The Insanity Plea (23 page)

Rita’s recovery had been swift and nearly
complete. All that remained were scars of two kinds. The physical one on her
throat was easy. When she was a private detective she had become a master of
disguise. For her to cover a thin scar was nothing. She had tested several make-ups
until she found one that, once applied, even she could not detect the scar.

The emotional ones were more
difficult. Her parents stayed with her for several nights after she returned
from the hospital until she finally shooed them home, saying that she could
take care of herself. It was that night when the first panic attack occurred. She
awoke in the middle of the night, feeling a hand grabbing her ankle. She
screamed and reached for the light on the nightstand. No one was there. After
turning on the rest of the lights in the house, confirming the alarm was
working and checking doors, closets, cabinets and every room, she breathed more
easily. Still, she went to the top shelf of her bedroom closet and pulled down
a shoe box. She returned to her bed, opened the box and unwrapped a Glock
pistol that she had carried in her earlier life. Satisfied it was still clean,
she loaded it and placed it on her nightstand, returning the shoe box to the
closet shelf.

While she thought the gun would quiet
the demons, it didn’t. She still woke every night, and turned on every light in
the house, opened every room, closet, the kitchen pantry, and checked the dead
bolts on every door. The only difference now was that she carried the weapon on
her nightly searches. Once satisfied she was alone, she would douse the lights,
put the Glock on the night stand and crawl back in bed. Then, she stared at the
ceiling until she finally fell into a troubled sleep or until the morning light
edged through the curtains.

One night when it happened she was
sure that she had heard the front door click shut. She picked up the bedside
phone and called Wayne. When he answered, she whispered, “Get over here. Bring
your key and that baseball bat under your bed. I’m locking myself in my bedroom
until you get here.”

Wayne leaped out of bed clad only in
his boxer shorts, found his baseball bat and started for his front door. Then
he paused as he thought if someone’s over there, what good is a bat if he has a
gun. He walked barefooted down the sidewalk and chose to bluff. Taking a deep
breath, he unlocked Rita’s door and flung it open so hard that it banged against
the wall. He flipped on the lights, deactivated the alarm and announced, “Rita,
I’m here. The cops are in front of the complex and will be here in about thirty
seconds.”

Wayne started throwing open doors to
other rooms. He went to the door leading from the kitchen to the garage and
found it locked. The downstairs powder room was empty. As he stomped up the
stairs he again announced in a loud voice that he was the advance party right
ahead of the cops. The second floor was deserted. When he got to the third
floor landing, he knocked quietly on Rita’s door.

She opened the door with her Glock
pointed at Wayne who stood there in his boxers and holding a Louisville Slugger.
Rita was wearing only a Houston Texans T- shirt. She was trembling as Wayne
wrapped his arms around her.

“You’re okay, babe. The house is
empty.”

Rita relaxed and said, “It’s about
time I bought you a gun and took you to the shooting range.” Then they both
laughed at Wayne’s appearance at her bedroom door in his boxers and carrying
the bat.

“Are the cops really coming?”

Wayne explained that he was the lone
ranger. Rita smiled at his bravery.

“Wayne, I want you to stay the
night.”

Wayne agreed and said he would bunk
on the couch downstairs, ready to knock the shit out of anyone who came through
a door.

“No,” Rita said. “I want you in my
bed.
 
I want you to hold me until
morning.” Then she added, as she regained her composure, “You and I both need
more than that. I’m ready for a different relationship. I know damn well you
are too, just not now. You have to get through Dan’s trial. And I’m still an
emotional mess. I hide it well during the day, but my nights are straight from
hell.”

And so they made a change in their
relationship. Wayne came over at ten every night and crawled into bed with
Rita. Rita snuggled into Wayne’s arms and laid her head on Wayne’s chest. Both
remained clothed, if Rita’s tee shirt and Wayne’s boxers counted as clothing. And
they slept. Wayne placed his Louisville Slugger within reach on his side of the
bed and Rita, for the first time since the attack, was able to sleep through
the night.

The Houston Police Department
occupied a ten story building on the south edge of downtown. Rita parked in the
garage visitor parking area and entered the building on the first floor where a
uniformed officer sat behind a desk. When she identified herself, the officer
told her that Detective Jennet had alerted him. Rita signed in, took a visitor
badge and was directed to the eighth floor where she was met by Jennet.

“Rita, I’m glad to see you up and
around.” The detective’s eyes dropped to her neck. “Sorry, Rita, I didn’t mean
to stare. I can’t even see a scar. Have you already had plastic surgery?”

Rita smiled. “Thanks for the
compliment. No surgery, just good make-up.”

Walt belatedly grabbed her hand and
shook it. “Come on. I’ve reserved a little conference room. Get you coffee?”

“Thanks. Black, please,” Rita replied
as she followed Jennet through a large open room filled with cubicles where
detectives worked computers and phones. Without exception the male officers
paused and stared as Rita walked by their cubicles. Even a conservative black
pants suit did little to hide Rita’s remarkable body. Walt quickened his step
and he sucked in his stomach just a little, knowing he would be accosted by
fellow detectives the minute Rita was gone.

The conference room could have been
mistaken for a poker room behind a bar. Small with no windows, the smell of
coffee and stale cigarette smoke filled the air. Even though the building was
designated as non-smoking, a few detectives ignored the rule.
 
As Rita and Walt found chairs, she asked,
“Did you get the assignment to the serial killer task force?”

Walt slumped his shoulders and folded
his arms across his chest. “Yeah, I did. Problem is that I’ve only got a minor
role and you’re the last one to be attacked in Houston. I get calls from other
parts of the country to compare notes. The one consistent theme is the surgical
slash across the neck and the victim’s shorts are gone. There are three other
attacks that don’t seem to fit the pattern, but no one knows if there is any
connection. So far, anyway, I’m a bit player. The fibbies are calling the
shots.”

Rita handed him a copy of a
Dallas Morning News
article that she had
printed before she left her house. “I guess you’ve seen this.”

Walt glanced at it and handed it
back. “Yep, talked to the Dallas cops this morning.” He leaned over the table
as if to disclose a secret. “There’s one thing that’s not in the media. I
figure that since you’re the only one to survive an attack by The Runner,
you’re entitled to know it. Her shorts were gone, just like the others, but
with this one he left a yellow scarf tied around her neck. Obviously it was
coated with her blood when she was found. Is it a clue? Who knows? It’s a
first, anyway.”

“Why a yellow scarf? That’s not like
The Runner. He doesn’t leave a calling card?”

Walt shrugged his shoulders. “Your
guess is as good as mine. Maybe he’s leaving a clue just to make the game a
little more interesting. After all, he’s now in the media. Some of these guys
like to up the ante from time to time.”

“Or, maybe it’s a copycat.” Rita narrowed
her eyes as she asked, “Are we any closer to solving this?”

“Rita, I wish I could give you some
good news. Unfortunately, it’s the nature of serial killers. They strike
randomly with no motive other than whatever pushes them to this kind of evil. If
they’re smart, and this one is damn sure smart, about all we can do is wait for
them to make a mistake or hope for a break.”

Rita reached into her purse and
pulled out another newspaper article, this one from a Mexican paper. “How about
this one?”

Walt glanced at it and pleaded for
help. “Sorry, Rita, I only know a little street Spanish. You’ll have to
interpret.”

Rita translated the entire article to
him. When she finished, Walt said, “Well, I’ll be damned. The son of a bitch
has gone international on us. How’d you find this?”

A smug look crossed Rita’s face. “Didn’t
I tell you? I’m tracking newspapers all across the country and I’ve expanded
into Mexico, Canada and now a few European countries.”

Walt leaned back in his chair as he
contemplated what he had heard. “Rita, can I make a copy of this and get you to
translate it into a recorder? Maybe I’ll work my way back into the middle of
this investigation.”

“Of course, Walt. There’s one small
favor in return.”

“Just name it.”

“You said I’m entitled to the
information. Well, I told you I was going to be a part of the team. Get on the phone
and call that cop in Mexico. Get him on the speaker. If he can’t speak English,
I’ll interpret.”

Walt nodded his head and left the
room, returning with a phone number in hand. He placed the phone in the middle
of the table and pushed the conference feature, then dialed. When a female
voice answered in Spanish, Rita took over and soon a deep male voice was on the
line, still speaking Spanish. When Rita explained she was working with HPD
Detective Walt Jennet and requested English, he responded in near perfect
English.

“Good afternoon, Detective. This is
Inspector Rojo. How may I be of assistance?”

“Inspector, I’m working with the
multi-agency task force in our country, trying to stop this killer that the
media is calling The Runner.”

“Ah, yes,” Inspector Rojo replied. “Seems
as if your killer has run all the way to our country also. The three murders we
have identified are in Puerto Vallarta, Cabo San Lucas and Mazatlán, all along
our Pacific coast. We didn’t connect them until a few days ago.”

“Inspector, this is Rita Contreras. A
good friend of mine is charged with murder in Galveston. We’re now convinced
that it was The Runner who committed that murder. It may be the only way we can
get him off is to find this guy. As I understand, you have three victims in
those three coastal cities, all attractive young women, all jogging in the
early morning and all with their throats slit. Am I right so far?”

“What you have said is accurate,
Senorita Contreras. Since you are working with Detective Jennet, I can tell you
something more that has not been released to the media. All three of these
beautiful young ladies had no shorts and each had a yellow scarf tied around
her neck.”

Rita stepped back from the table, a
stunned look on her face. Walt picked up the conversation. “Just this week,
Inspector, there was another victim, this one in Dallas, also with a yellow
scarf. So, it’s the same guy and he’s adding a clue. Any other evidence you’ve
uncovered?

“Not really. I might add that one of
the victims was an American, from somewhere in California. All three of the
involved cities are ports, with cruise ships docking daily. Please let me know
if you learn anything more. I’ll do the same.”

Walt gave Inspector Rojo his office
number and cell number and ended the call. Then he turned to Rita, “Looks like
another dead end.”

“Not true, Walt,” Rita replied. “We
have the same killer with the same M.O., only now we have the yellow scarves. Not
surprising that he turns up in Mexico. We know he travels frequently. These are
all tourist and cruise ship destinations. We’ve just got to keep working. I’m
going to be optimistic and say we’ll turn up something in the next two weeks.”

On the same day that Rita was talking
to Detective Jennet, it was moving day for Wayne and his team. Time to open the
Galveston office of the Duncan Law Firm in Sarah Little’s house. Wayne, Duke
and one associate loaded Duke’s Navigator and the associate’s pickup with four
Toshiba wireless laptops, two wireless HP printers, a copier, one large file cabinet
and boxes of office supplies, enough for a three week trial. The only law book
to make the trip was the Texas Code of Criminal Procedure. Duke claimed not to
need it, but Wayne felt more comfortable if he could flip to a statute as
necessary in front of Felix. Other books were superfluous since the firm
subscribed to LexisNexis, where Claudia’s fast fingers could pull up any case
that might be relevant to issues during trial. Given an overnight, she could turn
out a brief on any subject.

      
When they headed toward Galveston, Wayne was silent as he thought
through how he expected the trial to go. He and Duke had already divided up the
trial responsibilities. Duke, as the more experienced criminal lawyer, would
handle the voir dire examination of the jury panel. Wayne would do the opening
statement, that part of the trial where they laid out their case before any
evidence was admitted. Since Wayne had cross-examined Dr. Parke on one occasion
already, he would handle that key witness, probably the most important one in
the case. They would split the police officers. Wayne would present Dr. Adeshek
and Dr. Brickman when they put on their evidence. Still up in the air was
whether to call Sarah. They would reserve judgment on her. And, of course, they
had decided not to call Dan in his own defense.

When the two vehicles stopped in
front of her house, Sarah was drinking iced tea with a neighbor from down the
street. Sarah got to her feet, set her glass on the veranda rail, and hurried
down the sidewalk to hug each of the team, even the young associate who smiled
and thought of his grandmother when she embraced him.

“Well,” Sarah said, “It looks like
the cavalry has arrived.” Her friend approached and was introduced to the team.
“This is my friend, Callie. She’s part of my calling tree.” Sarah put her hands
to her face and lowered them. “I mean quilting bee, isn’t that right, Callie? I’ll
see you at the meeting on Tuesday.”

Callie waved at the group as she
walked down the sidewalk to her house.

“It’s okay, Mom. I can guess what is
going on at that quilting bee. Just don’t invite me.” Wayne turned to his team
and said, “Let’s get unloaded. Mom can show you what she has in the main living
area. Then, I’ll show you to your rooms.”

They found the living room void of
furniture except for one couch, a small television and a coffee table. In the
place of antiques were four work stations, complete with a small desk, lamp and
bookcase. Dividers separated the work stations. A table suitable for two printers
was on one wall.

“How’s that, gentlemen? Don’t know
much about putting together a trial work room. Just kinda used my own
judgment.”

Duke set a stack of computers on a
work table and said, “Perfect, Sarah. Only thing else we need is a good bottle
of scotch and a few beers in the fridge for the end of the day.”

“Don’t you worry, Mr. Romack. I’ll
take care of the refreshments and meals. My son’s defense team will lack for
nothing.”

After everything was in place, Sarah
took them upstairs and showed them bedrooms that belonged in a New England bed
and breakfast. The beds were four- posters, the dressers were antiques, each
with a bowl and pitcher in the center. The space normally occupied by a rocking
chair now had another work table and lamp.

As the team admired their respective
rooms, Sarah said to Duke, “Sorry, big boy, but I don’t have a bed that will
fit you.”

“No problem, Sarah,” Duke replied, as
he angled himself on the bed in his room. “I’m used to it. Every time I stay in
a hotel, I sleep like this.”

Wayne had found his way upstairs to
the widow’s walk while the others surveyed their rooms. Once again, he looked
out to the bay and thought about the days gone by. Why did this have to happen
to his family? Why his brother? He looked out to the horizon and searched for
answers. None came. Whatever the reason, he had a job to do, the most important
one of his life. He turned and stepped down the narrow stairs to the living
room and found Duke.

“You and I need to check on Dan.” He
dismissed the associate, thanked him for his help and watched the associate
start his truck and drive down the street, admiring the gingerbread houses as
he left.

When Wayne and Duke got to the jail,
a deputy saw them when they entered and had the door leading to the cells
unlocked. He told them that he would ring upstairs for Dan and directed them to
go on to the conference room unescorted. The only question he asked was for
Duke. He wanted to know the former Rocket’s take on the NBA finals. Duke, of
course, was more than happy to oblige.

Wayne took notice of a slight change
in protocol as the door opened. Dan entered first and a deputy merely waved
from behind and closed the door. Dan embraced his brother and Duke, too. As
they took chairs, Wayne spoke.

“How’s it going, bro? We’re a little over
a week from trial. We just moved our stuff into Mom’s house. You hanging okay?”

“Mentally, I feel like I’ve never
been sick. Not to say that I don’t have bad days when the voices try to take
over. Only I’ve got to say, I’ve never been as scared of anything in my life. I’ve
read every case and article on the insanity defense that I can find. The
jailers even let me stay late in the library. My eyes are bloodshot from
staring at that computer screen. I know I didn’t do it. And I know our only
hope, at least for now, is the insanity defense. Or we’ve got to find that
serial killer. Rita emailed me just a while ago about more murders in Mexico. Now
he’s tying yellow scarves on his victims’ necks. I hope he’ll add another clue
before we start trial. If we don’t find him, you guys have to convince twelve
islanders that I was insane.”