviction,” said Delaney.

  She shook her head. Said, “The great seal had been marked up in the usual way on all the dollars. Arrowhead, leaf, star. We’re still waiting to hear if we get any hits from New Jersey, South Carolina, Virginia and Rhode Island. Maybe he hasn’t hit those states. Maybe he has and we just haven’t found it yet.”

  None of us could speak. Harper put her back to the wall, stared at the floor. We all felt it. It was a black, evil thing in the room. Something that you don’t allow yourself to think about. We’d all grown up afraid of something. The bogeyman, the monster in the closet, or the devil hiding under the bed. And your parents tell you it’s just your imagination. There are no demons. No monsters.

  But there are.

  I’d done shitty things in my life. Hurt people. Killed people. I had no choice. Self-defense. Protecting my family. Protecting others. It’s not easy killing a man, even in such circumstances. I knew from experience that Harper had pulled the trigger before. She’d put a man down. I couldn’t say for sure if Delaney had ever hurt anyone, but she didn’t need to have that experience to know what it felt like. It was a line that had to be crossed sometimes.

  But it always left a scar.

  Here was a man who’d murdered for pleasure. It was a game. Only this wasn’t a man. This was one of the monsters.

  I knew the question I wanted to ask, I just couldn’t find the courage to let it out. My lips were dry. I wetted them, swallowed and said, “How many victims?”

  Delaney knew the answer. So did Harper. Their knowledge weighed heavy on each of them. Harper closed her eyes and whispered the answer.

  “Eighteen that we know of. Twenty if you count Ariella Bloom and Carl Tozer.”

  “And are we counting Ariella and Carl, Agent Delaney?” I asked.

  “I think we are, but we’re way behind on this. And it’s still a live investigation. I’m sharing this with you because you brought it to me. I’m prepared to tell the court that the FBI are investigating the possible connection between the Bloom and Tozer murders and a known serial killer operating on the East Coast, but that’s it. No other evidence or information. If Solomon is convicted of these murders it closes another door in my face. You know how hard it is to open a closed case? With a conviction in place? Try next to impossible.”

  The room fell silent again.

  “Is there any connection between the victims? Surely there must be some way he’s targeting these people. It can’t be totally random,” I said.

  “We haven’t found any connection yet,” said Harper. “We’re working on it. I figure I’m most useful to you by working this angle, Eddie. So far, no connections between the victims in each state. Different ages, different sex, different races, different backgrounds.”

  I nodded. She was right. But none of it was any use in helping Bobby at trial. Not really.

  “There has to be a connection. The markings on the dollar? I mean, this is some kind of a dark mission this guy is on. He has a purpose. He has a plan. He’s killed twenty people and the cops and the feds haven’t even been looking for him. He’s managed to lay the blame for each murder at someone else’s door,” I said.

  That word, that strange red word – murder. Somehow that word felt like it got stuck on my tongue. My mind didn’t want to let it go.

  I took a moment to let things sink in. I was due back in court soon. I closed my eyes and let my mind wander. Somewhere in my subconscious, I had the answer.

  It started slow. Like a low pulse in the room. Like the vibration from the heart of a violin. Tiny. Just from the pressure of the fingers on the strings right before the first note of the overture is struck. I could feel it. And then it was there, right in front of me.

  “I need time to go over these cases. Hopefully, we might get something else from the other states. If we’re going to use this stuff we have to get it organized and find the connection between the victims. And we have to serve this evidence on Pryor if you’re willing to make a deal, Delaney? In the meantime I’ll pull the case for to
day – ask Harry to give me a continuance till tomorrow. He’s pretty much said I can take the continuance if I need it. And I do. We all do,” I said.

  As I spoke, my eyes wandered around the room with my thoughts.

  Then the maestro moved his hands. And the first note echoed around my mind.

  “What kind of a deal are you talking about?” said Delaney.

  “This is a one-time offer. No negotiation. Take it or leave it. You are going to be in court tomorrow. And I might need you to testify, but I don’t think that’ll be necessary. All I need is your agreement to share these files with the DA, and your word that if I need you – you’ll tell the jury what you’ve told me.”

  She folded her arms, looked over her shoulder at Harper, then back to me.

  “I already told you I can’t. I can’t compromise the investigation,” she said.

  “You won’t be compromising anything. Come to court. Agree to testify so I can tell the DA you’ll be a witness. But you won’t have to testify. If you agree to this I swear you’ll have your man in custody within twenty-four hours.”

  Delaney rocked back in her seat, surprised at such a bold claim.

  “And how exactly are you going to deliver Dollar Bill?” she said.

  “That’s the best part. I won’t be delivering him. If everything goes smoothly tomorrow, Dollar Bill is going to walk right into the arms of the FBI all by himself.”

  CARP LAW

  * * *

  Suite 421, Condé Nast Building, 4 Times Square, New York, NY.

  Strictly Confidential,

  Attorney Client Work Product

  Juror Memo

  The People -v- Robert Solomon

  Manhattan Criminal Court

  Cassandra Deneuve

  Age: 23

  Changed her name two years ago. Previously known as Molly Freudenberger. Accepted to study Set Design at NYU, undergrad. Works at McDonald’s. Financially sound due to parental support. Dropped out of two university courses in as many years. In a number of relationships. Large Instagram following. Likes cats. No voting history.

  Probability of Not Guilty vote: 38%

  Arnold L. Novoselic

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  The new juror jangled and tinkled her way into court. She was already beginning to annoy Kane. She wore a charm bracelet on her left ankle which rattled with even the slightest of movements. The other jurors had noticed it too. Valerie Burlington, and her anklet, would soon become a razorblade on a chalkboard to even the most tolerant of the jurors.

  Kane allowed himself to imagine what it would feel like to cut off her foot. He found himself staring at the veins just below her ankle, bulging through the fake tan like worms on a mud plain.

  Valerie swung her foot, and ignored the tuts and whispers that fell around her ears.

  Thankfully, the jury didn’t have to wait long.

  Kane felt disappointed when the judge adjourned the case until the morning. On the plus side, it gave him some more time to himself.

  They filed back into the jury room, collected their bags and left the courthouse at the rear exit. A yellow city bus took them out of Manhattan. Two court officers went on the bus with the jury. They drove for almost an hour on the freeway, headed in the direction of JFK International. Only they weren’t going to the airport. The one thing that’s in plentiful supply around JFK is reasonably priced hotels. Many of them in the neighborhood of Jamaica; a middle-class slice of Queens. It was far too expensive to put up twelve jurors, and the alternates, in a Manhattan hotel.

  The court office preferred three hotels. The Holiday Inn, the Garden Inn and if they were really stuck – Grady’s Inn. Turns out they were stuck. Kane had made sure of it. A week before he’d used a number of prepaid credit cards to make various strategic bookings at both the Holiday Inn and the Garden Inn. Both hotels were busy, so he only had to make around a half dozen bookings in each hotel. All under different names. Some bookings made online, some by disposable cell phone. With each booking he’d specified a room and a floor either over the phone or via email with the hotel.

  The result – neither the Holiday Inn nor the Garden Inn could offer fifteen rooms on the same floor to the court officer who’d tried to make the block booking. For security purposes, a guard had to be placed on the floor to monitor the jurors under sequestration. It wasn’t possible to monitor two or three floors of a hotel. Court security didn’t have the manpower. No, sir. One guard. One floor. Those were the rules.

  That left the Grady Inn. One floor. One guard.

  The bus pulled up at Grady’s and Kane watched the disappointed looks on the faces of his fellow jurors when they laid eyes on their accommodation.

  “When did they take down the Bates Motel sign?” said Betsy, to a ripple of nervous laughter from the jurors and the court officers.

  The jury filed into the lobby. It looked more like a reception area for a funeral parlor. Dark oak paneling lined every wall, sucking away what little light penetrated the filth on the windows. Kane recognized the smell of stewed vegetables. The porter nodded at each of the jurors as they passed him in the entrance hall. He didn’t take their bags. In fact, the guy looked a little loaded. Smelled that way too. Deer heads were mounted in a row behind the aging hotel receptionist. She was in her eighties and deaf. The court officer would have had an easier time talking to one of the deer.

  Kane had made sure that while they waited in the lobby, he was standing next to Manuel. Kane nudged him. Manuel looked at Kane. Kane leaned over and whispered, “I know you think Solomon is innocent. We’re on the same page. We can’t let him go to jail for something he didn’t do. We’ll talk later, okay.”

  Kane nodded wisely. Manuel thought about this, then discreetly held up a thumb to say okay.

  Fourteen keys were handed out. Real keys. Not swipe cards. It was that kind of place. The hotel had once been a grand house. Close to forty rooms were spread out over five floors. No elevator. The jurors followed the court officer to the fourth floor. Then they filed out past him to their rooms. Kane had been given room forty-one, on the right-hand side of the corridor. He fiddled with the key in the lock just long enough for another juror to reach the door behind him.

  It was Valerie. He heard the jewelry cease its jingling behind him. He turned and said, “Valerie, I’m sorry, but I suffer from migraines. The sun will light up that room early in the morning and it sets off my headaches. Would it be possible for me to trade with you?” said Kane.

  Valerie smiled, patted Kane on the arm and said, “Of course I don’t mind, sweetpea. You take my room.”

  Kane took the key for room thirty-nine, smiled appreciatively and thanked Valerie. He opened the door to his new room, then closed it and locked it behind him. The room was small, but dirty. The large window overlooked the eaves of the floor below. To the left, it sloped down to a flat roof. The garden below was just visible.

  Kane threw his bag on the bed, then lay down and slept.

  Banging on his door woke him an hour later. He told the court officer he wasn’t feeling well and wouldn’t be coming for dinner. He would just get some sleep instead. No, he didn’t need a doctor.

  Kane managed to get back to sleep, and he woke up at one a.m. Bright. Alert. Rested.

  He changed clothes, checked his temperature. After he popped more antibiotics, Kane packed his bag, put on his ski mask and climbed out of the window.

  CARP LAW

  * * *

  Suite 421, Condé Nast Building, 4 Times Square, New York, NY.

  Strictly Confidential,

  Attorney Client Work Product

  Juror Memo

  The People -v- Robert Solomon

  Manhattan Criminal Court

  Alec Wynn

  Age: 46

  Air-conditioning engineer, currently out of work. Single. Republican. Financials look rocky, but not serious yet. Very little social contact. Loner. Outdoor-pursuits enthusiast – hunting, fishing, kayaking. Licensed firearm certificate
for State of New York and Virginia. Owns three handguns; two in state. One held in Virginia. Licensed to hold bolt-action hunting rifle. Online interests include Brietbart News, Donald Trump, Republican Party, extreme pornography and various websites devoted to US military. Never served in the military.

  Probability of Not Guilty vote: 20%

  Arnold L. Novoselic

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  Harry gave me a continuance in a heartbeat. Pryor didn’t object. I had until the morning to get ready. When the courtroom cleared, it was just me, Arnold and Bobby. Holten, whose private security firm were contracted to Carp Law, said he would stay on and provide security for Bobby. I checked with Holten, and he’d already cleared it with Carp that Bobby could have his security detail at least until the weekend. After that, it was on his own dime. That was good of Rudy – at least Bobby would be safe before he got sent to jail for the rest of his life. There were five security guys in the hallway ready to escort Bobby home, along with Holten.

  “Where are you staying?” I asked.

  “Got a place in Midtown. Old house. It’s quiet, nice neighborhood. The house even has an old panic room upstairs with a big steel door. I’ll be safe there. Rudy rented it for me. He’s paid for it until the end of the month. Say, do you still think we have a chance?” said Bobby. It had been a long day and it was beginning to show on him. I could’ve told Bobby the truth, but that wouldn’t help him. I had a gut feeling that we might catch the real killer. I needed to be confident about it with Delaney, but deep down I doubted everything. This case was still riding on luck.

  “I do think we have a chance. I’ll know more tomorrow. I think Ariella and Carl were caught up in some kind of sick game. Their killer wanted to frame you. I don’t know why just yet. Or exactly how he did it. I need you to go home and think. By tomorrow, you need to tell me where you were the night of the murders,” I said.