F
LAHERTY HAD NEVER SEEN
Captain Weidel so angry, and that was saying something. Weidel was not one to bottle up his emotions. She’d seen him explode with such force that it had driven dedicated officers to resign from the department. His acerbic tongue had reduced more than a dozen hulking rookies to tears. But this was something new, something Flaherty had never before witnessed. It was a simmering, contemplative sort of rage that bubbled under the surface of his skin, turning his forehead bright red as he worked a silent tongue back and forth in his mouth.
“Say that again,” he said finally. It was more a dare than a request, as though if she didn’t repeat it, it would be treated as if it had never been said. Flaherty considered letting it drop, but it was just not her style to back down from a fight.
“I said that the Caldwell murder might not be related to the others. It might not be Little Jack after all.”
“You wanna tell me what the hell you’re talking about, Lieutenant? And I use that rank for the moment only.” Weidel’s voice registered pure fury. “He took her heart, right? She had a gold crucifix around her neck, right? She was dressed like a hooker, right? So please explain to me why this murder is not related?”
“Well, it may be related in the sense that it could be a copy-cat killer.”
“
May
be?
May
-goddamned-be? Let me tell you something, Lieutenant, if I hear you say anything like that outside this office, I’ll have your fucking badge. We’ve got a city full of people locked in their apartments because of this guy, not coming out until we catch him, and you want to start telling them it’s
two
guys they need to be worried about?”
“I’m just telling you that Farmalant thinks it’s a different guy based on the autopsy results.”
“Yeah, well you tell Farmalant that if I hear he’s spreading that kind of rumor, I’ll have him arrested for interfering with a police investigation, obstruction of justice, disturbing the peace, and any other charge I can come up with.”
“Look, Captain, no one likes the idea that this may be a different guy, but the Caldwell girl was killed
before
her heart was taken out. It looks like she was strangled, then moved, and then cut up.”
“So?”
“All the other girls were kept alive until their hearts were removed. They had a highly sophisticated blend of anesthetics in their blood. There was nothing like that in the Caldwell woman.”
“Maybe he was in a hurry this time. Maybe she fought back and he had to beat the shit out of her before he was ready. Maybe she screamed and he had to shut her up. There are a thousand different
may
bes that would explain the difference. But no, you’d apparently rather scare the public with some new theory about multiple killers.”
“Also, she was raped. The others weren’t.”
The anger bubbling under the captain’s skin seemed ready for a major eruption. He said nothing, just glared.
“Trust me, Captain,” she began again. “I’m not talking about making a public announcement. I just want to consider other possibilities while we continue our investigation. The Caldwell woman had a friend at her law firm who mentioned an older man she was dating. That opens up other possibilities that may be worth checking out.”
“Let it drop, Lieutenant. You’ll last longer in this job.”
“I think we need to look into this.”
Weidel threw his hands up in the air. “Fine, Lieutenant, have it your way. Look into this if you have to, but understand: I don’t want to hear anything about it from anyone, got it? Just remember that shit rolls downhill, so if anyone starts dumping on me, you’ll end up knee deep in it.”
“I appreciate the support, sir. I’ll keep that in mind.” She put her hands on her hips in a defiant stance.
“Get the fuck out of my office,” Weidel growled. Then he turned toward the window, giving Flaherty his back as she walked out.
She probably should have just let it drop, she knew. It was hard enough to chase down one serial killer without throwing additional variables into the equation. But something was eating at her about the Caldwell case. Nothing seemed to fit, and she didn’t like it. She couldn’t let it drop.
Kozlowski was sitting in the chair across the desk from her, leaning back in his patient, relaxed manner. Flaherty wished she could be that calm. She’d once asked him how he seemed not to let the ugly parts of police work get to him. “It comes with twenty-five years on the job and thirty years of Dewar’s straight up,” he’d explained. She wasn’t sure if she’d make it that long.
“Any word on the street?” she asked.
“Nothing yet. We’re still shaking the trees, though. And you’ll be happy to know that we’re getting a little help from our friends in the mob.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The South Boston folks have put a bounty on this guy’s head,” Kozlowski said. Flaherty raised her eyebrows in disbelief. “Fifty thousand dollars is what we’ve heard. More if he’s not alive to make it to trial.”
“Great,” Flaherty said. “Nothing like a little street justice. Do we get the reward if we catch him?”
“I don’t think you meet the eligibility requirements. You’ve got to be a low-life scumbag.”
“Well, you ought to qualify, anyway.”
“Funny.”
“Any word from Stone?”
“He’s the one who found out about the bounty. Other than that, he hasn’t come up with anything useful. There was a little dust-up at the Kiss Club the other night. Some john was smacking the heck out of one of the working girls—apparently a girl who looked a little like Natalie Caldwell—but it didn’t amount to anything. Stone didn’t get any kind of ID on the guy.”
Flaherty looked at Kozlowski with a furrowed brow.
“What’s up, L.T.?” he asked her. “You look concerned.”
She sighed, almost afraid to raise the issue. “What do you really think about the Caldwell murder?” she asked finally.
“Personally, I’m opposed to murder.”
“I’m serious. What do you think about how it fits in the investigation?”
“You mean, do I think Little Jack is responsible for offing everybody’s favorite former federal prosecutor?”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I mean.”
Kozlowski rolled his eyes. “You don’t want to know what I think. Actually, that’s not fair. I think you already know what I think, but you don’t want to hear it.”
“It doesn’t fit, does it?”
Now it was Kozlowski’s turn to sigh. “It’s possible it’s the same guy. There are a lot of ways to explain the discrepancies in the way she was killed. And there are still a lot of similarities between the Caldwell murder and the others that would be difficult to explain if it’s not the same guy.”
“But …”
“But my gut instinct is that we’re looking for a different fish.”
Flaherty nodded. “Mine too.”
“So what do we do about it?” Kozlowski shrugged. “Splitting the investigation would cause confusion; not to mention a few heart attacks among the more political, upwardly mobile types who’re just looking for a reason to squash us.”
“I know. That’s why
we
don’t do anything about it. I was just thinking that
I
might take a closer look at the Caldwell murder myself.”
“Off the record, of course.”
“Of course.”
Kozlowski chuckled. “Are you going to call up that good-looking young lawyer you were so smitten with a few weeks ago?”
“What the hell are you talking about? He’s our best lead on the case.” She felt herself turning red. “And I wasn’t smitten. I felt bad for the guy.”
Kozlowski couldn’t wipe the smile off his face. “Smitten. That’s what I call it, and I’ve known you long enough to tell the difference.”
Flaherty shook her head in disgust. “That’s fine, you can live with your twisted little delusions. Just don’t tell anyone else what I’m doing. If the brass finds out about this, they’ll have both our asses in a sling.”
Kozlowski wagged his finger tauntingly at her. “I can’t believe you’re going against official departmental policy. You know, Lieutenant, if you keep hanging out with me, we may actually turn you into a rule-breaking malcontent with no hope for future advancement.”
Flaherty picked up the phone on her desk. “I hope that doesn’t mean I’ll start wearing wrinkled, fifty-dollar suits from J.C. Penney like you, too.”
“These are classics,” Kozlowski said, pulling on his lapels as he got up and walked away from her desk. Once he was gone, Flaherty dialed the number from her case notes.
F
INN SAT IN A CONFERENCE ROOM
across from Preston Holland and next to Nick Williams. There were six junior associates and three paralegals crowded around the table as well—the trial team—ready to plan strategy in the Tannery case. Spread out in front of them on the mahogany conference table were the key documents and testimonial transcripts.
“This case, in the final analysis, is all about the experts,” Holland was lecturing. “There’s no debate about the facts. The Massachusetts Transportation Safety Commission hired Huron Security to provide security staff on commuter trains. Neither the commission nor Huron focused on the security at the railway yard—precisely because none of the federal security experts told them to. So the real questions to be dealt with at trial are: first, did the commission or Huron fail to take into account any information or advice they were given by the federal government on how to provide security? and, second, could either the commission or Huron have done anything to prevent suicide bombers from successfully carrying out an attack like this? The answer to both questions is no.”
“Now we just have to convince a jury of that,” Williams added. Finn had discovered that despite Williams’s bookish nature, the man had a fondness for quips that might seem petulant coming from anyone else. Somehow, though, he carried it off.
“Right,” Holland continued with a sideways glance at Nick. “And that’s where our experts come in. They’re willing to support every argument we make. We have the top people in the counterterrorism field ready to point out that it’s virtually impossible for any agency to prevent a suicide bombing.”
“Who are our experts?” one of the junior associates asked, obviously skeptical. Holland turned to look at his senior staffers, sending a clear message. Associates on the case were responsible for having complete knowledge of the facts. What might have seemed like an innocent question to most non-lawyers was, to the lawyers at Howery, Black, an admission that the associate wasn’t doing his job. Preston’s glare told both Williams and Finn he wanted an example made of the young man. Nick and Finn looked at each other briefly, silently deciding between themselves who’d step up to eviscerate the unwitting associate. When Williams raised his eyebrows in a challenge, Finn knew that he had to take the lead.
He glared at the junior associate with venom in his eyes, trying to remember his name.
That’s right, Allen Spurler.
Spurler had graduated from Yale Law School two years earlier, but had spent time completing a couple of prestigious clerkships—including a one-year stint with the Supreme Court. He was very bright, but cocky. He’d be good to have on the team, but he needed to be knocked down a level or two.
“You haven’t read the expert reports yet?” There was an accusation in Finn’s voice that was evident to everyone in the room.
Spurler hesitated. “Uh, no, I’ve been busy analyzing the documents we turned over to the other side, trying to identify the ones that will cause us the most problems. Should I look at those reports now?”
Williams chortled, shaking his head at Spurler’s misstep. “Wrong answer,” he said under his breath.
Finn sat back in his chair. “Well, let me ask you this—if the key to our case is the experts, and you don’t even know who our experts are, much less what they’re going to say, how are you going to know which documents are the most important?” Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Holland was enjoying the show.
“I’m sorry,” Spurler said, still trying to save himself. “No one told me I should be reading those reports.”
Finn scoffed, going in for the kill. “This isn’t law school, or some cushy clerkship anymore. No one’s going to hold your hand every minute of the day, or lead you through what needs to be done. I would have expected that someone from Yale who clerked at the Supreme Court might have more initiative than that, but maybe we’ve all overestimated you.”
Spurler nodded, accepting defeat at last. The room was quiet for a moment as Finn continued to stare at the chastised young lawyer. The other junior people were too scared to open their mouths. That was good, Finn thought. He’d made his point that no lapses would be tolerated.
After a moment, Holland resumed his speech. “In answer to Mr. Spurler’s question, our primary expert is Leighland Slafsky, the former secretary of homeland security.” Finn could hear the associates suck in their breath in awe. “Given his obvious qualifications and his outstanding record on domestic terrorism, we believe his testimony will be a bullet through the heart of the plaintiff’s case. In addition, we have the CEOs of the two largest security companies in the country ready to testify. They have obvious concerns about any security company being held liable for the effects of a terrorist attack. At the same time, the jury will see the heads of Huron’s biggest competitors on the stand testifying that Huron did nothing wrong. That should be fairly compelling.”
“What about the fact witnesses?” one of the other junior associates asked. She was a third-year associate Finn had worked with before. Her name was Jane Mannerin—“Plain Jane,” as she was known behind her back because of her severe looks and her simple, boxy suits. She was short and squat, and she wore large black-rimmed glasses with huge round lenses, giving her the appearance of a scholarly owl. What Plain Jane lacked in looks, she made up for in brains and stamina, though. She’d become a legend already by billing more hours than any other associate for three years in a row, proving her worth to Howery, Black’s bottom line. Finn looked at Preston to see if he wanted another example made, but the older lawyer seemed satisfied with the earlier evisceration.
“Huron Security had more than one thousand security guards working on different commuter lines at the time of the terrorist attack,” answered Holland. “The judge has ordered us to make ten of those security guards available for trial. We’ve already prepared a preliminary list—”
“I wanted to talk to you about that, Preston,” Finn interrupted. “I found some notes in the personnel file with some additional names highlighted that I’d like to check on.” He flipped through his notes. “Martinson, Phillipe, and Carter,” he read off the names. “I’ve never heard of these guys before, but they may be worth checking out.”
“We’ve already chosen our ten, Finn. I don’t want to waste time plowing the same ground twice.”
“I know, but these guys were singled out in Natalie’s notes. She had pretty good instincts about which witnesses would present well to a jury.” It still hurt him to say her name in public, but it was getting better.
Preston frowned. “All right, check them out briefly, but I don’t want you to spend any real time on this.”
“Will do.”
“Okay,” Holland said, turning to the larger group. “We’ve got two months until the trial starts, which is almost no time at all. I need everyone to dig in and dig in hard. This is one of the most important cases the firm has ever had, and the entire country is going to be watching us. We’re all going to have to be ruthlessly efficient, always remembering that attention to detail is the key to any trial presentation. The show we put on for the jury has to be as seamless as a Broadway production: no surprises, no miscues.” He paused dramatically.
“The Anniversary Bombing was one of the greatest tragedies in this country’s history. Foreign nationals took advantage of America’s generosity to inflict pain and suffering not only on those directly affected, but on the nation as a whole. Our hearts go out to the hundreds of people who lost loved ones— like Ms. Tannery—but we cannot allow the attack to divide the American people. The terrorists bear the responsibility for this great tragedy, not the good people who dedicated their lives to preventing terrorism. It’s our job to make sure that allowing the blame to be shifted in the courts doesn’t compound the injustice. Otherwise, the terrorists will have succeeded in making our judicial system another of their victims.”
As he finished, all eyes were riveted on him. Finn marveled at the way Preston could control a room. He knew Holland was simply trying out various themes that he might eventually use at trial, but he didn’t care. It was the power of the speech that Finn admired, not its sincerity. At that moment, he knew that Nick Williams had been right—the Tannery case was the biggest opportunity of his career, and he was determined to make the most of it.
Finn dialed the number for Daryl Carter first. He’d pulled Carter’s personnel file from the stacks of Huron documents that were produced to the plaintiff in the lawsuit and had been piled neatly from floor to ceiling in the “war room,” a large conference room dedicated to the Tannery trial. According to the file, Carter was thirty-one years old and had been with Huron since the company first got the contract to provide security for the Massachusetts commuter rail system. The address listed was in South Boston.
As Finn waited for the call to go through, he flipped through the case notebook Natalie had kept before her death. He’d come across margin notations on the sheet that listed the witnesses identified by Huron. Normally he wouldn’t have paid any attention to the scribblings, but they were hard to ignore. The names had been traced over repeatedly until they were marked in thick, dark lines. They’d then been underlined and highlighted, as if Natalie had kept coming back to them. It looked like she had had a good idea about some additional witnesses and couldn’t let it go. She was tenacious, and always had been. Under any other circumstances he would have let the issue drop, but given the prominence of the marks in the notebook—
The phone ringing on the other end of the line interrupted his thoughts. Finn scanned Carter’s personnel file again, looking for something to use so he could connect with him on a personal level. People were usually reluctant to talk to lawyers, and Finn found it helpful to establish a rapport before launching into more difficult questions. Before he could find anything, though, the line was picked up and he heard a familiar high-pitched tone whining in his ear. “We’re sorry, the number you have dialed has been disconnected. We have no further information at this time,” said the pleasant feminine voice recording.
Finn hung up. He checked the number in his notes and dialed it again. Once more, the recording told him the number had been disconnected. It was strange, he thought. Huron still had Carter listed at this number. Finn knew, though, that many security guards took the work temporarily, then moved on. It was very possible Carter had simply picked up stakes. Finn made a note to have one of his private investigators follow up.
Next, he picked up the file on Manuel Phillipe. The information from Huron listed him as forty-two years old, married with two children. He dialed the number. This time it was a male voice on the recording. “We’re sorry, the call you have made cannot be completed as dialed. Please check the number and dial again.”
Finn hung up and tried again but got the same result. He frowned. It seemed less likely that someone in his forties with a wife and two children would pick up and leave. Finn felt his puzzlement shifting to irritation as he moved on to the Martinson file. The man was listed as only twenty-two years old, and a recent graduate of a local junior college. Finn dialed the number listed, half expecting to get another phone company recording. He didn’t, though. Instead, a woman answered.
“Hello?” she said. Her voice was low and gravelly.
“Hello, is John Martinson in?”
“Who?”
“John Martinson?”
“You got the wrong number, mister.” And with that, the woman hung up.
Finn looked at the number on the Martinson file.
Maybe I misdialed.
He tried again.
“Hello?” It was the same woman.
“Hello, I’m trying to reach John Martinson.”
“I told you, you got the wrong number.” The woman sounded annoyed.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but is this 555-1209?”
“Sure is, but there’s no John Martinson here.”
“I’m sorry again, ma’am, but can I ask you how long you’ve had this phone number? Did you get it recently?”
“Not unless you consider twenty years ago ‘recently.’
” “And you’ve never heard of John Martinson?”
“Can’t say I have.”
Finn was deep in thought as he replaced the receiver. Why Natalie had focused on these three security guards was a mystery to him. He’d assumed she’d talked to them and decided they’d make excellent witnesses. That was, perhaps, still the case, but then why had they disappeared? Finn hated mysteries. He knew Preston was right when he said they couldn’t afford to waste time chasing down rabbit holes, but he didn’t think Holland would object if he sent one of the firm’s investigators to do a quick check on the addresses of these three. He’d use Bostick, though. Finn and Bostick were close enough that he wouldn’t even need to tell Preston about it unless they found something.
He was still lost in thought when the phone rang. He reached for the receiver and smiled when he heard the voice on the other end of the line. “Hello, Lieutenant Flaherty,” he said. “It’s nice to hear from you.”