Deadlocked (Lou Mason Thrillers) Page 4

  "Mary?" Mason asked, plopping into his desk chair, leaning back, feet propped on his desk. "That woman doesn't have a mean bone in her body."

  "You try arresting her son," Blues said. "Forget the bones. Her whole body is mean." Blues sat in the middle of the sofa, spreading his arms out, nearly covering its length.

  "Mothers are protective," Mason said.

  "She's way past that. Called me a dirty Indian. Came at me with a butcher knife. I wanted to take her in too, but Harry talked me out of it."

  Mason dropped his feet to the floor, unable to conjure a picture of Mary as a bigot or attacking a police officer. Blues was tough enough to ignore ethnic slurs in emotionally charged situations. He was less forgiving of assault.

  "She says you threw her son against the wall."

  "Damn right I did. Harry found both the kids' clothes in the basement. They were covered with the victims' blood. I found the Kowalczyk kid trying to climb out his bedroom window. Mary came running in the kid's bedroom, screaming like a banshee, ready to open me up with that knife."

  "You're a foot and a half taller and outweigh her by a hundred and fifty pounds. Don't tell me you were scared?"

  "I'll tell you something, Lou. Every time I went into someone's house I was scared because I never knew what I was going to run into. Nicest house, nicest looking people. Sure as hell, some asshole throws a brain clot and comes out shooting. A little woman like that catches you from behind, puts that knife in your ribs. Trust me, you'd be scared too. No doubt in my mind she'd have done it if she could have. What's she want from you?"

  Mason shook his head. "She made me promise to leave you out of it."

  Blues stood, crossing to the dry erase board. "Don't say as I blame her if it's got anything to do with those murders," he said, turning to face Mason, his coppery skin and jet black hair offset by the white board. "That boy was guilty. Fact is both of them were guilty."

  "You think I can prove Whitney King was guilty?" Mason asked.

  Blues smiled. "I thought you were supposed to leave me out of it."

  "Hypothetical question," Mason said.

  "The prosecutor couldn't get the job done and he was a damn good lawyer. Forest Jones. Patrick Ortiz was just starting out, carrying Jones's briefcase into court every morning. You're good enough. Trouble is you're fifteen years too late."

  "Feel like helping me?"

  Blues looked at him, chewing his lip. "Is this just about King?"

  Mason stood, measuring himself against his friend. "No," he answered. "She wants me to prove Ryan was innocent. She wants her son pardoned."

  Blues raised his hands. "Figured it was something like that. Count me out."

  "Why?" Mason challenged him. "Because you arrested Ryan? Now he's dead and you might have been wrong?"

  Blues dropped his arms to his sides, his face slack, eyes hard. Mason knew that look. It was Blues at his most dangerous, sizing up a situation, deciding whether to wade in or walk away. If he waded in and wasn't on your side, you were in big trouble.

  "That kid was guilty as sin. Bank on it," he said and left.

  "Shit!" Mason said, angry with himself.

  He had jumped Blues without reason. Yet the accusation gave voice to the thing that had gnawed at Mason since Ryan Kowalczyk uttered his last words. What if Ryan was innocent? What if Mason had stood by watching an innocent man be put to death? That he couldn't have done anything to stop it changed nothing. He was there. He was a witness. Blues might be able to walk away, certain of both guilt and justice, unwilling to question either. Mason couldn't.

  The phone rang, jarring Mason. "Yeah?" he answered.

  "Good morning to you too, Sunshine," his Aunt Claire said. "Who stepped on your toes so early in the day?"

  Mason took a breath. His aunt was the antidote for whatever ailed him. Too lazy and she kicked him in the ass. Too cocky and she took him down a peg. Too moody and she lightened him up.

  "An old case that I'm going to take another look at," Mason said, explaining about his new client.

  "You're all right. I don't care what anyone else says," Claire told him. "I may even be proud of you one day," she teased.

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence," Mason said. "What are you up to?"

  Claire sighed. "I'm going to Sonni Efron's funeral this morning. Care to come along?"

  "No thanks. I didn't know her and I've already been to the cemetery today."

  "Really? What for?"

  Mason ran his hand through his hair, stalling for time, knowing that was a mistake with Claire. "I hadn't been in a while. The grave looks nice. They keep it trimmed up."

  "Uh huh," Claire said. "That's nice."

  "I didn't know you were close to Sonni Efron," Mason said, changing the subject.

  "We belonged to some of the same organizations. We weren't close friends, but I knew her well enough to pay my respects. What an awful thing. Shot to death like that in her own home."

  "The paper says the cops don't have any suspects yet. Harry hear anything?" Mason knew that Harry kept his lines of communication humming with his former colleagues.

  "Just that they don't have a clue. Her house is between Ward Parkway and State Line, set way back from the street with landscaping like a wall around the front door. No one saw or heard anything and it happened in broad daylight."

  "Hell of a thing," Mason said.

  "Yes it was. Now tell me why you were at the cemetery since you obviously don't want to talk about it," Claire said.

  "It's crazy really," Mason said, unable to resist his aunt. "I met Nick Byrnes at the execution the other night. His parents were the murder victims. I told him my parents were killed when I was three, just like him. I was making small talk, if you can do that at an execution."

  "Passes the time," Claire said.

  "Anyway, he asks me how my parents died and I tell him they were killed in a car accident. He says that's what his grandparents told him until he found out the truth. I told him they were just trying to protect him because he was just a kid and..."

  Claire interrupted, "He asked you who was trying to protect you and your devious, suspicious mind wasn't satisfied with the obvious answer that no one was, so you went to the cemetery to ask your parents. Am I right?"

  Hearing her say it made it sound all right and silly at the same time. She was telling him that she understood and that he shouldn't worry about it. "On the money," he answered, relieved.

  "I loved your parents dearly," Claire said. "They're gone and they've been gone a long time. Visit them as often as you like, but leave it alone. Life is for the living. I've got to get ready for the funeral."

  Mason expected Claire to reassure him about the car accident, not tell him to forget about it. Her response sent a tremor through him.

  "Good advice," he lied. "By the way, someone left a rock on the headstone. A nice one, all polished and smooth. I'm sure it wasn't you."

  "No," she answered too quickly, unable to keep the caution from her voice. "It wasn't me."

  "Any idea who might have left it? I mean who visits their grave besides you and me? And why now?"

  "I don't know," she answered. "Maybe it was someone visiting another grave that had an extra stone and thought it would be a nice gesture."

  "Makes sense," Mason said, not believing it did. "I've got another client at eleven. I'll let you go."

  Mason had settled into a funk by the time Nick Byrnes arrived. Crumpling junk mail into tight wads, he riffled them through the hoop nailed to the back of his office door, letting the door sweep the pile away the next time someone opened it. He'd taken on Mary's case as much out of misplaced guilt as conviction, pissed off his best friend in the process, and gotten the runaround from Claire, the one person who never ran him around in his life.

  Mary Kowalczyk charmed him with her poignant strength, while Blues left her one step short of assault with intent to kill. As for Blues, he'd never walked away from Mason before. And Claire had never lied to him, tho
ugh he couldn't shake the suspicion that she had at least dodged the truth this time. Mason felt like he was slipping into an X-Files episode where everyone turns out to be someone else.

  Adding to his irritation, Mickey Shanahan, his legal assistant, was late again. Mickey had spent the summer working as a volunteer on Josh Seeley's campaign for the U.S. Senate. Abby Lieberman did public relations work for Seeley and hooked Mickey up with the campaign. Mickey's life ambition was PR and politics, shoving his day job to the bottom of the priority list. The primary was three weeks away and Mason had seen less and less of Mickey as the summer wore on.

  Nick Byrnes's arrival did nothing to lift Mason's mood. The kid came in pulling a handcart loaded with three banker's boxes. Mason knew what was in the boxes before he saw the neatly printed lettering on the sides—State v. Kowalczyk and King.

  "How ya doin', Mr. Mason," Nick said, standing in front of Mason's desk, breathing hard from carrying the boxes and the handcart up the stairs, a sheen of sweat dampening his hairline and wetting his upper lip.

  "I'm good, Nick. How 'bout you?" Mason asked.

  "Hot, man. This weather is a killer. They say it's gonna be like this for another couple of weeks."

  "Stay cool, son. No heavy lifting," Mason said. "That your file on your folks' case?"

  "Yeah," Nick smiled sheepishly. "I know it looks like a lot of stuff, but I've organized everything. I've got the police reports, the trial transcript, and the exhibits. Well, except for stuff like the clothes. The cops still have that in storage. They don't throw anything away."

  Mason nodded, wondering why he ever thought Nick had a case for him that didn't involve the murders. It was the nature of solo practice. Every day began with the hope that a homerun case would walk through the door, landing in his lap like a winning lottery ticket. Mason doubted that Nick wanted him to get a pardon for Ryan Kowalczyk.

  "Have a seat. What do you want me to do with all that?" Mason asked, pointing to the boxes.

  Nick didn't hesitate. "I want you to sue Whitney King for the wrongful death of my parents," he began, holding up his hand before Mason could answer. "I was a minor when they were killed. That means the statute of limitations didn't start to run until I turned eighteen. I have a year after that to sue him. My time runs out two weeks from today. I've been all over town looking for lawyers to take my case, but everyone turned me down. They all say that I don't have a case since King was acquitted. I ask them about O.J. Simpson. He was acquitted too and the families nailed his ass for big bucks on a wrongful death deal. They don't care. They're only interested in the sure thing. You're my last chance."

  Mason leaned back in his chair, hands clasped across his middle. "Do you need the money?"

  Nick furrowed his brow. "Nah. My folks had life insurance. It's in a trust fund that will pay for college and get me started when I finish school. I don't need the money."

  "Then why do it?" Mason asked.

  Nick stiffened. "Come on, Mr. Mason. That asshole killed my parents and he got away with it! Nobody gives a shit about that, I guess. Everybody says the system isn't perfect; it was a long time ago, leave it alone, life is for the living. What a load of crap! Son of a bitch, Mr. Mason, I thought if anyone would get it, you would!"

  Mason grinned. "Oh I get it all right, Nick. I just wanted to make sure you did. There's just one problem."

  "What's that?" Nick asked.

  "Mary Kowalczyk beat you to the punch. She hired me this morning to get a pardon for her son."

  "A pardon? What good will a pardon do him? Besides, he was guilty."

  "She doesn't think so. She wants me to clear his name and prove that King killed your parents. I can't represent both of you unless you both agree."

  "As long as you nail Whitney King, I don't care what you do for Kowalczyk. He's dead, so it won't matter anyway."

  "Maybe or maybe not," Mason said.

  Chapter 6

  The hottest part of a summer day in Kansas City is late afternoon. That's when asphalt streets and brick buildings are at their oven best, soaking up the deepest cool spots, wringing out the shallow ones. That's when the cottony air swells with heavy humidity drifting in from the Missouri River, settling in the city's lungs like the croup, squeezing the air out of anyone foolish enough to go outside and draw a breath. That's when power plants wheeze and grind, pushing current to air conditioners and ice machines, borrowing hot air, cooling it with interest.

  Kansas City Power & Light warned of brownouts and power failures, making good the threat in staggered outages that hopscotched across town, knocking out the power in Mason's office at 5:15 P.M. Mason was deep into the trial transcript—not noticing when the refrigerator quit humming and the ceiling light disappeared, finally catching on when the air started to clot.

  The transcript provided the facts but didn't tell the whole story. Why would one or both boys, neither of whom had any prior history of violence, suddenly go on such a rampage? The prosecutor's version was robbery, a crime of opportunity that spun out of control. Graham Byrnes's wallet was found next to his body. There was no cash in it, but there was no evidence of how much cash, if any, had been in it before he was killed.

  Mason sensed something more primal in the murders. He agreed it was a crime of opportunity but doubted that the perceived opportunity had been robbery, not if Whitney King had been the killer. Whitney was rich so he didn't need the money. The opportunity was the chance to get away with murder. A thrill killing. Exercising the power of life and death was the ultimate rush for a thin slice of twisted souls. The trial transcript didn't open that window into either defendant. Insanity was not pled as a defense. No psychiatrist testified to a lifetime of abuse or chemical imbalance that stoked the killer's rage.

  The most common motives for murder—greed, jealousy, love, and hate—were nowhere present in the facts laid out for the jury, leaving Mason with an inescapable conclusion. One of those boys—or both—was a natural born killer who came of age that night. If he was right, and Whitney King was the killer, Mason knew one other thing. It may have been his first time, but it wouldn't be his last.

  He'd just finished reading the testimony of an auto mechanic who inspected the Byrnes's car, testing Kowalczyk's and King's alibis that it had broken down, each defendant pleading that the murders were committed by the other while he went for help. The car had been towed from the scene, examined by the mechanic the following day. Worked fine, the mechanic testified. A lot better than the defendants' alibis, Forest Jones, the prosecuting attorney, noted in an aside that drew an objection and the judge's impotent instruction to the jury to disregard.

  Nancy Troy, Ryan's court appointed attorney, scored on cross-examination when the mechanic admitted that he'd found a short in the alternator that could have caused the car to fail to start one time but not another. Mason wasn't surprised at the testimony. It was like everything else so far in this case. The truth depended on which side you were on and who asked the last question.

  The dry record of the case made Ryan Kowalczyk's conviction inevitable. His car. His clothes soaked with blood from both victims. The undisputed facts forecasted King's conviction as well. King was with Kowalczyk. King's clothes were as bloody as Ryan's clothes. The only thing missing was the murder weapon. The cops assumed the boys had used the tire iron from the Byrnes's car, since it was gone. Yet King got off.

  Their mutually exclusive alibis ranked low on the squirrel-came-in-the-window-and-ate-my-homework credibility scale, particularly after the mechanic testified. There was an all-night service station two miles away. The employees never saw either boy that night. It was as if the defendants agreed to blame one another in the hope that the jury, unable to decide which one did it, would acquit both of them. Mason knew that criminals were rarely as clever as they gave themselves credit for being, but this last possibility pegged the stupid meter.

  Though both boys were athletic, it seemed unlikely that one of them, acting alone, could have beaten two people to de
ath without a struggle. There was no evidence that either Graham or Elizabeth Byrnes had fought back, neither defendant showing any bruises, cuts, or scratches. Neither victim had the blood, skin, or hair of one of the defendants under his fingernails.

  Mason was growing confident that King was guilty, unable to find any explanation for the jury's decision to set him free. The explanation lay outside the facts. Maybe King had better lawyers. Maybe the jury just believed King's unlikely story. Maybe Kowalczyk had a nervous tic when he testified. The collective mind of a jury was a strange and mysterious place, decisions hatched as compromises, born of indigestion and other human vagaries.

  His best chance of understanding what had happened in the courtroom would come from talking with the lawyers, the judge, and the jury. Even that was an uncertain prospect. Lawyers justify their wins and losses with increasing clarity as time goes by, attributing the former to their skill, the latter to insurmountable bad facts. Judges lose track, one case blending into another. Jurors just forget.

  Another jury, looking back on the same facts fifteen years later, might well come to the right decision, finally holding Whitney King accountable for that murderous night. While that would serve one of his clients, it wouldn't serve the other.

  Mason had called Mary Kowalczyk after his meeting with Nick Byrnes, explaining the nuances of representing two clients in the same case. Mary enthusiastically endorsed Mason's proposal.

  "Anything that will prove Whitney King is guilty is fine by me," she said.

  "That won't prove that Ryan was innocent."

  "Then you'll just have to do both," Mary told him, ending the discussion.

  Mason cranked open the windows behind his desk, opening his door, hoping to generate a breeze, instead getting a dose of traffic exhaust, car horns, and more hot air than a campaign commercial. He tolerated the mix while he made a quick scan of the boxes Nick Byrnes had left him, each one sealed with heavy packing tape. Mason fished through his desk drawers looking for a utility knife, found it at the bottom of the bottom drawer next to a gun Blues had given him when he first moved in above the bar. It was a .44 caliber semiautomatic with a nine-shot magazine.