Текст книги "Airtight"

Автор книги: David Rosenfelt

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David Rosenfelt
Airtight

The tabloids called it “The Judge-sicle Murder.”

It was a ridiculous name for an event so horrific and tragic, but it sold newspapers, and generated web hits, so it stuck.

In the immediate aftermath, very little was known and reported in the media, so they compensated by detailing the same facts over and over. Judge Daniel Brennan had attended a charity dinner earlier that evening at the Woodcliff Lakes Hilton. Judge Brennan generally avoided those type of events whenever he could, but in this case felt an obligation.

The Guest of Honor was Judge Susan Dembeck, who was at that point a sitting judge on the bench of the Second Circuit Court of Appeals. Since Judge Brennan’s nomination to that court was before the Senate and he was replacing the retiring Judge Dembeck, he made the obvious and proper decision to support his future predecessor by attending the event.

Others at the dinner estimated that Judge Brennan left at ten thirty, and that was confirmed by closed-circuit cameras in the lobby. He stopped at a 7-Eleven, five minutes from his Alpine, New Jersey, home, to buy a few minor items. The proprietor of the establishment, one Harold Murphy, said that Judge Brennan was a frequent patron of the store. He said it on the Todayshow the following morning, in what the network breathlessly promoted as an exclusive interview, which aired seven minutes before Good Morning America’s breathlessly promoted exclusive interview with Mr. Murphy.

Among the items that Murphy described Judge Brennan as buying was a Fudgsicle. It was, he said, one of the Judge’s weaknesses, regardless of the season. As was the Judge’s apparent custom, Murphy said that he started opening the Fudgsicle wrapper while walking to the door, such was his desire to eat it. Murphy seemed to cite this as evidence that the Judge was a “regular guy.”

Murphy didn’t mention, and wasn’t asked, the time that Judge Brennan arrived at the store. It was eleven forty-five, meaning the ten-minute drive from hotel to store had apparently taken an hour and fifteen minutes.

It was ten minutes after midnight when Thomas Phillips, who lived four doors down from Judge Brennan, walked by the Judge’s house with his black Lab, Duchess. In that affluent neighborhood, four doors down meant there was almost a quarter mile of separation between the two homes.

The Judge’s garage door was open, and his car was sitting inside, with its lights on. This was certainly an unusual occurrence, and Phillips called out the Judge’s name a few times. Getting no response, he walked towards the garage.

In the reflected light off the garage wall, he could see the Judge’s body, covered in blood that was slowly making its way towards where Phillips was standing. The Fudgsicle, melting but with the wrapper around the stick, was just a few inches from the victim’s mouth, a fact that Phillips related when he gave his own round of exclusive interviews.

The murder of a judge would be a very significant story in its own right, especially when the victim was up for a Court of Appeals appointment. But the fact that this particular judge was “Danny” Brennan elevated it to a media firestorm.

Brennan was forty-two years old and a rising star in the legal system. It was a comfortable role for him to play, as he had considerable experience as a rising star.

He was a phenom as a basketball player at Teaneck High School, moving on to Rutgers, where he earned first-team All America status. Rather than head to the NBA as a first-round draft choice after one season, which he could certainly have done, he chose instead to stay all four years. He then pulled a “Bill Bradley,” and went on to Oxford as a Rhodes scholar.

When his studies had concluded, he finally moved on to the NBA, and within two years was the starting point guard for the Boston Celtics. It was during a play-off game against the Orlando Magic that on one play he cut right, while his knee cut left. He tore an ACL and MCL, which pretty much covers all the “CLs” a knee contains, and despite intensive rehab for a year and a half, he was never the same.

Confronted with physical limitations but no mental ones, Daniel Brennan went to Harvard Law, and began a rapid rise up the legal ladder.

A rise that ended in a garage, in a pool of blood and melted Fudgsicle.

“I can’t make it tonight,” I said.

I’m sure that my brother, Bryan, heard the news while lying in bed, because his response sounded a little groggy. “And you woke me at seven o’clock in the morning to tell me that?”

“I feel terrible about that, especially since I’ve been up all night. Don’t you work?”

“It’s Saturday, big brother.”

“You don’t rip off the indigent on Saturdays?” I asked, unable to help myself. It wasn’t that I lacked respect for Bryan’s position as an investment banker; the truth was I really didn’t even understand what it involved. But it made for an easy target.

“It’s way too early for occupational banter,” Bryan said. “Sorry you can’t join us.” Bryan certainly couldn’t have been surprised that I was backing out of the dinner; my cancellation rate had to be well over sixty percent. He continued. “Julie will be disappointed.”

“No she won’t,” I said, without much conviction. As always, it was impossible for me to have any idea what Julie might be thinking, which was unfortunate, because it was probably the thing I involuntarily pondered most.

In my mind’s eye I could see Bryan turning over in bed and talking to his wife, who herself I’m sure was just waking up. She was wearing a white nightgown, low at the neckline. My mind’s eye often has a very specific imagination. “Julie, Lucas can’t make dinner,” Bryan said. “Are you disappointed?”

“Of course.”

Bryan spoke back into the phone. “You were right; she’s delighted you’re not coming. What’s going on, Lucas? Why can’t you make it?”

Bryan was one of the few people on the planet who called me Lucas; to my friends and coworkers I was “Luke”; to people I arrested I was “asshole.” “Lucas” sounded formal, which I suppose made sense, since my brother is way more proper than I am. I almost expected him to call me by the name our parents stuck me with, Lucas Isaiah Somers.

“You didn’t hear what happened?” I asked.

“When?”

“Last night, just before midnight.”

“I went to sleep at ten thirty,” he said.

“Danny Brennan was murdered.”

Bryan went silent, probably mentally replaying his connections to Judge Brennan in his mind. Then, “I didn’t know him that well, just met him at a few charity dinners, but I liked him. This is awful. Is anyone in custody?”

“No.” I could hear him, in the background, telling Julie what had happened.

“Julie wants to know if it’s your case.”

It’s the exact question I knew she would ask, especially since it might wind up her case as well as a prosecutor. “Technically, but not that anyone would notice. Every FBI agent in the United States is either here or on the way. Apparently, when the President appoints a judge to the Appeals Court, the plan is that they are supposed to remain alive.”

“So you local hicks should stick to traffic tickets and picking up jaywalkers?”

“Not according to the Captain, which brings me back to why I can’t make dinner tonight.”

“OK. Good luck,” Bryan said. Then, “How did he die?”

“Stabbed to death in his garage when he got home. Thirty-seven wounds.”

He paused again to relay the information to Julie, and I heard her say, “Sounds like he pissed off an amateur.”

I knew exactly what she was talking about. Professional killers rarely used knives, and when they did they were precise and efficient. A blade in the heart, or a slice across the neck. Thirty-seven stab wounds meant the killer was an amateur and was venting fury. It was an emotional killing, or at least made to look like one.

I extricated myself from the call and walked over to the precinct meeting room. By that time the FBI had already assumed control of the investigation and had established a tip line. This was an irritant to my boss, Captain Charles Barone of the New Jersey State Police, though that in itself was hardly a news event. Not many days went by that something or someone didn’t irritate Captain Charles Barone.

“We are going to catch this guy,” is how he started the meeting he had called of the entire squad. That was no surprise; it was how he started pretty much every meeting about a specific case. But this time he doubled down. “All vacations are hereby canceled, and overtime is authorized and expected. We’ve got the home field advantage.”

He was referring to the fact that we knew the terrain; we lived in it, while the Feds were visitors. It was bravado, and most of it was false. Everyone in the room, including Barone, knew we were operating at a huge disadvantage. The FBI had taken over the crime scene, and was doing all the forensics. They would also be getting most of the tips, especially since a reward had already been established. It may have been our home field, but it felt like we were busing in from out of town.

Barone was right about one thing, though. Our connection to the area was a factor working in our favor. We had informants that we used with some frequency, and if those people had anything to share, they’d be leery of going to the Feds. They’d come to us, or they’d keep their mouths shut.

Assignments were given out, and I was chosen to lead the effort. I doubt if anyone was surprised by that, since even though I was one of four people at my rank, I was considered by most people to be the number two man in the department. Barone and I had worked together in one way or another for eleven of my sixteen years on the force, and he trusted me. Sometimes I wish he didn’t; I’d get more sleep.

In any event, my position of leadership on this case was not something anyone would resent. Not only would my colleagues have expected it, but they’d be delighted they weren’t stuck doing it.

The effort that I was going to lead would mostly include following up on those tips that were already coming in. It was a smaller amount than would usually be expected for a case that had generated this much publicity, a sure sign that most people were contacting the FBI. But some people still had it as their first instinct to call their local police, and those calls would be routed to us.

After the meeting, Barone called me into his office. “I just got off the phone with the Governor. He called me directly. He wants us to be the ones to catch this guy.”

“Thanks for sharing that,” I said. “Now I’m motivated.”

“Don’t be a wiseass, Somers. This is important.”

“Right,” I said. “The Governor wants to be President.”

He nodded. “And the Captain wants to be chief.”

I always found it refreshing that he acknowledged that, at least to me. He’d never say it to anyone else; it made me feel trusted. “So let’s catch the prick,” I said.

“Do we have a chance?” he asked.

“Zero.”

He frowned. “That’s not what I wanted to hear.”

“Come on, the guy would have to fall in our lap.”

“Did I mention that that was not what I wanted to hear?” he asked.

“OK, how’s this? We’ll get him, Captain. We’re closing in on him right now.”

“Good. That’s what I told the Governor.”

Sometimes, not often, an investigation just seems to fall into place.

This was one of those times.

The first thing I did was utilize the services of the state prosecutor’s office to get a list of the cases Judge Brennan presided over in the last ten years. There are very few jobs someone can have that piss people off as effectively as judges, and sometimes the pissed-off parties have years to sit in a cell and plot revenge.

I had reached a level within the department where I didn’t have a partner anymore, since most of my work was done on the inside, supervising other officers. This was a mixed blessing. On the minus side, I actually missed being on the street, closer to the action. The reason it was a mixed blessing was that sitting behind a desk significantly reduced the chance of my being shot at. Cops who are not in action are rarely killed in action.

For the Brennan case, I chose, if not a partner, then someone who I could count on to be a very willing, very competent slave. There would be quite a bit to delegate, and it was also my intention to go out on the street if a serious opportunity presented itself.

My choice was Emmit Jenkins, who at forty-eight years old had me by twelve years, and who at two hundred and sixty pounds had me by seventy-five pounds. Emmit was a walking contradiction; he was simultaneously the toughest, meanest, and most pleasant guy I’ve ever known.

Emmit was a twenty-two-year vet, and loved his job for every single minute of it. He had turned down four opportunities for promotions that I knew of, and probably as many more that I didn’t. Emmit wanted to be where the danger and excitement was, and he excelled in those circumstances.

Emmit had the list of Brennan’s cases, and therefore his potential enemies, within two hours of the request. The reason it was so quick, he informed me, was that the prosecutor’s office had already prepared the same list for the FBI.

I went through the list personally, paying special attention to two groups. Those people who went to prison and got out in the past year were a priority, as were those who recently fared poorly in Brennan’s court. Personally, if I were convicted of a felony, I’d be more pissed at the prosecutor, or witnesses, or jurors than at the judge, so I considered the revenge motive a long shot. But for the time being it was all we had.

As a Superior Court judge, Brennan handled a wide variety of cases, everything from high-level business fraud to low-level drug offenses. He had his share of violent crimes as well, four murders and thirty-one assaults, most of them armed, in the last five years. I instructed Emmit to find out which of the convicted defendants were out of jail.

Of course, even someone in jail could be responsible for planning the murder, since most violent felons didn’t hang around with altar boys or the chess club before they went in. But we had to prioritize; if we went through the obvious candidates and got nothing, then we could widen our search. That’s if the Feds hadn’t already made an arrest.

There were four criminals who had been sentenced by Judge Brennan and released within the previous year. There were also five people, four males and a female, who were convicted in trials over which Brennan presided during the previous year, who were either out on bail, pending appeal, or awaiting sentencing. The most recent was a twenty-two-year-old named Steven Gallagher, a third offense for crack cocaine possession and use.

“Anything look promising to you?” I asked Emmit.

“Only one way to find out,” he said. “Let’s run ’em down.”

That was Emmit’s upbeat way of agreeing that nothing looked promising. “Go get ’em,” I said.

“Who can I use?” he asked, meaning which detectives was I giving him permission to work with on this.

“Whoever the hell you want.”

He thought for a few moments. “I want Garfield, Miller, Wallace, and Freeman.”

“You’ve got Garfield, Miller, Wallace, and Freeman,” I said. It may have sounded like a law firm, but they were actually four of our best officers.

Emmit went out to get started, but came back less than ten minutes later, not nearly enough time to have gotten started with Garfield and Miller, never mind Wallace and Freeman. “We may have something,” he said.

“Talk to me.”

“We got a tip on the hotline, anonymous, that ID’d a kid named Steven Gallagher as the killer. He’s…”

“The user that Brennan was about to sentence,” is how I finished his sentence.

“Right.”

I didn’t ask if the tip seemed reliable, since anonymous tips were never reliable, except for the ones that were. They needed to be tracked down, and we were about to do just that with this one.

“Let’s go,” I said, standing up.

“We’re on this one ourselves?” he asked.

“You got other plans?”

He grinned. “Sure don’t.”

We arranged for backup, and within ten minutes we were on our way to the address Gallagher had given the court. Much to my amazement, a case that had nowhere to go for us now looked to be very possibly promising.

Sometimes, not often, an investigation just seems to fall into place.

Chris Gallagher didn’t need a travel agent to book his flight out of Afghanistan.

When you’re Marine Force Recon on your third tour, and you’re going on leave, there’s no need to check expedia.com.

It was actually an emergency leave for Chris, to the extent that it hadn’t been planned. But he had plenty of time accrued, and when events transpired as they did, his commanding officer expedited things and did not officially designate it as an emergency. It would have just meant more paperwork, while changing nothing.

The emergency was the arrest and subsequent conviction of Chris’s brother, Steven, on a drug offense. He was a repeat offender, and this was simply another chapter in a life going downhill. Unfortunately, it was a life that Chris had spent years trying to protect.

Darlene and Walter Gallagher were killed in a car crash when Chris was fourteen and Steven was seven. The Gallaghers had never made out a will, but that was basically of no consequence, since they had no money and little of value.

The boys went to live with an aunt, an alcoholic who reacted to the added responsibility by significantly increasing her alcohol intake. Chris became the responsible adult in the house, and took it upon himself to watch out for his little brother.

For a while it went well, until real life got in the way. When Chris was twenty-three he enlisted in the Marines, and the plan was for Steven to follow suit two years later. But Chris was shipped overseas, and Steven quickly befriended the wrong people.

Chris tried repeatedly to intervene from a distance, and when he was able to get home on leave he sometimes took more forceful action. Once he arranged to be there instead of Steven when his dealer, known only to Steven as Nick, came by to drop off cocaine and collect his money.

Chris attempted to reason with Nick, proposing in a respectful manner that the man stop peddling drugs to his brother and in return Chris would continue to let Nick live. Nick was six foot four and two hundred twenty pounds, meaning he was three inches and thirty pounds larger than Chris. It was that difference in size, as well as a serious misjudgment of his potential opponent, that made Nick laugh in response to the threat.

Once he heard the dismissive laugh, there were a number of ways that Chris could have handled the matter. He could have put a bullet in Nick’s brain, or slashed him across the throat with a knife, or broken his neck with his bare hands.

He chose option three.

He didn’t do it in anger; Chris had lost the capacity to experience anything approaching rage in the mountains of Afghanistan. Instead he did it with dispassionate resolve, and a sense of justice that he realized was unique to himself. It was as if he watched himself do it, with a measure of approval, but felt neither triumph nor guilt afterwards.

Once Chris decided that something was right, or necessary, or both, then he did it and never, ever looked back. Nick deserved to die, so he had died, and his body was never found.

But Chris knew that there would be other dealers, each willing to take full advantage of his brother’s human failings. There was a limit to how many necks Chris could break, especially since he was stationed so far away. So he tried to focus his efforts on helping Steven, rather than dispatching his suppliers and enablers.

He got him into therapy, once even a six-month program as an inpatient in a rehab facility. There were signs of hope, but months of positive progress would inevitably be undone by a single moment of weakness. And for Steven, weakness was always just around the corner.

The criminal justice system’s built-in insensitivity made matters worse. It was not set up to recognize that Steven suffered from a disease, and a noncontagious one at that. It treated him as a criminal, though he was clearly the sole victim of his own “crime.”

So it became a cycle of jail and rehab and progress and falling back, until the latest arrest and conviction. Judge Daniel Brennan had expressed a frustration and lack of patience with Steven, and had made it clear that he was going to sentence him to a prison term that would remove him as a problem for a very long period of time.

So now Chris was heading back home, not to pick up the pieces of Steven’s life, and certainly not to put them back together. He was coming back to witness his own greatest failure.

The loss of his little brother.

Who never hurt anyone but himself.

Steven Gallagher lived in a basement apartment in Paterson, New Jersey.

It was on Vernon Avenue, in one of a dreary collection of box-like houses. They were relatively well kept; these houses likely assumed their dreary persona within an hour of the time they were built.

Emmit and I were going to be the point men; we drove through the neighborhood a few times to get the lay of the land. We’d be the ones to go in and do the actual questioning. We didn’t have a search warrant with us, but one could be gotten quickly were Gallagher to prove uncooperative.

Such was the importance the department placed on this case that we had four officers with us as backup, positioned in the front and back of the house. We had no reason to believe yet that Gallagher might try to run, but if he did, he wouldn’t make it fifty feet.

Emmit and I went to the front door of the house to speak to the owner, who the records showed lived on the first floor. The basement apartment had an entrance and windows only at the back, so there was no way Gallagher could have known we were there, if he was at home. But in any event, we had the back well covered.

The owner was not on the premises, and there was no reason for us to wait for him. “Let’s go talk to our boy,” I said, and Emmit radioed our plans to the backup officers. Emmit walked around the right side of the house to the back, and I approached from the left.

There was a door with a broken screen, beyond which there were three concrete steps down to another door. We drew our weapons and I opened the first door. I walked down the steps, while Emmit stayed at the top, which gave him a better view of the whole picture.

I knocked on the door. “Gallagher?” I called out, but got no response. “Gallagher?”

“Leave me alone!” finally came the answer from inside. “You said you wouldn’t come back here!”

It was a voice filled with about as much stress as a voice could be filled with. “We’re the police, Gallagher. We want to talk to you.”

“NO! LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE!”

The voice had become firmer, more decisive; this was not a guy who wanted to talk. Which, of course, made him a more interesting candidate for us to talk to.

I edged to the side of the door, in case he was planning to fire a bullet through it. “Open the door, Gallagher.”

“No! I’m not going with you.”

“Nobody’s going anywhere. We just want to talk.”

“LIAR!”

“This is not voluntary, Gallagher. We’re going to talk; no reason to make this difficult. Nothing for you to worry about.”

There was no reaction at all. In these cases talking is good, no matter what is said. Silence is not so good.

“Open the door, Gallagher.”

Still no response. Emmit and I made eye contact, and he spoke softly into the radio, alerting the backup officers that “we’re going in. Suspect is present but uncooperative.”

I edged up along the side of the door, reaching for the knob, but expecting it to be locked. It wasn’t; it turned easily. This was the dangerous moment; there was no way to enter without being exposed, no matter how quickly we did so. If Gallagher had a gun, we had a problem.

I nodded to Emmit, and signaled that I would go first and he would follow. When one enters situations like this, the plan is not to saunter in saying, “Honey, I’m home.” Even though there is effectively no chance for surprise, as much shock and chaos must be created as possible, to rattle the suspect.

So I slowly turned the knob, took a deep breath, threw the door open, and burst through, screaming. I felt Emmit barreling in behind me, screaming as well. When it comes to barreling and screaming, he makes me look like an amateur.

The room was sparsely furnished and dirty. A small kitchen table had partially eaten food on it, and the bed, which was more like a cot, had only a blanket, no sheets or pillow. There was a small television sitting on the floor, with a “rabbit ears” antenna, and there was a laptop computer next to it.

I didn’t notice all these things until later, because my attention at that moment was on Steven Gallagher, sitting on the floor against the wall. More specifically, my attention was on his right hand, which was holding a gun, finger on the trigger.

It wasn’t pointed at me, which at the moment did not provide me with that much comfort. I pointed my own gun at him and screamed, “Drop the weapon!”

He looked at me strangely, almost as if he was trying to understand what I was saying. I saw a look of pain on his face, misery like I don’t think I have ever seen before, and I’ve seen a lot of it. Of course, everything I’m describing happened in a split second, so I could be wrong about all or part of it. But I don’t think I am.

He didn’t say anything, but he raised the gun. His finger was still on the trigger.

I didn’t wait to see what he would do with it; I put three bullets into his chest, pinning him back to the wall. Which means I never got to find out what he was going to do with the gun.

The moment my weapon discharged, I was no longer involved in the investigation.

Instead I became a witness and had to relate in excruciating detail exactly what transpired. I also, in the minds of at least some members of the public, was about to become a suspect. I had killed a man, and the burden would be on me to show that it was a justifiable act.

Emmit called in the report, and the scene immediately became chaotic. Captain Barone arrived pretty much at the same time as the homicide detectives, which meant that he was monitoring the situation very closely. It was far more involvement than was typical for him, but then again, calls from the Governor about a case were rather rare.

After I had given the first of what would be a number of official statements, Barone came over to me. “You OK?” he asked.

I nodded. “Yeah.” This was the first person I had ever killed; I had shot a previous suspect, but he was not badly wounded. I had even managed to serve in Iraq during Desert Storm without firing a weapon in anger.

I was feeling a little shaken by the experience, but I couldn’t tell whether it was from having killed Gallagher or from the realization that I could have been killed myself.

“You did what you had to do,” Barone said.

I nodded. “How come I don’t see any FBI agents here?”

He snapped his fingers. “Damn. I knew I forgot something.”

“You realize you’re going to have to bring them in, right?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Once we have forensics that connect this to Brennan.”

“Any indication of that so far?”

He nodded again. “Some bloody clothes in a plastic bag.” Then he smiled about as wide as I’ve ever seen him smile. “Oh, I forgot. There was also a bloody knife in the bag.”

I knew he had plenty of information to justify calling in the FBI, and so did he. He didn’t even need the forensics; just the fact that we were acting on a tip that Gallagher killed Brennan was enough. “They’re going to be pissed.”

“Ask me if I give a shit,” he said. “I don’t answer to them. The President didn’t call me; the Governor did.”

“You da boss.”

“Besides, they’ll know by tomorrow morning either way.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“Because they’ll see us on the Todayshow.”

He wasn’t kidding. The next morning a limousine was at my house at five thirty to take me into the city. Barone was already in the backseat waiting for me, wearing his Sunday best.

The publicity shit had hit the fan sometime during the night. Barone had alerted the Governor, the media, and the FBI, in that order. I was already being called a hero, which didn’t thrill me and led me to believe that our hero standards are being lowered somewhat. I had shot a drug-addled kid sitting on the floor; that didn’t exactly make me Davy Crockett defending the Alamo.

Lester Holt conducted the interview, which was fairly uncomfortable. He kept trying to talk to me, since I was the one who did the shooting, but Barone kept cutting in. It’s not that he was imparting crucial information; he basically repeated the mantra that the investigation was ongoing, so there was very little we could say. If I were Holt, I would have asked that if there was nothing we could say, what the hell were we doing there? But he didn’t.

Nor did anyone else, and there were plenty of opportunities. Barone had set up almost an entire day of news interviews, and we traveled from media location to media location, not answering the same questions, over and over again. It seems like half the people in this city are newscasters, while the other half somehow manages to have no idea what’s going on in the world.

If I’ve ever spent a less productive or more annoying day, I can’t remember when. Not only was no news being made, but the trappings were insufferable. For instance, each place insisted on applying makeup to our faces, even though it had already been applied repeatedly throughout the day. By the time we got to the fourth studio, I refused to allow it. Had I not, archaeologists would eventually have had to lead an expedition to dig down to my actual skin.

Barone handled it all with something between good cheer and outright jubilation. I wasn’t quite feeling so happy, and it wasn’t because of the pointless interviews. I had killed a young man, and it just didn’t strike me as something to celebrate. It’s not that I felt guilty about it; he had a gun and most likely would have killed me had I not shot first. My reaction was textbook police work, and would stand up to any scrutiny from anybody.