Scream Catcher (14 page)

The spotlight isn’t a spotlight at all.

It’s a common interior lightbulb that hardly illuminates the immediate area surrounding the dumpster, much less the far edge of the gym’s property.

“Here’s what I have to be sure of, Mr. Parish,” Blanchfield presses. “Is it not at least possible that
someone
other than Hector Lennox might have run out of those woods in pursuit of that convenience store owner? Someone who happens to have long blond hair and blue eyes?”

Jude swallows something dry and bitter. Blanchfeld is beginning to sound just like Judge Mann.

“A man killed another man in this very spot,” he says, patting the clean bandage on his head. “I witnessed the event with my own two eyes. He made a getaway in a silver sedan after taking a shot at me. He is the same man who was arraigned yesterday in county court.”

Now growing dizzy, lightheaded; the demon is snaking its way into Jude’s blood and bones.

Blanchfield throws him a glare; dark eyes open, unblinking.

“We based our arraignment on the argument that the man who calls himself Jordan is truly Lennox in disguise. Regardless of physical characteristics that prove otherwise; regardless of a solid alibi; regardless of an obit that records his death.”

“But I know what I saw.”

“You know what you saw but you were knocked unconscious by a bullet that grazed your head. You were also hampered by a very black, very stormy environment. Listen, this long-haired man, whoever he is, fully cooperated with us and the court. It’s important that the genuine truth be revealed before we prosecute. We go into court in two days convinced that the man we detained is Hector Lennox and it turns out he’s just some wrongly accused schmuck from nowhere, then this case is closed before it even begins, and a killer will have gotten away.”

The two turn.

Lino uses the lull to pull the video camera from his face, give his eyes a break. Mack laser beams a look in his son’s direction. He pulls a smoke from his jacket, lights it.

“She’s right, kid. We go in there on Friday with a flaky testimony, Mann will see that our suspect walks. At least until we’ve collected all the physical evidence. By then it could be too late.”

“We’ve got to be one-hundred-ten-percent accurate with our information,” Blanchfield attests. “The testimony must be considered reliable. That’s why we’re here now.”

The blood rushes to Jude’s head. It’s a frigid cocktail spiked with fear and adrenalin. He feels trapped between the law and his own memories.

“I know what I saw,” he repeats like a mantra. “The killer has a black dragon tattooed to the interior of his right forearm. He catches the screams of his victims with an iPhone.”

“Yes, the young man arrested inside that video arcade has a black dragon tattooed to his right forearm,” Blanchfield responds. “But according to your testimony of yesterday morning, the gunman you witnessed outside the gym was wearing a long sleeved shirt or bodysuit. The black dragon tattoo or any other identifying mark for that matter would have been completely concealed.”

Or does he?

“In the end, Mr. Parish, all you can really be sure about is that you froze up, hid yourself behind a dumpster. And you lost consciousness seconds before the perp made his escape. Not because of a misguided bullet, but because of your emotional condition. The defendant knows this. If he is in fact Hector Lennox, he will bring your previous breakdown as a police officer to the forefront of his defense. He will question your sanity. More than likely he will read
Cop Job
and use it as weapon against you. He will use the botched Burns murder/suicide as proof that you are a man living in constant fear.”

Jude looks directly at his father for moral support.

But all the old Captain can manage is a smoky exhale before lowering his head.

Turning to Lt. Lino, Jude receives much the same reception. Lake George’s newest officer returns the gaze tightlipped, without emotion, video camera now idle in his hand. Standing outside the gym’s back door in the ever-rising summer heat, Jude feels his breathing grow strained. He wants to defend himself. But what can he possibly say that won’t sound like an excuse for his ineffectiveness as a former cop; as an eyewitness to murder; as a fucking man?

* * *

But then, like a sudden shift in climate, something amazing happens: just as quickly as the prosecutor came down on Jude, she offers up a sincere apology.

“Please forgive me if I seem curt or edgy in my methods,” she explains, her face once more retaining much of its attractiveness—its tan softness, its hazel-eyed charm. “It’s my job to attack your story in the precise manner the defense will pry it apart, event for event, word for word.”

Now working up a gentle smile.

“Listen, if I didn’t believe the man wearing a surveillance bracelet wasn’t Hector Lennox, I never would have agreed to an early arraignment. I would have put it off until we received all the forensic proof to further back up our claim.”

Cool sweat goes from dripping to pouring down Jude’s back. He’s having trouble swallowing. He finds himself eyeing the small patch of second growth woods that conceal the perimeter of the gravel pit. It’s like waiting for Lennox to once again appear. This time in pursuit of another victim and more screams.

“Lennox is representing himself,” he swallows. “How can he possibly wage a competent defense?”

Blanchfield crosses arms; eyes the same patch of woods that Jude eyes.

“I’m certain he will question your sanity as a former officer who was forced into resignation for botching a hostage crisis. Acting as Christian Jordan he will take great offense to having been accused of serial killing. He will be the falsely charged, the victim of shoddy justice, perhaps the victim of an elaborate setup. He’s being foolishly picked on while the real killer eludes the police. Worst of all, Jude, he will establish reasonable doubt in the mind of Judge Mann, and that is something we—I—cannot defeat, regardless of strong circumstantial evidence.”

Minutes later a timeline reenactment is set up in which all available people are assembled to recreate the events of the previous morning. With Mack acting the part of the victim, Lino plays Lennox. They are to be as accurate as possible, right down to Jude’s engaging in three solid rounds of speed bag work.

It seems like a great chance for the former cop to get it right. But what he discovers instead is that a physically exhausted man trying to make out the faces of gunman and victim as they plow through the gravel pit, then the woods surrounding it, and onto the parking lot proves a next-to-impossible task. And that’s without the dark of night or the driving rain.

The distance is just too great; the exterior spotlight too dim.

The only scenario that carries any weight is the quick look he got of Lennox as the beast slowed the sedan, drew down the passenger-side window, aimed the sound-suppressed .22 cal. at Jude’s face and fired.

But even then it’s possible that Judge Mann is not about to trust Jude’s testimony.

In light of his having lost consciousness for an estimated twenty-three minutes (and in light of the Burns incident; in light of
Cop Job
), it’s more likely that the judge will continue to deem the testimony as unreliable. Or at the very least, questionable.

“No wonder Mann approved a conditional bail,” Mack comments.

Lino purses his lips.

He adds, “Mann is probably convinced that the real killer is still out there somewhere. That we’re just jerking ourselves off.”

Jude says nothing. Not a word.

He knows then that what the morning’s exercises boil down to is this: instead of giving him the self-confidence to testify, he’s left feeling like a failure. Not only as a reliable witness, but as a mentally stable human being.

* * *

Later, as Jude slips back into his father’s Jeep Cruiser, he silently asks himself the sixty-four thousand dollar question:
If my testimony is considered so unreliable, why keep me on as the prosecution’s star witness at all?

As the cops silently pull out of Sweeney’s, it’s a question Jude might pose to Mack or even Lino. But fearing an answer he does not want to hear, he keeps his trap shut.

Lake George Road

Wednesday, 9:20A.M.

P.J. Blanchfield pulls the Porsche over to the side of Lake Road. The car has hardly stopped in a screech of burning rubber and spitting gravel when she opens up the door, leans her head out and vomits.

When emptied, her breathing having returned to normal, she closes the door, wipes her face with one of the paper napkins stored in the glove box.

Blanchfield looks out over her left shoulder onto the pristine Adirondack lake. The calm flat water shimmers now in the morning sunshine. For a split second she considers throwing the soiled napkin out the window. Instead, she sets it down onto the empty seat beside her.

She inhales a deep breath. But even the sweet mountain air cannot cauterize the foul bile taste in her mouth. Restarting the engine, she thrusts the gear stick into first. Before pulling back out onto Lake Road, she catches sight of her own eyes looking back at her angrily in the rearview. She pulls away from them. But not before bursting into tears.

Assembly Point Peninsula

Wednesday, 6:45 P.M.

Evening comes down hard.

Jude plants a smile on his face regardless when he sits down with his family for an indoor picnic. Which means that instead of firing up the grill, they cook cheeseburgers on the gas stove in a hot skillet filled with sautéed onions and mushrooms. They set out a bowl filled with Cape Cod potato chips. Beside it, a small platter of garden lettuce, slices of tomato, thick rings of Vidalia onions. From where he sits at the table, it’s impossible not to see out the picture window onto the lake and the L.G.P.D. patrol boat stationed out in the bay. Between Ray Fuentes and the patrol boat, the Parish family is guarded on two fronts should the unthinkable occur and Lennox somehow manages to free himself of his electronic guardian.

Jack has constructed a gigantic cheeseburger, ketchup, mustard and mayo running down its sides. His round face is wide-eyed.

“You’re not gonna be able to get your mouth around that,” Jude observes.

“I’ll force it in,” the boy insists. Picking up the burger two-fisted, he attempts a sloppy first bite.

Jude opens the tab on a can of cold beer, takes a long hard pull.

Rosie is sitting across from him, with Jack between them at the head of the table. As afternoon has progressed into evening, Jude has grown worried about his pregnant wife. Her color isn’t good. And since he arrived home earlier that afternoon she hasn’t managed a single smile. Her words have been few. Twice Jude tried asking her if something might be the matter. And twice Rosie raised her hand up as if to wave the subject away.

When Rosie gives you that wave, it’s a clear signal.

Back off.

She could not have chosen a worse time for silence.

Jude feels the need to run through the disaster of the morning’s crime scene reenactment. He wants to tell her about Blanchfield, about how the prosecutor challenged his every word. His system requires venting, which means he wants to tell her how he feels more lousy than ever about his demon. He wants nothing more than to prove himself a reliable witness. He wants to earn their trust—Blanchfield, Mack, Lino and Judge Mann. He wishes it were possible to say all of these things to Rosie. But he knows that she’s in no mood to hear them.

Something’s wrong.

On her plate rests a thin hamburger patty. Nothing else.