Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." (35 page)

Cools smiles, amusingly at William’s intimidation attempt, and replies freely, “I inquired of the defendant as to the whereabouts of his wife.”

“I didn’t ask you what you asked him. I asked you what you said to him.”

“Maybe I don’t get your meaning; I do not recall saying anything to him.” He turns to the jurors. “I’m a detective. I only ask questions.”

“Well, allow me to refresh your memory. I’m sure you remember threatening Mr. Siconolfi with your gun.”

“Objection: Your Honor, this is argumentative.”

“Sustained: That will be enough of that, William,” Judge Cooper says firmly.

“Okay, Your Honor, I will rephrase the question. Detective, did you threaten Mr. Siconolfi with your gun?”

“Absolutely not,” Cools answers straight to the jurors, most of who return warm sentiments, bolstering his confidence.

William mutters lightly under his breath, “Chelsea’s a sweet little slut,” then asks the courtroom, “Detective, did you at any time during your investigation threaten Mr. Siconolfi by means of planting his DNA?”

“No, I did not!” he answers, raising his voice.

Milkowski waves a hand, telling him to slow down, as Joshua looks across the jury box, shaking his head and mouthing, “Yes, he did. Yes, he did.”

“Yeah, I thought you’d be less of a man without your gun.”

“Objection: Your Honor, he is merely badgering the witness!”

“Sustained: Strike that from the record. William, I am not going to warn you again.”

“I apologize to the court, Your Honor,” he answers back, and continues questioning.

“Detective, were you first called to Mr. Siconolfi’s home the morning of December 29?”

“Yes, I was.”

“And you’re a detective in the homicide division, is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Now does the homicide division usually respond to prank phone calls?”

“We did not believe it to be a prank call,” he answers, upholding his decision.

William just stares, mockingly. Then he asks, “Now, could you describe for us what Mr. Siconolfi’s demeanor was like when you arrived at his home?”

“He was uncooperative; he was drunk and smart-alecky.”

“Drunk?” William goes to his table and thumbs through his papers. “Was he ever breath-tested?”

Cools hesitates. “No, but he was holding a drink in his hand and had a high odor of intoxicants.”

“Okay, so you say he was drunk, how so then was he belligerent? Or was he a happy sort of drunk?”

“He seemed…amused.”

“Amused? Would that mean Mr. Siconolfi, in your opinion, appeared not to appreciate the severity of the situation as you did?”

“Uh…”

“Let me ask you another way. Would you say that amused and smart-alecky are attributes closer to that of a prank phone caller or that of a man who, as you say, just minutes prior viciously slashed a woman’s throat?”

“Objection: Your Honor, Detective Cools is not a psychologist; he cannot be asked to know the defendant’s mindset.”

“Overruled: I believe Detective Cools can establish as to how he perceived the defendant’s state of mind. William, could you rephrase your question?”

He nods and then, believing the point to be made, begins another line of questioning. “Now, Detective, when you searched his home, did you find any signs of foul play?”

“No.”

“Nothing?” Cools gives him a look, refusing to answer the question a second time. “OK, then after finding nothing out of place, what did you do?”

“We questioned the defendant and left.”

“Detective?” William pauses, looking to the jurors through wounded eyes. “Detective Cools, did you torture my client into writing a false statement of guilt?”

“No, I did not,” he answers resolutely. But the accusation and the denial divides some considerations.

William stares at him accusingly again, leans over the witness box, this time muttering, “We’ve watched you fuck her.” Cools bites his tongue, picturing himself assassinating both Siconolfis. And next William asks, “Can you tell us what happened to the video camera in the interrogation room?” He doesn’t know exactly what Cools’s answer will be, only that there’s a good chance it won’t be the same as Detective Robertson’s. He presumes this because just minutes prior to her coming in to testify, a text was sent to her phone, seemingly coming from Captain Jackson’s, telling her to say that Joshua tore the camera out before the interview began.

Cools embarks upon his practiced rebuttal. “The defendant freaked out during the interview and jumped up onto the table. At first we didn’t know what he was doing, so out of natural reflex, I, along with Detective Robertson, scooted as far back away from the table as we could, so he couldn’t kick at us. Then he started yanking on the camera, and before we could stop him, he’d torn it down. We had to use force but finally got him under control, and then we stuck the camera back on its brace…believing it to still be functional.”

“You say he got away from you
during
the interrogation?”

“Yes, just like I told you.”

“Really!” William replies with lighted eyes. “And how far into the interview were you at this point?”

“Uh…I’m not sure.”

“Well…approximately?”

Cools exaggeratedly searches the air for the answer, the way he and Captain Jackson had trained so many times. “I would say about an hour, give or take,” he states directly to the jurors, who seem to be peering at him with indifference.

“And was Detective Robertson in the interrogation room with you at this time?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm? Could it possibly be that this so-called incident happened
before
your interrogation? And you and your partner witnessed it from behind a two-way mirror?”

“No! It was like I told you!”

“Then you should be able to provide video for at least the first hour of this so-called interview. So where’s the first hour, give or take?”

He replies as rehearsed, “When he yanked it down, some of the wires must have crossed, and it short-circuited the entire system; however, we didn’t know this until after the interview was conducted.” Cools reads their faces. Oh shit, they’re not buying any of this! What’s going on?

The jurors are unsure of his answer. William waits for all their eyes to land back on him. And when he sees their doubtfulness, he returns to his table, stating, “That is all I have for this witness at this time, but I may very well need to question him further at a later date.”

Judge Cooper calls for a break, informing everyone to reconvene at quarter to two.

The noontime break is filled with news flashes explaining and exaggerating the inconsistent statements from the arresting detectives. And once more allegations of coerced interrogations highlight the theme.

Cools is pulled aside by Milkowski. “I think we need to talk,” he says sternly, then leads him to his office, fending off reporters along the way. He slams the door and raises the issue. “What the fuck was that? Is there anything I should know?”

“No,” Cools replies, defending himself, “everything was done by the book.”

“Are you sure?” Milkowski asks, unconvinced.

“Fuck you, Andrew. You do your job, and I’ll do mine! Everything he said in there is all bullshit. We never had any discussion with him about writing a statement, and we didn’t torture it out of him! That prick writing a statement was the last thing in the world we thought we’d get.”

“Then why do you and Michelle have two differing stories concerning the video camera?”

“What? Why…what did she say?”

“She clearly testified he’d torn the video camera out
prior
to the interview, adding that you and she viewed the entire event through the glass!”

Now things begin to click—the way the jurors were looking at him. Oh fuck, why would she say that? We discussed it in detail. What do I tell Milkowski? He’s waiting for an answer.

“Listen…Andrew, what I’m going to tell you, you cannot repeat to anyone. We stumbled onto some shit we shouldn’t have; they threatened me, and… and they must’ve gotten to her. Maybe they forced her to give a contradictory testimony.”

“Fuck! His statement was the best piece of evidence I had,” Milkowski yells, throwing his briefcase atop his desk. Neither of them says a word for a full minute; then Milkowski motions for him to sit down and does the same. He says in an even tone, “William is calling an expert witness, a signer.”

“A what?” Cools replies, genuinely confused.

“A signer for the deaf. I can’t figure out why or what he’s up to. Does this mean anything to you—anything at all?” Cools thinks for a moment but is also stumped. “Well, I need you to mention it to Michelle; see if you can come up with any scenario that gives rationale for it. I’m going to spend the remainder of the day presenting the rest of the evidence and then give it over to William to start tomorrow. So tomorrow you need to be in here; he didn’t excuse you as a witness, and I assume he is going to call you again. Be prepared!”

“Okay, I’ll be here,” he says, and excuses himself immediately.

Milkowski finds a bag of Fritos inside his desk; he eats a handful, and then another. He doesn’t believe one word of what Cools told him. No one threatens someone without first trying to buy them off. And Cools just went to Aruba with his girlfriend. Michelle was telling the truth. He’s fucking up this case. He’s fucking up my jurors. And I won’t let that happen!

Cools doesn’t know it, but he’s about to be hit from all sides.

.

Chapter Fifty-Three

W
ithout remembering much of her way, Michelle makes it home after five strong mixed drinks. She shuts the door and leans back against it, breathing heavily. The house is silent and still, with only the steady drone of the heat pump. She staggers to the awaiting cushions of her living room sofa, curls her feet up, and turns on an easy listening CD. Her husband and daughter are gone and won’t be home for two hours. And she needs all of it to find symmetry, peace. At rest, she contemplates the good judgment of her decisions—her courage to do what had to be done in the courtroom, her initiative to look the other way of the racecar club, as well as just now leaving her bothersome phone outside in the car.

Then the unexpected feeling that someone is with her brushes her thoughts. At once she becomes fully alert, shifting her gaze, seeing a sudden shadow.

Bang, bang, bang!

Instantly she jolts up. She reaches under the cushions. Maybe she’d left her phone in the car, but her gun hasn’t left her side since the unidentified man banged on her door last time. She cocks the hammer, moving directly to the front entrance. Last time she was 90 percent scared and 10 percent pissed off; this time it’s just the opposite. She controls herself, aims the weapon at the center of the door, applying weight against its trigger. “Who is it?” she demands.

“Open up! It’s Cools!”

She lowers her gun and unlocks the door, yelling, “Brad, you asshole! Stop pounding on my freaking door!”

He ignores her distress and yells back, “What the fuck was that about? Why did you change the story?” She looks at him, confounded. “Tell me why you said he broke the camera before the interview. We went over this a million times!”

“What are you talking about? I got a text from Captain just before I went in saying it was changed.”

“No, he didn’t!” Cools snaps accusingly, suspecting she’s up to something.

“Sit down. I’ll show you then.” She points to a chair and quickly slips away to the garage to get her phone. She returns, bringing up her last text.

Captain Jackson: Change of story - he destroyed the camera BEFORE the interview started.

Cools replies to the text: Captain call me.

They both stare at her phone until it updates: message failed.

“This didn’t come from Captain!” he shouts.

“Well, what did you say in court?”

“What do you think I said? I said what we…that he broke it
during
the interview, that the wires crossed and fried the system!”

“Oh shit!Then that means…Hey, it was your guys who switched our phones, Brad!”

Cools begins to argue but stops, realizing she could be right. “I’m calling Captain.” This time he uses his phone.

After four rings it’s answered. “Cools, I’m glad you called. I’m sitting here with the mayor, but I need to talk to you and Robertson. It’s important. Do you know where she is?”

“Yes, here…I’m at her house.”

“Stay there; I’ll call you back in a couple minutes.”

He clicks his phone shut, searching his thoughts for answers. How did those sneaky bastards pull this off? And why does Captain always have to call us back? Then he notices that Michelle is about to break down. He grabs her and holds her, telling her over and over it isn’t her fault, that there’s no way she could’ve known, until their moment is broken by his ringtone.

He answers, with Michelle listening in, “Cools, they found a body with her throat slit in a wooded area in Everett. And check this out: it’s only half a mile from the Kitty Club!”

Cools excitedly asks, “Is it Kimberly?”

“Too early to tell,” he replies, “but you and Robertson should get out there now.”

“What about Fredo? I thought this is his case.”

“To hell with Fredo. I said I want you and Robertson on it! All right?”

Cools looks to Michelle, who pulls it together and nods. “Okay, Captain, we’re on our way.”

A short ride later, they are at the site, where the Everett police as well as news reporters have already infiltrated the scene, taking pictures, asking questions, hypothesizing. After only a short inspection, they can see the body is too decomposed to make a match, and outwardly there’s little other evidence found except for tattered skimpy garments, dime-store jewelry, and a broken meth pipe.

Another dead end.

Cools drives Michelle home. They ride mostly listening to the radio since she’s too tired, or maybe too distressed, for much conversation. Then, after dropping her off, he heads for the Shelter, where he washes down another one of Captain Jackson’s Vicodin. And as he sits there drinking, he decides not to think about his day. Instead he seriously considers a different life—one with Chelsea, far from the city, and all the sanctuary of a simple existence. He sees a rural homegrown town, a small home with a large backyard, possibly even a German shepherd.