To help make sure he wouldn’t be the one, the NYPD photography director carefully selected enlarged backgrounds and photos.
The photographs of what was left of Dora Palm looked as if they’d been taken by someone with more than mediocre skill with a camera. Still, they would accomplish their purpose, which was to encourage Minnie Miner to cooperate with the law. Minnie was glad to give Quinn a few minutes to describe any progress on the Gremlin case, and to answer a few questions. Quinn gave her the questions.
Minnie, who had been in Renz’s office when Quinn arrived, gave Quinn a baleful stare and asked him if Renz had known about the use of her program, Minnie Miner ASAP, to help lay a trap for the Gremlin.
“Maybe,” Quinn said with an enigmatic smile.
But it was smile enough for Minnie, which is how Quinn came to find himself on her early call-in TV show the next morning.
This was one interview, Quinn knew, that would have to go right.
Not like the few, dream-filled hours’ sleep he had last night worrying about it.
54
After the round of applause for Quinn, Minnie let the callers talk about the Gremlin investigation. Quinn sat in one of the big easy chairs angled toward the audience, and Minnie sat in the other.
She made a big deal out of using Quinn’s clout so they didn’t have to reveal the questioners’ names. For safety’s sake.
“This man looks friendly,” Quinn said, about the composite rendering of the Gremlin on the big screen centered on the wall behind the easy chairs. Quinn wished he had a laser pointer. “He isn’t. He’s thirty-five years old. He was released from detention in Louisiana recently because some DNA in sperm found near a young girl’s dead body had been contaminated and so couldn’t be matched to his, as the prosecuting attorney had pointed out over and over to a grand jury. It was also confirmed that, while the grand jury had thought him guilty, they had their reasonable doubts about whether he should be indicted and tried in criminal court. Not only would the judicial process be futile, it might be unfair to the defendant.”
“We could use fewer of those cases of mistaken identity,” Minnie said. She raised a hand palm-out. “I don’t mean we should railroad people, just that we get tough with the real criminals. The violent ones.”
There was a great deal of applause from the studio audience.
“We’re trying,” Quinn said. He continued to lie about the sprung prisoner in Louisiana, who didn’t exist except as a ploy created by Quinn. “The Louisiana defendant was released, though the jury made it clear they thought he did the crime. They were also sure that with the compromised DNA evidence, he would probably not be found guilty. In the court of public opinion, he would become a victim.
“A range of other expert witnesses were called,” Quinn said. “But they couldn’t prove beyond some people’s idea of a reasonable doubt that the defendant was in any way implicated in what could have been an extremely unfriendly separation, like so many others wherein both parties became losers.
“The prosecutor didn’t know it, but he was a pawn in a small game inside a large game.
“Here’s the thing,” Quinn said, leaning forward in his chair. “This woman had been raped and killed, and now the law can prove it. And if it weren’t for contaminated DNA, there wouldn’t have been a chance in hell of the suspect escaping punishment. All of you know, or think you know, that he’s beaten the justice system. All of us also know that sometimes the justice system isn’t enough, and that’s because we subscribe to the idea that it’s better to let a guilty man go free than to imprison, or even execute, an innocent man.” Quinn looked directly at the camera. “This refusal to bring an indictment will be appealed.”
Knowing all the time that an actual appeals court would never act on this matter. It couldn’t, without an actual potential defendant.
“We did good,” Renz said to Quinn later, in Renz’s office.
Quinn’s gaze slid over the wall festooned with framed photos of Renz receiving medals, winning awards, posing with celebrities.
“We only did half a job,” Quinn said.
“Now don’t go getting all wishy-washy, Quinn. We put a dagger through the heart of whoever it was who’s trying to ruin my political career. You might be able to make it look like we solved your case.”
“We solved nothing,” Quinn said. “Not for sure, anyway.”
Renz shrugged his meaty shoulders. “I’m suspicious of that word, sure. What the hell’s for sure in this life or the next?”
“I’m sure I’m the lead investigator on this case,” Quinn said.
“In a way.”
“In a way that might have got my brains shot out.”
“Prepare to be shocked, Quinn: I don’t care a rat’s ass about who gets shot or who’s guilty.”
“Speaking generally, what about the hypothetical guy in a jail cell who’s innocent?”
“He’s just that—hypothetical, not real.”
“You’re all politics and games,” Quinn said.
Renz shrugged. “You forgot heart.”
“No,” Quinn said, “I didn’t.”
Renz was now occupied in making sure his expensive pen was working well so his signature would be unbroken and impressive. He was way, way beyond inkblots.
Quinn felt anger rise in him, along with a kind of pressure. He absently reached into a shirt pocket and pulled out a cellophane-wrapped cigar that he’d been given earlier as a kind of harmless bribe involving Krispy Kreme doughnuts.
Harmless bribe?
Renz raised a pudgy hand. “You can’t smoke cigars in here.”
“I have before, just like you.”
“We’ve got rules, regulations.”
“Laws,” Quinn added. He lit his cigar, drew smoke into his mouth, and exhaled. All with a stare fixed on Renz.
“Look at yourself,” Renz said. “You’re no different from me. It’s just that you won’t admit to yourself that you’re like the rest of the world. You are definitely not the type who wouldn’t jaywalk even if there wasn’t a car for miles. Just look at you.”
“We’re dealing with rape, torture, murder.” Quinn said. “Not jaywalking.”
Renz smiled, his jowls spilling bulbously over his white shirt collar.
Then he leaned sideways and opened a desk drawer. He withdrew a yellow envelope with its flap fastened by a clasp. “And then there’s this.” He laid the envelope on the desk where Quinn could reach it.
Quinn worked the clasp and opened the envelope. Its contents were photographs. A dozen eight-by-tens in black and white.
“These are copies, found hidden in Dora Palm’s kitchen.”
Quinn looked closer at the photos. They seemed to be of the same scattering of pieces, large and small. “What the hell is this?” he asked Renz.
“They were found by the crime-scene people when they did their deep search. And don’t give fingerprints a thought.”
“Wiped?”
“No, but the killer was wearing latex gloves.”
Quinn looked more closely at the photos. Whatever had been found torn to pieces in the dead woman’s kitchen didn’t look very familiar. “So what was it, a blender?”
“Some kind of coffeemaker that uses compression, so it forces the grounds through a filter.” He pointed. “There’s the handle. The way it’s shaped, that glass part, is what makes it look like a filter.”
“Our gadget guy again,” a voice said.
It belonged to Nift, the Napoleonic little ME.
“My secretary let you in?” Renz asked.
Nift smiled his oddly reptilian smile and stuck out his pigeon chest. “I charmed her.”
Neither Quinn nor Renz knew how Nift had sneaked or lied his way into the office. But they were sure he’d entered of his own accord. Otherwise Renz’s receptionist /aide would have called and alerted Renz that someone was on their way, in case Renz or a guest wanted to maintain privacy and leave by the rear exit.