Untitled (21 page)

  "Good," said Langworthy. "Intimidating judges may work in New York, Ms. Reed, but in Detroit, we bite."

  They left the judge's chambers as Langworthy lit up a cigar. In the hallway, Rashad was about to go when Marshall cut him off.

  "Will you stipulate to DNA now?" asked Marshall. "It would make things easier and maybe score you some points with the judge."

  "No," said Rashad. "Do your test. We'll be watching."

  Rashad and Leslie walked off. Leslie was clearly pissed off and almost stomped to the elevator.

  "He really tore her a new one," Roberta said as she laughed.

  "Yes, but did you see how he suggested that they oversee our test? He didn't even allow them to make the suggestion. He gave it to them."

"I guess he did," said Roberta.

  "He wants to make it look like he's being evenhanded. Yell at Leslie, then give them the right to look over our shoulder."

  "Man, he's smooth," said Roberta.

  "He should be, he's been at it most of his life."

  Marshall walked back to his office, knowing that the blood and hair test would put Mbutu closer to a conviction, but not knowing what the unpredictable judge might do next.

M
arshall returned home, feeling tired and frustrated. He pulled up to his house and noticed Danny's car parked at the curb. He must be inside the house, Marshall thought to himself. When he pulled in his driveway he noticed that Danny was inside the car. Marshall got out of his car and walked over to Danny. He was asleep in the vehicle, and he had a bandage on his hand.

  Marshall knocked on the window, and Danny awoke with a start. He rubbed his head and opened the door. Marshall could smell the alcohol as the door opened. Danny had been drinking. But what would possess him to get drunk and sleep it off in front of his house?

  "I'm fucked up, man," Danny said.

  "Tell me something I don't know," said Marshall.

  "It's Vinny, she—" Danny slipped and fell as he got out of the car.

  "Damn. I got you."

  Marshall helped Danny up, and then they walked toward the house. Marshall saw that the bandage on his hand was actually a cast.

  "What the hell happened to you?"

  "Vinny got shot and I got suspended," said Danny. He lost his footing again, and Marshall caught him, holding him up.

  "Vinny was shot?!" Marshall almost yelled.

  "Yes, but she's okay," said Danny.

  "Where is she, can I see her?" Marshall had completely forgotten Danny's other news.

  "She's in the hospital. I just left there. She's fine, really."

  Marshall calmed himself. He sometimes worried about his friend getting shot on duty. It had never occurred to him that it would be Vinny who caught one.

  Marshall took Danny inside and sat him at the kitchen table. He started to make coffee. Danny sat silently, staring at the wall.

  "Okay. Vinny caught one and you got suspended because—"

  "I kinda beat up the perp who shot her."

  " 'Kinda beat up'? So, how badly did you kinda beat him up?"

  "Intensive care."

  "Shit," said Marshall.

  "He'll live. But Vinny's really pissed at me."

  Marshall heard a noise behind him. He turned to see Chemin in the doorway. She wore a shirt and clearly had on nothing underneath.

  "Hey, Danny," she said.

  "Hi," Danny managed to say.

  "Vinny got shot," Marshall said.

  "Oh God," said Chemin. "Is she okay?" She looked past Marshall at Danny.

  "Yeah, she's fine."

  "Can I see her? Where is she?"

  "Mount Carmel," said Danny.

  "Danny, I'm so sorry," said Chemin. "I'm gonna go call her right now."

  Chemin turned and walked back upstairs.

  "I'm fine too," Marshall called after her. "I'm alive and everything." She ignored him as she disappeared upstairs.

  "Damn," said Danny. "It's colder than a muthafucka up in here."

  "Yeah," said Marshall. "That's how it is these days. Look, we'll see Vinny tomorrow, but right now, you need to do something about your situation. I know a lawyer who can help. The first thing to do is get you back on the job."

  "Fat chance," said Danny. "The city's been hit with some

big-ass lawsuits in the last year. They won't even talk to me. I'm gonna get fucked up behind this."

  "Not if I can help it," said Marshall. "You stay here tonight. Tomorrow, we go see my friend, and get this show on the road."

  "Okay, that sounds cool," said Danny. "I don't want to be home right now. I'd go to the hospital, but Vinny kicked me out already."

  Marshall stood and hugged his friend, and for a second they were kids again, fresh from another narrow escape from some neighborhood toughs, then they were soldiers on a night patrol in Europe. He hoped that this latest crisis would be resolved and become just another good story to tell over beers in some smoky club.

  Danny walked off to the guest room. Marshall felt sad for Danny. He didn't love many things, but he was sure Danny loved Vinny. He didn't blame him for losing his cool.

  Marshall looked up the stairs, knowing that Chemin was probably still awake. He sighed heavily and walked into his office.

  Marshall awoke early the next day and took Danny to see Victor Connerly, a lawyer who specialized in defense. Danny seemed in a trance as they both slipped out of the house while Chemin slept. They rode in silence on the Lodge freeway in rush-hour traffic into Detroit's bustling downtown. Marshall had lent Danny a change of clothes, and his body strained against the too-small shirt he wore.

  Victor Connerly was a fat man, about three hundred pounds or so. He'd been a pro lineman back in the 1980s and had parlayed the ex-jock thing into a thriving practice. Connerly owed Marshall more than a few favors, not the least of which was helping Connerly's son, Burt, get a felony assault charge reduced to a misdemeanor and community service. Connerly agreed to take the case for practically nothing. Danny seemed a little happier.

  Marshall went to see Vinny at Mount Carmel Hospital. She was fine, although being laid up didn't seem to sit well with her.

  When Marshall got back to the office he was greeted by Bob Ryder, Roberta, and Walter. They had a look of doom on their faces.

  "What's going on?" asked Marshall.

  "We tried to call you," said Ryder.

  "My phone was off," said Marshall. I didn't want to be—"

  "They're dead," said Ryder. "The Johnsons. They were both killed."

  Marshall was stunned into silence. He walked slowly to a chair and sat down. He barely heard Ryder as he told him how someone had broken the security of the FBI men assigned to watch the Johnsons, and murdered them, and how the report was that it was unrelated to the Douglas case.

  "We need to get to the crime scene," said Ryder.

  "Right," said Marshall. "Where's Sommers?"

  "She's already there."

  "Good. She'll keep the local cops from walking all over our jurisdiction. Okay," said Marshall. "Let's go. Just you and me, Bob, everyone else keep working, and think about if this hurts us. We'll call Nate and Toby on the way."

  "This is fucked," said Walter.

  "That's a great attitude," said Roberta.

  "Don't you start with me, Roberta."

  "I am surely going to start with you, Walter. All you do is complain. We don't need to hear your negative comments anymore."

  "Then don't listen."

  "Try to be positive for once, will you," said Roberta.

  "Don't talk to me like that," said Walter. "You're only the boss in your dreams."

  "Please," said Marshall. "We can't fall apart now."

  Roberta and Walter apologized to each other and walked off. Marshall got up and headed toward the door. Ryder followed, obviously still stunned.

  "You okay?" asked Marshall.

  "No, no, I'm not," said Ryder. "But I will be."

  Marshall headed out with Ryder, already knowing that this would give ammunition to Rashad. He would say these witnesses were killed so they could not exculpate Mbutu. The judge would never let that kind of insinuation in the case, but it would only help keep Langworthy on their side.

  Mbutu's conspiracy theory was silly, he thought. Still he had a nagging desire to protect himself. He decided then and there to call the county prosecutor and get the protocol for having his brother transferred into federal custody.

T
he Johnsons' small, two-story house on Detroit's near west side swarmed with police and media. Marshall and Ryder were taken in the back way so the reporters would not know that they were involved.

  The media had been informed that there was a double homicide. But Marshall was sure they'd seen the unmistakable cars and nondescript suits of the FBI. They would know something was afoot. The Johnsons' importance to the Douglas case would come out sooner or later, but for now, it was Marshall's opinion that those bastards didn't need to know.

  Nate Williams and Toby had been informed. Toby had cursed like a sailor. Marshall had never heard the word
fuck
so many times. Nate Williams had vowed that FBI heads would roll. Then, ever the pro, Toby assessed the damage to the case, informed Marshall how to head it off, then hung up. Bob Ryder had been so nervous that he could barely drive the car.

  Marshall entered the house on Ardmore Street and felt a sense of déjà vu. When he started his career, he'd done some public defender work and had been to many murder scenes. He'd never forgotten the impact of that first time. He was sick and barely held on to his breakfast. Since then, he'd become a fed, a much more savory occupation. But now he was back in the muck, and it was just as disturbing as he remembered.

  The crime scene was an unsettling, bloody mess. The air of murder was thick and the chatter in the room subdued, as if out of respect for the dead. In the middle of the living room, two bodies lay together, surrounded by people. Marshall stood over the corpses as the FBI and local forensic men argued over procedure and jurisdiction.

  The Johnsons had been viciously attacked and killed while watching TV. The TV still flickered in the background; an infomercial announced the benefits of fast weight loss.

  The couple had been beaten with a heavy object, then stabbed and cut with a knife. Mrs. Johnson's head was gone, and so far they had not found it.

  Most of the homicides in Detroit were garden variety. Someone was on drugs, domestic abuse, a robbery gone bad and someone was killed. But this, this had the earmarks of some sort of psychotic murder. And before Sommers said it, Marshall was already thinking the words she said to him.

  "Looks like some sick fuck," Sommers whispered to Marshall. "See how the bodies are placed?"

  "What do you mean?" asked Marshall.

  "Sixty-nine," said Sommers. "Head to toe. Sex act."

  Sure enough, the Johnsons had been placed head to foot. (Stump to foot, Marshall thought, then chastised himself for thinking it.) "I see," said Marshall.

  "Jesus Christ," said Ryder.

  "Is there another murder to match this one to?" asked Marshall.

  "Not so far," said Sommers. "We checked locally, regionally, and nationally. This looks like a premiere sicko."

  "Then are we checking for relatives and any current trouble they might have been having with neighborhood thugs?" asked Marshall.

  "We're coordinating with Detroit local," said Sommers. "They're being assholes, but they're going to do it."

  "Tell them they have to do it," said Ryder. "I hate when these local jerks fuck with us like this."

  "We've got our behavioralist coming in on this," said Sommers. "But it looks like a local matter."

"Yes," said Marshall. "What else do we have?"

  "Well, we got the headless corpse, the sexual statement in death, and some messages written in blood."

  Marshall followed Sommers into a downstairs bathroom. On a wall was written something in a bloody scribble.

  "What the hell does that mean?" asked Ryder.

  "That's the question," said Sommers. "Come on, let's see the rest of it."

  Sommers walked into the dining room. A newspaper had been opened to the obituary section, and put next to a page of comics from that same paper. In the kitchen, there was another cryptic bloody scribble on a wall.

  Marshall grunted something, then walked out of the room. He went back into the living room.

  "The blood in the bathroom looks older," said Marshall, "like he did that one first."

  "Good one, Counselor," said Sommers. "Didn't notice that myself."

  "An afterthought?" asked Ryder.

  "Something like that," said Marshall.

  Marshall, Sommers, and Ryder watched as the bodies were placed into plastic bags.

  "Our men were outside all night," said Sommers. "They didn't see anyone go in or out."

  "Then how did this happen?" Marshall was angry and didn't care who knew it.

  "It was a low-priority assignment," said Sommers, clearly not liking Marshall's tone. "Two witnesses who were not testifying against a mob chieftain or a gang member. Jesus, it was routine. They had their guard down because it wasn't supposed to be up."

  She had a point. Baby-sitting the Johnsons was not a serious matter. The agents had simply been told to watch the house and not interfere with their lives.

  "They're downtown making out reports," Sommers continued. "They're good men, but this will hurt their careers."

  "We need to get each and every detail," said Ryder. "I want every minute thing that happened last night—"