Scream Catcher (10 page)

The kill gamer glances over his shoulder, at the two cops standing four-square atop the courthouse steps, at the third cop poised only a few feet away from him. He then throws a wide-eyed glance towards the circle of Girl Scouts.

“It’s Jordan, Captain,” he corrects. “Little Hector is dead.” Stepping closer to the Captain he whispers, “If you close your eyes and listen carefully, you can hear the sound of Hector’s screams. He screams for you Captain, and your boy, Jude.”

Heading out across the lawn, Lennox runs a hand through the long auburn hair of a seated Girl Scout before the escorting cop grabs hold of his arm, pulls him towards the crowded village.

Office of the Warren County Prosecutor

Tuesday, 2:32 P.M.

Inside the eighth floor office Jude sits beside his father in a polished wood chair.

P.J. Blanchfield stands behind her desk in her blue blazer, white button down and matching skirt. She’s the epitome of clean and confident despite the disappointing outcome of the arraignment.

Jude can’t help but notice that she’s a tall, athletic, handsome woman with straight strawberry blond hair cut neatly just above broad shoulders. What Rosie might enviously refer to as “drop dead gorgeous.” Thick lips, sallow cheeks, hazel eyes complete the presentation of a go-getter, a winner. A take-no-prisoners kind of brass-knuckled woman.

At the same time, here’s the same woman who faced Lennox in court once before and lost. Here’s the same woman who, in Jude’s mind anyway, should have been screaming at Judge Mann to wake up and smell the coffee—the blond dreadlocked man who stood before his bench was not only the gravel pit killer, but the prodigal return of the devil himself.

To the right of Blanchfield’s desk stands a large antique glass case. Displayed inside are four basketballs, each with a different year scribbled on them in bright silver Sharpie. The basketballs are trophies that hearken back from Blanchfield’s glory days at Providence College where she played women’s hoops on a full athletic scholarship. So she is quick to explain during the nervous small talk period immediately following Jude’s and Mack’s entrance into the top floor office. Neatly framed above the basketball cabinet is the front page of the local newspaper bearing the headline
“Blanchfield Steals County Prosecutor!”

The headline is accompanied by a photo of a slightly younger but no less attractive woman standing at a podium that’s been set on the steps of the new courthouse. In the picture Jude can see that she’s addressing a crowd of Lake George supporters. Surrounding her on the podium are several town dignitaries, Mack and Judge Mann included.

Sitting herself down, the prosecutor plants forearms atop the desk.

“Your cooperation is sorely appreciated, Mr. Parish,” she starts off by saying. “Especially now that conditional bail has been granted and satisfied. Naturally, Christian Jordan has twenty-four hours to produce a passport.”

“Lennox,” Mack jumps in. “His name is Hector Lennox.” Then he coughs and says something that takes his son by surprise: “Under the circumstances, P.J., I’m seriously considering asking Jude to reevaluate his involvement in this case.”

Blanchfield turns quickly, eyes on Jude. If she were in possession of an Adam’s apple, it might bob up and down in her throat.

“Have you had a change of heart, Mr. Parish?”

Jude shoots his father a look like,
Aren’t you the one who insisted I stay the course?
But then it dawns on him that the old Captain is putting on a bluff at the good prosecutor’s expense
.

“Here’s the way I see it,” Mack answers in his son’s stead. “If we want Jude to go through with his testimony, then I must see to it that he and his family are thoroughly protected. You on the other hand, must do everything in your power to make sure this quote—Christian Jordan—unquote, is exposed for the man he really is. Anything less and Jude calls off the wedding.”

“So long as your son remains committed to the cause, I am confident that we can give it a fair shot,” Blanchfield says.

Mack coughs again.

“Our killer wasn’t supposed to make bail either.”

The prosecutor’s face appears to lose all its color. It seems to petrify beneath its thin patina of powder and rouge.

She says, “With all due respect, Captain, don’t be fooled into believing this case—if it indeed remains a case—will prove open and shut.” Crossing arms over chest. “Jude is a highly unreliable eyewitness. Apparently Judge Mann is a reader and a fan of Jude’s work. Or perhaps he vividly recalls the actual Elizabeth Bay incident that formed the basis of Jude’s book. That said, whether Jude was knocked unconscious before or after he got a good look at Lennox is apparently open to conjecture for the good Judge.”

Jude knows his father like he knows himself. He can tell by the old Captain’s stabbing eyes and pouty mouth that he does not trust Blanchfield. After all, not only did Lennox manage to best her in court before, the killer just scored again in that morning’s arraignment.

Perking up, the prosecutor says, “What we do have on our side however, is circumstance and probable cause.”

“And there is the matter of a long-standing gag order,” Mack adds.

“Right you are, Captain. That alone should keep the media hounds at bay, keep them from creating a media frenzy and panic. However, that does not mean that life will be any easier for us.” Eyes shifting to Jude. “If Judge Mann does not consider you a completely reliable eyewitness, then neither will a jury.”

“My son is a decorated former officer of the law,” Mack chimes in.

“And there you have my single reason for entertaining Jude’s testimony.” Her undivided attention again directed onto Jude. “I want your full cooperation in taking me and my team back to the crime scene. I intend to walk through every step of the murder as it happened. If we can match up this morning’s M.O. with the M.O.s of the previous two murders, we just might have something to go on.

“In the meantime I’m ordering a full psych evaluation on you. I will not tolerate Lennox challenging your sanity when the county names you as its number one witness come Friday morning.” Blanchfield forces a smile. “You are sane, are you not, Jude?”

The former cop finds himself grinning as if something funny is going on. But in reality the Prosecutor’s question slams him like a nightstick to the back of the head. She’s obviously referring to
Cop Job
and Jude’s self-confessed
fear factor
—his having frozen up at a time when he should have been stopping Oscar Burns from murdering his family.

The prosecutor rises.

She says, “I’m calling Terry MacSweeny back in from the FBI field office in Washington.”

“He’s retired,” Mack points out.

“Not so retired he won’t testify against a serial creep like Lennox,” Blanchfield corrects. “He was willing to conduct our interviews last time. I don’t see why he won’t help us on this one. Especially when an FBI field investigation seems inevitable.”

Jude recognizes the name Terry MacSweeny. He’s famous after all, the agent often appearing on television. FBI and
Cold Case File
programs. His book did far better than Jude’s, having remained on the
New York Times
nonfiction bestseller list for more than a year (
Cop Job
only graced it for one week). Jude even met the special agent once inside Penn Station during a New York City tour stop for his own book. Jude never realized until now that the agent had helped his father in his original case against Lennox.

“I expect to hear from MacSweeny soon,” Blanchfield goes on. “For now I want you to head home, get some rest, Jude. My assistant, Lois, will call you later on this afternoon to coordinate our schedules.”

Mack gets up. Jude follows while the somber and taller Blanchfield comes around the desk, looks down upon the two men.

“You recently married,” she says. More a statement than a question.

“Remarried,” Jude confirms. “A little more than a year ago.”

“Does your wife work?”

“She was a partner in a clothing boutique in New York. But she sold out when we got married and moved back up here, so she could spend time with my son and raise our daughter to be.”

Blanchfield smiles the sad smile of a woman who might have wanted children once, but … She runs a thin hand through smooth hair, pushes it off her forehead.

“How old did you say your boy is?”

“He’ll be eleven come October. His name is Jack.”

Jude isn’t entirely sure the point the prosecutor is trying to make by asking about his family. Maybe she just wants to get to know him better; get a feel for all he’s risking by willingly involving himself in the Lennox case. Or maybe she’s simply trying to be personable, nice. Either way the questioning doesn’t put him the least bit at ease.

Blanchfield leads Jude and Mack to the door, opens it for them. Together they step out into the marble foyer. The place is new enough that it still smells of fresh paint.

“Lennox’s legal proceedings,” she says from the open door. “The hearings, the trial prep, the testimony, the long hours spent cooped up inside your home: it will be hard on you, but it will be harder on your family. You must be prepared for that.”

“Jude and his family are to be well protected,” Mack reiterates. “We’ll also keep a vigilant eye on Lennox. He steps out his front door for the morning paper we’ll be on him like underwear.”

Blanchfield shoots Mack a stern look.

She warns, “You know how this works, Captain. Tenacity will play against us. The last thing we need right now is a disgruntled Christian … excuse me … Hector Lennox filing for what could amount to valid harassment proceedings on top of a potential false arrest.” Running both hands through her hair. “Judge Mann has granted the suspect his freedom as a non-flight risk. He’s successfully posted bail and he’s been fitted with a surveillance bracelet. Do not post a blue uniform outside his apartment unless the Judge orders it. No undercover either. We just can’t risk it. His every move will be electronically monitored from this point out.”

Jude’s stomach is twisting itself in knots. Maybe on the surface Blanchfield is talking up a tough argument. But he feels he could stuff all the confidence in this room inside a shot glass and still have space left over.

“Frankly,” Mack says, “I’m a little concerned about this surveillance bracelet situation. I haven’t had much experience with them since they came on the scene back in the ‘90s. None to be truthful.”

“If you’re thinking that Lennox might slip it off, you have nothing to worry about. They are a tamper-proof and very reliable means of surveillance and monitoring.”

“They’re machines powered by computer chips. And a computer can be beaten. Especially by an expert hacker like Lennox.”

Blanchfield grins.

She says, “Should he tamper with the bracelet in any way, the alarms will sound inside your communications department and then you’ll get your wish. Because Mann would have no choice but to lock him up.”

Silence settles over the office like a cloud of mustard gas. Until Mack clears his throat.

“But just so I’m clear on this matter, P.J.,” he presses, “You are one-hundred-percent certain that you can prosecute this case?”

Blanchfield nods.

“It’s simply a matter of making the unreliable witness reliable,” she says.

“I know what I saw,” Jude says.

“That’s what you think,” Blanchfield says before heading back into her office.

Office of the Warren County Prosecutor

Tuesday, 2:55 P.M.

The prosecutor closes the door behind her and against department regs, locks it.

Back at her desk she opens the bottom drawer, pulls out an old one-quart bottle of Chevis and a clear drinking glass. With a trembling right hand, she pours herself a shot, brings the glass to her lips, pulls the whiskey down fast, stifling the throat-burning urge to choke. Allowing her system a quiet moment to calm itself, she pours another drink. Only this time she lets it sit out and breathe atop her desk.

The intercom buzzes.

Thumbing the key, she whispers, “What is it, Lois?”

“There’s an old friend on line two, won’t give his name. Says you two ran into one another in court this morning. Do I get rid of him?”

Blanchfield’s internal organs feel as if they’re about to squeeze themselves out her navel, one after the other. She knows she has no choice but to confront the caller.

“Thank you,” she says, tapping line two with a manicured nail.

Placing the phone to her ear, she mumbles a tentative, “This is P.J.”

But there is only silence. Not a true silence. More like someone breathing heavily on the other end of the connection.

“Hello, is anyone there?” she probes, voice now raised in proportion to her rising pulse.

“Should the FBI decide to set up camp outside my door,” comes the soft, high-pitched voice, “or should you and your L.G.P.D. become aggressive during the course of your shall we say, preliminary investigation, I will have no choice but to expose the truth about your campaign for Warren County’s first female Prosecutor. Am I clear on this?”

Blanchfield eyes the whiskey glass. She picks it up with her free hand, places it to her teeth. Tipping it up, she swallows.

“Crystal,” she chokes.

“I’ll be in touch from time to time over the next seventy-two hours,” says the caller. “But one thing you can start on right now is finding a way for me to remove this uncomfortable piece of ankle jewelry.”

When she hears a hang up, the prosecutor puts down the phone. She sits back in her chair, senses a hole burning in her throat.

She thinks: