The Cutting Room

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Manny shrugged and moved to the door. ‘It’s a forty-nine second clip, Counselor. Just imagine what we didn’t see, what footage might’ve ended up on the cutting-room floor.’

‘That works both ways, you know. It could be ten minutes of foreplay and cigarette smoking.’

‘Could be.’

‘Ugh.’ She spun her chair around to face the jail. ‘I’m not heartless. I’m being practical, is all.’

‘Okay,’ he answered, but he didn’t sound convinced. He pulled the cigarette from behind his ear. ‘I’ll call you tomorrow after the grand jury, although I’m sure you’ll be on the horn with Guy to find out how I did way before that.’

Daria waited until the door closed before she sank her head into her hands. She wanted to scream. She heard everyone saying hello to Manny as he made his way down the hall and finally out of the unit.

Talbot Lunders definitely had headline potential. If she didn’t see that before, she did now. The rape and murder of a pretty college coed by a privileged, former male model was intriguing enough to attract interest, and without adding yet more salacious detail, could prove a difficult story to control. But throw in a mysterious, lurid email, a homemade bondage sex tape, a secret family hideaway in Switzerland and the distraught, well-dressed, hot, young socialite momma of the defendant alleging lookalike blondes were being hunted and tortured by a real killer who the police weren’t bothering to look for, and you had the potential makings of a national news sensation. A savvy publicist would pitch it to the morning talk shows as ‘the perfect story’. Daria thought it more akin to the perfect storm.

After five years prosecuting everything and anything from shoplifting to homicide, Daria knew that Sex Batt was where she wanted to be. And she didn’t want to settle for being a line prosecutor — she wanted to lead the charge. As the cliché went, she’d paid her dues. She’d spent years in the pits prosecuting crappy cases and winning them, and for the past two years she’d been Division Chief of one of the most congested trial units in the office, supervising three felony attorneys and responsible for a court docket of more than four hundred felonies. The average ASA lasted three years on the state payroll before heading out to greener pastures; anyone who went past five was considered a lifer. And on the lifer scale, there were those bodies that stayed on simply to earn a paycheck and keep the benefits, working their eight-hour shifts from the trenches of the Felony Screening Unit, taking witness testimony and filing cases all day long, or buried under mounds of paperwork, tucked safely away in some dull, specialized unit on the fifth floor, like Economic Crimes.

Then there were the lifers who made a run at bigger and better things.

Daria fell into the latter group. While she’d never consciously decided to spend her entire legal career as a prosecutor, besides the possibility of moving to the feds, she’d never really had the itch to circulate her résumé. Once you’d put a rapist behind bars for thirty years, a slip and fall at the grocery store just didn’t seem all that exciting. Neither did bankruptcy law, corporate litigation, insurance defense, or helping sound the death knell on people’s marriages as a divorce attorney. A rabid fan of all cop and lawyer shows and everything FBI since she was a kid, Daria figured being a prosecutor was simply what she was meant to be. Unlike her older brothers — a hospital administrator and an eighth-grade science teacher — she’d never dreaded going to work in the morning. And God knew she’d never spent a single second bored in her job. On occasion sad, and a lot of times pissed off, but never bored. That didn’t mean she wanted to stay an overworked, underpaid division pit prosecutor for the rest of her career, though.

To prove to Vance Collier and the rest of Administration that she was a lifer with a future, in addition to trying cases that a lot of other ASAs would’ve pled out, she’d worked weekends, volunteered for on-call robbery duty even when it wasn’t her rotation, and handled holiday bond hearings without complaint. Coming in early and leaving late every day, watching jealously at times and scornfully at others while the support staff headed en masse for the elevators at 4:30 and most of her colleagues followed by 5:30. Some a helluva lot sooner. She’d made the requisite sacrifices: no boyfriend, no hobbies, no life, outside babysitting her brother’s ADHD triplets on her first long weekend off since Christmas.

If it was only a simple murder case that she needed to win in order to prove herself capable of heading up a unit full of specialized prosecutors, she’d have no real worries. The case against Talbot Lunders was circumstantial, yes, but the evidence, in the collective, damning. As a law school professor had once described it, making a circumstantial case was a lot like making a strudel: while a single sheet of paper-thin filo dough couldn’t support the weight of ten apples, if you capably assembled sheet upon delicate sheet, eventually you had a pastry with enough layers to support a whole bushel of fruit. The key was in the dogged construction, and, of course, in the oven you ultimately loaded your dessert into, which had to be brought to the perfect temperature before actually introducing the food, and that temperature had to be maintained throughout the whole baking process. The oven in the analogy, of course, referred to the jury — already plenty hot and fired up by the time you opened the oven door, ready to bake anything to a crisp the second you closed it. Too cool and nothing would gel. Considering Florida was a death penalty state — and, until a few years ago, the state’s preferred method of execution was a seat in Old Sparky — her professor’s analogy of a jury baking anything to a crisp was completely intentional. In other words, you had to pick the perfect twelve people — none of whom watched CSI or NCIS — set the right tone of outrage and shock, and by the time you slid your assembled facts through the door of that deliberation room, the only thing you had to wait for was the timer to ding.

Daria could handle that. She had a way with juries, almost like a sixth sense when she was picking them. She wasn’t sweating a conviction on Lunders, even with Manny Alvarez playing Wild West cop and making what was, arguably, a premature arrest. Because with the facts as she had them down at the Arthur, she could certainly set that perfect tone of grab-the-pitchforks indignation in the jury room, and she had enough circumstantial layers that when put together would be strong enough to hold together a death penalty request. The gruesome crime-scene photos would certainly help fuel the fire. The competition she faced, though well paid, was out of their element in Miami. Joe Varlack was a showman with a big voice who likely hadn’t personally tried a criminal case in a long while. She could eat both him and his sidekick Simmons for breakfast, complete with Louboutins and fancy briefcases. She was also confident she could keep Talbot Lunders’s pretty face off at least the front page of the paper and maintain the low profile the State Attorney was trying for. It was a fair assumption that if the cameras weren’t in court this afternoon the matter wasn’t on their radar.

Unlike other ASAs who saw certain cases as a means to make a name for themselves outside of the office, Daria was no media hound. If Lunders didn’t end up pleading out — like 90 percent of cases that passed through the system — when it came down to trying him, she wasn’t going to do it on live TV and in the court of public opinion, which could fuck up any verdict, as O.J. Simpson’s prosecutors could attest. She reasoned that as long as she didn’t go looking for press, the press wouldn’t come looking for her. Or Talbot Lunders. There were too many other headlines to chase. Too much other gory bad news going on worldwide for the people to revel in their morning cups of joe.

Unless …

Unless someone led the reporters and their boom mikes straight to a story that had everything the public at large wanted to read about in super-sized portions — perverted sex, brutal murder, and Birkin bag money. And kept harping on it until someone with a press badge finally paid attention.

Daria saw the train-wreck coming up ahead if Manny followed this breadcrumb trail laid by the defendant’s sniffling, sexy mother. It had been a decade since the serial killer Cupid had stalked his comely victims from happening ‘it’ clubs on Miami Beach, and yet his crimes still defined Miami to the world — as much as celebrities, yachts, teal water, and Cuban refugees did. Then there was Picasso, another monster who had hunted and killed young runaways in South Florida, commanding headlines and craziness a couple of years ago. And of course, the high-profile murder of Gianni Versace by a serial killer a few steps from the white sands of South Beach in 1997. Versace’s murder and the ensuing week-long hunt for Andrew Cunnanan had spawned an international feeding frenzy that had lasted for months on end. Three relatively recent, bloody blemishes on the suntanned reputation of a cosmopolitan city that drew an outrageous number of tourist dollars to its golden beaches, beautiful hotels and happening nightlife. It wouldn’t be good PR if news got out that not only was there yet another sadistic killer in the city, but speculation existed within law enforcement that that killer was still at large, trolling for victims at the hot spots that the tourists and their money loved to frequent, making chilling videos of his conquests.

She nibbled on a thumbnail, staring all the while out the window at the jail where Talbot Lunders was being held. She had a terrible habit of imagining the worst-case scenario of any situation and then multiplying it exponentially until she imagined herself right out of a job and facing eviction from her apartment for nonpayment of rent.

The truth was, if this case did become a circus like Cupid or Versace, or worse, a completely bungled O.J. Simpson that she couldn’t control, she knew she’d never get Collier’s seal of approval. And while that might not force her butt out on the streets, it certainly wouldn’t put her in the running for Chief of Sex Batt, or any other unit for that matter. She’d be a pit prosecutor for ever. A lifer stuck in neutral. Like a Hollywood actress that only got one shot at the box office, she knew she had only one chance to get this right. That meant she had to retain control over her case and make sure that whatever Manny Alvarez was doing to allay the fears his own conscience was conjuring up, it didn’t become public knowledge and it didn’t interfere with her prosecution.

She checked her watch: almost eight. The day was gone and she still had a ton of shit to do. The sun was starting to set over the Everglades, casting the jail in an ethereal, tangerine glow. If you hadn’t noticed the razor wire and barred windows, and you didn’t know there were violent, depraved rapists and murderers being housed inside, from a distance, in this light, one might think the normally dingy, unimpressive jail building looked inviting. Like Dracula’s castle about twenty minutes before sundown.

She was reaching for the top file in her inbox when the time bomb Manny Alvarez planted in her brain suddenly went off. A barrage of unanswerable questions cut through her stream of consciousness like shrapnel: What if it did turn out to be more than a distracting, consensual sex-slave video that Abby Lunders had thrown at them? What if there actually was something to this crazy ‘other killer’ theory Momma Lunders was alleging? What then?

She pulled a hand through her hair and took a deep breath.

There was no way her tired brain could even begin to wrap itself around the exponential multiplication of that worst-case scenario …

11

The grand jury deliberated for thirty minutes before unanimously voting to indict Talbot Lunders for capital murder. While the indictment itself might not have come as a surprise, the speed with which it was delivered did; Manny hadn’t even made it back to his office when Guy Kuzak called him. He could only hope the rest of this case would move as expeditiously through the system, yet still he couldn’t seem to shake the ‘calm before the storm’ feeling in his gut. Holly’s murder had been a chest-thumper from the second her body was fished from the dumpster — starting with the sad demise of Papi Munoz. And if yesterday’s meeting with Mami Lunders was any indicator, he should probably be running to the pharmacy to stock up on antacids.

He sat at his desk now, twisting his mustache, studying the still photo of Jane Doe he’d pulled from the video, searching for tattoos, birthmarks, discolorations — anything at all that might make her more readily identifiable in a ViCAP entry than, ‘blonde-haired, green-eyed, white female, approximate height between 5'2" and 5'6"; approximate age between twenty and thirty years’.

He was probably clutching at straws, trying to determine who this girl was. The overwhelming fact of the matter was that she could be anyone. And she could be from anywhere. He wasn’t sure if he should start his search for her in Florida, or halfway across the globe in Greenland …

The numbers on missing persons were mind-numbing. Nationwide, almost a million people each year were reported missing to police — most of these were teens or young adults, like Jane Doe. That averaged to around 2,300 people, each and every day. And that wasn’t accounting for the throwaways — the poor souls who nobody gave enough of a shit about to report them missing when they didn’t make it home. He was no expert, but Manny had heard estimates as high as another million or so throwaways that never made it into a police report. That sad fact alone made the prospect of combing through a haystack of missing person reports not just daunting, but probably useless. And if those were the US figures, Manny couldn’t begin to imagine what the global number of missing persons might be. Which was probably why he was sitting at his desk, hours after the grand jury, still pulling on his mustache and still staring at the same nasty photo, trying to come up with a game plan to find a girl who may or may not be missing, and/or who may or may not be the victim of a sexual assault, and/or who may or may not be a homicide victim.

Mike Dickerson planted half a droopy butt cheek on the edge of his desk. He was munching on a bag of Cheetos. ‘Watcha doing, Bear?’ he asked, in between crunches. The air smelled like fake cheese and Old Spice. ‘Your face is all twisted up. You look constipated.’

Manny groaned and stretched. ‘Arrgh … I got a puzzle to solve here, Pops. Problem is, I only got one piece and I ain’t got no idea what the picture on the box even looks like.’

‘That don’t sound good.’

‘Nope, it don’t.’

‘Okay, now stop talking in Chinese riddles and tell me what the fucking problem is. Is that it?’ Mike asked, nodding at the photo. ‘Is that your puzzle piece?’

‘Yup.’

‘Nice. Perky tits; they look natural. Now, is this a case you’re working or is that a girlfriend you need advice with?’

‘You’re a hoot. It’s a case. I think. Not sure, actually. But it definitely ain’t a girlfriend, you sick geezer.’

‘I was gonna say she’s way too pretty to be one of yours.’

‘I ain’t responding to that.’

‘Who is she?’ Mike asked with another crunch.

‘That’s the million-dollar question. The case I’m working, the dumpster case—’

‘Holly Skole.’

Manny cocked an eyebrow.

‘Just ’cause I’m over sixty don’t mean I have Alzheimer’s. I listen when you talk,’ Mike shot back.

Manny shrugged. ‘Okay. Well, the mom of my defendant in that case claims that someone anonymously sent her a fucked-up video clip right before the Arthur Hearing. She don’t know who and she don’t know why. But in the video that I made this picture from, this girl is being strung up from the ceiling by her wrists like a pig in a slaughterhouse, and she might or might not be being tortured by an unidentifiable white male. The clip’s under a minute long, so it’s hard to tell what’s really going on. Could be real, could be fantasy role-play. So I’m not sure what I have, Mikey. Not sure what to do about it, either. But it’s not sitting right with me and I want to see if I can get an ID on Jane Doe. Only I’m not sure where to start.’

‘Most guys would walk away. Let the defense handle it. Sounds like it’s their problem anyways.’

‘Yup. Most guys would.’

‘Have you run her through ViCAP?’

ViCAP — the Violent Crime Apprehension Program — was the FBI’s largest investigative repository of major violent cases in the US. A computer database of missing persons, unsolved sexual assaults and homicides, and unidentified remains collected from police agencies around the country. In a perfect world, Manny could put in the information he had on Jane Doe and ViCAP would spit out a similar missing person or homicide victim in an unsolved case. But the world wasn’t perfect. The system was only as comprehensive as the information put into it, and not every police agency was diligent providing cases for ViCAP. Most small agencies didn’t have access and a lot of large agencies weren’t assiduous about doing it.

‘Yeah. I checked,’ Manny replied. ‘Didn’t see anything that matched up, but I don’t got much to go on here. I also looked at Broward County’s Found and Forgotten website, but came up empty there, too. I’m trying to think of my next move.’

‘Let me see that. You mind? And can I see the video?’ Mike asked.

Manny nodded, handed him the picture, and got up from his seat. ‘Help yourself. When did you figure out how to turn on a computer?’

Mike ignored the jab and moved into Manny’s chair. He watched the entire clip through three times without saying a word, then ran it a fourth time and paused at forty-one seconds in, studying the screen. ‘That window cleaner there … it’s a knock-off.’ He captured the shot and zoomed in on the far corner. ‘I thought so,’ he said, mumbling under his breath. ‘I thought so. That there’s the Shoprite logo. On the red part — doesn’t that look like a grocery cart to you?’

‘Could be,’ Manny said, studying the screen. ‘What’s Shoprite?’

‘Shoprite’s a supermarket chain up north. New York, Jersey, Connecticut. I’m not sure it’s around anymore, but that’s where you need to focus, Alvarez. Have the boys in Tech see if they can enhance that picture — I’d bet my bottom dollar that’s Shoprite. Been a while since I saw that brand. They used to have some crazy commercial about how Shoprite’s got the can-can sale, with a bunch of French dancers singing about stocking up on peas.’

‘I thought you were from the Midwest.’

‘Ahhh,’ Mike grumbled. ‘I’m a native New Yorker, Alvarez. Born and raised in Elmhurst. That’s in Queens, you know. I worked with the Minneapolis PD for eight years before coming down here for some sun.’

‘Minnesota? Jesus, how the hell did you end up there? How does anyone end up there?’

Mike ignored the question. ‘One day it will all become clear. Listen, sorry about the titty comment. I didn’t realize she was a victim. That was bad of me.’

‘Well, thanks for the tip,’ Manny said with a nod.

‘What I would do if I was you is put her in NCIC, and mark it special attention to the tri-state area — see if the boys up there got something for you. Send the picture, but let them know there’s a video available.’

‘That’s a good idea.’

‘Your long shot ain’t so long now,’ Mike continued smugly. ‘And you got a date/time stamp on this, for whatever that’s worth, assuming it’s authentic. I’d put that on there, too. It’ll help whoever is looking narrow down dates. I’d also send that video off to the Behavioral Analysis Unit at the FBI. Let the profilers take a peek. Could be they’ve seen the rest of your video. Or maybe they can tell you if it’s for shits and giggles or if it’s the real McCoy.’

‘Okay, okay, I got it. Now it’s your turn to speak English, Pops. What the hell is a “shit and giggle”? And what’s a “real McCoy”?’

Mike rolled his eyes. ‘Damn immigrants. Learn English.’

‘I left Havana on a twenty-two-foot fishing boat that was missing an engine with twenty other people when I was five. Been speaking English from the second I stepped on the sand at Key Biscayne. You’re yapping in old fart, not English. I’ll send it to BAU. You’re right. It can’t hurt none.’

‘Nope. It can’t hurt,’ Mike replied as he started across the room to his desk. Then he stopped, turned abruptly, walked back. ‘You know, I can work up that NCIC for ya. Maybe contact the cold case squads myself and see if I can shake some trees.’

‘You’re not busy with your own load?’

‘Nah. I’m good. I got the time. And it looks like you need the help.’

Mike Dickerson wasn’t the only one counting down days till his retirement party. Even though he still had about six months to go, Mike hadn’t caught a new case in a long while, and he wasn’t going to. He was in wind-down mode. The squad sergeant didn’t want to hand out new cases to someone who’d have to be dragged out of retirement to be a witness for the next five years as those cases worked their way through the system. It was too much of a hassle. And if Mike was the lead on a case and he died — well, that would be terrible. And even more of a hassle. That was the danger of working cases when you were nearing seventy — your age became a liability and all that ‘invaluable experience’ that used to look so great on a résumé now added to the argument that your shelf life had expired. Until he officially called it quits, Mike was on ‘light duty’, which might seem like every government employee’s dream, but Manny didn’t think Mike saw it that way. The guy had been on the job for almost four decades, and he wore his pride the way he did his badge — right in the open for all to see. It might be hard to walk away, but Manny thought it was probably worse to stay and watch the world carry on without you.

Manny ran a hand over his smooth scalp. ‘You think you can help me out?’ he asked hesitantly. ‘You know, this video is a fucking monkey wrench. I still have a shitload of crap to get done on Skole without this nipping at the back of my thoughts.’

‘Sure, Bear, sure. I know some faces in the NYPD. It’ll give me something to do.’

Manny nodded. Partnering up in Homicide was not done at the City. There weren’t enough bodies or enough resources. And that was fine by him — he didn’t like partners. And if he had to pick a partner, it never in a million years would’ve been ornery, stubborn, conventional, conservative Mike Dickerson. But Manny himself was only seven years away from collecting a check, which seemed like a lifetime … a lifetime ago. Now it wasn’t so far off. Just seven more wild Miami-Dade PD Homicide Christmas parties. So he could feel for the old man; he didn’t think he’d want to leave when the time came, either. Plus, being nice to a guy on his way out of the job and maybe even out the door seemed like the right thing to do. Of course it was exactly that sort of charitable thinking that had led him down the aisle three times. Manny had a feeling this partnership might not fare any better …