Pop Goes the Weasel (27 page)

“Is this a fair representation of how the two men looked at ten-thirty that evening?” Halpern asked the doorman.

“Yes, sir. It’s very fair. That’s how I remember it.”

Jules Halpern nodded as if he were receiving vital information for the first time. “Would you now describe,
in your own words
, what Detective Cross looked like at that time?” he asked.

The doorman hesitated and seemed slightly confused by the question. I wasn’t. I knew where Halpern was going now.

“Was he dirty?” Halpern jumped in and asked the simplest possible question.

“Er, dirty… sure. He was a mess.”

“And was he sweaty?” the defense lawyer asked.

“Sweaty… yeah. We all were. From being down in the garage, I guess. It was a real hot night.”

“Nose running?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Were Detective Cross’s clothes ripped, Mr. Lopes?”

“Yes, they were. Ripped and dirty.”

Jules Halpern looked at the jury first, then at his witness. “Were Detective Cross’s clothes bloodstained?”

“Yes… they sure were. That’s what I noticed first, the blood.”

“Was the blood anywhere else, Mr. Lopes?”

“On his hands. You couldn’t miss it. I sure didn’t.”

“And Mr. Shafer, how did Mr. Shafer look?”

“He was clean, not mussed at all. He seemed pretty calm and collected.”

“Did you see any blood on Mr. Shafer?”

“No, sir. No blood.”

Halpern nodded, then faced the jury. “Mr. Lopes, which of the two men looked more like someone who might have just committed
a murder?”

“Detective Cross,” the doorman said without hesitation.

“Objection!” the district attorney screamed, but not before the damage was done.

THAT AFTERNOON, the defense was scheduled to call Chief of Detectives George Pittman. The assistant district attorney, Catherine
Fitzgibbon, knew that Pittman was on the docket, and she asked me to meet her for lunch. “If you have an appetite before Pittman
goes on,” she added.

Catherine was smart, and she was thorough. She had put away nearly as many bad guys as Jules Halpern had set free. We got
together over sandwiches at a crowded deli near the courthouse. Neither of us was thrilled about Pittman’s upcoming appearance.
My reputation as a detective was being ruined by the defense, and it was a hard thing to watch and do nothing.

She bit down into a hefty Reuben sandwich that squirted mustard onto her forefinger and thumb. Catherine smiled. “Sloppy,
but worth it. You and Pittman are really at odds, right? More like you hate each other’s guts?”

“It’s serious dislike, and it’s mutual,” I told her. “He’s tried to do me in a couple of times. He thinks I’m a threat to
his career.”

Catherine was attacking her sandwich.
“Hmmm
, there’s a thought. Would you be a better chief of detectives?”

“Wouldn’t run, wouldn’t serve if elected. I wouldn’t be good cooped up in an office playing political Ping-Pong.”

Catherine laughed. She’s one of those people who can find humor almost anywhere. “This is just fricking great, Alex. The defense
is calling the chief of detectives as one of
its
goddamn witnesses. He’s listed as hostile, but I don’t think he is.”

Catherine and I finished off the rest of her sandwich. “Well, let’s find out what Mr. Halpern has up his sleeve today,” she
said.

At the start of the afternoon session, Jules Halpern did a careful and thorough setup of Pittman’s credentials, which sounded
reasonably impressive in the abstract. Undergrad at George Washington, then law school at American; twenty-four years on the
police force, with medals for bravery and citations from three different mayors.

“Chief Pittman, how would you describe Detective Cross’s record in the department?” asked Halpern.

I cringed in my seat. Felt my brow wrinkle, my eyes narrow.
Here we go
, I thought.

“Detective Cross has been involved in some high-profile cases that the department has solved,” he said, and left it at that.
Not exactly praise, but at least he hadn’t gone on the attack.

Halpern nodded sagely. “What, if anything, has changed his performance recently?”

Pittman looked my way, then answered. “A woman he was seeing disappeared while they were on a trip together in Bermuda. Since
that time, he’s been distracted and distant, quick to anger, not himself.”

Suddenly I wanted to speak up in the courtroom. Pittman didn’t know the first thing about Christine and me.

“Chief Pittman, was Detective Cross ever a suspect in the disappearance of his girlfriend, Mrs. Christine Johnson?”

Pittman nodded. “That’s standard police procedure. I’m sure he was questioned.”

“But his behavior on the job has changed since her disappearance?”

“Yes. His concentration isn’t the same. He’s missed days of work. It’s all a matter of record.”

“Has Detective Cross been asked to seek professional help?”

“Yes.”

“Did you ask him to seek help yourself?”

“I did. He and I have worked together for a number of years. He was under stress.”

“He’s under a
lot
of stress? Is that fair to say?”

“Yes. He hadn’t closed a single case recently.”

Halpern nodded. “A couple of weeks before the Hampton homicide, you suspended some detectives he was friendly with.”

Pittman’s look was somber. “Unfortunately, I did.”

“Why did you suspend the detectives?”

“The detectives were investigating cases outside the auspices of the department.”

“Is it fair to say they were making up their own rules, acting like vigilantes?”

Catherine Fitzgibbon rose to her feet and objected, but Judge Fescoe allowed the question.

Pittman answered, “I don’t know about that.
Vigilantes
is a strong word. But they were working without proper supervision. The case is still under investigation.”

“Was Detective Cross part of the group that was making up its own rules to solve homicides?”

“I’m not certain. But he was spoken to about the matter. I didn’t believe he could handle a suspension at that time. I warned
him and let it slide. I shouldn’t have,” said Pittman.

“No further questions.”

None needed
, I thought.

THAT NIGHT, after he left the courthouse, Shafer was flying high. He thought that he was winning the game. He was manic as
hell, and it felt both good and bad. He was parked in the dark garage under Boo Cassady’s building. Most manics aren’t really
aware of it when they’re exhibiting signs of a manic episode, but Shafer knew. His “spirals” didn’t come out of nowhere; they
built and built.

The irony and the danger of being back in her building weren’t lost on him. Scene of the crime, and all that rot. He wanted
to go to Southeast tonight, but that was too risky. He couldn’t hunt—not now. He had something else in mind: the next few
moves in his game.

It was unusual, though not unheard-of, for the defendant in a first-degree homicide trial to be out roaming the streets, but
that had been one of the prerequisites of his dropping his immunity. What choice did the prosecution have? None at all. If
the D.A. hadn’t agreed, he had a free pass to keep him out of jail.

Shafer followed a tenant he’d seen several times into the lift from the garage and took it to Boo’s apartment. He rang the
doorbell. Waited. Heard her padding across the parquet floor. Yes, Act One of tonight’s performance was about to begin.

He knew she was watching him through the door’s peephole, just as he had watched Alex Cross through it on the night Patsy
Hampton got her just deserts. He had seen Boo a few times after his release, but then he’d cut her off.

When he’d stopped seeing her, she lost it. Boo had called him at work, then at home, and constantly on his car phone, until
he changed the bloody number. At her worst, she reminded him of the nutcase Glenn Close had played in the movie
Fatal Attraction
.

He wondered if he could still push her buttons. She was a fairly bright woman, and that was a large part of her problem. She
thought far too much, double- and triple-think. Most men, especially dull-witted Americans, didn’t like that, which made her
even crazier.

He put his face against the door, felt its cool wood on his cheek. He started his act.

“I’ve been petrified to see you, Boo. You don’t know what it’s been like. One slipup, anything they can use against me, and
I’m finished. And what makes it worse is that I’m innocent. You know that. I talked to you the whole time from my house to
yours that night. You know I didn’t kill that detective. Elizabeth? Boo? Please say something. At least curse at me. Let the
anger out ? Doctor?”

There was no answer. He rather liked that. It made him respect her more than he had. What the hell, she was more screwed up
than he was.

“You know exactly what I’m going through. You’re the only one who understands my episodes. I need you, Boo. You know I’m manic-depressive,
bipolar, whatever the hell you shrinks want to call my condition. Boo?”

Then Shafer actually started to cry, which nearly made him laugh. He uttered loud, wrenching sobs. He crouched on his haunches
and held his head. He knew he was a far better actor than so many of the high-priced fakers he saw in the movies.

The door to the apartment slowly opened. “Boo-hoo,” she whispered. “Is poor Geoff in pain? What a shame.”

What a bitch
, he thought, but he had to see her. She was testifying soon. He needed her tonight, and he needed her help in the courtroom.

“Hello, Boo,” he whispered back.

ACT TWO of the evening’s performance.

She stared at him with huge dark-brown eyes that looked like amber beads, the kind she bought at her swanky shops. She’d lost
weight, but that made her sexier to him, more desperate. She wore navy walking shorts and an elegant pink silk T-shirt—but
she also wore her pain.

“You hurt me like no one ever has before,” she whispered.

He held himself under control, playacting, a truly award-winning performance. “I’m fighting for my life. I swear, all I think
about is killing myself. Haven’t you heard anything I’ve said? Besides, do you want your picture all over the tabloids again?
Don’t you see? That’s why I’ve been staying away from you.”

She laughed bitterly, haughtily. “It’s going to happen anyway when I testify. The photographers will be everywhere I go.”

Shafer shut his eyes. “Well, that will be your chance to hurt me back, darling.”

She shook her head and frowned. “You know I wouldn’t do that. Oh, Geoff, why didn’t you at least call? You’re such a bastard.”

Shafer hung his head, the repentant bad boy. “You know how close I was to the edge before all this happened. Now it’s worse.
Do you expect me to act like a responsible adult?”

She gave a wry smile. He saw a book on the hallway table behind her:
Man and His Symbols
. Carl Jung. How fitting. “No, I suppose not, Geoff. What do you want? Drugs?”

“I need you. I want to hold you, Boo. That’s all.”

That night, she gave him what he wanted. They made love like animals on the gray velvet love seat she used for her clients,
then on the JFK-style rocking chair where she always sat during sessions. He took her body—and her soul.

Then she gave him drugs—antidepressants, painkillers, most of her samples. Boo was still able to get the samples from her
ex, a psychiatrist. Shafer didn’t know what
their
relationship was, and frankly, he didn’t care. He swallowed some Librium and shot up Vicodin at her place.

Then he took Boo again, both of them naked and sweating and frenzied on the kitchen counter.
The butcher block
, he thought.

He left her place around eleven. He realized he was feeling worse than before he’d gone there. But he knew what he was going
to do. He’d known before he went to Boo’s. It would explode their little minds. Everyone’s. The press. The jury.

Now for Act Three.

AT A LITTLE PAST MIDNIGHT, I got an emergency call that blew off the top of my head. Within minutes I had the old Porsche
up close to ninety on Rock Creek Parkway, the siren screaming at the night, or maybe at Geoffrey Shafer.

I arrived in Kalorama at 12:25. EMS ambulances, squad cars, TV news trucks were parked all over the street.

Several neighbors of the Shafers’ were up and had come outside their large, expensive houses to observe the nightmare scene.
They couldn’t believe this was happening in their upscale enclave.

The chatter and buzz of several police radios filled the night air. A news helicopter was already hovering overhead. A truck
marked CNN arrived and parked right behind me.

I joined a detective named Malcolm Ainsley on the front lawn. We knew each other from other homicide scenes, even a few parties.
Suddenly, the front door of the Shafer house opened.

Two EMTs were carrying a stretcher outside. Dozens of cameras were flashing.

“It’s Shafer,” Ainsley told me. “Son of a bitch tried to kill himself, Alex. Slit his wrist and took a lot of drugs. There
were open prescription packets everywhere. Must’ve had second thoughts, though. Called for help.”

I had enough information about Shafer from the discovery interviews preceding the trial, and from my own working profile on
him, to begin to make some very educated guesses about what might have happened. My first thought was that he suffered from
some kind of bipolar disorder that caused both manic and depressive episodes. A second possibility was cyclohymia, which can
manifest itself in numerous hypomanic episodes as well as depressive symptoms. Its associated symptoms could include inflated
self-esteem, a decreased need for sleep, excessive involvement in “pleasurable” activities, and an increase in goal-directed
activity—in Shafer’s case, maybe, an intensified effort to win his game.

I moved forward as if I were floating in a very bad dream, the worst I could imagine. I recognized one of the EMS techies,
Nina Disesa. I’d worked with her a few times before in Georgetown.