Killer Heat (6 page)

Kerry Hastings's hands were trembling as she lifted the coffee
mug to her mouth. It was eight-thirty on Wednesday morning, and we
had spent the last hour in my office with Mercer Wallace, reviewing
the questions I intended to ask her when I called her to the
witness stand

It's going to be very different this time,“ I said to her. ”I
wouldn't urge you to go through with your testimony if I couldn't
promise you that. Thirty-five years earlier, Hastings had told her
story to a jury, answering questions about the crime that were
virtually the same as those I had framed for her now. But her
cross-examination had gone on for two days, and I expected that the
tactics that had worked so well for Floyd Warren's defense at the
first trial wouldn't fly today

I don't want to look at him again, Alex. I've spent all these
years trying to erase the image of his face. You can't imagine how
agonizing it is to be back in a room with that man. Kerry Hastings
was one of the most intelligent witnesses I had ever worked with.
She knew she would sit only a short distance from the man who had
forever changed her life in the course of their forty-fiveminute
encounter. She had been told that she would be asked to point out
her attacker, if she could-even though his DNA now resolved the
issue of identification

I know that. I'll do everything in my power to make this easier
for you."

“Do I get to tell the jury how Floyd Warren has affected every
single day of my life? That not once in the three decades since he
awakened me and held a knife to my neck have I been able to sleep
through the night?”

She didn't have to tell me that the crime itself and the shame
that society imposed on rape victims of Kerry's generation had
combined to prevent her from ever developing a successful intimate
relationship in the intervening years.

Mercer was sitting behind her, off to the side. He leaned
forward and rested his hand on her shoulder. “Judge Lamont will
hear all that, Kerry. Alex will get her conviction and you can say
what you damn well please in your impact statement to Lamont.”

It wasn't often in a prosecutor's career that the outcome of a
trial could be predicted. Juries were fiercely independent, as this
victim had learned so harshly the first time out. But the science
of DNA and the rapidly evolving technology of computer-generated
matches made it ever more difficult for a defense attorney to
suggest reasonable doubt when identification of the perp was the
sole issue.

I handed Hastings the photograph that had been taken at Bellevue
after the rape. She would have to authenticate it for me in court.
The black-and-white shots of the slashes on her neck, made by the
sharp blade of Warren's knife as she struggled to get away, would
corroborate the deadly force he had used to subdue her.

“You think anyone will believe that this is the same woman?” She
smiled as she showed the picture to Mercer.

Twenty-two-year-old Kerry Hastings was tall and slightly
overweight, her pretty round face accentuated by short curly hair
held back on one side to allow the photographer to capture the
wounds that circled her neck. The hospital gown hung loosely and
topped her knees. Bruises were visible on the shins of both
legs.

The fifty-seven-year-old who sat between us had lost all the
baby fat in the intervening years. She had taken up running,
training for marathons as a way of focusing her energy and
channeling her anger into a more positive goal.

“You look just great,” Mercer said.

“Youth, middle age, and 'you look just great,' ” Kerry said,
turning the photo facedown on the edge of my desk. “Those must be
the three stages of life, Mercer. There's only so much you can
humor me.”

“There won't be any surprises in my direct examination.”

“And Mr. Grassley? Is he going to do what they did to me back
then?”

“He's not required to tell me that in advance, Kerry. I'm hoping
not.”

“You'll hear Alex shout 'objection' any chance she can,” Mercer
said. “Don't you even think about answering if you see her on her
feet.”

The three-volume transcript of the first trial was part of my
case file. The cross-examination was one of the ugliest I'd ever
read.

“Four men on that jury thought I was a prostitute,” Kerry said.
“Four others figured that I might have simply fabricated my
story.”

“Rape shield laws have saved victims from that kind of horror,”
I said. They had been enacted in every state in the country, but
too late to help Kerry Hastings.

Floyd Warren's first counsel had claimed that his client was a
pimp and that the seemingly demure young woman on the witness stand
had actually worked for Warren. He had peppered Kerry with hours of
questions about their supposed relationship, suggesting that she
was racist as well and that the argument in her tenement
apartment-the one that had caused a concerned neighbor to call 911
at 4:23 a.m.- was about money she had refused to turn over to
Warren.

“Did you know there was only one other woman in the entire
courtroom in 1973? Just one juror, a few years older than I.”

“The legal system wasn't very friendly to us back then. This
office had a staff of two hundred lawyers, and only a handful were
women. That district attorney didn't think lady lawyers should be
exposed to the blood and guts elements of violent crimes or to any
discussion of sexual predators. There were very few women on the
bench or at the bar, and it was still a novelty for them to serve
on juries. Not much different than in your field.”

Kerry Hastings had been in the first year of a master's program
in neurobiology at NYU-a brilliant student who excelled in a
specialty dominated by men-when the break-in and rape occurred. She
was one of the first women in her field to get a doctorate,
returning to school after a three-year hiatus when Warren's
mistrial-and his subsequent flight-caused her to leave Manhattan
for the West Coast, fearful that he would find her again.

I held up the clear plastic sleeve that contained the pale blue
cotton underpants in which the evidence was found that linked Floyd
Warren to scores of cold cases.

“I'll ask if you can identify these.”

Kerry bit her lip as she looked at the panties and nodded. She
had worn them to the hospital after the attack, where they were
taken from her. Her initials were written on the label in black
marker, and a hole was cut in the crotch where the semen stain was
found.

“I've tried so hard to forget all this, and now the memories
come flooding back in,” she said, closing her eyes and taking
several deep breaths. “It's amazing that someone had the foresight
to save my underwear all these years.”

“I wish we could tell you that's what happened,” Mercer said.
“The guy who used to have Alex's job? Just thank your lucky stars
he was sloppy. When Warren jumped bail, the prosecutor dropped the
trial folder in the back of his file cabinet. If he'd followed
protocol and returned the evidence to the property clerk, it would
have been thrown out years ago.”

The telephone rang and before I could reach for the receiver, I
could see from the light on the console that Laura Wilkie had
answered. Seconds later, she opened the door and greeted us.
“Mercer, it's for you.”

“Have any other women come forward, Alex? I mean, here in New
York?”

“Let's talk about that after you're off the stand.”

There had been a perp walk when Floyd Warren arrived in New York
in police custody from his home in Georgia. Mercer Wallace had
escorted him from Central Booking to the street, where an eager
group of paparazzi waited to take pictures to run alongside his
original mug shot. Women who had never dared report the crimes
decades ago called the Special Victims Unit to unburden themselves
of the pain of their experience.

“The whole thing's so damn unfair,” Kerry said. “His lawyer was
free to make up the most outrageous lies about my life, yet I'm not
allowed to mention that Warren raped God knows how many other
women-stabbed two of them. They were allowed to think that he's the
virgin and I'm the roundheel. Your legal system makes no
sense.”

Battaglia had appointed me to head this specialized bureau after
my rookie years in the criminal court. All the groundbreaking work
on these issues had been done by prosecutors who preceded me-the
tedious labor of changing laws and the harder task of educating the
public about these highly charged crimes.

Mercer opened the door and signaled me to join him.

“I promise you, you'll know everything I do by the end of the
day,” I said as I walked past her to leave the room.

“That's the warden at Attica, returning my call about Pablo
Posano,” Mercer said. “We've got to look somewhere else inside the
Latin Princes for the problem. Looks like this monster has grown a
new head.”

“Why?”

“The order to stalk you couldn't have come from Posano. He's
been in solitary confinement since two weeks after he got there.
Tried to jump a guard and they jammed him up. Twenty-three hours a
day under bright lights-no reading material, no communication with
the outside world. If he hated you before that, imagine how it's
festered now.”

“So he didn't give the orders himself this time,” I said. I
thought of the tall, solidly built Posano, with dark curly hair
that had undoubtedly been shaved by the guards, and the intensity
of his light eyes, which bored through me when he stared me down.
“One of his homies is looking to make points by getting back at
me?”

“Bank on it, Alex,” Mercer said. "You're the devil who put Pablo
Posano in a black hole.

Alex, there's a gentleman waiting for you-he says he's been here
for an hour, but he won't give me his name. I've got him in
Maxine's office,“ Laura said. ”He says you're expecting him. And
he's terribly nervous"

. Max, my paralegal, was on vacation. Her quiet office around
the corner was the ideal place to meet with Herb Ackerman.

“Mercer, why don't you explain to Kerry that there may be some
ringers in the courtroom this morning and that it has nothing at
all to do with her case?”

“Fine. And I'm calling Lamont's clerk. I want to make sure
they'll have your back covered.” Because Mercer was a witness in
this trial, he was not allowed to be in the courtroom while the
other witnesses testified.

The corridor was busy with the nine o'clock arrival of lawyers
and support staff, most with cardboard coffee cups and paper bags
stuffed with bagels or doughnuts in hand. This floor of the huge
criminal court building housed the executive wing, public
relations, the trial division chiefs, and the bureau that handled
appeals for the six hundred prosecutors who served at the pleasure
of the district attorney.

I opened the door of Max's office. Herb Ackerman had helped
himself to her telephone, standing behind her desk, talking to
someone in his office about the fact that he'd be late.

“I'm sorry. Sorry. Ms. Cooper?” he said. “I'm Herb
Ackerman.”

“Good to meet you.”

He was a short man in his early sixties with a pasty complexion
and a receding chin. His neck stretched up and out at me as he
talked, like a turtle extending its head out of the shell. He had
reddish brown hair that looked like it had been dyed with shoe
polish and eyeglasses whose lenses hadn't been cleaned in
months.

“Have a seat, please, and tell me why you're here.”

“Didn't Paul explain?” he asked, preferring to stand and
pace.

“He told me that you wanted to see me. About Amber Bristol.”

“No, I didn't want to see you, frankly. I wanted to
meet with him,” Ackerman said, jabbing his finger in the air.

The ratty tweed jacket he wore with a button-down shirt, too
tight at the collar and frayed at the cuffs, seemed a poor choice
for yet another hot, humid day.

“Well, then, perhaps I should just direct you to his office,” I
said, rising from my chair.

“No, no. He told me you'd have to handle this. It's just, well,
it's embarrassing to discuss these things with an attractive young
lady.”

I'd made a career dealing with men who'd done embarrassing
things. “This is my job, Mr. Ackerman. For the moment, whatever it
is you're going to talk about stays between us.”

His neck elongated itself as he peered around the dingy room,
ringed with old green government-issue metal file cabinets, which
held a history of the depravity of Manhattan's sex offenders since
the unit was created. “You're not taping me, are you?”

“No, sir. I'm not.”

“I suppose you know who I am?” His nose wrinkled and he pushed
his glasses back in place.

“I do.”

“I've known your boss since he was a kid, Ms. Cooper. I've been
very good to him over the years,” Ackerman said, hiking his pants
up over his potbelly and tightening his belt. “I hope that counts
for something.”

“Mr. Battaglia told me that you knew Amber Bristol. Why don't we
focus on that?”

He paced again, away from me, and lowered his head. “I'm not a
crime reporter, Ms. Cooper. I've written about significant cases
when they've had an impact on social issues. My experience is more,
shall we say, global than street-smart.”

“How did you meet Ms. Bristol?”

“At a cocktail reception. Yes, about a year ago. A cocktail
party.”

“Where was the event, Mr. Ackerman?” There was no need to scare
him off yet by taking notes. “I need to know exactly how you became
acquainted.”

“Um. Let me think. Must we be that specific?”

“We certainly must.”

“No, I guess it was online. I must have met her online. I'm
mistaken about the party.”

It was going to be a contest with Herb Ackerman. He was going to
test me to figure how much he could fudge without giving me the
facts I needed.

“Do you remember the site?”

“Probably she just began a correspondence because she admired
something I'd written. One of my columns,” he said. “People write
to me every day, Ms. Cooper. I couldn't possibly keep track.”

This interview was clearly not going to finish before I had to
go to court with Kerry Hastings. I needed to take better control of
the witness and let him know that the tabloids would like nothing
more than to make this arrogant intellectual fodder for their
gossip columns, if not their crime headlines.

“That's not a problem for us. Our forensic computer cops can
retrieve documents-even things you've deleted-once we get hold of
your hard drive.” I smiled at Ackerman as he squirmed and turned to
face me. “The technology is amazing. Your people probably do it at
the magazine all the time, just to find drafts of old copy.”

“You'll-uh, you'll actually look for, um, proof of what I'm
telling you?”

“So far, sir, you haven't told me anything. I just thought that
if you were having difficulty remembering how you and Ms. Bristol
got to know each other, we could try to support your memory with
paperwork. From the little I know about her, I suspect she wasn't a
regular correspondent with your editorial board. I just assumed you
might have met in a chat room or something of that nature.”

He exhaled and his chin settled down into his collar while he
thought about what he wanted to tell me.

“You could be right, Ms. Cooper. I spend such a lot of time on
my computer. Perhaps I'm confusing her with someone else. Yes,
yes-I might have come across her while I was surfing the Web.”

The Middle East peace process, car bombings in Iraq, UN
peacekeeping in Africa, poverty in urban America-and an escort
service in New York, with a possible emphasis on sadomasochism. A
natural progression in an Ackerman online search.

“Here's what we'll do, Mr. Ackerman. I'll go up to court and try
my case, because that's extremely important to me right now. I've
got a woman who actually wants me to help her. You think about this
again and when you're ready to have a candid conversation, just
give me a call.”

“Please don't go,” he said, reaching his hand out to grab mine.
“Do you understand how difficult this is for me?”

“Amber Bristol is dead, Mr. Ackerman. How tough was that for
her?”

“I called Paul Battaglia because somehow-somehow I became
involved in a relationship with Amber,” he said.

I tried to look him in the eye as the words spilled out more
quickly, but the thick line of his bifocals distorted my view.

“I was in my office last evening when the story about her murder
came over the wire. I was mortified, naturally, and thought that if
I reached out for the authorities instead of waiting for them to
find a reference to me in her Palm Pilot, there might be a way for
me to keep my name out of this.” He met my stare. “Do you think
there is?”

“I obviously don't know enough to give you an answer to that.
I'll start with you now, but you'll have to talk with the homicide
detective, too. He's got the lead on the case until we get to the
arrest phase.”

“You're close to an arrest?” Ackerman was breathing deeply.
“What can you tell me about that?”

“You've got this backwards, sir. There's nothing I can tell
you.”

“My name? Do the police have my name?”

“Assume that they do, Mr. Ackerman. When's the last time you saw
Ms. Bristol?”

“It was a Friday night, the week before last. It was always a
Friday. Her Palm Pilot has everything in it. It's where she kept
all her information.”

Two nights before her birthday, before she was supposed to meet
her sister, Janet, at the bar.

“Where was that, Mr. Ackerman?”

“In my office. We met in my office.”

I would need Battaglia to sign off on a forensic psychiatrist to
work with me. I'd need to understand the risks Amber Bristol had
been willing to take with her life. Now the case would be confused
with psychobabble about why one of the most distinguished
journalists in the city would meet with a hooker at the Tribune's power offices.

“Always at work?”

“Amber's been to my apartment from time to time,” he said. “I'm
a widower, Ms. Cooper. I invited her there occasionally, but then
there are doormen to deal with in my co-op, you understand.”

“And her home?”

“Never. I don't even know where she lived.” He clasped his hands
together and appeared to be confused by that question. “Well, if
she ever told me, I've forgotten. She had a boyfriend. Obviously,
she didn't want our paths to cross. I thought maybe he lived there
with her.”

“You know his name?”

He shook his head and his wrinkled neck jiggled. “I never asked.
I think he worked in a bar. At least that's what she said. It's a
problem for me to separate the stories she told me-which ones were
real and which were, well, fantasies.”

“It must have been even harder to get her past security at the Tribune than into a residential apartment building.
Wouldn't she have to sign some kind of log?”

“Indeed, I'm sure there's a record of her visits,” he said. “But
believe me, if Herb Ackerman called down to say I was expecting a
guest at nine or ten o'clock, and a well-dressed young woman showed
up with a press pass, then-”

“A press pass? Did you help arrange that?”

He waved his hand across the desktop. “Any kid can put his or
her hand on one of those. Summer interns, students at local
schools, freelance writers.”

“You got one for her?”

“Yes.”

“With a photo and the magazine logo and her name?”

“Yes. Well, that was part of the game we played.”

“Game?”

“She didn't use the name Bristol,” he said, with a chuckle that
I could only hope was a nervous reaction. “Amber Alert. That's what
she called herself when she was with me.”

Perhaps this small-town girl with an unhealthy imagination liked
the fact that her alias appeared on billboards all over
America.

“Let me ask a few more questions, Mr. Ackerman. Then we'll make
an appointment for a longer interview.”

“I'd like to get this done now.”

“The last night you were with Amber, did you and she engage in
any sexual acts?”

“Sexual? Oh, Ms. Cooper, you're completely mistaken,” Ackerman
said, his chin crawling back down onto his short neck. “Our
relationship wasn't about sex.”

I stood up to conclude the meeting. “I was counting on your
candor to help us, Mr. Ackerman. That's the only way we can be of
any use to you.”

“But Amber and I never had sex,” he was almost whining as he
looked at me.

“Then you tell me what your get-togethers were like.” I didn't
want to give him any information about whips and handcuffs until he
raised the subject himself.

Ackerman reached under his glasses with the thumb and forefinger
of his left hand and massaged his closed eyelids.

“She diapered me, Ms. Cooper. That's what she did.”

“She what?”

The forensic psychiatrist I had in mind, an expert in
psychosexual disorders, would probably double his rates when I gave
him the case hypothetical.

“It's a-a problem I have.”

“A medical problem?”

“No. No. Nothing I need,” he said softly. “I like to be
diapered.”

“Amber Bristol diapered you? In your office at the Tribune?”

I had been taught in my early years never to appear to be
judgmental, but sometimes it was harder to feign indifference than
others.

“Yes.”

“And there was no other sexual contact of any kind?”

“None. None at all.”

“Did she bring anything else with her when she visited you?”

“What kind of things do you mean?”

“You mentioned the word 'fantasy.' Any objects that went along
with what you two did. And how was she dressed, Mr. Ackerman? Did
she carry a handbag? Did she bring any kind of tote with her?”

“Amber was dressed-we laughed about it, actually. She looked
like something off a sailing ship, is what I told her. She had just
bought herself a jacket-sort of white cotton, double-breasted
affair. It had gold buttons and epaulets, with some gold braid on
the shoulders. I made fun of it, I guess, but she thought it was
quite the style.”

The short-waisted military-style jacket had been the rage in the
spring, sold all over town by department stores and boutiques
knocking off the high-end version.

“The last I saw of her is when she walked out of my office. I
saluted her and told her she looked like a ship's captain.”

The description of the clothing might be useful if it turned out
Amber Bristol had been killed that night.

“Did she carry a purse?”

“Yes,” he said, nodding at me. “Always did. One of those great
big things, with long straps on her shoulder. Did you find that?
It's where she kept her Palm Pilot.”

“Suppose we found it, Mr. Ackerman. Why don't you tell me what
else was in it?”

“Do you enjoy doing this, Ms. Cooper?” He sat up straight and
thrust his head forward again. “Humiliating me like this?”

“That's not my plan, sir. I'd prefer not to be asking these
questions.” They didn't seem a fraction as mortifying to me as the
thought of seeing him undressed on a sofa in his office.

“Look, Mr. Ackerman. We know that Amber was also into
sadomasochistic liaisons.”

He wagged a finger in my face. “Not with me. I'm not involved in
any business like that.”

“But she was,” I said. “That's an indisputable fact. And we
believe some of her own devices may have been used to kill
her.”

“I never touched them. None of them.”

“None of what, Mr. Ackerman?”