Who Let the Dog Out? (17 page)

“So you would describe this as a near decapitation?” Dylan asks, even though she has previously described it that way twice during this testimony.

“Yes, I would.”

“How many cut marks were made?”

“You mean how many times was the knife used?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“At least four or five; the blade was apparently not very sharp.”

“So would you say it was almost like a sawing, and not a slicing?” Dylan asks.

She nods. “That’s a fair statement.”

“Did you find any other wounds or bruises?”

“A few facial lacerations,” she says. “Some scrape marks where his hands were cuffed behind him.”

“Was the victim conscious while all this was happening?”

“I see no reason to believe otherwise,” she says. “I think the answer to that is almost definitely yes.”

Dylan doesn’t say anything for a few moments, no doubt letting the horror of what Janet is describing sink into the jurors’ minds. Then he says, “No further questions.”

I don’t have much to get out of Janet; her testimony was merely a recitation of the facts. There’s nothing new here; the jury already knew that Downey was murdered, and they knew the way he was murdered.

Her negative impact, from our point of view, was emotional. The jury had to be horrified by the graphic description they heard, and their natural instinct will be to punish someone for it. Unfortunately, the only person they have available to punish is Tommy Infante.

“That’s a horrible way to die” is how I start my cross-examination. I’m not telling anyone in the courtroom anything they don’t already know; I am merely establishing that the defense shares their feelings. I am telling them that in fact Tommy Infante shares their feelings, because he had as little to do with this crime as they did.

“Certainly was,” Janet agrees.

“Would the killer have to have been particularly strong to do this?” I ask. Since Tommy is a large man, I want to establish that significant strength was not necessary.

“No, I wouldn’t say so, since the victim was bound and therefore unable to resist.”

“And if the killer was able to threaten with a gun or knife, handcuffing the victim to the chair wouldn’t have taken great strength either, would it?”

“I wouldn’t think so.”

“Based on the angle, would the killer have to have been tall?” Tommy is six foot four.

“No, because Mr. Downey was sitting in a chair. Any normal-sized person would have been angling the knife downward.”

“And you said the killer was in front of his victim when he attacked him?”

“Yes.”

“Would there have been a lot of blood?” I ask.

She nods. “Absolutely. The jugular was sliced.”

“Any way the killer could have avoided getting blood on his clothing?”

“That would not be possible, no.”

I let Janet off the stand. I’ve accomplished what I needed to, and will take advantage of it later in the trial.

I recognize the face as soon as I see it on the screen. It’s Professor Charles Horowitz, Eric Brantley’s boss at Markham College. I don’t have to wait to hear what the newscaster is saying, because there’s a banner across the screen that says it all:

BRANTLEY PROFESSOR MISSING

For some reason the first thing that flashes across my mind is that a noted professor is missing, but in their banner they’ve reduced the poor guy to nothing more than a player in the Brantley case.

I’ve just woken up, and since Laurie is still sleeping, I have the sound on mute. Since I need to hear what is being said, I turn the sound up to a level I can hear, but that hopefully will not wake her. It doesn’t work. In an instant she’s up and watching with me.

The announcer is saying that Horowitz hasn’t shown up for four days, which is completely uncharacteristic for him. No one has seen him since he left work a few nights ago, and he has not used his phone. His car is in his driveway, but he’s not in the house.

The police have classified Horowitz as a missing person, which isn’t exactly an earthshaking announcement, since he is a person, and he is missing. If they have any idea how or if it actually ties in to the Brantley case, they clearly haven’t shared it with this announcer.

When he’s finished, I say to Laurie, “That’s the guy I met with.”

She nods. “I know. Any reason to think he’s a threat to anyone?”

“No, but I really don’t have a clue. He could also be on the run.”

“Unlikely,” she says, “if he drove home and left his car there. He could have rented one, but he had to have a way to get to the rental place. That leaves a trail, as would the rental itself.”

I look online for more information, which is something I find myself doing more and more frequently these days. Television, despite the proliferation of twenty-four-hour news channels, just doesn’t provide the in-depth coverage that can be found online.

Unfortunately, my online search doesn’t turn up many more details about Horowitz’s disappearance. Apparently the police are not sharing information, and it’s too early in the process for reporters to have dug up much.

There is one unconfirmed report that is interesting. It talks of an investigation going on at Markham College over some missing equipment from the labs. The implication, which as far as I can tell is unsubstantiated, is that perhaps Horowitz had something to do with it. I guess the theory is that he went on the run rather than deal with the repercussions of his theft, but that doesn’t really seem plausible to me.

Horowitz had spent years educating himself and attaining a respected position in the academic world. The idea that he would steal some equipment and blow it all seems far-fetched, and is not consistent with how he came across to me. There is no doubt in my mind that Horowitz’s disappearance is tied to Brantley.

But obviously I could be wrong.

The irritating, and scary, thing about this situation is that even if I’m right it won’t matter. The only place I’ve established a connection between Brantley and the Downey murder is in my own mind. I am nowhere close to getting Judge Klingman to allow the jury to hear about it.

Before I even get out of bed, I call Sam. Once again he answers on the first ring, but instead of saying “hello,” he says, “Horowitz?”

“You got it,” I say. I don’t have to tell Sam what I want; he knows I want him to dig into Horowitz’s life, especially the last few months. I want to know everyone he’s talked to, as well as where he has been.

I get up to take Tara and Sebastian on their morning walk; it’s Saturday, so I can take a long one without worrying about making it to court. Before I can get out the door, the phone rings. To my surprise, Tommy Infante is on the line.

It’s the first time he has ever called me from the jail, so the first thing I say is, “Tommy, all calls from the jail are monitored. Do not say anything you don’t want everyone to hear.”

“I’m on a cell,” he says.

“You have a cell phone?”

“You obviously haven’t spent much time in jail” is his way of telling me what I actually already knew, that the black market in jail provides cell phones to anyone who wants it.

“Be careful anyway,” I say. “Is this important? You want me to come down there?”

He doesn’t answer that, but instead asks a question of his own. “What does Horowitz mean?”

“I don’t know yet,” I say. “I’m looking into it now.”

“He’s dead.”

He says it with a certainty that surprises me. “What makes you say that?”

“Because everybody’s dead. Downey, Brantley, Caruso, Healy … they’re all dead and I might as well be dead sitting in here.”

The stress in his voice is evident, and much more intense than I’ve heard before. “You okay?” I ask.

“Yeah. I’m okay,” he says. “I’m an okay dead man, sitting in a cell. Do we have any chance to win this thing?”

“If we didn’t I would have suggested you plead it out. But it’s an uphill climb.”

“I’m going crazy in here,” he says. Then, “I gotta go. Somebody’s coming.”

He hangs up. I’ve never heard him this upset; until now he’s handled his situation remarkably well. I certainly don’t blame him; I’m upset myself, but more than that, I’m scared.

I’m scared that I won’t be able to help him, and I’m scared of living with that failure afterward.

“And you were working on the night in question?” Dylan asks. He’s questioning Dan Hendricks, the bartender Marcus and I visited with at the Study Hall bar. He’s already established that the night they are talking about is the one where Tommy Infante and Gerald Downey were in the bar together.

Hendricks nods. “Yeah. It was a Monday.” Apparently he assumes that everyone in the courtroom is familiar with his work schedule.

“Did the defendant and Mr. Downey enter the bar together?”

“No. Gerry was there first; he came in about ten minutes later.”

“By ‘he,’ you mean the defendant?” Dylan asks.

“Right. The defendant.”

“And they were talking to each other?”

“Yeah,” Hendricks says. “He … the defendant … went right over to Gerry.”

“Could you hear what they were saying?”

“Are you kidding? Everybody could hear them. He was screaming at Gerry.”

“What was he saying?” Dylan asks.

“I don’t remember some of the exact words, but he said that he and Gerry robbed some jewelry store, and that Gerry never gave him his share.”

“And he was upset about that?”

Hendricks laughs a short laugh. “Oh, yeah. He was real upset.”

“How do you know that?”

“He was screaming, you know? And he kept telling Gerry that if he didn’t get his money, he would slit his throat.”

“Do you remember his exact words?”

Hendricks nods. “I sure do. He kept screaming, ‘I’m going to slit your goddamn throat.’ He must have said it five times.”

Dylan wants these words to be the last ones the jury hears on direct examination, so he ends his questioning on that note, and turns the witness over to me.

“Were you there when the police arrived?” is my first question.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m talking about that night, after the argument broke out. If you were still there, what happened when the police came?”

“They didn’t come.”

“Did you leave before they got there?” I ask.

“I closed the place. There were no police.”

“So the defendant was there, screaming at the top of his lungs and threatening murder, and nobody called the police?”

“No.”

“Not even Mr. Downey?”

“Nah. Gerry didn’t seem too worried about it, so I guess nobody else was. A couple of the guys just threw the guy … the defendant … out.”

“Did Gerry say why he never gave the defendant his share of the stolen property?”

“He said the guy was nuts, that they never robbed no store. He said he only met the defendant a few times, and really didn’t know him that well.”

“Did that surprise you?”

“Yeah, I guess. But it’s none of my business, you know?”

“Did Mr. Downey seem worried to you?”

“Nah. He just kept saying that the guy was nuts.”

“How many people were in the bar when this argument took place?” I ask.

“I’m not sure. Maybe twenty.”

“And everyone there heard these threats?”

“Unless they were deaf.”

“The defendant didn’t try and prevent anyone from hearing them?”

“No way.”

I’m trying to convey to the jury that it’s illogical to think that someone who intended to slit someone’s throat would announce it in advance for the world to hear. It’s a weak argument, but in the context of this witness, it’s all we’ve got.

“No further questions.”

I never have trouble sleeping. I’m not sure why that is, but no matter what is going on in my personal or work life, no matter how great or miserable things are, it doesn’t affect my ability to zonk out.

Tonight is going to test that premise. It’s not that I might lie awake because I’m upset that the case is going so badly, although I am. It’s not the pressure of watching Tommy Infante, in my view an innocent man, go down the judicial drain, although that pressure is severe.

Tonight my problem is that there is something in the back of my mind, and I can’t seem to move it to the front. It’s been bugging me all day, just staying out of reach. I feel like I know something important, but for the life of me I can’t figure out what the hell it is.

Sometimes these things come to me, and sometimes they don’t. I’ve learned that I can’t push it; when I don’t try to come up with it, I have more success than when I do. And occasionally when I do figure it out, and analyze it, it can turn out to be insignificant. I just won’t know until I know.

For some reason the shower is a place where stuff can sometimes pop into my head, so tonight I take one before heading for bed. Thirty minutes later I’m like a prune, but my mind is just as blank as when I was dry.

So I get into bed, and the torment and pressure cause me to toss and turn for almost a minute before I’m sound asleep. I wake up at 3:17; I check the clock because for some reason I want to note the time I’ve come up with the thing that was bothering me. And it’s a beauty.

Tommy Infante is guilty.

The realization of it is so intense and stunning that I get up and pace around the room. I almost step on Sebastian in the dark, and though he lets out a low growl, he doesn’t consider the intrusion worthy of getting up over.

“Are you okay?” Laurie asks. I’m not sure if it was my pacing or Sebastian’s growl, but it was obviously enough to wake her up, and she sits up slightly.

“It’s something I just realized about the case,” I say. “But go back to sleep; we can talk about it in the morning.”

“Okay,” she says, and lies back down.

“You’re not going to believe it,” I say.

She sighs, knowing where this is heading. “Am I not going to believe it now, or in the morning?”

“You’re not going to believe it now … it’s a disaster.”

She turns on the lamp and sits all the way up. “What is it?”

“Tommy Infante is guilty. He killed Downey.”

“What? How do you know that?”

“Tommy called me the other day; he had heard about Horowitz being missing, and he was very upset. He said that Horowitz was dead.”