Silenced Witness

by Larry A Winters

  “He could be anywhere.”

  “Call the police,” Kristina said.

  “What about attorney-client privilege. You just agreed with Hazenberg that we have to keep his secrets.”

  “And I told him the exception for crimes we learn about that he intends to commit in the future.”

  “Is that what you think this is?”

  “Call the police.”

  38

  Leary maneuvered through traffic. The tuxedo rental shop in King of Prussia was closing in an hour. He longed for the days when he could slap a light bubble on his roof and force everyone out of his way. He was swerving around a minivan when he got a call from Jessie.

  “Hey,” he said.

  “Where are you?”

  “Driving. I’m on my way to—”

  “Leary.” Her voice sounded strained, urgent, and he immediately sat forward in the driver’s seat.

  “Is something wrong?”

  “I think so. I mean, this might be nothing. But I don’t want to take a chance.”

  “What is it?”

  “The police just received an anonymous call saying that Oscar Hazenberg was planning to hurt someone connected to his trial. It could be a prank. It’s a highly publicized trial. But I’m worried. The timing…. We just had the hearing on Becky Runyan.”

  “Yeah, we did.”

  “The police are already heading there but I thought you could go, too.”

  “You thought right.” Leary started to maneuver his car to a side street so he could turn around. “I’m close. Even in traffic, I can get there in a few minutes. I’ll make sure everything is okay.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem. I’ll call you back after I check on her.”

  Leary arrived at Becky Runyan’s house ten minutes later. He circled her block once, looking for anything out of place—a loitering person, a strange looking car, anything. But the street looked normal.

  He drove around one more time, then parked. The thought of going inside her house made him slightly anxious. Was her husband home? Had the trial created tension in her marriage? He couldn’t imagine it had not.

  But making sure she was safe was the priority. She was scheduled to testify on Monday, and if everything went well, her testimony would be the end of Oscar Hazenberg.

  He climbed out of his car and scanned his immediate surroundings. The house had a garage. Its doors were closed. He walked quickly around the house, looking for broken windows or open doors, but saw nothing about the property that drew his attention.

  He was about to walk to the front door to ring the bell when he heard a scream.

  Leary froze, but only long enough to pinpoint the direction of the sound. It was a woman’s scream and it had come from inside the Runyan house. Leary rushed to the closest door, which was a side door that looked like it opened onto a mudroom. He hammered on the door with his fist and yelled, “Open up! This is the police!” With his other hand, he drew his gun.

  There was another scream, cut off quickly this time. He heard running footsteps inside the house. Where the hell were the cops Jessie had said were en route?

  The door was secured with a deadbolt lock, but it also had a glass window, with a lacy white curtain obscuring the view inside. Leary stepped back from the door and looked around. He wanted a rock or a brick. Something with some weight. But the area was neat and tidy.

  Cursing under his breath, he reversed the gun in his hand so that the butt faced outward. Then he slammed it like a hammer against the door’s window. The glass cracked. He whacked it a second time and the glass broke into jagged shards. He cleared enough space to get an arm inside, twisted the deadbolt to the unlocked position, and opened the door.

  Inside, the house was silent.

  Leary held his gun in front of him and advanced from the mudroom to a kitchen. He heard a sound and spun to his right. Standing in a doorway with a terrified expression on her face was Becky Runyan.

  “It’s okay,” Leary said. “I’m a detective from the District Attorney’s Office. I work with Jessie Black.”

  Runyan did not respond. She stared at the gun with huge eyes.

  He showed her his ID, careful not to lower his gun. “Who else is in the house?”

  “No one. It’s just me and the baby.”

  “I heard screaming.”

  “That was the TV. I was watching a movie on Netflix. I guess I had the volume too high. I’ve been trying to … take my mind off things.”

  Leary studied her, trying to determine if she was telling him the truth or feeding him misinformation because someone else was also holding a gun on her from concealment. It was the kind of thing that happened sometimes. The kind of thing that could end with a dead cop.

  But she looked sincere, and glancing around, he saw no signs of a home invasion or other intrusion.

  “Where’s your husband?”

  “He’s at work.”

  “On a Saturday?”

  “He’s been working a lot these days. Ever since I told him.… You know.” She looked away, visibly embarrassed.

  “And your son?”

  “He fell asleep playing. He’s in his crib now.”

  “Can I see him?”

  The question seemed to startle her. “Why?”

  “Humor me.”

  Leary vividly recalled a case from early in his police career when he and his partner had responded to a 911 call. The woman they found at the door had sworn to them that the call had been a mistake and that there was no problem. But a quick search of the house revealed a masked burglar standing over her child’s bed. And a terrified little girl cowering under the covers, shaking so hard the bed rattled.

  These things happened sometimes.

  “Sure, if you need to.” She led him to another room where there was a crib. A little boy was curled up inside it, sleeping peacefully.

  Only then did Leary holster his gun. “You haven’t seen or heard anything suspicious today?”

  “No. Why? What is this about?”

  Leary watched the rise and fall of the sleeping child’s breast. It was a peaceful, calming sight. But he did not feel calm. Quite the opposite. He felt the anxiety of a detective who knows he’s missing something, but doesn’t know what that something is. A terrible feeling.

  “The police received an anonymous call,” he told her. “The caller claimed Oscar Hazenberg is planning to hurt someone connected to his trial.”

  “Oh my God.” Becky Runyan put a hand over her mouth. Her gaze shot to the child in the crib.

  “Don’t worry. Patrol cars are on the way right now. We’ll put officers outside your house to keep an eye on things. If Hazenberg is planning something, that plan will fail. You and your family are safe.”

  She nodded, although she looked far from relieved. “This just gets worse and worse, doesn’t it?”

  “Yeah. It does.”

  “Do you want a drink? I mean, water or soda?”

  “No, thank you.” He heard the sound of a car pull up. Moving to the window, he looked out and saw two police cars parking in front of the house. The protection detail. “I need to get going.”

  He left through the front door after updating the uniformed officers and promising Becky Runyan that her repair bill for the window would be taken care of. He smiled as he said goodbye.

  But back in his car, he wasn’t smiling anymore. He called Jessie. Her line rang once, twice, three times. After the fourth ring, the call went to voice mail.

  “It’s me,” Leary said. “Looks like that anonymous call might have been a prank after all. But I still … I don’t know. Something feels wrong. Call me.” He clicked off.

  He started the engine of his car and was about to drive away when his own words came back to him, words he had spoken moments ago to Becky Runyan.

  The caller claimed Oscar Hazenberg is planning to hurt someone connected to his trial.

  They had assumed that meant Becky Runyan. But what
if Hazenberg’s target was someone else?

  Leary called Jessie again. Straight to voice mail.

  His heart rate kicked up and he gripped the phone tightly in his fist.

  39

  Jessie rushed into the parking garage where she kept her car.

  She knew she was probably overreacting, but after calling Leary, she had decided that she could not just wait around while he checked on Becky Runyan. Runyan had become the prosecution’s key witness. It wasn’t enough to keep her safe. Jessie needed to see her, reassure her. The woman had found the courage within herself to do the right thing. She needed to know that she had the full support of the DA’s Office, including Jessie.

  A whistle interrupted her thoughts. The low and drawn-out whistle of a man leering at her. Jessie missed a step as she twisted around looking for the source. She saw a homeless man sitting against the wall, smoking a cigarette. He smiled at her.

  Jessie shook her head and kept moving. Usually, this garage was good about security. That was one of the reasons she’d chosen it as the home for her car. But once in a while, people got inside, drawn to the relative warmth and shelter. Jessie picked up her pace and pulled her phone and keys out.

  She knew the man was probably harmless. But knowing didn’t matter. All of a sudden, the familiar concrete pillars, oil stains, and weak lighting of the parking garage took on a sinister ambience. A car engine revved loudly. The sound made her jump. She chastised herself for being silly.

  When her car came into sight, relief washed over her.

  “What’s your hurry, girly?”

  The voice came from behind her. Jessie spun around and found the man much closer than she expected—almost on top of her. His hand flashed out and he shoved her. She almost lost her footing. Her phone flew from her hand. She watched it skitter across the concrete floor. It splashed into a puddle.

  “Oh, that sucks,” the man said.

  Jessie faced him. He was the homeless man who’d whistled at her, but now, up close, she reconsidered that first impression. He looked too clean, too healthy. Too purposeful.

  She remembered the anonymous call.

  “Listen to me.” She mustered the firmest voice she could. “Whatever you think you’re doing, just turn around and leave. Or else the police will find you. You’ll go to prison for a long time.”

  “Been there, done that.” The man grinned at her. Leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world and no cares at all, he pulled a fresh cigarette from a box of Marlboros. His hand returned the box to his pocket and came back with a lighter. He flicked it open, sparked a flame, and lit the cigarette. Its tip glowed ominously in the gloom.

  He blew smoke in her face. “You see, even if there’s a camera in here that I don’t know about, or if someone in this garage were to see us, I just look like a desperate vagrant. A drug addict, probably. One who saw a well-dressed woman and decided to mug her.” He inhaled deeply. This time the smoke streamed from his nostrils. “Now, unfortunately, these kinds of muggings often go bad. Maybe the vagrant panics and slams your head into one of these metal posts. Maybe your skull cracks open. Of course, at that point the vagrant gets scared and runs. Desperate hobo behavior—you know how it goes. He leaves you here with your brains leaking out, no one to help you. And he disappears. Tragic, but what can you do?”

  Terror squeezed her chest. “You would do that for Hazenberg? Kill an assistant DA? Risk prison or worse? He must be paying you a lot to take on those risks.”

  “I don’t work for him. He’s my friend, from way back.” He dropped the cigarette and ground it beneath his shoe, then returned the lighter to his coat pocket. “Okay, let’s do this.”

  He grabbed her arm. Squeezed. Pain flared from her elbow to her shoulder. He yanked her toward one of the metal posts. Was he really going to smash her head against it? She tried to hold her ground, but he was too strong. Her shoes rasped across the concrete floor.

  The post was dirty from decades of car exhaust and grime. Her gaze locked on it, imagining her head cracked open. Imagining dying here alone.

  A squealing sound echoed loudly in the garage. The man froze, still gripping her arm. A car was coming down the ramp. Moving fast. Headlights appeared.

  The man looked at the post, then muttered a curse. Too exposed, Jessie thought. He wasn’t as cocky as he’d pretended. He dragged her toward deeper shadows as the sound of the car got louder.

  Do something now, she thought. Once that car drives past, it will be too late.

  She remembered the lighter in his pocket. With her free hand, she reached into his coat.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” The sound of the car was so loud now it almost drowned out his voice.

  Her fingers searched frantically. Her fingertips brushed a smooth metal surface, a rectangle. She clutched the object into her palm and yanked it free.

  She flipped the lighter open and struck the wheel. A flame leapt to life. She thrust it against the man’s neck—the closest exposed skin.

  The man yelled. His grip on her arm loosened. She used both hands and pushed him away from her as hard as she could. He staggered one step, two steps. Directly into the path of the oncoming car. Headlights lit up his face in ghastly and stark relief. His eyes and mouth widened.

  The car plowed into him. The sickening, meaty bang of the collision seemed to fill the garage. The man arced through the air and tumbled to the ground ten feet away.

  The car swerved, brakes shrieking, smoke pouring from its crumpled hood. A burning smell filled the air. The car door opened and the driver lurched out. His forehead was bleeding. “What the hell?”

  The driver looked at her, then looked at the man on the ground, then looked at her again. “Oh my God.”

  “I think you just saved my life.”

  The statement did not seem to reassure the man. He squatted beside the body. “Oh God.”

  Jessie thought, it’s his brains leaking on the floor, not mine. But the irony brought her no satisfaction, no relief. Only terror.

  40

  After the attack in the parking garage, Leary moved out of his hotel room and back into their apartment. Not exactly a typical form of relationship therapy—but nothing about their relationship was typical. Jessie was just glad to have him back.

  Leary spent the night raging against Hazenberg. He thought Hazenberg should be charged with attempted murder. There had to be a connection between Hazenberg and the would-be killer, and they would find it. Jessie watched him pace back and forth across their bedroom, his hands clenched into fists and his voice full of anger. But all she felt was shaken, off-center, and a little numb. It was hard to process the idea that she’d come very close to being killed.

  “I need to focus on tomorrow,” she said.

  Leary stopped pacing. “The trial? Maybe you should ask for a continuance.”

  She’d thought of that. She was sure Judge Carabotta, after learning what she’d just been through, would grant it. But that’s what Hazenberg wanted. To take her out and force a delay, or even a mistrial.

  “I don’t need a continuance. I need to get back in the courtroom, call Becky Runyan to the stand, and get a guilty verdict that puts Hazenberg away forever.”

  Leary watched her for a moment. His expression had changed from one of anger to one of concern. But after a few seconds, he nodded. “Okay.”

  The next morning, as Jessie took her place at the prosecution table, she felt Hazenberg staring at her. She turned and met his gaze. Neither of them spoke, but they communicated nonetheless.

  She hoped her steady look said she wasn’t afraid of him.

  Fury burned in his eyes, a hint of the monster inside him.

  “Good morning,” the judge intoned, breaking their silent connection. “Is the Commonwealth ready to call its next witness?”

  “Yes.” Jessie stood up. “The Commonwealth calls Rebecca Runyan to the stand.”

  The woman who made her way to the witness stand looked like she’d been t
hrough hell—and after witnessing a man being murdered and tortured, confessing her infidelity to her husband, and then learning from Leary that her life might be in danger, Jessie supposed she had.

  Becky had done her best to prepare for the day, Jessie saw. But even carefully applied makeup and styled hair could not hide the strain she was under. She carried herself with a tentative, slightly bowed posture. When she took the oath to tell the truth, she looked out at the courtroom with dark circles under her eyes. When she sat, and straightened her hair with her fingers, Jessie saw that the woman’s fingernails had been chewed down to their ragged ends.

  Jessie felt a twinge of worry. She needed Becky Runyan to deliver strong, convincing testimony today, and to stand up to the inevitably harsh cross-examination. She hoped the woman was up to it.

  After some preliminary questions to warm Becky up, Jessie got to the heart of things. “Did you know the victim in this trial, Kent Edley?”

  “Yes. I was … seeing him. We were having an affair.” Becky looked directly at the jury as she answered. Jessie had told her to be upfront, because she could hide nothing now, and her only hope of winning over the jury was to be utterly vulnerable, completely honest.

  “An extramarital affair,” Jessie clarified.

  Becky looked down for a second, took a breath, then seemed to force herself to respond. “Yes. I was cheating on my husband with Kent. I’m … I’m not proud of it. I’m very ashamed. But that’s what happened.”

  “Can you tell us how long this affair went on for?”

  “About eight months.”

  Jessie heard a few judgmental clucks from the jury box. She ignored the sounds and stayed focused on her witness. They did not have to like her. They only had to believe her.

  “How often did you see him during that time?”

  “We didn’t follow a schedule. Sometimes I’d see him several times within a few days, but then other times weeks would go by. I guess it was whenever, you know, I could get away.”