Key Witness (43 page)

If Marvin had done it, he would have committed the crime and then gone home. He couldn’t have taken a cab—somewhere out there a taxi driver would have seen his picture on television or in the newspaper and gone to the police. None had.

That night Marvin went home on the bus. In Wyatt’s mind, that had become a given.

Normally, when Marvin was going straight home, he caught his first bus a block down the street from Livonius’s establishment. This murder had taken place two miles away. Marvin wouldn’t have walked two miles to catch the bus. He would have gone to the nearest stop, six blocks from the alley.

Wyatt stood in the alley. You’re the killer. Marvin White. You accost this hooker on the street. Twenty to nine, a quarter to. You go into the alley for your ten-dollar blow job, but instead of that you overpower her, tear her clothes off, and rape her. She struggles—her clothes had been torn, she had scratches and bruises on her face and upper body. You’re strong enough and big enough that you can overpower her, tear her clothes off, rape her, and still keep her from screaming loud enough for someone to hear.

No one had heard anything, according to the police report. They had talked to everyone for two blocks around. No yells, no cries for help.

Of course, you could have pulled the knife on her right away. Raped her with the knife at her throat. She wouldn’t have resisted then, she would have taken her medicine. Chalk it up to occupational hazard.

She had started fighting you when she realized that you weren’t going to merely rape her, as bad as that was, even for a prostitute. You were going to kill her. So she fought, but you were bigger and stronger, and you had a knife.

You killed her. Several stab wounds—there was considerable bleeding. You dragged her body deeper into the alley, buried her under the cardboard that you scrounged, then put the trash cans in front of her, to hide her.

Okay, it’s nine o’clock, the earliest time the murder could have taken place. Wyatt was wearing the digital sports watch he used for running, which had a stopwatch built in. He punched up the stopwatch mode and started the clock.

You couldn’t run to the bus stop. Running would attract attention, someone might take notice and recognize you later. You walk. Fast.

Wyatt walked to the bus stop at a good clip. When he got there, he punched the timer. Eleven minutes. Marvin wouldn’t have done it any faster.

Josephine had gotten him a city bus timetable. He took it out of his pocket, scanned it until he found the listings for this route, the one Marvin would take that would hook him up with the second bus that would transport him home, to Sullivan Houses.

The last bus that Marvin could catch that would allow him to make his connection left this stop at 9:23. If the murder had occurred at the stroke of nine, the earliest possible time according to the coroner, there was less than a ten-minute window to have done it, hidden the body, and walked six blocks to catch the bus.

Ten after nine. That was the latest Marvin could have done it. It was technically possible. But what were the odds that the murder had taken place that close to the edge of the coroner’s estimate? A hundred to one or more? A statistician could give him that information.

Yes, Marvin could have done it. But the odds, Wyatt was sure, were overwhelmingly against it.

M
OIRA HAD HAD A
wonderful day. She and Cissy Dugan finally signed the lease papers for the bookstore. Next week the contractor would start construction. In two months Lucy & Ethel’s would be a reality.

She popped the cork on a bottle of Dom Pérignon as soon as Wyatt walked through the door.

“Congratulations,” he said, kissing her robustly. She had left him a message at work, so he already knew. “I’m proud of you. And happy.”

“How was your trip?” she asked. “Was it pretty out there?”

“Gorgeous. I’ll take you some time. Be a great family vacation.”

He filled her and Michaela in over dinner, leaving out a few parts, like the dope patch. “This stool-pigeon witness of Pagano’s is dirty,” he exclaimed with passion. “The more I know about him, the more I know that.”

“That doesn’t mean this kid—your client—isn’t guilty,” Moira pointed out. “That lawyer said the man in his case was guilty.”

“But the one in the other case, the one they railroaded, wasn’t.” Michaela interjected. “Isn’t that right, Dad?”

“Michaela,” Moira said sharply.

“That’s exactly right,” Wyatt said in response to his daughter, ignoring his wife’s pissed-off look at both of them. “And I’ve got to make sure that doesn’t happen to Marvin.”

“So now you’re convinced he’s innocent,” Moira said dourly.

“I don’t have to be convinced,” he answered. “That’s not the way it works, Moira.” Softening his tone: “But I’m definitely leaning in that direction.”

He told them of his day’s work, reconstructing the timetable of the initial murder, how difficult it would have been for Marvin to have done it and still gotten home. “I have an alibi witness now, a timetable on one of the murders that’s almost impossible, and a former district attorney who admitted he and others fed Dwayne Thompson information. If I can find one more good alibi witness, or figure out one more murder that he couldn’t have done, given the times and places, I will be convinced.” He looked over at Moira, who had drunk most of the bottle of champagne herself. “Would that make you feel better?”

“It would make all the difference in the world.”

He poured himself the last half glass of champagne. “Oh,” he said, laughing. “I almost forgot. I got you a dog.”

“You
what
?”

“You said you wanted a watchdog. I found the greatest watchdog in the world. It belongs to that lawyer, Bollinger. I’m going to have him ship the dog to us.”

Moira looked at him askance. “What kind of dog is it?”

“Every kind. Pit bull, shepherd, rottweiller. Probably some wolf or coyote. He’s really mean, and ugly as sin. He’d scare a burglar off just with his looks. The only bad thing is, his drool will mess up your good clothes.”

“That sounds awful. That’s not the kind of dog I want. I don’t even want a dog.”

“You don’t?” His grin was spreading from ear to ear.

She finally caught on. “You’re pulling my leg,” she exclaimed, relieved. “You’re not having any dog shipped up here.”

“No. But if you ever change your mind, it’ll be okay.”

Glancing at Michaela, Moira shook her head. “I don’t want a dog,” she reiterated. “We’ll be fine without one.”

The doorbell rang.

Moira looked over at him with a questioning expression.

He shook his head. “I’m not expecting anyone. Are you?”

“No.”

“Maybe it’s for Michaela.” Michaela was upstairs in her room, hitting the books. It was almost ten o’clock. They were both in the study. She was knitting a sweater; he was reading police reports from some of the other murders and occasionally glancing at the television, which hummed in the corner, the sound turned low.

She put her knitting aside. “I’ll get it.”

He jotted notes on a legal pad. There was so much information, much of it overlapping and conflicting. The experience of the officer or detective who wrote up the initial report had a lot to do with the cogency of the material. One thing was crystal clear, however: all seven murders were the work of one man, acting alone. The class of woman (except for the accidental mistyping of the last victim), the times and locations where the killings took place, the way they were executed—all the same. The victims were raped, partially strangled by hand, then finished off by knife stabbings.

“Who … who are you?” He heard Moira’s agitated voice filtering down the hallway, into the room. Putting his work aside, he got up and walked to the front door.

“Hello, Mr. Matthews.”

“Hello.” He glanced at Moira, who was obviously freaked out. “What are you doing here, Dexter?”

“It’s my fault, Dad.” Michaela came trotting down the stairs at a fast clip. “I forgot to tell you.” She came up next to him, looking at Dexter, who was standing on the other side of the threshold. Louis and Richard were with him. And a girl. “Are you the one who called for my dad?” she asked.

Dexter looked at her, then at Wyatt. “Yes. That was me.”

Michaela turned to Wyatt. “He called earlier, before either of you got home. He said he needed to see you tonight, Dad. That he’d been helping you out and it was urgent. So I gave him our address.” She looked at Moira, who was watching from a conscious remove. “I hope that was okay.”

“It was,” he assured her fast, before Moira could say something to the contrary.

“I wouldn’t have bothered you in your house if I didn’t think it was important, Mr. Matthews,” Dexter said apologetically, looking from him to Moira, who was openly showing her dismay and displeasure.

“It’s okay. Come in.”

The four of them trooped inside, huddled together in the foyer, surreptitiously checking out the house, what they could see of it. “My daughter, Michaela, and my wife, Moira,” Wyatt said in introduction. “Mrs. Matthews. Dexter, Richard, Louis,” indicating the boys.

“This is Leticia,” Richard said, pushing the girl forward. “Last name Pope.”

“How are you?” Wyatt asked. The girl was Michaela’s age, maybe even younger.

“I’m okay.” She was plainly scared, speaking in a tiny voice that was barely audible.

Wyatt looked at Moira. “Would you rather we talk in the living room or the study?”

“I don’t care.”

“We’ll go in the study. I’ve got my paperwork in there already.”

“Dad.”

He turned to Michaela. “What, honey?”

“I’m finished with my homework. Could I … sit in there with you? I won’t get in your way.”

He looked across the hallway at his wife. She was staring at Dexter and the others like they were from another world. “Sure,” he told his daughter. “Why don’t you grab a tray of Cokes and meet us there?”

The kids from the project ogled the house as he led them down the hallway to the study, peering into the large living room, checking the Craftsman-style stairway that led to the second floor, looking at the lamps, chairs and sofas, paintings on the walls. Soft light from sconces spread like little sunsets across the walls and up to the corners of the ceiling, warming the rooms with their glow and giving visitors the feeling they were in a safe haven.

“This is a great place, Mr. Matthews,” Dexter said, awestruck.

“Thanks. My wife did the decorating. She has a touch for it.”

“Someday I’d like to have me a house like this.”

Wyatt studied the compact drug dealer. “Anything’s possible if you work hard enough. Although I don’t endorse the way you make your living,” he added firmly.

“That’s going to change,” Dexter asserted. “I swear to God. Soon as I get me enough put away, I’m going into the straight world. Doing what I’m doing is too precarious, you know what I mean? Sometimes you don’t live very long.”

The others didn’t say anything. They just gawked. Wyatt led them into the study. “Sit anywhere,” he offered. Turning to the girl, “I take it you’re the reason for this emergency meeting.”

Her eyes were cast down to the floor. Dexter answered for her. “Yes sir. She’s why we’re here.”

They sat down gingerly, Dexter next to Leticia, who barely touched the edge of her behind to the sofa, as if ready to spring up and run out at any provocation. Dexter hovered over her protectively, taking her shaking hand in his two and pressing it to reassure her. The other two boys sat stiffly side by side, across the room. Wyatt knew they were here as bodyguards—Dexter’s comfort zone. This was Dexter’s show.

Michaela came in with Cokes and glasses. Each guest took one, carefully pouring from the can into the glass, as if staining the carpet would be grounds for arrest. Then she took a chair at the side of her dad’s desk.

Wyatt perched himself on the edge of the desk, one leg informally crossed over the other. He picked up his master file and a legal pad and balanced them on his thigh, the pad on top so he could write on it. “Why don’t you tell me why you drove all the way out here this late at night.”

The girl turned to Dexter, who nodded. She said something that was so low and inaudible that Wyatt couldn’t hear it.

“Could you speak up?” he asked.

“She was with Marvin,” Dexter answered for her.

“When one of the murders took place?” He leaned forward.

The girl nodded.

“Which one?”

“Last April eleventh or twelfth.”

He leafed rapidly through the file. “The second one. That one took place near the Little Bangkok area.” The area he was referring to was heavily populated by Thai refugees.

The murdered prostitute had been half black, half Thai. A beautiful girl, judging by her picture. The prettiest of the killer’s victims.

“How long were you with Marvin on the night of April eleventh?” he asked her.

“All night long.” Her voice was barely above a whisper, but he could hear her.

He looked at her hard. “What proof do you have? That I can use?”

“We was at a party,” she began hesitantly.

Dexter nudged her in the ribs with his elbow. “Go on, girl. The man don’t have all night to fool with you.”

“It’s okay,” Wyatt reassured her, not wanting her to get scared and clam up. “You were at a party,” he prompted. “From when to when—approximately.”

“From about eighty-thirty to about eleven.”

“Where was the party?” he asked. “Was it in Sullivan Houses?”

She nodded. “My cousin’s apartment. Her old man wasn’t around.”

“He got busted that night for possession,” Dexter volunteered. “He was in the slammer.”

“When the cat’s away, the mice shall
play
!” Richard boomed from out of nowhere.

Wyatt flipped to the information sheet on that murder. It had taken place late at night, between midnight and dawn of the morning of the twelfth. Marvin’s being at a party with her until eleven the night before wasn’t a credible alibi. It was a beginning, however. There was no public transportation from Sullivan Houses to where the killing had taken place at that time of night—the last public bus left at ten o’clock. If Marvin was the killer he would have had to drive there in a private car, or take a taxi. Both unlikely scenarios. He’s going to make a twenty-five-mile round-trip after midnight on the chance there will be a hooker on the streets that he can kill?