William Bernhardt - Murder One

“Arlen, be reasonable. I knew Joe, too, remember? I loved him like a brother. But this—this stuff we’re doin’—this is crazy. Even Joe wouldn’t want this!”

“Don’t tell me what my own partner would want!”

“I’m right, Arlen! You know I am! Joe believed criminals should be punished. But he never wanted to hurt anyone. He wouldn’t stand around and let anyone else get hurt, either! And he didn’t like it when people messed with him.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think I do, Arlen. I still remember.”

“You’re babbling.”

“You may’ve got the files expunged, but I’ve got a long memory. I know why Joe got bucked down to patrolman. And I know why he got bucked back up again, too.”

When Matthews’s voice returned, it was slow and … different. “What exactly are you saying, Frank?”

“You know what I’m saying. I’m saying this has gone on long enough.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No, I’m not threatening you, you thick-headed moron! I’m trying to get through to you. I thought this was a good idea when we started. I wanted to see justice done. I wanted to see Joe avenged. But it’s over now. The case is back in the courts. Our work is done. But you won’t let go of it!”

“I’m very concerned about—”

“You’re not concerned. You’re obsessed!”

Matthews slowly turned away until he once again faced forward, staring at the lights on the seventh floor. His calm demeanor was belied by the rapid rise and fall of his chest. “Get the fuck out of my car.”

“Arlen—”

“You heard me.”

“Arlen, you gotta listen to reason. You—”

“Get outta my car!” Matthews pounded Frank with his fists, slamming him on his neck and shoulders and face. Frank tried to deflect the blows, but in such a tiny space, there was little room to maneuver.

“Arlen, get a grip!”

“Get out!” Matthews was screaming now, his fists still flying. “Get outta my car!”

“All right!” Frank popped open the car door and shifted his enormous frame forward, but—

Someone was standing just outside his door.

“Smile!”

A moment later, a blinding white flash of light erupted in their eyes.

“What the—” Frank fell back onto the car seat, his arm covering his eyes. “What’s going on?” Another bright white flash illuminated the darkness.

“Who the hell is it?” Matthews bellowed. A few moments later, enough of his vision had returned to answer the question for himself. “Loving!”

Loving was holding a palm-size camera in his hands. “At your service. Poker game break up early tonight, boys?”

“What are you doing here?”

“I work here,” Loving replied. “Shouldn’t I be askin’ what you’re doin’ here?”

“None of your goddamned business!”

“I think it is.” Loving leaned forward, not intimidated in the least by the hulk he had to cross over to get near Matthews. “I think you’ve been tailin’ my man Kincaid. And God knows what else. You should’ve taken the warning I gave you back in the parking garage.”

“Get stuffed.”

“I’ll tell you somethin’ else,” Loving continued. “If I find out you’re behind some of the troubles Ben’s been havin’ lately, I’ll be comin’ to you for payback.” His voice dropped a notch. “And I find out you were the son of a bitch who attacked Paula Connelly, you’re a dead man.”

“Very scary, Loving. I’m trembling.”

“You should be, Matthews.” He slowly pulled out of the car. “Now if you’ve got any sense at all in that tiny little pea brain of yours, which unfortunately I’m not sure you do, you’ll take your friend’s advice. Let the courts do their job and leave Kincaid alone.”

“How long have you been eavesdropping?”

“You see, Matthews, it ain’t eavesdroppin’ when I’m supposed to be here—and you ain’t.” Loving took a step back, then raised the camera again and snapped another picture. “See you in court, Matthews. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

31

“WHERE ARE THE MATTHEWS exhibits?” Ben said, ripping through the notebooks scattered across the defense table. “I need those exhibits.”

“I think they’re in one of the bankers’ boxes,” Christina offered,

Ben scanned the stacks and stacks of boxes beside their table in the courtroom. “That’s helpful. Which one?”

“If I recall correctly, the blue one.”

“There is no blue one.”

“Uh-oh.”

Ben looked at her with unforgiving eyes. “How could this happen?”

“Beats me. I’m the new grad, remember? How do lawyers normally keep track of their exhibits?”

“Normally their legal assistant takes care of that. Unfortunately, mine just got a law degree.” He glanced over his shoulder. The bailiff was coming in, which meant the judge would not be far behind. “Christina, could you run to the pay phone in the corridor and call Loving? The box must be back at the office.”

“Phone’s broken. And I didn’t bring my cell phone. I didn’t think Judge Cable would be amused if it started playing ‘La Vie en Rose’ in the middle of the trial. I could run downstairs—”

“No way. I need you here.” He snapped his fingers. “I know what to do. I’ve been looking for an excuse to use this.” He popped open his briefcase and took out a small Palm Pilot. “Christmas present from my mother.”

Christina watched over his shoulder. “Going to look up the office phone number?”

“Hey, this baby’s wireless. I can send e-mail.”

“Loving doesn’t have a computer.”

Ben punched the tiny keys on the palm-sized keyboard. “I’m sending the message to a company called myFax. They’ll receive the message and fax it to Loving. Isn’t that incredible?”

Christina rolled her eyes. “Boys and their toys.”

LaBelle started the testimonial phase of the trial predictably enough by calling back to the stand Sergeant Mark Callery, the young cop who was the first on the scene to discover Joe McNaughton’s body. He recounted the whole incident in gory detail. Ben thought he was much more persuasive than he had been at the first trial; as with all things, he supposed, practice makes perfect. Callery painted the picture with an artist’s exactitude. All the grisly details were included; not so much as a single blood splatter was left to the jury’s imagination.

The effect on the jurors was immediate and apparent. They already knew what had happened to the unfortunate Joe McNaughton. But it was another thing again to hear it described in court, in minute detail, with pictures no less. The true horror of the crime hit home with a force Ben knew would linger for days. This was no longer a hypothetical matter. A man had been killed, horribly so, and according to LaBelle, Keri Dalcanton was the monster who did it.

Ben cross-exed, principally on the subject of physical strength. Unfortunately, Callery was ready for this line of questioning, having already heard it once before, and had his answers polished and ready. One of the flaws with retrying a case, Ben thought—one of many such flaws—was the fact that it was almost impossible to surprise anyone. As he had before, Callery opined that someone had driven the body to Bartlett Square, then dragged it to the fountain and somehow mustered the strength to hog-tie it with the chains. As for the severing of the male member, that was an easy stroke, Callery said. Anyone could have done it. Callery had no opinion on why the word FAITHLESS had been smeared across his chest.

When Ben sat down after cross, Christina leaned close. “I don’t think that hurt us,” she said. “All he did was establish that a crime occurred. Which we’ve never denied.”