Chapter 11
Eddie
The precinct interview room stank of stale sweat, vomit and something else I didn’t even want to think about.
Sitting beside me on a cold steel chair, Vanessa was dealing with this better than I had expected. Once the cuffs came off, and she’d been processed, I had gotten to see her briefly. We were waiting for Detectives Ben Larkin and Lorraine Carey to come in and begin their questioning.
‘What if they . . . ?’ began Vanessa, and I put my finger to my lips.
‘Everything you say in here is recorded. Know that before you speak. My advice, like I told you, is to say nothing. Let’s see what they have.
Remember, they want you to talk. They think they can get you to slip up.
Here’s the thing, even if you tell the truth in here, that can go against you in court.
Words, phrases, nods of the head, even your intonation, it can all be twisted around if this is ever played in court for a jury.
Say nothing. And watch your demeanor. You’re on camera too.
This is not a safe place for us to discuss strategy.
We’ve been through this. Now, considering everything I’ve just said, do you still want to ask me something or can it wait until I get you out of here? ’
‘It can wait,’ she said.
The door to the interview room opened and the young detective came in. Lorraine Carey was just under five feet tall, slim and pale with long, fine brown hair that stretched way down her back. The file in her arms looked as if it weighed more than her. She set it down on the steel table.
The next figure through the door was the same one Bloch had sent me a pic of not thirty minutes ago.
A huge bald guy in a suit. She asked if I knew him.
I didn’t know him, not exactly. We’d had a few run-ins, but I certainly knew his reputation.
Detective Ben Larkin had been a football player in college.
Linebacker, naturally. Considering his sheer mass, he could take up most of that back line comfortably.
Some who saw him felt sorry for him because of his size, but little did they know he was mostly muscle.
Sure, he’d grown a gut, but I imagined he could comfortably pick me up and put me through this steel table with one hand.
The truth was, most cops didn’t feel sorry for Ben Larkin, and it was all because of his reputation.
Ten years ago, he didn’t have the gut, his star was on the rise in the department and he closed cases with efficiency and diligence.
Then everything changed. Larkin fucked up an arrest, mislabeled and lost evidence, and lied about it all in court.
The perp was a Wall Street broker accused of attempted murder of his girlfriend.
Thanks to Larkin, the guy walked. And Larkin never recovered.
He spent the next ten years riding a desk, mostly filing other people’s overtime reports.
Instead of putting away bad guys, he started putting away donuts.
It was a sad story. And Larkin became a poster boy for what happens to cops who mess up.
The other man in the second picture Bloch had sent, the guy dressed in black who had given Larkin a package, I didn’t know him at all. Never seen him before. But he didn’t look like a cop.
The steel chair legs groaned as they took Larkin’s weight. They were an odd pairing.
Something wasn’t right with this picture, and it wasn’t the fact that Carey looked like Larkin’s lunch.
Carey began the interview by reminding Vanessa of her rights, and then opened the binder in front of her.
‘We’ve been talking to individuals involved in your husband’s political team,’ began Carey.
‘His campaign manager, Geoff Gilbert, and the rest of the staff, including Heidi Swanson. When you were interviewed two weeks ago, you told NYPD officers that you didn’t really know the victim, Molly Green.
And that you hardly spoke to her. You also said you didn’t know of anyone who might want to harm Molly.
Is there any part of your answer you want to change? ’
I watched Vanessa closely. She took in the question without her expression changing. No surprise, no shock or alarm. She sat upright in the chair, legs crossed, back straight, hands relaxed in her lap. A blank look on her face. As if she was waiting for something.
Her lips parted, and I leaned forward and put one elbow on the desk, just to remind her that I was here, which in turn hopefully reminded her to keep her mouth shut.
Vanessa said nothing. She just stared at Carey.
‘Not talking, huh? Smart. Too late, though. You should’ve had Mr. Flynn in your corner two weeks ago.
Turns out, your husband’s team have a different recollection to yours.
They say you were close to Molly. That you two regularly talked together.
Alone. Tell me, what had Molly done to make you so angry? ’
Again, Vanessa said nothing. This is more difficult than it sounds.
Sitting there, listening to police accuse you of something terrible, it’s natural to want to fight back, to stand up for yourself, to tell them that they’ve got this all wrong.
Vanessa was playing the game well. Showing real restraint.
‘You also told us you had never been to Molly Green’s apartment. We’ve got you on security camera visiting the apartment the night of the murder. Do you want to change that statement?’
Clients lie. To their lawyers. To the police. To their priest. The world turns and the sun rises. What else is new? Vanessa had not been the first client to lie to me. She would not be the last. People lie for all kinds of reasons. It doesn’t automatically mean they’re guilty.
The ground shifts beneath your feet in a murder case. Happens all the time. But you don’t expect your client to be the one who moves the earth. I was too long at this game to feel a sense of betrayal, but now I had questions for Vanessa. Not here. Not now. But soon.
‘We found your DNA in Molly Green’s apartment. How did it get there?’
Vanessa blinked, slowly. Perhaps a subtle recognition of what was to come.
In that moment, it looked like she’d taken a knockout punch, and she was trying to shake it off.
She said nothing. No reply.
‘Was it the fact that Molly Green was sleeping with your husband? Is that why you killed her?’
Now we had motive.
‘Still not talking? Okay, let’s cut to the chase. Vanessa Vanderpool, we’re charging you with first-degree murder.’
I took time studying Vanessa’s face.
Cold. Frozen. No reaction to her life collapsing right in front of her.
Still, there was perhaps something in her eyes that spoke to me.
Her expression told me a lot.
It was the kind of resignation that comes to those who know they have already sealed their fate by their own actions. That karma, or even that loose concept of justice, had just arrived to even the score. I’d seen it before.
It’s the kind of expression you see on the faces of the guilty.