Scream Catcher Page 8

  The former cop finds himself grinning as if something funny is going on. But in reality the Prosecutor’s question slams him like a nightstick to the back of the head. She’s obviously referring to Cop Job and Jude’s self-confessed fear factor—his having frozen up at a time when he should have been stopping Oscar Burns from murdering his family.

  The prosecutor rises.

  She says, “I’m calling Terry MacSweeny back in from the FBI field office in Washington.”

  “He’s retired,” Mack points out.

  “Not so retired he won’t testify against a serial creep like Lennox,” Blanchfield corrects. “He was willing to conduct our interviews last time. I don’t see why he won’t help us on this one. Especially when an FBI field investigation seems inevitable.”

  Jude recognizes the name Terry MacSweeny. He’s famous after all, the agent often appearing on television. FBI and Cold Case File programs. His book did far better than Jude’s, having remained on the New York Times nonfiction bestseller list for more than a year (Cop Job only graced it for one week). Jude even met the special agent once inside Penn Station during a New York City tour stop for his own book. Jude never realized until now that the agent had helped his father in his original case against Lennox.

  “I expect to hear from MacSweeny soon,” Blanchfield goes on. “For now I want you to head home, get some rest, Jude. My assistant, Lois, will call you later on this afternoon to coordinate our schedules.”

  Mack gets up. Jude follows while the somber and taller Blanchfield comes around the desk, looks down upon the two men.

  “You recently married,” she says. More a statement than a question.

  “Remarried,” Jude confirms. “A little more than a year ago.”

  “Does your wife work?”

  “She was a partner in a clothing boutique in New York. But she sold out when we got married and moved back up here, so she could spend time with my son and raise our daughter to be.”

  Blanchfield smiles the sad smile of a woman who might have wanted children once, but … She runs a thin hand through smooth hair, pushes it off her forehead.

  “How old did you say your boy is?”

  “He’ll be eleven come October. His name is Jack.”

  Jude isn’t entirely sure the point the prosecutor is trying to make by asking about his family. Maybe she just wants to get to know him better; get a feel for all he’s risking by willingly involving himself in the Lennox case. Or maybe she’s simply trying to be personable, nice. Either way the questioning doesn’t put him the least bit at ease.

  Blanchfield leads Jude and Mack to the door, opens it for them. Together they step out into the marble foyer. The place is new enough that it still smells of fresh paint.

  “Lennox’s legal proceedings,” she says from the open door. “The hearings, the trial prep, the testimony, the long hours spent cooped up inside your home: it will be hard on you, but it will be harder on your family. You must be prepared for that.”

  “Jude and his family are to be well protected,” Mack reiterates. “We’ll also keep a vigilant eye on Lennox. He steps out his front door for the morning paper we’ll be on him like underwear.”

  Blanchfield shoots Mack a stern look.

  She warns, “You know how this works, Captain. Tenacity will play against us. The last thing we need right now is a disgruntled Christian … excuse me … Hector Lennox filing for what could amount to valid harassment proceedings on top of a potential false arrest.” Running both hands through her hair. “Judge Mann has granted the suspect his freedom as a non-flight risk. He’s successfully posted bail and he’s been fitted with a surveillance bracelet. Do not post a blue uniform outside his apartment unless the Judge orders it. No undercover either. We just can’t risk it. His every move will be electronically monitored from this point out.”

  Jude’s stomach is twisting itself in knots. Maybe on the surface Blanchfield is talking up a tough argument. But he feels he could stuff all the confidence in this room inside a shot glass and still have space left over.

  “Frankly,” Mack says, “I’m a little concerned about this surveillance bracelet situation. I haven’t had much experience with them since they came on the scene back in the ‘90s. None to be truthful.”

  “If you’re thinking that Lennox might slip it off, you have nothing to worry about. They are a tamper-proof and very reliable means of surveillance and monitoring.”

  “They’re machines powered by computer chips. And a computer can be beaten. Especially by an expert hacker like Lennox.”

  Blanchfield grins.

  She says, “Should he tamper with the bracelet in any way, the alarms will sound inside your communications department and then you’ll get your wish. Because Mann would have no choice but to lock him up.”

  Silence settles over the office like a cloud of mustard gas. Until Mack clears his throat.

  “But just so I’m clear on this matter, P.J.,” he presses, “You are one-hundred-percent certain that you can prosecute this case?”

  Blanchfield nods.

  “It’s simply a matter of making the unreliable witness reliable,” she says.

  “I know what I saw,” Jude says.

  “That’s what you think,” Blanchfield says before heading back into her office.

  17

  Office of the Warren County Prosecutor

  Tuesday, 2:55 P.M.

  The prosecutor closes the door behind her and against department regs, locks it.

  Back at her desk she opens the bottom drawer, pulls out an old one-quart bottle of Chevis and a clear drinking glass. With a trembling right hand, she pours herself a shot, brings the glass to her lips, pulls the whiskey down fast, stifling the throat-burning urge to choke. Allowing her system a quiet moment to calm itself, she pours another drink. Only this time she lets it sit out and breathe atop her desk.

  The intercom buzzes.

  Thumbing the key, she whispers, “What is it, Lois?”

  “There’s an old friend on line two, won’t give his name. Says you two ran into one another in court this morning. Do I get rid of him?”

  Blanchfield’s internal organs feel as if they’re about to squeeze themselves out her navel, one after the other. She knows she has no choice but to confront the caller.

  “Thank you,” she says, tapping line two with a manicured nail.

  Placing the phone to her ear, she mumbles a tentative, “This is P.J.”

  But there is only silence. Not a true silence. More like someone breathing heavily on the other end of the connection.

  “Hello, is anyone there?” she probes, voice now raised in proportion to her rising pulse.

  “Should the FBI decide to set up camp outside my door,” comes the soft, high-pitched voice, “or should you and your L.G.P.D. become aggressive during the course of your shall we say, preliminary investigation, I will have no choice but to expose the truth about your campaign for Warren County’s first female Prosecutor. Am I clear on this?”

  Blanchfield eyes the whiskey glass. She picks it up with her free hand, places it to her teeth. Tipping it up, she swallows.

  “Crystal,” she chokes.

  “I’ll be in touch from time to time over the next seventy-two hours,” says the caller. “But one thing you can start on right now is finding a way for me to remove this uncomfortable piece of ankle jewelry.”

  When she hears a hang up, the prosecutor puts down the phone. She sits back in her chair, senses a hole burning in her throat.

  She thinks:

  Choices …

  … Do the right thing. Nail Lennox to the wall for Murder One. Ignore his threats. Stop at nothing to see that the bastard gets a special appointment for lethal injection. Only when the Black Dragon is dead and buried will I be free!

  Or …

  … Do the wrong thing: do nothing. Rather, go through the motions of a prosecution, but defy the gag order. Go public with persistent doubts that will plague the investigation results
the entire way. Make it look real good. But uncover nothing concrete that will lead to an indictment. Squash any and all trace evidence. Make Jude Parish look unreliable at best—a basket-case only worse; a victim of his own fears and doubts. Put off his psych evaluation until after the hearing. Lie, lie, lie, even if the State Attorney General himself calls, demands an update on the case file. Above all, do not give Lennox a reason to talk before, during or after the preliminary hearing; a reason to reveal the precise nature of our brief relationship. Do not risk your career, everything you’ve worked so hard for!

  Her decision made, Blanchfield pours herself yet another shot.

  Peering over her shoulder, she glances up at the framed newspaper headline announcing her victory as Lake George’s first female prosecutor. She views the photograph that accompanies the headline—all those politicians and financial supporters who surround the podium on which she stands addressing her newly beloved public.

  Picking up the telephone, she dials the L.G.P.D., asks for the officer in charge of monitoring the murder suspect’s surveillance bracelet via G.P.S. She can’t help but consider Captain Mack’s outward concerns over the possible fallibility of such a relatively new and untested electronic monitoring device. That in mind, she’d like to request an immediate on-site briefing with the young man down inside the basement spaces of the village precinct, just to put her own mind at ease.

  Part II

  The Wait

  18

  Assembly Point Peninsula

  Tuesday, 3:30 P.M.

  When Jude arrives back at the house that late afternoon, he finds Rosie inside her small top-floor office. Having become a maker of custom jewelry in her new life as wife and mother, she’s sitting at her converted roll-top desk, bright lamp illuminating a desktop filled with multi-colored beads, stones, hoops, stars, rolls of string, wire fasteners and all varieties of stainless steel hand tools.

  “Hope I’m not interrupting,” he says, shoulder perched against the jamb.

  Rosie looks up at her husband, immediately puts down her work. Jumping up from her desk, she comes to Jude, hugs him tight. He feels her warm body through the sweatpants. He smells her sweet, smooth skin.

  “I was worried,” she says. “News of the murder was on TV.”

  “Doesn’t take long for the vultures to start circling.”

  Rosie raises her right hand, gently touches the butterfly bandage stuck to the ex-cop’s head.

  “Does it hurt?”

  “A little, a headache. But it was only a slight graze.”

  Pulling away, Rosie brushes back long, dark brown hair. Hair that matches brown almond-shaped eyes.

  “What’s the press saying?” Jude inquires.

  “That there was a homicide in the back lot of Sweeney’s Gym. That there was an eyewitness.”

  “They put a name to that eyewitness?”

  With a quick shake of her head, Rosie sets an open hand gently on her blossoming belly.

  “Names of both the eyewitness and the accused are being withheld pending a gag order.” Exhaling. “Jude, what is going on?”

  “What time is it?”

  Rosie, glancing at her watch.

  “Going on four.”

  “Where’s Jack?”

  “Day camp. But he won’t be home until after dark.”

  “Tell you what,” he says. “I’m going to shower. After I get dressed, I’ll take you to an early dinner at the Algonquin. It might be easier to let you know what’s going on over an Aspen burger and a cold beer.”

  * * *

  The Algonquin Restaurant/West side of Lake George

  Tuesday, 4:30 P.M.

  Jude and Rosie are seated on the back dock-side patio of the open-air restaurant.

  Their table has an umbrella that blocks out the late day sun. The table is set in a way that allows for an open view of the wood docks, the many pleasure craft tied off to their beams and the wide open lake beyond them.

  Rosie wears a cropped white top that shows off her four month pregnancy and thin, dark sunglasses over her eyes. With long dark hair combed back over her forehead, she has the look of a movie star who’s arrived in Lake George for a location shoot.

  In contrast, Jude dons his usual uniform of worn Levis, work boots and snug-fitting forest green T-shirt impressed with white letters that spell out “Breadloaf Writer’s Conference ‘09.” Maybe he doesn’t fit the bill of the movie star’s sig other, but he might pass for the bodyguard.

  While Rosie gingerly sips an early afternoon Virgin Mary, Jude swigs the first of what he hopes will be several cold Budweiser Longnecks. At the same time, he gives his wife a detailed accounting of the morning’s murder.

  By the time he finishes, the food arrives.

  Rosie has a turkey club, Jude the Aspen burger he promised himself earlier. The Aspen burger substitutes blue cheese dressing for the usual slice of American.

  “So let me get this straight,” says Rosie after a beat. “The killer not only goes by the name Christian Jordan, but his fingerprints, his face, his ID, even his voice support the fact that he is not Hector Lennox. Because after all, Lennox died in Paris a year ago.”

  “Mack is convinced that Lennox faked his death and has since undergone extensive reconstructive surgery.” Stealing a swallow of his second cold beer. “It’s not all that uncommon. People who enter the federal protective custody program regularly fake their deaths, then engage in facial and voice reconstruction before changing their names.”

  Rosie exhales, sets her right hand gently atop her pregnant belly.

  “And if Christian Jordan is really the alive and happy Hector Lennox—a man who is suspected of two other murders in Lake George—that would make him a serial killer … Technically speaking.”

  Jude nodding.

  “Provided the M.O.s for all three murders remain consistent. Blanchfield seems to be counting on it.”

  “And now this serial … what do you call it? … kill gamer? … has returned to the region in order to unleash his death and destruction in the form of a video-inspired kill game.” It’s a question sprinkled with more than a little cynicism.

  “Which is a video game played not with a computer but with real live people and in this case, my lovely wife, real genuine screams.”

  “Screams,” Rosie repeats.

  Nodding, Jude says, “Our kill gamer is also a scream catcher. He likes to use his iPhone to record the screams of his victims before he kills them. He then adds the actual audio to the game.”

  “How sick,” Rosie says.

  “How inventively sick,” the ex-cop agrees.

  But even for Jude, the eyewitness, the story of Hector Lennox is beginning to sound like a lost episode of the Twilight Zone.

  “And by sheer coincidence you just happened to witness one of these kill games and nearly got yourself killed in the process.” Thoughtfully, Rosie sips her drink while the lake laps up against the dock. “So where does the safety and well being of your family—present and future—fit into all this?”

  Jude can’t help but feel his stomach tighten against the Aspen burger that fills it.

  “If you don’t want me to testify,” he says. “If you feel frightened by my involvement in this case, I’ll back out, no questions asked.”

  Rosie swallows more of her drink. A long swallow that verges on a chug, as if it were filled with booze.

  “Not fair,” she says coming up for air. “This isn’t up to me. It’s up to you. You have to do what you think is right and you have to do it with your family in mind—your wife, your little boy. Your. Little. Girl.” Giving her belly a pat. “We’re what’s at stake in this thing, case you haven’t considered it.”

  Jude swallows something cold and hard. He’s been considering the risks all morning long, amongst a dozen other reasons why he should back out.

  “Have you thought this thing through, Jude? What happens if Lennox comes after you? What happens if he comes after us?”

  “If you
want me to drop out, Rosie, I’ll understand. I don’t want this to scare you.”

  “Come on, Jude. I appreciate your offering to quit on the prosecution for my sake, but let’s face it, sounds to me like you’ve already committed.”

  Draining beer number two, Jude peers out the corner of his eye in search of the waitress and beer number three. Maybe this time he will cut to the chase and order two bottles instead of one, drown the demon inside his chest in a tsunami of alcohol and suds.

  “I am already committed to putting Lennox away,” he nods. “But …”

  “But what?”

  “But believe me when I say that that commitment does not override your feelings.”

  “You might be doing the right thing morally, Jude. But this conversation is beginning to verge on patronization.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “You are entertaining my feelings for the sake of entertaining my feelings. Under the circumstances, you feel testifying is the right thing … No, the only thing to do.”

  An inland gull swoops down from the bright sky. It lands on the dock, sticks its long neck and head into the water, comes back out with a small fish in its beak, then takes off again, lake water splashing from the wings that slap it.

  “I’m sorry,” he says. “But it’s important for me to know your mindset.”

  “The situation concerns me,” Rosie says. “No. Actually it frightens the daylights out of me. I feel vulnerable. For me, for Jack, for the baby. Mostly for you.”

  “It scares me too. But on the other hand, there’s a voice in my head telling me that testifying is something I have to do.”

  Rosie sets her eyes down on the tabletop.

  She says, “I know how much you’ve suffered since the terrible Elizabeth Bay thing. And now you have something to prove.”

  She has this tight, pensive look on her face that does not go unnoticed by Jude. The expression goes well with the sunglasses. It also tells him that his wife has not quite finished her thought.