“My client is not admitting any responsibility for these unfortunate deaths.”
“Don’t make me laugh, counselor,” Heat said, tweaking the lawyer. “Unfortunate deaths are what happen when E. coli gets into the spinach. We’re talking homicide. Multiple homicides. And just so you know? I don’t need him to admit responsibility. We have enough physical evidence to make the DA’s case.”
“Not to mention, our own experience as unfortunate victims,” added Rook.
“So getting back to my meeting,” Heat said. “I want to hear what your client has to say about why. Why did he need to kill these people?” She waited, knowing that the silence was a pose. Nikki had determined she was dealing with a highly egotistical type, probably a narcissist. The Julian Assange posters spoke volumes about his fantasies and self-image. She would lay it all out and see if that overwhelming jones for attention would get her what she needed.
“I have a theory, you know. Want to hear it? Why not, and you can tell me if I’m wrong.” When Nikki had their curiosity sufficiently aroused, she resumed. “People kill for many reasons. Heat of passion—that’s usually a one-off. Same with robbery, burglary…violent criminal stuff. Revenge, now that can be either a singleton or a multi. This doesn’t smell like revenge. But. If you’re stepping outside the world of serial killers or mass murderers, the motive my experience leads me to is…” Heat paused. Their heads flicked her way, which was just what she wanted—a sign of their chasing the bait.
“Let’s do some show-and-tell,” she said. “This is what I believe these murders were all about.” Heat reached down and picked up a plain brown paper NYPD Forensics bag from the floor and set it on the table. “Want to know what’s inside? I bet you do. First let’s talk about some recent history. Around here we call that the Timeline.
“You’ve been working over the past year with your Forenetics consulting team to investigate the cause of an unaccountable spike in one specific type of traffic fatalities. You and your experts concluded that the cause of these deaths was a flaw in the SwiftRageous software for the stability-control system. Yet you ran into a stone wall when Tangier Swift and his battalion of lawyers shut you down. But your Splinter Group was so outraged and passionate that you met at a cabin in Rhinebeck one weekend, where you all committed to blow the whistle about the auto safety defect. Right so far?”
Backhouse just kept his eyes on the brown bag and said nothing.
“Continuing,” she said, “you told me the meeting ended with a lot of alcohol. Well, late the same night your summit ended, there was a fatal crash on a country road between Rhinebeck and New York City. We’ve since learned that the car involved belonged to a member of your Splinter Group, Nathan Levy. And that there was a bribery cover-up by another Forenetics associate, Fred Lobbrecht, who was then a state trooper. Levy left the accident scene to visit an ER in Cortlandt for a leg injury. We have his X-rays.” Wilton Backhouse remained passive, but the narrative was animating his attorney, who had started jotting notes. “So much for hurting it in that fistfight you tried to sell me.”
Nikki moved the brown bag an inch just to tease them. Then she said, “Let me bring this home. The why—the elusive why all the murders?—is right in here.” Heat stood and reached inside the bag. She withdrew a black rectangle, about the size of a small computer keyboard, sealed in a clear plastic envelope. She set it on the table and watched Backhouse try to hide his discomfort. “As a forensics expert yourself, Wilton, you should really appreciate this.” The lawyer cast a wary glance at his client, then both stared at the plastic Ziploc. “And I see you already do.”