The surveillance video was slightly better quality than average, but not the best, meaning that the two figures they were tracking were somewhere between gray blobs and a blurry home movie.
Fletcher had already explained the process he’d used to narrow down the footage. He started by looking for people going in or out of the room registered to Kerry Lynch on April 10, the night in question. Once he had eyes on Kerry, he looked for any other appearances between checkin and checkout by her or anyone else she was seen with. Usually Corrine wouldn’t trust a private security guard to select which clips she needed to see, but Fletcher was a good cop.
As it turned out, the only person Kerry was filmed with was a man Corrine recognized as Jason Powell. According to Fletcher, Kerry checked in alone shortly after 4:30 p.m., left alone shortly after 7:15, and then returned with Jason at 10:12 p.m. “And go,” he announced, hitting the play button.
The two figures moved through the lobby, both in business attire—open collar and a sports coat for him; blouse, blazer, and knee-length skirt for her. After a shift in the camera perspective, they rode the elevator together side by respectable distance by side. After another skip, they were in the hallway of the eleventh floor.
Nothing unusual yet, but Corrine flashed Fletcher a thumbs-up. He had gone above and beyond the call of duty, editing the footage into one smooth scene.
He nudged her, indicating that something good was about to happen.
As Kerry fished what Corrine assumed to be a hotel key from her purse, Jason Powell placed the palm of his hand against her lower back and then followed her into the room as the door opened.
Without prompting, Fletcher hit pause.
“That was her back, right?” he asked. “Not her butt?”
“That’s what I saw.”
Fletcher raised his eyebrows. The gesture, combined with walking up to her hotel room for a private conversation, seemed more intimate than professional, but the moment moved quickly. It may have been a friendly after-you gesture.
“So we’re at ten fourteen when they go inside,” Fletcher said. “Nothing more until this at ten thirty-six.”
Twenty-two minutes later. The light changed on the left side of the video. It was the door opening. Jason stepped out, walking backward. The sports coat was gone. He was still speaking to someone inside the hotel room. Kerry appeared in profile, barely past the threshold of the door, handing him his jacket. No, insisting that he take it. She seemed to be telling him to leave.
“Pause?” Corrine asked. Kerry was still dressed, but her blazer was off. So were the heels she’d been wearing when they entered. Corrine nodded for Fletcher to hit play again.
Jason was continuing to talk, and Kerry was still pushing the jacket toward him, finally tossing it toward him and shutting the door. Jason knocked on the door, paused, then knocked again. He hesitated and then looked side to side, as if he were checking to make sure no one else was in the hallway.
He ran his fingers through his hair and walked quickly to the elevator, pulling his jacket on as he moved. He pressed the button repeatedly, shifting his weight impatiently.
Once in the elevator car alone, he rested against the wall, leaning his head back.
“Look, he’s talking to himself,” Fletcher whispered. “Did you see it? His lips were moving.”
The quality of the footage from the elevator was better than in the lobby and hallway. More light. Closer perspective. Probably better equipment.
Fletcher skipped the footage back, and they both watched Jason’s lips move again. “I watched it a couple times but stopped to make sure I had enough time to get all the clips lined up. Best I got is, ‘Whoop dee doo.’”
Corrine chuckled. “Only men in pleated slacks say ‘Whoop dee doo.’”
After several additional viewings, she had a theory. After two more, she was sure.
She spoke the words aloud, in sync with the silent movie. What did I do?
Fletcher rewound, and this time they said it aloud together. Jason was saying “What did I do?”
“Guilt?” Corrine said. “Or panic?”
“Yeah, but about what?” Fletcher asked. “I know it was the guest’s name on the subpoena, but I recognize the man. That intern’s complaint is not the only one?”
Corrine shook her head. Fletcher was the last person who’d speak out of turn about a case.
He volunteered his first impression. “His hand on her back as they went in the room? She didn’t come forward until now? He’ll say it was consensual. He’ll say the tiff at the door was because he didn’t stay overnight. And ‘What did I do?’ He was mad at himself for cheating on the wife.”
“Except that’s not what he said when I asked him.” When Corrine went to Powell’s house the night before and asked about Kerry Lynch, he’d immediately said that she worked for one of his consulting clients. She asked him directly whether he’d had sexual contact with Kerry, and he denied it, accusing the NYPD of going on a “witch hunt” based on Rachel’s accusation.
“So now all you need is the DNA swab,” Fletcher said. “Not a bad case. Not a slam-dunk, mind you, but I’ve seen worse.”
Corrine had the footage on a thumb drive on her keychain when she called King from the car. The conversation was quick. Now that they had the video surveillance, plus Powell’s denial of a relationship, he was ready to proceed, but AT&T had just confirmed they’d be sending Powell’s call log tomorrow. It was one more step to show a judge that they were being thorough. Once they had the AT&T phone records in hand, he’d ask for a warrant to collect a sample of Jason Powell’s DNA. With a positive match, they’d have enough for charges.
Corrine was halfway back to Harlem when her cell rang.
“Duncan,” she said.
“It’s Kerry Lynch.”
“Hi, Kerry. I was about to call you,” Corrine lied. One of her few complaints about sex cases was that victims tended to think of the case as “theirs,” as if they were private plaintiffs who employed the police and prosecutors.
“Please don’t be mad. I should have called earlier.”
“Mad about what? Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, I guess. But Jason called me. Did you go to his house last night and ask him about me?”
Part of not reporting to victims as if they were her boss meant that Corrine did not inform Kerry of every step in the investigation. “I needed to get a statement,” she said.
“Well, he called me about it this morning.”
Corrine thought about the call logs that were supposed to be on their way to her from the cell phone company. Hopefully they’d be recent enough to capture whatever call Kerry was talking about. “What did he say?”
“That he’d kill me if I told anyone what happened at the hotel that night. Please help me. He’s not the man he pretends to be.”
20
When I got to FSS’s offices, Zack said Jason was out for a run. “Did he know you were coming in?” he asked.
I wanted to tell him it was none of his business, that I could pop into my husband’s office unannounced whenever I felt like it. And, no, I hadn’t called ahead. I was sick of Jason trying to protect me from the truth. I needed to ask him face-to-face why he had lied to me about the police coming to our house the night before. Instead, I said, “Oh, I had to return something at Barney’s, so I figured I’d surprise him. I’ll wait in his office.”
Two young men tried not to stare as I passed them in the hall. Interns. I recognized one as Wilson Stewart. I knew they’d be talking about me the second I was out of earshot.
I didn’t get up from my chair when he walked in. His T-shirt had a V-shaped ring of sweat down to his navel. He was thinner than usual. Why hadn’t I noticed that earlier?
He was still out of breath. “Hey you. Zack said you were here.” He gave me a quick kiss on the cheek. “Sorry, I’m gross. It’s still May, and it feels like the middle of summer. Don’t tell me global warming’s a hoax.”
“Can you close the door?”