William Bernhardt - Hate Crime

“He talked about it in great-”

“Answer my question, sir. Did Johnny ever confess to using the hammer? Did he confess to even touching the hammer?”

Sasser exhaled slowly. “No.”

“In fact, he specifically said that it was his buddy Brett who used the hammer, right? And come to think of it, you found the hammer in Brett’s car, right?”

“Right.”

“In fact, according to Johnny, Brett was the one who committed all of the most brutal parts of the beating. Brett was the one who broke Tony’s legs. And used the Taser. And Johnny says he tried without success to get Brett to stop.”

“It’s no big surprise, after we’ve got him dead to rights, that he would try to pin everything on his friend.”

“Move to strike,” Ben said, “and I’ll ask the court to instruct the witness not to engage in speculation about motives.”

Lacayo nodded, without much enthusiasm. “The witness will limit his remarks to what he actually saw or heard.”

The flaw in this argument, as Ben knew all too well, was that Brett, before he died, had tried to pin everything on Johnny. But, happily, that transcript wasn’t coming in. “The bottom line, sir, is that you don’t know where the victim was killed, or how, or by whom. At best, all you know is that a beating took place. But that does not equal murder.”

“You ever had your legs shattered?” Sasser shot back.

“I’m sorry, Sergeant, but in cross-examination, I get to ask the-”

“Because I have.” He turned toward the jury. “In the war. Vietnam. You can’t imagine how that hurts.”

“Objection,” Ben said hastily. “Nonresponsive. Not relevant.”

“It is relevant!” Sasser shouted. “The only reason I survived is that I got medical attention fast.”

“Move to strike!” Normally, law enforcement witnesses were well behaved and by-the-book. Something inside this guy had snapped.

The judge pounded his gavel. “The witness will refrain from-”

Sasser ignored him. “But Tony Barovick didn’t get medics. They just left him lying on the floor to die. To bleed to death. They didn’t care.”

Lacayo shouted across the room. “Mr. Drabble, take control of your witness!”

“This witness is dismissed,” Ben said. “Move to strike his irrelevant statements. In fact, I move to strike his entire testimony.”

“Why?” Sasser growled. “Because you’re afraid of the truth?”

Ben rushed to the bench. This emotional outburst might have an impact on the jury, but it could also give him a mistrial, or possibly even grounds for appeal.

“I’ll go,” Sasser said, stepping down from the stand. Then suddenly, he whirled back around on Ben. “But don’t tell me we can’t call it murder because we don’t know who did what or which of the many tortures actually killed that poor boy. It was brutal, cold-blooded murder. And anyone-everyone-who had anything to do with it deserves to die!”

“What’s he doing?” Swift asked Baxter, under her breath. “Listening to the room.”

“What?”

“Don’t ask.”

The two female law enforcement officers stood silently and watched as Mike stared off into space-or at least as far as it was possible to stare in this small and sordid public rest room. Crime scene technicians swarmed around them. A man in yellow coveralls was on his hands and knees picking up bits of trace evidence with adhesive strips. Another was rubbing Luminol on the tile as if it were floor wax, looking for errant blood traces in a sea of red. And Mike appeared oblivious to it all.

“How long does this usually take?” Swift asked.

“No telling. Until he comes up with something. Sometimes not long. And sometimes… well, let’s just say we might want to adjourn to that deli I spotted outside and get lunch. And dinner, if necessary.”

Swift grimaced. “I hope it doesn’t take that long. This place smells.”

“Most murder scenes do.”

“Thanks, Sergeant, I have worked a crime or two. But this joint is way above average on the stink scale. It probably smelled bad even before it contained a corpse. But now we have that all-too-rare combination of urine, decaying flesh, and copious amounts of blood. A whole can of Glade couldn’t freshen this place up.”

One of the local Chicago crime techs, a man named Grayson, perked up. “Actually, it isn’t any of those things. It’s the cranial gases.”

“Cranial gases?”

He nodded. “Released when the gunshot blew off half the guy’s head. Stinks to high heaven. Worse than colon dissections.”

“So we’re all carrying around little stink bombs in our heads?” Baxter pulled a face. “Remind me not to put a gun in my mouth.”

Swift approached Mike and gave him a slap on the shoulder. “All right, Yoda. Enough communing with the universe. Whaddaya think?”

Mike slowly diverted his gaze to her. “He thought he was safe.”

“Come again, slick?”

“He thought he was in the clear. He knew someone was out to get him, but he thought he’d managed to escape whoever it was or whatever he’d done. Probably going to catch the first bus out of town and never come back.”

“I can confirm that,” Grayson said, pointing at the materials he had carefully removed from the victim’s satchel and wrapped in plastic. “Bus ticket. Unused.”

Mike nodded. “Must’ve been a hell of a shock when he turned around and saw… whoever.”

Baxter’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know he did?”

Mike pointed to a red smudge on the steel flush handle above the right-side urinal. “Blood-but no fingerprints. He must’ve been standing right here, facing away, when the killer smashed his head back. Probably taking a leak, turned around-and there he was. He recognized his killer.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“Because he didn’t scream immediately. If a stranger had come this close, he would’ve shouted. But he recognized the assailant. He probably tried to talk his way out of it. Didn’t work. Judging from the lacerations on the jaw and the chest, the killer knew how to fight. He put the victim out of commission fast. And then blew his head off.”

“Okay, Sherlock,” Swift said, “I’ll buy all that. Got a theory on why the poor slob was killed?”

“If I knew that, I’d know who did it. Unfortunately, I don’t.” Mike thumbed through the contents of the dead man’s travel bag. “Twelve-inch ruler. Zircon-studded dog collar.”

“Guy must’ve had a big dog, judging from the collar,” Swift said. “My mama always favored Great Danes, herself.”

Mike didn’t reply. He turned to Grayson, who was testing something with his pocket-size lab kit. “What’s that?”

“A white creamy substance I found inside the victim’s satchel.”

“Yes, but what is it?”

“I can’t be sure. I’ll need to get it back to the lab.”

“Grayson, I saw you test it. Tell me what it is.”

“I can’t be positive until-”

“Grayson.”

“My professional integrity requires-”

“Grayson!” Mike jerked the man toward him by the collar. “Are you aware of how much I outrank you?”

“Sir… you’re not even a member of our force. You’re out of your jurisdiction.”

“Which won’t help your sorry ass one little bit if I tell your supervisor you disobeyed a direct order from a superior officer. Understand me?”

“Yes. Sir,” he added.

“So I’d appreciate it if you’d answer my question. What is it?”

“Nonoynol-9,” he answered sullenly.

“And what the hell is that?”

“It’s… most commonly used as a spermicide.”

“Thank you, Grayson. Dismissed.”

Grayson left the bathroom as quickly as possible.