I nodded. “So we have at least two unsolved Jane Does in Bangkok. Has anyone actually questioned Bayer?”
“At this point, no, but he’s being watched. Remember the politics, the fear of a scandal that I mentioned earlier? There’s an ongoing investigation of Bayer and the others, but to some extent our hands are tied.”
“My hands aren’t tied,” I said to Jones. “That’s what you wanted me to say, isn’t it? What you expected? It’s why you met with me tonight?”
Jones turned very serious. “It’s how the world works, I’m afraid. Let’s do this together from here on. If you help us ? I promise to do what I can to find out what happened to Christine Johnson.”
Chapter 90
THE TRIAL RESUMED sooner than expected—the following Wednesday, in fact. There was speculation in the press about how serious Shafer’s self-inflicted wounds had been. None of the public’s perverse interest in the case seemed to have been lost.
It seemed impossible to predict the outcome, a fact of life I tried not to let get me down too much. Both Shafer and I were present in the packed courtroom that first morning back. Shafer looked pale, weak—an object of sympathy, perhaps. I certainly couldn’t take my eyes off him.
Things got stranger and stranger. At least they did for me. Sergeant Walter Jamieson was called that morning. Jamieson had been at the Police Academy when I attended it. He had taught me my craft, and he was still there, teaching others. I couldn’t imagine why he would be called as a witness in Patsy Hampton’s murder case.
Jules Halpern approached the witness with a heavy-looking hardback book open in his hands.
“I read to you from the textbook Preserving the Crime Scene: A Detective’s Primer, which you wrote twenty years ago and which you still use in your classes: ‘It is imperative that the detective not disturb the crime scene until backup can be brought in to corroborate charges effected by the detective to unearth evidence, lest those charges be misconstrued to be those of the perpetration. Gloves must be worn at all times at a crime scene.’ Did you write that, Sergeant Jamieson?”
“Yes, I did. Most certainly. Twenty years ago, as you said.”
“Still stand by it?” Halpern asked.
“Yes, of course. A lot of things have changed, but not that.”
“And you heard earlier testimony that Detective Cross wore gloves both inside Detective Hampton’s car and at the Cassady apartment?”
“Yes, I heard the testimony. I also read the grand-jury transcripts.”
Halpern turned on the overhead projector in the courtroom. “I direct your attention to prints number one-seventy-six and two-eleven provided by the D.A.’s office. You see the ones denominated?”
“Numbers one-seventy-six and two-eleven. I see them.”
“Now, the prints are denominated ‘Detective Hampton Belt Buckle: ID: Alex Cross/Right Thumb’ and ‘Left Side Dashboard: ID: Alex Cross/Left Forefinger.’ What does that mean? Can you explain the markings to us?”
“It means that Alex Cross’s prints were found on Detective Hampton’s belt as well as on the dashboard of her car.”
Jules Halpern paused for a full ten seconds before he went on. “And may we not therefore conclude, Sergeant Jamieson, that Detective Cross himself may be our murderer and rapist?”
“Objection!” Catherine Fitzgibbon stood up and shouted.
“Withdrawn,” said the defense attorney. “I’m finished here.”
Chapter 91
LAWYERS FOR BOTH the prosecution and the defense continued to appear regularly on Larry King and other TV shows, and to boast that their cases were “slam dunks.” If you listened to the lawyers, neither side could lose.
In the courtroom, Jules Halpern had the fierce look and body language of someone brimming with confidence and determination. He was riding the case hard. He looked like a jockey whipping his Thoroughbred to victory.
The bailiff stood and announced, “The defense calls Mr. William Payaz.”
I didn’t recognize the name. Now what? Now who?
There was no immediate response in the courtroom.
No one came forward.
Heads craned around the room. Still, no one responded. Who was the mystery witness?
The bailiff repeated, a little louder, “Mr. Payaz. Mr. William Payaz.”
The double doors in the back of the room suddenly opened, and a circus-style clown walked in. The gallery began to whisper loudly, and a few people laughed. What a world we lived in; what a circus, indeed.
The clown took the stand, and both the prosecution and the defense were immediately called forward for a sidebar by Judge Fescoe. A heated discussion ensued that none of the rest of us could hear. The clown issue was apparently resolved in favor of the defense. After being sworn in, the clown was asked his name for the record.
With his white-gloved right hand raised, he said, “Billy.”
The bailiff asked, “Last name, please?”
The clown said, “First name, Silly. Last name, Billy. Silly Billy. I had it legally changed,” he turned and confided to the judge.
Jules Halpern then took over, and he treated the clown with respect and seriousness. First, he asked him to state his credentials, which the clown did, politely. Then Halpern asked, “And what brings you here today?”
“I did a party for Mr. Shafer out in Kalorama on the fateful and terrible night of the murder. It was his twins’ fifth birthday. I did a party when they were four as well. I brought a video along. Want to see?” he said, speaking as if he were addressing a crowd of three-year-olds.
“Of course,” said Jules Halpern.
“Objection!” Catherine Fitzgibbon called out loudly.
The video was admitted over the prosecution’s objections and after yet another lengthy sidebar. The newspapers had claimed that Judge Fescoe was intimidated by Jules Halpern, which seemed the case.
The tape began with an arresting close-up of a painting of a clown’s face. As the camera pulled back, everyone in the courtroom could see it was the sign on Silly Billy’s van, which was parked in front of a handsome redbrick town house with a glass conservatory linked to the main building. The Shafer house.
The next scene showed Silly Billy ringing the front bell and apparently surprising the Shafer children at the door.
Once again, the prosecution objected to the videotape. There was another sidebar. The lawyers returned to their seats, and the tape resumed.
The other children at the birthday party then ran to the door. The clown handed out toys from a sack slung over his shoulder —teddy bears, dolls, shiny red fire trucks.
Silly Billy then performed magic tricks and gags on the sun porch, which looked out onto the backyard. The yard was very pretty, with potted orange trees, white climbing roses, a jasmine vine, lush green grass.
“Wait! I hear something outside!” he turned and said into the camera. He ran and disappeared from sight.
The kids all followed. The tension of surprise and imminent fun showed in the children’s eyes.
A cream-colored pony appeared, cantering slowly around the corner of the house. Silly Billy was riding the pony.
But when the clown dismounted, the kids discovered that the clown was actually Geoffrey Shafer! All the kids went wild, but especially the Shafer twins. They ran and hugged their daddy, who seemed the perfect father.
There were heartwarming candid shots of the children eating frosted cake and playing party games. There were more shots of Shafer laughing and playing with several of the children. I suspected that Jules Halpern had supervised the final editing of the tape. It was very convincing.
The adult guests at the party, all dressed up and looking sophisticated, gave glowing testimonials. They said that Geoffrey Shafer and his wife were outstanding parents. No longer in his clown costume but in a smart navy suit, Shafer modestly deflected the tributes. He had changed into the same clothes he wore when he was apprehended at the Farragut.
The tape ended with the smiling
and quite beautiful twins telling the camera that they loved their mommy and daddy for making their “dream come true.” The lights came up. The judge granted a brief recess.
I felt incredibly angry that the video had been shown. It made Shafer out to be a wonderful father—and such a victim.
The jury was all smiles, and so was Jules Halpern. He had argued masterfully that the tape was crucial to establishing Geoffrey Shafer’s state of mind shortly before Patsy Hampton’s murder. Halpern was so skillful an orator that he’d actually made the outrageous request to show the video sound logical. At any rate, it was moot now.
Shafer himself was smiling broadly, as were his wife and son. It suddenly occurred to me that Shafer had been riding a pale horse at the party for his children. He was Death, from the Four Horsemen.
It was all theater and games to him, his entire life.
Chapter 92
SOMETIMES I WANTED to shut my eyes tight and not have to watch another moment of the trial. I wanted things to be the way they’d been before the Weasel.
Catherine Fitzgibbon was doing a very good job with each witness, but the judge seemed to be favoring the defense whenever possible. It had begun at the critical suppression hearing, and it continued now.
Lucy Shafer took the witness stand early that afternoon. The warm, homespun videotaped images of the Shafer family were still fresh in the minds of the jurors.
I had been trying to understand Lucy Shafer’s odd and perplexing relationship with her husband since the first time I met her, on the night of Patsy Hampton’s murder. What kind of woman could live with an unrepentant monster like Shafer and not know it? Could this woman be that much in denial? Or was there something else that motivated her, somehow held her captive to Shafer? I had seen all kinds of marital relationships in my therapy practice, but nothing like this.
Jane Halpern conducted the questioning, and looked every bit as confident and winning as her father. She was tall and slender, with wiry black hair tied in a bow with a dark-crimson ribbon. She was twenty-eight, just four years out of Yale Law School, but seemed older and wiser.
“Mrs. Shafer, how long have you and your husband known each other?”
Lucy Shafer spoke in a gentle but clear voice. “I’ve known Geoffrey for most of my adult life, actually. My father was his commanding officer in the army. I believe I was just fourteen when I first met Geoff. He was nine years older. We married when I was nineteen, after my second year at Cambridge. Once, when I was studying for exams, he showed up at university in full military dress—polished saber, medals, shiny black leather riding boots—right in the middle of the library. I was studying in a sweatshirt or some such awful getup, and I don’t think I’d washed my hair in days. Geoff told me it didn’t matter. He didn’t care a bit about appearances. He said he loved me and always would. I must tell you, he’s kept that promise.”
“Very nice,” Jane Halpern said, seemingly utterly charmed, as if she’d never heard the story before. “And has he remained romantic?”
“Oh, yes, even more so. Scarcely a week goes by when Geoff doesn’t bring me flowers, or perhaps a beautiful Hermès scarf, which I collect. And then there are our ‘ouch’ excursions.”
Jane Halpern wrinkled her nose, and her dark-brown eyes twinkled. “What are ‘ouch’ excursions?” she asked with the exuberant curiosity of a morning TV-show host.
“Geoff will take me to New York, or maybe Paris, or back to London, and I get to shop for clothes until he says ‘ouch.’ He’s very generous, that way.”
“A good husband, then?”
“The best you could imagine. Very hardworking, but not so much that he forgets about his family. The children adore him.”
“Yes, we could tell that from this morning’s film, Mrs. Shafer. Was the party an unusual occasion?”
“No. Geoffrey’s always throwing parties. He’s very joyful, full of life, full of fun and surprises. He’s a sensitive, very creative man.”
I looked from Lucy Shafer to the jury box. She had the jurors in a spell, and they couldn’t take their eyes off her. She was also credible. Even I had the sense that she genuinely loved her husband, and more important, that she believed he loved her.
Jane Halpern milked the testimony for all it was worth. I couldn’t blame her. Lucy Shafer was attractive and seemed nice, kind, and obviously was very much in love with her husband and adored her children, but she didn’t appear to be a fool. Just someone who had found exactly the man she wanted and valued him deeply. That man was Geoffrey Shafer.
It was the indelible image the jurors took away with them at the end of the day.
And it was an amazing lie, spun by a master.
Chapter 93
I TALKED THINGS OVER with Andrew Jones when I got home after court that afternoon. I’d tried to contact Oliver Highsmith again, but so far hadn’t gotten any response. Also, there was nothing new to link Shafer to the Jane Doe murders in Washington. Shafer didn’t seem to have murdered anyone, at least locally, in the past several months.
After a dinner of chicken pot pie, salad, and rhubarb pie, Nana gave the kids the night off from their chore of doing the dishes. She asked me to stay and help, to be her “partner in grime,” as we used to call it.
“Just like the good old days, same as it ever was,” I said as I splashed soap and water onto silver and dishes in the porcelain sink that’s as old as the house.
Nana dried the kitchenware as quickly as I got it to her. Her fingers were still as nimble as her mind. “I like to think we’re older and wiser,” she chirped.
“I don’t know. I’m still the one getting dishwater hands.”
“I haven’t told you something, and I should have,” Nana said, going serious on me.
“Okay,” I said, and stopped splashing water and soap bubbles around in the sink. “Shoot.”
“What I wanted to say is that I’m proud of the way you’ve been able to handle the terrible things that have happened. Your strength and your patience have given me inspiration. And I’m not easily inspired, especially by the likes of you. I know it has had the same effect on Damon and Jannie. They don’t miss a thing.”
I leaned over the sink. I was feeling in a confessional mood. “It’s the worst stretch of my life, the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. It’s even worse than when Maria died, Nana, if that’s possible. At least back then I knew for sure she was dead. I could let myself grieve. I could finally let her go and breathe again.”
Nana came around the sink and took me in her arms, which always surprised me with their strength.
She looked me squarely in the eyes, just like she always has since I was around nine years old. She said, “Let yourself grieve for her, Alex. Let her go.”
Chapter 94
GEOFFREY SHAFER had an attractive, loving wife, and that incongruous and monstrously unfair fact bothered me a lot. I couldn’t understand it as a psychologist or as a detective.
The clever testimony of Lucy Shafer continued early the following morning and lasted just over an hour. Jane Halpern wanted the jury to hear more about Lucy’s wonderful husband.
Finally, it was Catherine Fitzgibbon’s turn. In her own way, she was as tough, and maybe as formidable, as Jules Halpern.
“Mrs. Shafer, we’ve all been listening to you intently, and it all sounds very charming and idyllic, but I’m troubled and confused by something. Here’s what troubles me: your husband tried to commit suicide eight days ago. Your husband tried to kill himself. So maybe he isn’t quite what he seems to be. Maybe he isn’t so well balanced and sane. Maybe you’re mistaken about who he really is.”
Lucy Shafer stared directly into the prosecuting attorney’s eyes. “In the past few months, my husband has seen his life, his career, and his good name falsely put in jeopardy. My husband couldn’t believe that these horrible charges were made against him. This whole Kafkaesque ordeal drove him, quite literally, to despair. You have no idea what it means to lose your good name.”
&n
bsp; Catherine Fitzgibbon smiled and then quipped, “Sure I do. Of course I do. Haven’t you read the National Enquirer lately?” That got a laugh from the courtroom audience, even the jury members. I could tell that they liked Catherine. So did I.
She continued, “Isn’t it true that your husband has been treated for ‘despair’ for many years? He’s seeing a psychologist, Mrs. Shafer. He suffers from manic depression, or bipolar disorder, correct?”
Lucy shook her head. “He’s had a midlife crisis. That’s all it is. It’s nothing unusual for men his age.”
“I see. And were you able to help him with his crisis?”
“Of course I was. Although not with respect to his work. So much of what he does is classified and top-secret. You must understand that.”
“I must,” the prosecutor said, then quickly went on, “So your husband has a great many secrets he keeps from you?”
Lucy frowned, and her eyes shot darts at the wily prosecutor. “In his work, yes.”
“You knew that he was seeing Dr. Cassady? Boo Cassady?”
“Yes, of course I did. We often talked about it.”
“How often did he see her? Do you know? Did he tell you that? Or was it top-secret?”
Jane Halpern shouted, “Objection!”
“Sustained. Ms. Fitzgibbon,” warned Judge Fescoe, with an arched brow.
“Sorry, Your Honor. Sorry, Lucy. All right, then. How often did your husband see Boo Cassady?”
“He saw her as much as necessary, I suppose. I believe her name is Elizabeth.”
“Once a week? Twice? Every day?” Fitzgibbon pressed on, without missing a beat.
“I think once a week. Usually it was once a week.”