Sullivan's Law (8 page)

Carolyn tried to think like an attorney. She didn't know anything about patent law. She would have to find out who legally held the rights to his inventions. From what she'd seen, he hadn't been making license plates. Her fatigue had vanished, and she felt alert and stimulated.

“Did you repair appliances?”

“Are you serious?” Daniel answered. “The warden didn't want me to work on anything but the exoskeleton. I kept telling him that I didn't have the right equipment.”

Deciding she'd let him ramble long enough, she asked, “Do you remember what happened the night you were arrested?”

“Not much,” Daniel said, sighing deeply. “I was having problems then. I remember because my mother got worried and called my doctor.”

Carolyn asked, “Was the doctor's name Walter Gershon?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I wrote him tons of letters from prison. He never answered me.”

“I tried to find him as well. He isn't listed. He either retired, moved away, or he's dead. Do you recall ever taking a drug called Levodopa?”

“No, why do you ask?”

“When you were arrested, this medication was listed among your possessions. I checked with a psychiatrist and he informed me that this was the worst drug anyone could give to a person with your condition.”

Daniel's eyes drifted downward as he tried to remember. “I carried my pills in an envelope when I was at school or away from the apartment. Were the pills in an envelope?”

“Yes,” Carolyn answered. “How long had you been taking them?”

“A week maybe,” he said. “Dr. Gershon changed my medicine. I don't remember what it was called. I know I was upset when I picked up the prescription from the pharmacy.”

“Why were you upset?”

“Because it had a different name than what the doctor had ordered,” Daniel told her, making small circles on the surface of the table with his finger. “I even got in an argument with the pharmacist, thinking he'd given me some other person's prescription by mistake. He brushed me off, telling me it was a generic form of the same drug. You know, that's why it had another name.”

“How did the drug affect you?”

“Everything fell apart,” Daniel said, tears glistening in his eyes. “I was doing really well in school before I started taking the new drug. Then I started having problems again. When I called the doctor, he told me to double the dose. As soon as I did, things got even worse.”

This was a vital point, Carolyn thought, not that either the psychiatrist or the pharmacist had made a serious error, but that someone related to the crime had kept this information from the court. “Can you tell me the name of the pharmacy?”

“O'Malley's,” he said. “But the store isn't there anymore. I passed the street on the bus today. There's a new shopping center where the drugstore used to be. All the drugstores are big chains now. The O'Malleys were a family.”

“I know,” Carolyn said, sad at how their world had changed. Family businesses were rare these days. “Why did the doctor change your medication to begin with?”

“Because I was only a few months away from graduating,” he said, blinking repeatedly as he continued to move his finger in circles on the table. “Stress can set off an attack. I'm sorry. Talking about this disturbs me.”

Carolyn forged ahead. She'd caught a glimpse of his illness. Now she wanted facts. “Have you ever committed an act of violence during an acute attack?”

“Never,” Daniel said. “I've walked naked in the middle of the street, along with some other bizarre things. I'm not a violent person. Even when I first got to prison and the inmates went after me, I didn't fight back.”

“Let's concentrate on the night of the crime. Do you remember the three boys at all?”

“I know what they looked like from the courtroom,” Daniel told her, clasping his hands together tightly. “When they jumped me, it was dark and I couldn't see their faces that well. I'd been studying at the library.”

“The crime occurred in an alley behind Rudy's pool hall,” Carolyn said. “What were you doing in the alley?”

“It was a shortcut to my apartment. I wanted to get home so my mother wouldn't yell at me. She treated me like I was—”

“Try to focus, Daniel,” she said. “You need to tell me what happened.”

“I remember seeing these three big jocks standing out the back door of the bowling alley. I kept dropping my books. The strap on my backpack had broken, so I was trying to carry them all in my hands. Some of the books were textbooks. The others I'd checked out at the library. Every time I tried to pick up a book, one of the boys would kick it. I got really upset. It was dark and I couldn't find half of the books. I knew they were expensive. I didn't want my mother to have to pay to replace them.”

“Keep talking,” Carolyn said, wondering how upset he'd become that night. She could imagine a jury asking themselves the same question. This may have been the reason his public defender had not allowed him to testify at the trial. “What else do you remember?”

“I tripped and fell on my stomach,” he said, his eyelids fluttering again. “I remember them laughing at me, calling me names. I tried to get up when they started hitting me. A black guy turned me over and forced my mouth open. Things get fuzzy after then. The last thing I remember was one of them urinating in my mouth.”

Carolyn placed her head in her hands. If what he was saying was true, it was a travesty. Had he spent twenty-three years in prison while the three obnoxious thugs who had beaten and humiliated him went free? She corrected herself, as Tim Harrison, the chief's son, had lost his life.

“Did you intentionally push Tim Harrison in front of a car?”

“No,” Daniel said, standing and pacing as he relived the events of that night. “After they started beating me, I'm almost certain I never got up off the ground until right before the guy got run over. By then, I'd convinced myself the entire thing was a delusion. Why fight people who don't exist?”

“Where were you when Tim got killed?”

“When they began fighting among themselves,” he said, wrapping his arms around his chest, “I crawled over to a corner and hid behind a trash barrel. I was in pretty bad shape. That's where I was when the police arrested me. One of the boys swore I'd threatened them with a knife. The police never found any kind of knife. My mother would have never let me out of the house with a knife, even a table knife.” He smiled briefly. “With the kind of problems I had, even I knew better than to carry a knife.”

“Were the boys fighting among themselves before or after Tim got hit by the car?”

“Before,” Daniel told her. “One of the guys got mad. I may be mistaken, but I think it was Harrison. He kept talking about his father, saying his friends shouldn't have hurt me, that they were all going to get booted off the football team and his father was going to beat the shit out of him.”

Carolyn generally used first names when referring to victims. Parents and loved ones didn't call each other by their last name. “Did you see Tim get struck by the car?”

He stopped pacing and faced her. “I'm not sure,” Daniel said, sucking in a deep breath. “When you think something isn't real, you try to pay as little attention as possible.”

“Tell me precisely what you heard,” Carolyn said, her pen poised over her pad.

“Precisely isn't going to work,” Daniel told her. “We're talking twenty-three years and a mind that wasn't right. All I can do is tell you what I
think
I heard. Are you sure you want to know? When I explained it this way to my attorney, he told me that whatever I saw or heard was basically worthless. That's why he wouldn't let me testify.”

“I'm aware you didn't testify,” Carolyn told him. “I'm not your attorney, Daniel. And Tim's death wasn't a delusion.”

“Fine,” he snapped. “I heard a car engine, tires screeching, and people yelling. The next thing I remember I was being booked at the county jail.” He dropped down in the chair, his face twisted in bitterness. “What difference does it make if I was guilty or innocent? I've already served my time.”

Carolyn realized that most people would have trouble comprehending the complexities of the criminal justice system. “Your sentence was twelve years to life. As long as you're breathing, they can send you back to prison.”

The shrill ring of the phone startled her. When he walked over to the nightstand to answer it, Carolyn's instincts kicked in. Her eyes swept across the room. She saw wires running along the top of the ceiling. Two FBI agents had been killed recently when they'd walked inside a booby-trapped room. “Don't answer it.”

“Why?”

“Who did you give this phone number to?”

“Only you,” he said, picking up the receiver. “It's probably a wrong number.”

Carolyn snatched the phone out of his hand, dropping to the floor beside the nightstand. In addition to the standard phone cord, there was another thick black wire similar to the ones on the ceiling. She wondered briefly if it was a cable for a modem. Whatever it was, she wasn't going to wait around to find out.

“We have to get out of here!” she told him, grabbing a handful of his shirt as she frantically tried to get him to follow her. “Hurry! This may be a trap. The call was to make certain you were here.”

“My papers,” Daniel said, reaching back for them.

“Come now, we can't waste time,” Carolyn yelled, halfway through the doorway.

They got a few feet down the corridor before they heard the explosion. An enormous ball of fire burst through the hotel window. Both Carolyn and Metroix were hurled to the ground. The concrete walkway was swaying as it would during an earthquake. “Are you hurt?” Carolyn shouted, coughing from the smoke.

“I don't think so,” Daniel said, looking back in the direction of the room.

“We have to get down the stairs before the building collapses. Here,” she said, ripping off a piece of her cotton blouse with her teeth and handing it to him, “put this over your mouth and nose. Don't stand up. Stay as close to the ground as possible.”

As shards of glass and pillars of smoke flew through the air, Carolyn and Daniel crawled as fast as they could in the direction of the stairwell. The smoke became so thick that she couldn't see. Her arms and knees were scraped and bloody. She heard him coughing and gasping behind her. Another explosion occurred, and Carolyn was terrified that the concrete walkway on the third floor would come crashing down on top of them.

Off in the distance, she could hear the sirens. They couldn't wait to be rescued. Finally, she found it. By extending her right arm and patting the ground as she crawled, Carolyn felt the first step at the top of the stairs. She reached behind her and grabbed his hand. “Turn around,” she yelled. “We have to go down the stairs backwards.”

“I…can't…breathe,” Daniel said, flopping over onto his back.

Carolyn straddled him, lifting his arm and letting it drop in an attempt to find out if he was unconscious. She used her fingers to open his mouth, then sucked in as much air as her lungs could hold, trying desperately not to cough. If she succumbed to smoke inhalation, they would both die. Pinching his nose closed, she sealed her mouth on Daniel's and began ventilating. When he didn't respond, she jerked her head in the direction of the stairs. John and Rebecca's faces flashed in her mind. Her children needed her. What good would it serve if they both died?

She had to decide.

Carolyn sucked in another breath and exhaled into Daniel's mouth. She was lightheaded from lack of oxygen, and her eyes were watering profusely. As soon as she heard him coughing, she grabbed his left leg and started her descent down the stairs, pulling him along with her. A short time later, Daniel began moving on his own. They made it to the bottom of the stairs at the same time the fire trucks and emergency vehicles arrived on the scene. Carolyn collapsed face first on the grassy area next to the parking lot.

She heard men's voices barking orders, and felt herself being rolled over onto her back. Her eyes opened as a paramedic placed an oxygen mask over her face.

“We need a gurney over here,” the man called out. “I've got another victim.”

Carolyn pushed the oxygen mask off her face. “A man was with me,” she whispered, her throat almost too parched to speak.

“Your friend will be fine,” the paramedic told her as he ripped open a package containing an intravenous needle. “I'm going to insert an I.V. in your arm. Try to relax and breathe normally.”

Carolyn closed her eyes. A few moments later, her head slumped to the side. Sounds disappeared as she floated in a sea of darkness.

J
ohn reached through the bars of the hospital bed and gently stroked his mother's hand. “You're all right, Mom,” he said, concern etched on his face. “You're in the emergency room at Good Samaritan Hospital. The doctor said you can go home in a few hours.”

Carolyn tried to sit up and then collapsed back on the pillow. Her knees and elbows smarted, and she saw an I.V. bottle hanging on a pole by the bed. She was on oxygen, and her throat felt as if she'd been drinking acid. “Can you give me some water?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

John picked up a cup of ice chips from the table and used a spoon to place them in his mother's mouth. “The nurse said you could only have the ice chips,” he explained. “They gave you a shot when they stitched up your knees and elbows. They don't want you drinking a lot of water. The nurse said you might throw up.”

Carolyn's hand flew to her chest. “Where's my mother's cross?” she asked, fearing it had been lost in the explosion.

“I have it,” her son told her. “They also gave me your cuff links and watch. Here, take some more ice.”

The ice chips eased the burning sensation in her throat. They must have given her morphine, Carolyn decided. Her muscles felt like spaghetti and she was having trouble focusing her eyes. “Did you come with Neil?”

“No,” John told her. “I called him. You know he turns off his phone at night when he's painting. Professor Leighton drove me.”

It took her a few moments to figure out where she'd heard the name. Sounds and smells from the explosion were blocking everything else from mind. She gazed lovingly at her son, grateful to be alive. “The man down the street?”

“When the hospital called,” John said, “I didn't know what to do. I tried calling Dad, but his phone has been disconnected again. I was going to call a cab, but I only had a few dollars. Rebecca ate lunch with Professor Leighton's daughter today, so she had their phone number. He's really a nice man, Mom.”

“Where's your sister now? You didn't leave her alone, I hope.”

“No,” he told her. “Professor Leighton has a live-in housekeeper. Rebecca's sleeping over at his house. Everything's fine. Try to rest, or the doctor won't let you go home.”

“What happened to Daniel Metroix?”

“You mean the psycho guy?” John said, grimacing. “Professor Leighton couldn't understand why you would go to his motel room. You're lucky he didn't kill you.”

A complete stranger had suddenly become entangled in her life. “What I do at work is confidential,” Carolyn said. “Because I don't usually supervise a caseload of offenders, you don't know how this part of my job works. Probation and parole officers make home visits all the time. We have to check out their living situation. This man was staying in a motel until he found an apartment.”

“Maybe you should get another job then,” John told her. “We need you, Mom. What would Rebecca and I do if something happened to you?”

“Nothing bad is going to happen, honey,” she said, clasping his hand. “I just got banged up a little tonight. And Mr. Metroix didn't try to hurt me. It was probably an accident. Promise me, though, that you'll never repeat anything I tell you again about my work. Are we clear?”

The muscles in the boy's face stiffened. “You're not being fair,” he told her. “What was I supposed to do? The hospital called and said a responsible party had to come and pick you up. Don't you know how embarrassed I was having to turn to a man I'd never met? Professor Leighton asked me all kinds of questions in the car. Where's your Dad? Where're your grandparents? Why doesn't your uncle answer his phone?”

“You didn't call my mother, did you?” Carolyn said, not wanting to worry her.

“No,” he answered. “I know Grandma doesn't drive at night anymore.”

“You could have called Veronica Campbell,” she said, concerned that he had so much pent-up hostility. “Her number is on the bulletin board by the phone. Brad's number is there as well. Jane Baily would have helped you. She's looked after you and your sister for years.”

“Mrs. Baily moved away,” the boy said. “Professor Leighton bought her house. The house was up for sale for six months. Don't you remember, Mom?”

Carolyn was ashamed. Once again, her son was right.

“I've only met this Veronica lady one time,” he continued in the same distraught tone. “I might not want you to marry Brad, but it was kind of nice to have a man around. Since he became your boss, all you do is complain about him. He used to stop by now and then, have us over to his place for barbecues, let us swim in his pool. He might be a jerk, but at least he seemed to care about us. We never have anyone over to the house anymore.”

Carolyn sighed, too weak and weary to continue. “I need to rest,” she told him. “Tell Mr. Leighton that he can go home. We'll take a cab.”

“He's a professor, Mom,” John reminded her. “Why waste money on a cab?”

“Thank the
professor
and tell him there's no reason to stay here. In fact, why don't you go home with him?”

Tears pooled in John's eyes. “You're mad at me, aren't you?”

“Not at all,” Carolyn said. “We'll talk tomorrow when you get home from school.”

John started to leave the room, then turned around and walked back over to his mother's bedside, leaning over and kissing her on the cheek. Carolyn cupped the side of his face in her hand. “I expect a lot from you,” she said. “I'm sorry. Sometimes I don't have a choice. I heard everything you told me tonight loud and clear. Go home with this nice man from down the street. Tomorrow will be a better day.”

 

Carolyn had dozed off when she heard a male voice speak her name. She saw Detective Hank Sawyer and a younger, uniformed police officer standing beside her bed. The clock on the wall read two-fifteen in the morning. She wondered why the hospital hadn't sent her home. Rubbing her eyes, she assumed the nurse had looked in and saw her sleeping, believing she was too sedated to be released.

“We need to ask you a few questions,” Hank said. “This fellow is Trevor White. Doc said you got out of that mess at the motel with nothing more than some nasty cuts. You must have the luck of the Irish.”

Carolyn peered up at the two men. She'd worked with Hank for years. He was not only a detective, but a sergeant in the crimes against persons division. At forty-five, he was slightly under six feet and about twenty pounds overweight, most of it in his midsection. He had thinning brown hair and a ruddy complexion.

The detective was a shrewd and highly esteemed investigator. He'd tracked down and apprehended the murderer in a case Carolyn had investigated several years before. In the process, he'd taken a bullet to the abdomen, one of the most painful places in the body to incur a gunshot wound. While handling the case, she was amazed that he'd been back at work in less than three weeks.

Officer White looked to be in his mid-twenties, and displayed the rigid demeanor of a soldier. He was probably a rookie, she thought. When a police officer made a point of trying to appear authoritative, he was generally covering up for lack of experience.

“Tell me what happened,” she said, pushing a button to elevate the head of the bed. “Was it a bomb?”

“Let's call it an explosive device,” Hank told her. “Until our bomb squad completes their investigation, we can't be certain.”

“How many people were injured?”

“You and a guy named Daniel Metroix. Records list Metroix as a recent parolee from Chino. He claims you're his parole officer. Is that true?”

“Yes,” Carolyn said. “Where is he now?”

“The prisoner's being booked at the jail,” Officer White said, resting his hand on the butt of his gun. Several inches shorter than his superior, White had closely cropped hair and small gray eyes.

Hank shot the officer a stern look. “Get me a cup of coffee,” he said, promptly putting the other man in his place. “And while you're at it, get me a Snickers.” He reached in his pocket and tossed over a handful of quarters. White wasn't quick enough to catch them, so he had to bend over and pick them up one by one off the floor.

Once the officer had left the room, the detective turned back to Carolyn. “Kids,” he said, scowling. “I'm getting too old for this training bullshit. What did my boy do wrong?”

“He volunteered information,” Carolyn said, not concerned about the personnel problems at the police department in light of what she'd heard. “Why did you arrest Metroix, Hank? He had nothing to do with what happened. I had to check out his living situation. I scheduled a visit at his motel room.”

“How did you get out before the place blew?”

“The phone rang as I was about to leave,” she said, staring up at the ceiling as she tried to remember the sequence of events prior to the explosion. “When I saw wires running across the ceiling, I knew something was wrong. Then I saw the same kind of wire coming out of the back of the phone. I told him we had to get out of the building. We almost made it to the stairway when Metroix stopped breathing. I administered CPR, and he came around.” She reached over and picked up a pitcher of water off the end table. He took it out of her hand and poured the water into a cup, handing it to her and waiting until she finished drinking it. “My throat, you know,” she said, hoarse.

“Smoke has a tendency to do that,” Hank told her. “I started out with the fire department. I've swallowed my share of that stuff.”

“What are you charging Metroix with?”

“At present,” he told her, “violation of parole. The DA may file attempted murder charges by tomorrow afternoon, depending on what kind of evidence we can produce. We're hoping you can help us put this case together.”

“Metroix didn't violate his parole, Hank,” Carolyn told him, placing the plastic drinking cup back on the end table. “The man almost died.”

The detective pulled on the lapels of his jacket, adjusting it on his shoulders. “You know what a suicide bomber is, Carolyn?”

“Of course,” she told him. “Daniel Metroix isn't a suicide bomber.” She paused to think, listening to the patient behind the curtain next to her moaning. “Why weren't there more injuries? What happened to the rest of the people staying at the motel? I was afraid the whole structure was going to collapse.”

“I'll be honest,” Hank said. “We've got a peculiar situation on our hands. The motel wasn't open for business. That's why no one else was injured. The building was scheduled to be demolished this coming Monday. They stopped renting rooms over a month ago.”

“How were they going to demo it?”

“By implosion,” he told her. “There were several signs posted by the demolition company, Barrow and Kline. They even had a security guard patrolling the premises. We spoke to him earlier and he insisted the motel was vacant. Didn't you see the signs?”

“No,” Carolyn said. “I was running late. There was a pickup truck near the office. I thought the place was in such bad shape, nobody wanted to stay there. When the phone rang, I asked Metroix if he'd given anyone the number. He said he hadn't. After I saw the wires, I remembered the incident with the two FBI agents and freaked. Things didn't feel right from the time I got there. I felt like someone was either watching me or following me.”

“Did you see this person?”

“No,” Carolyn told him. “If there was a security guard, why didn't he realize Metroix was staying there? As soon as I drove into the parking lot, I saw him sitting in front of his window on the second floor. He had the lights on and the drapes open. Your security guard is lying.”

“Anything's possible,” Hank said, glancing over his shoulder as White slipped back into the room, handing him his coffee and candy bar. “Maybe the guard went to get something to eat. What time did you arrive at the motel?”

“Around six,” Carolyn told them, giving a sympathetic glance toward the young officer the detective had intentionally humiliated. “I remember because I looked at my watch. I was late, like I said. I was supposed to meet Metroix at five-thirty. I was afraid he'd think I wasn't coming and leave.”

“The security guard worked twelve to eight,” Hank said, placing the Snickers bar in his pocket and then taking a sip of his coffee. “He took his break around six. That explains why you didn't see him. How long had this Metroix guy been squatting at the motel?”

“I don't know,” she said, shoving a strand of hair behind her ear. “He was paroled two weeks ago from Chino. He claimed he got into town Monday when I conducted the initial interview. I doubt if he was squatting at the motel, Hank. The man inherited seventy grand from his grandmother. Something else is going on here.”

“Oh, yeah?” he said. “I'm all ears.”

Carolyn turned away, her hands closing into fists. She had to be extremely cautious now. Although she felt certain Hank was an honest cop, he had to know who Daniel Metroix had been convicted of killing. Everything related to the motel could have been an elaborate setup to make certain the man who killed Charles Harrison's son would go away forever. If so, this was worse than what she'd feared, as far too much planning had been involved. “Why would Metroix allow his probation officer to visit him if he'd illegally entered a building? I could have had him shipped back to prison to serve out a life sentence.”

Even if Daniel had seen the signs, Carolyn thought, he might not have read them. Discounting the fact that he was schizophrenic, this man lived in a different dimension than most people. Someone had obviously rented him the room, and under the circumstances, the only thing that made sense was that the room clerk was a plant.

“Whoever was behind this could have removed the signs on Monday when Metroix checked in,” Carolyn reasoned. “As for the security guard, you know about these guys, Hank. He may have been drunk or stoned.”