Caught (2010) Read online

  "Yes."

  "And that he arrived after you did?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you know what kind of car he was driving?"

  She thought about it. "I didn't see, no."

  Walker nodded as though this was the answer he'd been expecting. They arrived at the trailer. Walker pushed on the screen door and bent down to squeeze inside. Wendy trailed. Two other uniformed officers were already there. Wendy looked across the trailer where Dan had fallen.

  Nothing.

  She turned to Walker. "You already removed the body?" But she knew the answer. No ambulance or crime scene vans or hearses had driven past her.

  "There was no body," he answered.

  "I don't understand."

  "No Ed Grayson or anyone else either. The trailer is exactly as it was when we entered."

  Wendy pointed to the far corner. "He was lying there. Dan Mercer. I'm not making it up."

  She stared at where the body had been, thinking, Oh no, this couldn't be. She flashed to that movie/TV scene you've seen a million times, the dead body gone, the pleading woman saying, "But you must believe me!" and nobody does. Wendy's eyes moved back toward the big cop to see his reaction. She expected skepticism, but Walker surprised her.

  "I know you're not making it up," he said.

  She had been ready to launch into a prolonged argument, but now there was no need. She waited.

  "Take a deep breath," Walker said. "Smell anything?"

  She did. "Gunpowder?"

  "Yep. Fairly recent, I'd guess. More than that, there's a bullet hole in the wall over there. Went clean through. We found the slug outside in a cinder block. Looks like a thirty-eight, but we'll know more later. Now I want you to look around the room and tell me if you notice anything different from when you ran out." He paused, gestured awkwardly. "Except, you know, for the no dead body and all."

  Wendy spotted it right away. "The carpet is gone."

  Again Walker nodded as though he'd already known what she'd say. "What sort of carpet?"

  "Orange shag. That's where Mercer fell after he was shot."

  "And that carpet was in the corner? Where you pointed before?"

  "Yes."

  "Let me show you something."

  Walker took up a lot of room in the tiny trailer. They crossed the room, and Walker pointed a beefy finger at the wall. Wendy could see the bullet hole, neat and small. Walker wheezed as he bent down to where the body had fallen.

  "Do you see this?"

  Small curls of orange shag, like thin Cheetos, littered the floor. That was great--evidence she'd been telling the truth--but that wasn't what Walker wanted to show her. She followed his finger.

  Blood.

  Not a lot. Certainly not all that had poured out when Dan Mercer had been shot. But enough. More of the orange shag remnants were caught up in the sticky liquid.

  "Must have bled through the carpet," Wendy said.

  Walker nodded. "We have a witness outside who spotted a man putting a rolled-up carpet in the back of his vehicle--a black Acura MDX, New Jersey plates. We already called DMV on Edward Grayson of Fair Lawn, New Jersey. He owns a black Acura MDX."

  FIRST THEY CUED up the theme music. Very dramatic. Bah-dahduuumm . . .

  Wearing a black robe, Hester Crimstein opened the door and strode lionlike toward the judge's seat. The drumbeat picked up as she grew closer. The famous voice-over, the same one who did all the "In a world" movies before he passed away, said, "All rise and rise now, Judge Hester Crimstein presiding."

  Smash to title: CRIMSTEIN'S COURT.

  Hester took her seat. "I've reached a verdict."

  The female chorus, the same ones who sing the quick radio call letters like, "One oh two point seven . . . New Yoooorkkkk," sang, "It's verdict time!"

  Hester tried not to sigh. She had been taping her new TV show for three months now, leaving the cable-news confines of Crimstein on Crime, her show that dealt with "real cases"-real cases being a euphemism for celebrity wrongdoings, missing white teens, politicians' adultery.

  Her "bailiff" was named Waco. He was a retired stand-up comic. Yes, for real. This was a TV set, not a courtroom, though it looked like one. While not exactly a trial, Hester did preside over a legal proceeding of a certain kind. The two parties sign a contract for arbitration. The producers pay the settlement, and both the plaintiff and the defendant are paid a hundred dollars a day. It's win-win.

  Reality shows have a bad rap and deserve them, but what most ably demonstrated, especially the ones involving either courtship or courts, was that this remains a man's world. Take the defendant, Reginald Pepe. Please. Big Reg, as he liked to be called, had allegedly borrowed two grand from the defendant, Miley Badonis, his girlfriend at the time. Big Reg claimed it was a gift, telling the court, "Chicks like to give me stuff--what can I say?" Big Reg was fifty years old, weighed a paunchy two-fifty, and wore a mesh shirt that gave his chest hairs enough room to curl through. He wasn't wearing a bra but should have been. His hair was gelled into a spike that made him look like the latest anime cartoon villain, and there were gold chains around his neck, dozens of them. Big Reg's wide face, emphasized by the sad fact that Hester's show now filmed in high def, contained enough craters to make one search for a lunar rover on his right cheek.

  Miley Badonis, the plaintiff, was at least two decades younger, and while nobody would be speed-dialing the Elite modeling agency upon gazing at her, she was, well, fine. But she had been so anxious to get a man, any man, that she gave Big Reg money with nary a question.

  Big Reg was twice divorced, separated from his third wife, and had two other women with him today. Both women wore navel-revealing tube tops, and neither had the figure for it. The tube tops appeared so tight they squeezed all flesh south, giving both women a gourdlike shape.

  "You." Hester pointed at the tube top on the right.

  "Me?"

  Somehow, despite the word being one syllable, she had managed to crack gum mid-word.

  "Yes. Step forward. What are you doing here?"

  "Huh?"

  "Why are you here with Mr. Pepe?"

  "Huh?"

  Waco, her hilarious bailiff, started singing, "If I only had a brain . . ." from The Wizard of Oz. Hester shot him a look. "Timely reference, Waco."

  Waco went silent.

  The tube top on the left stepped forward. "If it pleases the court, Your Honor, we're here as friends of Big Reg."

  Hester glanced at Big Reg. "Friends?"

  Big Reg arched an eyebrow as if to say, Right, sure, friends.

  Hester leaned forward. "I'm going to give both of you ladies some advice. If this man here works hard to educate and better himself, he may one day rise to the level of total loser."

  Big Reg said, "Hey, Judge!"

  "Quiet, Mr. Pepe." She kept her eyes on both girls. "I don't know what your deal is, ladies, but this I do know: This isn't the way to get revenge on Daddy. Do you two know what a skank is?"

  Both girls looked confused.

  "Let me help you," Hester said. "You two are skanks."

  Miley Badonis shouted, "Tell them, Judge!"

  Hester cut her eyes toward the voice. "Ms. Badonis, do you know anything about throwing stones and glass houses?"

  "Uh, no."

  "Then shut up and listen." Hester turned back to the tube tops. "Do you two know the definition of a skank?"

  "It's like a slut," the tube top on the left said.

  "Yes. And no. A slut is a promiscuous girl. A skank, which in my mind is far worse, is any girl who would touch a man like Reginald Pepe. In short, Ms. Badonis is proudly on her way to not being a skank. Both of you have the same opportunity. I'm begging you to take it."

  They wouldn't. Hester had seen it all before. She turned to the defendant.

  "Mr. Pepe?"

  "Yeah, Judge?"

  "I would tell you what my grandmother used to say to me: You can't ride two horses with one behind--"

  "You can if you do it ri
ght, Judge, heh heh heh."

  Oh, man.

  "I would tell you," Hester continued, "but you're beyond hope. I would call you pond scum, Mr. Pepe, but really, is that fair to scum? Scum really doesn't hurt anybody while you, being a miserable excuse for a human being, will leave nothing but a lifetime of waste and destruction in your path. Oh, and skanks."

  "Hey," Big Reg said, spreading his hands and smiling, "you're hurting my feelings."

  Yep, Hester thought. A man's world. She turned back to the plaintiff. "Unfortunately, Ms. Badonis, there is no crime in being a miserable excuse for a human being. You gave him the money. There is no evidence it was a loan. If the roles were reversed--if you were a butt-ugly man who gave money to a somewhat attractive albeit naive younger woman--this wouldn't even be a case. In short, I find for the defendant. And I find him disgusting. Court adjourned."

  Big Reg whooped with delight. "Hey, Judge, if you're not busy--"

  The theme music started up again, but Hester wasn't paying attention to that. Her cell phone rang. When she saw the incoming number, she hurried offstage and picked it up.

  "Where are you?" she asked.

  "I'm just pulling up to my house," Ed Grayson said. "And from the looks of it, I'm about to get arrested."

  "You went where I suggested?" Hester asked.

  "I did."

  "Okay, good. Invoke your right to counsel and shut up. I'm on my way."

  Caught

  Chapter 8

  WENDY WAS SURPRISED to see Pops's Harley-Davidson in her driveway. Exhausted from the long questioning--not to mention confronting her husband's killer earlier in the day and watching a man being murdered--she trudged past Pops's old Hog blanketed in fading decals: the American flag, the NRA member, the VFW logo. A small smile came to her face.

  She opened the front door. "Pops?"

  He lumbered out of the kitchen. "No beer in the fridge," he said.

  "No one here drinks beer."

  "Yeah, but you never know who might visit."

  She smiled at him . . . what do you call the father of your late husband? . . . her former father-in-law. "Truer words."

  Pops crossed the room and hugged her deep and hard. The faint smells of leather and road and cigarettes and, yep, beer wafted up. Her father-in-law--screw the "former"--had that hairy, big-bear, Vietnam-vet thing going. He was a big man, probably two-sixty, wheezed when he breathed, had a gray handlebar mustache stained yellow from tobacco.

  "Heard you lost your job," he said.

  "How?"

  Pops shrugged. Wendy thought about it. Only one answer: Charlie.

  "Is that why you're here?" she asked.

  "Just passing through and needed a place to crash. Where's my grandson?"

  "At a friend's house. He should be home any minute."

  Pops studied her. "You look like the fifth ring of hell."

  "Sweet talker."

  "Want to tell me about it?"

  She did. Pops mixed them up a couple of cocktails. They sat on the couch, and as she told him about the shooting, Wendy realized, hard as it was to admit, how much she missed having a man around.

  "A murdered baby raper," Pops said. "Wow, I'll be mourning for weeks."

  "That's a little cavalier, don't you think?"

  Pops shrugged. "You cross certain lines, you can't go back. By the way, you dating at all?"

  "Nice segue."

  "Don't duck the question."

  "No, I'm not dating."

  Pops shook his head.

  "What?"

  "Humans need sex."

  "I'll write that down."

  "I'm serious. You still got it all going on, girl. Get out there and get some."

  "I thought you right-wing NRA guys were against premarital sex."

  "No, no, we just preach that so we can clear the playing fields for ourselves."

  She smiled at that. "Ingenious."

  Pops looked up at her. "What else is wrong?"

  Wendy had debated not saying anything about it, but the words tumbled out anyway.

  "I got a couple of letters from Ariana Nasbro," Wendy said.

  Silence.

  John had been Pops's only child. Hard as it was for Wendy to lose a husband, no parent wants to speculate what it might be like to lose a child. The pain in Pops's face was a living, breathing thing. It never left.

  "So what did dear, sweet Ariana want?" he asked.

  "She's doing the Twelve Steps."

  "Ah. And you're one of those steps?"

  Wendy nodded. "Step Eight or Nine, I forget which."

  The front door burst open, stopping the conversation. They heard Charlie rush in--he had clearly spotted the Harley in the driveway. "Pops is here?"

  "We're in the den, kiddo."

  Charlie sprinted into the room, his smile wide. "Pops!"

  Pops was Charlie's only surviving grandparent--Wendy's parents had both died before Charlie was even born, and John's mom, Rose, had passed away two years ago from cancer. The two men--Charlie was still a boy, sure, but he was now taller than his grandfather--embraced with everything they had. They both squeezed their eyes shut. That was how Pops always hugged. Nothing was held back. Wendy watched them and again felt the pang of missing a man in their lives.

  When they stopped, Wendy aimed for normalcy. "How was school?"

  "Lame."

  Pops threw his arm around his grandson's neck. "Mind if me and Charlie go for a ride?"

  She was about to protest, but Charlie's expectant face made her stop. Gone was the sulky teenager. He was a kid again.

  "You have an extra helmet?" she asked Pops.

  "Always." Pops arched an eyebrow at Charlie. "You never know when you may run into a safety-conscious biker chick."

  "Don't be out late," Wendy said. "Oh, and before you go, maybe we should send out a warning."

  "A warning?"

  "To lock up the ladies," Wendy said. "The two of you on the prowl and all."

  Pops and Charlie shared a knuckle bump. "Oooh yeah."

  Men.

  She walked them to the door, shared more hugs, realized that part of what she missed was simply the physical presence of a man, the hugging and embracing and the comfort there is in that. She watched them roar off on Pops's Hog, and as she turned to head back inside, a car pulled up and parked in front of the house.

  The car was unfamiliar. Wendy waited. The driver's-side door opened, and a woman stormed out. Her eyes were red, her cheeks wet from tears. Wendy recognized her right away--Jenna Wheeler, Dan Mercer's ex-wife.

  Wendy had first met Jenna the morning after Dan's episode aired. She went to the Wheeler house and sat on Jenna's bright yellow couch with bright blue flowers and listened as Jenna had defended her ex--publicly and loudly--and it had cost her. People in this town--Jenna lived less than two miles from Wendy, her daughter even went to the same high school as Charlie--were, of course, shocked. Dan Mercer had spent time in the Wheeler household. He had even babysat Jenna's children from her second marriage. How, neighbors wondered, could a caring mother do that, let that monster into their community, and how could she defend him now that the truth was so obvious?

  "You know," Wendy said.

  Jenna nodded. "I'm listed as his next of kin."

  The two women stood there on the stoop.

  "I don't know what to say, Jenna."

  "You were there?"

  "Yes."

  "Did you set Dan up?"

  "What?"

  "You heard me."

  "No, Jenna, I didn't set him up."

  "Why were you there, then?"

  "Dan called me. He said he wanted to meet."

  Jenna looked skeptical. "With you?"

  "He said he had new evidence he was innocent."

  "But the judge had already thrown out the case."

  "I know."

  "So why--?" Jenna stopped. "What was the new evidence?"

  Wendy shrugged, as if that said it all, and maybe it did. The sun had set. The n
ight was warm but a breeze was blowing through.

  "I have more questions," Jenna said.

  "Why don't you come in, then?"

  Wendy's reasons for inviting Jenna in were not entirely altruistic. Now that the shock of witnessing horrific violence had passed, the reporter in her was coming to the forefront.

  "Can I get you some tea or something?"

  Jenna shook her off. "I still don't understand what happened." So Wendy told her. She started with Dan's phone call and ended with her returning to the trailer with Sheriff Walker. She didn't go into Ed Grayson's visit to her house the day before. She had told Walker about that, but there was no reason to fan the flames here.

  Jenna listened with moist eyes. When Wendy finished Jenna said, "He just shot Dan?"

  "Yes."

  "He didn't say anything first?"

  "No, nothing."

  "He just--" Jenna looked around the room, as though for help. "How does a person do that to another?"

  Wendy had an answer, but she said nothing.

  "You saw him, right? Ed Grayson? You can give the police a positive ID?"

  "He wore a mask. But, yeah, I think it was Grayson."

  "Think?"

  "Mask, Jenna. He wore a mask."

  "You never saw his face?"

  "I never saw his face."

  "So how did you know it was him?"

  "By his watch. His height, his build. The way he carried himself."

  Jenna frowned. "Do you think that will hold up in court?"

  "I don't know."

  "The police have him in custody, you know."

  Wendy didn't know, but again she kept her mouth shut. Jenna began to cry again. Wendy had no idea what to do here. Offering words of comfort would be at best superfluous. So she waited.

  "How about Dan?" Jenna asked. "Did you see his face?"

  "Pardon?"

  "When you got there, did you see what they did to his face?"

  "You mean the bruises? Yeah, I saw them."

  "They kicked the crap out of him."

  "Who?"

  "Dan tried so hard to escape. Wherever he went, the neighbors found out and hounded him. There were phone calls and threats and graffiti and, yes, beatings. It was horrible. He would move and someone would always find him."

  "Who beat him this time?" Wendy asked.

  Jenna raised her eyes, met Wendy's. "His life was a living hell."

  "Are you trying to put that on me?"