Capitol Murder (33 page)

Bartmann looked at the photo with an expression that was positively repulsive. “Oh, hell,
yeah. That’s Rapid Ronnie.”

Ben cleared his throat. “Rapid Ronnie?”

“Yeah.” He laughed so hard it became a sort of snort, a repetitive pig noise in the back of
his throat. “She was fast. Fast like you’ve never seen fast.”

Ben felt the inevitable red blotches creeping up his neck. “Sir, are you talking about
Veronica Cooper being fast . . . sexually?”

Bartmann touched his nose. “Got it in one!”

“And . . . how do you know this?”

“From personal experience.” He winked, and this was possibly even more grotesque than the
lascivious expression that preceded it. “She was hot.”

“Are you suggesting that you had . . . intimate relations with Ms. Cooper?”

“Damn straight.”

“How many times?”

“More than you could count. When that girl wanted it, she wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“And when would that be?”

“When she was high on the drug, mostly. Affects different people different ways. Her it made
horny. Major horny. Upped her desire—and her pleasure. She couldn’t control herself. It was all
she could do to wait long enough to get my pants off.”

“Did you have . . . someplace you went for these liaisons?”

“Nope. Right there in the apartment at the club. Most times everyone else was high and doing
it, so we didn’t attract much attention. They were too busy with their own action to notice us.”
He paused. “’Cept Randy. He liked to watch.”

Ben tried to envision the orgy Bartmann was describing—and then decided he’d rather not. “Were
you the only person with whom Ms. Cooper had sexual relations?”

“Hell no. She’d do anyone when she was high. All she cared was that you were breathing and
male.” He reflected a moment. “Come to think of it, some of the time she didn’t even care if her
partner was male.”

“And I gather from the nickname that Miss Cooper tended to be . . . fast?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe. A male fantasy come true. No jawboning about foreplay. No screwin’
around waiting for her to get in the mood. She was always in the mood. Sometimes she got there
before I did. She liked it fast and rough.”

“Rough?” Ben said, coughing.

“Very. Violent, almost. Kicking and slapping and spanking and biting.”

“Biting?”

“Oh yeah. That always turned her on. And not just some wimpy pecking, either—she wanted a good
hard bite. The kind that mattered. I mean, when I pressed my teeth into her neck, she squealed
like a pig.”

Out the corner of his eye, Ben saw the jury scrutinizing the man, trying to decide if they
thought it was remotely credible that the beautiful young intern Padolino had painted as a
virtual nun could have sex with this walking waste dump. Verdict: no.

“Mr. Bartmann, when was the last time you had sexual relations with Miss Cooper?”

“The night before she was killed.”

Almost as one, the jury members’ chins lowered.

“Within twenty-four hours of the time of death?”

“Less than ten, from what I hear. She was killed like around ten in the morning, right?”

“Something like that.”

He folded his arms across his chest, obviously proud of himself. “And I had her around
midnight. So I’m saying it was ten hours.”

“The coroner found evidence of sexual activity . . .”

Bartmann jabbed a thumb to his chest. “I’m your man.”

Ben heard the rustling in the gallery, saw the jury shifting in their seats. He knew everyone
was uncomfortable with this testimony, with the ugly and bizarre possibility that these
allegations could be true. But there was something about the man—his brashness, his lack of
shame, the impression that he lacked the smarts to exercise guile—that made his testimony
strangely believable.

“And on the occasion of your last encounter, did you bite Ms. Cooper?”

He shrugged. “I don’t really remember, but it seems likely. I mean, she loved that move. Once
I sunk some teeth into her, she just got all—”

“Thank you, sir,” Ben said, holding up his hands. “I think we get the idea.” But he still had
to convince the jury that this walking talking pond scum had been with Veronica Cooper. He
reached into his notebook and produced two documents. “Mr. Bartmann, my apologies, but I’m going
to ask you to look at some photographs that were taken of Ms. Cooper postmortem.” He paused.
“That means after she was dead.”

“Do I have to?”

“I’m afraid so. Here’s a photo of her right shoulder, the wound that killed her.” As he held
it up, the jury winced. “She was cut with a large knife, but there was also evidence of a
smaller, more subtle incision to her jugular vein made by some other instrument. Like maybe a
tooth.”

“Objection,” Padolino said. “He’s just telling the man what he wants to hear. Leading.”

“I only offered that by way of example,” Ben said innocently.

“It’s not like we don’t all know where this is going,” Judge Herndon said. “Overruled.”

“I didn’t do it,” Bartmann said, cutting in before Ben could ask a question. “I would never
hurt Veronica like that.”

“I believe you.” Ben held up the other photo. “This is an enlargement of a much less severe
bite wound that was found on the victim’s left shoulder. The bite mark was barely visible when
the coroner examined the body; this photo was taken under ultraviolet light.”

“Okay. So?”

“Mr. Bartmann . . .” Ben paused, trying to think how best to put this. “Say cheese.”

“Huh?”

“I want you to smile. Smile for the jury.”

Bartmann looked understandably confused, but after a moment’s hesitation, he shrugged and
replied, “Whatever you say, counselor.” He turned to the jury and grinned.

All his center teeth were missing. Tops and bottoms. From the canines inward. Gone.

“Mr. Bartmann, how did you lose your teeth? Was there an accident?”

“No.” He looked down at his hands. “Least not the way you mean. Happened the last time I was
in the joint. Cedars. Rough as hell. On my first day. The cell-block boss had two of his goons
hold me down while another one knocked out my teeth. With a hammer.”

Ben heard a satisfying gasp from the gallery. “Were there no guards present?”

“Not present in the room. They were around. They knew what was happening.”

“Then—”

“They had what you might call a special relationship with the cell-block boss. They stayed out
of his way, within reason, and he took care of them. Arranged for gifts to be delivered to their
homes, their families. Very nice gifts.”

“But why would he want to knock out your front teeth?”

Bartmann looked back at Ben stonily. “That way, if someone shoves something in your mouth, you
can’t bite down on it.”

Ben laid a hand on the podium, steadying himself. “Permission to publish the photo to the
jury.”

“It’s already been entered into evidence,” Judge Herndon said. “You may proceed.”

Ben walked to the jury box and held it up so they could see the enlarged view of the
deceased’s left shoulder. Two things were immediately clear. The first was that it bore a bite
mark. And the second was that this most unusual bite mark was missing its center teeth.

“Why’s it always women gettin’ the rough stuff in here?” Loving asked Mina.

“It isn’t,” their indifferently gendered guide explained. “Although that is more common. I’ve
got a man tied up in the next room if you’d like to see—”

“No thanks,” Loving said. “I get the picture. All your rooms have people beatin’ on one
another.”

“Not necessarily. There are other forms of pleasure. We cater to all types here. We’re a
nonjudgmental, equal opportunity pleasure service. You can find people into suffocation,
mutilation—”

“Wait a minute. Suffocation?”

“It’s a well-known fact that near-death experiences heighten orgasm. Have you never heard of
autoerotic asphyxiation? Not that it’s the only way to get there. Some of our clients apply
jumper cables to their nipples, so they can give themselves an added charge at just the right
moment. Some wrap up their testicles with leather cords. Some—”

“I think I got the general idea,” Loving said, cutting Mina off. “What about
bloodsuckin’?”

“Ah. Some of my clients live for it. But there can be complications. Too much will make you
sick. And even a little can—” Mina’s voice dropped to a whisper. “—give you diarrhea. Like, all
day long. I hear it’s very erotic when taken to the extreme, or combined with sexual orgasm. But
I guess you already know that.”

“What?”

Mina brushed a finger against the left side of Loving’s neck. “Looks like someone took a
little nibble on you recently.”

Loving moved his hand to his neck, covering the impression. “Blast. I meant to cover that
up.”

“Did you? You know what Freud said. There are no accidents.” Mina smiled—leered, actually.
“You liked it, didn’t you?”

“No!” Loving glanced at Shalimar, whom he noticed was inching away. “I did not like it. Not a
bit!”

“Right. That’s why you’re here tonight.” Mina leaned close to Shalimar and whispered, “Deep
denial.”

Shalimar gave Loving a look he couldn’t read.

“So.” Mina fluttered obviously false eyelashes and eyed Loving mischievously. “See anything
that interests you?”

“Uh, maybe. But I . . . I don’t have my partner.”

“This young lady seems perfectly suitable,” Mina said, motioning toward Shalimar. “Or if you’d
prefer something more exotic—”

“No, it has to be the right girl. Otherwise it just doesn’t work for me. I need Beatrice.”

“And who would that lucky lady be?”

“You don’t know Beatrice?” Loving paused. “I thought everyone knew Beatrice.”

“Haven’t heard the name, but we don’t use names much around here. For obvious reasons.”

Loving showed Mina the picture Shalimar had given him, but it was no help.

“Is there anyone else I could talk to? Any membership lists I could review?”

“In our community?” Mina seemed appalled by the very suggestion. “I don’t know of anyone who
would—or would want to—keep those kinds of records. It isn’t as if we take attendance. No one
keeps track of who comes and who doesn’t. Except maybe the Church.”

Church? These people? “And that would be . . . ?”

“You know. Surely you’ve been.”

Shalimar cleared her throat. “We’re, uh, new here.”

“But the Church is everywhere, all across the nation.” Mina seemed flabbergasted. “Do you
really not know? The Temple of the Vampire.”

Loving shook his head. It just got weirder and weirder. “There’s a church called the Temple of
the Vampire?”

“Absolutely. It’s a bona fide, national, federally registered church. Protected by the First
Amendment. Tax exempt. But let’s not talk about that now. You must’ve come here for a reason.
What kind of pleasure suite can I arrange for you?”

“Nothin’ just now,” Loving said, guiding Shalimar away. He wondered if he could find his way
out of this maze by himself. “I’m not in the mood for pleasure anymore. For some reason, I’m
suddenly feelin’ very religious.”

“Your honor, the defense calls his wife, Marie Glancy, to the stand.”

Now that was more like it, Ben thought, as he heard an appreciable murmur rising from the
gallery and saw one of the reporters run to the back doors, crack them open, and wave for his
fifth-estate buddies to come inside. Everyone knew who Marie Glancy was. And everyone, whether
they believed her to be a tragic victim taken advantage of by a wayward husband or a shrewd
politico with her own agenda, wanted to hear what she had to say.

Ben wasted as little time as possible on the introductory material. The jury already knew who
she was, either liked her or didn’t, and was well aware of her relevance to the case. He wondered
how many minds in the courtroom were comparing the petite, somewhat plain figure in the witness
stand to the video’s lusty feral child in the lacy undergarments.

“How long have you and your husband been married?”

“Almost sixteen years now. We wed when we were in college. We were very much in love.”

“And you went to law school—”

“At the University of Oklahoma.” She glanced up at Ben. “As did several other distinguished
members of the bar.”

Ben had to hand it to her. She was doing a great job of staying cool, but not cold. Calm, but
not unemotional. She was even allowing herself a little wry humor, though nothing that might seem
sarcastic or flippant. She was dressed professionally but neither too richly nor too austerely.
The woman knew her audience.

“And you graduated? Got your juris doctorate?”

“Yes. But I never practiced. Todd took over his father’s oil business, then went to the DA’s
office, then onward and upward into politics.”

“And you?”

“I was his wife. I did what was necessary to make his career possible.”

Fair enough. And said in a way that made her point without seeming martyrish. For perhaps the
first moment ever, Ben began to think this just might possibly work.

“Mrs. Glancy,” Ben continued, “much of the prosecution case has centered on allegations that
your husband had an . . . an—”
Dammit
, he had practiced this three times just to make
sure he didn’t stutter. “—an extramarital affair. Did you ever suspect that your husband was . .
. doing anything like that?”

“Oh, I did a lot more than suspect.” She folded her hands in her lap and directed her
attention to the jury. “I knew all about it.”

That raised more than one eyebrow in the jury box. “You knew about the affair with Veronica
Cooper?”

“Absolutely.”

“For how long?”

“Virtually from the moment it started. For that matter, I think I knew it was going to happen
before Todd did.”

“You seem to have taken it well.”

“No,” she replied, for the first time allowing her lips to turn slightly downward. “I didn’t
take it well at all. Not then and not now. But I know my husband. Like many great men throughout
history, he has had . . . appetites to match his ambition. And tastes that were, well, somewhat
outside the norm. I knew I couldn’t satisfy him. I don’t think any one woman could, at least not
so long as he had options.”