Ever since, when I wasn't doing odd jobs, I was here in my office. Along with a great view of the intercoastal waterway, my office contained a desk and chair, a dartboard with Michael Jackson's picture, an ancient PC and printer, and the Skell case file. I got behind my desk and went to work.
The Skell file sat on the floor, separated into eight piles. Each pile represented one of the victims and contained a police report, dozens of interviews with friends and neighbors, and a personal history. On the wall above the files I'd taped the victims' photographs. Their names were Chantel, Maggie, Carmen, Jen, Krista, Brie, Lola, and Carmella. I'd known them all as teenagers living on the streets. They were all either thrownaways or run aways. I'd seen them grow up and helped them out whenever I could. I'd never stopped caring for them, even in death.
Behind my desk hung a map of Broward County with colored pins showing where each victim was last seen. The victims were not defined by a common geography but lived in rural areas, in the city, and in residential neighborhoods. What tied them together was the completeness of their disappearances. One day they were here; the next they were simply gone. No witnesses, no trace, nothing.
I studied this evidence whenever I could. It was my obsession, and for good reason. Because I'd beaten Skell up, I'd cast him in a sympathetic light with the media. As a result, his trial had been scrutinized, and it was apparent that the state's case was weak. Every legal expert I'd talked to had said that Skell would either get a new trial or have his case thrown out on appeal. And all because of me.
I was reading my e-mails when my cell phone rang. Caller ID said Bobby Russo. I let it go into voice mail, then picked up his message.
“Jack, you stupid son of a bitch, ” Bobby Russo's voice rang out. “I'm about to issue a warrant for your arrest.”
I'd fallen pretty hard in the past six months, but getting thrown in the county lockup would be a new low. I called Russo back.
“Tell me you're kidding,” I said.
“No joke,” Russo said.
“What's the warrant for?”
“Assault and battery on an FBI agent.”
I nearly dropped the phone on my desk.
“That guy you roughed up in the convenience store this morning is an FBI agent,” Russo said. “He paid me a visit yesterday. He's got an interest in the Skell case and wants to talk to you. Being a nice guy, I told him where you lived.”
I shut my eyes and listened to my beating heart.
“I thought he was this private dick who's been harassing me.”
“You thought wrong,” Russo said.
“Is he pressing charges?”
“No, he doesn't want to press charges,” Russo said.
“Then how can you arrest me?”
“Easy. The manager of the convenience store wants to press charges and was kind enough to provide me with a surveillance tape of what you did.”
“Shit,” I said.
“Shit is right,” Russo said. “You're busted, Jack. Unless you'd like to do a little horse trade.”
Russo was the master of getting what he wanted. Without missing a beat, I said, “You want the Skell file in return for dropping charges.”
“That's exactly what I want, plus three hundred bucks to pay the deductible for getting my car fixed, ” Russo said. “You've got until three o'clock this afternoon to get the file and the money to my office. Otherwise, you're getting three hots and a cot.”
Before I could bargain with him, I was listening to a dial tone.
CHAPTER TEN
Ex-cops don't do well in jail. Other prisoners harass them, and usually so do the guards. Then there was this little thing called my ego. It had taken a pounding recently, and I wasn't sure it could deal with this.
I had no choice but to cave to Russo's demands. Facing the victims, I started to take their photographs down. I felt that I'd failed them, and I was unable to look in their eyes.
I also took down the map above my desk. It wasn't part of the file, but I might as well include it and let Russo and the other homicide detectives working the case see what they could come up with.
I put everything in the cardboard box it had originally come in. As I hoisted it off my desk my cell phone rang. I wasn't usually this popular, and I put the box down and pulled the phone from my pocket. It was Jessie, the light of my life.
“Hey, honey,” I answered.
“Dad, I'm sitting here in my dorm room, watching you on TV,” my daughter said. “I can't believe what they're saying about you.”
“Who's they, honey?”
“That crummy lawyer representing Simon Skell. He's on Court TV showing pictures of you and saying you're a psychopathic cop who framed his client.”
“Are they good pictures?”
“Dad, this isn't funny. I read about this dirty trick in my criminology class. He's courting public opinion to pressure the judge. He's making you look horrible.”
I trudged downstairs with the phone pressed to my ear. I asked the bartender to find Court TV on the TV hanging over the bar, and he picked up the remote and obliged me. Skell's attorney, the infamous Leonard Snook, appeared on-screen.
Snook was in his early sixties, with a silver goatee, tailored clothes, and a movie-star tan. He practiced out of Miami and had built his reputation on representing lowlifes and scumbags. He'd gone over to the dark side long ago, and he floated in his chair like grease simmering in a frying pan.
Beside him was a big-haired, big-bosomed woman named Lorna Sue Mutter. Lorna Sue had materialized in the spectator gallery during Skell's trial and had been seen slipping notes to him. Two months after Skell went to prison, they got married. I know a psychiatrist who believes that if you did a TV show starring nothing but convicted murderers, millions of women would watch. Lorna Sue would be president of their club.
Two photographs of Skell appeared on the screen. Before I beat him up, and after. Skell was trim and athletic, with surfer-white hair, a paintbrush-blond beard, and eyes too small for his face. For reasons no one knew, both of his hands had missing fingers; half the pinky was gone on his left, half the index finger on his right. He had been semi-normal-looking until I got my hands on him.
“Oh, man, did you kick his ass,” my daughter said.
I'd forgotten Jessie was there.
“Shouldn't you be in class?” I asked.
“Dad, this is important. That bastard Snook is slandering you.”
“Let him,” I said.
“Is his client going to get out? Will they let Skell go?”
More pictures appeared on the screen, showing the studio in Skell's house and several framed photographs of Florida landscapes. Skell claimed to be a professional photographer, but no evidence existed of him ever being paid for a job.
“Answer me, Daddy.”
I was “Daddy” when Jessie wanted something. I didn't give in.
“Go to class. Please.”
“But-”
“Everything's going to be okay, trust me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“I love you, Daddy.”
“I love you, too.”
I folded my phone while staring at the TV. The show's host let Snook present his case, and Snook put all his cards on the table. His client didn't put Carmella Lopez's skeleton in her sister's backyard; someone else did. Therefore, his client didn't murder Carmella Lopez, and he should be released from prison. Lorna Sue Mutter said nothing, content to nod like a bobblehead doll whenever Snook made a salient point.
The segment ended, and I found myself agreeing with my daughter. Snook was trying his case in the court of public opinion. If he could get a couple of newspaper editors and TV commentators to support him, he'd run to a judge.
I went upstairs to my office. Buster was on the other side of the door, panting frantically. Leaving him behind usually resulted in a piece of furniture being destroyed. He'd spared me this time, and I scratched behind his ears.