Heart of a Killer

Contents

Title Page

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Also by David Rosenfelt

About the Author

Copyright

Prologue

Detective John Novack knew something was wrong even before he stepped in the blood. Though he was a fourteen-year veteran of the force, in this instance his sense of foreboding did not come from an instinct finely honed by experience, nor was it a result of piecing clues together. The voice on the 911 call, as played back to him while he drove to the scene, had said it all.

“I killed Charlie Harrison.”

It was a woman’s voice, spoken in a dull monotone, without affect or apparent emotion. She had followed that with similar-sounding answers to the 911 operator’s questions.

“Yes, I’m sure he’s dead.”

“We live at one forty-seven Tamarack Avenue.”

“He’s my husband.”

“Yes. I’ll wait here.”

Novack and his partner, David Anders, rang the bell when they arrived at the run-down garden apartment in Elmwood Park, just twenty minutes from the George Washington Bridge in New Jersey. Since it was ten o’clock in the morning, it was fairly quiet. If this was really a murder, they knew it wouldn’t be quiet for long. Police cars, media trucks, and reporters with microphones have a tendency to create commotion and draw crowds.

Two rings did not yield an answer, so the detectives drew their weapons and tried the door. It was unlocked, and they went in, Novack leading the way.

Which was why he was the one to step in the blood.

It had slowly moved from the nearby den to the foyer area near the door; the floor must have been slightly tilted in that direction. It traced a path back to the body of Charlie Harrison, as if the police needed a road map to follow.

Novack did a quick two-step out of the blood, leaving dark-red footprints as he did so. He swore silently to himself, his mind flashing forward to a future trial, when a defense attorney would mock his carelessness at the scene. Anders, the second one in, avoided the same fate, as he gingerly made it around the mess.

Still holding their weapons, they saw Sheryl Harrison, wife of the late Charlie and self-confessed murderess, sitting on a straight-backed chair with her hands folded in her lap, looking toward the detectives. To her left, lying facedown on a blood-soaked couch, was Charlie.

“Is there anyone else in the house?” Novack asked.

“No. My daughter is at school. Someone will have to pick her up and take her to my mother’s.”

“What is your name?”

“Sheryl. Sheryl Harrison.”

“Did you call 911, Sheryl?”

“Yes.”

“Did you kill this man?”

“Yes.”

Novack was troubled by her answer; it didn’t gibe with what he was looking at. But he nodded to Anders, who read Sheryl her rights, then asked if she understood them.

She nodded. “Yes. Will someone pick up Karen? She goes to P.S. number twenty-eight. She gets out at three-thirty.”

“I’ll make sure someone takes good care of her and gets her to your mother’s. Would you be willing to answer some questions about what happened here?”

“I killed him.”

“I have my doubts about that,” Novack said, as Anders whirled around in surprise. Of all the things his partner might have said, that was what he would have least expected. “So why don’t you tell me the truth?”

“I told you the truth,” Sheryl said. “His name was Charlie Harrison, he was my husband, and I killed him.”

“Jamie, Mr. Hemmings wants to see you.” Alicia Waldman, my assistant, delivered the news. She said it with a stunned reverence, in the way she might say, “God is on line two.” Actually, calling Alicia my assistant might imply too high a status level for me; she assisted four other lawyers in the firm as well, all of whom she liked more than me.

I had absolutely no guess why Richard Hemmings would want to see me. I was a twenty-nine-year old, sixth-year associate in the corporate litigation section of Carlson, Miller, and Timmerman, while he was a senior partner in the bankruptcy section. In non-law-firm parlance, when it came to dumping work on people, he was a “dumper” and I was a “dumpee,” but we worked in very different dumping grounds.

We also worked on different floors in our Newark, New Jersey, office building. I was a second-floor guy with a view of the second floor of the building right next door. He was a tenth-story guy, which was as high as it went, with a view on one side of glorious downtown Newark, and a clear sight line to the airport on the other side.

I went right up, and his assistant ushered me directly into his office. He was looking out the window and turned when he heard me. “Jamie,” he said, although he had never met me. He must have just known that he had sent for a Jamie, and figured I must be him. He might even have known that my last name was Wagner. Those are the kind of smarts that partners have.

“Mr. Hemmings,” I responded, keeping the conversation humming. The culture in the firm was that everyone was on a first-name basis, but when it came to full partners, nobody on my level really trusted that. Better to address them formally, and let them correct you if they wanted.

He didn’t, but fortunately came right to the point. “I assume you know that Stan Lysinger is out attending to a personal issue.”

I knew that quite well, everybody did, if advanced lung cancer could be casually dismissed as a personal issue. “Yes.”

“Everybody is pitching in until he gets back,” he said, although we both knew that Stan was not coming back. “I’m taking on his pro-bono responsibilities.”

I immediately knew why I was there. Most big firms feel a corporate responsibility, or at least want to look as if they feel a corporate responsibility, to do pro-bono work within the community. They generally like to assign lower- and mid-level people to these jobs, and Stan is, or was, the resident assigner-in-chief.

Most associates dread such assignments, because it takes them out of the mainstream of the firm, and can thus impact their ability to shine and make partner. I had no such concerns, since it had been clear for a while that I was never going to reach those heights. So I viewed a pro-bono assignment with a wait-and-see attitude; it would depend on the specifics of the assignment.

“It’s with Legal Aid,” he said, as my feelings went from mixed to outright negative. “You’re to see an inmate in New Jersey State Prison named Sheryl Harrison.”

“They’re not going to brief me first?” I asked.

He looked at the file, as if reading it for the first time. “No. They want you to hear it from the client. Seems unusual.”

“Does it say what she’s in there for?”

He looked again. “Murder. She murdered her husband six years ago; slit his throat. Pleaded guilty. Got fifteen to life.”

“Sounds like a nice lady,” I said, but it didn’t get a smile from Hemmings.

“You’ll provide me with written reports on your progress,” he said. “Until Stan gets back.”

“Yes, I certainly will.”

I lived then, and now, on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, which made me semi-unique among my colleagues at the firm. My apartment was on the third floor of a brownstone on Seventy-sixth Street, between Columbus and Amsterdam. It was a walk-up, common among those kinds of buildings in the area, and I tried to think positive by viewing the stairs as a way to stay in shape.

I suspected that my Manhattan residence was not viewed as a positive by my superiors, who no doubt felt that the forty-five-minute commute each way was time better spent in the office, doing work billable to clients.

It wasn’t that I was anti–New Jersey; I was pro–New York. If I wanted a pizza at 11:00
P.M.
, I didn’t want to have to preheat an oven. I wanted to go downstairs and get one.

Also, my favorite bars to hang out in were in New York, though I never really gave the Jersey bars a chance. I felt at home in Manhattan, on its streets, in its restaurants, with its women. And if a woman came in one night from Queens, that was fine as well.

The truth is that I would willingly date a woman from any of the five boroughs, with the obvious exception of Staten Island. Even that would be fine, if not for the fact that at some point I’d have to take her home, or meet her parents, or something like that. I’ve heard that people never come back from there.

I was and am a Manhattan snob, and that’s where I’d soon be looking for a job. I was reaching that point at my tenure in the firm where one was either made a partner or encouraged to leave. I was certainly going to receive such encouragement, and I wasn’t going to move to any job I couldn’t commute to by subway or feet.

I got home from work at about 7:45, which was fairly typical. The phone was ringing as I was walking in the door. It was my friend Ken Bollinger, asking if I wanted to meet him for the first of what would become quite a few drinks.

Ken was and is an investment banker, on track to make ridiculous amounts of money, none of which he was willing to spend. He actually ordered beer based on price.

“Not tonight,” I said. “I’ve got to be at New Jersey State Prison for Women first thing in the morning.” It was a line I had never gotten to say before in my life, and I took my time with it.

“Excuse me?”

I explained the situation, after which he said, “There’s nothing better than conjugal visit sex.”

I knew he was talking about a
Seinfeld
episode in which George dated a female prisoner. He reveled in the idea of conjugal visit sex. Ken and I could talk for days, only using
Seinfeld
references.

“And no pop-ins,” I said, since George had also considered it a huge plus that his inmate girlfriend couldn’t just show up at his apartment unannounced.

“Can I go with you?” he asked. “Convicts never insist on going to expensive restaurants.”

“No chance,” I said. “But I’ll see if she has a friend. Maybe a nice, frugal arsonist.”

The prison was about a forty-five-minute drive from my apartment, though with New York traffic you never know. I didn’t want to be late, since I couldn’t be sure what the prison punishment for that might be. Solitary? Two weeks in the hole? No sense taking a chance.

Most people I know, and pretty much everyone I work with, are amazed that I keep a car in the city at all. There are trains that could get me to work, but I don’t like them. Somehow when I’m in the car I feel like I’m in control, despite the fact that traffic jams can be awful and arbitrary.

I got to the prison a half hour early, which was just as well, because it took almost that long to identify myself, demonstrate that I had an appointment, and go through security. At ten after nine I was finally led into a small visiting room, where Sheryl Harrison was already waiting for me. She was sitting at a table with a folder in front of her.

I almost did a double take. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it sure wasn’t this. She was young, I would have said about my age, and quite nice looking. There was no hard edge to her, no scraggly hair, or tattooed arms. She was actually pretty, despite the prison garb and obvious lack of makeup, and there was a softness about her that took me off guard. Under different circumstances, this could be someone I’d be willing to follow to Staten Island.

George Costanza may have been on to something.

All in all, she looked like someone that ten years ago I could have taken to the prom, except for the fact that prospective prom dates are rarely handcuffed to metal tables, and almost never have a knife murder as part of their high school experience.

“I’m Jamie Wagner,” I said, sitting down. “I’m a lawyer.”

She looked me straight in the eye. Eye contact is not my specialty, but she seemed to silently mandate it. “Have they told you why you’re here?” she asked.

“No, apparently I’m supposed to hear that from you. But I should tell you straight out that I have no experience in criminal matters.”

She nodded. “That’s okay; this isn’t a criminal matter.”

“It isn’t?”

“No, and I doubt anyone has experience in what I need.” She said it matter-of-factly.

“What might that be?”