Bury the Lead

9



THE FIRST THING I do in the morning is turn on the television to see the kind of play the Linda Padilla murder is getting. It’s as big as I expected: national news and the lead story on the Today show.

I’m surprised when Daniel Cummings is Katie Couric’s first interview, from his hospital room. He tells what happened with a heavy emphasis on his heroism in the face of danger; if Eastside Park were Iwo Jima, Daniel would be commissioning someone to paint him planting the flag. It’s becoming increasingly clear that my client is trying to use these murders to achieve stardom.

As an ex-cop, Laurie is anxious to hear more about the situation, and she peppers me with questions. She can’t quite understand my role in this any better than I can, questioning why Vince brought me into the case. And questioning even more why I agreed to do it.

“He’s my friend,” I point out.

“But you don’t think he’s telling you everything.”

I nod. “That’s true.”

“Why are you letting him get away with that?” she asks.

“He’s my friend.”

She leans over and kisses me. “I love your simplicity.”

I nod. “Along with my virility, it’s one of my best traits. You want to work on the case with me?”

“For free?”

“Yup. But you’ll get to watch my simplicity close-up.”

“I’m weakening,” she says.

“And there’s absolutely nothing for us to do.”

“Then I’m in.”

I’ve now accomplished my main goal, which is to have company while I’m wasting my time. Had Laurie not agreed to be my investigator, I probably would have asked Tara next.

Since I have nowhere else to go, I suggest that our first stop should be the hospital to check on Cummings’s condition, though he seemed fine when he talked to Katie Couric. Laurie asks that we first stop off at the murder scene; she wants to get a feel for what happened.

I wait for Laurie to shower and dress, which is unlike waiting for any other woman. Laurie can get out of bed and be ready to leave the house in ten minutes, as fast as any guy I know. But she looks considerably better than any guy who ever lived.

We sample the radio stations on the way to the park. If the killer hoped to get maximum attention and instill maximum fear in the public, choosing Linda Padilla as a victim was a brilliant move. Her murder has ratcheted up the “state of siege” mentality in the community.

Just during our ten-minute drive, on news stations we hear straight reporting, rehashed but unsubstantiated rumors about Linda Padilla’s connections to organized crime, testimonials about the purity of her life, tip hot lines set up by the police, amateur profiles on the killer’s psyche, and quotes from Captain Millen and Cummings.

Over on talk radio the callers are angry, demanding action and FBI intervention in the case. “Harry from Lyndhurst” considers the problem one of police priorities. “They got time to give me a speeding ticket, but no time to catch this killer.” Harry, it turns out, is one of the more thoughtful callers.

There is still a police presence at the scene, and the public is kept away by the ten or so cops assigned to protect it. Two of them were trained by Laurie when she was on the force, and she has no trouble getting them to let us in.

Padilla’s body was found in the pavilion, so that is where we go. There is a chalk outline where the body had been. I wonder whose job it is to draw that, and if they give a class in it at the Police Academy. If I were a cop, that would be the assignment I’d go after. I’d even be willing to start as an assistant chalker and work my way up.

“She was strangled?” Laurie asks.

I nod. “From behind.”

“She wasn’t killed here.”

“How do you know that?” I ask.

She points to some scrape marks which lead to the area where the body was. “She was dragged . . . from that door . . . probably wrapped in a sack. If she was alive, he wouldn’t have bothered dragging her this far . . . he would have killed her closer to the door. There’s also no blood; if her hands were cut off here, even postmortem, there would be some blood.”

There’s something about the way she re-creates what happened here that both chills me and leaves me very sad. No one deserves to be dragged in a sack to be dumped on a cold floor. If there is a way to end a life, this sure ain’t it.

We’re quiet on the way to the hospital, each of us affected by what we have just seen. Laurie is frustrated; she knows this maniac has struck four times and will keep going until he’s caught. She wants to be involved in tracking him down, rather than simply hanging out with the lawyer for the newspaper that is reporting the story.

“Why would he pick a guy like Cummings?” I ask.

“Certainly, he wants attention, a forum to speak to the world without exposing himself to danger. But why Cummings? It’s hard to say. Isn’t he a law-and-order, tough-on-crime guy? Maybe that’s why the killer picked him. It’s another way to thumb his nose at authority. Which also may be why he picked Linda Padilla.”

“I’m not so sure,” I say. “There doesn’t seem to be any pattern to the victims. My guess is they were chosen at random. Padilla may just have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

We arrive at the hospital and walk through the lobby toward the elevators. Laurie sees the cafeteria down the hall. “I just want to get a cup of coffee first,” she says.

“More coffee?” I ask. “Doesn’t anybody drink tea anymore? What the hell is this society coming to?”

“Investments not going well?” she asks, but since she knows the answer, she doesn’t wait to hear it, and heads to the cafeteria.

When we finally get to Cummings’s room, he is sitting in a chair, fully dressed and talking to Vince. I introduce him to Laurie, and then Vince gives Laurie a big hug and wide smile. For some reason, Laurie brings out gracious behavior in human beings otherwise incapable of it.

Cummings says, with obvious frustration, “So, defense attorney, you specialize in getting clients out of confinement? How about getting me out of here?”

“What’s the problem?” I ask, irritated by his tone.

“Hospital regulation bullshit,” says Vince. “They have to do all kinds of paperwork before a patient can be released.”

“That’s nice for them, but they have five minutes. I have work to do.” Cummings looks at his watch, as if that will make his threat more credible.

“Relax, Daniel,” says Vince. “Your story for tomorrow is written already.”

Cummings’s face shows no sign of relaxing, and he opens the door, calling out to a nurse as she walks by the room. “Nurse, we need to get out of here.”

The nurse answers nervously, “I’m sorry, Mr. Cummings, I’m sure they’ll be here momentarily.”

She closes the door and doesn’t hear him ask, “Who’s ‘they’?”

Cummings doesn’t go back to his chair and instead paces the room. He turns to Laurie and me. “Are they making any progress on the murders? I’m cut off from the damn world in here.”

As I’m about to tell him that I have no idea, the door opens and Captain Millen walks in, flanked by five officers. They seem to come in a little too quickly, as if rushed, but that is not the most surprising thing about their entry. The most surprising thing is that they are holding guns.

“What the . . . ?” Cummings starts.

“Turn around! Hands against the wall!” Millen barks as his officers move toward Cummings.

Vince says something—I can’t make out what—and moves toward Cummings. Vince is pushed out of the way by the officers, and Laurie grabs hold of him, keeping him out of the fray.

“Are you crazy?” asks Cummings. “What the hell . . . ?”

Millen pays no attention, screaming even louder. “Now! Against the wall!”

Cummings still doesn’t react, and is roughly turned around, pushed against the wall, and his hands are cuffed behind his back.

“Daniel Cummings,” Millen begins, “I am placing you under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law . . .”

He completes the Miranda warning. By now Cummings has been reduced to stunned silence. “What is the charge, Captain?” I ask.

“For right now it’s just the murder of Linda Padilla. But my guess is, there will be others.”

He signals for his officers to take Cummings out of the room, and they do so immediately. As Cummings leaves, I say, “Do not say a word to anyone until I am in your presence.” Cummings doesn’t respond; the shock of all this is affecting his mind’s ability to process.

“Do you understand?” I ask. “Not one word.”

He finally nods slowly, then is led away.

As Millen follows them, he turns to me. “Well, lawyer, looks like you got yourself something to do.”