Legal Thriller: Michael Gresham: Secrets Girls Keep: A Courtroom Drama (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 2) (11 page)

“Not pretty enough?”

"Still wearing braces! Who could kiss that metal mouth?"

Ngo nodded.

"You have your standards, Rudy. Good for you."

W
ednesday afternoons are usually
my time off, and this Wednesday I'm home before one o'clock. Priscilla is still on the nanny job taking care of Dania. When I come in through the garage door, she asks if she can speak to me. Her face is tight and she's unsmiling, which is unusual for Priscilla, who ordinarily is very bright and happy around here. I ask if I can change my clothes before we talk and she says that works for her.

I change and come back into the family room, where Dania is on the floor playing with an alphabet toy. Priscilla is sitting on the floor with her charge and she stands up when I come in.

"So," I say, "what's going on with you today, Priss? Something about Dania?"

She shakes her head. I see her eyes brim with tears."I wish that's what it was,” she says. "But it's not. I wanted to ask you about Jana. How long is he going to be living here?"

"Well, probably until his trial is over. Maybe three months. Why, is that a problem?"

"It's just that he won't stay away from me. It's hard to explain. It's like he follows me everywhere and like when I used the bathroom one time and then came back out he was standing like right outside the bathroom door. I don't know, but I had the definite feeling he'd been watching me through the keyhole."

"Did you see him watching you? Or hear him or something?"

"No. But I felt uncomfortable like the whole time I was--I was sitting on the toilet. Am I just being stupid, Mr. Gresham?"

The tears begin running down her cheeks and I am alarmed that she is so upset by this. The last thing we want is for our nanny to be having any kind of problem around the house. Her job is too important to us--and to Dania--for her to be upset. The only problem: there's no definite proof that Jana was actually doing what Priscilla is thinking.

"Tell you what," I say, "I'm going to speak to Jana. Does that work for you?"

Now the tears begin really flowing.

"I don't want to be a problem, Mr. Gresham. I just feel so--so dumb! Like I'm making all this up."

"No, I don't think you're making anything up. Jana is new around here and we don't know him all that well. But maybe we need to make some rules for him. I'm really glad you alerted me, Priss, because the last thing Danny and I ever want is for you to be upset or unhappy here. You come first, okay?"

"O—o--okay. But please don't tell him I said anything. I feel stupid now for saying it."

"No, no, no, I trust your senses. If you thought you were being spied on, very possibly you were. People sense stuff like that. When he gets home, I'll take him for a drive and have a word with him."

My plan for the afternoon was to get out in the garage and sort through boxes for our Christmas decorations as Danny asked me to. She's the type who likes to get her tree up before Thanksgiving. But now I'm thinking about how I'm going to approach this with Jana. A thought occurs to me and I retreat into my office and shut the door.

I call Marcel.

"This is really stupid of me," I tell him, "but better late than never."

"What's that, boss?"

"I need you to run a criminal history on Jana. Start with his records in California and then let's talk."

"Fair enough. I'm on it right now."

"Good. Call me back, please."

Fifteen minutes later, as I'm still working on my first cup of coffee since arriving home, he calls back.

"Yes?"

"Okay. I ran it. Seems our little defendant has quite an extensive background."

"Any felonies?"

"No, just minor stuff."

"I'm listening."

"Well, three shoplifting convictions and a fourth that was dismissed when the store manager didn't show for trial. Two pot busts, one where the weed was seized from his locker at school, the other for smoking weed on the Santa Monica pier."

"Nothing like open and notorious, is there?"

"I know. Stupid kid. But here's one I really don't like. He got caught hiding in the girls' locker room at his high school. Seems he was hiding in a restroom stall and watching the girls dress after showering."

"What came of that?"

"He pled guilty to misdemeanor trespassing. It was reduced from a felony sex crime that would have had him registered as a sex offender. I also talked to the DA. I knew you'd want me to follow up so I called her and spent about ten minutes. She says she was going to nail him with a felony but she couldn't find any girls who knew they were being watched. Evidently he was quite good at doing whatever the hell he was doing and so nobody knew."

"How did they find out, then?"

"Standard review of videotapes. The school’s security staff regularly reviews video from the locker room during school hours. Jana was seen on the video on three different occasions. His head could be seen above the stall while he was evidently standing on the toilet to see over the top."

"Oh my God. What the hell is this all about?"

"You've got yourself a sex nut of some kind there, boss. You want I should come out and eighty-six him the hell out of your house?"

"No. Not yet. I'm going to have a talk with him this afternoon when he gets home from school."

"Wait, there's more on his rap sheet."

"Okay, give it to me."

Marcel clears his throat. "He's also got seven letters from the District Attorney over bad checks he passed, which his mom came in and paid so there was no prosecution. Another arrest a week before he moved back here, this time for assaulting a police officer. That charge is still pending and an arrest warrant has been issued for his failure to appear in court."

"His mother must not have known that when she moved him back here. Otherwise she would've kept him in L.A. until the case was pled out."

"My thinking too, boss."

We hang up.

Danny and I have installed a video system in our house, which provides views of the living areas where Dania can be watched when we're home and when we're away. We can access it on our cell phones, our iPads, and our computer screens around the house. The screen is divided into six different views. But unfortunately there are no views outside the bathrooms so I have no video to review of what went on outside the hall bathroom that Priscilla must have been using when she felt eyes on her. I stop what I'm doing and put in a call to our security company. A request is made for additional cameras in the hallways outside the four bathrooms. I make it clear that the installations need to be surreptitious while Jana is at school and that the cameras need to be disguised. They understand exactly what I want and I'm told it will be done tomorrow during school hours. Good enough.

Thirty minutes later, Jana walks past my office. I jump up and follow him down to his room, where I knock. His door opens.

"Come with me, please, I want to show you something."

I lead him out to my car and we climb in. The garage door articulates upward and we head east toward the lake. There's a lake overlook about a mile from my house and so I pull in there and climb out. Jana follows me. I lead him down to the water's edge.

"Look," I say, turning to face him full-on. "I need to know something. Before you left for school today were you spying on Priscilla in the bathroom?"

He turns white, I swear. "No--no--I was, I came down the hallway but I went straight into my room."

"You didn't stop outside her bathroom door and look inside though the keyhole?"

"No, no."

"Have you ever done anything like that?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean have you ever spied on women in a restroom before?"

"Hell, no! I'm not some kind of pervert, Mr. Gresham."

"Marcel did some checking around today. I told him to. Seems you were accused of sexual stalking at your school in Santa Monica. The charge was reduced to trespassing and you paid a fine and did six months of probation. That ring a bell?"

"Hell, that was a farce. They had me for it, but it wasn't me, I swear it."

"No? Then who was it?"

"This other kid at school. Dickie Immelman. He's a raging queen who likes to see what girls are wearing."

"And that's your story?"

"Ask the DA if you don't believe me. That's why they reduced the charges from stalking to trespassing."

"All right. I'll give you that. But listen to what I'm saying. If I ever find out there's anything like that going on inside my house, you're headed back to jail. There won't be a second discussion, there won't be any questions asked, I'll just call the sheriff and have you taken to jail. Are we clear on that?"

"Shit, Mr. Gresham. You don't believe me!"

"I believe Priscilla. She says she was being watched."

"Did she actually see me?"

"No, but she knows you were outside looking in at her."

"Shit, Mr. Gresham, if she didn't see me then how does she know it was me for sure? I'm being accused of something that she can't prove. It's not the first time, now. I'm getting a bad rep when I really haven't done anything."

"Just remember what I'm telling you. I don't give a damn whether you say you did it or not. But I'm telling you it damn well better never happen in my house or you're gone, Jana. Do we understand each other?"

"Of course. I would never do that. It won't be a problem, Mr. Gresham."

"Fair enough. Let's go home."

The cameras were installed the next day. We now had a video feed on four new areas of our house. All of it was recorded and could be accessed by us anytime, even remotely if we wanted.

So Danny and I agreed to wait and see what turned up. We would have our security company review the video every day. It wouldn't be all that difficult, as the video cameras were motion activated. They should only be recording at most fifteen or twenty minutes of action a day at any one location.

We had become the stalkers. A role neither of us was happy with.

A role which we'd never played before, either.

A
fter I read
all of Marcel's file memos, I decide it’s time to pay a call on the Cook County Medical Examiner's office. We have an autopsy report on Amy Tanenbaum, but I always like to talk to the doctor at his office where he can spread his chart out and fill in the spots where he might have left something out.

The Examiner's building is part of the Chicago Technology Park, an early-winter, tree-lined street tucked away from the hustle of the city. When I arrive, the leaves are bare and snow is blowing sideways over the parking lot. I button my overcoat and hurry inside.

Dr. Samuel--"call me Sammy"--Tsung was housed in a small, confining basement office at the Medical Examiner's office on Harrison.

"I'm Michael Gresham," I tell Dr. Tsung, "I don't know if you remember me."

He smiles graciously, peering over the tops of his half-glasses.

"Of course, Michael. You tore me a new one on the Dunham case. I'm still bleeding down there."

I take it in the good-natured tone in which it is said; besides, if this guy, who has testified probably ten thousand times, thinks I did a good job, there's honestly no higher compliment for a guy like me.

"What brings you here, Michael?"

"I represent Jana Emerich. He's the young man charged with the murder of Amy Tanenbaum. You did the autopsy, Sammy. Do you remember anything about the case?"

"That would be the first young woman from the football field? Yes, let me bring her chart up on my screen."

He clicks his mouse and punches his keyboard.

"Yes, here we are. My, a young, young one. Too bad. Is your guy guilty?"

"Of course not. I never take cases where my client is guilty. You of all people should know that."

He laughs and pushes his glasses up on his forehead.

"Let me see. Strangled, carotids severed by some sharp device. Maybe a wire was used?"

I spread my hands. "Honestly, I don't know. And my client really does claim he's innocent so there's nothing there."

"Sure, sure."

He continues scrolling with his finger on the mouse wheel.

"Oh, I knew there was something about this case. Have you seen the report yet?"

"Not yet. State hasn't turned it over. What do you have, something unusual?"

"I'll say. When I went to examine her oral cavity, I was shocked to see her mouth had been Superglued."

"What? You must be joking."

"No, no, no joking here. And--oh my God. Now I remember this case. I've never seen this before."

"What's that?"

"There was a small dead mouse in her mouth. It had tried to gnaw its way out and a portion of her cheek was gnawed away."

I am stunned. Never in my professional life have I heard anything so disturbing.

"Were there any special characteristics about the mouse? Anything that allows it to be traced?"

"Not really, no. But someone has a very warped sense of--I don't want to say humor because that's definitely not it. Just something very evil about this."

"I don't know what to say. Why on earth?"

He shrugs and pushes his glasses down onto his nose and continues reading.

"Fine font," he smiles as he reads. "Oh yes, here we are. Our biology team studied and categorized the little guy. Yes, here is the taxonomy report. Seems your man's choice was a common house mouse. This guy belongs to the Kingdom: Animalia, Phylum: Chordata, Class: Mammalia, Order: Rodentia, Family: Muridae, Subfamily: Murinae, Genus: Mus, Species: musculus. Its Binomial name is Mus musculus."

"I could never write all that down on my notepad. I have no clue what you just read me."

He taps his computer screen.

"Not to worry. It's all right in the autopsy report, footnote four. I'll print a copy for you before you leave, Michael."

"So her mouth contained a common house mouse. Why would anyone carry around a house mouse?"

"That's the sixty-four-dollar question. Maybe it was caught live around the house? When the cold weather came this winter maybe someone was trapping an influx of mice coming into his house to escape the cold? Maybe someone keeps a snake and feeds it mice? Who knows? We'll probably never know."

Unless someone confesses
, I'm thinking. "Wait. Back up. You said snake?"

"Yes. According to my own quick research, this brand of mouse is typically bred by people who keep snakes. They call them pinkies."

I realize I've had this conversation before, something about a pinky. But where? Then it comes to me and I know the identity of the person who did this. In fact, he's living in my guest bedroom, him and his snake--with a cache of mice Danny and I probably don't know about. Oh my God!

I am shaken. The rest of what Dr. Tsung tells me about the autopsy and his report falls on deaf ears. My mind is racing and it comes to me in a sudden crashing of mental walls caving in: I have to remove him from our lives. He cannot be trusted. He's at school, right? The perfect time to evict him from my house, get him away from Danny, from Dania and Priss as well.

Ten minutes later, Dr. Tsung is finished with his presentation. He stops to print me a copy of the full autopsy report. As he hands it to me, he seems to notice how my hands are shaking.

"Are you all right, Michael? Do you need a bottle of water? We keep it in our incoming coolers."

"No, no, thanks. I'm fine. Maybe a touch of the flu, but I'm all right. I cannot thank you enough for taking time out to meet with me, Sammy."

"Hey," he says with a wide smile, "I'd rather give it all up to you in here than in some courtroom down the road. You're a much more agreeable person when you're sitting across from me at my desk."

He laughs and I join him, allies--at least for the moment.

I tuck the report inside my shoulder bag and we shake hands.

Walking out to my car the world is a blur. My heart jumps in my chest, reminding me of the exigency I'm facing. I climb into the driver's seat, turn the key, and mechanically drive home. When I arrive, I realize I remember nothing of the journey. It's like my mind has shut down and I am focused on three words that won't leave me alone: GET HIM OUT!

I rush inside my house.

Dania is just one-year-old and spends half of her life asleep. Her nanny, Priscilla, is a young student who attends Northwestern at night. She is pretty and friendly and working on a degree in childhood education. Her approach with Dania is motivated by a desire to apply what she's learning in school to the sandbox world our little girl offers. A chance to put book learning into practice. Priscilla is medium height, dresses in comfortable slacks and Tees and sweatshirts, and is quite wide in the hips, probably a testament to her German heritage, though I don't make that remark to Danny, who is one hundred percent pure German. And who also has very slim hips. In fact, I have been known to call her snake hips; the memory of that tag,
snake hips
, jolts me back to reality of snakes and their mice as I come into the living room, where I find Priscilla reading a rather thick book. Dania, I can only assume, is in her room sleeping.

"How's the baby?" I breathlessly ask.

Priscilla's puzzled look reminds me to slow down. No need to alarm anyone.

"She's--I checked her not five minutes ago. She's sleeping peacefully. If you listen hard you can even make out a little snore. I call it her snorelet."

I smile. But I still walk down the hallway to the baby's room and peek inside. She is lying on her back, eyes shut, her chest unmoving to my eye. I rush to her and put my ear to her mouth. Warm breath and a sigh alleviate my terror. I steady myself. There's nothing wrong with Dania, I tell myself. Settle the hell down right now before you scare Priscilla off.

While the State’s Attorney's office and police detectives continue to work up the case against Jana, he has remained in school at Wendover High. I had to have a talk with the principal there but, in the end, the school's lawyers had to agree: the boy remained in school, attending classes as he normally would. The social ramifications of that have been extremely difficult for Jana as he has been ostracized, made a pariah by all but a few of his peers. Along with that, or because of it, I suppose, he has become very distant around the house, very morose, and very withdrawn. Danny and I have discussed the possibility of professional counseling for him, but we haven't actually sprung that on him yet.

Silently, without Priscilla knowing what I'm up to, I creep further down the hallway, past my and Danny's bedroom, past the second bathroom, and come to Jana's closed door. There is a picture of Bob Marley on the door. It came with Jana when he moved in and the music--heard sometimes through the walls of our house--of steel drums and reggae guitar, came along as well. Which led us to suspect that--with no disrespect to the musician or his music--Jana might still be smoking pot, as he had been in Santa Monica. Still, we have seen no evidence of any such thing, either by odor or physical appearance or the munchies—signs we know that would indicate otherwise.

I try his doorknob. Locked. We had a lock installed when he moved in. The idea was to give him a sense of privacy. Well, we have succeeded, I'm now sorry to say. So I do the next best thing: I find a nearby locksmith on my smartphone and make the call. Thirty-minute service guaranteed. Rather than pass the day with Priscilla, who is studying and who I would be disturbing, I go back to my bedroom and decide I'm done for the day--meaning I get to change out of this suit and into something comfortable. The suit has been worn twice--one of my standby navy pinstripes--so into the dry cleaner's bag it goes. Slipping on jeans, a Bulls sweatshirt, and moccasins with wool socks, I steal back into my office. Here it's quiet and I won't be disturbed, plus I can access my office network and file server from my laptop. First, though, I call Mrs. Lingscheit and tell her I won't be coming back today.

"That's too bad. Danny was looking for you."

"Put her on, please."

Waiting.

"Michael, I just wanted to hear what you learned from the M.E."

"Typical autopsy. Strangled, probably with some kind of wire. Sharp enough to sever the carotids."

"Like a guitar string?"

She has me there. Why a guitar string?

"Possibly. What makes you come up with a guitar string?"

"Just thinking about Jana's guitar. No reason, I guess."

We'll let that ride a minute or two.

"But here's the real catch. The doctor found a dead mouse in Amy's mouth."

"Jesus Christ!"

"I know. Her mouth was Superglued shut. The mouse had tried to gnaw its way out."

"Oh, my God. That is gross! Whoever in the hell--"

"Why a mouse?" I ask. "A guitar string I can work with. But whoever would put a mouse in the mouth of a victim?"

"Sounds really twisted, Michael."

"Agree. So, that's about it. Right now I'm waiting for the locksmith."

"What?"

"I'm breaking into Jana's room while he's in school."

"Whatever for?"

"He keeps that snake, right?"

"Right."

"Well, what do snakes eat?"

"I don't know."

"Think."

"Mice?"

"Bingo!"

"I'm on my way home. Don't touch anything until I get there. And don't give him any idea what we're up to until I get Dania in my arms. Promise me?"

"Promise. Have Marcel bring you."

"I'm on it. Goodbye."

We hang up and I'm immediately guilted with the notion that we might be grossly overreacting. We've got this seventeen-year-old boy who has had a tough life, maybe smokes a little pot, but who doesn't at his age? And some Metallica. Big deal. But he was seen in the area of Amy Tanenbaum the night she was killed. And he keeps mice (I'm guessing, I'm not in there, yet). Plus--and this is the killer part--he has a guitar. We bought him a used Fender Strat when he told us about the guitar his mom had pawned in Santa Monica. It was only a few hundred bucks and came with a practice amp and headphones, so we've all but forgotten about it. Until now. I need to check the strings. If it's missing even one string, Jana and the Greshams are done. He'll be back at Uncle Tim's before nightfall.

Twenty minutes later, Guido's Keys rolls into the drive. The brakes on the van squeak and minutes later the bell rings. I hurry down the hall. The guy has a toolbox and a good smile.

"Is this confidential?" I ask.

"Are you the property owner?"

"Yes. Michael Gresham. I called you."

"Then only you know about it. You and your credit card company. One hundred for the call, sixty-five an hour."

"Come on in. Let's get to it."

He has the lock out five minutes later and takes it out to the van to make me a key.

Silently, I step inside Jana's room and I am struck with how clean and neat it is. Against the far wall, on a bookshelf, is where he first had the snake container when he moved in. Now, it's gone. I take a careful look around, closet, shelves, under the bed--everywhere--and the snake is gone. I shiver: at least its container is gone. Brush that off, I tell myself. There's no snake. Again looking high and low, even in the drawers of his chest and desk, I find no mice. I find no sign of mice ever having been in here. His guitar is leaning against the wall, the amp in between. The amp's little red light is glowing. Wasting electricity, but that's sure as hell not the point right now.

"Sir?"

I almost jump through the window.

"Sir? Here's the key. I just need a credit card and I'm outta here."

I hand him a card and turn my attention back to the guitar.

Six, I slowly count them, strings. I locate the guitar case underneath his bed and slide it out. I unlock four clasps and lift the top. There's a small door with a little box in the center of the case. There's a tab to be pulled to open the door. I pull it open.

A complete set of guitar strings. Quickly I riffle though them in their individual paper packages.

I count them again.

According to the box the packages came in, there should be six strings, from high E to low E. It's high E that is missing. I peer inside the packages. High E would be the thinnest string. It would be a silver, unwound string, consisting of razor sharp wire, if its neighbor is any indication.