Dead Famous aka The Jury Must Die

Chapter 20

THE SQUAD ROOM OF SPECIAL CRIMES UNIT WAS GHOSTY and quiet tonight. All the action would be in the back rooms used for interviews and lockup. By the dim lights burning at vacant desks, Riker could count three detectives working late, and another light burned in Lieutenant Coffey's office. Mallory switched on Riker's own lamp, then stood to one side so that he could see how ruthlessly she had taken advantage of his absence. The old desk gleamed like a brand-new one. Gone were the familiar landmarks of grimy smudges, fossilized coffee spills and the scorch marks of abandoned cigarettes. Riker was also suspicious of the chair and its unrecognizable upholstery, but when he flopped down on the cushion, he was happy to discover that it still conformed to the shape of his rear end, though it reeked of the chemicals used to restore the leather.

Raising his eyes to Mallory's, he picked up the threads of their interrupted conversation – more like a confession. "I thought I was being followed around by cops." He swiveled his chair to face the window and looked down on the dark SoHo street. "Everywhere I went, I could swear I saw a cop behind me. Nuts, huh?"

"No," said Mallory. "That was real. Some of them were Zachary's rent-a-cops, but the rest were from Internal Affairs."

"IA was on my tail?" Slowly, his chair spun round to face her. "What the hell for?"

"They got an anonymous tip." Mallory examined her perfectly manicured fingernails, as if one of them might be flawed or chipped – as if his desk could sprout wings and fly. "Some citizen told them you were doing a lot of heavy lifting for a cop on full disability. They followed you for months with cameras. They wanted something incriminating on video. Nobody told them you never cashed the city's checks."

"But you knew, didn't you?" Mrs. Ortega could have supplied her with that information, but long before the cleaning woman's discovery of the checks, Mallory had known that he was not opening his mail. Her invasion of his private life was tabled, for he had a larger issue with her just now. "So it was an anonymous tip?"

Something in his voice – oh, perhaps the heavy sarcasm – gave away his disbelief, and he could see that old look in her eye. She was getting ready for the grand denial. And this told him that his own partner had turned him in to Internal Affairs. It fitted so well with her stealing his gun tonight. Mallory had not trusted him to stay alive, and so she had sicced the IA watchdogs on him, cops to keep an eye on him when she could not be there. In his alternate theory, she had used the Internal Affairs fumble to embarrass the commissioner, just a dab of blackmail to grease the forms for Riker's appeal. It had taken less than the usual ninety days for his reinstatement; it had taken one hour. And now it occurred to him that his partner had also diddled a computer to send out those bogus disability checks, for he had never asked for any assistance from the city of New York.

He lit a cigarette and waited for her to lie her way out of this – and he waited.

Unpredictable brat, she sat on the edge of his desk, legs dangling in the old familiar manner of Kathy the child. And, though a clock hung on every wall, she pulled out her pocket watch and pretended interest in the hour. It was Lou Markowitz's gold watch, handed down through four generations of police. Mallory was reminding him that she was Markowitz's daughter, the only child of his oldest friend. This was such a clumsy tactic, for she had little understanding of sentiment or sympathy; she had none of her own. Offense was her best game. Her crippled idea of defense only saddened him. He had no more heart for this. Thus wounded, he pocketed all his questions and accusations. An hour would pass before he realized that Mallory's inept ploy had been a roaring success, that she had expertly distracted him by creeping up on his sentimental blind side and slaying him with sympathy.

"We should get moving." She slid off the desk and turned her back on him. Heading toward the hallway, she said, "Your friend Agent Hennessey is waiting in the interview room. I picked him for the token fed."

"Good job." As Riker rose from his desk and followed her down the narrow hall, he was only beginning to appreciate Mallory's long-range planning. Her best scheme had begun with Agent Hennessey following a doppelganger while Ian Zachary was ambushed in the parking garage. The next piece of FBI incompetence, MacPherson's murder, had only sweetened her deal. In exchange for files on the Reaper and a clear field for NYPD, all federal foul-ups would be overlooked during press conferences, and New York agents would share the spotlight at endgame, hence the "token fed."

Riker knew that Lou Markowitz would have approved of his foster child's work. She was manipulating the system even better than her old man. Lou, in his prime, had outwitted the FBI – but never actually extorted them.

The partners talked as they walked, and now he learned that the fake blind man was undergoing a psychiatric evaluation at Bellevue Hospital at the insistence of a lawyer. The public defender would not believe that his client could competently waive the right to representation. And while they awaited the return of Victor Patchock, another interview subject was being held in the lockup cage. This one was an elderly attorney named Horace Fairlamb.

"So you busted a lawyer," said Riker.

That's my girl.

They entered the larger of the two interview rooms, the formal one with the long table and a one-way glass for covert observation. Riker shook hands with Agent Hennessey, then suffered a bear hug from Janos. The detective had just heard the news of Riker's reinstatement and greeted him like a returning prisoner of war. While Janos made the introductions to Horace Fairlamb, retired attorney at law, only Riker was positioned to see his partner pirating paperwork from cartons piled at one end of the table. Each box bore the stamp of the FBI. Thick documents and manila folders from the Reaper file were now disappearing underneath Mallory's blazer.

Suspicious brat.

Riker had no doubt that Hennessey would honor the deal of full disclosure, but Mallory trusted no one. And now she excused herself from the room after stealing all that she could covertly carry.

The men took their seats at the table, law enforcement on one side and Horace Fairlamb on the other. The old man was asked to repeat his story, what he had told of it so far. Detective Janos, showing the wear of this baby-sitting detail, pleaded with the elderly lawyer to stick with the pertinent facts, then rolled his eyes as Fairlamb insisted on beginning his story at the beginning. And so they all listened to the drawn-out details of a beloved wife's death, culminating with the funeral. "That was the day I gave my New York law practice to my son." The old man had then traveled to Chicago to live with his daughter and grandchildren.

And now three men with grim smiles admired his wallet photographs as they were passed around the table.

"But after a few days," said Horace Fairlamb, "I could see that it wasn't working out. I spent most of that time staring at the walls and crying – quite a burden for my family. So one day, I left my daughter's house, checked into a hotel and stepped out on a ledge."

Janos raised his head, interest renewed. Evidently, he had not heard this part before. "A jumper."

"A would-be jumper," the attorney corrected him. "One of the hotel residents was a psychiatrist, and that was the day I met Dr. Apollo."

Riker leaned forward. "So she always lived in hotels, even in Chicago?"

"As long as I've known her – three years. Anyway, I became her patient. She treated me for depression. Part of my therapy was studying for the state bar exam. At my age – imagine if you will. But I passed the exam. Well, I was back at work and somewhat useful again. Then one day, I had a breakthrough in therapy. I finally admitted to myself that I had never cared for the practice of law." He sighed. "Half a century wasted in utter boredom. And probate is about as boring as you can – "

"So that's when you took on the little freak with the red wig?" Riker was not quite so patient as Detective Janos. "Then life got interesting, right?" And this was his euphemism for Speed it up, old man, or I'll shoot you.

The lawyer was mildly surprised. "I never had an attorney-client relationship with Victor Patchock. Is that what you thought? Oh, my word, no. I performed other services for Victor – things of a covert nature. I arranged for his move from Chicago to New York, him and another fellow."

"MacPherson?"

"I never knew the other man's real name. He was even more distrustful than Victor. So I got them both credentials with fake names, credit cards, passports and the like. Lodging them in New York was simple enough since I own several buildings here. Then there were the disguises and running around as a decoy in the middle of the night. Oh, I must say it was miles more fun than lawyering. Then I procured firearms for them, and that's not as easy as you might think. You can't just walk into a gun store, you know. There are forms to fill out, serial numbers that can be traced. So there was no legal way to proceed. I went through a dozen bartenders before I found – "

"Wait." Riker had a sixth sense for lawyerly fiddles, and this attorney had already confessed to several crimes. "Janos? You read him his rights?"

Detective Janos held up the signed Miranda card that listed every constitutional perk, including the fact that anything said could be used against the old man in court. "Mr. Fairlamb's representing himself. He did his own plea bargain with the DA's office."

"Indeed," said Horace Fairlamb. "I have complete immunity in exchange for cooperation. So there won't be any charges for procuring firearms, document fraud or obstruction of justice. Oh, and all those other charges? Bribery, littering and such – all gone. Now, I want to make it perfectly clear that getting weapons for Victor and his friend – well, that was not Johanna's idea. In fact, she was horrified when I told her – somewhat after the fact, I'm afraid."

All heads turned in the direction of an irritating rapping noise. It came from the other side of the one-way mirror that concealed a viewing room. Riker stared at the glass. "Who's in the box tonight?"

"That's an assistant DA." Janos stared at the mirror, then raised his voice for the benefit of the man behind the glass. "He's reminding me that he's a busy little prick with big plans for the evening. I suppose he thinks we're wasting his time."

Riker banged one fist on the table, and the annoying rap abruptly ceased.

Horace Fairlamb put a cigar in his mouth, Cuban of course, and Riker would bet that contraband was also included in the deal with the district attorney.

Damn every lawyer ever born.

Agent Hennessey leaned across the table to light the old man's cigar, saying, "So let's get on with the good stuff, all right?"

"Yeah," said Riker. "Let's start with the murder trial. What happened in that jury room? Why did they all vote not guilty?"

"I have no idea," said Horace Fairlamb. "I never discussed that with my associates."

Janos's head snapped back, as if the lawyer had stunned him with a baseball bat between the eyes. "Hey, we had a deal, old man."

"Oh, yes… the deal." The old man exhaled a cloud of smoke. "As I recall the terms, I agreed to tell you everything I knew about the Ian Zachary jury. So now I've told you all I know. And, if I may anticipate your next question, I have no idea who the Reaper is."

Weary Janos laid his head on the table, and Agent Hennessey slumped in his chair, muttering, "We've all been scammed."

Well, not all of them, not Mallory. And now Riker understood why his partner had not bothered to sit in on this interview – this worthless crumb she had thrown to the FBI.

Behind the lighted glass sat young Crazy Bitch, eyes glistening, fever-bright. The girl gave the impression of a cat on tenterhooks, forever trapped in a conflict of fight or flight.

Johanna Apollo stared at the other window on this studio, the dark one, and this unsettled Ian Zachary. She smiled.

Paranoia, my old friend.

It had been childishly simple to suss out the Englishman's weakness. She looked down at the carpet and noted the impressions left by the console's former position. He had turned his desk sideways so that he would not have to face the booth window when he worked his telephones, his levers and dials. However, that had not ended his discomfort. His next solution had been the Japanese folding screen beside his chair. It sheltered him from the window's view, making it easier to lose the idea of a watcher behind that dark glass.

Crazy Bitch must be a mind reader of sorts, for she caught the doctor's eye and made a thumbs-up gesture. Johanna was uncertain about the words this girl was mouthing, but she thought the context might have been Go for his balls.

Noting Johanna's interest, Zachary stared at the Japanese screen, as if he could see through it to the dark window on the other side. "That's Needleman's booth – my producer. Did you see something?"

"Not yet."

He lost his charming smile for a moment, but then he rallied, turning to the lighted window and his assistant, who instantly ceased to clap her hands. "Crazy Bitch? You screwed up the voice level again."

The girl behind the glass extended one finger from a closed fist, an obscene gesture to tell him how much his criticism meant to her.

He flicked a lever, then leaned far back in his chair. "I could run the whole show from this console. But my assistant has a certain entertainment value. You may have noticed – she's insane."

"Eccentric, perhaps," said Johanna. She had found the younger woman's survival instinct was still intact, always a good indication for hope, but yes, Crazy Bitch was definitely in trouble. Johanna's sudden smile was directed at the producer's booth, and this had a telling effect on Zachary.

Once more, he turned to face the screen blocking his view of the dark glass. "So, Dr. Apollo, do you know Needleman?"

Though no sound escaped the lighted booth, Crazy Bitch was laughing hysterically and nodding with wildly exaggerated bobs of her head.

"Everyone knows Needleman," said Johanna.

Riker had invited the FBI man to the second interview of the night, the one that might actually break the case. They entered a small room with a lockup cage and no mirrors – no witnesses. Mallory was clearly surprised and unhappy to see Hennessey, not liking this change of plans – her plans.

The fake blind man had finally been returned from Bellevue, and his public defender had just finished reading the psychiatric evaluation, slapping it on the table in disgust. Though the court-appointed lawyer was still not satisfied that his client was competent to waive legal counsel, and he said so for the record, he now left the strange little man in police custody and quit the room with a secretive smile, so happy to finally end his long workday and happier still to be rid of this lunatic.

Victor Patchock sat with his arms folded. His white cane had been taken away from him, but he stubbornly insisted on wearing his wig and dark glasses, and neither would he remove his overcoat. "In case I have to leave in a hurry."

"You're not going anywhere for a long time." Mallory snatched the dark glasses away. Patchock raised his hands, anticipating a blow to the face, and the overcoat fell open to expose drops of blood on his shirtfront. A surprised Agent Hennessey stared at these bloodstains.

Riker and Janos turned in unison to stare at Mallory.

Before she could utter her trademark line, I didn't do it, the little man quickly closed up his coat, saying, "I have nosebleeds when I'm under stress."

Now that Mallory had been cleared of mistreating her prisoner, she reached toward the little man once more. One white hand, five sharp red nails, flashed out to touch the nylon strands of the red wig and to make the little man flinch. "Why the costume, Victor?"

"That was Dr. Apollo's idea," said Victor Patchock. "She told me no one would look for me under a neon sign – if you take my meaning. Before she bought me the wig, I couldn't bring myself to leave my room."

"So she was treating you?"

The little man nodded. "Getting out of my room was a big part of my therapy. You know, taking back my life. So I spent my time following other players around, MacPherson, Johanna and – "

"And Ian Zachary." Mallory touched his arm, making him jump a bit. "That's how you knew he'd be in the parking garage the other night."

"Yes. It took me a while to figure out that his limo was picking up an impersonator. After I caught on, I followed him to that garage lots of times." Victor Patchock smiled at Riker, but it was not a happy smile, more on the sly side. "I followed you around, too – all those nights you went out drinking with Dr. Apollo after work. You never saw me, did you? No, you only had eyes for the doctor." He wagged one finger at the detective. "I would kill for that woman. Just you remember that, you bastard." Now he turned his suspicious eyes on Mallory.

"Victor?" Riker slapped the table to regain the little man's attention. "What happened in that jury room? Why did you all vote not guilty?"

"Andy," said the man in the red wig. "It was his doing."

"Andy Sumpter?" Agent Hennessey was startled. "The juror?"

"The first one to die," said Victor Patchock.

Johanna Apollo continued to glance at the dark window from time to time. This had the desired effect of rattling Ian Zachary, but never for more than a few seconds. Now he relaxed into a self-satisfied smile. "You have a lot of explaining to do, Doctor."

"I know," she said. "It would be easier to understand if we start with the voir dire, the jury selection. Your lawyers dragged out the process. There was lots of time to get full background checks on everyone in the jury pool."

"Stacking the jury isn't a crime, Doctor. It's a science."

"Oh, I agree," said Johanna. "It only seemed insane at the time. Your lawyers didn't care about biases. All the physically small people, the frail ones with the most retiring personalities, they were never challenged by your defense team. And then there was me, the hunchback, the cripple – so vulnerable. Andy Sumpter was the lone exception, a man with the emotional maturity of a child and the body of a weight lifter. The prosecutor loved him, didn't he? Andy came off as such a law-and-order freak. I'm sure you coached him every step of the way."

"Now that would be a crime." Zachary's smile was unaffected by this accusation. "Let's stay with the facts for now, Dr. Apollo. We can talk about your unsupported theories later on."

"Andy slept through most of your trial. That's a fact. But when we retired to the jury room for deliberations, he was suddenly wide awake. The first round of ballots were for a guilty verdict – except for Andy's. The judge wouldn't accept a hung jury. Day after day, he kept sending us back to that little room to work it out, and every day more votes swung over to Andy's side. The first two crossover votes were easy. Those people just wanted to go home. But the rest stood firm – even while Andy sat there, glaring at them one by one and punching his fist into his hand, over and over."

Victor Patchock was off to the men's room, escorted by Detective Janos. In addition to nosebleeds, he had announced that frayed nerves also affected his bladder.

The moment the door closed, Agent Hennessey discovered that he was Mallory's new interview subject. She stood beside his chair, preferring the advantage of looking down at him. "Jury tampering," she said. "The feds were investigating before the first juror died. That's what brought Timothy Kidd to Chicago after the trial. He wasn't working the Reaper murders." Unspoken were the words You liar.

"But that can't be right," said Riker, answering for the stunned FBI agent. "Wrong department. Timothy Kidd was a profiler – murder cases."

Mallory shook her head. "Kidd was never a profiler. He was a garden-variety field agent – just like Hennessey here. And he was also a flaming nutcase."

"She's right, and she's wrong," said Hennessey, speaking only to Riker's friendlier face. "A year ago, Agent Kidd had a nervous breakdown. He was pulled from fieldwork and transferred to an office job. All he did was shuffle papers and make out reports on obscure complaints. So one day, Dr. Apollo's charge of jury tampering lands on his desk. No one else took it seriously. A hung jury might've gotten some attention, but you can't buy a whole jury, can you? The verdict was unanimous, and her claim was unsupported." He glanced up at Mallory, to say, "You were wrong about the tampering charge," then quickly looked away, not even willing to meet Riker's eyes anymore. "There was no federal case before the first juror died. But Dr. Apollo papered every agency, local, state and federal."

Riker nodded. "And crazy Timothy Kidd was the only one who believed her."

"That's right," said Hennessey. "So Agent Kidd went to Chicago for a follow-up interview, and that was on his own initiative. He was never assigned to any criminal cases. A few days later, the Reaper slaughtered the first juror. There was a message on the crime-scene wall, written in the victim's own blood. One down and eleven to go. That's what it said. We never got that detail until the second juror died. Then the Chicago bureau stepped in and placed the rest of the jury in a protection program. Agent Kidd was using sick days, commuting between D.C. and Chicago. So he did investigate the Reaper murders, but he did it on his own time."

"Argus didn't know that," said Riker. "He thought Kidd was in town to check up on his work."

Their conversation ended when the door opened. Detective Janos and his charge had returned from the men's room. Victor Patchock sat down, adjusted his wig and continued his story of the jury deliberations. "Well, Andy comes up to me one night when we're all eating dinner in a restaurant with the bailiff. On my way to the toilet, he boxes me into a corner and whispers, 'Number four Ellery Drive.' That's where I live – used to live."

"But we never had any paperwork on you," said Hennessey. "Why didn't you support Dr. Apollo's complaint?"

I was the one who went to the judge," said Johanna Apollo. "But the other jurors wouldn't back me up, no corroborating complaints. The judge asked if I might be hysterical – all the pressure of a televised murder trial. He loved the whole circus, actually used makeup in court. And he didn't want a mistrial. So the judge sent me back in there with all those frightened people."

"And Andy Sumpter," said Zachary. "So you were afraid."

"I'm not immune to intimidation," she said. "Andy was angry with me, and he let me know it. He glared at me for hours. He was so quiet – except for the sound of his fist punching into his hand, and every punch was for me. Obviously, Andy knew about the complaint, and that would've been your work."

"But I had no contact with the jurors," said Zachary. "Can you can prove otherwise? No, I didn't think so. Well, maybe the judge was right. Are you prone to hysterics, Doctor?"

"Actually, you're the one who seems on edge tonight." She turned her chair to face the dark booth, and this had the predictable effect of jumping up the man's anxiety. "I'm going public with my story because – " And here she paused to borrow a phrase from Mallory. "I can't count on living through the night."

Riker was slowly shaking his head from side to side. "Okay, Victor, let me get this straight. Jo went to the judge to save all your sorry hides, and none of you backed her up?"

"No," said Victor Patchock. "Not then. Andy was a crazy bastard. We had to deal with him eight hours a day."

"What happened after the verdict?" asked Riker. "Did anybody else come forward to back up her complaint?"

"No. When Andy got killed, I never thought anything of it. I'm sure no one else did, either. He was the type you'd expect to get his throat slit. I never heard anything about a note written in blood. Nobody told us a killer was threatening the rest of the jury, not then."

Agent Hennessey looked up from his perusal of the Bureau's Reaper file. "That call was made by the Chicago police while they still had jurisdiction. The cops had a real short list of people who wanted Andy Sumpter dead. They figured the crime was staged to look like a psycho killing – to draw attention away from his loan shark."

"So Andy needed cash," said Mallory, who loved money motives best.

Andy was your most insanely loyal fan," said Johanna. "But I'm sure he had other incentives. He wouldn't settle for a hung jury. Did you tell him the verdict had to be unanimous?"

"More accusations? Once again, you're all alone, Dr. Apollo. No support for your story. And let's not lose sight of the fact that you also voted not guilty. Would you like to explain that? Because right now you look like the prime suspect for jury tampering. Swaying an entire jury – well, that would be child's play for a psychiatrist. Andy was just an overgrown brain tumor."

"A good description. So you did get to know him." Zachary sighed. "I can't see that moron convincing an entire jury – " "He terrified them. And you told him how to do that. He wasn't smart enough to work it out on his own. He was so close to blowing his temper and hurting those people."

"But he didn't. And that was your doing, wasn't it, Dr. Apollo? And yours was the only complaint. That's interesting, too."

"If the other two women hadn't died, I think they might have come forward. It would've been easier for a woman to admit what happened in that room."

"You make it sound like a rape."

"The assault took place in the jury bathroom," said Johanna. "But you already knew that. You planned it."

It was like a rape," said Victor Patchock. "You lose your manhood the first time he makes you back down. None of the men in that room would admit that Andy had them cowed. The votes changed with every ballot, one or two a day, till he had them all."

Hennessey looked up from his notebook, pen hovering, "But you say Andy never touched anyone?"

"Well… yeah, he did. It was MacPherson. Poor Mac. He went into the bathroom. It had two stalls. So nobody thought it was odd when Andy followed him in there. But then Andy slid under Mac's stall door. Oh, Mac, he was scared shitless – speechless, never called out for help. I always wondered how Andy knew he wouldn't scream like a woman."

"Practice," said Riker, who could see where this story was going. "He'd probably done it before."

Victor Patchock lowered his head. "Then Andy jammed this stinking, dirty snot rag in MacPherson's mouth. He spun the poor guy around and spread his legs. So Mac had to lean both hands on the wall to keep from falling. And that poor bastard still didn't know what was coming – not till he heard the sound of Andy's zipper coming down."

The little man squeezed his eyes shut. "Outside in the jury room, there wasn't much to hear – grunts, Andy laughing – and thumps – when his rear end hit the stall door." Victor Patchock beat his closed fist on the table, over and over, saying, "Thump, thump, thump," in the rhythm of a rape.

"So Andy comes back to the jury room with this big sloppy grin on his stupid face. MacPherson was in the bathroom another twenty minutes. When he finally came out, he wouldn't look anybody in the eye, just stared at the floor. He was shaking all over, dying inside, trying so hard not to cry. But then he did cry – real quiet, just tears. There was blood on the seat of his pants. Everybody knew what happened to him in there. Nobody ever used the bathroom again – except Andy. MacPherson changed his vote."

Andy Sumpter wasn't gay," said Ian Zachary. "This man was paying child support on three children."

"The rape wasn't about sex," said Johanna.

"Ah, the feminist party line. I know this cliche. Rape isn't about sex – it's about power. Is that the way you see it, Dr. Apollo?"

"No," said Johanna. "I thought it was probably about money. Or did you promise to make Andy famous? Oh, the things your fans will do just for a few minutes on the radio."

"Maybe Andy was your bitch, Dr. Apollo. You were always in control of that room. That's one thing the jurors agreed on when they talked to the media. They took their cues from you."

"I did my best to keep Andy from spinning out of control. He always wanted to use his fists, and it was a fight to keep him from hitting those people. So, in hindsight, he probably wasn't your best choice for intimidating that jury – always a second away from exploding. And this is what comes of amateurs like you dabbling in psychology."

"But you claim this no-neck moron thwarted the entire justice system. Stupid Andy swayed the whole jury."

"Andy came from the cave," said Johanna. "But you're right about one thing. It was my fault. Now I wish I'd just let him explode in that jury room, a room full of witnesses. He might've hurt one of them badly, maybe a few broken bones. But you never would've walked away from that trial as a free man."

"And, without that unanimous verdict, without your vote, Doctor, the Reaper would've had no motive to kill the jurors. All those people would still be alive."

When the other jurors were dying, Dr. Apollo kept us alive, me and MacPherson," said Victor Patchock. "She paid for everything. And she kept us from falling apart. But then – "

"Something happened," said Mallory prompting him. "Something changed?"

"I found out who the Reaper was. That damn lawyer, Fairlamb, ratted me out to Dr. Apollo. She was waiting for me in that underground parking garage. She took my gun away, but she was too late to stop MacPherson." He turned to Riker, saying, "I waited outside on the street, and then I followed you guys to that bar on Green Street. And there's poor Mac, a prisoner, jammed in that booth between you and Zachary."

"Who is the Reaper?" asked Agent Hennessey.

"He is," said Patchock, pointing to Riker. "He followed Mac to the garage that night. Later on, when I was leaving the bar, Riker was still waiting for Mac to come back from the men's room. Arrest him!"

Riker glanced at Mallory. She was not the least bit annoyed with the little man for wasting her time. And he knew why, or so he thought, but then she surprised him.

Mallory put one hand on Victor Patchock's shoulder, nails embedding in the material, just a gentle reminder that she was in control of him. And her voice was a monotone when she said, "I know you're holding back. Big mistake, Victor. Don't fool with me."

"I have to go to the toilet again."

When the door had closed upon the little man and his warden, Hennessey turned from one cop to the other. "Did you guys believe any of that?"

"The rape happened," said Riker. "I believed that much."

"No way," said the agent. "Dr. Apollo never mentioned an assault in her complaint."

"Of course not," said Riker. "Who would've believed her? You didn't. There were ten people on the other side of that bathroom door and a bailiff out in the hall. How could Andy Sumpter be stupid enough to risk it? The plan is so stupid it's damn smart."

"It did happen," said Mallory. "Andy needed cash, and some people will do anything for money." She turned to Riker. "But Victor did lie."

I heard the noise in the bathroom," said Johanna. "The other jurors had gone selectively deaf. So I went to the door to get the bailiff. The hall was empty. That's when I realized that you'd bought him off. He was the one who carried your instructions to Andy Sumpter. You not only arranged the rape, but you timed it with the bailiff. You wanted him gone while that assault was going on." Johanna addressed all her words to the dark window.

Even the girl in the lighted booth was a believer now, turning that way as if peering through the solid walls that separated her booth from the producer's.

"Excuse me, Doctor." Zachary rose from the console, walked around the Japanese screen and jammed a small camera up to the glass, illuminating the booth with a bright flash.

No one there.

He returned to his chair, behaving as if that had been a perfectly normal thing to do. "Go on, Dr. Apollo. You were giving me credit for suborning the entire jury."

She studied his more relaxed face. He was enjoying himself again. What a pity. But she could fix that. "You won't get away with jury tampering. And you won't be a media star anymore."

"Let's talk about your crimes, Dr. Apollo. After the trial, I sent you roses every day for a month. I'm sure you know why. I never doubted that the verdict was your work. By your own account, you kept Andy Sumpter from beating up those people. You, more than anyone else, helped to sway that entire jury. Oh, and one other thing – you voted not guilty. I'd say you earned your roses, Doctor."

"You won't get away with it."

He smiled and threw up his hands. "Bring on the police. Let's have another trial. No, wait. What was I thinking? You have no proof."

"You misunderstood," she said. "I was alluding to all the people who want you dead. Those jurors you and your fans hunted down, they had husbands and wives, parents and children. Lots of wounded survivors. This is your new trial, right here, right now. If I'm believed, then you're a dead man."

"Just one moment, Dr. Apollo. If I understand you correctly, you're openly soliciting my murder on the radio."

Johanna's eyes turned back to the dark window of the producer's booth, and she sucked in a breath, startled by the image on the other side of the glass. What malicious creativity. She would never have anticipated anything on this level of sophistication.

"Fascinating."

Zachary lunged for the Japanese screen, knocking it down with his fist so that he could see the producer's booth. A sheet had been draped across the window glass, and two holes had been slashed in the fabric, two dark eyes slanting upward. And though there was no third hole to indicate a mouth, Johanna would later remember a complete face with an evil smile.

Upon the return of Victor Patchock, it was finally established, to the little man's satisfaction, that an FBI agent, not Riker, had been the last one to see MacPherson alive. And then Hennessey left the room to respond to a cell-phone call in private. Without missing a beat between words, Mallory picked up the rhythm of the interview. "Let's talk about the parking garage. What were the two of you planning that night?"

"MacPherson and me were going to scare the living shit out of Zachary."

"So your gun had blanks, too?"

"No, I was gonna shoot the bastard for real. Real bullets. I wanted to hurt him so bad, him and all his moron fans. I hate him more than the Reaper."

"You wanted revenge," said Mallory, "that much is true. But you told us a few lies, Victor. I warned you about that. You said Dr. Apollo was the last one to change her vote."

He lowered his eyes as he nodded, reaffirming his statement.

"You're lying to me," she said. "And such a stupid little lie." Mallory held up an old newspaper clipping. "This is an interview with one of the jurors. According to this, the last holdout on that jury was a man. So it wasn't Dr. Apollo, and I'm damn sure it wasn't you. If you lie to me one more time…" Her words trailed off, and she let his imagination do the work of frightening him.

"It was Mac," said Victor Patchock. "He was the last one to change his vote."

"And he's not the one who got raped in the bathroom," said Riker. "That was you."

"No! It wasn't me!"

"You're lying," said Riker. "That night in the parking garage, MacPherson only wanted to scare Zachary. Payment in kind. He wanted Zachary to know what it felt like to be scared. But you wanted a different kind of payback. You brought real bullets. Andy Sumpter was dead, killed by the Reaper – no satisfaction there."

"So you went after Ian Zachary," said Mallory, "your rapist by proxy. I warned you not to hold out on me one more time."

Riker leaned toward the little man. "Did you plan to shoot the bastard's balls off? You think you could've made a shot like that – while you were hiding in the dark?"

Victor Patchock's head rolled back, and he stared at the overhead lights. His nose had begun to bleed, and he wiped it with one hand, smearing blood across his face. "I was the first one to change my vote to not guilty. Not that I was scared. That wasn't it. I just wanted to go home. So I don't know why Andy did that to me. Why? I already voted his way." He used his coat sleeve to wipe the blood from his hand. "I'm a little man… I know that. Dr. Apollo kept voting guilty. It was just her and MacPherson. But after… I came out of the bathroom… Andy demanded another ballot. He stood next to my chair, one hand squeezing my shoulder – not hard, more like I was his girlfriend or something. And he was staring at Dr. Apollo. Everyone else, except maybe Mac, was looking the other way – if you know what I mean."

"So you were Andy's hostage," said Riker. "That's why Jo voted not guilty."

"He knew where I lived," said Victor. "Suppose I'd pressed charges? Who would've believed me? Nobody backed up Dr. Apollo. What chance did I have? The stupid ones were clueless, and the smart ones would never go up against Andy."

"Except for Jo and MacPherson," said Riker. "You could've – "

"Okay! All right! But what then? I'm a little man. And you damn cops, you can't keep criminals in jail for six minutes. Andy would've been back on the street in an hour. You know he would've…"

Raped you again?

"So the lady changed her vote for you," said Riker. Jo would have internalized all of Victor Patchock's fear and pain, then sought to end it.

"Dr. Apollo voted not guilty," said Victor. "When she caved in, Mac did, too. He couldn't make a stand without her. He just couldn't do it alone."

Riker lowered his eyes. There was guilt enough to spread around this table in equal shares tonight. He had his own regrets on MacPherson's account and took on a share of the blame for that death. A good man was gone, and this coward, this self-described little man, had survived. Victor Patchock was about to become famous. The news media would make him a symbol for the American justice system, proof that it was still alive and well. Or was it?

Crazy Bitch could only stare at the blinking phone-board lights, too afraid to pick up any of the calls. It might be a curious fan or maybe an angry station manager. The relentless digital clock on her console was counting down the seconds. Not a moment's peace, hardly time to draw a breath. She dumped her purse out on her desk and rummaged through the mess, hunting for a way to keep the entire world at bay, and she found it in a paper bag with a hardware store logo.

She was saved.

She laughed and laughed while tears streamed down her face, tears brought on by a joy so exquisite that it was almost unbearable. The mike was dead, and her voice could not be heard outside this room. She clenched her fists, then filled her lungs and screamed to no one, "I'm gonna be famous!"

Hennessey had not yet returned when Mallory decided to reconvene the interrogation in the larger interview room, the one that allowed covert observation from behind the mirror on the wall. Riker guessed that this was for the benefit of the assistant district attorney. If that man was still waiting behind the glass, he would see Mallory end a brief interview with a willing statement from Victor Patchock – absent any duress. She pushed a pad of yellow paper in Victor's direction, and the little man began to write down all the details wrung out of him in the smaller room. His face was free of tears now, and the evidence of his last nosebleed had been wiped away.

"Write it all down." She turned to the one-way glass, saying, "It's a wrap. Let's go collect the doctor."

On the other side of the mirror, Jack Coffey's voice was slightly sardonic as he spoke into the intercom. "The boys from Chicago lost Dr. Apollo again."

"No way!" Mallory stood up and faced the mirror and her boss who stood behind it. "All those idiots had to do was – "

"It's not a problem." Agent Hennessey stood in the doorway. He was smiling as he folded his cell phone into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. "My guys found her. She's a guest on the Ian Zachary show. We've got men at the radio station right now. As soon as the show is over, we'll make the arrest for jury tampering." Betrayal.

Riker leaned his tired head upon one hand. The moment Mallory turned on the FBI agent, he decided to let her rip the man's head off. Hennessey did not know her well enough to be forewarned as she walked toward him, her words carefully measured. "When did all of this go down?" "My bureau chief's been monitoring the show for twenty minutes. He says the lady makes a good case. So Zachary's going away for jury tampering, and he won't be feeding the Reaper any more helpful information." Hennessey patted Victor Patchock on the back. "And now we've got your corroboration for Dr. Apollo's complaint." He turned to smile at Mallory, as if that would help him. "The doctor and Mr. Patchock go back into protective custody whether they like it or not. They're material witnesses now." He turned away from Mallory – a huge mistake – to see Jack Coffey enter the room.

Riker thought the boss was curiously calm.

"So thanks for all your help, Lieutenant," said the agent, "but we'll take it from here."

Mallory was silently coming up behind Hennessey's back when Riker had second thoughts about the impending violence. He grabbed her by the shoulders as her nails – call them claws – were on the rise, then whispered in her ear, "Let Coffey go off on the bastard. Trust me on this one." His tip-off was the lieutenant's composure.

Jack Coffey was actually smiling when he pulled up a chair at the table. "Hennessey, here's a little something your boss probably didn't mention. It happened three minutes ago. Somebody called 911 for a disturbance at the radio station, and six patrol cops responded. The FBI agents tried to stop them from going up to Ian Zachary's floor. Well, the uniforms don't take orders from feds." The lieutenant propped his feet up on the table, and the FBI agent stiffened his own posture, bracing for more bad news.

"Sorry, Hennessey. It seems one of your guys is losing a little blood. But the good news? Our guy didn't break his damn jaw. It's just a split lip. A few stitches, he'll be fine. And that disturbance call?" Coffey shrugged. "Turned out to be a false alarm."

Normally, Riker would have suspected Mallory of making that bogus 911 call, but she had an alibi for the time frame. Evidently, the lieutenant was picking up her bad habits.

Jack Coffey turned to Detective Janos. "Those uniforms belong to the midtown precinct. Keep an open line to their sergeant. They have orders to hold that floor. Make sure that's all they do. I don't want anybody rattled till we're ready to make an arrest." And last, but with the greatest satisfaction, he turned back to the FBI man, saying, "We'll take it from here."

"You have no jurisdiction on a jury tampering charge," said Agent Hennessey.

"Oh, that's all changed," said Coffey. "We have a few charges of our own." He glanced at Mallory. "You didn't tell him about that yet? Sorry, I ruined your fun."

Hennessey would have left the room with his document cartons, following in Jack Coffey's wake, but Riker was now blocking the door. "Not so fast, pal. You made a deal with Mallory. You're going to keep it." He looked down at the boxes of Reaper files. "Or maybe you'd rather leave all that stuff here."

Over the next thirty minutes, Dr. Apollo's voice was heard on radios all over New York City and the portable set in the interview room.

Riker turned down the volume as he faced the one-way mirror. "What's taking so long on that arrest warrant?"

Jack Coffey's voice came over the intercom, saying, "We're shopping for a judge who isn't afraid of the ACLU. Shouldn't be much longer."

The contents of the Reaper file were spread across the long table, and Agent Hennessey could only watch this invasion of his paperwork. His fingers lightly drummed the table to advertise a bad case of arrogance withdrawal. The FBI man's detainment had not been formalized, though a strong suggestion was made by the massive bulk of Detective Janos leaning against the only door.

Mallory owned the agent now, and she was in the early stages of toying with her food. After scanning the contents of an FBI folder, she looked up from her reading. "So Dr. Apollo was always on the shortlist for the jury murders." She crumpled a sheet of paper, and Hennessey watched, fascinated, as the wad rolled between her palms, compacting into a perfect ball the size of a marble.

"That's destruction of government – "

"It's bogus," she said. "And you knew it when you padded out the Reaper file. Now I want the good stuff, the personal notes that never made it into your database. How many screwups were purged from the computer?"

Hennessey hesitated too long. Her paper marble shot past his right ear and bounced off the wall behind him.

"If I have to find those mistakes by myself," she said, "then I add them to the rest of the mess your people made of this case. I might hold a press conference – all the major networks – national publicity, all of it bad."

And those were the magic words.

Hennessey retrieved the wadded paper from the floor. "This sheet isn't total crap. When Agent Kidd was murdered, Dr. Apollo was our prime suspect for a copycat killing. She had her own history with psychiatric treatment, long-term therapy as a child and a teenager. Maybe our man said the wrong thing and she snapped. It happens. Or maybe he was the one who snapped, and the doctor killed him in self-defense. But we know the Reaper didn't murder Timothy Kidd."

"You're wrong," said Riker. "And that's one more screwup for the feds." He looked up at his partner. "Mallory, are you keeping score?"

Agent Hennessey might be on the defensive, but he was showing no signs of backing down from this theory. The FBI man was adamant when he said, "Timothy Kidd's murder didn't have the elements of a Reaper killing except for the penknife, and that detail was in the newspapers. There was no scythe drawn in blood, nothing written on the wall of the doctor's reception room. There was no note stuffed in his mouth. And even the cut to the throat was different, less damage and not as deep."

"But then that homeless man was killed with a penknife," said Mallory. "The same sloppy cut as the one that killed Timothy Kidd."

"Right," said the agent. "We figure the doctor killed Bunny, too. Argus misread the whole thing. He thought Bunny's death meant that the Reaper was keeping tabs on Dr. Apollo."

Mallory seemed genuinely offended, for the agent was putting no earnest effort into any of these lies. "You knew they were both Reaper victims, Bunny and the fed. Argus was tailing her long before that. He was using her as a lure for the Reaper, and then he did the same thing to MacPherson, hanging him out as bait."

"Argus wasn't on the Reaper investigation," said Hennessey. "His only job was coordinating juror protection, and he screwed that up. No one was authorized to use the jurors as bait. The agents in Behavioral Sciences were making a case for – "

"The profilers?" Mallory nodded. "Not a decent psych credential between them. If it hadn't been for their interference, the case would've been closed by now. You never asked the right question, the one that begins every cop's investigation – who benefits?"

"It's not that kind of crime," said Hennessey.

"Sure it is," she said. "You messed up because you were all trying to think like psychiatrists. Dr. Apollo was the only one thinking like a cop."

Jack Coffey's voice came over the intercom. "We've got the warrant. Let's move, people."

Hennessey was rising, perhaps believing that he was invited to go along.

A uniformed officer entered the room and set a formidable power tool on the table before Riker. "Big enough for you?"

"That'll do me. Thanks."

"What's the drill for?" asked Hennessey.

Riker plugged it into a wall socket to test it. "Ian Zachary's studio has a world-class security door, three inches of metal and an electronic lock. Can't force it, can't pick it." He switched on the drill for the full effect of a squadron of dentists from hell, then cut the power. "So we go right through the lock."

"Let's do this the smart way," said Hennessey, sincerely deluded in the idea that he might have some influence in this room. "We wait till the show's over. We'll let the doctor play it out, maybe collect more evidence that way – recorded evidence."

"Bad idea," said Riker. "She's locked in that room with a stone killer." He turned to the one-way mirror. "Ready when you are, boss."

"The Reaper can't be Ian Zachary," said Hennessey. "The man has an unbreakable alibi for Timothy Kidd's murder. Agents were parked right outside his door round the clock."

"Yeah, right," said Mallory. "He could never get past one of your guys."

It was rare and wonderful to hear Mallory's laugh, even if it was slightly evil, and Riker smiled as he followed the sound of her laughter through the door. Hennessey was right behind them when he met up with the immovable obstacle of Detective Janos.

Mallory's tan sedan took a corner and took his breath away. The car hung on two wheels for exactly four of Riker's heartbeats. Tonight, she had grudgingly used the siren and the portable turret light, thus giving civilian motorists fair warning before she climbed up their tails and scared them out of their minds.

"It was a great plan," she said. "Almost flawless."

Riker hefted the weight of the drill in one hand. "You know he'll be out on the street an hour after we book him." He watched the cityscape flying past the passenger window of Mallory's tan rocket.

"I promise you, we'll nail Zachary," she said. "But it was a good plan. The feds were always looking for some sick, twitchy law-and-order freak hiding in a dark room. But there he was, hiding right out in the open."

"And we'll never make a case against him. He'll never do any time for murder."

"We'll nail him cold."

"You mean – in the act, right? With Jo for bait."

"That was the doctor's plan," said Mallory.

Riker turned up the radio and Jo's voice saying, "Did I do the right thing? No, and I regret my errors every day. All those – "

Mallory reached out and turned down the volume. "What do you think she's doing? She's calling him out. He's rattled enough to go after her right now, but he won't. First, he'll want to set up an alibi. Maybe he'll try to use the feds to – "

The car stopped short of the curb, slinging Riker's body forward as his partner ripped open his suit jacket to expose the empty shoulder holster.

"Why aren't you wearing your gun?" She dug her nails into his arm. "Your gun, Riker! Where is it?"

And only now did he realize that Mallory, for all her crimes, was not the concerned thief who had made off with his weapon. "So you didn't pick the lock on my desk drawer?"

"Well, yeah, I did. But I didn't take your revolver."

His eyes closed as he recalled his lecture on the stopping power of a smaller caliber firearm than his own. "Aw, Jo. It had to be her. She's got my damn gun." He handed Mallory the drill. "She's planning to shoot that bastard, and she wants to do a proper job of it. You go. I'll wait here and cover the entrance."

Mallory had not expected that, not from him. Her hand froze on the door's handle and her eyes narrowed, so suspicious, unable to come up with any logical scenario where he would volunteer to remain behind, gun or no gun. Mallory did not trust him anymore, yet she opened the door. She had no choice but to leave him here. Upstairs in that building, there was a gun in play, and she was the only cop who knew about it. Time was precious; bullets traveled so fast. She broke off this conversation of the eyes and ran for the door.

When she had disappeared into the radio station, he slid into the driver's seat and put her car in gear. As he nosed it out into the street, he turned up the volume on the radio, confirming his suspicions. Words chopped off at the end of one segment were now repeated in the next, and this was the mark of an amateur at the switch. He watched the radio station recede in his rearview mirror.

At best, he could only count on ten minutes of lead time. It would not take long for Mallory to discover that she had been scammed. He headed the car toward the Chelsea Hotel, then glanced at the clock on the dashboard as he listened to Jo's prerecorded voice taunting a serial killer, calling him out for a showdown. There was no other way to read her intentions.

Calling for backup was not an option. Neither feds nor local cops would approve of Riker's plans for their material witness, Johanna Apollo. He intended to grab that woman, to rip his stolen revolver from her hands, then run with Jo to Mexico. No baggage, just her very life was all he wanted, all he needed. But first he must have his gun back so that no one would ever make it past him to get to her – not even Mallory.