Damaged (40 page)

Later, Mary drove back toward the city, heartsick after leaving Patrick behind at the Stackpoles'. She had to get him out of there and she had to deal with the suspicion that he was involved with Edward's death. Abby had told her that Ray had believed the newspaper reports, which was natural since he'd been in law enforcement. Ray had also asked Abby about the Robertson Complaint brought by Machiavelli, so he had the same evidence as Judge Green, all of it consistent and damning. Mary prayed that Ray's attitude toward Patrick wasn't tainted by his mistaken beliefs, but Ray was only human.

Mary drove through the neighborhood without really seeing the traffic or the TV lights in the houses, flickering on either side of her as she passed. She made her way to I-95 because it was quicker, taking her directly into the city if she got off at Callowhill Street, which was only a block from the Roundhouse, Philadelphia's police headquarters. She had done her share of criminal work and handled more than a few murder cases. Homicide detectives, who worked around-the-clock, were even busier at night. In fact, she knew their unofficial slogan was Our Day Begins When Yours Ends.

Mary mulled it over, making her way to the highway. Detective Randolph might be at the Roundhouse right now, and even if he wasn't, she had to believe he would come in to meet with her. After all, he was considering her as an accomplice after the fact, a cover-up to Edward's murder. She had information he wanted. But if she called him, she could be walking into the lion's den. She would take her chances, for Patrick.

She reached for her cell phone.

 

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

HOMICIDE DIVISION
, read an old plaque on the wall outside the elevator, and Mary made her way down the narrow, filthy corridor, which curved around to the right because the building was shaped like three circles stuck together, which was why it was called the Roundhouse. It had been built in the sixties, when its design was space-age, but now it was dated and in horrible condition. Every year or so, the newspapers carried the story that the police headquarters would be moved to a better location, but it never seemed to happen.

The fluorescent lighting flickered above, the floor was of old green tile, broken in places, and the walls were grimy, cheaply paneled. Mismatched file cabinets lined one side of the hall, inexplicably, and Mary passed a crummy bathroom on the right, its door propped open by a full trash can. She kept going ahead toward a secured door with a buzzer next to another sign,
HOMICIDE
.

She buzzed and waited to be admitted, mentally preparing herself. After a few calls, she'd been able to reach Detective Randolph, who had called her back because he was “out on a job,” which she knew was police-speak for a dead body. He had agreed to meet her at the Roundhouse and was on his way, so she had shown ID and used his name to get in downstairs, and he had called a Detective Hilliard to admit her to the squad room.

In the next moment, an African-American detective in a shirt and tie came to the door, checked her out, and opened it with a professional smile. “You must be Mary DiNunzio. I'm Detective Hilliard.”

“Yes, thank you.” Mary smiled back, stepping inside the waiting area, which had only gotten dirtier since the last time she was here. It was no wider than a hallway, with black rubbery seats and an ancient gumball machine. Both walls were lined with the scariest photo array ever, of fifty or so Wanted posters, men and women of all races and ethnicities wanted for murder.

“Detective Randolf should be here any minute. Follow me, I'll set you up in an interview room.”

“Thank you.” Mary fell into step beside him through the squad room, which was empty, probably because most of the detectives were out on jobs. The squad room was so cramped that there wasn't enough space to pass in places, and they had to make their way between gray desks, outdated computers, and mismatched file cabinets.

“So I've heard your name before.”

“You have?” Mary brightened. Maybe her name was finally getting around town.

“Yes, you work with Bennie Rosato.”

“Right.”

“We don't mind the defense bar, contrary to popular opinion.” Detective Hilliard smiled, and Mary smiled back.

“And we value the police department, contrary to popular opinion,” she said, meaning it. “Detective, I've been a resident of this city all my life and I appreciate everything you do to keep me and my family safe.”

“Thank you.” Detective Hilliard grinned, more broadly, and they stopped at the first interview room. He opened it to reveal a grimy white box that contained a few gray folding chairs, a rickety old table with some forms scattered on top of it, and most remarkably, a metal chair that was bolted to the floor.

“I'll take a seat, but not that one,” Mary joked, then realized it wasn't funny.

“Ha! I can get you some coffee, but it's my duty to warn you that it's from a vending machine.”

“I'll pass, thank you.” Mary entered the interview room and set her purse on the table because the floor was filthy.

“Let me know if you need anything. He'll be here pretty soon.”

“Thanks.”

“Take care.” Detective Hilliard closed the interview room door, leaving Mary alone. She sank into one of the folding chairs and noticed above the door that there was a discreet black camera lens, probably for a video recording of interviews with suspects. On the wall to her left was a small mirror, which was undoubtedly a two-way for observing statements, and she glanced at the forms on the table, picking one up.

The form was a waiver of Miranda rights, with a list of questions with blanks for the answers:
1. Do you understand that you have a right to keep quiet, and do not have to say anything at all? 2. Do you understand that anything you say can and will be used against you? 3. Do you want to remain silent? 4. Do you understand you have a right to talk with a lawyer before we ask you any questions?

Mary set the form aside, beginning to worry. The waiver form, the camera lens, the two-way mirror, and the chair bolted to the floor were physical reminders that her interview with Detective Randolph could have legal consequences for her. She wondered briefly if she should call John, Judy, or even Bennie, who was one of the top criminal defense lawyers in the country. Mary didn't have to be here unrepresented, after all. She could've come with legal guns blazing.

But she told herself to calm down. She was allegedly a competent lawyer and she knew enough to represent herself. If things went south, she could just terminate the interview. She knew from Bennie that there were plenty of investigations, ones that the public never heard about, which didn't turn into charges because they were handled unofficially between lawyers and police. She was hoping that Patrick's case would be one of them. She had truth and justice on her side, which should count for something.

Suddenly there was a knock on the door, and in the next moment it was opened by Detective Randolph. He met her eye with a tired smile, wearing the same dark suit he had on in court today, slightly more wrinkly. “Hi, Mary, if I can call you Mary?” he asked, extending his hand in a friendly way.

“Yes, of course.” Mary stood up and shook his hand. “Thanks for coming in.”

“Not at all. Call me Joe.” Detective Randolph came into the room, stepping aside for a shorter, slimmer man who looked in his thirties. He was handsome, with dark almond-shaped eyes set far apart, and a great smile. His dark hair was cut in a brush cut, gelled in a hip way, and he had on a dark suit tailored close to his trim, muscular body.

Detective Randolph gestured to him. “Meet my partner, Ted Jimenez. You can call him anything you like, but don't be too nice to him. It goes right to his head. I call him
Defective
Jimenez, but he doesn't think that's funny.”

Detective Jimenez smiled at Mary, extending a hand. “Hi, Mary. Nice to meet you. As far as what you should call me, don't call me Defective Jimenez. It's not that funny. Call me Joe, too. That will confuse my partner all to hell. Or we should piss him off. I'll be Young Joe and he can be Old Joe. “

Detective Randolph rolled his eyes, for Mary's benefit. “Why don't we just call him The Hot One? That's how he imagines himself. We gave him a T-shirt last year that said The Hot One. You think he didn't wear it? He never takes it off.”

Mary laughed, and so did Detectives Randolph and Jimenez, but she wondered if they were being genuine or trying a comedy routine to relax her, so she would lower her guard. It was a Machiavellian trick and she remembered that Machiavelli had even tried to use it against her, but she put him out of her mind for now.

“Sit down, please.” Detective Randolph gestured at her chair and sat down across from her, and Detective Jimenez took the other chair, but not before he slid a skinny reporter's notebook from his sport jacket, with the pen attached, and set it on his lap as he sat down, flipping open the front cover.

“Mary, I'm going to take notes,” Detective Jimenez said, flashing her his killer smile. “I'm sure that's okay with you.”

“It's fine,” Mary answered, straightening in her chair. “I assume from the camera that the session is videotaped.”

“Don't give us that much credit.” Detective Jimenez chuckled. “The camera is broken and hasn't worked in ages. The audiotape never worked in the first place, and we don't have the budget to repair it.”

“That's criminal,” Mary said, and they both laughed again.

Detective Randolph crossed his legs. “Mary, I think the easiest way is for you to tell us what you know about Edward O'Brien's death. I appreciate your volunteering to come in here. I regret that you got blindsided at the shelter care hearing today. If it hadn't been scheduled, I wouldn't have testified and given my theories or the results of my investigation. It really is too soon.”

“I understand that and thank you for saying it.” Mary believed him, and his tone sounded genuine. “I do think you're off on the wrong track and that's why I came in today. You testified that you thought Patrick injected his grandfather intentionally and you couldn't be more wrong about that. You also testified, or at least you suggested in your testimony, that somehow I knew that and destroyed evidence of a crime. You couldn't be more wrong about that either.”

“So let's talk.” Detective Randolph met her eye directly.

“Exactly. That's why I came in. I could've lawyered up, but I didn't. I want to fill in the blanks about Patrick's relationship to his grandfather, about Patrick himself, and about the timeline of events leading up to Edward's death.”

“I appreciate your cooperation.” Detective Randolph blinked, his interest plain. “Before we begin, I have to advise you of your Miranda rights. I know you know them but I have to recite them.”

“Let me ask you first, do you really suspect a ten-year-old boy of injecting his beloved grandfather with insulin, intentionally trying to kill him?”

“Yes, tentatively,” Detective Randolph answered, his expression frank.

“He's
ten
.”

“Mary, that doesn't negate the possibility. We've had ten-year-olds who kill in this city. According to the facts I have, including the Complaint filed in Common Pleas Court, Patrick O'Brien is a deeply disturbed ten-year-old.”

Mary felt pained to hear it. It was the direct opposite of the sweet little boy she knew, but she let it go for now, changing tacks. “And you really suspect me of covering up a murder? A lawyer, a partner at my own law firm? A lifelong resident?”

“Yes. Again, tentatively.”

“Why?” Mary asked, trying to understand, because the notion was so absurd.

“To protect a child you obviously care about. For all we know,
you
could have been the one who injected Edward with the fatal dose.”

“That's ridiculous!” Mary blurted out, shocked. “What are you talking about?”

“Okay, I'll lay some cards on the table. In addition to Patrick's fingerprints on the syringe, we found adult fingerprints, too. We don't know whose they are.”

Mary kicked herself. The prints had to be hers, since she'd picked up the syringe to throw it away. “But why would I kill Edward?”

“To get custody of Patrick,” Detective Randolph answered, his tone reasonable. “I saw you in court. You want Patrick.”

“But I would never kill anybody to get him!” Mary said, though she couldn't deny it was a theory, even if it was a bad one.

“Maybe so, but there are too many questions I don't know the answer to. As I testified today, the only facts I have are that Edward died of an insulin overdose early Friday morning. I don't know what happened between Thursday night and the time of your phone call to 911 on Friday night, reporting the death. By the way, I heard the audiotape of your 911 call. It's too brief to answer any questions. You only said that you were ‘reporting the death of Edward O'Brien, a seventy-two-year-old and he died in his sleep.' You also asked the dispatcher to tell the patrol officers, when they came for his body, not to run their sirens because it might upset his grandson.”

Mary remembered the call, and it made her nervous that Detective Randolph and Jimenez had already listened to the audiotape. They were seriously investigating her complicity in Edward's death, and it was becoming clearer that even though she knew the idea was ridiculous, they didn't have the facts to see it her way, at least not yet.

“Mary, I'll lay all my cards on the table. I followed up with the patrol officers who came to the house after you called 911. I spoke with Officer Agabe-Diaz. He said that you had pulled some strings with Officer Diamond of the Twenty-fifth Precinct.”

Mary shuddered. She remembered that she had asked for the favor, and now it was coming back to haunt her.