Confessions: The Private School Murders (36 page)

Sergeant Caputo held the door open for me, and we were followed in by Phil and Ms. Raphael. The judge took his chair behind the desk. Everyone else stood.

I was glancing around, wondering what was going on, when the bailiff brought Matthew into the office. My heart did a happy dance at the sight of him, even though he looked as tired and haggard as usual. He shot me a curious glance, and I signaled him to just wait.

This was going to be
amazing
.

“Defense counsel has asked to present new witnesses, and at this point in the proceedings, I can’t let him introduce new testimony to the jury without my hearing it first,” the judge began. “Now, Sergeant Caputo, put your hand on my Bible. Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

Caputo did. Then the judge asked Caputo, “Sergeant, did you go to Matthew Angel’s apartment this past Saturday?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And why did you do that?”

“Ms. Angel, the defendant’s sister, went there to check for any personal items the defendant might want,” Caputo explained, glancing over at me. “The apartment is no longer a crime scene and Ms. Angel has keys.”

“Go on.”

“She called me from the apartment, saying she had found evidence that pointed to Tamara Gee’s killer. Evidence that would exonerate her brother.”

Matthew’s head rose. Just an inch, but it rose.

“So you went to the apartment,” the judge prompted.

“Yes, Your Honor. I have experience with this kid and she’s not a liar. My partner and I went and found interior access to the apartment that no one had noticed before. A
dumbwaiter inside a utility closet comes up from the restaurant downstairs and was never put out of service from the old days.”

“A dumbwaiter? For food transport? And it was large enough for a person?” the judge asked.

“Yes, sir. It’s big enough for a person of small stature.”

Using his hands and, at one point, a pad and pencil, Caputo described the dumbwaiter with its double-hung guillotine doors. He explained that the elevator call buttons and door handles were outside the dumbwaiter and that if a “passenger” was squatting on the platform inside, he’d have to reach outside the dumbwaiter to operate the lift. He’d not only have to press the call button to send the elevator to a different floor, he’d also have to grasp the upper door with his hand and pull it closed.

“Here, on the outside of the dumbwaiter door,” Caputo said, stabbing his drawing on the pad. “That’s where we found the bloody handprints.”

“But you didn’t find any other prints in the apartment?” the judge asked.

“No, Your Honor. The killer wore thick rubber kitchen gloves. The yellow kind. They kept his prints out of the scene, but they weren’t tight. They were awkward. Once he was inside the dumbwaiter and in a rush to escape, he took them off to get a better grip on the door.
While he was maneuvering around in that small space, he cut the palm of his hand with his own knife. Big mistake. He bled profusely.”

“And the print was clear?” the judge asked Caputo.

“Yes, Your Honor. It’s pretty much a unique handprint with only two full-sized fingers and the thumb. And there were two prints from half fingers—stump prints, I’d call them—from when the perpetrator accidentally sliced off some finger joints a few years ago.”

Now Matthew stood up straight. His eyes were huge and elated and angry all at once.

“Hunh,” the judge grunted. “And you’re telling me this man is willing to admit to the killing?”

“We said we’d help him if he helped us. Also, Your Honor, he has his reasons.”

Then the judge drilled me, confirming my involvement and the observations that Caputo had just recounted. The judge grunted again and turned to the prosecutor. “Ms. Raphael, are you satisfied with Sergeant Caputo’s sworn testimony?”

Nadine Raphael’s sculptural face was tight with scorn.

“How very convenient, Your Honor. We’ve wrapped our case, about to tie it up with a big bow, and just before the jury goes out, we have this. Forgive me if I don’t accept the sergeant’s testimony as proof that Matthew
Angel is not guilty. The jurors should make their own determination.”

The judge scrubbed at his scalp with both hands, swiveled in his chair, and even looked out the window.

Then he turned to Phil and said, “Tee up your confessed killer, Mr. Montaigne. Let’s see if the jury buys what he’s selling.”

81

There was an unbearably long recess
as Troy Wagner was brought from The Tombs, cleaned up, and prepped for his appearance in Judge Bradley Mudge’s court.

By the time we were corralled into the courtroom and took our seats, my residual headache from the attack had bloomed into something that was almost tangible. Dr. Magnifico had said that I didn’t have a concussion, but my skull still hurt like hell.

Matthew, sitting at the defense table with Phil, turned and smiled at me. He mouthed,
Love you.

Despite my fear and tension and pain, I felt a thick but invisible cord connecting me to my brother.

“Love you back,” I whispered.

How would the next few hours play out?

Would Troy, the night-shift manager from the restaurant in Matthew’s building, convince the jury that he’d killed Tamara? Would the prosecution’s case disintegrate?

Harry put his hand on my leg to stop me from jiggling it. “I know how you feel, T. But please chill.”

Right. No problem.

Eventually, court convened. The jurors filed in, and Judge Mudge explained to them what had caused the delay.

“The defense has a new witness. Actually, Mr. Wagner was on the stand last week when he testified for the prosecution that he was the last person to see Tamara Gee alive.

“He will expand his testimony in this regard.”

The jurors had questions, and the judge said he would address them again before they were asked to deliberate.

Troy Wagner was called. He came up the aisle, was sworn in, and took his seat in the witness stand.

He sported the same look he’d worn when he’d last sat in that chair and told the court that Tamara Gee had told him she was moving out of their apartment before Matthew killed her.

You can’t imagine how much I hated this man. For what he’d put my brother through, for what he’d put my family through, but most of all, for what he’d done to Tamara
and the baby who would have been my first nephew. My fingers balled into fists in my lap, and Harry put his hand over mine.

As before, the short, wiry man with the coarse red hair made a steeple with his hands, highlighting for me and everyone close enough to see him that the pinkie and ring finger of his left hand were shorter than the others.

I hoped and prayed that the print from this self-inflicted deformity would free my brother and indict Troy Wagner.

It would, if Troy told the truth.

82

Philippe approached the witness
and, after coolly reestablishing Wagner’s previous testimony, asked, “What was your opinion of Tamara Gee?”

“I thought she was evil and had too much power.”

Dead silence in the courtroom. This was a new side of Troy Wagner.

“What kind of power did she have, Mr. Wagner?”

“Isn’t it obvious? She was a succubus,” he said, shifting in his seat. “She had the power to ruin men’s lives.”

My palms grew sweaty as my heart pounded. This guy was crazy. Like, certifiably crazy. This was going to work.
Please, please, let it work.

“Mr. Wagner, do you remember your thoughts when
Ms. Gee came to pick up her dinner order on the last night of her life?”

“Yeah. Per usual, she dissed Matthew. She clearly didn’t understand the kind of person Matthew Angel is, what he means to people, what kind of athlete he is. He’s one of the greatest football players of all time. He’s going into the history books, or was. But Tamara’s loose ways, her disrespect, her downtown diva bitching, that was ruining his game. I thought it was time to take her out.”

There was a loud rumble in the gallery. The jurors gasped and covered their mouths and turned to one another. As I glanced around, I saw nothing but shocked faces, abject confusion, and reporters furiously scribbling in notebooks.

It was pretty clear that no one had even guessed at the reason for this witness to reappear, but it was hitting them now. Wagner saw himself as Matthew’s avenging angel.

I turned my palm up and clasped hands with Harry.

“To be clear,” Phil said, “do you mean it was time to kill Tamara?”

“That’s right. I couldn’t stand what she was doing to Matthew,” Wagner replied. “I’d thought for a long time how to do it, and now she was giving me a time frame. She was going to move out, and she was home alone. It was that night or never.”

More gasps and chatter from the gallery. So much that
the judge had to bang his gavel a few times to shut everyone up.

“What happened after that?” Phil asked.

“Well. Like I said, I had thought about this for a while. I had the perfect setup. My shift is from eight until midnight. I sent the dishwasher home and locked up the restaurant. I watched to see if Matthew came home, and when he didn’t, I got it done.”

Phil froze in anticipation. I could hardly breathe. Harry’s tight grip on my hand was about the only thing keeping me from passing out.

“Could you be more specific, Mr. Wagner?” Phil asked.

“How specific? Oh, what I did? I am one of the few people who knew our old dumbwaiter still worked. I had a knife. Well, I had my choice. I chose a paring knife. I put on rubber gloves and an apron. I climbed into the dumbwaiter, pressed the button, and took it to the third floor. Is this what you are asking me?”

I glanced at Nadine Raphael. She had a death grip on a pencil and was staring straight ahead.

“Yes, it is, Mr. Wagner,” Philippe said. “Please go on.”

“Okay. So the elevator opens inside a closet inside Tamara’s kitchen. I went into the bedroom and Tamara was asleep, so I killed her.”

He said it so casually, it was like he was reading today’s
specials off the board. The courtroom was practically sucked into oblivion by one group gasp. Then Tamara’s mother cried out, someone shouted, and chatter filled the room.