Premeditated Murder (13 page)

But Pete liked to run a tight ship, and that included putting a statement in the case file from every material witness in an investigation. Natalie Reggio's stubborn refusal to talk was an irritant that he didn't need. She had a lot of nerve acting like this after almost getting herself killed that night. Talk about ungrateful.

Whenever Pete finally got to the hospital, he was going to give Natalie Reggio something very serious to think about.

Wakefield, Massachusetts

BY THE TIME CAL RECEIVED THE ENVELOPE, HE had already forgotten that he had asked for it.

A few days after the shooting, a minister had come to see Cal and ask if there was anything he needed. He told Cal that soon after the shooting and the arrest, he had been asked by Steve Doctorow to go to the hospital and visit him.

The only thing Cal could think of was to ask for information about his court-appointed lawyer. Except for the time he had been unjustifiably hassled by police in college when he had been out for a late-night run, Cal had absolutely no experience with the criminal justice system. From movies and TV, he believed that all court-appointed lawyers were well intentioned but inexperienced, and barely better than having no lawyer at all. So Cal had hoped to find out what he could about Zachary Wilson, to prepare himself in advance for the worst.

The small manila envelope had already been opened by the guards. It contained a short, handwritten note from Steve and a newspaper article. Cal read the note first.

Dear Cal,

     I can't imagine what you're going through. I tried to come see you at the hospital as soon as I heard you were arrested, but the police wouldn't let me in.

     Anyway, this is the only thing I could find on Attorney Wilson. He seems like a good lawyer, and a good guy, too. Not exactly what I expected, but better than I hoped.

     If you need anything, please write to me, or call me, if they let you.

—Steve

The article was in a newspaper called
The
Lawyer's Weekly,
and it was titled “Adopting a New Set of Priorities.” It was a full-page article, on the front page of the second section of the paper. But Cal never even read the first line. There was a big picture of Zack, holding what looked like a three- or four-year-old little boy on his hip with one arm. Zack's mouth was open, as if he were making a face, or singing, and the boy was laughing.

Cal felt a strange, sudden congestion between his eyes, as if his sinuses were flooding. His gaze lowered to the caption of the picture.

Attorney Zachary Wilson and his son Justin share a joke on their way to Justin's preschool.

Cal's eyes involuntarily drifted back up to the picture. The little boy didn't look a lot like Zack. He had dark hair and a round face. It was possible that he had some Native American blood.

His name was Justin. And when he laughed, he hugged himself.

Cal felt a spasm shake him and heard himself sob. It surprised him. His eyes were watering. He swiped at them, but he couldn't bring himself to look away from the picture. His head ached. The picture blurred. He wiped the tears away again. The little boy's face was gleeful. And when he laughed, he wrapped his little arms around himself, as if he were so happy that he might burst.

And this time when the sobbing started, Cal wasn't able to stop it. He just started to cry. Loud and hard. Tears ran down his face like rivers. Giant, sloppy sobbing noises came from him. He gasped for breath. His nose was running. A guard came over to his cell door to ask what was wrong. Cal ignored him. His gaze remained fixed on the now very blurry little boy, hugging himself while he laughed.

But all he could see was an image of Kevin. Because that was exactly what Kev used to do when he laughed.

Detroit, Michigan

“DETROIT POLICE. THIS CALL IS BEING RECORDED,” the voice on the phone said. Why was it that the people who answered phones at police stations had such nasty voices?

“May I speak to Officer Halsey, please?” said Lena.

“Your name?”

“Lena Takamura.”

“Please hold.”

After over a week of chasing him on the phone, Lena was finally going to get to speak to the elusive Officer Halsey.

To be fair, her trouble connecting with him hadn't been all his fault. Lena's hours at the restaurant and at the convenience store were totally random and way confusing. She was so afraid that she'd forget when to go to work that she had to write her schedule on a piece of paper and tape it to the kitchen counter.

But even with her crazy schedule, Lena had managed to leave Officer Halsey several messages since she'd discovered that the 911 transcript had been altered, letting him know that she just wanted to ask him a few questions about the LeClerq case. For a uniformed patrolman, he sure was busy. He'd only left her one message in return, saying that he would be sure to be available today, at five
P
.
M
.

The problem was that as soon as he picked up the phone, Lena knew how the conversation was going to turn out. He'd say that all he did was write in his report what Giselle said to him, and that if Giselle said something different now, well, there was nothing he could do about it except write up another report saying that she'd changed her story. Then Lena would say that one of the reasons she asked was because of the altered 911 transcripts. He'd say that he had nothing to do with that and had no idea what she was talking about.

And Lena's world-record streak of finding non-stories would be intact.

Then Becca's voice came over the phone. “Lena?”

“Hey, Becca. What's up?”

“Nothing much. I heard them call your name over the intercom—”

“Yeah, I'm holding for Halsey. I finally got him to say that he would speak to me—”

“That's why I picked up,” Becca interrupted. “I just found out that Halsey quit.”

“What?” That couldn't be right. Lena had gotten the message he'd left for her about three days ago. “What happened? Where'd he go?”

“I don't know,” Becca replied. “I heard somebody say his father got sick and he needed to go back to Los Angeles, or Las Vegas, or something. I mean, these guys have emergency leave, if they want it. I have no idea why he quit.”

“Was he in trouble or something?” Lena asked.

“No idea,” Becca answered. “Listen, I gotta go. I'll call you when I get home, okay?”

“Okay, bye,” said Lena, hanging up.

A cop goes to a crime scene, lies on his report about a break-in, then tries to cover up the lie by altering the transcript of the 911 tape. Then he dodges phone calls for as long as he can, and finally quits?

It didn't make sense. But Lena's world-record streak was definitely in jeopardy.

Harvard, Massachusetts

AS EL AMIN BANKED THE SMALL AIRPLANE TO the left for another pass over the field, he recognized that he was going to have to make an adjustment for the weight of the cargo, but otherwise, everything seemed to be working well.

Last week, he had measured the length and width of the park that the fools would all crowd into on their pretentious holiday. He walked each way twice, carefully making sure that his strides were consistent. Then he found an empty field near the small airport that housed his low-speed Cessna and marked off the dimensions of the park so that he could see them from the air.

He made several passes back and forth over the field, until he knew exactly how long it would take for him to fly from one end to the other and then turn around and make another pass. Given the size of the crowd and the chaos that was sure to follow, he expected that he'd be able to drop six and maybe even twelve grenades before he delivered his final blow.

He checked the altimeter, reached into the crate, and dropped the first rock out of the small window to his left, just as he started the stopwatch with his other hand. Then he dropped another, and then a third. Later he would check to see where they landed to be sure they hit within the boundaries of the park. The calculations were precise. Dropped from approximately three hundred feet, the kill zone would be at its maximum. Depending on how many he was able to successfully drop, and how close people were standing together, he could kill hundreds before the spectacular finale.

With God's help, even when they closed their eyes, they would still see the carnage.

TEN

Dear Kevin,

     The doctor says I've got to write you a letter, but [illegible] anything

(Letter #1 from Calvin Thompkins to deceased son, Kevin)

DIST. ATTY. O'NEILL:
Do you recall where you were at approximately 3:15 on the afternoon of January 14?

MR. HICKSON:
Yeah. I was walkin' home with some friends of mine down by McDonald's.

Q:
Were you coming from McDonald's?

A:
Yeah.

Q:
And where was this, exactly? What street were you on?

A:
Oak Street.

Q:
In Northampton?

A:
[The witness nods.]

Q:
You have to answer yes or no.

A:
Yes. Northampton.

Q:
Where is Oak Street relative to Main Street in Northampton? If you know.

A:
It's right behind it.

Q:
And while you were walking with your friends, did you notice anything unusual?

A:
Well, there was gunshots, and these windows were breaking. And then this dude in a bathrobe comes crashing out the third-floor window and falls into the courtyard right in front of us. Smack on his face.

Q:
Where was this?

A:
At this building on Main Street.

Q:
214 Main Street?

A:
I don't know the address.

Q:
Okay. Did you see the condition of the individual that fell?

A:
His condition? He just fell three stories out a window. His condition was dead.

Q:
Okay. What did you do then?

A:
Everybody else started running, but I just stood there. I ain't seen nothin' like that before. Then I hear this screaming, and I look up, and this other dude is screaming his head off, looking out the window the first dude fell out, down into the courtyard. Then he turns around, and then I heard more shooting. And that's it. I left.

Q:
Could you describe the expression on the face of the individual that was screaming? The one that came to the window?

A:
It was crazy. He looked real mad. His mouth was wide open from the screaming. I don't know. He looked real mad.

Q:
And had you ever seen this individual before?

A:
Naw. I never seen the dude before in my life. He was some old dude. Probably about thirty or forty years old.

Q:
Do you see him in the courtroom today?

A:
[No response.]

Q:
Mr. Hickson.

THE COURT:
Mr. Hickson. Do you see the individual that Mr. O'Neill just asked you about in the courtroom today?

THE WITNESS:
I gotta answer?

THE COURT:
Yes.

THE WITNESS:
Will I go to jail if I don't answer?

THE COURT:
Yes. I order you to answer the question. If you don't answer, I'll hold you in contempt of court.