Silent Justice (37 page)

“These parents who have brought this lawsuit have been through a terrible tragedy. We can all agree about that. No parent should have to endure what they’ve endured. No one should have to bear so much pain. But they did. And when it was all over, it was only natural for them to want … something more. They start thinking, "Is that all there is?" "Did I spend all those years raising that boy … for nothing?" That’s when they start looking for someone to blame. It’s easier to think such a tragic loss is the fault of some evildoer, rather than to simply accept the truth—that fate is sometimes cruel and the Good Lord works in unfathomable and mysterious ways. They want to turn this tragic loss into a crusade.”

He tossed back his shoulders. “Those parents have my utmost sympathy. But ladies and gentlemen of the jury, H. P. Blaylock is not an evildoer. Blaylock is a fine, family-run business, the kind that made America great, one that has employed and supported thousands of families throughout this century. Our hearts go out to all parents who have lost a child—but we did not cause this tragedy. It is not our fault. And the plaintiffs—who bear the burden of proof—cannot prove otherwise. It’s that simple, really.”

B
EN RUSHED INTO ROOM 452
at St. John’s Hospital, ignoring the nurse shouting after him.

“Mike?” He pushed the swinging door open and ran inside.

Mike was sitting upright in bed, wearing the traditional ill-fitting gown. He set aside the Anne Tyler novel he was reading. “Ben. Nice of you to drop by.”

Ben was so flustered he could barely order his thoughts enough to speak. “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Apparently you found out anyway.”

“I came to see Mrs. Marmelstein. I saw Tomlinson in the hall and he told me you were hurt.”

“Tomlinson never could keep his mouth shut.”

The floor nurse peeled through the door, glaring at Ben. “Sir! I’m afraid visiting hours are over, and in any case, you can’t simply barge into a patient’s—”

Mike waved his hands. “It’s all right, Emily. He’s a friend.”

The nurse made a sniffing noise. “Even so. This is not how a visit should be conducted. There are procedures—”

“He’s a lawyer,” Mike explained. “He can’t help himself.”

Nurse Emily’s lips pursed. She pivoted on one white platform heel and left the room.

“So how is Mrs. Marmelstein, anyway?” Mike asked amiably.

“Bad, getting worse. Her strength is fading. She seems to be losing the will to live. In fact, she seems to be losing the will to do anything except see her long-lost son, who we have been totally unable to locate. But that’s beside the point. What the hell are you doing in the hospital?”

Mike tugged at the skirt of his hospital gown. “I found my killer.”

“The one who killed the two Blaylock employees?”

“Three.” Mike’s lips pressed together tightly. “We haven’t found the third body yet. But I’m sure he’s dead.”

“What happened to you?”

“I got fried.” Mike lifted his bandaged hand. “I went in ready for almost anything—corkscrews, ball-peen hammers, whatever. But I sure as hell never expected a portable battery charger.”

“A battery charger? What was he doing with that?”

“Electrocuting his victim. And me.” He lifted the bandage slightly, just enough that Ben could see the charred, blackened flesh underneath. “Got me on the wedding ring. Gave me a shock that just about fried my brains.”

“But you’re all right now?”

“They say I’ll be back on my feet tomorrow. Next day at the latest.”

“Thank God.” Despite this ostensibly good news, Ben noticed that his friend still wasn’t smiling. “I guess you must be upset because he escaped.”

“That’s not what bothers me most. I never should’ve let that creep get the drop on me.”

“How could you know he’d be administering electroshock therapy on the cheap? At least you weren’t killed. I’m sure you gave a description to the cops. Let them catch him.”

Mike shook his head. “No description. I never really got a look at him.”

“So that’s what bothers you most.”

“No. I know this creep will kill again. I can feel it.”

“Another Blaylock employee?”

“How should I know? Why—do you have a Blaylock victim you’d like to suggest?”

“Several. So that’s what you’re most upset about—you think this crazy will kill again?”

“No. And just for the record—I don’t think he’s crazy. He doesn’t fit the profile for any serial killer we’ve ever encountered. Even the FBI agrees with me on this one. There’s a reason this man is killing these people. Torturing these people. He wants something. I just don’t know what it is.”

“So that’s what bothers you most.”

“No.” He inhaled deeply. “This guy is eliminating people because he thinks they pose some kind of threat to him. I don’t know why exactly. But I’m certain self-protection is at the heart of it. He’s covering himself.”

“Yeah. So?”

“So—he let me live. Could’ve killed me. Easily. But he didn’t. So what does that tell us?”

“I give. What?”

“That he doesn’t consider me a threat. He knew who I was. But he was so damn sure of himself he didn’t think I could touch him. So he didn’t kill me. Not because he couldn’t. He just didn’t bother.”

Ben slowly began to understand. “And that’s what bothers you most.”

“Damn straight.” Mike pulled himself up by the metal braces on either side of his bed. “I wanted this bastard before. But it’s gone beyond that, now. I have to get him. I
have
to. You know what I’m saying?” Mike pounded his fists together. “I have to get him. And I will.”

Fred meticulously typed the ten-digit number into the green-glowing keypad next to his front door. Let’s see … the year of the Battle of Waterloo, followed by my mother’s age when she died, followed by the last four digits in my social security number.…

He punched in the last number, then hit the pound key. The keypad responded with a satisfying beep.

His spiffy new high-tech alarm system was officially armed.

He stepped back and beamed at the keypad, like a father admiring his daughter as she waltzed down the walkway in Atlantic City. It had cost him every spare penny he could scrape up, but it was worth it. Worth the money to know he was safe. Worth almost any amount to know that he wouldn’t end up like George.…

He had of course read the article on page two of the
Tulsa World.
Sure, they hadn’t found a body yet, but they knew what had happened, as did he. In the words of the immortal Queen … another one bites the dust.

Somehow he found this one harder to believe—harder than Harvey, harder than Maggie. After all, George had considerable advance warning. He must’ve known about the first two murders, and he must’ve realized who was behind it. He’d talked to the cop; he knew the score. What the hell was he thinking? What was he waiting around for?

Not what he got, that’s for damn sure. The paper was skimpy on the details, but it supplied enough about “death by electrocution” for Fred to recognize the Master’s hand. This was not a coincidental killing. This was the same old self-centered bastard, blowing away anyone and everyone he thought stood between him and his precious merchandise.

Including the cop. Lieutenant Michaelangelo Morelli, whom the
World
clearly considered God’s gift to law enforcement, all but obliterated by a few kazillion volts of electricity. Paper said he was recovering nicely, which surprised Fred no end. Why would his former friend leave any witnesses, potential or otherwise? He wouldn’t. He must’ve been in a hurry, must’ve simply not had time to mess around with him. Must’ve been determined to take care of George while he had the chance.

Which was lucky for the cop. Less so for George.

Fred stared glassy-eyed at the green-glowing keypad. Somehow it wasn’t making him feel quite as secure as it had a moment ago.

He was the only one left. Assuming Professor Canino was dead, which he thought a fair assumption since he hadn’t been seen in months, Fred was the only obstacle between the killer and the certain acquisition of the merchandise. Even as low as the killer’s opinion of Fred was, at this point, he would have to realize that Fred was the one who had the goods.

He would come after Fred.

What was he worried about? he asked himself. He had one of the best security systems known to man. He was totally safe and secure.

An errant thought wandered unbidden into his cranium.

Didn’t Harvey have an alarm system?

Fred turned, his face abruptly ashen, shuffled into the kitchen, and opened up the yellow pages. Maybe a guard dog. Yeah, that would be the thing. A great big scary Doberman. Maybe even a Rottweiler. Nothing could get past a Rottweiler. Then he’d be safe. Then he’d be absolutely, totally, without question, safe.…

B
EN WASN’t USED TO
going first. In the criminal trials that had been his mainstay over the past several years, he was never first. The prosecutor always started. Which had its pluses and minuses. It meant the opposition got the initial opportunity to influence the jury. But it also meant Ben had time to think and plan, time to absorb what the prosecution was trying to accomplish and to figure out a way to circumvent it.

Today, he didn’t have the luxury of time. He had the burden of convincing the jury of the rightness of his cause, holding their attention, and persuading them—by a preponderance of the evidence. If he failed to do that, the defendants would never even have to stand up. The case would be dismissed before it got to them.

Ben had spent days agonizing over whom to call as his first witness. Conventional wisdom would say he should lead with his clients, so the jury can understand who and what this case is really about. The obvious sympathy factor involved in putting bereaved parents on the stand was also a consideration. Ben didn’t want to exploit their grief; at the same time, he’d been hired to win this lawsuit, not to show how sensitive he was. And if he led with some of the more technical experts, the jury’s mind might be permanently dulled before he got to the heart-gripping stuff.

He finally decided to start with two witnesses from the Blackwood hospital. From a legal standpoint, these witnesses would establish the fact of an injury—an essential component in any case for damages. As a practical matter, Ben hoped they would do much more.

The first witness was a man named Adam Nimsy. He worked as a photographer at the hospital, and at Dr. Freidrich’s request, had photographed most of the children at various stages of their leukemia.

Nimsy was a middle-aged man, heavyset, with a seemingly permanent tired expression on his face. Ben introduced him to the jury, then started on the real questioning.

“What’s your current position?”

“I’m a freelance photographer,” Nimsy answered. “But most of my work comes on assignment from the hospital.”

“And how long have you been doing this kind of work?”

“Interminably,” he said dryly.

“What exactly do you do?”

“Whatever the doctors tell me to do,” he explained. “If they say shoot, I shoot. If they say print, I print. If they say bark, I bark.”

Ben tried to ignore the alleged wit. This was not supposed to be a “funny” witness. “Why do the doctors have you take pictures?”

“For legal reasons, usually. If they’re getting ready to do something risky or controversial, they want an accurate record, either via photos or videotape. Sometimes they want pictures for comparative purposes, to analyze the progress of a disease—or a cure. Sometimes they want pics they can send to outside specialists for consultations.”

Ben turned slightly toward the section of the gallery where his clients sat. “Do you know the parents who are the plaintiffs in this lawsuit?”

“Some of them. And I knew most of their children. I photographed most of them.”

“How did that come about?”

“It was at Dr. Freidrich’s request. He didn’t ask me to photo the first two boys. But after that, I guess he started to suspect that something strange was going on. So many leukemia deaths of young children at the same time in the same neighborhood couldn’t possibly be—”

“Objection,” Colby said, rising to his feet. “Is this witness a medical expert? I don’t recall hearing his credentials.”

“The objection is sustained,” Judge Perry replied. “The witness will restrict his testimony to what he has seen and heard and not offer the jury opinions on matters outside his field.”

“Of course, your honor,” Ben said, not remotely repentant. “Mr. Nimsy, did you photograph the subsequent nine leukemia victims?”

“Yes. All of them.”

“How often?”

“Whenever the doctor asked. About every two months.”

“Do you have those photographs with you today?” Like any good trial attorney, Ben was only asking questions to which he already knew the answer.

“I do.” He looked up at the judge. “May I?”

With Judge Perry’s consent, Nimsy retrieved the photos from the gallery. They had been enlarged (at Ben’s expense) and mounted so that the jury could see them easily on their monitors—and take hard copies back to the deliberation room when the trial was over.

The photos told a story more eloquent, more gut-wrenching, more devastatingly sad than anything the finest poet could have conceived. Nimsy, of course, was not allowed to comment on what the photos contained—and there was no need for him to. All he did was authenticate the evidence—that is, talk about how and when and where the photos were taken. None of which anyone cared about. What was important remained unsaid. But the pictures spoke volumes.

Through these photos, the jurors were able to chart the course of the disease for each of the nine photographed children. Billy was up first. In his first shot, he still looked essentially normal. He had been diagnosed with leukemia, but the bruises didn’t show and he hadn’t started to lose weight yet. The next photo, taken two months later, revealed a startling change. He’d begun chemotherapy; his hair was gone. By the third photo, his face was drawn and his cheekbones protruded from a gaunt, emaciated face. By the fourth photo, he appeared discolored; bruises covered his body. Ben saw the jurors" shock as they viewed the hollow concavity surrounding his eyes, his gaping, seeping, open wounds. In the fifth photo, Billy seemed skeletal, weak, and brittle; his eyelids were barely open. And in the sixth …