David Ellis - Eye of the Beholder

What happened during those sixty minutes?

He looks back at his notes. You always ask the question, Who gained? If you believe rumors, the father of Cassie’s child and Harland Bentley both gained from the deaths of Ellie and Cassie.

But Burgos confessed. McDermott had read the transcript of the interrogation. There was no coercion at all. Burgos knew damn well that Ellie was his first victim, before anyone mentioned her name or showed him her photograph. Hell, he was pissed off that Detective Lightner hadn’t included her picture in the photo array. And there’s no way that evidence of six dead women just found its way into his basement.

Is there?

But what if Professor Albany had been the father of Cassie’s child? There’s little doubt he’d lose his job if it came out. And he knew Burgos-he employed him, for God’s sake, and he took him under his wing.

Could a college professor come up with keys to the Bramhall Auditorium basement?

So many things unconfirmed. But if Harland Bentley really was slipping it to Ellie Danzinger, he was looking at the loss of a fortune if it came out. He and Albany both had plenty to lose.

So which one is it? Bentley or Albany?

“Hey, Mike.”

McDermott looks over at Stoletti, who is banging away on the computer.

“We’ve been sitting here thinking, Who looks worse right now? Harland Bentley or Professor Albany?”

“Right.” When he walks over, she points at the computer, a results screen from a Google search. “We’re looking at Albany, we’re looking at Harland Bentley,” she says. “I thought, why not search both their names together?”

“They were both players in a heater case, Ricki. It’s not that surprising they’d appear in articles together.”

“Yeah?” She clinks on a link. “Well, is this surprising?”

The link is a biography page for Mansbury College. At the top corner of the page is a photo of Professor Albany in a thoughtful pose.

Then McDermott starts to read the one-paragraph biography:

Professor Frankfort J. Albany is the Harland Bentley Professor of Cultural Studies at Mansbury College. Endowed in 1990, the chair recognizes Professor Albany for his outstanding contributions…

“The Harland Bentley what?”

Harland Bentley endowed a chair at Mansbury College in Albany’s name?

“Maybe we don’t have to pick between Harland Bentley or Professor Albany,” he says. “Maybe it’s both.”

Stoletti says, “Well, that explains how Albany got tenure after teaching a class that got six women killed. A billionaire having your back doesn’t hurt.”

“He hires Riley right after the Burgos case is done and makes him a millionaire ten times over,” McDermott says. “He gives Brandon Mitchum a yearly stipend after the case is over, maybe as a thank-you for keeping quiet about his supposed affair with Ellie Danzinger. He endows a chair for Albany right after the case and gives him permanent job security.”

“Harland Bentley was buying something,” she agrees.

His cell phone rings. His caller ID doesn’t recognize the number.

“Mike, it’s Susan Dobbs.”

“Susan.” He checks his watch. What’s an assistant county medical examiner doing this time of night at the morgue?

“You piqued my curiosity,” she says. “And I know this is important.”

“I appreciate-”

“I just checked all three of the victims: Ciancio, Evelyn Pendry, and Amalia Calderone.”

“And?”

“Every one of them has a postmortem incision at the base of the fourth and fifth tarsal phalange.”

McDermott releases a breath.

“This guy’s clever,” she says. “Or stupid, depending on how you look at it.”

Right. He’s branding them. He’s leaving a signature.

“So Susan, how come none of the other autopsy reports show this? Other than Ciancio’s?”

She sighs. “Mike, you bring in a body that’s overwhelmed with physical trauma-contusions, stabbing wounds, whatever-you’re not looking there. It’s not like there was evidence of poison, so you’re not looking for injection points. Who’s going to think to open up the space between the fourth and fifth toes?”

“Well, you found it on Ciancio,” he says. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me more than one.”

He closes the cell phone. “All three victims,” he says to Stoletti.

“That was the M.E.?” Stoletti looks up. “So we know they’re all connected. If we had any doubt. Why does he go to the trouble, after mutilating these people, to find the space between their fourth and fifth toes and make a little incision?”

McDermott rolls his neck. “He wants us to know.”

“Put it on their face, you want us to know. This is the most hidden signature I’ve ever heard of.” She nods at him. “You didn’t see that incision in any of the autopsies from Mansbury?”

“No.” McDermott had run through every autopsy from the Burgos prosecution. “But they might have missed it, just like they missed it with two of our three victims, until I had her check.”

Stoletti doesn’t like it. McDermott can’t disagree. She’s right. This guy is leaving a brand, a small incision in the taut skin between the fourth and pinkie toes, but one that would be incredibly easy to overlook, especially when the bodies are beaten and tortured.

Why leave a signature that nobody might find?

“He’s doing this for someone,” McDermott says. But who?

ACROSS FROM ME at the all-night diner, Shelly chews an ice cube from a glass of lemonade. I nurse a cup of coffee and a number of nagging wounds. I lay it all out for her, the recent developments since she accompanied me to visit Gwendolyn Lake earlier today.

I’ve flown solo long enough that I’m unaccustomed to seeking out solace. A bachelor’s life is uncomplicated, particularly when money is not an issue, which it certainly is not. Work is not difficult at this stage of my career. Litigation consists primarily of putting up a sufficient fight to force the other side into compromise, and, if it gets as far as trial, most of it is theater, anyway. My personal life? The biggest decision I have to make is whether to watch ESPN Classic or old movies on A &E. It becomes comfortable and that, in turn, becomes enough.

I turned that all upside down with Shelly. I met her initially like I meet most people in my life-in a courtroom. I got the verdict and heard nothing from her again until years later, when she asked me to represent a client on a murder charge. Away from the heat of the adversarial duel, I felt something immediately with her, her spirit, her conviction.

And when she broke things off, I couldn’t go back. I couldn’t find the comfort. My assistant, Betty, was right. I’ve always enjoyed a drink, but I turned it into an Olympic sport, starting that night. I’ve been a wreck the last few months. I’ve been on autopilot at work and feeling sorry for myself.

Now she’s back, with the proviso that I hold off the pressure, and I’m dumping these problems into her lap immediately. I didn’t want to call her to meet me here, scolded myself as I dialed the cell phone. But I need her, whether I like it or not.

So far, she hasn’t said a word. She’s good like that, a great listener.

When I’m done, she says, “Tell me what’s bothering you about this.”

I laugh. After everything we’ve discussed, I wouldn’t know where to start.

“It’s not Harland,” she says.

I push my cup to the waitress, who freshens it. “Fuck Harland.”

Shelly is briefly amused. She probably never expected to hear those words from me. She’s never been much for the corporate legal world, anyway. I once tried to woo her to my law firm, with a full partnership offer, but I couldn’t drag her away from her children’s advocacy work. For her, it’s about the work, not the compensation.