David Ellis - Eye of the Beholder

McDermott takes a breath. It’s a lot to put on the guy, on top of finding his girlfriend in a hundred pieces tonight. But he doesn’t have time for diplomacy. He senses that Riley will do whatever’s necessary to catch Koslenko, and he needs that help now.

“Riley,” he says quietly. “Everyone murdered this week-Ciancio, Evelyn Pendry, Amalia Calderone, and Shelly-every one of them had a cut between their fourth and fifth toes on their left foot. A postmortem incision. That mean anything to you?”

Riley is completely still. His lips move silently, like he’s replaying what he just heard.

“I have to go,” he says.

AT A QUARTER TO MIDNIGHT, I step out of the detectives’ squad room, sleep-deprived and overloaded. The governor still has not left the police station. His press people gave out some statements earlier, but the media’s still waiting for the red meat.

Beside me is a uniform, who is taking me home. I see the press barricaded from the police parking lot and from the front steps of the station house by wooden traffic horses, but I can hear them calling to me by name.

“Paul, did Leo Koslenko kill Shelly?”

“Is this connected to Terry Burgos?”

“Was Terry Burgos innocent?”

“Did Leo Koslenko kill the Mansbury Six?”

“Give me a second.” I feel an adrenaline wave, after I’d expect to have nothing left. Maybe it’s anger. Maybe it’s fear. I break away from the cop and make my way to the reporters. Some of them, the veterans, are the same ones who interviewed me when I was prosecuting Burgos. How delectable this must be for them. How willingly their journalistic stomachs growl at the slightest hint of blood in the water.

“Did you prosecute the wrong man?”

“What did you say to Governor Trotter?”

“Was an innocent man executed?”

The cameras, the bright lights, the microphones all angle in my direction. They continue with the questions until it is clear I won’t answer. Finally, the shouts subside, and they are ready to give me my moment.

“Leo Koslenko did not kill the Mansbury victims,” I say as evenly as I can manage. “Terry Burgos did. What is happening now may bear some connection to the Mansbury murders. The police have asked for my help and I’m going to solve this. Give me a day or two, tops. I promise you, I will figure this out. But make no mistake. Terry Burgos killed those girls.”

I pivot and walk back to the cop, the reporters shouting all kinds of follow-up questions to me. We hustle to the squad car and I jump in the back. I lay my head against the back cushion and close my eyes, drowning out the questions being thrown my way from behind the barricade.

WHENEVER SHE CAME to the house, he felt a lift. She would always make a point of saying hello to him, maybe speak a few words of Russian to him.

But not this day. She walked straight past him. He followed. She went up the stairs as Gwendolyn was coming down. Leo stayed back. Mrs. Bentley had been mad when he had overheard her conversation with Gwendolyn.

What did you say to my mother?

I didn’t say anything she didn’t already know.

You don’t know anything about my father.

No, Cassie, I think you’re about the only one who doesn’t know.

Cassie gripped the handrail. She dropped her head. She was trying to control her anger.

Don’t take my word for it, cousin. See where he goes. See who he’s with. You might even see someone else you know.

She looked back up at Gwendolyn. She started to speak but, Leo thought, she was unable. She turned and bounded back down the stairs.

I can’t wait to hear Uncle Harland’s explanation, Gwendolyn called out. I’ll bet he’ll wish he hadn’t signed that prenup!

LEO SNAPS OUT OF HIS FOG. The commercials are over. The all-news cable station has been covering the events live. He jumps from his bed as he sees the image of Paul Riley, speaking to reporters outside the police station. He yanks up the volume and holds his breath.

“Leo Koslenko did not kill the Mansbury women. Terry Burgos did.”

He closes his eyes as the rest of Paul Riley’s words play out.

“The police have asked for my help and I’m going to solve this. Give me a day or two, tops. I promise you, I will figure this out. But make no mistake. Terry Burgos killed those girls.”

The sides of Leo’s mouth curl. Almost a smile.

McDERMOTT WATCHES the television in the cafeteria, where he has come to refresh his coffee. On the television, live, is Paul Riley, standing outside the station, giving a statement to the press.

“What kind of nonsense is that?” Stoletti says to him. She was never a big fan of Riley, anyway, and it’s been a supremely shitty day for the two detectives. Stoletti won’t take the hit like her senior partner, but she’ll still take it. “ ‘Burgos killed those girls?’ ‘The police want my help?’ ‘Give me a day or two, tops?’ Does he know something we don’t?”

McDermott nods absently, watching the news replay the sound bite.

The police have asked for my help and I’m going to solve this. Give me a day or two, tops.

Stoletti sighs. “I’m taking off, Mike. There’s nothing left here for us. I’ve had my head kicked in enough for one night.”

I promise you, I will figure this out.

“You gonna be here for the Bentley interview? He’ll be in within the hour.”

He shrugs.

Make no mistake. Terry Burgos killed those girls.

Stoletti walks up next to him, gesturing to the television, featuring Paul Riley’s angry, flustered mug. “Oh, hell, I guess the guy’s entitled to blow off some steam. Not exactly a banner day for him, either. But he’s making himself look like an idiot.” She raps him on the arm and leaves.

“Maybe,” McDermott mumbles. Maybe he’s acting like an idiot.

Or maybe he’s “behaving.”

Friday

June 24, 2005

ISIT IN THE HALLWAY on the top floor of my house, leaning against the railing of the staircase, staring at the alarm pad on the wall. The alarm is not set. It’s not even hooked up to the police. But even disarmed, it covers five entry points to the house, plus motion sensors on the ground floor and along the final flight of stairs. If an entry point is breached, the number assigned to that position lights up. There will be no consequence-no shrill alarm, no call to the police-but at least I will know.

Zone One for the front door. Two for the sliding glass door. Three for the door from the basement. Four and five for windows on the ground floor.

My eyes close. My stomach is reeling, my head throbbing, my body beyond exhaustion. My eyes pop open after only a moment, I think, as I try to snap myself out of disorientation.

I look at the zone numbers on the alarm pad, still dark.

AT FIVE MINUTES AFTER one in the morning, Harland Bentley walks in with counsel. He’d been told to be here by one o‘clock sharp, so he’s late, and McDermott considers saying so. Could be a minor difference in clocks, but McDermott supposes Bentley was deliberate in his arrival. Bentley is wearing a navy tailored suit that no cop could afford with a month’s salary, and he supposes that decision was intentional, too.

McDermott, now and from here on out, will be a spectator. At some point in the lieutenant’s office after McDermott was excused, the commander, the governor, State Police Superintendent Edgar Trotter, and their staffs came up with the astonishingly bad decision that Edgar Trotter would conduct the interview with Harland Bentley, accompanied by one of his top aides.

McDermott walks into the central observation room, chin up- he’s not bowing down to these idiots, not when he’s done nothing wrong-and stands quietly next to the commander. Inside Interview Room One, Harland Bentley adjusts his coat and whispers to his attorney. The lawyer looks familiar. A large, handsome black guy done out nicely in a three-piece gray pinstripe. These two look immaculate, crisp, and well coiffed, for a hastily called interview in the middle of the night. No accident there. They are ready for the show.