Joel Goldman - Motion to Kill

The county cops responded. They were polite but suspicious. Why was he there? When did he get there? Who hit him? What did he see? What did he hear? Let’s start again from the beginning.

Mason sat in the backseat of a stuffy patrol car, his sweat-stained shirt damp against his skin, answering questions in the dark. Every now and then, someone opened the car door, illuminating the spidery pattern of cracked upholstery on the back of the front seat.

The assistant DA on call for weekend bodies asked the questions. He was young and energetic and kept Mason on task. A deputy sheriff listened from the front seat, motioning to the ADA when paramedics emerged from the house, Harlan’s body zipped inside a black body bag, laid out on a stretcher. They watched in silence as the paramedics loaded Harlan into the back of an ambulance and drove away, the headlights blinding them for an instant as the vehicle passed by.

“One more time, Mr. Mason. From the top,” the ADA said.

Three hours and two detailed interrogations later, Mason stood under his shower, swearing never to spend another Sunday with his partners. Sleep was impossible. Sunrise wasn’t far off, and he went jogging at first light. Another shower and he headed for the refuge of work. He decided to wait to announce Harlan’s death to the staff until after he’d talked with Scott.

At eight thirty he looked up to find Kelly Holt smiling at him from his doorway, a soft-leather briefcase in one hand. Mason hadn’t seen her since Sullivan’s funeral. He wasn’t expecting her, but he was glad to see her. Her smile didn’t last long when she saw his face.

“Tell me about it,” she said and closed the door.

It wasn’t a question or a command. It was an invitation, and Mason gladly took it. She listened and asked questions that he answered with dull rote, having committed them to memory hours ago.

“Don’t try to forget it. You can’t. Don’t try to understand it. You won’t. Learn not to be afraid of it, and you’ll learn to live with it.”

“It’s that simple?”

“Nope. The tough stuff never is. The good news is that you owe me for a year’s worth of therapy. If it makes you feel any better, I’ve got more good news.”

“I’ll take it.”

“I know how Sullivan was murdered,” she said.

“I don’t get cops. I’m in the middle of an epidemic of murdered partners and you’re grinning like you just won the lottery.”

“Professional pride. I like being smarter than the killer.”

“How was he murdered?”

“An overdose of insulin.”

“I didn’t know he was diabetic.”

“He wasn’t. I doubt if he would have taken a fatal dose of insulin on purpose. Somebody injected him or duped him into injecting himself. That fits with the needle marks found on his left arm and thighs.”

“How do you know it was insulin?”

“Lab tests. And it makes sense with the rest of the evidence.”

“I thought he drowned.”

“He did. The insulin overdose made him sick enough that he couldn’t save himself when he hit the water.”

“What did it do to him?”

“Probably made him sweaty and nauseated at first. At the end, his heart rate was in overdrive. That’s what caused the heart attack. If he hadn’t fallen in the lake, that’s what would have killed him.”

“When do you think it happened?”

“Could have been before or after the card game. The reaction can be fast or take up to a few days.”

“What now?”

“I’m going to have a chat with Cara Trent. She was the last person seen with Sullivan.”

“Why haven’t you talked with her already?”

“I wanted to wait for the lab tests so I’d know what to ask her and so I’d know when she was lying.”

“What makes you think she’ll lie?”

“Everyone does at first. Or they leave things out, like you did.”

Mason didn’t argue since she was right about him.

“Mind if I sit in?”

He couldn’t let one of the firm’s employees be questioned about her involvement in a murder without a lawyer present.

“I’d have been disappointed if you didn’t insist.”

“Do you think she did it?”

“I don’t know. Depends on what their relationship was really like. Murder is a strange business. It attracts the most unlikely people-friends, lovers, spouses-all kinds of partners.”

They walked down the hall to Cara’s office. She sat behind a wooden desk in her windowless office, twirling a pen between her fingers. She jumped when they knocked, as if they’d awakened her. Her face was slack, her eyes puffy. Mason guessed she wasn’t sleeping and probably hadn’t for the last couple of days.

Case files were stacked on both sides of her chair. The walls were bare. Her small office got smaller when Kelly showed Cara her badge and wasted no time with small talk.

“Were you with Richard Sullivan when he died?”

Cara pulled her chair up hard against her desk, a slight tremor passing along her jawline. “No.”

“Mr. Sullivan was murdered, Cara. You were seen leaving the poker game with him on Saturday night, which makes you the last person seen with him. I’m certain you want to help us find out who killed him.”

Cara looked at Mason for confirmation. She was struggling to keep her control as she wadded the edge of her legal pad.

“It’s true,” Mason said. “But you don’t have to answer any questions. I’m sure you know that.”

“No, Cara, you don’t have to answer my questions. But I’d have to wonder why you’d refuse to assist in a murder investigation,” Kelly said, holding Cara with her stare.

“You haven’t given me a Miranda warning.”

“You don’t get a Miranda warning until you become a suspect. Are you a suspect?”

Cara crossed her arms over her chest. “I know my rights. You’re not even in your jurisdiction.”

“I’ll make it easy on you, Cara. A neighbor puts you at the condo that night twice; the first time with Sullivan and the second time by yourself. And your fingerprints are all over Sullivan’s ski boat. Now, be a good girl and tell me the truth.”

“If you’ve got my fingerprints, you got them illegally. What’s the matter, haven’t they heard of the Fourth Amendment in the Ozarks?”

Cara turned ugly with her last shot, playing lawyer one too many times. Kelly counterpunched.

“Here, read this.” She pulled Sullivan’s autopsy report from her briefcase and tossed it onto Cara’s desk. “Your boyfriend had a little secret he forgot to tell you about. He was HIV positive.”

Cara turned chalky and started to shake. “You’re lying, you goddamn bitch, you’re lying!”

“I don’t have to lie, Cara. The truth is a lot scarier than any lie I could tell you. Pick it up and read it.”

Kelly’s quiet insistence frightened Cara, who shrank from the report as if it were contagious.

“Pick it up and read it,” Kelly continued, hammering her with a velvet glove. “You probably don’t have AIDS yet since it can take ten years to show up. Now, read it and tell me what happened.”

Cara picked up the report, quivering, tears streaming down her face. “Oh God, oh my God …,” she cried, and then reached for her trash can and vomited.

Kelly put her arm around her, now a soothing big sister helping Cara wipe her face with tissues from a box on the desk.

“Cara, you don’t have to say anything else,” Mason said.

He’d been transfixed by Kelly’s performance and almost forgot why he was there. Kelly ignored him and handed Cara her coffee cup.

“It’s okay,” Cara said between gulps. “I know what I’m doing.” Her voice was soft, childlike. “I wanted him to use protection, but he said I was the first one since his wife and I fucking believed him.”