I checked my watch.
Two o’clock in the morning.
I was freezing my ass off in the back of an FBI command vehicle, which was little more than a van with a steel floor and a bank of computer screens on one side.
I sat on the opposite side, blowing steam off a cup of coffee. My hands were wrapped around the cup for warmth. I’d had nothing enter my body for fifteen hours apart from coffee and morphine. Both were good, but the morphine was a little ahead at this moment. I felt punchy, but the pain had subsided. The evening hadn’t been as bad as I’d feared. Four hours in a police precinct and I’d been released. If I hadn’t had a New York Supreme Court judge, an ex-FBI private detective and one of the Bureau’s chief analysts backing my side of the story I wouldn’t have set foot outside a cell for two days. In the end, Harper had settled it. Not only had she taken my call, but she’d recorded it.
Within an hour internal affairs had joined the investigation, and they had a file on Anderson and Granger a foot long. It took them no time to access Anderson and Granger’s cell phone records, voicemails, text messages and WhatsApp messages. It was all there. They were paranoid that, faced with a life sentence for murdering Arnold, I’d try to sell the DA Anderson and Granger for a reduced sentence. In the world of corrupt cops, the mob, and just about any organized crime operation, nothing will get you killed faster than an arrest.
I’d seen it before.
The plan was to kill me, then Anderson would pick up the small pistol and put two in the back of the Valasquez’s head. They’d blame the out-of-town cop for not searching me. It was all there in their messages and voicemails. They hadn’t had time to ditch the burner cell phones they’d been using.
Anderson and Granger had taken their chance once they heard Rhode Island PD had forensics on me. I wondered if Dollar Bill had anticipated Anderson and Granger trying to kill me. It didn’t fit with his MO. He wanted a messy, public trial. He wouldn’t have wanted me to take a bullet in the back of a cop car.
Preliminary forensics came back after three hours and confirmed Valasquez had been shot by someone outside the car, using Granger’s weapon. Granger tested positive to GSR. I didn’t.
I would have to come back and make a full deposition to internal affairs – so they could ride through the rest of the homicide department like a tornado, but for now they were content to let me go after I’d seen the medic and he’d given me some pain relief.
By the time I’d made it out, Harper and I both had a string of missed calls from Delaney. Harper called her back, and we headed straight over to Federal Plaza. She asked if Harry would come too. The FBI had made progress, they were going to need a federal search warrant and they needed Harry’s help to get it.
That was some hours ago. Now I was freezing my ass off in the back of a van parked on the single-lane road that led to Grady’s Inn. The back doors were opened and Harry stepped inside followed by June, the court stenographer. She was a lady in her fifties, wearing a pearl blouse, heavy skirt and a thick woolen coat. She’d brought her stenotype machine in a portable bag and, judging by her expression, she was carrying around a big bag of resentment for being hauled out of her bed to come here at two in the morning.
“Pryor’s here. I saw him pull in,” said Harry.
I nodded, took a sip of coffee. Harry produced a hip flask and enjoyed a deep drink. We all have our ways of staying warm. June took a seat beside Harry, opened up her bag and placed her machine on her lap.
Pryor climbed into the van, followed by Delaney. We sat on the pull-down seats on one side. It was a big van and there was plenty of room for another four or five people as long as you remembered to duck your head once you were inside. Delaney sat in a swivel chair that faced the monitors. She draped an earpiece and mic over her head and said, “Fox Team, standby for orders.”
“Mind telling me exactly what I’m doing here?” said Pryor.
“Are we on the record, June?” said Harry.
She pursed her lips, but the ferocity with which she hit the keys on her stenotype machine answered Harry’s question all the same.
“Mr. Pryor we’re on the record in the People v Solomon. I wanted you here because I’m about to authorize law enforcement to take action in relation to a juror on this case. Now, legally, under sequestration rules the jury is in my care and under my sole authority until they deliver a verdict. Since we don’t have a verdict yet, if any law enforcement official or government body wishes to speak to a juror they require my authorization. I wanted you and Mr. Flynn here so you can raise any objections, and to witness this intervention if it takes place. We’re at this location at the request of the FBI and for the safety of the jurors. This is a fluid situation and the FBI can’t spare the time to travel into the courthouse. This operation has to be authorized on site. Clear?”
“No, what’s going on?” said Pryor.
“It’s Dollar Bill, he’s really on the jury,” I said.
A loud thump echoed around the van from Pryor’s head slamming into the roof of the van. He was a born lawyer – and lawyers make their arguments on their feet. He sat back down, rubbing the top of his skull.
“This is all smoke and mirrors. By authorizing this interference with the jury you are giving credence to the defendant’s whole argument. You’re basically saying the defense are correct. Judge, you can’t do this,” said Pryor.
“I can, Mr. Pryor. Are you calling for a mistrial?” said Harry.
That shut him up. He knew he had a strong case. He had to weigh up whether this tipped the balance in my favor.
“I’ll reserve my position on a mistrial until the morning, Your Honor, if that pleases the court?” said Pryor, carefully.
“Fine. Now, based on information relayed to me by Special Agent Paige Delaney, I’m authorizing the arrest of the juror known as Alec Wynn,” said Harry. “We have reason to believe that Alec is the serial murderer dubbed Dollar Bill, whose modus operandi is to frame innocent men for his crimes by planting dollar bills at the crime scene connecting these men to the perpetrator’s crimes. Dollar Bill will then murder and steal the identity of a potential juror in the trial of that innocent man for Bill’s crimes in order to ensure a conviction. The compelling evidence presented to me by Agent Delaney this evening is as follows …”
I knew the evidence already. Delaney had been through it with me and Harper at Federal Plaza. It all stacked up.
Harry continued, for the record. “I authorized a forensic examination of each of the jurors’ notebooks which I retained in my possession following an order recusing juror Spencer Colbert. The FBI have taken possession of the notebooks with my permission and, according to the affidavit of Agent Delaney, the first notebook subjected to examination was that of juror Alec Wynn. The agent confirms that this notebook was selected for examination based on probable cause evidence supplied by defense attorney Eddie Flynn.”
Pryor leveled his gaze at me, then back to Harry. He was seething.
“For the record, Mr. Flynn, what evidence did you provide to Agent Delaney?”
“I relayed the content of a telephone call I’d had with Arnold Novoselic, a jury consultant retained by the defense. He’d seen suspicious activity from this juror …”
“Objection,” said Pryor. “Suspicious activity?”
“He’d noticed this juror’s appearance changing. His facial expressions. Arnold was an expert in body language amongst other things and he found this behavior extraordinary enough to inform me,” I said.
“That’s it? You’re going to authorize the arrest of a juror on hearsay testimony about a facial expression?” said Pryor. He was getting his punches in early. If this operation went south, Pryor wanted his objections on the record.
“No,” said Delaney. “The fingerprint evidence obtained from the notebook of Alec Wynn is compelling. The fingerprints from the notebook match a suspect on the National Database named Joshua Kane. The details on this individual are scarce. No place of birth, no DOB,
no current address. We do know he is wanted in relation to a triple homicide and arson. We have no further details on those crimes other than they originate in Virginia. We’ve asked for that file to be sent to us and we are awaiting receipt from Williamsburg PD. That request was made two hours ago and we’ve expedited the request a number of times. We expect the file and a picture of Kane soon.”
Harry nodded.
“On the basis of the fingerprint identification and the possible link to the Dollar Bill case I am authorizing the arrest of juror Alec Wynn. Counsel, any representations?” said Harry.
“None,” I said.
“I want my objection noted. This action strikes at the heart of due process,” said Pryor.
“Noted. Agent Delaney, you may proceed,” said Harry.
“Fox Team, we are go,” said Delaney, swiveling around in her chair to face the monitors.
There were five screens spread across half the length of the van. Four were helmet cams belonging to a small SWAT team. The other screen was Delaney’s email. She refreshed her email screen every few seconds. The more information she had on Kane, the better. The view from the four helmet cams bobbed up and down. We could hear their boots on the ground and as they rounded a turn, Grady’s Inn came into view. An old place. Real old. It looked like a hotel that tourists went to when they wanted to die.
The first of the SWAT guys flashed his ID at a concierge who looked as though he was even older than the hotel. They spoke softly to the night porter at reception, checked the room number for Alec Wynn and told him not to make any calls. Slowly they crept up the stairs. I watched one of the cams of the agents in the middle of the pack. I could see an agent in front of him, and he flashed his badge and beckoned to the court officer who guarded the hallway. They whispered to the guard to get behind them, that they had a warrant from the judge to arrest Alec Wynn. The court officer confirmed the room number, and slowly the SWAT team advanced.
They halted outside the door. Switched on flashlights that must have sat beneath the muzzles of their assault rifles.
The SWAT leader counted down from three.
The clock on their helmet cams read two twenty-three a.m.
Three.
Two.
Ping. An email marked urgent hit Delaney’s account.
One.
The door burst open and the flashlights caught Wynn standing at the foot of his bed, wide-eyed and bare-chested. Instinctively, he raised his hands.
“Federal agents! Down, down on the floor now!”
He knelt down, his hands shaking and spread his arms out on the floor. Within seconds he had been searched and cuffed.
“I’ve had enough of this,” said Pryor. He got up, folded his coat over his chest and got out of the van. He slammed the door shut. I turned my attention back to the bank of monitors. One of the SWAT team guys hauled Wynn to his feet, and the other looked at him. We had the full view on the camera.
“Jesus Christ, please don’t h-hurt me. I haven’t done anything,” said Wynn. His face was covered in tears and snot, and his whole body shook with fear.
The SWAT who was facing Wynn backed up, and we saw him raise his hand to his face. He swore softly just as we saw what he was looking at.
A dark patch spread over Wynn’s crotch, and it grew as it spread down one leg. Wynn had lost control of his bodily functions. He was quivering with panic, barely able to speak.
Delaney swore, checked her email. It was from Williamsburg PD. It was a precis of their file on Joshua Kane. Harry and I got up off our seats and leaned over Delaney’s shoulder. Kane was wanted in connection with the murder and rape of a high school student named Jennifer Muskie, and another high school student named Rick Thompson. Both of them were last seen the night of their high school prom. The third victim was Raquel Kane. Kane’s mother. Police suspected he’d abducted, raped and murdered Jennifer and stashed her body in his mother’s apartment. His mother had been murdered and the whole apartment set alight.
The file continued that Rick Thompson’s body had been found in the reservoir, along with his car.
There was a black-and-white mugshot of Kane – it had been poorly scanned and it was hard to make out the finer details of his features, but he didn’t look like Wynn.
I looked back at the monitor again. Wynn had completely broken down. He was crying and begging for mercy. It wasn’t an act. Joshua Kane must’ve had steel-plated balls to pull off those crimes and maneuver himself onto those juries. Wynn didn’t look like he could find his balls with either hand.
“Shit,” I said. I took out my phone and found my call log. Flicked through until I found the entry for my call to Arnold last night. I’d made the call at four thirty a.m. It hadn’t been a long call. I figured now that Arnold was at home, in his apartment in Rhode Island. Even with a consistent disregard for the speed limits, and allowing for little or no traffic, it would’ve taken Kane just around two and a quarter hours to drive from Rhode Island back to JFK.
“Delaney, ask the SWAT guy to check with the court officer – what time did he wake the jurors for breakfast yesterday?” I said.
She relayed the request, and one of the SWAT guys went into the hall and we saw him talk to the jury keeper.
“I’d say we woke them around six forty-five, seven a.m. at the latest,” he said.
He couldn’t have murdered Arnold after my call, driven back, hidden a car, made it back to Grady’s and snuck into his room all in that time.
“We’ve got the wrong man,” I said.
Delaney said nothing. She was still reading the email on Kane. Harry started rubbing his head, and he took another tot of whiskey from his hip flask.
“Arnold told me on the phone last night it was Wynn he’d seen masking his true expression. But, thinking it through now, when I made that call I figure Arnold was already dead. I wasn’t talking to Arnold on the phone. I was talking to Kane,” I said.
“Kane?” said Delaney.
“Thinking about it now, he wouldn’t have had time to get back to the hotel from Rhode Island. It’s not possible unless he’d already murdered Arnold. Dollar Bill steered us away from him, toward Wynn,” I said.
“Jesus,” said Delaney. She picked up her cell, made a call. Whoever was on the other end picked up.
“The notebook we had tested. It had Alec Wynn’s name on it. I want you to check every notebook and tell me if there’s another notebook with his name on it,” said Delaney.
While we waited, she continued to flick through the pages of the original file that Williamsburg PD had scanned and emailed to Delaney.
I saw her twitch. She’d found something.
“It’s definitely not Wynn,” she said, staring at the screen. A voice came on the other end of the line, confirming there were two jurors notebooks with the name Alec Wynn marked on them. Kane had put Wynn’s name on his notebook.
I moved closer, to check what Delaney was looking at.
Jennifer Muskie and Raquel Kane were both murdered in 1969. In that moment, I knew who Joshua Kane really was. So did Delaney. She had to act fast, push down her disbelief and work in the moment.
Delaney barked orders at the SWAT team, directing them away from Wynn and to a different target.
My cell phone pinged. It was Harper, she was on her way here and she’d found a picture of Dollar Bill in the old newspaper clippings. She followed up her text with the name of a juror.
It was the same juror I was thinking of.
That son of a bitch.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
While the SWAT team were taking down the door of the room next to Kane, he’d quickly opened the window and crawled out onto the roof. No time to scramble over the tiles to the lower roof, with the trestle at one end of the gable.
Every second was precious now. Kane slid down the roof, trailing his arms behind him. He wore no shirt, and he could feel the tiles scraping his skin. There was no pain, merely the sensation of his back being grated on tile. Kane let his legs s
lide off one end of the roof, then his torso. He grabbed guttering with both hands, arresting his fall, and letting him guide his drop into a snow bank. Twelve feet into snow.
Kane rolled out of the snow at the back of the hotel and darted into the trees away from the lights he could see up ahead. Red, white and blue, flashing lights. A security team straight ahead at the entrance to the private lane which led to Grady’s Inn. Kane didn’t hesitate, he started running just to the left of the lights. He was breathing hard, his breath a fog in the cold night air. Even though he was naked from the waist up, Kane felt no pain. He didn’t feel cold or heat like a normal person. Those senses were muted, but the chill air still made him shiver.
At the edge of the trees he saw headlights from a vehicle leaving the Inn. A white Aston Martin. Kane stepped into the road and waved his arms in the air. The car stopped and Art Pryor got out of the driver’s door.
“Mr. Summers?” said Pryor. “Are you alright? What are you doing out here in this weather? You’ll catch your death at this age.”
Kane held his arms over his chest, shivering.
“Y-y-your coat, please,” said Kane.
Pryor threw off his cashmere overcoat and draped it around Kane’s shoulders.
“I heard gunshots, shouting, I got scared and ran,” said Kane.
“Get in and I’ll take you somewhere safe,” said Pryor.
Feeding his arms through the sleeves of the coat, Kane walked around the car to the passenger side and got in. Pryor sat in the driver’s seat, closed the door and when he turned to look at the juror he’d known as sixty-three-year-old Bradley Summers, he stared in horror at the man’s chest. Kane had allowed the coat to drift open, letting Pryor see his work.
“My God,” said Pryor.
Few men had seen Kane’s chest and Pryor got to look upon its full glory in the interior lights of a vehicle. Kane’s chest was a mass of white scar tissue. Intricate lines of ridged scars that formed the Great Seal. An eagle clutching arrows and olive branches. Its claws spread over both sides of Kane’s belly. The shield, and stars above the eagle’s head, grouped together over his sternum.
Thirteen_The serial killer isn’t on trial. He’s on the jury Page 32
