Escape (12 page)

Although hired as an assistant district attorney, Murrow had never parked his five-foot-eight-inch, egg-shaped body much in a courtroom. Instead, he was one of those attorneys whose best asset is their ability to run an office full of other attorneys. Some did it for big law firms; Murrow did it for Butch Karp, and he excelled at it. As such, he kept the boss's calendar, intercepted press inquiries, and made sure he was where he was supposed to be when he was supposed to be there. If Mrs. Milquetost was the guardian at the gate, Murrow was the counselor behind the throne. He'd also run Karp's political campaign for the district attorney's seat in the last election, and only recently gotten over the post-campaign blues.

This morning, Murrow's job was to call the meeting to order and then keep it on schedule. "First to bat, ladies and gentlemen," he announced with all the verve of a circus ringmaster, "I give you the young and audacious Mr. Kenny Katz, who as you all know is propping up the boss on the Jessica Campbell case. Kenny, the floor is yours."

There was a smattering of applause, which Kenny acknowledged with a gap-toothed smile below a large nose that appeared to have been broken in several different directions. He was another of the new young hotshot ADAs, a recent appointment to the homicide bureau after working for Narcotics and Vice.

"Can somebody tear this guy a new one for me?" Karp asked.

"Let 'em try, I ain't afraid of none of youse guys," Katz said, laying on his native Queens accent extra thick. When the laughter stopped, he quickly gave a synopsis of the case: Husband leaves for work, defendant waits until he's gone, defendant kills couple's three young children, husband comes home, children are missing, wife tells him that God told her to save their souls by sending them to heaven.

"Jessica Campbell is charged with three counts of murder," Katz concluded. "That's pretty much it in a nutshell."

"Have they found the children yet?" someone asked.

"No, the bodies have not been located. Nor the family station wagon." He gave Karp a meaningful look, then added, "However, my co-counsel has been in contact with a few magicians who have agreed to accomplish what the best detectives in the state have not."

Karp smiled. He understood where Katz's remarks regarding the 221b Baker Street Irregulars came from; he'd had much the same reaction when introduced to the volunteer organization whose members, he thought originally, just wanted to play detective. However, the Baker Street gang specialized in finding the clandestine graves of murder victims through applications of various scientific methods, and now several successful cases later, he was a firm believer in their abilities.

"For those of you, like my young but misinformed co-counsel, who don't know, the 221b Baker Street Irregulars—a name taken from the address of Sherlock Holmes—are scientists, as well as a few folks already involved in law-enforcement specialties," Karp said. "They've provided an excellent service to this and other law-enforcement offices, as well as a case my wife, Marlene, was working on in which they located a car that had been buried in a gravel pit and were able to exhume the body of a murder victim from its interior. All defendants in the case have either pled guilty or are being tried and convicted."

"I stand corrected," Kenny said. "And look forward to whatever assistance the Baker Street Highly Irregulars can give us."

"Sticks and stones, my boy," Karp said.

"So what's next?" asked a voice to Karp's immediate left. Second-in-command at the DAO, Harry "Hotspur" Kipman was the office's appellate bureau chief, and as such he knew more about the minutia of the law than any five men in the room, including Karp. He was the guy, along with his team, who handled any appeals. He tended to pay more attention at these meetings than most; after all, he would have to deal with any fuckups they, or the judge, made at trial. His motto was that an ounce of prevention was worth a case coming back for retrial.

"The competency hearing is on for tomorrow," Katz replied. Normally a quick wit—read smartass—with anyone else, he held Kipman in reverential awe for his knowledge of the law. "We, of course, expect them to argue that she's not competent to stand trial. But the shrinks say she is and so will the judge."

"So we're still going forward with the murder charges?" The voice came from the far end of the table, where Joanie Kem, the newly appointed bureau chief of the sex crimes unit, sat.

"Yes," Katz replied. "But we've decided against seeking the death penalty.... Too tough a row to hoe, obviously because of the mitigating circumstances of her mental illness."

"I should say so," the woman answered.

"Is there a reason we shouldn't, Mrs. Kem?" Karp asked.

"You mean other than the fact that she's incompetent to stand trial?"

"I see," Karp replied. "By 'incompetent' do you mean that she's unable to assist her attorney with her defense and doesn't understand the nature and consequences of the charges against her? If so, that's what the competency hearing is for. If she's judged incompetent, she goes back to the mental ward at Bellevue and then to an upstate locked mental institution until such time as she's deemed competent."

"Uh, no, actually I was referring to any criminal trial, and the fact that she's crazy and probably belongs in a mental institution, not a prison," Kem replied. "I mean, she thinks God told her to murder her children. She 'hears' God talking to her like I'm talking to you."

Karp liked Kem. She was everything he wanted in the leader of the sex crimes unit—a unit his wife, Marlene, had created and run for a while— tough, committed, and thorough. But like many women who worked sex crimes, she was likely to take the woman's side automatically. He looked over at Kenny Katz. "That's certain to be the defense argument. You want to respond?"

Some of the old hands leaned forward in anticipation. It could be fun when the boss started stirring the pot.

Kenny pursed his lips. "Sure." He turned to Kem and shrugged. "No argument, Jessica Campbell is nuts, bonkers, cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. However, that doesn't mean that she is not criminally responsible for her actions."

"Wait a second, you just said she's crazy."

"The legal question isn't whether we—as in so-called normal people— consider what she did to be crazy. Of course it's crazy to murder your children because you think God told you to do it. But it's also crazy to rob a liquor store, stick a shotgun in some poor Korean's face, and blow his brains all over the wall just because you need money for your heroin addiction.

Different people answer to different gods. So, do we not prosecute the guy with the shotgun?"

"Of course," Kem said with disdain. "But I'll bet the shrink will say that Jessica Campbell suffers from a mental defect. The guy with the shotgun is a drug addict."

"And probably a sociopath—at least 80 percent of everybody in prison has anti-social personality disorder," Katz argued. "That's a mental defect, too. In fact, Ted Bundy had a mental defect—he was a psycho—but they still fried his ass. Maybe he should have been put in a mental hospital, too."

"But she did whatever she did because she has a mental illness," Kem replied, though her resolve seemed to be weakening. "She likely suffers from postpartum depression, which can be pretty heavy-duty. A lot of people with it commit suicide."

"Yes, many women suffer from postpartum depression," Katz noted. "But very few murder their children. Jessica Campbell didn't commit suicide, she acted out a violent impulse."

"Under orders from God," Kem shot back.

"But God's not on trial here. The legal question is whether Jessica Campbell understood the nature and consequences of her actions, and did she know that what she did was wrong."

Kem was silent, so Karp used the moment to call off the dog. "Okay, okay," he interjected. "I think we've heard from both sides. Thank you, Mrs. Kem and Mr. Katz. Let's move on so we can spend some time throwing bad guys in the pokey."

Next in line was the homicide bureau chief, who reported on the status of sundry shootings, stabbings, stranglings, bludgeonings, and deaths by other methods. He ended on what for a homicide prosecutor was a bright note. A murder mystery. A skull had been found on the shore at the north end of Manhattan Island by a turbulent stretch of water where the Hudson and East rivers met called Spuyten Duyvil. As he intended when he said the name—"In Spite of the Devil" in old Dutch—everyone in the room swiveled to look at him.

Andrew Kane, the former mayoral candidate who turned out to be a murderous sociopath, had tried to escape capture by diving into those waters. But he'd been followed by David Grale, the "mad monk" who lived with his army of Mole People in the tunnels and caves beneath the city, hunting "evil" men. Grale had told Karp that the two had fought with knives beneath the surface and that he thought he'd given Kane a mortal wound. However, the body had never been recovered.

Now, the homicide chief held up his hand. "Sorry, no it's not
that
person's skull," he said. "For one thing it's more recent. There was still some skin left, including enough to see that '777' had been carved into the forehead. Might be a gang or cult thing. We haven't been able to identify the owner yet, but we have enough from the dental record to know it's not Andrew Kane."

"Kane had his face altered with plastic surgery," Murrow pointed out. "Maybe he had dental work done, too."

"We thought of that," Karp said. "So we talked to Charlotte Gates—she's a forensic anthropologist with our Baker Street Irregular friends—and she was able to extract 'tooth pulp' from inside one of the molars of the deceased. She checked it against Kane's DNA. Negative. She wants to do more tests, but she's pretty sure the skull belongs to a Caucasian or Hispanic male, late twenties."

The Case of the Mysterious 777 Skull wrapped up the presentation for the homicide bureau, and Murrow quickly moved through the rest of the meeting. After they finished scrutinizing all the armed robberies, rapes, burglaries, and other types of mayhem on the agenda, everybody began gathering their papers to leave, but stopped when Karp cleared his throat. He looked at V. T. Newbury, who had not spoken or shown any interest in the proceedings.

"There is one final item," Karp said. "It is with great regret that I'm forced to announce that our own Vinson Talcott Newbury has tendered his resignation. He's off to greener pastures, and maybe he'll stop by soon and give us a ride in the new Mercedes."

"I own an Aston Martin," Newbury said. "Not enough room for much of anyone else." He scooped up his papers and stalked out of the room as the others watched in embarrassed silence.

Two minutes later, Karp nearly bumped into Mrs. Milquetost in the hall. "Oh, pardon me," she exclaimed. "I was just coming to find you. Your wife called. She wants you to call immediately." The receptionist and Marlene did not get along, and it was clear from her tone that she didn't think the missus should be ordering the boss to do anything "immediately."

Karp thanked her and walked into his office where he sat down with a sigh. He never knew what he was going to hear when he called Marlene— it could be anything from asking him to pick up a loaf of bread on the way home to the twins causing a riot on the block. "Call immediately" didn't sound like an errand to the baker, so it was with great trepidation that he dialed her cell number.

Marlene answered at the first ring. "Oh Butch, thanks for calling," she said, obviously frightened, which took a lot when it came to his wife. He immediately thought of the kids, but this time the trouble lay with a different generation.

"Dad's missing," she said, her voice cracking. "I can't find him anywhere."

Marlene had arrived that morning at her father's small brick house in Queens with a knot in her stomach. She had been raised there, and after she had moved away it had been such a sanctuary to her, a place where she could go home and feel like a child again, even after she became a mother herself. But that had been while her own mother, Concetta Ciampi, had still been her mom, before Alzheimer's took her mind and left her body behind like an empty suitcase.

For more than sixty years, Concetta had been the rock upon which the family's foundation had rested. Once the disease set in, that foundation had crumbled quickly. Before Concetta's death, she believed that her husband, whom she'd met as a teenager on the boat coming over from Sicily, had been replaced by a stranger who lived in his body. She had only rarely recognized Marlene, more often confusing her with a sister who'd died many years before.

It had been tough on Marlene but pure hell for her father. Where was the woman he'd married? His lover, his friend, the mother of his children? He was dealing with the onset of senior dementia himself—becoming forgetful and apt to get lost if he got turned around—so the rapid deterioration of the woman he'd counted on all those years frightened him. He'd become easily irritated, angry—not at all the gentle, humorous man Marlene adored.

After her mother's death the previous year, Marlene—already predisposed toward a guilty conscience by her Catholic upbringing—had beat herself up for thinking of her mother's physical death as a blessing instead of a curse. And she assumed it was her own guilt that made her wonder if her father had finally cracked and put a pillow over his wife's sleeping face to end the torment. Her father had guessed what she was thinking and wept that she would ever think he would kill the woman he'd promised to love and cherish
"fino alla morte facciali parte."

His tears had shamed Marlene. Still, when she'd been granted a private audience with the pope following the hostage situation at St. Patrick's Cathedral a year earlier, in which she'd played no small role in thwarting the terrorists, she'd asked forgiveness for both herself and her father. The pontiff had given them both his blessing, and Marlene her penance, but said that if Mariano Ciampi had sins to confess, he would have to do so to a priest in person, not by proxy.

Ever since, Mariano's mind had continued to deteriorate. He insisted that Concetta's ghost still wandered the rooms of the house they'd shared for so many years. "She's waiting for me," he claimed. He wasn't frightened of his wife's spirit, and he looked forward to spending eternity in her company. He told his daughter that he was in no hurry to join Concetta, but in some ways, he was already gone.

Alzheimer's had destroyed Concetta's mind in a fast, merciless attack. With Mariano, it was more like he was saying goodbye; taking his time, but leaving just the same.

Marlene had all the proof she needed of that when she drove up to the house that morning. Mariano and Concetta had taken great pride in the appearance of their home and yard. By unspoken agreement, he cared for the lawn and trees, made sure the house got painted when it needed a fresh coat, and took care of the cars. She worked in her gardens, especially among her beloved roses, and kept the interior of the house spotless, yet as warm and comforting as the loaves of foccacia bread she pulled fresh out of her oven several times a week.

Now, the property looked as if the owners of the house had moved out and left no caretaker. The lawn, littered with leaves and bits of trash, was shaggy and brown, and in some spots nothing more than dirt. Even sadder to Marlene were her mother's once proud flower gardens, now patches of weeds. The gardens had been abandoned for years because her mother had quit going outside. The world beyond the front door confused and frightened her.

It was the thought of the state of the garden that brought Marlene to the house that morning dressed in work clothes. She had a dozen new rose bushes in the back of her truck. She'd spend a few hours weeding and planting, then rake up the leaves and pick up the trash, and she intended at some point to get out to the garage and find out if the old lawn-mower would still fire up.

As she got out of her truck, she saw that the front door was open. She searched both inside and out, but there was no sign of her father. An open can of Budweiser on the table next to his favorite chair was still cool to the touch.

Further investigation led her back outside, where she saw the next-door neighbor—a young black woman—picking weeds from her flower garden with an infant in a backpack. "Hi, I'm Marlene," she said, walking over to shake the woman's hand. "I used to live here ... with my parents. In fact, I just came over to see my father, and he's not here. I don't suppose you saw him leave and head off in any particular direction?"

"Hi, I'm Lakeesha," the woman replied. "But no, I'm sorry, I didn't notice him leaving. In fact, we hardly ever see him.... I ... I didn't even know he had a daughter."

Marlene knew the other woman had not meant to make her feel guiltier than she already did, but that was the effect of the comment.
I should have introduced myself to the
neighbors long
before this,
she thought.
Then if Pops needed something, they might notice and call me.
Her father was notorious for refusing to ask for help or directions. "I'm not incompetent," he'd railed at her the last time she'd been over. "I can take care of myself."

Ever since her mother had died, Marlene had been trying to get him to consider moving to an assisted-living community. It was pricey, practically a country club for the elderly, but she had plenty of money—having made millions when a high-profile VIP security firm she'd helped found went public on the New York Stock Exchange. He refused, and the more she brought it up, the louder he continued to refuse. He'd always been independent and his house was his joy. "I'll leave when I'm dead," he stated flatly. "Put me in an old folk's home and you might as well shoot me. Guess it wouldn't matter, I'm no use to anyone anymore."

Part of the issue was that the neighborhood had changed so much. All of his former neighbors, those who'd raised their families next to his, were dead or had moved to Florida. They'd been replaced by new young couples, including, as her father had noted, "a lot of colored folks." She'd never heard him make remarks about race in the past, but it was clear that he was uncomfortable with the changing demographics and didn't know how to deal with it.

So she told him about an article she'd read recently that reported that blacks in Queens, most of whom were immigrants from the Caribbean, had a higher educational level and income than American-born blacks living elsewhere in the Five Boroughs or in his old blue-collar neighborhood. The point was that this new, upwardly mobile class was a good thing for the neighborhood; their pride in ownership in their neatly kept properties was evident.

"Which can only help your property values, too, Pops," she'd said. "I bet you'd find that they're great neighbors, if you just gave them a chance." But he'd responded that he didn't want to "bother anyone ... and what would they want from an old man anyway?"

Marlene walked back to her truck thinking about where her father might have gone. He'd lost his driver's license after a fender-bender accident that he'd caused a year earlier and rarely went anywhere on foot, unless it was to the VFW a few blocks away. It was the best place she could think of to start.

A few minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot of the hall and stopped in front of the two flagpoles, one flying the American flag and the other the black and white flag for MIA-POWs. Both flags were as tattered and tired as the building itself, which had all the architectural appeal of a cereal box laid on its face. It desperately needed new paint, if not a bulldozer.

Still, it had been home away from home for several generations of veterans—from men who'd stormed the beaches at Normandy and Guadalcanal, or, like her father, fought their way up the Italian peninsula, to those who'd fought the Chinese in Korea, or the Vietnamese in Hue, to the newcomers, those whose tours had taken them to Kabul and Baghdad. Whatever their age difference, inside the hall, they'd all found brothers who knew what it was like to be "over there," wherever "there" had been.

There were only two other cars in the parking lot. Marlene got out of her truck and walked into the building. She stood for a moment in the poorly lit interior to let her eyes adjust, and saw that two old men—neither of them her father—sat at the bar in their peaked VFW caps, the smoke from their cigarettes swirling around them like winter fog over New York Harbor. Behind the bar, a familiar figure leaned back against the mirror and blew smoke rings of his own at the low-hung ceiling.

Despite her worries, Marlene smiled. It had been many years since she'd last been in the bar. But she would have sworn that the same two old geezers had been sitting on the same stools then, and that the same halfplayed game of eight-ball was waiting for the next shooter on the worn pool table.

Just as familiar was the smell of ancient tobacco smoke, spilled beer, bodies of hardworking men who could have used more time around soap and water, and the astringent aroma of the little blue tablets placed in the urinals of the men's bathrooms. She'd spent plenty of time in the hall herself, either accompanying her father or sent by her mother to retrieve him for dinner.

"Tell him to finish his beer and whatever lie he's telling for the hundredth time quick and hurry home if he doesn't want the
malocchio
from his adoring wife,"
Concetta would say, but with a laugh that assured her daughter that her father was in no real danger from "the evil eye."

"Well, I'll be damned, if it ain't the lovely Marlene Ciampi!"

Marlene was jolted from her thoughts by the voice of the heavyset, middle-aged man behind the bar. "Hi Bert," she responded. "Still holding down the fort, I see, and still in need of glasses... lovely, my eye."

Bert the Bartender wiped a spot on the bar in front of one of the stools and invited her to take a seat. He glared at the two old men sitting at the bar. "Atten-hut!" he ordered. "There's a lady present."

One of the old men did his best to hop down from his bar stool and snap to attention, but he had to grab the bar to keep himself from falling over.

The other remained in his seat, his head nodding as he mumbled something about a girl he'd met in Rome long ago. A few words at a time came out between draws on the Chesterfield pinched between his forefinger and thumb.

"A little early for a classy broad like you to be making the rounds, ain't it?" Bert the Bartender asked.

Marlene laughed at the teasing from an old friend. Bert had been one of the neighborhood guys when she was growing up, destined from birth to be a borough rat all his life. In fact, he would have probably never made it any farther abroad than the Jersey Turnpike, except he'd been drafted in '68 and sent to Vietnam, where he'd lost a leg to a landmine. He came home to a job at the VFW, where he'd been handing out drinks and cleaning up spills and vomit for more than thirty years.

"What can I get ya?" Bert asked, moving a lock of greasy hair out of his eyes. "A Shirley Temple? Maybe a Manhattan? Or does Marlene 'Just One of the Boys' Ciampi want to have a beer with an old friend whose heart she broke before he went away to fight for his country?"

Marlene laughed. "If I remember right, you were two years older, the untouchable Captain of the Football Team, and wouldn't even give me a second look as long as Betty Schneider and her 36-Ds were around."

Bert chuckled. "Well, you have to admit that Betty was built like a brick shithouse.... Heard she's living over in Yonkers now, pushing 250 pounds and on her third husband. But you're looking mighty fine, Ms. Ciampi. You still married to that lawyer?"

"If you mean the District Attorney of New York City, yes. But sorry, I'll have to take a rain check on that drink. I'm looking for Pops and was wondering if he's been in today?"

Bert's heavy brow furrowed. "Tell you the truth, I ain't seen him in here in months. In fact, I don't know that I seen him since ... well, you know, your mom died, God rest her soul.... Anyway, he's missing? There something I can do?"

Marlene shook her head. "Nah, that's okay. I stopped by the house to see him, but he wasn't there and the door was wide open. He's getting a little forgetful these days and probably just didn't shut it well when he went out for a walk."

"No evidence of foul play?" Bert asked. Ever since Marlene had known him, he'd dreamed of joining the thin blue line of the New York Police Department. Vietnam had shattered that possibility, and he compensated for that by watching too many television cop shows.

"No, just an open door and an empty house. I'm sure it's not a big deal. I just thought that he might have headed this way. He always loved it here, you know."

Marlene grabbed a cocktail napkin and pen to write down a number. "This is my cell. If he shows up, be a pal and call me please, so I can call off the search party. Don't lose it, okay?"

Bert folded the napkin and put it in his pocket. "Lose it? I've been trying to get your phone number for years. I'm going to get this framed."

"Oh Bert, a guy like you is too good for the likes of me. But call if Pops shows up, would ya?"

"Will do," he answered. "I'm sure he's okay. Probably just visiting old friends."

"You're probably right. I'm not panicking ... yet."

An hour later, however, and she was ready to revise that into definitely panicked. She'd checked with every old friend of his in the neighborhood she could find, but many of his friends no longer lived in their former homes. She went back to his house to see if he'd returned; finding nothing, she took a photograph of him so that she could canvas area businesses. No one had seen the man in the picture.

She decided it was time to call Butch. Ever since they'd been young prosecutors at the DAO, he'd been the steadiest man she'd ever known, and the most competent. Shortly after they'd started dating, she had opened a letter bomb intended for him—jealous that it might be from his ex-wife—and lost an eye and several fingers. But he had stuck by her, and in fact had married her "scarred for life" and all, though she remained always stunningly attractive.