Killer Heat

THIRTY-SIX

There's a lawyer named Frankie Shea on line one," Laura said about an hour later, after I had gotten Gene Grassley's permission for Mercer to talk to Floyd Warren and met with Judge Lamont to tell him about Antonio Lucido and Clarita Munoz.

I picked up the receiver, not expecting the harangue that he began to unload.

"Slow down, Mr. Shea. I don't know what you're talking about."

"You told the press you were going into Ruffles the other night? That sure as hell changes the complexion of any information you got out of my client."

"What? There was no press involved. Neither Chapman nor I went in there expecting to make an arrest."

"So much for your credibility, Ms. Cooper. You suckered my client right into a photo op just to top off the five o'clock news conference about the serial killer."

"Listen to me, Shea. Nobody called the media. Nobody set Dylan up."

"You know how my client's family is being harassed today? They can't open the door of their apartment, his father can't get into his business, his brothers-"

"Why? What's that got to do with us?"

"The newspapers. He's all over the newspapers."

I covered the mouthpiece and asked Mercer to get the papers off Laura's desk. "I haven't seen them yet. But I swear I haven't even had a chance to tell the public relations team what happened. Battaglia's out of the country and I'm waiting to update them now, for the first time. You have my word that the release couldn't have come from our end."

"You did a perp walk in front of Ruffles. Admit it, okay? Kiernan's photo, his face-it's splattered all over the place."

Mercer opened both tabloids to the pages with the grainy blackand-white photograph of Kiernan Dylan, flanked by Mercer and Mike, frozen under the sign that said Ruffles Bar.

"I don't have much else of value in this business except my word, Mr. Shea," I said. "I'm looking at the picture right now. It was actually taken by a friend of your client's, with a cell phone."

"Right. And it just found its way into the papers."

"The sad truth is that there are a lot of people out to make a buck who sell photos, information, evidence-all of that-to whatever media outlet will buy it. They do it without a second thought of giving it to the police. Every local news broadcast ends with some version of 'If you see news happening, call us.' It's a nightmare for law enforcement that there are people who would rather score the money than make themselves available as witnesses."

Shea didn't speak.

"Last year, two weeks after I finished a murder trial, one of the perp's friends sold a videotape he'd made of my defendant telling jokes about how he'd killed the victim. He was high on coke and entertaining his buddies at a party. We never knew the tape existed, but a reality TV show bought it for twenty-five grand. So don't point your finger at me, Mr. Shea. Ask Kiernan who the schmuck with the camera was."

"Well, your pal Chapman seems to have gone out of his way to make this as unpleasant as he can for the Dylans."

"You want to sit down with us, talk about cooperating?"

"Now that you've driven Kiernan under a rock? Who knows when he'll come out."

"Where is your client, Mr. Shea?" There was no harm in asking.

"He's got a court date, Ms. Cooper. He'll be there. In the meantime, you might as well call off your dogs."

Mike took one of the newspapers from my desk to look at the photograph. It had been blown up to fill a quarter of a page buried pretty far back in the tabloid, opposite one of the gossip columns. But the text made no connection to the serial killer cases. It appeared under the headline RUFFLED FEATHERS, with a two-line description of the police, flanked by the unsmiling bouncers, taking Kiernan Dylan out of the bar-a "popular nightspot for hot chicks in cool plumage"-which was being closed for underage beverage service. It only made news at all because of the history Jimmy Dylan had had over the years at the Brazen Head.

"Surprised my mother didn't call yet," Mike said, examining his own image before closing the paper and dropping it on my desk. "Tell me I need a haircut."

"Will you check with Peterson?" I asked. "Am I still invited to tonight's briefing? I assume we'll be going over some of the stuff the troopers found in the van."

"I spoke to him this morning. You're good to go until some other agency boots you out. Has Battaglia tried driving this train from London yet? How long's he supposed to be away?"

"The family's on vacation until Labor Day. Don't worry, he's left messages for me three times today and I'm to keep Tim Spindlis informed of every detail," I said. "I stopped in to see him on my way down from Lamont. I asked if Marisa, Catherine, and Nan could work with us on the case."

Spindlis was the chief assistant district attorney, in charge of the office during Battaglia's absence, and he would be responsible for oversight of the investigation while the boss was away. My three senior lawyers had proven themselves over and over, and I was certain Spindlis would have no objections to bringing them into the case.

"You're in luck. He left Spineless in charge? That guy couldn't make an important decision to save his life."

"I'd rather deal with a jellyfish than have my usual head butting with Pat McKinney." Spindlis was the yes man to Battaglia's strong personality, which is why I often skirted him and went straight to the district attorney with matters of great importance. To those on the staff below his position, Spindlis procrastinated endlessly and never had the backbone to take a forceful stance in support of the young lawyers in the office.

McKinney, on the other hand, was head of the trial division and looked to cut my legs out from under me every chance he could.

"He's on vacation, too?"

"For the moment. But he's got no life, with his girlfriend back in Texas and his wife not on speaking terms with him at the moment. It's a break for all of us that he's still away. No chance to second-guess my every move or sabotage it. The only person he detests more than me is you, Mike. Everybody wants a piece of this case. That's why I had Laura hold all my calls this morning. The less interference the better."

"Is there a time set for you to conversate with Floyd Warren?" Mike asked Mercer.

"Alex said that Gene Grassley asked for four o'clock, when he finishes the hearing he's got in front of Judge Wetzel."

The three of us discussed the plan for Mercer's interrogation of Warren, and I took notes on the issues they raised.

Laura stuck her head in again and told me Ned Tacchi was on the phone.

I took the call. "What's up? You find Kiernan Dylan?"

"Not happening. Peterson's got me on the tip line in the meantime. You won't believe the crap that comes in on this thing. But I got a lady who just called. I think you better talk to her. She's completely freaked out."

"Is she making sense?"

"Not to me. But you guys know the case. Besides that, she only wants to talk to a lawyer."

I grabbed a pen. "What's her name?"

"She wouldn't give it to me. She just kept saying she knows who the killer is. It's a Jersey number, 201 area code."

I took down the other digits. "So why'd you single this call out? Why do you think it's any more worth pursuing than all the others?"

"Hey, we're getting back to every damn one of these dial-ins, call by call. But this woman's talking about the picture in the newspapers today. The one of the Dylan kid," Ned said. "I saw it this morning, Alex. It doesn't even mention the murders. She put that together herself."

"I'll do it right now. Mike and Mercer are with me."

I flopped into my chair, threw back my head, and exhaled loudly, then reached for the newspaper so that I had the photo in front of me when I spoke to the woman.

"Get ready for the next wild goose chase," I said. "Ned's got me calling someone from the tips hotline."

"What's the reward money for information up to?" Mike asked.

"Twenty-five grand if it leads to the arrest," Mercer said.

"The higher it goes, the more nuts come out of the woodwork. Make like you're the Home Shopping Network, Coop. Chat her up nice and offer her two front row seats at the trial."

I dialed the number, and a woman answered on the second ring. "Hello?"

"Hello. I'm Alexandra Cooper. I'm a prosecutor in the Manhattan District Attorney's Office. Detective Tacchi gave me your number and asked me to call."

There was no response.

"Hello? Can you hear me? I'm working with the police on the investigation of the murders of-"

The conversation ended abruptly as the woman hung up the phone.

"She disconnected me." I hung up, too, and exhaled again.

"Uneasy lies the head that wears the tiara, Coop. Give it a rest."

"We'll check out that number in the reverse directory," Mercer said.

Laura buzzed me. "The switchboard has a caller on the main line. Wants to put it through. Says she was just talking to you."

I picked up the receiver again. "Hello, this is Alex Cooper."

"I'm sorry I cut you off, Ms. Cooper. I wanted to make sure you were really calling from the DA's office. I wanted to be certain you are who you claim to be. I called information and got the number. I know it sounds rude, but I'm-well-I'm terribly nervous."

"I understand completely," I said. The woman's voice was soft and she spoke with some hesitation. There was no point in asking her name until she was ready to identify herself.

"I'm calling from my home, Ms. Cooper. I suppose you can figure that out pretty quickly yourselves, with all your sophisticated surveillance information. I had to leave my office, you see. This call could cost me my job."

"Is that what you're nervous about?"

She paused for fifteen seconds. "That, of course. But I'm also terrified of becoming a target. A target of the killer."

"Is there something we can do right now-I've got two detectives here with me-something to make you feel safe?"

"I told the man who answered the hotline that I wanted to speak to a lawyer."

"Yes, and I'm a lawyer."

"Obviously. But you can't be my lawyer, can you? I may lose my livelihood if-if the fact of this phone call gets out."

"I have no reason to betray your confidence, Miss-?"

"Not now, maybe. But I know the system, Ms. Cooper. I know I'm putting myself in the eye of the storm. I know you'll have to use me at some point in the court proceedings. I need some legal guidance about privilege."

I rolled my eyes at Mike and Mercer. My caller was intelligent, but she was clearly conflicted about talking with me and I couldn't make a judgment about her credibility.

"If you need to talk to a legal adviser before you tell us what you know, then I would urge you to do that as quickly as possible. But if your personal safety is your concern as well, I just want you to understand the need for speed. That's help we can give you."

Again, silence.

"If you're assuming that Kiernan Dylan is still in custody because the photograph you saw-the one that you called the hotline about- showed him being taken away by police, I just want you to know that he was released by the court." I hesitated before I told her what I hoped would be the tipping point to put herself in our care. "We have no idea where Dylan is today, but he's not been seen anywhere in the city."

"I don't give a damn where he is, Ms. Cooper."

I took my pen and drew a large X through the caller's phone number. This was turning out to be a waste of my time.

"Well, you have my office number, and of course the hotline that you first called, if there's something you want to get back to us about. Thank you-"

"Would your detectives come to my house, Ms. Cooper? I live in New Jersey, in Harrison. It's not far from Newark."

"For what reason, ma'am? Come to your house to protect you, is that what you mean? I'm sure we could arrange for the local police to do that if it's necessary."

"I mean that I can't talk at my office. I've brought some of the records home with me, but I couldn't take everything. You need to see them, to understand that this should never have happened."

I tried to remain patient but the woman's flat affect and her ability to draw me back in when I thought the conversation had ended were annoying me.

"I don't know what records you're talking about, and I don't know where you work. When you think you can help us, I trust you'll call again. Now I've got to hang up and-"

"I work at the Department of Corrections, in New Jersey. In Kearny, at the Northern Regional Unit. Do you know what that is?"

The woman had my complete attention now. "I do. Yes, I do. It's the maximum security psychiatric center, isn't it? Where the sexual predators are held. Won't you tell me, please, what this has to do with Kiernan Dylan?"

I knew that Dylan had no criminal record. What could possibly connect him to one of the most violent collection of criminals in the country? "Nothing at all, Ms. Cooper. I told you that."

"But you called the police because of the photograph in today's newspapers, didn't you?"

"I called because the man-see the black man standing on the far right, over the detective's shoulder? He's Troy Rasheed, a prisoner here for more than twenty years. He was released from this facility six weeks ago, despite my testimony at his hearing," the woman said, clearing her throat before she spoke again. "I don't know what he's doing in that photograph, but you want to talk to that guy. My name is Nelly Kallin. I supervise the unit at Kearny."

I stared at the face in the photograph. The man Kallin was talking about was standing on the top step as the three of us walked out of Ruffles. We paid him no attention, and left him behind to deal with the crowd when we took the Dylan kid away. He was tall and powerfully built, with a shaved head and tattoos up and down his well-muscled arms.

"Mr. Rasheed was working at that bar," I said. "He's a bouncer."

"He's a convicted predator, Ms. Cooper. He raped women-three that he got caught for and dozens more the prosecution couldn't prove, back in the days before DNA. Rasheed tortured them all, too," Kallin said. "It's what he's good at. It's what he likes to do.