23rd Midnight, page 12
part #23 of Women's Murder Club Series
CHAPTER 50
“SHOW ME THE pictures, again,” Burke said. He took off his glasses and wiped them with the hem of his blue shirt. Then, he looked expectantly at Brady.
Brady removed the photos from the envelope and pressed one of them against the wall of the cage. It was an image that I would never forget: the body of Catherine Fleet, lying face-up on the beach, her coat sleeves and long skeins of her dark hair being lifted by the outgoing waves.
Josephina Fleet looked almost alive. Attached to her mother by the straps of the front-facing carrier, her pale eyes were open, as if looking at seabirds flying overhead.
Burke asked the victims’ names and Brady shook his head “no.” He returned the pictures to his pocket.
Burke said, “Well, I see why you showed that to me. I guess there’s a similarity to Tara and Lorrie. But I give the killer a B minus. You spoke of a garrote. No ligature mark on this girl, so I’d say it was manual asphyxiation. Which I think is more personal and therefore better, though these two were put down fast and with no style. That lowered his score.”
Burke scratched at a cheek and said thoughtfully, “Do I know whodunit? Nope. I wish I could take some credit—but you know, I can’t. Actually, I’d do anything to be this guy for a day.”
Brady called the guards.
They came, removed their prisoner by the rear door of his cage. Burke turned his head and called back to us. “Lieutenant? If you want me to consult for you, you know where to find me. I think we can make a deal.”
I heard his laughter as he was escorted roughly out of our view. A buzzer sounded. A metal door clanged shut. Brady said, “He doesn’t know Blackout. He would’ve baited the hook.”
“He’s going to hate that someone is trying to steal his thunder.”
“Let’s go see the warden,” said Brady.
Warden Hauser’s office door was open. He had a small, one-window office with a bay view. His desk was tidy, file cabinets taking up much of the floor space, nothing on the walls but a picture of the warden transferring Charles Manson to a prison van marked California State Prison-Corcoran, where Manson was incarcerated until he died.
The warden looked up and, recognizing me, stood to greet me. I introduced Brady and we were invited to sit down.
I said, “Warden, we have a serial killer on a spree. We believe he’s killed six people in under two weeks. A man, woman, and infant in San Francisco. Another man in Corte Madera, a woman in Pasadena, and a third man on Friday night in Las Vegas.”
“It’s the same doer? You’re sure?”
Brady said, “He makes videos of some of his kills and pretties them up with classical music and lighting effects before sending them to Sergeant Boxer.”
Warden Hauser expressed shock, had many questions, including, “And you came to see Burke why?”
Brady said, “The recent Baker Beach double homicide resembles Evan Burke’s MO, and there’s something else. Half the time, the killings seem to revolve around Cindy Thomas, the journalist who wrote Burke’s authorized biography.”
“What did Burke say?”
“He sent Cindy a letter, told her he was writing a book. He told us he knows nothing about the recent killings,” I said. “He might be telling the truth.”
“Figures,” the warden said. “He has a TV but his laptop is no better than a typewriter. No internet connection. He does get mail and some visitors, hucksters, his attorney, true-crime fans.”
Warden Hauser leaned back in his chair and said, “He’s a nonstop headache, that guy. He’s disruptive. We have a 24/7 watch on him to protect him from death threats. It would be a big deal to be the one who takes him out.”
Brady said, “That mail that he gets. Maybe Burke knows something. You think you could put the screws to him a little? Monitor his mail a little more closely. Nothing illegal. If we see him again, I’d like him to be in a negotiating frame of mind.”
Hauser said, “Well. There’ve been some security breaches lately, including cyber. We’ll have to confiscate his computer for a while.”
I said, “He’ll say he can’t access the web.”
The warden smiled, rocked his chair to its upright position. “He’s a lifer. What’s he gonna do?”
Good deal.
CHAPTER 51
FOR THE THIRD time, Barbara Sullivan was on the witness stand. Yuki greeted her witness Monday morning and reminded her that she was still under oath.
“I understand.”
“Very good,” Yuki said. “On Friday, you told the court that you’d recently visited your home for the first time since your husband beat you. Going home refreshed your memory of that beating?”
“Yes. I remembered that the fight started when Lew and I came back from the grocery store with the kids. Tom Watkins, our neighbor, had offered to help me unload the groceries from the car. I’d said, “No, thanks, we’ve got it.”
“But Lew didn’t like Tom even talking to me. By the time we were inside, he was boiling mad. He called me names. He said he wanted to kill me. I didn’t take him seriously. I went downstairs to run some laundry. Lew came down after me. He said something like, “‘This is it. Say your prayers. Do it fast.’ He had a knife.”
Barbara covered her eyes with her palms, finally accepting a packet of tissues from Yuki, holding a wad of them to her eyes.
A few uncomfortable moments passed, as Barbara’s muffled sobs filled the courtroom from wall to wall. She coughed, apologized to the judge, then continued her narrative.
“Lew grabbed me by my hair, pulled my head back, and pressed the blade to my throat. I knew then that he really might kill me. I kneed him in the balls and he dropped the knife. He let go of me for that one moment and so I grabbed the knife off the floor and held it out in front of me, gripping the handle with both hands.”
Yuki urged Barbara to go on.
“The standoff ended when Lew held his hands up, his palms facing me and said, ‘Okay, okay, you win.’ I asked Lew to please leave so I could do the laundry. I turned back to the washer and felt a blow to the back of my head. When I woke up, I was tied to the laundry sink by my wrists. My ankles were taped to free weights and Lewis was kicking me in the ribs. He said, ‘Wake up,’ and called me a name. Then he—raped me. I passed out.”
Barbara broke down again. Yuki asked if she was able to continue.
“I’ll try. I must have been out for a long time. When I woke up, it was night. I can’t describe the pain. I hurt everywhere inside and out. I couldn’t see. I touched my … eye. God help me. I called out but there was no answer. When I woke up again, it was morning and I was throbbing everywhere. Every breath was like shards of glass in my lungs. I heard my seven-year-old, Kevin, calling me. I called back, but my voice was scratchy. A whisper. I tried to break free. The pain was too much. I was having out-of-body waking dreams, Ms. Castellano. When the police came, I felt that my soul was leaving my body. That’s what I remembered from when I went home recently.”
“Thank you, Barbara. I have just a few more questions to ask you. Do you remember the times you called the police prior to this event?”
“Yes. Once after a bad fight. And once when I was afraid to go into the house.”
“And did you drop the charges? If so, why?”
“Yes. Because I was afraid of Lewis. He threatened me and called me names and hurled the most horrifying insults in the world at me for days. He was careful to hurt me without leaving marks. So it would be my word against his. All the time telling me what he would do to me. Above all, there were the children. I didn’t want him to lie about me and somehow get custody of the children. That would be an endless hell for them.”
Tears spilled down Barbara’s cheeks. She put a hand on her chest to steady her heaving.
“Thank you, Barbara. I have no more questions.”
Yuki took her seat at the counsel table. Gaines had pushed a note card over to Yuki’s place. It read “Brilliant.”
The judge asked if defense would redirect and Switzer had the good sense to say “No, Your Honor.”
Court was adjourned for lunch break. Yuki stood as the judge left the bench.
As Barbara was rolled out of the courtroom, Yuki hoped she’d made every man and woman in the room feel as trapped and as close to death as that poor woman had felt. Had the jurors believed Barbara? Yuki couldn’t think of anything she would have done differently. At this minute, everyone in Courtroom 6A was thinking about Barbara Sullivan.
CHAPTER 52
WHEN COURT RECONVENED, Her Honor Judge Froman asked the defense counsel if Mr. Switzer was ready to make his closing argument.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Maurice Switzer stood, walked to the jury box and addressed the jurors. He looked attractive, honest, and made good eye contact with the jurors. Switzer didn’t bother with a preamble. No warm-up lines. He got right to it.
He said, “This is what happened one terrible afternoon in a homey house in Alamo Square. Barbara Sullivan antagonized her husband by giving the time of day to a man Lewis thought was a competitor for his wife’s affections. He picked up a bread knife from the kitchen counter and followed his wife to the basement laundry room where he threatened her. In her own words, Barbara didn’t take his threat seriously, which further inflamed her husband. When he stepped up his threat with the knife, Barbara kicked her husband in the testicles, causing intolerable pain. She could have left the basement, called the police, or gotten into the car with the children.
“Instead Barbara picked up the bread knife and threatened Lewis, already fired up, furious, and in pain.
“Barbara’s memory may be challenged in this regard. She called Lewis names that no man could handle. He remembers. She told him that he was a loser, a failed husband and father, and that she couldn’t stand to look at him. She knew how to push Lew’s buttons. She was good at it.
“Over the course of that evening, we maintain that Barbara wrote ‘I love you’ on the basement wall. Yes. With her own blood and her own hand. Was she baiting him? Offering an olive branch? We don’t know. But we know that she didn’t leave the basement. She remained there for twenty-four hours.
“As mentioned by the defendant and alluded to by Mrs. Sullivan, she liked rough sex and was Lew’s mentor in this activity. She encouraged it. If things went too far, Barbara told us that there is ‘fantasy and there is over the line.’ This is not a tangible line. This is an arbitrary distinction that Barbara alone made.
“In my opinion, Mr. Sullivan can be pardoned for not seeing that line. Historically, if Barbara called the police, she dropped the charges before ever giving a statement. She says she was afraid of her husband, but she didn’t leave him. She didn’t file for separation or divorce. She stayed.
“Barbara Sullivan knew the game she was playing but—combined with his own failure to read the situation—she pushed her husband too far. He loves her. He maintains that she loves him. Lew never intended for their sex game to result in the physical pain Barbara suffered and he is remorseful and repentant.
“But Lewis Sullivan did not attempt to murder Barbara.
“He could have done it, but he did not.”
Maurice Switzer thanked the jury and returned to his seat.
CHAPTER 53
I DROVE FROM the Hall to the southern edge of the Financial District in about ten minutes without using sirens and flashers. I parked on Jackson, not far from Susie’s front door. Susie’s Café is a Caribbean-style bar and restaurant and all are welcome, but Claire, Cindy, Yuki, and I thought of Susie’s as our clubhouse, the Women’s Murder Club HQ.
The plate glass windows were alight and when I opened the front door, a wonderful spicy aroma turned my mind toward dinner. The bar was full at 6:00 p.m. Fireman was manning the bar taps, the Yellow Bird Quartet was tuning up their steel drums, and the ochre sponge-painted walls added a glow to the front room. Old acquaintances waved, called out, “Hey, Sarge,” and I returned greetings. Susie, a limber and athletic woman, stopped me to say that the limbo contest was slated for six thirty and did I want to sign up?
“Sorry, Suz. I’m out of shape.”
She politely disagreed but I told her maybe next time and as I made my way to the back room, I was singing to the Yellow Birds’ warm-up: “Down at de market you can hear people cry out while on their heads they wear/Hot tea, rice, salt fish is nice and de rum is fine any time of year …”
Claire was in the corner of “our” booth talking to Yuki. I slid in next to my BFF and asked to be brought up to speed. Claire was in her listening mode. She put her arm around my shoulders and said, “Yuki can bring you up to speed faster and better than I can.”
Yuki has a high metabolism, is a fast-talker with a melodious laugh and a low tolerance for alcohol—tequila being her juice of choice. This evening she was drinking tea and seemed subdued.
Claire said, “Yuki, tell her.”
“You’ve heard this before.”
“Go ahead,” I said.
“Defense made a stellar closing argument. Really.”
Lorraine brought a pitcher of beer and said she’d be back for our order when Cindy showed up.
Yuki said, “He blamed the victim! Here’s the victim, battered to a pulp and defense counsel is saying she flirted with the neighbor. She calls her husband names. He’s sorry.
“Sorry?” Yuki continued, knocking her teacup with one hand, catching it with the other, never losing a beat.
“The husband tied her down for twenty-four hours without sustenance or a wet cloth or anything. He rapes her. And while her kids are screaming for her, he breaks her ribs, her leg, steps on her head, and pops out an eyeball. All because, according to the defendant, she flirted with a neighbor in full light of day.
“So, Switzer said, ‘Barbara went too far and because of that, her husband lost it and retaliated, and things got out of hand. The defendant is sorry, really sorry. I love her and she loves me.’
“Mo Switzer has that cool masculine authority, you know? His closing was elegant in its simplicity.”
I asked, “There are women jurors, Yuki?”
“Six,” she said.
Claire said, “They’re not going to buy what Switzer’s selling.”
“Hope you’re right,” Yuki said as Cindy plopped into the seat beside her. Our friend and author reached across the table, sipped from my beer mug, and said, “So? What’d I miss?”
“You first,” said Claire.
“Sure thing. You Never Knew Me is likely to hit number one on the Times Best Seller list this week,” Cindy said. “And I’m flying to Phoenix in the morning for an event at the Poisoned Pen in Scottsdale.”
“No,” Claire said. “You’re joking.”
Cindy shook her head, no, and sang a few words of a Glen Campbell oldie. “By the time I get to Phoenix, she’ll be rising …”
Claire said, “You, Cindy. Are incorrigible. I know I’m laughing but I’m not joking, girlfriend. I love you so I’m telling you the truth. It’s not a day in Phoenix. It’s dangerous. Like walking across a line strung between two skyscrapers, blindfolded and without a net. That’s what I’m saying.”
I followed Claire’s image and saw Cindy doing exactly that.
And I didn’t know anyone who could stop her.
CHAPTER 54
LORRAINE CAME OVER, saying “hi” to Cindy, who asked, “What’s good tonight?”
“Everything. Point me in a direction.” Lorraine took her pen and pad out of her apron pocket.
“Seafood something,” said Cindy.
“Good choice. Trust me. And can you sign this for Rinaldo?” Lorraine had an ad for Cindy’s book leaved between pages of her order pad. She presented it to Cindy.
“To Rinaldo?”
“That’s it and sign it, ‘Love, Cindy.’”
“Haha.”
Rinaldo had a crush on Cindy. She signed her name for the chef and said, “Rum and Coke?”
“Coming up.”
“Cindy,” Claire said, genuinely concerned. “You don’t see a link between your book signing in Vegas and that boy who was killed that night?”
“I did hear, and Rich showed me Blackout’s nauseating video. It was horrible—beyond words or comprehension. But here’s the thing, Claire. I haven’t received any threats, or emails, or videos, or texts, or anything. I was terrified until I put it together. I didn’t know any of those people who were killed. And I don’t know why they were killed in the same city where I was on tour. So, I have a question,” she said, taking in all three of us.
“Weren’t other people killed in cities where I wasn’t signing my book?”
I leaned back in my seat.
I said, “You’re saying, you think these particular killings are unrelated to you and the book?”
“Exactly,” she said.
Lorraine has the ability to be invisible when she wants to be. She placed some kind of savory seafood stew in front of Cindy along with a basket of bread and her cold drink. I thought about Cindy’s point.
Yes, people had been killed in other cities on the days Cindy had done book signings. Dozens. Hundreds. And three of the victims we were considering part of Blackout’s tally—the Fleets and Jacob Johnston—were killed in San Francisco. No book signing. And no videos, either. And to her point, Blackout had never mentioned Cindy. Pieces of the puzzle did not fit neatly together. It was maddening. Blackout was maddening.
I wanted to say Blackout’s spree had something to do with Burke. He’d dedicated the video of Beth Welky’s murder to him. But even though Cindy was signing books in Pasadena that same night I certainly couldn’t prove the connection. And now Cindy was going to continue her book tour in Phoenix.
I knew no one in the Phoenix PD.
With a shock, I became aware of the time. It was past six, and Joe and Julie were going to be home by eight tonight. I had to eat fast and drive home. Lorraine set my jerked beef and rice in front of me, same for Claire, plus a salad for Yuki, who said, “A watermelon margarita, please, Lorraine.”
