The Insanity Plea (17 page)

Kate finished her lunch and put her
lunch pail beside her briefcase. One of the advantages of living at home was
that her mother still made her lunch every day, including a thick roast beef
sandwich, an apple and three chocolate chip cookies. She pulled her Bible from
a drawer in her desk and, as usual, expected to spend the last half of her
lunch hour studying it. She particularly enjoyed the Old Testament, those
sections that talked about God being a vengeful God and passages demanding an
eye for an eye. Given a half hour she could always find something to support
her belief that she was God’s servant and doing his will. Then someone knocked.

“Come in,” she said in a loud voice.

Detective Jim Jefferies came through
the door. “Afternoon, Kate. You got a few minutes?”

Jefferies was in his late forties,
born on the island, mostly bald and now carrying about fifty pounds too many
for a once slender frame. He had gone to community college after graduating
from Galveston High School and then joined the police force. His wife, also an
islander, worked in the district clerk’s office. With their three children
grown, he had enough years to retire, but enjoyed his work. Solving mysteries
was a lot more fun than catching fish.

“Come in, Jim. What have you got?”

“We’ve got the Little file complete
now. The final crime scene reports just came back from the DPS lab in Austin. I’m
ready to turn it over to you. You got time for me to walk you through it?”

“Sure,” Kate replied as she tucked
away her Bible. “Let me come around to that side of the desk.” Doing so, she
pulled a chair up beside Jim. He opened a large file bound by rubber bands.

He started with the 911 call from the
retired couple, now transcribed and certified. Reports and statements from the
two police officers who found Dan came next.

“Here’s a transcription of the intake
interview along with the video. Next is the report from Dr. Parke and his video
interview.”

Detective Jefferies worked his way,
item by item, to the bottom of the folder. Then he carefully arranged the
information and replaced the rubber band.

“Now, here’s the evidence box. Slides
of the victim’s blood, along with lab reports and DNA findings; the bracelet
with the defendant’s finger print report; the defendant’s shoes and DNA
findings of the blood on the front of the left sole that matches the victim.”

Getting to the bottom of the box, he
pulled out a plastic bag with a lab slip attached. “Here’s something a little
bit strange. It’s a key that was found close to the scene, but in the street by
the curb, ten feet from where the attack occurred. Maybe the victim threw it
away at the last instant or someone accidentally kicked it into the street. Could
have been lying there for weeks,” Jim said. “Also interesting that it’s got
just a little blood on it, enough, to check for DNA. It doesn’t match any other
DNA at the scene.”

“Get that key and the DNA report out
of this file,” Kate stormed as she rose from the chair and circled back around
the desk. “It doesn’t have anything to do with this crime scene. You know how
many people walk and ride and jog up and down that seawall all day long. Probably
some guest at the Galvez.”

“We checked that. Not a Galvez key.”

“I really don’t care where it came
from. I’m expected to win this case and send this guy to the death chamber. I
don’t want it in this file, you hear me. We’ve got an airtight case here,
enough that the defense is even pleading insanity. That key is just a red
herring that will confuse the jury. I don’t care what you do with it. Drop it
in the bay for all I care. It’s not a part of this evidence file. You clear on
that?”

“Yeah, Kate, I am. Like you say, this
file now on your desk is the official police file in the case. So be it.”

Jim rose from his chair without
another word, putting the plastic bag and attached lab report in his jacket
pocket and left the office. Kate made a mental note to re-type the evidence
list, eliminating the key.

Parke felt the tension from the early
morning magically lift from his body as he made the drive from the Denver
airport, up into the mountains, toward Vail. He purposely stopped at three
scenic overlooks to breathe in the mountain air and relax his mind. When he
arrived home, he went straight to his computer to record the events of the
morning.

I was invited to speak to an assembly of law enforcement senior officials
at The Breakers in South Florida. My audience on the afternoon before was
composed of police chiefs and superintendents from all over the country, some
of my friends from the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI and an assortment of
spouses and guests who wanted to hear my thoughts about serial killers. They
also wanted any insight I could give them about the random mass murders that
were becoming all too frequent since Columbine. I really had no firm ideas
about the mass murderers, but said that I was beginning to profile them with
the hope that there might be a way to recognize their behavior patterns before
they became violent. I stayed for the cocktail party that evening where I
discussed several pending cases with police officials who wanted to hire me as
an expert, and I was approached by one of the FBI agents in the BAU. He wanted
me to go to Quantico to assist them in trying to identify The Runner, a name I
heard the first time at the cocktail party. Decent enough moniker for a serial
killer. Certainly better than BTK or, for god’s sake, Son of Sam. I kind of
liked it. I knew the request was going to come sooner or later. I hope I hid my
delight. Again, I could divert attention away from myself, this time on a scale
even more than getting one conviction in Galveston.

The next morning I rose early, wanting to take a run on the beach before
catching my flight to Denver. I knew that the area was overrun with law
enforcement types and had not planned to look for a victim. That changed as I
awakened. I needed to hunt. To hell with the cops. I can’t explain the feeling
that comes over me. I have no control over it. Originally, after a kill it
would be weeks before the urge rose again. Now, it seemed to be days. It was
there. I dressed in my shorts, T-shirt and running shoes. I strapped the knife
to my waist. Someone might wonder why I had my knife with me if I did not plan
to kill. I no longer plan. Now, it’s like a sexual tension that builds until it
is released with another killing. That morning it was time. I wish I could
stop, but I no longer can do so. I am powerless. I am truly insane.

I left the door from a side entrance so as not to be seen by the front
desk or valet staff. When I got to the beach, I had to make a decision. North
or south? One way could lead to nothing more than a pleasant sunrise run. The
other might lead to a victim. Such is destiny. I chose north. Two miles from
the hotel the sun was announcing that the day was imminent, and I was ready to
turn back with a sense of disappointment, when I spotted the embers of a beach
campfire ahead. Around the fire were three slumbering people. I had never
killed three at once. I approached cautiously. Beer bottles were scattered in the
sand. Three surfboards were lying among them. The evening had been warm. Two
men and a young woman were passed out on beach towels. I looked for others
approaching. No one. This would be almost too easy. I unsheathed my knife and
started with the two young men. Next was the girl, nude on her towel. They died
in their sleep with blood spurting from their carotid arteries. I turned and
headed back to the hotel. As I jogged the two miles, I was slowly able to
regain control of my emotions and my actions. There now can be no doubt that I
am mad.
   

Wayne was preparing his version of a
formal dinner. A table cloth covered the card table. Four places were set,
complete with silverware, wine glasses and cloth napkins. Steaks were
marinating on the kitchen counter, a freshly made salad was in the fridge,
potatoes were baking in the oven and Blue Bell cherry vanilla ice cream waited
in the freezer.

Wayne surveyed his work, pronounced
it well done and poured himself a scotch on the rocks. He sipped his drink and
was picking up the remote to surf the Saturday afternoon sports channels when
the door opened and Rita came through, juggling a stack of photos and computer
print outs in one hand and a freshly made apple pie in the other. Wayne leaped
to her rescue, grabbed the pie and placed it on the bar.

“Thanks, sweetie,” Rita said as she pushed
the door shut with her hip and set the stack of photos and the printouts on the
coffee table. “Go ahead. You can turn on whatever event you were about to
search for,” she continued

“Well, I was about to flip to NASCAR.
They’re at Talladega this weekend and that track is almost always good for one
giant pile-up. I’ll mute the sound if you don’t mind me glancing over to the TV
occasionally. What’s this stuff on the table?”

“Photos I took in Vail. On second
thought, get me a glass of Merlot and let’s go up to the balcony and enjoy the
weather. The photos can wait until later when Duke and Claudia get here.”

They started up the stairs. Rita
stopped long enough to take a computer printout from the stack of photos. They
settled into wrought iron chairs on the balcony and Rita handed the printout to
Wayne. The printout was an online story from a New York newspaper. “Read it. Then
we’ll talk.”

Wayne read. Rita watched the setting
sun reflecting off the downtown skyscrapers.

Wayne finished, put the printout on
the drink table and joined Rita in watching the sun dance from building to
building. Finally, he spoke.

“Very interesting. How’d you find it?”

“I’ve programmed my computer to scan
newspapers in 46 cities around the country. I get a bunch of alerts every day. This
is the first one worth talking about.”

“You’re right about that,” Wayne said
as he picked up the printout and read,
Early
Friday morning the body of a female jogger was found in Central Park. The young
woman was formerly from Kansas City and had been in New York for two years,
according to a police spokesman. She worked as a waitress while she tried to
get a break on Broadway. CSI investigators reported that her throat had been
cut with an extremely sharp instrument.

“And I’ve learned more, a couple of
things that will not be reported in the media,” Rita added. “I had one of my
buddies at HPD call New York. Her running shorts were gone. And her body was
arranged so that her right hand was raised like a cop stopping traffic. Her
left hand was at her face with two fingers in her mouth as if she was
whistling. Best guess is that the killer is saying ‘Stop me if you can!’ First
one with the body posed. We’re up to six or seven now. Finally, my friend with
HPD thinks we’re dealing with a national serial killer. He’s reporting all
we’ve got to the FBI.”

“Duke continues to believe that even
as sick as Dan was, it’s a slim-to-none chance that we’ll convince a jury that
he didn’t know the killing was wrong, even with Dr. Brickman on our side.” Wayne
rose and turned to face Rita. “That means we
must
find that killer and tie him into Debbie’s murder.”

Wayne turned and put his hands on the
balcony rail as he stared off in space, contemplating the almost insurmountable
task that lay before them. Rita chose not to disturb his thoughts. Then, they
heard a voice from below.

“Hey, you leave us anything to
drink?” Wayne glanced down to see Duke and Claudia walking toward them.

“Come on in. Door’s open. We’ll be
right down.”

When they got to the bottom of the
stairs, they found Duke and Claudia flipping through Rita’s photos.

“What the hell are these?” Duke
asked.

“Pictures I took in Vail,” Rita
replied.

Duke gave her a quizzical look.
 
“Most times, people go to Colorado and take
pictures of mountains, babbling brooks, stuff like that. Never knew anyone that
took pictures of libraries.”

“Cool it, Duke. You’re talking to
Rita Contreras, private eye. Those are pictures of Dr. Parke’s library. I blew
them up to sixteen by twenty so we could make out the titles of the books. I
can zoom in more on the computer if you find something interesting. I’m not
even sure why I took them. I just thought he was a little strange and his
library seemed to match his personality.”

“Wow,” Claudia said. “Look at these
titles. I can’t make them all out. From the ones that I can, if these are his
bedtime reading, he must have some really weird dreams.”

“Hey, check this.” Duke was studying
the photos of Dr. Parke’s desk. “Looks like the draft of a research paper. All
I can make out is the title,
Serial
Killers: A Fifty
Year Survey of How
They Escape Detection
.”

Rita searched the photos until she
found the one she was looking for. “See this one. You can just make out a part
of a closet door beside the bookshelves. Parke keeps it locked. Makes me wonder
what’s so important behind that door.”

“Okay, guys,” Wayne said as he
watched the muted replay of a ten car pile-up at Talladega, “What I want to
know is if there is anything in those pictures that’s going to help us impeach
Parke at trial.”

“Quick answer is no,” Duke said. “Waste
of time to confront him. He’s proud of the fact that he helps out the FBI and
other law enforcement in profiling and solving crimes. He’ll just say it’s all
part of his job to read this kind of crap. For all I know, he may be right.”

“That makes for an interesting
scenario,” Rita interrupted. “I just showed Wayne a news article on another
killing in Central Park. I’ve talked to the HPD and got some information about
it. They’ve decided to contact the feds.”

“Enough about serial killers for now.
Rita and Dan are working on that angle.
 
Duke, Claudia and I have my brother to defend.
Let’s get dinner ready and talk about where we are and what we need to get done
before trial. Duke, go out on the back balcony and fire up the gas grill. Steaks
are ready as soon as the grill is hot.”

Thirty minutes later the steaks were
done, medium rare for everyone, and the posse was seated at the candle-lit
table.

“Wayne,” Duke chided, “ain’t it about
time that you sprung for a real dining room table. I ‘spect you can afford it.”

“I agree,” Rita chimed in. “I’ll even
pick it out from Gallery Furniture and they’ll deliver it the same day.”

“Deal,” Wayne said. “Rita, I hereby
appoint you as my designated shopper.” Over ice cream and Rita’s apple pie,
Duke turned to the matter at hand. “Okay. I now call the meeting of the posse
to order. The topic is the status of preparation for Dan’s trial and further planning.”

 
“Since, I’ve been involved in the drafting and
arguing of motions, I can only say that we gave it our best,” Claudia said,
disappointment at the rulings still in her voice. “We’ll re-urge them at trial,
but nobody should hold their breath. I think I’ve done what I can do to
preserve error for appeal. I’m ready to go to the United States Supreme Court,
if necessary.”

“I gotta tell you I was very
disappointed in Felix’s ruling on the confession,” Duke replied.

Wayne frowned. “I honestly thought
that your briefing and argument were going to carry the day. Guess that shows
what I know about criminal law. Still, I agree that we have to move on. Duke, I
certainly don’t intend to be critical, but I’m concerned about Dr. Brickman. He’s
a nice guy. But he’s hard to understand and may have a drinking problem.”

Duke gazed at the muted television
screen and took a swig of his scotch as he thought about his psychiatrist friend.
“Trust me on this one, Wayne. I’ve known him for a dozen years. He’ll be primed
and ready when we need him. I know you could see the charm in his personality
behind that strange southern drawl. And, by the way, I’ll make sure the priming
is not with bourbon.”

“We’ve also got Dr. Adashek. He
should carry a lot of weight with a Galveston jury. Local doc, long time
treater, no ax to grind,” Wayne responded and paused. “What about our defense? By
pleading insanity we’ve effectively given up ‘not guilty.’ Anyone have any
strong reservations about our decision?”

“Wayne, I think we’re right, despite
how tough that defense is with a jury,” Duke responded. “The physical evidence
is just too damning. By the way, the Department of Public Safety lab should
have their final results back to Klein’s office. That means the Galveston cops should
be turning their file over to Kate about now, complete with lab results, and
we’re entitled to study their findings. Maybe we can do that next week.”

“And, guys, I’m going with you,” Rita
said. “I’m the P. I. on this team. I want to see what’s there. I also think
it’s about time that I meet Dan and your mom, Mr. Little.”