Mad Max: Unintended Consequences (17 page)

Whip looked good in his own clothes instead of jailhouse orange. Even for a day. I took his suit, shirt, tie, and underwear early the day of his court appearance. Alex wanted his father to know he polished his loafers for him. Add a jail haircut and shave and Whip looked almost normal. That was, until I remembered why the changes: his court appearance to plead not guilty.

An hour before the hearing, the police led Whip through an underground corridor into the adjacent two-century old courthouse where Vince and I waited in a conference room. The transport cop removed the plastic handcuffs and locked us in. Vince said Whip would make a good impression. “We've been fortunate to draw one of the more centrist judges on the bench, Mary Rhonda Garrison.”

Vince went over the protocol of what to expect once again.

“You'll come in through a side door. You won't be able to speak to your children, friends, or other family.”

“Why not?”

“Think of this as prosecutorial posturing. The district attorney can and will do everything in his power to diminish your position.” Vince shut his briefcase. “Just be glad you aren't in a jail jumpsuit.”

Not much more would happen at the initial hearing. The prosecution would present the charge, which Vince believed would be manslaughter.

Whip would say, “Not guilty.”

Vince would ask for bail or release on Whip's own recognizance. They'd post bond and surrender his passport, because he was neither a threat to the community nor a flight risk. And Whip would be out.

Nothing went according to plan. The prosecution asked for murder two and remand. No matter what Vince said, he couldn't convince the judge to grant bail.

“Not on a murder charge, Mr. Bodine,” the Honorable Mary Rhonda Garrison said for the second time.

“But, Your Honor…” Vince got no further. He fell silent when the judge pointed her finger at him.

The judge sided with the prosecution. So much for being a centrist.

Whip returned to his home away from home—the jail cell. Vince said he'd be over after he petitioned for an immediate release of the evidence. I followed Whip to the jail to wait for Vince; Johnny took the kids back home.

I was with Whip when Vince arrived, his face red with fury.

“The district attorney plans to try the case himself. George Weed never prosecutes murder two. It has to be his re-election campaign. He lost his last high-profile murder case.”

“What happened?” Whip ping-ponged around the room, too hyperactive to sit.

“He tried a guy who killed his parents and boss in front of a dozen witnesses. Sad but true, most of the physical evidence was compromised by sloppy police work and thrown out.”

“What happened to the guy?”

“He was released, left town, and murdered his in-laws out in West Virginia. He killed a cop in a shootout before the police nailed the son of a bitch with a couple of dozen well-placed bullets.”

“So, reading the tea leaves, Weed's going to eviscerate Whip to prove he killed Merry. In cold blood? Or premeditation? A crime of passion?” I squirmed on the hard wooden chair.

“Premeditation. He doesn't think it's a crime of passion.”

“Bullshit!”

“Calm down.” Vince laid several new colored file folders on the table.

“How could it be premeditation? What about the evidence?”

“I have a partial list and asked for the police photos. I should get the rest of the evidence next week.” Vince handed over a single sheet of paper. “I don't see how they can build a case out of this.”

Whip scanned the list and handed it to me.

Nothing unexpected. Whip's fingerprints were found in Merry's car—naturally, since he bought it for her and maintained it. None in her apartment—he'd never been there. A blue shirt with gunshot residue the police took from the dirty clothes hamper. An old New York state registration for a twenty-two caliber handgun. An inventory of the nine-millimeter guns from the safe.

“Here's the first thing wrong, Vince.” Whip pointed to the twenty-two. “That gun was stolen from a locked case in the trunk of my car more than four years ago. I filed a police report. I bought it for Merry, but she never liked it. Funny, isn't it? She was killed with a gun similar to the one I got her for her own protection.”

“I'll pull the police report.” Vince made a cryptic mark on his legal pad.

“I have one with the insurance claim in my filing cabinet.”

“I'll bring it, Vince.” I'd do whatever I could.

“That'll help, but it's not evidence the gun was stolen. It's evidence you reported it stolen.”

“So I was planning to kill Merry for more than four years? Bullshit!”

“The other guns were all registered?” Vince didn't miss a beat. He ran a manicured finger down the list.

“Absolutely. Even before the Brady Bill, I registered every one of them. I haven't owned an unregistered gun since I was a kid. My dad had an old thirty-eight we used for target practice. I have no idea what happened to it. Hell, he may still have it.”

“Don't mention any unregistered guns. Even as a kid. Even if you owned one before guns had to be registered. It's no use planting any seeds of doubt in a juror's head. Look over the list of guns the police impounded. The police compared them with your known permits. One's missing.”

“It's not missing. I shipped the Glock to the worksite in Peru. Steve can fax the Peruvian permit. It's still there.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Sure, why?”

“It sounds like Weed intends to make a federal case out of that gun. Just like the twenty-two. He wants to show a pattern.” Vince made a note in his neat handwriting. His ever-present legal pad filled up with single words and short cryptic phrases. “Maybe you were planning to get rid of your wife for a long time.”

“I repeat, the Glock's not missing. It's all legal and locked in my safe in Peru. I couldn't have sneaked it back into the country, because I came home with a small carry-on. American Airlines can pull my records, if necessary. Since September Eleventh, no one's been allowed to board a plane with a weapon. Besides, the Glock's a nine-millimeter, not a twenty-two.”

Vince ignored Whip's outburst. “What about the shirt the cops found in the clothes basket? Any idea how the GSR got on it?”

“Easy. Two days before Merry's murder, I competed in a tournament at Saunder's firing range. Beat the police chief and the head of the detective squad. Everyone knows me. Shoot there as often as I can.”

Whip always wore the same shirt, his lucky shirt, in competition.

“Why?”

“I like to keep my skills sharp.”

“Have you ever fired your gun at a person?” Vince made another mysterious entry on the pad.

“Twice. Once to scare a robber off down in South America. Once in Africa.”

“And in Africa?”

“This militia guy chased two of my native crew with a machete and an AK forty-seven. Him or my crew. I chose him.”

“He died?”

“Direct shot in the heart.”

I'd never heard this before.
Boy, I don't know as much about my son-in-law as I thought.

“That doesn't have any bearing on Merry's murder.”

“It would, if Weed tries to prove you're violent.”

“Does he have evidence of Whip's violent nature?” I picked at a loose thread on my sleeve.

If the district attorney got wind of Whip's fight with Hunter, it might support his theory. I wanted to make sure he never did. Johnny, Whip, Hunter, and I were the only living witnesses to the beating, and Johnny and I weren't about to volunteer any information. From the lack of charges against Whip for assault, I doubted Hunter wanted to admit his married lover's husband beat the snot out of him.

“Not that I know of.”

“What about a statement from the guys at the range?”

“It doesn't hurt to have the chief of police vouch for you.” Vince smiled the tiniest of smiles. Whip didn't.

“Before we move on, what do you know about GSR, Vince?” Whip asked.

“Not much. Why?”

“My shirt should be covered with microscopic trace particles of lead, barium, and antimony. Fired between six-and eight-hundred shells that day. Both in practice before the competition and during it.”

“Okay.” Vince made a note but didn't appear to see a pattern. I did.

“Should have trace all over the front and both sleeves. Merry was killed by a single shot fired from someone standing beside or behind her. Trace would be on the right sleeve, with a little on the front maybe, if the murderer touched the shirt. There would be very little.”

“You could have worn a dirty shirt, just to throw the police off.”

“Jesus! What about my alibi?”

“Full of holes, Whip. Mr. Medina left right after eating the pizza, right?”

“Yeah.”

“That was around eight-thirty?”

“Eight-thirty. Maybe eight forty-five.”

“Mr. Zimmerman left about the same time?”

“Yeah. Maybe a couple of minutes before Johnny.”

I didn't like where this was headed. I could see Whip didn't either.

“The coroner set your wife's time of death between nine-thirty and ten-thirty. That gives you enough time to get up to her apartment and shoot her.”

“But Mrs. Curry heard the gunshot about nine-fifteen. She said a rerun of
CSI
had just started. The coroner must be wrong.”

“Shit on a shingle!” Whip exploded over my comment.

“What are you doing, Vince?” I wasn't pleased with Whip's attorney playing good cop-bad cop.

“Just asking the kind of questions the district attorney will ask at trial. If I anticipate his line of attack, I can prepare Whip and other witnesses. We want to get our story out our way and not have to rebut the prosecutor's spin.”

“Makes sense.” I didn't have to like the tactic. Still, it was effective and made us think through what we said about each piece of evidence.

“So far, the case is all circumstantial, but juries have convicted on less. We'll get through this. In my career, I haven't let an innocent man be convicted. You aren't going to be my first.”

“While you're getting the statement from the guys at the range, talk to Mrs. Curry.” I reinforced my request to have her deposed.

“I will, but she didn't see anything.”

“She heard the killer's voice. Might be able to tell you it wasn't Whip if she hears his.”

“Anyone else?”

“Not that I can think of.”

“One more thing. Whip couldn't get to Merry's apartment from his office on I-95 if he killed her at nine-fifteen.”

“Huh?”

“Alex checked the Department of Transportation Web site for that night. Only one lane westbound was open. Tie-ups were over an hour.”

“That's good. Now, think of what else we're missing. You've got a lot of time on your hands, Whip, so get busy.” Vince packed his legal pad and folders, shook our hands, and knocked at the door.

“Yeah, like I'm going anywhere soon.” Whip's being the target of a power-hungry district attorney didn't go down well.

“We need your help, too, Whip.” I told him about our small army of four.

“Four? Who's the fourth?”

“Johnny.”

“Don't tell me you're dating my best friend.” Whip tried and failed to look scandalized.

“Okay, I won't. Back to business. If we want to prove Hunter killed Merry, we can't do it alone. Think about what we should look for.”

“What's Hunter doing now? Is he still around? Is anyone watching him?”

“I'll find out.” I made a note in the small notebook I kept with me at all times. I wasn't about to tell Whip Alex was still monitoring his cell and Emilie was “feeling” what Hunter was doing.

“You guys gotta get me outta here.”

“We're trying everything we can think of. Help us. Tell us what we're missing.”

“Don't want to go through life with everyone looking at me like I'm a killer.”

“That's part of the problem. If we don't pin this on Hunter, it could be your reality.”

“I know. I'm scared shitless, Max.” Whip walked to the grubby window and stared through countless fingerprints. “People have been convicted on less.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it.”

“Just don't bring your private detective back. Wouldn't do me much good if he got caught tailing Hunter.”

“Tony Ferraiolli's boys don't get caught. Still, I see what you're saying. We'll do a lot of sleuthing ourselves. If I think we need him, I'll get him back. You won't have a say in it.”

“Just be safe. Hunter's a loose cannon. I don't want him to kill any witnesses.”

I kissed Whip on the cheek. I hated the forlorn look on his face. He could be in jail for months.

I stared at Alex's questions stuck on the refrigerator. So many unknowns.

The police remained uncooperative. When Vince asked about the missing items, he got stonewalled. The party line was, “Pugh's guilty. Your questions are noise in the system, so forget about it.”

I blew on my coffee. The surface rippled. I took a sip and still burned the tip of my tongue. Shoot, that'd blister. I stared again at the list.

“MM? MM? Where are you?” Alex shouted.

“MM?”

Alex thundered down the stairs, his oversized sneakers not sneaky.

I looked up. “Who's MM?”

“You. Oh, sorry. When Em and I text each other, we call you MM.”

“Why?”

“Shorter than Mad Max.”

“Gotcha.”

“And it's better than Grandma,” Alex sassed.

“You got that right.” Then what Alex said hit home. “Hey, wait a minute. Do you and Em text each other when you're both in the house?”

“Sure.”

“Your bedrooms are on the same hall, separated by your bathroom.” I set my cup on the kitchen table.

“So?”

“So, no more. Get up and walk over. No texting within the house.”

“Ah, come on, Mad Max.”

“No. Your butts are glued to your chairs too damned much as it is.”

“Okay.”

“Now, what's up?”

Alex held a fistful of crumpled papers. He threw himself into a kitchen chair. Emilie strolled in a few seconds later and went to the fridge for sodas. After they opened Diet Cokes, Alex spread out his smooshed papers.

Could he have found something?

“This is, like, totally surreal,” Alex started.

“Alex's been looking for Dracula.” Emilie watched her brother stare at the printouts.

“Have you found him?”

I was determined to play the game. Humor him. Keep him focused. Deep inside, though, I doubted he'd come up with anything substantial.

“That's the problem. I found a bunch of Draculas. I don't know which one's him.”

“What do you mean, a bunch?” I wanted to snatch the printouts, but I held back. “Alex Time” was slower than mine.

“I Googled him, but Andrew Hunter's too common. I got tons of junk. I found several Andrew Hunters who are doctors.”

“How many are plastic surgeons?”

“At least five.”

“Five?”

No wonder Alex was confused.

“Well, five with a name that's a variation of Dracula's. See.”

My grandson pushed the papers across the breakfast table. I saw his problem: Dr. Andrew R. Hunter. Dr. R. Andrew Hunter. Dr. A. Randall Hunter. Dr. Randall A. Hunter. Dr. Randall Andrew Hunter.

“I see. How do you suggest we narrow it down?”

Emilie stared at the table, her eyes unfocused. She sat motionless for several long seconds. “We don't.”

“We don't?” Now I was confused. I reached for my coffee cup.

“We don't narrow it at all. They're all him.”

“That doesn't make sense. Look.” I pointed to one of the printouts. “Here's a news story about a Randall A. Hunter who graduated from UVA Medical School. Another about an A. Randall Hunter who graduated from USC Medical School. A third about an Andrew R. Hunter who graduated from St. George's University Medical School in Grenada.”

“Where's Grenada?” Alex belched and earned a frown for his exuberant efforts.

“It's a small island in the Caribbean with a medical school. Americans go there when they can't get into a school in the States.”

“Is that legal?” Emilie whispered a small burp.

“Sure. To practice medicine, you have to pass state medical board exams. Dracula must have passed at least one.” I picked up two of the printouts and laid them side by side.

“These dates are off.” I pointed at the stories. “Dracula couldn't have graduated from UVA and USC two years apart.”

“Then he's lying.”

Alex got up and returned with the cookie jar.

“Yes, but where? And why?”

“Or how many times? About what? I bet we find out he's a serial liar.” Emilie helped herself to a peanut butter cookie.

“Or a serial killer.” Finding and stopping a serial killer would be right up Alex's fantasy-sleuth alley.

“So, this guy has several aliases. What does that tell us?” Emilie sipped more cola.

“He's got something to hide,” Alex suggested. “I'll Google him again. Oh, guys, I found a way cool site called ‘rottendoctor.’ It lists doctors who've lost their licenses or who are under investigation for all sorts of stuff. You can also post stuff.”

“Your dad sent letters to the state medical board and the hospital several weeks ago. He told them one of their doctors was having an affair with a patient. That's so against the rules.” Why I hadn't thought to tell the kids earlier, I didn't know. Now they deserved to know everything I did.

“I'll post a question. Maybe there's other stuff about Dracula.” Alex grabbed his papers and thundered back up the stairs. “Could be he's been sued for malpractice.”

“I wonder if there are other sites like that. I'll look.” Emilie took her soda and another cookie and walked out of the room. She threw a question over her shoulder. “Have you found Mom's cell phone yet?”

“No,” I called toward the retreating back.

“Did you call the number?” Emilie's voice drifted from midway up the stairs.

I picked up my phone and speed dialed Merry's number. It rang half a dozen times before it was answered. I steeled myself to listen to her recorded voice. What I heard was someone's raspy breathing. I hung up and stared out into the backyard. I called back and it went right to voicemail. The someone who answered had turned the cell off.