thought Chandler was full of shit and I fought his efforts to merge the cases. He kept pushing his theory and pissed me off in the process. I was going through my divorce at the time and didn’t need any more bullshit in my life. I told him to fuck off.”
Denton, who had only been half listening, realized that Jennings was going to finish his story whether he was paying attention or not. He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his neck.
“Chandler persisted, and kept working up his case that way. Leaked it to the papers. Reporters from the Bay Area, from Stockton, Sacramento…they started asking questions, following me all over the goddamn place. Do we have a serial killer in Stockton? Is it safe to go out? Is it true that you’re refusing to cooperate with Sacramento authorities in their investigation? How many more people have to die before you take this seriously and cooperate with them? Shit like that. The heat was on. But I wouldn’t back down. Didn’t give Chandler shit. I blocked everything I could. Tied everything up in red tape,” he said with a slight smile.
He rooted out a cigarette from his sport coat pocket and lit it. Denton was about to object, but realized that getting into an argument over smoking in his office would only prolong the time Jennings would be interrupting his evening.
“Finally,” puffed Jennings, “Chandler got the FBI involved and convinced them that the cases were related. They drew up a profile that supported his theory about the different MOs.” He took another puff. “Everything got all fucked up. Too many cooks, you know?” He blew a mouthful into the air above him and watched it hang there for a couple of seconds.
“Five days later another victim went down in Stockton. Two days after that, one in Old Sacramento. The killer’s signature matched the one downtown a couple of weeks earlier, and was pretty damn close to the ones in Stockton. With the help of the profile, Chandler and a dick friend of his in Homicide nailed the guy a couple of days later and got a confession on all the murders.”
He paused, bowed his head. Blew the smoke down onto his boots. “I fucked up, Tim. Looked real bad. Drew a reprimand from the captain and everything. Chewed my ass real hard. Had I cooperated with Chandler from the start those last two people might not have gotten killed. One was a woman with two little kids. Took me years to get over the guilt.”
Denton realized that Jennings was near the end of his story. He sat forward to say something, but Jennings interrupted him.
“Hearing Chandler’s name brought back the memories. The nightmares.” He took a long drag. “ That’s the fucking relevance.”
“We’re all adults, Bill. That was a long time ago. You’ve matured as a person, and as a cop. Look at this as your chance to make up for your past mistakes.”
Jennings was brooding, silent.
“It if helps, I’ve known Jeffrey Hellman for years. He and I started out in the Barrister’s Club together twenty years ago. We worked together a lot, planning social functions and lining up speakers. Later, we served as officers in the Bar Association.” Denton stopped, as if reflecting on years past. “He went through some pretty rough times a couple of years ago when his wife died of cancer, but he’s okay. A real good attorney…very sharp. I’ve never known him to do anything unethical. I have a lot of respect for him.”
“That doesn’t mean that the clients he represents are innocent,” Jennings said.
“Of course not. But I have more confidence in something Jeffrey tells me than something someone else tells me.” Jennings shrugged as Denton continued: “Just keep a clear head and run things by the book. Get me the strongest case you possibly can.”
“Madison is guilty, Tim.”
Denton’s face hardened. “Then let’s nail his ass.”
CHAPTER 30
Chandler finished interviewing ten people: five board members, Michael Murphy, Ed Dolius, and three clients-all in four days’ time. He had filled his notepad with solid evidence of Harding’s erratic behavior. There were still two weeks before the preliminary hearing.
Chandler had spoken with Denise nightly since arriving in California; after the third day, she began asking when he was going to return home. Noah missed him, and they had agreed to start trying for a second child four months ago. But there always seemed to be a reason why he could not be home; or Denise had to study for a law school exam; or he came down with the flu. His pledge of “next month; I promise” was in jeopardy. This time, everything had gone according to schedule, except for one thing: as the crucial day approached, Chandler was 2,500 miles away.
“I’ll try to get as much as possible done over the next day or so and catch a flight back.”
“I’m on break from school,” Denise said, “so I’m relaxed and I don’t have to get to bed so early. Don’t screw this up, Ryan. If you’re not home in two days, forget it.”
Chandler wrapped up as much as he could over the course of the next twenty-four hours, bid farewell to Madison and Hellman, and vowed to return as quickly as possible. He hoped to have access to either the physical evidence or Gray’s report by then so he could begin his own analysis.
On the six-hour flight home, Chandler made use of his time by organizing and rewriting his notes and data into a cohesive plan. He had all the circumstantial evidence he needed against Harding and a relatively good case, with one exception. He could not place her in Madison’s car on the night of the murders. In fact, he couldn’t place anyone in the car. But even absent direct evidence linking Madison to the act of driving the vehicle, the circumstantial evidence against him was damning: it was his car, no one else’s fingerprints were found; the Mercedes had not been reported stolen, there was no sign of forced entry, and he had no alibi.
On the other hand, the homeless person who thought he saw a male driving the car could be impeached without too much effort. In court, a few confusing pictures flashed in front of him and he’d have to admit the driver could easily have been a female with her hair pulled up, wearing a baseball hat. The weakness of his testimony would be laid bare in front of the jury.
Witness aside, he needed to find some way of placing Harding in that car or Madison would be facing a very depressing, uphill battle. There’s got to be something I’m overlooking. I can’t let a good man go down for a violent crime he didn’t commit. With this thought, he closed his eyes to rest.
The next voice he heard was that of the pilot announcing they would be landing at John F. Kennedy International in ten minutes. He straightened his seatback, stretched his neck, and rubbed his eyes. His mouth was dry. Looking out the window, he saw the familiar lights of the Rockaways flickering beneath him. He was home.
Denise and Noah greeted him at baggage claim. When Noah saw his father approach, he ran through the crowd of bodies and into his arms. Chandler threw him into the air as the boy laughed devilishly. He gave his son a big hug and a kiss on the cheek, then handed him a box containing a Transformers action figure he had bought on the way to the airport in Sacramento.
“Cool, Dad!” Noah shouted as he struggled to pry open the plastic packaging.
Chandler gave Denise a hug with Noah in his arms as they trudged over to the carousel to retrieve his lone suitcase.
“I missed you guys,” he said.
“Missed you too, Daddy,” Noah said, freeing the Transformers figure from its shell. “Are you going away again?”
Denise shot a glance at Chandler.
“Well, Daddy’s home for a while, but then I’ll need to go back to California again.”
Denise’s smile reversed into a frown.
“It’s a very tough case,” he said to Denise. “Phil’s been framed, and it doesn’t look good. I think I know who did it, but I just have to prove it.”
“So, to get your attention, I have to get accused of murder and hire you to get me off?”
“By then you’ll be an attorney. First get one of your buddies to defend you, then hire me to get you off.”
“This isn’t a joke, Ryan.”
