William Bernhardt - Capitol Murder

“I have a source inside the escort joint. He told me you were asking questions about Amber.”

“So you bashed me over the head? Kidnapped me?”

“I just brought you here so we’d have a little privacy. It’s a storage locker. I rent it year-round. I just-I just-” His eyes began to well up. “I just want to know what happened to my little girl.”

Loving didn’t have much doubt, but it was always wise to be cautious. “Have you got some ID?”

The man reached into his back pocket and produced a wallet. He showed Loving his driver’s license, a host of credit cards. Sure enough-Robert Daily.

“Amber’s my only daughter. And I’ve always loved her. Even after she ran away from home.”

“When was that?”

“About a year ago. I eventually traced her to the escort service. Found out… how she’d been supporting herself.”

Loving felt a gnawing at the pit of his stomach.

“Tried to get her to come home, but she refused. Claimed she loved her life, partying all night, turning tricks. Then she fell in with those other girls, Veronica and her friends. Then it became even worse.”

“Worse than prostitution?”

“Much. That was when she started wearing all black-never anything but black. Got her tongue studded. Got tattoos, even in places… girls shouldn’t get tattoos. Had practically her whole back done-then started wearing backless dresses so everyone could see. And the tats were all weird stuff-symbols, signs, creepy occult crap. Last time I saw her, she wouldn’t even let me call her Amber.”

“Lilith,” Loving said.

“Yeah, that was it. Lady Lilith. I couldn’t get her to tell me much-she always ran away whenever I tried. Someone was messing with her head. And then one day, a little more than five months ago, she disappeared. Just like that. Not a trace of her. Not at the escort service, not anywhere else. Gone.”

“And you’ve been lookin’ for her ever since?”

Instead of rising, Daily tumbled back onto the concrete floor. His voice cracked as he spoke. “Her mother and I tried to be good parents. We did everything the books said. We didn’t smother her. We tried to stay involved with her life, her friends, and activities. But somehow… it all went wrong. We screwed up.”

“You shouldn’t blame yourself,” Loving said. He could see the man was on the edge. Some situations called for something other than his usual smashmouth approach. If Daily broke down, he’d be no use at all. “You can’t explain the things kids do, huh? ’Specially teenage girls.”

“I always told her I loved her. And now-now she’s gone. I’m afraid-so afraid-that-”

“Come on,” Loving said, lifting the man to his feet. “We’re both lookin’ for the same girl. Let’s work together, whaddya say?”

Daily brushed the dampness from his eyes. “Then-you know where she is?”

“No. But I got a lead. I was on my way when you bashed me over the head.” He smiled, then took the man squarely by the shoulders. “Now we can do it together.”

N ormally, in a case of this nature, for procedural reasons and to lay necessary evidentiary foundations, the first witness would be the person who discovered the body. Ben was not surprised, however, to find that Mr. Padolino deviated from standard procedure. The person who discovered the body, after all, was Shandy Craig, a member of the senator’s staff. She would undoubtedly be called in time, and the prosecutor would do his best to use her as an example of how the senator favored putting young and pretty girls on his staff. For his opening witness, however, when he made his initial impressions on the jury, he wanted a witness who was squarely and unquestionably on his team-so he skipped Shandy and went straight to one of the police officers called to the scene, homicide detective Lieutenant Porter Albertson.

Padolino quickly established the man’s credentials, his years of experience, and ran through the many commendations and promotions he had received for his work. The jury tolerated it, but it didn’t really interest them, and Padolino clearly understood that. A cop was a cop-get on to the good stuff.

“When did you arrive at Senator Glancy’s office?”

“About twelve thirty. Took us longer to get up there because of all the security precautions. We had to check our weapons, as well as anything else made of metal-down to the spare change in my pocket. They called back to the station to check us out. I kept telling the Capitol officers that a serious crime had been reported, but they didn’t care. They weren’t letting us in until they were certain we were who we said we were.”

“When you arrived at the senator’s office, what did you see?”

“Bedlam. It was a madhouse. People running like rabbits all over the place. The senator was gone and no one appeared to be in control. I’m accustomed to some disorientation after a major crime, but this was above and beyond the usual.”

“Were all the members of the senator’s staff present?”

“No. Some were at lunch. Some were down at the scene of the crime-the hideaway. And a couple were in their private offices, talking on the phone. Who they could be talking to at a time like that I have no idea.”

Ben watched the witness carefully as he testified. He seemed friendly, open, and helpful, with none of the brusqueness or defensiveness that he had displayed at the crime scene. Was Albertson putting on a show then, or now? He also seemed uncommonly garrulous for a police witness. Ben knew they were trained to answer questions directly and succinctly-without giving the defense any help by adding unnecessary information.

“Did you find the deceased?”

“After a few minutes, yes. I located Shandy Craig, the young blond intern who discovered the body.” Ben wondered if the descriptive term young blond was necessary, or even helpful. No, Albertson had been coached by the prosecutor to insert it, to remind the jurors that the senator was a cradle-robbing pervert. “She was really messed up, barely able to speak. Took forever, but I eventually got her to take us down to the basement hideaway.”

“The door was closed?”

“Ms. Craig had apparently taken one look, screamed, and then-”

“Objection,” Christina said, rising. “Lack of personal knowledge.”

“Sustained,” Judge Herndon said, in a tone that informed the jury that the objection was technically correct but of no importance whatsoever.

“But the door was closed, correct?” the prosecutor rejoined.

Christina didn’t bother sitting. “Objection. Leading.”

The prosecutor sighed wearily. Damn these defense attorneys and their constant attempts to enforce the rules. “I’ll rephrase. Please describe the state of the senator’s hideaway when you entered.”

“The door was closed,” Albertson said bluntly, obviously relieved to finally have it out.

“What did you do next?”

“Well, I opened the door, naturally.”

“And what did you find?”

“The dead, blood-soaked upended corpse of Veronica Cooper.”

There was a susurrous stir in the gallery, quiet, but no less chilling for it. Funny how that always happened, Ben thought, even though everyone present knew there had been a murder and knew how the body was found. When the fact of violent death is announced, a collective tremor runs through the assemblage.

Padolino winced slightly, as if he had not heard all this a hundred times. “Please describe her… position.”

“Her face was between the sofa cushions,” Albertson said, grimacing. “Facing me. She had been positioned so that her body fell behind her, against the wall. Like she was doing a headstand, but not very well. Her skirt was down, obviously, and she wasn’t wearing undergarments, so she was… exposed. Her blouse was torn, two buttons were missing, and it was pulled down below her shoulders. There was a huge bloody gash in her neck. Not that it was still bleeding-the blood was dried and coagulated by the time I saw her. There was a large puddle of blood on the floor beneath her.”