The pen in Delaney’s hand moved furiously across the page. She was nodding as she took notes.
“Have you met a lot of killers, Eddie?” said Delaney.
“I’ll take the fifth amendment on that one,” I said.
“TV coverage, photos of the trials in local papers, national papers, blogs. We can start looking for this guy,” said Harper.
“And if I’m right that means he’s going to be in court today to watch Bobby. You post a half dozen feds in the courtroom to watch the crowd. When I start cross-examining the DA’s witnesses about Dollar Bill, we’ll see what happens. With any luck we’ll scare him. I want him to think we know a lot more about him than he’s comfortable with. If he’s smart, he’ll get up and be on the next plane out of JFK. You’ve just got to catch him before he leaves the courtroom.”
Delaney and Harper exchanged excited looks. It sounded like a plan. Delaney fished through a file and found what looked like a bound report of some kind.
“This is Dollar Bill’s profile. We’ve been working it up overnight, so it’s rough and I’ll need to add to it. It’s got his known whereabouts corresponding with the dates of the murders. And I’ll update that to include the time periods covered by the subsequent criminal trials. I think you’re right on the money about that, Eddie. And I got your message, Harper. There is a connection amongst those who were convicted of Bill’s crimes. We were already on to it, but we couldn’t confirm it until we looked at everyone again. Well, now we have.”
She gave us copies of the profile, and we flicked forward through to a section of the report marked “victim selection”.
There is no discernible physical, sexual or geographical commonality amongst the various groups of murder victims. It is likely that the victims were chosen for the connection, access to, or relationship with the person whom the unsub targeted for conviction for that specific murder or murder cluster. Those persons whom the unsub has potentially framed for his crimes share one common, unusual feature: in a time frame relative to the murders, the convicted persons had all undergone what could reasonably be described to be life-changing experiences. These include massive shifts in their financial or personal status (state lottery win, unexpected inheritance, restaurant franchise). The change in circumstances for that individual was always significant.
An examination of the markings on the dollar bills planted at the crime scenes, and subsequently used in the prosecutions, and the navigation of the states where the murders occurred reveals an important potential psychological insight and pathology.
The thirteen states symbolized by the thirteen stars on the one-dollar bill were the first states to sign the Declaration of Independence. The declaration provides a legal foundation for the aspirational nature of American life.
The pattern is clear and the pathology is destruction of the aspirational nature of American life itself. It is likely, therefore, that the unsub or someone close to him failed to achieve some life goal. This is a pattern of revenge on a massive scale. The punishment for those who changed their lives is to have that new life destroyed by facing a murder charge. The unsub hates aspirational change. This is potentially symbolized by the folding of the dollar bill into a butterfly in the Bloom and Tozer murders.
I turned over to the last page and read the conclusion on the profile.
Sex: Male.
Age: Likely to be aged between thirty-eight and fifty years old.
Race: Unknown.
State origin: Unknown.
Physical Description: Given the physical force required to inflict the injuries sustained in some of the murders, unsub is likely to be strong and physically fit.
Psychology: Unsub is highly intelligent. Extremely organized. Socially adept. Manipulative. Narcissistic elements to his character. Sociopathy and psychopathy present, but the unsub remains a high-functioning individual who would have the intellectual capability to mask likely symptomology from the public, friends and family. The violence inflicted on the victims both ante, and in some cases, post mortem, implies a sadistic element to the murders. The framing of innocent men for his crimes could be a form of emotional sadism. High probability of psycho-sexual obsession with pain. Most likely a paraphilic disorder such as Sexual Sadism Disorder. Educated, probably to college level. High functioning knowledge of forensic procedures. The unsub, given his pathology, is someone who has probably failed in their chosen field, or had someone close to them fail to achieve their potential. To some extent, poverty is likely to have featured in unsub’s life at one point. His mission is a twisted attack on American values and aspirations – most probably motivated by revenge.
“He thinks he’s killing the American Dream,” I said, out loud, without realizing.
I looked up from the profile and found both women staring at me.
“He must have researched his targets. Newspapers, local TV or something like that. You know, the good news story at the end of the nightly news. That’s how he found them. I’ll look for those,” said Harper.
“I’ll put you with two of my agents. They’re calling local news outlets right now,” said Delaney.
There was an energy in the room. Delaney knew she was closing in on this phantom. And yet, something about it bothered me. The theory looked good, but Bill had been relying on luck for a lot of this. He had to be. So far he had committed murder in eight states and gotten a man convicted in all eight instances. New York would make it nine. And there could’ve been more that Delaney hadn’t yet uncovered.
I knew, more than most, anything can happen in a criminal trial. There were too many variables even in a case with strong forensics.
Had Bill just been lucky to get a conviction eight times out of eight?
“When you check with the local news outlets, make sure to get all of the images from the trials. There might be video, or photographs of crowds attending the trial. I think our man watched every moment of every trial. There’s a chance a photographer just might have taken his picture,” I said.
“It’s a long shot, but we’ll look into it,” said Delaney, “Attending the hearings would fit with his psyche profile. A lot of killers revisit their crime scenes, or take trophies from their victims. It allows them to relive that moment of excitement over and over again. Of course, it’s not the same thing as the murder. They don’t get the same rush. But they get something out of it.”
Harper stood and gathered her notes, anxious to get to work.
“Is this enough to get Solomon an acquittal?” she said.
“I don’t know. Pryor’s got a lot of strong evidence to put in front of the jury today. It would help if Bobby could remember where the hell he’d been on the night of the murders.”
“He really doesn’t know?” said Harper.
“He says he was drunk, and doesn’t remember.”
“Surely someone would’ve recognized him if he was out in a bar?” said Delaney.
“You’d think. But I saw the security video. He wore dark clothes, ball cap and a hoodie. A lot of celebrities get away with walking around in a city like New York if they cover up even …”
The words caught in my throat. Delaney had hit a nerve. Bobby should have been recognized. That was it.
“Delaney, do you have a list of FBI forensic techs in this building?” I said.
“I can get one. Why?”
“It’s in both our interests if Bobby walks. I need your help,” I said.
She was wary at first. Delaney folded her arms and stood.
“As long as it’s nothing illegal, we might be able to lend a hand,” she said.
“Ah, well, there might be a problem with that.”
She looked at me. I smiled and said, “Technically it’s only illegal if we get caught.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
The court officer had been banging on the door for almost ten minutes. It was seven thirty. The smell of old vegetables in the corridor had been replaced with the odor of cooked eggs. Most of the jurors had alrea
dy gone downstairs. Kane, the court officer, Betsy and Rita remained in the hallway and called out for the occupant to open the door.
“Goddamn it, where is that porter with the spare?” said the court officer. He hammered the door again, called out.
Right then the aging hotel porter wheezed his way around the corner and handed a key to the officer.
“You took your time,” said the officer.
The porter shrugged.
“We’re coming in,” said Betsy.
Kane, like the others, was fully dressed. He’d showered, changed, and put on his make-up to hide the livid bruising on his face from the nasal fracture. Kane tried to stem his excitement while the officer put the key in the lock and opened the door.
“You awake? Court security,” said the officer, as he stepped into the room. Kane gently nudged Betsy out of the way, and followed the officer inside.
The room looked immaculate. A gym bag lay on the bed. The sheets had been pulled back but the bed, on Kane’s right, was empty. A light spilled out from the bathroom on the other side of the room and just beyond the bed. The officer made his way toward it, calling out.
“Oh my God!” cried Betsy.
The officer spun around. So did Kane. Betsy and Rita screamed. They were staring at the narrow space between the bed and the left-hand wall, closest to the door. The court officer pulled back the bed frame, moving it away from the wall. All of them stared at the corpse of Manuel Ortega. A bed sheet wrapped around his neck. He’d slumped down close to the floor. The other end of the sheet had been tied to the bedpost. It appeared as though he’d strangled himself.
Kane, keeping Betsy, Rita and the officer in his line of vision, stumbled backward, his hand covering his mouth. Quickly, while they stared in horror at Manuel’s body and had their backs to Kane, he whipped the towel from his shoulders and covered the window lock. One quick turn and the window was secure from the inside. No prints, no DNA. Clean. He put the towel back over his shoulder, stepped forward.
It appeared to be suicide. The court officer was already on his radio, requesting NYPD assistance. Manuel’s eyes were open and bulging out of his head. He stared at the beige carpet.
In the early hours of that same morning, Kane had rapped at Manuel’s window. Shocked, at first, Manuel quietly let him in.
“What are you doing, man?” said Manuel, in a whisper.
“This is the only way we can talk in private. I’m so worried about this case. I think the cops framed Solomon. We have to make sure he gets off. I don’t believe for a second he murdered those people.”
“Me either. How do we do it?” said Manuel.
They discussed a strategy. How they could influence their fellow jurors. Ten minutes later Manuel went to the bathroom. Kane followed him, slipping on his gloves. He grabbed Manuel from behind, stuffing a rag into his mouth and holding it there. Kane’s other arm snaked around Manuel’s windpipe. It didn’t take long to overpower him. It was quiet, quick and by the time Manuel had been strangled, Kane hadn’t even broken a sweat. He moved the body to the space between the bed, tied one end of a sheet around the bedpost and the other around Manuel’s throat. Cinched it tight.
Kane left the same way he’d come in. The only thing he couldn’t do at that time was lock the window.
Now he had.
The court security officer in the hallway, the locked bedroom door, and now the locked window. That combination would lead the NYPD to chalk it up as suicide. There was no other way it could have happened.
“Everyone out,” said the court officer.
Kane, Betsy and Rita left the room. They huddled in the hall and Kane put an arm on Rita as she wept. Betsy said, “I need to get out of here. This is so awful. What the hell is going on?”
He spoke softly to both women, suggested they go downstairs and get a stiff drink to calm their nerves. And so, with the sound of police sirens approaching Grady’s Inn, Kane led both jurors, one on each arm, down the hall and the staircase toward the bar.
Now, Kane had cleaned the jury. Everyone else was open to Kane’s persuasion. Robert Solomon’s last chance of gaining an acquittal was Manuel. Now he was gone. At last, this was Kane’s jury.
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
Christopher Pellosi
Age: 45
Web designer. Works from home. Single. Divorced. Heavy alcohol intake at weekends (all alcohol consumed at home). Poor social life. Both parents living in retirement home in Pennsylvania. Poor financials. Lost most of his money in bad investments prior to the crash. Interest in food and cooking. On mild meds for depression and anxiety.
Probability of Not Guilty vote: 32%
Arnold L. Novoselic
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Before Pryor asked the first question of the day, I thought about all that had happened that morning.
After I’d left the FBI, I’d called Pryor, told him my investigator needed access to the Solomon property. He didn’t object, but he sounded real pissed on the phone.
“Seems you’re quite the celebrity,” said Pryor.
“I’ve been working. Haven’t watched the news,” I said.
“You’re the lead story on all channels. Your picture is on the front of the New York Times. How does it feel?” he said.
That’s what was eating him. Pryor wanted the headlines.
“Like I said, I haven’t seen it. You get my emails?”
Pryor confirmed he’d received my additional discovery. He thought I was clutching at straws trying to pin this murder on a serial killer.
Maybe he was right, but it was all I had.
We’d started the day in court with a visit to Harry’s chambers. Another juror was dead. Manuel Ortega. NYPD confirmed it as suicide. His family had been informed. A few of the jurors had seen the body but they were okay. A victim protection officer had spoken to each of them and they were fit to continue to serve as jurors. Another alternate had been brought in. Rachel Coffee. Both Pryor and I were okay with her appointment. Harry said he wanted to get this trial finished before we lost any other jurors.
“This case is cursed,” said Harry. “We need to finish this as soon as possible.”
Bobby had a bad night. Hadn’t slept at all. Holten and a bunch of security guards brought him to court, and Holten sat in the row behind us. He’d had an arm around Bobby for most of the morning. Holding him up. Whispering words of encouragement. Telling Bobby that he had the best defense team on the planet.
I was grateful to Holten. Harper clearly liked the guy, and he’d been astute enough to know that whatever nerve Bobby had, had just about gotten him this far. He didn’t have much left in the tank.
Bobby and I sat at the defense table, and I told him Arnold would be here later. Bobby glanced over his shoulder. Holten smiled at him, held up a fist and mouthed the words, hold on.
“It’s okay, Bobby. We think we know who did this to Carl and Ariella. Today, I’ll tell the jury. Just hang in there,” I said.
Bobby nodded. He couldn’t speak. I could see him swallowing down his fear. At least he’d taken his meds. And Holten had ensured a hot breakfast sandwich had been waiting for Bobby when he got into the SUV to bring him to court. He’d eaten some of it.
I poured Bobby some water. Made sure he was comfortable. Then I asked him the question. It was toxic, dangerous, but I didn’t see that I had much choice.
“Bobby, I need to know where you were on the night of the murders. Are you ready to tell me the truth?”
He stared at me, trying to muster some indignation. It didn’t work.
“I was drunk. I don’t remember,” he said.
“I don’t believe you. That means the jury won’t believe you,” I said.
“That’s my problem. I didn’t kill anyone, Eddie, do you believe that?”
I nodded. But a sick feeling washed through my gut. I’d been wrong about clients before.
“If you don’t tell me, I could walk away from this case. You know that, right?” I said.
He nodded. Said nothing. No one would be stupid enough to lose another lawyer in the middle of a murder trial. Yet Bobby didn’t speak. I’d put as much pressure on him as I could. I didn’t want him breaking down. At the same time, I still believed he wasn’t a murderer. Whatever he was keeping to himself might have had more to do with personal guilt about the murders. If only he’d been at home, maybe Ariella and Carl would still be alive?
We all stood when Harry came into court. He called for the jury to be brought in, and I watched them carefully as they settled down into their seats. I was looking for two things. First was the alpha juror.
Out of the women, two stood out as potentially dominant. Rita Veste and Betsy Muller. Out of them, I thought Betsy would’ve been the most likely candidate. That morning, both women appeared solemn. I could tell they’d been crying. I could see it in their faces. Both women sat in defensive poses. Betsy hugged her arms around her body, and Rita folded her arms and crossed her legs.
Maybe they’d been the jurors who’d found Manuel’s body.
I hadn’t paid much attention to the men, but now I looked at each one closely.
The chef, Terry Andrews, was the tallest of the jurors. I didn’t figure him for the alpha. He looked disinterested in the whole proceedings. Distracted even. A man concerned with his own business. Daniel Clay had something stuck in his teeth. He worked at it with his tongue and looked upon the proceedings with little interest.
James Johnson chatted to Chris Pellosi. The translator and web designer were strong characters and each of them would be contenders for the notional leader. The oldest juror at sixty-eight, Bradley Summers, bit his fingernails and stared at the ceiling. I took this as a good sign. He was thinking. Maybe not about the case, but at least he had a mind that was capable of rational analysis.
Thirteen_The serial killer isn’t on trial. He’s on the jury Page 26
