Heart of a Killer (27 page)

There was not much identifying information about Murray, nor was there a picture, but the story did quote Lieutenant John Novack as saying that Murray should be considered armed and dangerous.

Janssen was momentarily annoyed that they had to learn about this in the newspaper, but he soon realized that the local cops would have no idea he was also looking for Nolan Murray. Therefore, there would have been no reason for them to contact the Bureau.

Janssen stood up and started heading for the door. “You packed?”

“Always,” Vazquez said, following him out.

It was three and a half hours later that Novack was called into Captain Donovan’s office, where Janssen and Vazquez were waiting. Donovan did the introductions, and then said, “It seems our friend Nolan Murray is a main suspect in the three terrorist incidents that have taken place.”

“Whoa,” Emerson said.

“What do you have on him?” asked Novack.

“We know he had possible access to two of the systems that were compromised,” Janssen said. “Or at least the systems of the companies involved.”

“Possible access to two of the systems of the companies involved?” Novack repeated. “That makes him a main suspect?”

Janssen nodded. “There isn’t a lot of competition for the title of ‘main suspect.’”

“He’s not easy to pin down. What else do you have on him?”

“I’m waiting for you to tell us that,” Janssen said.

The five men spent the next three hours going over everything that Novack and Emerson had learned about Murray, taking him through every step of the investigation, starting with Sheryl Harrison.

Donovan had little to add, but was relieved that things were going smoothly. Novack famously had little tolerance for other investigators getting in his way, especially if they were of the federal variety. But he and Janssen seemed to develop an easy relationship and early respect, which would make Donovan’s life infinitely easier.

At one point Janssen went to the restroom, and Donovan said to Novack, “Thanks. I was sure you were going to be a pain in the ass about this.”

“Why?” Novack asked.

“Because you’re a pain in the ass about everything. Especially when the Feds are involved.”

“Their case is more important than ours,” Novack said. “It’s more important than every case we will ever have put together. Besides, if we didn’t cooperate, they’d put so much pressure on, you’d fold up like an accordion.”

Donovan nodded. “You got that right.”

As the meeting resumed, the more Janssen heard, the more enthusiastic he got about Murray as a suspect. It was clear from what Emerson had to say that Murray was brilliant with the computer, possessing an astonishing ability to hack into systems and make them bend to his will.

And with all that Murray was doing locally, it seemed way too much of a coincidence that he would suddenly drop everything and take a temp job that would provide access to the two targeted systems.

Janssen always got a feeling, a gut instinct, when he was ready to close in, when he knew exactly who he was after. And he had that feeling now.

“If it’s all right with you, Captain, Agent Vazquez and I will work out of these offices.”

Donovan was surprised. “Don’t you need to be at the Bureau offices in Newark?”

“As far as the Bureau is concerned, I don’t even need to be on the planet.”

“Ah, the scapegoat,” Novack said.

Janssen nodded. “In the flesh. Can you give me an office?”

“Of course,” Donovan said.

Emerson left to get all the documents related to the case for Emerson and Vazquez to go over with Novack over dinner later that night. It was decided that a lid would be kept on the developments, that only the five men in the meeting would be aware of the possible connection of Murray to the national situation. The only exception to this would be Andrew Garrett, since he had the computer knowledge and access that they would need to rely on.

Janssen was under an obligation to tell his FBI bosses what was going on, and he intended to do that. But he would not call special attention to it; he would put it through normal channels, and it would get lost in the chaos.

When and if he was ready to declare that this was for real, he would make sure that the full resources of the government were brought to bear on it.

And he had a feeling that time was coming.

I would describe my emotions as somewhere between dread and terror. The parole hearing was thirty-six hours away, and to say I was floundering was giving me an enormous benefit of the doubt.

I had planned on calling two witnesses that would be crucial to making our case. The first, Kevin Laufer, was lying in a drawer at the coroner’s office, which would likely hurt his effectiveness as a witness. The second, Novack, had just called to cancel our meeting that night, which was when I’d planned to go over his testimony with him.

When I asked why he was canceling, he said that “something came up.” He wouldn’t say what that was, except to say “sort of” when I asked if it was related to our case. He didn’t answer any more of my questions, probably because he had already hung up.

The difference between having Novack at the hearing and not having him there could not be overstated. The case was the same, but the messenger was all important. As Sheryl’s lawyer, her advocate, my version of events would be expected to be biased in her favor.

But as the arresting officer, for Novack to be taking her side and agreeing with my point of view would be enormous. He was Sheryl’s natural adversary, and for him to reverse that role and testify on her behalf would increase her chances many times over.

Additionally, our evidentiary case itself was something of a mess. Having lived it, Novack and I had no doubt that Sheryl did not murder Charlie Harrison, that she was telling the truth in her new version of events.

Her implicating Hennessey was the key that opened up everything. Hennessey’s murder, Laufer’s accusing Murray, Laufer’s murder … it could all be traced back to Sheryl’s naming Hennessey.

But that was the basis of the problem; it was Sheryl that named Hennessey. Her word was all that made Hennessey relevant to this case, and if the parole board disbelieved her, then everything that flowed from her Hennessey accusation would become irrelevant.

Besides her having an obvious self-interest in blaming someone else for the murder she was convicted of committing, there was also the little matter of Sheryl’s having confessed to the crime herself. Not only that, but she had spent six years in prison without having recanted that confession.

Only now, when she wanted to save her daughter, was she changing her story. Why should the parole board believe her? I wouldn’t believe her.

Boy, did I need Novack.

The other question I had, besides what the hell to do if Novack didn’t show up, was the question of whether I should have Sheryl speak on her own behalf. Even though I was not a criminal defense attorney, I was well aware of the great risk in having the defendant testify. It is rarely done, mainly because defendants generally do themselves more harm than good. It’s much better if anything they would have to say could be brought in through other witnesses, so that the defendant would not be subject to a potentially devastating cross-examination.

In truth, there were a number of differences here. For one thing, there would be no cross-examination; there was no prosecution to conduct it. The members of the board would be doing the questioning, and they were supposed to be unbiased, and didn’t have as their mission to show Sheryl to be guilty or a liar by trapping her.

Technically speaking, Sheryl wasn’t even a defendant. She was a petitioner, which cut both ways. The positive was that it was not an adversarial proceeding, with no prosecutor on the other side of the table. The negative was that she had the burden of proof. In a trial, the prosecutor has that burden; he or she must prove guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. Here the burden was Sheryl’s, and mine, to prove that she was worthy of parole.

But the trickiest area of all was the question of Sheryl’s desire to save her daughter. Parole boards are not there to judge guilt or innocence, in the minds of the system the jury has done that long ago. They are there to judge worthiness for early release, and they weigh two factors in doing that.

One of them is the convict’s behavior and comportment while imprisoned. We’re fine in that regard; Sheryl has by all accounts been a model prisoner.

The other consideration was far more problematic for us. The board is supposed to consider most carefully whether the petitioner will be a danger to society once released, whether or not he or she can be expected to repeat criminal behavior.

There was no secret as to what Sheryl wanted to do. It would be a huge stretch to argue that taking her own life could be considered a danger to society, but it would be equally hard for us to argue that it was not criminal behavior.

My plan was to spend the night preparing, and then go over all these factors with Sheryl the next morning.

But if we didn’t have Novack, none of it would matter.

It was a dinner that Stanley Breslin was not looking forward to. And it certainly was not the kind of situation he was expecting when he took the job as commissioner of the New Jersey State Board of Parole.

Breslin only got the job in the first place because his brother Alan was the finance chairman of Governor Scott Patterson’s campaign committee. Not that Breslin wasn’t qualified; he spent thirty years as a prosecutor and then defense attorney, and was highly regarded. He was capable of doing the parole board job in his sleep, and for eighteen months, that was pretty much how he did it.

Not that the operation that he headed was a small one, far from it. They conducted more than twenty thousand hearings a year, and supervised well over a hundred thousand already paroled felons. But Breslin had many trained professionals under him who actually did all that work, while he concentrated on the political and social end of things.

Breslin had spent considerable time with Governor Patterson, but it was only at campaign events with hundreds of people, all of whom were there to write checks. In fact, Breslin wondered with some amusement if Patterson would even recognize him without a check in his hand.

But this particular dinner was going to be different. Breslin was invited to the governor’s mansion for dinner. His wife was not part of the invitation, since it was to be a “working dinner.” Breslin knew all too well that he was the one that was going to be “worked,” and the working topic was going to be Sheryl Harrison’s parole hearing.

Patterson welcomed him graciously, and the two had a very pleasant dinner. Breslin had always found him to be an affable guy, tough but fair, and the dinner did nothing to change that opinion. Both men shared a love for sports, the New York Giants in particular, and they spent a lot of time analyzing their roster and coaching staff.

After dinner they went into the den for coffee, at which point Patterson said, “Big day, Thursday.”

“How do you mean, Governor?” Breslin asked, though he knew damn well what Patterson meant.

“You know damn well what I mean,” Patterson said, smiling. “The Harrison parole hearing is Thursday.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I want you there,” Patterson said.

“We conduct two-person panels,” Breslin said, already not pleased with the way this was going. “The two people have already been assigned. And I have not sat on a panel all year.”

“The number is up to you; there’s no law that you have to follow. And you being part of it shows the importance with which we are viewing it.” Then, “It’s important to me, Stanley.”

“What else is important to you?” Breslin said, cutting straight to the chase.

“You mean how do I want it to come out? That depends on the case that they make.”

“Suppose it’s a strong one.”

Patterson thought for a moment. “Well, let me tell you the situation I find myself in. I’ve received a prepetition requesting a commutation of her sentence. The evidentiary brief is going to follow, simultaneous with the presentation to you and your panel.”

Breslin didn’t say anything, though he noticed that Patterson had already assumed Breslin would cave and be part of the hearing.

Patterson continued, “I don’t want to have to rule on it, one way or the other. There’s no upside for me. Whichever way I go, a whole bunch of people will hate me for it.”

“That’s why you get to live in this big house,” Breslin said.

Patterson shook his head. “No, it isn’t. I get to live in this big house because I’ve managed to not get a lot of people hating me. And I’m comfortable here; I want to stay awhile.”

“You need to spell this out for me, Governor.”

“Okay. I wouldn’t presume to tell you how to rule. Certainly, if they don’t make a compelling case, you have to turn her down. But here’s the thing: If you parole her, then I don’t have to make a decision. If you turn her down, then it comes to me.”

Breslin finally understood; the governor wanted to get out of sticking his neck out by having Breslin parole Sheryl Harrison.

“Here’s the problem as I see it,” Breslin said. “We are not there to decide if she committed the murder. We are there to decide if she deserves to be paroled. The main factor to consider is whether she will commit crimes in the future, and she already has said she will. She’ll kill herself. That gives her a steep hill to climb in a parole setting.”

“Hills are there to be climbed.”

“Forget the politics of it for a second,” Breslin said. “If you were not involved, not the governor … how would you want it to come out?”

“I’d want her to be allowed to save her daughter.”

Breslin nodded. “Me too.”

“Give her a fair hearing; that’s all I ask,” said Patterson, though both men knew he was asking much more.

“That I can promise. But I’m sorry, Governor, you can’t count on me to provide your way out of this.”

Livan Figueroa did not want to be at work. A computer technician at the Limerick nuclear power plant, Figueroa had put in for that week as a vacation week months ago, and his supervisor had approved it. He and the family were going to drive to Ocean City; they had wanted to go to Disneyland, but Figueroa’s wife was too freaked out by what had happened on that ride in California.