James Patterson - WMC - First to Die

FOUR HOURS LATER, in District Criminal Court, I felt well enough to watch Nicholas Jenks be arraigned for murder. A buzzing crowd filled the halls outside the courtroom of Judge Stephen Bowen. Photographers flashed cameras blindly, reporters surged for a glimpse of the sullen, shaken best selling writer. Raleigh and I squeezed through, took a seat behind Jill in the front row. My strength having returned, the riot in my chest subsided. I wanted Jenks to see me there. I saw Cindy, sitting in the press section. And in the back of the courtroom, I spotted Chancellor Weil and his wife. It was over before it began. Jenks was led in, his eyes as dead and hollow as craters on the moon. The clerk read the docket, the suspect rose. The bastard pleaded Not Guilty. What were they going to argue, that all the evidence was inadmissible? Leff, the consummate showman, was unusually respectful, even demure before Judge Bowen. He made a pleading case for release on recognizance based on Jenks's stature in the community. For a moment, the killer's accomplishments almost even swayed me. Jill fought him head-on. She graphically detailed the savagery of the murders. She argued that the suspect had the means and the lack of roots to flee. I felt a surge of triumph rippling through me when the judge struck his gavel and intoned, "Bail denied."

It was the end of the day, a day I had long waited for, and I met the girls for a drink at Susie's. We had earned this. Nicholas Jenks had been arraigned. No bail. No consideration of the court. The four of us had pulled it off. "Here's to the Women's Murder Club," Cindy cheered, with her beer mug in the air. "Not bad for a collection of gender-impaired public servants," Claire agreed. "What did Jenks call me?" I shook my head and smiled. "A fucking ice bitch?" "I can do ice bitch," Jill said, grinning. "To the ice bitches of the world," Cindy toasted, "and the men who cannot thaw us out." "Speak for yourself," said Claire. "Edmund thaws me just fine." We all laughed and clinked beers. "Still," I said, letting out a deep breath, "I'd like to turn up a murder weapon. And I want to nail him to the second crime." "When I'm through with him," Jill tugged at her beer and said, "you won't have to worry about him serving time for the second crime." "You see Jill chop down his lawyer's bail request?" Cindy said with admiration. "You see the look on his face?" She made her fingers into a scissors. "Snip, snip, snip, snip, snip. Straight for the testicles. That man was left standing there in his suit with a two-inch dick." We all laughed. Cindy's cherubic nose twisted as she said, Snip, snip, snip. "Still," I said, "without a weapon, his motive still needs work." "Damn his motive, child!" Claire exclaimed. "Let well enough alone." Jill agreed. "Why can't his motive simply be that he's a sick bastard? He's had a history of sexual sadism for years. He's brutalized three women that we know of. I'm sure more will come out as the trial moves on. "You saw the bastard, Lindsay," she went on. "He's crazed. His little perfect world gets rocked, he goes insane. This morning, he looked like he was about to plant a death grip on your throat." She grinned toward the group. "Lindsay just sort of glares up at him like, Get the fuck out of my face." They were about to raise a glass to me- the tough hero cop who would always carry the tag that she was the one who nailed Jenks -when the realization shot through me that I could never have done it without them. It wasn't my steel nerves that had taken over in the interrogation room, but the grip of my disease squeezing my energy. I had kept it concealed -never shared- even with the ones who had become my closest friends. "That wasn't about Jenks," I said. "Sure seemed like it." "I don't mean the confrontation. I mean what happened after." I paused. "When I almost collapsed. That wasn't about Jenks." They were still smiling, except Claire, but one by one the gravity in my eyes alerted them. I looked around the table and told them about the Pac Man-like disease that was eating my red blood cells, and that I'd been fighting it for three weeks now. Packed-red cell transfusions. My blood count was deteriorating. I was getting worse. I started strong, my voice firm, because it'd been part of my life for several weeks now, but when I finished, I was speaking in a hushed, scared tone. I was blinking back tears. Jill and Cindy just sat there, rocked in disbelieving silence. Then, there were three hands reaching out for me. Cindy's, Jill's, then last and warmest, Claire's. For a long time no one said anything. They didn't have to. Finally, I smiled, choking back tears. "Isn't it just like a cop to go and shut down a party just when it's going good." It broke the tension, cut through the sudden pall. They never said, We're with you. They never told me, You're gonna be all right. They didn't have to. "We're supposed to be celebrating," I said. Then I heard Jill's voice, out of the blue, solemn, confessing. "When I was a little girl, I was real sick. I was in a brace and hospitals between the ages of four and seven. It broke my parents, their marriage. They split up as soon as I got bet319 ter. I guess that's why I always felt I had to be stronger and better than anyone else. Why I always had to win. "It started in high school," Jill went on. I wasn't sure what she was referring to. "I didn't know if I would be good enough. I used to…" She unbuttoned the cuffs of her blouse, rolled the sleeves up over her elbows. "I've never showed these to anybody except Steve." Her arms were marked with scars. I knew what they were- self-inflicted slashes. Jill had been a cutter. "What I meant to say was, you just have to fight it. You fight it, and fight it, and fight it… and every time you feel it getting stronger, you fight it some more." "I'm trying," I whispered, my voice choking. "I really am trying." Now I knew what propelled her, what was behind that icy gaze. "But how?" Jill's hands were holding mine. There were tears in both our eyes. "It's like withjenks, Lindsay," she said. "You just don't let it win."

IN THE COLD, CRAMPED CELL, Nicholas Jenks paced anxiously. He felt as if dynamite were about to explode at the center of his chest. He hadn't done anything. How could they destroy his name, attack him with those wild fictions, disgrace him all over the news? It was dark and he was freezing. The cot in his jail cell wasn't fit for a monk. He was still in the damp clothes they had brought him in. A cold, unrepentant sweat began to break out on his palms. He'd make the little inspector-bitch pay. One way or another, he'd get her in the end. That was a promise. What was his fucking poodle of a lawyer doing? When would Leffget him out of there? It was as if all reason had been sucked out of his world. What the hell was going on? Or at least, Phillip Campbell thought, that's what Jenks ought to be feeling. What he thought the bastard would be saying in his mind. Campbell sat in front of the mirror. Time for you to go away. Your work is finally done. The last chapter's been written. He dabbed a wet cloth in a bowl of warm water. It was the last time he would ever have to play the part. So how does it feel, Nicholas? He pulled out the pins that held his hair and let his locks shake out. How does it feel to be a victim, a prisoner? To feel the same degradation and shame you cast on others? Slowly, he wiped the dark makeup off his eyes, dabbing with the cloth, feeling a sheen begin to return to his face. How does it feel to be helpless and alone? To be kept in a dark space? To feel betrayed? One by one, Phillip Campbell tugged at the hairs of the reddish beard on his chin, until they came out and a new person was revealed. Not able to recognize in the mirror the person you once were? Scrubbing the face until it came out clean and smooth. Unbuttoning the shirt, Nicholas's shirt, and soon, from underneath a body suit a well-defined woman's body came to life: the outline of breasts, shapely legs, arms rippling with lean strength. She sat there, newly revealed, a bright glow in her eyes. This is rich. How does it feel, Nicholas, to be royally fucked? The tables turned for once. She couldn't restrain the thought that it was fitting and funny that in the end he had been trapped by his own twisted mind. It was more than funny. It was absolutely brilliant. Who's laughing now, Nick? Book Four