Silent Justice (46 page)

Ben drew in his breath. He would never get anywhere with Crenshaw on this point. He might as well try something else. “Dr. Crenshaw, can you look this jury in the eye and tell them with absolute certainty that the tainted water did not cause the Blackwood leukemia outbreak?”

He shrugged the question away. “ ‘Absolute certainty’ is not a term used in the field of medical research.”

“Don’t duck my question, Doctor. The jury wants to know. Are you absolutely certain Dr. Rimland is wrong?”

“I find his conclusions entirely unsupported by convincing medical evidence.”

“Once again, you fail to answer my question.” Ben took a step forward. “Why is this so hard for you to answer, Doctor?”

“Because it’s a foolish question. As a scientist, I only accept conclusions based upon available evidence. Here, the evidence doesn’t exist.”

“I’m going to ask the question one more time, Doctor. Are you absolutely sure Dr. Rimland is wrong?”

Crenshaw was beginning to look a bit uncomfortable. He folded his arms across his chest. “I’ve already answered that question.”

“But you haven’t.”

His voice rose. “I’ve said what I have to say.”

Colby tried to bail his witness out. “Your honor, I object. Asked and answered.”

“But he hasn’t answered,” Ben replied. “And if he doesn’t, I think I know what conclusion the jury can draw from his silence.”

“Your honor!” Colby said. “That’s grossly improper.”

Perry nodded hastily. “Mr. Kincaid’s last remark will be stricken. I instruct the jury to ignore it.” He peered down at Ben. “Counsel, let’s move on to something else.”

“Fine. Let me ask you this, Dr. Crenshaw. What if he’s right?”

Crenshaw’s discomfort appeared to increase. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“What if he’s right? What if these poisons do cause cancer—and did in Blackwood?”

Colby jumped up. “Objection.”

Ben ignored him. “What if they do cause cancer and we don’t do anything about it—because you and others like you are more interested in collecting a corporate paycheck than in discovering the truth?”

“Your honor!” Colby repeated.

Judge Perry banged his gavel. “Mr. Kincaid!”

Ben plowed on ahead. “What if the guilty parties aren’t punished? What if this corporation—and others like it—go on taking the most profitable course—the one that kills children?”

Judge Perry continued banging. “I’m terminating this examination right now, Mr. Kincaid. Sit down!”

Mad, Ben told himself silently.
Get mad and stay mad.
“Because I think the truth is, you just don’t know, Dr. Crenshaw. You don’t have the answers, so you’re willing to say what the big corporation wants you to say. But if you’re wrong, you’ve done a gross injustice to this jury—and those eleven families.”

“Your honor!” Colby was practically screaming now.

Judge Perry pointed to the back of the courtroom. “Bailiff!”

“If you’re wrong, Dr. Crenshaw,” Ben continued, “then those eleven deaths—and all the others that might well follow—are on your head.”

The bailiff came up behind Ben, ready for bear.

“I’m done,” Ben said, throwing up his hands. “No more questions.”

”Sorry to bother you, ma’am,” Mike said awkwardly, as he lowered himself into an armchair. “I know you’ve been through a lot already.”

What was with this woman, anyway? he wondered. He’d called ahead; she knew he was coming. And yet there she was, in a shimmery pink nightgown with puffball sleeves, her hair a mess, yesterday’s mascara still smeared under her eyes. She looked more like a cathouse madam than someone who expected to be interrogated by a homicide detective.

“I knew you’d be back,” the woman said. “You, or someone like you.” There was a pronounced slurring to her words. Her eyes seemed to roam about, detached from what her mouth was saying. “They always say this is the last time. But it never is.”

“Again, I’m sorry for the intrusion. Believe me, no one was more surprised than me when there turned out to be a connection between this latest spate of murders and, uh, your … late husband.”

“Ex-husband,” she corrected. “We hadn’t been married for more than a year, when Jim went ballistic. Hadn’t lived together for longer than that. And hadn’t … you know. Lived as man and wife. For even longer than that.”

“I’m sorry.” During that long speech, Mike managed to catch a whiff of strong liquor on her breath, whiskey or something like it. Pamela Fenton was drunk. Which could explain a great deal, including the slurred speech and unsightly appearance. “Did you have any … indication of your husband’s violent tendencies?”

“Not in the least.” She leaned back against the sofa, spreading her bare legs in a manner that Mike wished she wouldn’t. “He was always timid. A pipsqueak. Didn’t have the balls to get what he wanted. That was the problem.”

Her problem? Mike wondered. Or his? “So he didn’t … beat you?”

“No. Never.” She hiccuped. “More the other way around.”

“And he didn’t have any guns?”

“Not till the day he decided to shoot up the law school. And he’d bought that shotgun at a pawnshop that very day. Who’d"a thought? No one’s safe anymore.”

No, Mike mused, not as long as any crazy with twenty bucks in his pocket can stroll into a pawnshop and walk out with a deadly weapon. “I know you’ve been asked this before, but—do you have any idea why he went to the law school that day?”

“I’m as clueless as you, sonny boy. All I know is what I read in the paper. That he said he was looking for some professor or another. The Cobra.”

“The Tiger,” Mike corrected. “Professor Joseph Canino. Did you know him?”

“Never heard of him. Much less seen him.”

“Then why was your husband after him?”

“Beats hell outta me. Musta been somethin" he worked up after I dumped him.” Her speech was worsening.

“They’ve never found Professor Canino. He was gone the day your ex stormed the law school. Hasn’t been seen since.”

“That’s what I hear.”

“I don’t suppose you know where he is.”

“I told you—I never seen the man in my life!” Her voice was becoming strident. Her drugged state probably caused her to talk louder than she realized. “I got no clue!”

“All right. I’m sorry.” Mike had to placate her, he sensed, or this already mostly worthless interview would come to a screeching halt. “I don’t suppose you know what your husband was after? What he was looking for?” Mike had spent the morning reviewing the file on the case. “He said he wanted something he called "the merchandise."“

The woman lurched forward. “I told you already! He was my ex-husband. And I don’t have the slightest goddamn idea what he was looking for!”

“All right, all right.” Mike held up his hands. “Stay calm.” It was definitely time for a switch in subjects. “Let’s talk about something you do know about. Why did you leave your husband?”

“Who wouldn’t leave him? He was worthless!”

Worthless being a relative term, Mike thought, as he gazed at the unappealing hulk on the sofa. “He was employed, at the time. Had a decent job at the Blaylock plant.”

“He had a peon job, fit for a peon. Hadn’t had a promotion in twelve years.”

“Still, he was employed.”

“He was a loser, would you get that through your head already!” Spittle flew from her lips as she spoke. “A creep. Couldn’t do anything right! Couldn’t even get it up!”

Which was far more information than Mike actually needed. Or wanted. “So what made you finally decide to leave him?”

“Why not? I’d had enough.”

“Was there … someone else?”

She whipped her head around. “What the hell business is it of yours?”

Mike shrugged. “I have to follow all possible avenues—”

“Look, a woman’s marriage vows can only go so far, you understand me? If a husband can’t do his duty, than she’s entitled to-—to—try to do somethin" to remedy the situation. You know what I’m sayin"?”

All too well. “What happened to your relationship? With the … other man, I mean?”

“He dumped me, the son of a bitch. Couldn’t handle the pressure.”

“The pressure?”

“From assholes like you! After Jim held up the law school and got himself killed. The police were all over us, every bleedin" second. And the press was even worse. Reporters sticking microphones in our faces every time we went outside. They wouldn’t leave us alone. Everyone wanted a piece of us! He couldn’t take it anymore. So he split.”

“I see,” Mike said, although, as he gazed across the room at her, he could contemplate other possible explanations for the lover’s departure. “What was your husband doing? Ex-husband, that is. During the year or so after you left him, but before he died?”

“How the hell would I know? I never spoke to him. Never once. He called a few times, but I always hung up on him.”

“Did he have any friends?”

“Oh, maybe a few other losers from the plant. Don’t bother asking their names. I didn’t know them.”

“Was Harvey Pendergast one of them?”

She cocked her head to one side. “Now that you mention it, that does sound familiar.”

“What about Tony Montague?”

“Montague? No. I’d remember a crazy-ass name like that.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

Mike frowned. That screwed up the theory that was forming in his brain. “What about favorite places? Somewhere he liked to go. Other than work.”

“I’m tellin" you, I don’t know.”

“Did he have anything he liked to do? A hobby? Something for his spare time?

“Who cares?”

“He had to do something during that year.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know what it was. Can’t you get that through your thick head? I don’t know!”

Mike drew back, for both their sakes. She was about to terminate the interview, and he was about to terminate her.

To his surprise, Pamela Fenton was the one who broke the silence. “He did like to fish,” she said, out of the blue.

“Fish? Where did he go?”

“I dunno. Out of state, usually. I think he thought it was more fun if he had to drive a ways to get there. More like an adventure. But I don’t know where exactly he went.”

“Did he fish alone?”

“Nah. He’d go with some other losers, most times.”

Some other losers. The wheels inside Mike’s head started spinning. Like Harvey?

His mind raced back to the first crime scene. The closet, where Harvey had hidden.

There was fishing gear there.

And Margaret, the second victim, had a fishing license in her purse. And George, the third victim, the one whose body still hadn’t turned up, had told Mike during their interview that he wanted to get away to fish. And Tony Montague was found dead in a fishing cabin.

They were all fishers. That was the connection. That was the link for which he’d been searching so long.

“Are you sure you don’t know where your ex-husband used to go to fish?” Mike asked.

“I’m positive.”

“Maybe someone at the plant will know. Thanks you for your help, ma’am.”

“You mean that’s it?”

“Yup. And with any luck, you won’t be bothered again.” Mike was already out the front door when he heard his cell phone beep. “Morelli.”

It was Tomlinson.

“What’ve you got for me, buddy?”

“What you probably want least,” Tomlinson replied. “Another corpse.”

Mike felt as if his heart had stopped beating. “From the same murderer?”

“We think so, yeah.”

It would be George Philby, no doubt. The man Mike had failed to save. When he let the killer slip through his fingers.

“You still there, Mike?”

“Yeah,” he said bitterly. “I’m on my way.” He snapped the cell phone shut, furious at himself, at the killer, at the whole wide world.

Fred the Feeb stood in line at Tulsa International Airport, waiting to get his ticket. Jesus and Mary, Mother of God! How could such a podunk airport make you wait so long just to get a plane ticket?

He’d finally decided—he was making a break for it. He had no choice. He couldn’t put it off any longer. He couldn’t go on kidding himself that alarms and big dogs were going to make a difference. Not if he wanted to live long enough to see another sunrise.

He had spotted his old buddy, currently employed as a mass murderer, at the Blaylock plant. There was no question about it this time; he’d seen him clear as day, twice as ugly. He was there, even though he didn’t work at Blaylock anymore.

He was looking for Fred.

That was enough to spur Fred into action. He had managed to think of one place he could go, after giving it some thought. It was not a secret place—the killer knew all about it. But it was free. He could live there a good long time at little or no expense. And once he had realized the merchandise—nothing could be denied him.

If he could just stay alive that long. When it became clear that Fred was the man with the merchandise—because all the others were dead—and it became clear that Fred had flown the coop—because he wasn’t coming in to work anymore—

Fred took a deep breath. One problem at a time. First, he had to get out of town.

He made it to the front of the line and told the airline teller his chosen destination.

She smiled and typed at light speed on her computer keyboard. “Will this be business or pleasure?”

“Neither,” Fred said, sweat dripping down the sides of his face. “Survival.”

C
OLBY NATURALLY MADE A
motion for mistrial, based on Ben’s rant against Dr. Crenshaw, but Judge Perry denied it. Ben wasn’t sure why. Probably because of his great certainty that the jury would find against Ben anyway. If he granted the motion for mistrial, he’d have to hear this case again in a few months. If he let the jury rule in favor of the defendant, it would all be over.

Crenshaw was just the first of a parade of medical witnesses Colby put on the stand. Over the next few days, the jury heard from two cancer specialists, a leukemia researcher from Children’s Medical in Oklahoma City, and the president of the state AMA. They were all top-notch witnesses, and they all said essentially the same thing: No one knows what causes cancer. The man from Children’s Medical was able to update the jury on all the potential causes currently being investigated by the mainstream medical community—none of which involved TCE or perc, or for that matter any other environmental catalysts. All of the witnesses used different code phrases to describe Rimland and his work, such as “fringe” or “unorthodox,” but they all amounted to the same thing. The man’s a quack, they said. But nicely.