William Bernhardt - Capitol Murder

“You people are making me sick,” Christina said. “Have you totally forgotten why we’re here? This isn’t some campaign-headquarters smoke-filled room. It’s a courtroom. A man is on trial for his life.”

Tidwell was not impressed. “We’re all on trial for our lives, lady. From the moment we declare our candidacy to the day we die. Todd knows that as well as I do. But he screwed up. Now he’s paying for it.” He shrugged, then let loose another grin. “No reason why others shouldn’t profit from his mistake.”

Christina started for the door. “You’re disgusting.”

Padolino held out his hand. “Christina-about my…”

“Forget it.” She pushed Tidwell out of her way. “Buy these two jackals a drink. While you’re at it, buy them a conscience.” She slammed the door behind her.

When Loving awoke, his head was throbbing and he felt as if he was being tortured. It took a few more moments of consciousness to gather his senses sufficiently to comprehend the reason-he was being tortured.

He was strung up, literally, his hands tied together with wire, dangling from the ceiling. His feet did not quite touch the floor. He’d been stripped bare to the waist. Am I hanging from a meat hook, he wondered, like that woman back at the S &M palace? Didn’t really matter, not while his arms felt as if they were being ripped out of their sockets. Regardless of what he was hanging from, it hurt like hell.

“Ah, Loving, we’re awake, are we? That’s good. I was becoming anxious.”

Loving didn’t have to adjust his vision to know who was speaking to him. “Look who’s here. Amber’s alleged daddy. Also known as the Sire.”

He smiled thinly. “How smart you are. I suspected you’d find us, eventually. So I made preparations.” From a rack on the wall, he took the end of a long large fire hose into both hands, then turned the spigot. Water spewed out-slamming into Loving’s chest.

“Ahhhh!” Loving felt the harsh blast tearing at him, knocking him backward, putting even more strain on his aching arms. “Stoooop!”

The Sire turned off the water. “Since you asked nicely. I just wanted you to get nice and wet. Water is such a good conductor.”

“You killed Amber,” Loving said, gasping. It was difficult to breathe while hanging like this. Almost impossible to speak. “And you killed Colleen and Veronica Cooper, too.”

“To the contrary, I never kill anyone.” He smiled through thin, blood-red lips. “I merely release them from their bodies. But they still live. They become a part of me. A part of my immortal essence.”

Loving could taste blood in his mouth. He spat it out. “Have you killed Beatrice?”

“And why would I do that?”

“I saw you in there! Your sick little ceremony.”

The Sire stepped closer-though not near enough for Loving to wrap his legs around his throat. “You misapprehend the nature of our ceremony. We never intended to kill her, at least not there. What purpose would that serve?” He smiled. “We ate her. We took turns, sucking her dry.”

Despite his pain, Loving felt his temper rising. “She’s still alive?”

“For now. Until she outlives her usefulness to us.” He waited until Loving looked him in the eyes before he continued. “What have you told the police about me? Or that attorney you work for?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying.”

“Okay, everythin’. They know all about your sick little church. You’d better get the hell out of here.”

“Again, you’re lying.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” he sighed. “I’m sure. How much do you know about my little church?”

“Everything there is to know. Everything those girls knew, and then some. Enough to put you behind bars for the rest of your life.”

The Sire pondered. “You could be telling the truth. But I don’t think so. Let me ask again. What do you know about my church?”

“You run a church? Damn. I thought this was an IHOP.”

The Sire frowned. “I can see this is going to be useless. You require persuasion.”

“Listen, creep, you can shoot me with your little hose all night long. It won’t make any difference.”

“I suspect it would, after a few days. But I don’t have a few days. Dr. Usher?”

Loving heard a door creak somewhere in the darkness. A figure emerged. He was wearing a white coat, like a surgeon, but that didn’t prevent Loving from recognizing him.

It was Deep Throat. And he was carrying a little black bag.

“Dr. Usher did a residency in surgery. Did you know?”

Loving felt a cold chill envelop his body.

“I think you should start with the scalpel, Doctor. What do you think?”

“As you wish, Sire.” His expression was flat, almost blank. He was like an automaton, a slave with no choice but to do his master’s bidding.

“Very well. You may begin.”

“Look,” Loving said, “I don’t know what you’re thinkin’, but I’m not gonna-”

In the blink of an eye Deep Throat-or Dr. Usher-lunged forward, scalpel extended. The blade entered the soft part of Loving’s abdomen, just above the waist, just below the kidneys.

Loving screamed.

As soon as Ben entered the courtroom, he saw that his next witness was already present, which alleviated one potential worry. On the other hand, his witness was talking to Shawn MacReady, the congressman from Arkansas and former witness for the prosecution, which tended to create additional worries.

Ben approached them. “All ready to go?”

His witness was a tall, exceedingly thin man, almost gaunt in appearance, but with a sinewy strength to him. John Carradine in his prime. Not someone Ben would want to arm wrestle. “I think so. If you’re sure you want to do this.”

“I’m sure.” He shifted his gaze to MacReady. “Anything I can do for you?”

“No. I was just discussing the possibility of employing your witness. I’ve had a few security concerns of late. Thought he might be able to help.” He paused. “For that matter, from what I hear, you’ve had a few security concerns yourself, Kincaid.”

“You could say that. Guard out front told me Darrin Cooper tried to get into the courtroom again today. Fortunately they stopped him.”

The bailiff brought the court into session and a few moments later, the judge and jury were back in place. Ben called his next witness.

“The defense calls Max Capshaw.”

The tall man shuffled when he walked, with a slight hunch to his shoulders. He was wearing a suit that could be described as ill fitting at best: Ben guessed that it was borrowed and that he didn’t normally work with a Windsor knot pressed against his neck.

Ben wasted no time establishing that Capshaw was a licensed private detective in the District of Columbia and that he was the man Marie Glancy had hired to follow Veronica Cooper. With great detail and considerable verve, Capshaw told the jury everything he had witnessed over the course of six months tailing the woman. Todd Glancy barely figured in the narrative, and when he did, Capshaw glossed over it quickly. What he spent his time on was Veronica Cooper’s nightlife. Amber and Colleen and Beatrice. Stigmata. The Chosen. Even Circle Thirteen. Veronica’s addiction to the designer drug. And her addiction to sex. Lots and lots of sex. Not just with Todd Glancy-not even primarily with Todd Glancy. With all kinds of men. And women. As Capshaw described her sexual encounters, they seemed so patternless and indiscriminate that the jury was left wondering if she had even been aware of what she was doing or who she was doing it with. Padolino objected repeatedly, but Herndon consistently overruled him, reminding Padolino that only yesterday he had been allowed to delve into the parties’ sex lives with great abandon. Sauce for the goose.