These heads were found in a refrigerator in the basement of the house you bought for Northwest Realty.
Stoops's mouth worked, but no sound came out. Vasquez pointed at the other photo.
This is a picture of a graveyard we found. It's a short distance from the house. There are nine corpses. Two of them were decapitated. All of these people were probably tortured in the basement room where we found the heads.
Jesus, was all Stoops managed. He was sweating profusely. Why the fuck didn't you warn me?
I didn't know if that was necessary. I thought you might have seen these bodies before.
Stoops's eyes widened, and he bolted upright. Wait a second here. Wait one second. I read about this in the paper this morning. Oh, no. Now wait a minute. You can't come into my office and show me pictures like these.
Let me ask you again: What can you tell me about Northwest Realty?
The lawyer sank back in his chair. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his brow.
I've got a heart condition. Did you know that? Stoops glanced at the photographs again, then pulled his eyes away. What did you think you were doing?
Vasquez leaned forward. Let's not play games, Walter. I usually work narcotics. I know all about your arrangement with Javier Moreno. You're a fucking crook who got lucky. You owe one to the criminal justice system, and I' m here to collect. Talk to me, now, or I'll bring you in as an accessory to murder.
Stoops looked shocked. You can't think ... Hey, this is bullshit.
Vasquez stood up and took out his handcuffs. Walter Stoops, the law requires me to advise you that you have a right to remain silent. Anything you say
Stoops held out his hands, palms out. Wait, wait. I wasn't involved in that, he said, pointing toward the photographs. I don't know a thing about these murders. I overreacted, that's all. It was a shock seeing those heads. I' m gonna see the goddamn things in my sleep. Stoops wiped his brow again. Go ahead and ask your questions.
Vasquez sat down, but he set the handcuffs on the desk where Stoops could see them.
Who owns the Milton County property?
I can't tell you.
Vasquez reached for the cuffs.
You don't understand, Stoops said desperately. I don't know who owns it. The guy contacted me by mail. I can't even say it's a guy. It could be a woman. The deal was that I was supposed to find rural property with a house on it. It had to be isolated. There was a whole list of conditions. I would have said no, but ... Well, to be honest, I was in trouble with the IRS, and I was suspended for a while from practice, so there was hardly any money coming in. And, well, the price was right and there didn't seem to be anything wrong with what the buyer was asking. It was just a real-estate transaction.
Where did the corporation come in?
That was the buyer's idea. I was supposed to set one up and use it to buy the property. The deal was I would get cashier's checks, money orders and stuff like that to set up the corporation. Then I would send pictures and descriptions of properties I thought would work to a box number. When the client found a place he wanted, the corporation would buy it. It sounded peculiar, but it didn't sound illegal. That was the only transaction I was ever involved with for Northwest Realty. After I bought the land I never heard from the guy again.
Does the name Dr. Vincent Cardoni mean anything to you?
Just from the morning paper.
Would you have any objection to my seeing your file on Northwest Realty?
No, not now.
Stoops stood up and opened a gray metal filing cabinet that stood in one corner of his office. He handed a file to Vasquez and sat down. Vasquez thumbed through the documents. The only thing that interested him were photocopies of cashier's checks and money orders, all in amounts less than ten thousand dollars, that added up to almost three hundred thousand dollars. The significance of the amount of each money order was obvious to anyone who dealt with drug dealers. Selling dope was easy; using the cash you got for it was the hard part. The Bank Secrecy Act required banks to report cash transactions of $10,000 or more and to keep records of individuals who engaged in such transactions. In order to avoid this problem drug dealers structured their cash transactions in amounts less than $10,000.
Can I get a copy of the file? he asked.
I can't give you copies of the correspondence, but I can give you everything else.
Vasquez could have pressured him for copies of the few letters in the file, but there was nothing in them of use. All of the letters of instruction were unsigned and written on a computer. He settled for the rest of the file.
Vasquez sat in the waiting room while Stoops's secretary brought the material down the hall to a copier. He was disappointed. He had counted on Stoops to link Cardoni to the land, but it looked as though Cardoni had covered his tracks. It probably didn't matter. There was overwhelming evidence against the surgeon. There were the items with his prints that had been found in the cabin and the videocassette that had been found in his house in Portland. Once the jury saw that videotape, Cardoni was dead. Still, Vasquez thought, it would have been nice to have another piece of evidence tying him to the killing ground.
Chapter 17
Seven years ago a white grocery clerk had mistakenly accused Herb Cross, an African-American, of robbing a convenience store. Cross hired Frank Jaffe to represent him. When Frank's investigator failed to find witnesses to support Cross's alibi, Frank's client took matters into his own hands and used his contacts to track down the real robber. Frank was so impressed that he offered his client a job.
I'll ask the questions, Cross instructed Amanda as they walked down the fifth-floor corridor of St. Francis Medical Center toward the conference room in the Department of Surgery where Justine Castle was waiting. You listen and take notes. If there's something you think I haven't covered, chime in when I' m through. Our object today is to get as much information as possible from Dr. Castle, so let her talk. And don't defend Cardoni, no matter what she says. We want to see how she feels and what she knows. We're not here to convert her to our cause.
Cross got no argument out of Amanda. She had never interviewed a witness before and was relieved that Herb would be doing the questioning.
The windowless conference room was narrow and stuffy, and the air was permeated by the faint smell of sweat. A flickering fluorescent light fixture hung above shelves of medical books and journals. Justine Castle was sitting on one side of a conference table sipping a cup of black coffee. She had been in surgery for a good part of the afternoon, and Amanda thought that she looked worn out. Her hair was swept back in a ponytail, and she was not wearing makeup.
I' m Herb Cross, Frank Jaffe's investigator. We spoke on the phone. This is Amanda Jaffe. She's an attorney with the firm.
We met at the Y, Amanda reminded Castle, who showed no sign of recognition. You were with Tony Fiori.
Oh, yes, Castle answered dismissively. Tony's high school friend.
The cold response surprised Amanda, but she did not show it.
I want to thank you for seeing us, Dr. Castle, Herb said.
I only agreed to see you to be polite, Mr. Cross. Nothing I say will help your client. Our divorce is not amicable, and I find Vincent repulsive.
Yet you married him, Cross said. You must have seen something good in him.
Justine smiled ruefully. Vincent can be charming when he's not coked up.
Amanda and Cross sat opposite Dr. Castle. Amanda took out a pad and prepared to take notes.
You've read the newspaper account of the murders in Milton County, Herb began. Had Dr. Cardoni ever said or done anything that made you suspect that he was killing these people?
Mr. Cross, if I had any idea that my husband had done something like that, I would have called the police immediately.
Do you think he's capable of this type of violence?
