Cruel Justice (7 page)

“My name is Ben Kincaid. I’m a lawyer.”

Leeman looked up, not because of anything Ben had said but because he had completed adhering the tail fin and he needed another piece of the model. His cheeks and chin were covered with pimples. The extra fat made his face seem doughlike and his expression perpetually uncertain. He peered at Ben as if he were not simply meeting a new person but contemplating a previously unknown life-form.

Ben peered back. It was not so much Leeman’s appearance as it was his manner that signaled that something was not quite right. He held his head at an odd, unnatural angle, and it moved not fluidly but in brief, spasmodic bursts. His eyes seemed to move independently of his face.

“Al …
read-y.
” He overpronounced and protracted each syllable, as if every sound required special effort.

“I know you already have a lawyer. But your lawyer is very busy, and your father thought it might help if I took over your case.”

Leeman’s face brightened the instant he heard the word
father.
“Papa.” His eyes raced around the room. “Papa?”

“I’m afraid he isn’t here right now. He came to my office and asked me to represent you. I haven’t decided yet. I wanted to talk with you first. Since he’s been appointed to serve as your guardian, technically, his okay is all I need. But I wanted to make sure it was all right with you. After all, you’re the one who’s going to be on trial.”

Leeman made no response. He shoved his hands into his pockets, a particularly difficult task because his corduroy pants (in August?) were small and ill-fitting. The front of his untucked shirt showed the spillage of many meals past.

The truth struck Ben like a baseball bat to the head. When Leeman’s first trial was canceled, and he was committed to his first institution, some poor liberal soul probably thought it was the humane thing to do.

That person had been horribly wrong. Instead of giving Leeman a fair trial, they gave him a life sentence.

“Do you have any objection to my becoming your attorney?” Ben had no inkling how much, if any, of what he had said to Leeman was understood.

Leeman twisted his head one way, then the other. “Papa?”

“Your father wants me here. As I said, it was his idea.”

“Okay.” Leeman flashed a quick smile, then turned back to his model.

“That’s a great car you’re making,” Ben said. He had to remind himself not to talk baby talk. This was a mentally retarded adult, not his nephew. “Did you make all these?”

Leeman’s eyes brightened. “All.”

“I tried to make a model once, when I was a kid. An Aurora model of Superman crashing through a brick wall. I totally screwed it up. Came out looking like the Bride of Frankenstein.”

Leeman hunkered down on the carpet and picked up a saucer-shaped piece. A hubcap or something.

“I read that you like music, Leeman. Is that right?”

Leeman’s head tilted on the word
music.
Without comment, he walked to a cabinet against the wall and opened it.

Inside, Ben saw a stereo system—receiver, turntable, and two speakers. Not the best system in the world, but not garbage, either. And beneath the stereo were two shelves filled with albums. Hundreds of them. Most of them in covers well-worn and tattered.

Ben scanned the titles. “Are all these albums yours?”

Leeman nodded his head enthusiastically. “You?”

Ben nodded. “Yeah, I like music. I majored in music. I still play the piano, when there’s time.” Ben pulled out a blue album cover. “I have this one. Leonard Bernstein conducts Beethoven’s Fifth with the New York Philharmonic. What do you think of it?”

Leeman waggled his shoulders in an indifferent manner.

“Yeah, same here. Great musician, but not his best recording. I think he was trying too hard to be innovative.”

Leeman pointed to a group of albums on the same shelf.

Ben scanned the spines. “Wow. Are all of these recordings of Beethoven’s Fifth? You’ve got good taste, Leeman.”

Leeman moved in closer and pulled out one of the albums.

Ben read the label. “Roger Norrington. Yeah, I’ve got that one, too. Darn good recording. All period instruments. Fascinating interpretation. Is it your favorite?”

Leeman shook his head and placed his finger on another album.

Ben drew in his breath. “Hans Schmidt-Isserstedt. Vienna Philharmonic, 1966. A first-pressing analog recording.” He pulled out the album and clutched it to his chest. “I’ve been looking for this album all my life. The experts say it’s the greatest, most authentic recording of the Fifth ever made, but it’s been out of print for years. I’ve haunted every used record store in Tulsa, but I’ve never found it. Where did you get it?”

“Papa,” he replied simply.

Somehow, Ben wasn’t surprised. “Leeman, you’re a lucky man. I’d give almost anything for this record.” He glanced at his watch. Enough pleasantries. Time to get to work. “Leeman. I’d like to ask you a few questions. Do you understand the charges that have been brought against you?”

Leeman’s expression changed almost immediately—from one of utter tranquillity to one of haunted despair.

“Leeman, a doctor has said that you’re capable of assisting in your own defense. Let’s prove him right, okay? Help me out here.”

Leeman looked back at Ben, his eyes wide and helpless. One of two possibilities was true. Leeman didn’t want to help—he didn’t even want to talk about it. Or, the doctor in Ponca City was out of his mind and Leeman was not capable of assisting in his own defense.

“Leeman, did you know the woman who was killed?”

Leeman turned away from the stereo and closed the cabinet.

“Did you see anything at the country club that night?”

Still no answer. Leeman was acting as he had when Ben first came in—as if he wasn’t there.

“Leeman, you’re going to have to tell me what you know about the murder.”

“Hon … da,” Leeman said abruptly.

“Honda?”

“Honda.” Leeman held up his hands as if steering a car. “Honda.”

“Oh—right. I drive a Honda. An eighty-two Honda Accord. How did you know?”

Leeman twisted around and faced the window. He held his right hand over his eyes, as if to block out the nonexistent sun. “See?”

Ben did see. Leeman’s window overlooked the front parking lot. Leeman must’ve seen Ben park.

“You know your cars, don’t you?” Ben refused to be so easily distracted. “But getting back to the murder. Can you tell me what happened?”

Leeman turned away.

“Or what you saw? Whatever you know. Anything could help.”

Leeman did not respond, did not turn around.

Ben grabbed Leeman by the shoulders and whirled him around. To his astonishment, he found that Leeman was crying.

Tears spilled out of his eyes and streamed down his bloated cheeks, dripping off his chin and onto his stained shirt. His lips trembled; the tears continued to flow.

Ben took a step back. “I’m sorry, Leeman. I didn’t mean to—I didn’t think.”

He decided against any further questions. It was pointless. All the doctors in the Southwest couldn’t convince Ben that Leeman was capable of assisting in his defense. Leeman might have some limited capacity for understanding, but he couldn’t communicate. Whatever information he possessed in his head was locked up tight.

“I’m going to go now, Leeman.”

“Honda?”

“Right. I’m going to drive away in my Honda. But I’ll be back. Whether I take your case or not.”

Leeman looked at him pensively.

“And next time I’ll ask you to play me that Isserstedt recording. No excuses.”

Leeman grinned. “ ’Scuses,” he echoed. He began humming the intro to the second movement of the Fifth while he carefully glued a left rear hubcap into place.

B
EN WALKED BRISKLY THROUGH
the downtown office of the Tulsa Police Department Central Division and turned the corner around the gray office partition bearing the nameplate of
LT. M. MORELLI, HOMICIDE
. He was pleased to find the detective was in.

“How goes it, shamus?”

Mike looked up from his desk. A toothpick was cocked in the side of his mouth. “Surviving. Yourself?”

“I had a morning like you wouldn’t—” Ben stopped short. “Wait a minute. Something’s different.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Something’s not right.” Ben snapped his fingers. “Your pipe! Where is it?”

Mike shifted the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “In my safe. Locked.”

“And you’re sucking on a sliver of wood?” The light dawned in Ben’s eyes. “You’re trying to quit.”

“Yeah, well, all my friends were doing it.”

“Is it hard? I always assumed that tobacco inhalation was just part of your macho two-fisted facade.”

“That, plus a major nicotine addiction.”

“So you’re having trouble quitting?”

Mike grunted. “Gained ten pounds last week. That’s when I switched to toothpicks.”

“Well, I’m proud of you, pal.” He laughed. “One of the boys at the desk told me you were kind of grumpy today. This explains why.”

“This has nothing to do with it. Got a sicko chickenhawk who’s costing me a lot of sleep.”

“A what?”

“Chickenhawk. A pedophile. And, in this case, a pornographer.”

Ben’s face crinkled. “Do I want to hear about this?”

“Probably not. This perverted bastard has already snatched four little boys and he’s still at large, like a nightmare haunting every child in the city. You wouldn’t believe the disgusting things he does to these kids. It’d tear your heart out. This goes way beyond your run-of-the-mill pedophilia. We’re talking about a major-league pervert with a taste for violence. And torture.”

“Do you have a description?”

“Not yet. None of the kids was alive after this creep was done with them.”

Ben’s throat suddenly felt dry. “How does he … get them?”

“We don’t know how he picks his victims, but once he does, he grabs them, molests them, and makes them pose for dirty pictures. We found some photos in some homegrown magazines.”

Mike opened his top desk drawer, then thought better of it. “Never mind. They’d make you sick. I guarantee it.”

“Can’t you go after the publishers?”

“Not anymore. Pornography’s become a cottage industry. Anyone with a computer and a desktop publishing program, or even a typewriter and a photocopier, can print pornographic magazines. They distribute the stuff through the mail, or fax machines. Even computer bulletin boards. Makes it damn near impossible to trace.”

“How can you be sure the dirty pictures are connected to the child molestation and murders?”

“I’m sure. Every single kid snatched to date has ended up in a magazine spread. That can’t be a coincidence. And even if it was, we’d still hunt these kiddie-porn creeps. The line between child-porn fan and child molester is thin and quickly crossed. Show me a guy who’s obsessed with these pictures, and I’ll show you a guy who’s probably going to act out his dreams someday with some poor little kid. He may be fantasizing, working up his courage, but mark my words, it will happen. These pictures feed it. They whet the appetite. They make it impossible to put these ideas out of their sick little minds.”

Mike pressed a hand against his forehead. “This slime killed his first three playthings. His last victim ran out into the street and got creamed by a car on Memorial. We looked all around, but never found the pervert. We don’t know where the kid was running from. We think he might’ve jumped out of a car while it was stopped at a light. Probably trying to escape.” Mike shook his head. “He’s been in a deep coma since the accident. He’s not expected to—” Mike looked up suddenly.

Ben gripped Mike’s shoulder. “Hang in there, pal.”

Mike’s face twisted. “Yeah.”

“Do you have any leads?”

“Not to speak of. The last boy was wearing a red baseball cap when he disappeared. Wasn’t wearing it when the car hit him. What I wouldn’t give to find that cap in the trunk of some schmuck’s car.” He bit down on his toothpick. “And the odds of that are probably only about a hundred million to one.”

“I’m sure you’ll catch him in time,” Ben said. “No one works harder than you.”

“Yeah. But I want to get him before he ruins another little kid’s life. Or ends it.” He slapped the top of his desk. “But enough about my problems. How’s my favorite piano player turned pettifogger?”

“Managing. As best I can, under the circumstances.”

Ben had known Mike since their college days at the University of Oklahoma. They had been the best of friends—even roommates one year. In those days they played music gigs:—Ben on piano, Mike on guitar and vocals—in some of the Norman beer joints and pizza parlors. Everything was fine—until Mike fell in love with Julia, Ben’s younger sister.

Once married, Mike canceled his plans for graduate school and began concocting one plan after another for earning enough money to accommodate Julia in the manner to which she had become accustomed. It didn’t work. The marriage disintegrated shortly after Mike graduated from the police academy. It all culminated in a nasty, protracted divorce—with Ben caught in the middle.

“I’ve been asked to take over the Leeman Hayes case,” Ben explained.

Mike winced. “Boy, you know how to pick ’em, don’t you? You must’ve been sitting around thinking: What could possibly be grimmer than representing a white supremacist? I know! The Leeman Hayes trial!”

“So you remember the case?”

Mike’s eyes became hooded. “That, my friend, is a killing I will never forget. Never. It happened one of my first nights on patrol. First murder victim I ever saw.”

“Really? You were the investigating officer?”

“No. I was the third man on the scene. Still—” His voice dropped. “If you had seen that victim, seen her blood-soaked body skewered up—” He looked away. “Well, it’s a sight you’d never forget, I can guarantee you that. God knows I never have.”

“Sounds like this case really left its mark.”

“Changed my life, if you want to know the truth. That was the night I decided I wanted to work homicides.”

“So you could prevent more horrible murders like that?”

“No. I knew murder would always be with us. I wanted to be in a position to guarantee the inhuman scum who did these hideous things didn’t go unpunished.” Mike gradually raised his head. “Lots of luck, pal. You’re looking at a case I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.”