Thirteen: The Serial Killer Isn't on Trial. He's on the Jury.

PROLOGUE

AT TEN AFTER FIVE on a raw December afternoon, Joshua Kane lay on a cardboard bed outside the Criminal Courts Building in Manhattan and thought about killing a man. Not just any man. He was thinking about someone in particular. It was true that Kane had, at times, while on the subway or watching passersby, occasionally thought about killing a nameless, random New Yorker who happened to fall into his line of vision. It could be the blond secretary reading a romance novel on the train, a Wall Street banker swinging an umbrella as he ignored Kane’s pleas for change or even a child holding its mother’s hand on a crosswalk.

How would it feel to kill them? What would they say with their final breaths? Would their eyes change in that moment of passing from this world? Kane felt a ripple of pleasure feed heat into his body as he explored those thoughts.

He checked his watch.

Eleven after five.

The sharp, towering shadows flooded the street as the day melted into twilight. He looked at the sky and welcomed that dimming of the light, as though someone had placed a veil over a lamp. The half light suited his purpose. The darkening sky returned his thoughts to the kill.

While he’d lain in the street, for the past six weeks, he’d thought of little else. For hours on end he silently debated whether this man should die. Apart from this man’s life or death, everything else had been carefully planned.

Kane took little risk. That was the smart way. If you are to remain undetected, you must be cautious. He had learned this long ago. To leave the man alive carried risks. What if their paths crossed sometime in the future? Would he recognize Kane? Would he be able to put it all together?

And what if Kane killed him? There are always a multitude of risks in such a task.

But these were risks that Kane knew, risks that he had successfully avoided many times before.

A mail van pulled up at the curb and parked opposite Kane. The driver, a heavyset man in his late forties wearing a postal uniform, got out of it. Regular as clockwork. As the mailman walked past him and went inside the service entrance to the court building, he ignored Kane lying on the street. No loose change for the homeless. Not today. Not for the past six weeks either. Not ever. And, regular as clockwork, as the mailman walked past him, Kane wondered if he should kill him.

He had twelve minutes to decide.

The mailman’s name was Elton. He was married with two teenage kids. Elton ate from an overpriced artisan deli once a week when his wife thought he was out running, he read paperback novels that he picked up for a buck apiece from a little store in Tribeca, and wore furry slippers when he took out the trash on Thursdays. What would it feel like to watch him die?

Joshua Kane enjoyed watching other people go through different emotions. To him, sensations of loss, grief, and fear were as intoxicating and as joyous as the best drugs on the planet.

Joshua Kane was not like other people. There was no one like him.

He checked his watch. Five twenty.

Time to move.

He scratched at his beard, which was almost full now. Wondering if the dirt and sweat added to its coloring, he slowly got up from the cardboard and stretched his back. Moving brought his own scent to his nose. No change of pants or socks for six weeks, no shower either. The odor made him gag.

Something to take his mind from his own filth was required. At his feet, a moldy upturned ball cap held a couple of bucks in change.

There was satisfaction in seeing a mission through to its conclusion. To see your vision fulfilled exactly as you’d imagined it. And yet Kane thought it would be exciting to introduce the element of chance. Elton would never know that his fate would be decided in that moment, not by Kane, but by the toss of a coin. Selecting a quarter, Kane flipped the coin, called it in the air, caught it, and laid it flat on the back of his hand. While the coin had spun in the cold mist of his breath, he’d decided that heads meant Elton would die.

He looked at the quarter, shiny and new against the dirt ingrained on his skin, and smiled.

Ten feet from the parked mail van sat a hot dog stand. The vendor served a tall man with no coat. Probably just got out on bail and was celebrating with some real food. The vendor took the man’s two dollars and pointed him toward the sign on the bottom of the stand. Beside the pictures of grilled kielbasa sausage was an ad for an attorney and a phone number below it.

HAVE YOU BEEN ARRESTED? CHARGED WITH A CRIME? CALL EDDIE FLYNN.

The tall man bit into his dog, nodded, and walked away just as Elton came out of the court building hauling three sacks of mail in gray burlap bags.

Three bags. That confirmed it.

Today was the day.

Normally, Elton emerged with two bags or even a single bag of mail. But every six weeks Elton came out with three bags. That extra mailbag was what Kane had been waiting for.

Elton unlocked the rear panel doors on the mail van and tossed the first bag into the back. Kane approached slowly, his right hand outstretched.

The second bag followed the first into the van.

As Elton took hold of the third bag, Kane rushed toward him.

Hey buddy, you got some spare change?

No, said Elton, and hurled the last bag into the van. He closed the right side of the van doors, then took hold of the left-hand door and slammed it shut like a man who didn’t own it. Timing was key. Kane stretched out his hand, fast, begging for a few dollars to be placed into his palm. The path of the van door took Kane’s hand and the momentum slammed the door shut on Kane’s arm.

Kane had timed it well. He listened to the sound of metal hinges as they scissored against flesh, crushing the limb. Grabbing that arm, Kane let out a cry and fell to his knees, watching Elton put both hands on top of his head, his eyes large and mouth distended in shock. Given the speed at which Elton slammed the door, and the sheer weight of the thing, there was little doubt that Kane’s arm should’ve been broken. And a messy break at that. Multiple fractures. Massive trauma.

But Kane was special. That’s what his momma always told him. He cried out again. Kane felt it was important to put on a good show: the least he could do was pretend to be hurt.

Jesus, watch your hands. I didn’t know your arm was there … You … I’m sorry, said Elton, spluttering.

He knelt beside Kane, and apologized again.

I think it’s broken, said Kane, knowing that it wasn’t. Ten years ago, most of the bone had been replaced with steel plates, bars, and screws. What little bone that remained was now heavily reinforced.

Shit, shit, shit… said Elton, looking around the street, not knowing exactly what to do. It wasn’t my fault, said Elton, but I can call a paramedic.

No. They won’t treat me. They’ll take me to the ER and I’ll be left on a gurney all night then sent away. I don’t have insurance. There’s a med center. Ten blocks away at most. They treat homeless. Take me there, said Kane.

I can’t take you, said Elton.

What? said Kane.

I’m not allowed to take passengers in the van. If somebody sees you up front I could lose my job.

Kane breathed a sigh of relief at Elton’s efforts to stick to the Postal Service rules. He had counted on it.

Put me in the back. That way no one can see me, said Kane.

Elton stared at the rear of the van, and the open side door.

I don’t know…

I’m not going to steal nothin’, I can’t move my arm, for crying out loud, said Kane, and followed it with a moan as he nursed his arm.

After a moment’s hesitation, Elton said, Okay. But don’t go near the mail sacks. Deal?

Deal, said Kane.

He groaned as Elton lifted him off the street, and cried out when he thought Elton’s hands got too close to his injured arm, but a short while later, Kane sat on the steel floor in the rear of the mail van and made all the right noises to accompany the rocking of the suspension as the van drove east. The rear of the van was separate from the cab, so Elton couldn’t see him, and probably couldn’t hear him, but Kane figured he may as well make the noise just in case. The only light came from a two-by-two bubbled glass hatch in the roof.

They had barely cleared the vicinity of the courthouse when Kane produced a box cutter from his coat and cut the ties at the top of the three mailbags from the courthouse.

First bag was a bust. Regular envelopes. Second bag too.

The third bag was the charm.

The envelopes in this bag were different, and identical. Each envelope bore a printed red band on the bottom with white lettering that read OPEN THIS CORRESPONDENCE NOW. IMPORTANT COURT SUMMONS INSIDE.

Kane didn’t open any of these. Instead, he spread each envelope out on the floor. As he did so, he filtered out those addressed to women, and placed them back inside the bag. Half a minute later he had sixty, maybe seventy envelopes spread out in front of him. He took pictures of five envelopes at a time, using a digital camera that he then tucked back into his clothing. He could blow up the images later to focus on the names and addresses written on each one.

His task complete, Kane returned all the letters to the bag, and retied them all with fresh ziplock tags that he’d brought with him. The tags weren’t that hard to come by, and they were the same brand used by the court office and the post office.

With time to spare, Kane spread his legs out on the floor and looked at the photos of the envelopes on his camera screen. Somewhere in there he would find the perfect person. He knew it. He could feel it. The excitement sent his heart fluttering. It was like an electric current that rose from his feet and plowed straight through his chest.

After the constant stop-and-start of Manhattan traffic, it took Kane a few moments to realize the van had in fact parked. He put the camera away. The rear doors opened. Kane clutched the arm with the fake injury. Elton leaned into the van, offering a hand. Cradling one arm, Kane reached out with the other hand, grabbed Elton’s outstretched arm. Kane got up. It would be so easy, so quick. All he needed to do was plant his feet and pull. Just a little more pressure and the guard would be hauled into the van. The box cutter could go through the back of Elton’s neck in one smooth motion, and then follow the jawline to the carotid artery.

Elton helped Kane out of the van as if he was made out of glass and walked him into the med center.

The coin had come up tails: Elton wouldn’t be touched.

Kane thanked his savior and watched him leave. After a few minutes, Kane left the center and walked out into the street to check the van hadn’t doubled back to make sure he was okay.

It was nowhere to be seen.

Much later that same evening, Elton, dressed in his running gear, left his favorite deli with a half-eaten Reuben sandwich under one arm, and a brown paper bag of groceries under the other. A tall, clean-shaven, well-dressed man suddenly stood right in front of Elton, blocking his way, causing him to halt in the dark, beneath a broken streetlight.

Joshua Kane was enjoying the crisp evening, the feel of a good suit and a clean neck.

I tossed the coin again, he said.

Kane shot Elton in the face, walked briskly into a dark alley, and disappeared. Such a quick, easy execution gave Kane no pleasure. Ideally he would’ve liked a few days with Elton, but he couldn’t spare the time.

He had a lot of work to do.

SIX WEEKS LATER

MONDAY

CHAPTER ONE

NO REPORTERS SAT in the courtroom benches behind me. No onlookers in the public gallery. No concerned family members. Just me, my client, the prosecutor, the judge, a stenographer, and a clerk. Oh, and a court security officer sitting in the corner, surreptitiously watching a hockey game on his smartphone.

I was in 100 Centre Street, the Manhattan Criminal Courts building, in a small courtroom on the eighth floor.

Nobody else was there because no one else gave a shit. In fact, the prosecutor didn’t much care for the case, and the judge had lost interest as soon as he read the charge sheet: possession of narcotics and drug paraphernalia. The prosecutor was a lifer in the DA’s office by the name of Norman Folkes. Norm had six months before he collected his pension, and it showed. The top button of his shirt was undone, his suit looked as though he’d bought it during Reagan’s presidency, and the two-day stubble on his cheeks was the only thing that he wore that looked clean.

The Honorable Cleveland Parks, presiding judge, had a face that looked like a deflated balloon. He rested his head on his hand and leaned over the judge’s bench.

How much longer do we have to wait, Mr. Folkes? said Judge Parks.

Norm looked at his watch, shrugged, and said, Apologies, Your Honor, he should be here any second.

The female clerk rattled papers in front of her. Silence invaded the room again.

Let me say, for the record, Mr. Folkes, you are a highly experienced prosecutor, and I assume you know that nothing irritates me more than lateness, said the judge.

Norm nodded, apologized again, and pulled some more on his shirt collar as Judge Parks’s jowls began to change color. The longer Parks had to sit there, the more his face turned red. That was about as animated as Parks got. He never raised his voice or wagged an accusing finger—he just sat there fuming. His hatred of tardiness was well known.

My client, a fifty-five-year-old ex-hooker named Jean Marie, leaned toward me and whispered, What happens if the cop doesn’t show, Eddie?

He’ll show, I said.

I knew the cop would show. But I also knew he would be late.

I’d made sure of it.

It could only work with Norm as the prosecutor. I’d filed the motion to dismiss the charges two days ago, just before five, when the listing officer had already gone home. Years of practice had given me a good idea of how quickly the office processed paper and set a hearing. With the backlog in court filing at the office, we probably wouldn’t get a hearing before today, and the court office would scramble around to find a free courtroom. Motions are normally in the afternoon, around two o’clock, but neither the prosecution nor the defense would know which courtroom we would appear in until a few hours before. Didn’t matter. Norm would have cases to do in the morning, in arraignment court, and so would I. The custom would be to ask the court clerk in whichever courtroom we were in to check on the computer and tell us in which courtroom our motion would be heard later that day. When we got confirmation of our motion venue from the court clerk any other prosecutor would pick up their cell phone and call their witness, letting them know where they were supposed to be. Not Norm. He didn’t carry a cell. Didn’t believe in them. He thought they gave out all kinds of bad radio waves. I’d made sure to find Norm earlier that morning, in arraignment court, and let him know the venue for this afternoon’s hearing. Norm would rely on his witness doing exactly what he would have to do if I hadn’t already told him the courtroom number. His witness would have to check out the court venue from the board.

The board is located in Room 1000 in the court building—the clerk’s office. Inside that office, along with the lines of people waiting to pay fines, a whiteboard stood up with a list of the trials and motions going for hearing that day. The board is there to tell witnesses, cops, DAs, law students, tourists, and lawyers exactly where the trial action is in the building at any given time. An hour before the motion was due, I went up to Room 1000, made sure my back was to the clerk, found my motion on the board, rubbed out the courtroom number and scrawled in a new one. A small trick. Not like the long, risky operations I’d run when I was a con artist for ten years. Since I’d become a lawyer I allowed myself the occasional lapse back into my old ways.

Given how long you have to wait for an elevator in this place, I figured my diversion was good enough to set Norm’s witness back by ten minutes or so.

Detective Mike Granger walked into the courtroom twenty minutes late. At first, I didn’t turn when I heard the doors opening behind me. I just listened to Granger’s feet on the tiled floor, walking almost as fast as Judge Parks’s fingers rapping on his desk. But then I heard more footsteps. That made me turn.

Behind Granger, a middle-aged man wearing an expensive suit walked into the court and sat at the back. Instantly recognizable, he had a flop of fair hair, a row of TV-white teeth, and a pale, office-bound complexion. Rudy Carp was one of those lawyers who battled out cases for months on the nightly news, appeared on TruTV, got his face on the cover of magazines, and had all the courtroom skills to back it up. An official litigator to the stars.

I’d never met the guy. We didn’t hunt in the same social circle. Rudy had dinner at the White House twice a year. Judge Harry Ford and I drank cheap scotch once a month. At one time I’d let the booze get the better of me. Not now. Once a month. No more than two drinks. I had it under control.

Rudy waved in my direction. I turned and saw the judge staring at Detective Granger. When I swung back Rudy waved again. Only then did I realize he was waving to me. I waved back, turned around, and tried to refocus. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what the hell he was doing in my court.

Good of you to join us, Detective, said Judge Parks.

Mike Granger looked every inch the veteran New York cop. He walked with a swagger—he took off his sidearm, spat out his gum, and slapped it onto the pancake holster before leaving it under the prosecution table. No guns were to be taken into court. Law enforcement were supposed to check their sidearms at security. The court officers usually let veteran cops slide, but even the vets knew not to wear a gun on the witness stand.

Granger tried to explain why he was late. Judge Parks cut him off with a shake of the head. Save it for the stand.

I heard Jean Marie sigh. Her black roots were showing through her bleached dye job and her fingers trembled as she brought them to her mouth.

Don’t worry. I told you already, you’re not going back to jail, I said.

She’d worn a new black pantsuit for court. It looked good on her—gave her a little more confidence.

While I tried to reassure Jean, Norm got the show on the road by calling Granger to the stand. He was sworn in, and Norm took him through the basics of Jean’s arrest.

He was passing Thirty-seventh Street and Lexington that night, saw Jean standing outside a massage parlor with a bag in her hand. Granger knew she had a rap sheet for turning tricks, back in the day. He stopped, approached her. Introduced himself and showed her his badge. At that point he says he saw drug paraphernalia protruding from the top of Jean’s brown paper sack.

What was this drug paraphernalia? asked Norm.

A straw. It’s routinely used by addicts to snort narcotics. I saw it, clear as day, sticking out of the top of her bag, said Granger.

Judge Parks wasn’t surprised, but he rolled his eyes nonetheless. Believe it or not, in the last six months half a dozen young African American men had been arrested and held by the NYPD for possession of drug paraphernalia because they had soda straws in their possession, usually stuck into the top of a soda cup.

And what did you do then? said Norm.

For me, seeing drug paraphernalia on a person—that’s probable cause. Ms. Marie has a record for drug offenses, so I searched her bag and found the drugs inside. Five small baggies of marijuana in the bottom of the sack. So I arrested her.

It sounded like Jean was going to jail. Second drug offense in twelve months. No probation this time. She was going down for probably two to three years. In fact, I was reminded that she’d already done a little time for this offense. After her arrest she spent three weeks inside before I could get a bail bondsman to write me a bond for her.

I’d asked Jean about the bust. She told me the truth. Jean always told me the truth. Detective Granger had rolled up on her looking for a little free action in the back of his car. Jean told him she was done turning tricks. So Granger got out of the car and grabbed her bag. When he saw the weed inside, he changed his tune; told her he wanted fifteen percent of her takings from now on or he would bust her right then and there.

Jean told him she already paid two patrol officers in the 17th Precinct 10 percent and from the looks of it they weren’t doing their job. Those cops knew Jean and had an easy time looking the other way. Despite her background, Jean was a patriot. Her product was homegrown US marijuana straight from the state-licensed farms in Washington. Most of Jean’s customers were elderly—smoking away their arthritis pains, or getting relief from glaucoma. They were regular customers and no trouble. Jean told Granger to get lost so he busted her and cooked up a story.

Of course, I couldn’t prove any of that in court. I wasn’t going to even try.

As Norm sat down, I stood up, cleared my throat, and adjusted my tie. I placed my feet shoulder-width apart, took a sip of water, and steadied myself. It looked like I was getting comfortable—ready to go at it with Granger for at least a couple of hours. I picked up a page from the file on my desk, and asked Granger my first question.

Detective, in your statement you said the defendant was holding the shopping bag in her right hand. We know this is a large brown paper sack. Hard to hold in one hand. I take it she was holding the sack by the handles at the top of the bag?

Granger looked at me like I was stripping away his precious time on banal, stupid questions. He nodded and a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

Yeah, she was holding the bag by the handles, he said. He then looked over at the prosecution table confidently, letting them know he had this down: I could tell Norm and Granger had discussed the lawful use of straws at some length in preparation for today. Granger was more than ready for that. He’d expected to have a big argument with me about the straw, and whether it was just being used for a soda—yada, yada, yada.

Without another word, I sat down. My first question was also my last.

I could see Granger eyeing me suspiciously, like he might’ve just had his pocket picked but couldn’t be sure. Norm confirmed he had no desire to reexamine the witness. Detective Granger left the witness stand and I asked Norm to give me three exhibits.

Your Honor, Exhibit One in this case is the bag. This bag, I said, holding up a sealed, clear evidence bag that contained a brown paper sack with the McDonald’s logo on the front. I bent down and picked up my own McDonald’s bag. Held it up for comparison.

These bags are the same size, precisely. This bag is twenty inches deep. I got this one this morning with my breakfast, I said.

I put both bags down, picked up the next exhibit.

This is the contents of the defendant’s bag, taken from client the night of her arrest. Exhibit Two.

Inside this sealed exhibit bag were five small wraps of marijuana. Altogether, they wouldn’t have been enough to fill a cereal bowl.

Exhibit Three is a standard soda straw from McDonald’s. This straw is eight inches long, I said, holding it up. This is an identical straw I picked up this morning. I held up my straw, then put it on the desk.

I placed the weed inside my McDonald’s bag, held it up for the judge. I then took the straw, held it vertically, and dropped it inside the bag with one hand while I held the handles with the other.

The straw disappeared from view.

I handed the bag to the judge. He looked at it, took the straw out, and dropped it back inside. He repeated this a few times and even stood the straw upright inside the bag on top of the baggies of marijuana. The straw remained a good five inches from the top of the bag. I knew this because I’d practiced the same thing myself.

"Your Honor, I’m subject to the court stenographer, but my note of Detective Granger’s testimony with reference to the straw is, I saw it, clear as day, sticking out of the top of her bag. The defense concedes it’s possible for the straw to be exposed if the top of the bag is curled up and held lower down. However, Detective Granger confirmed in his testimony that my client held the bag by the handles. Your Honor, this is the last straw—so to speak."

Judge Parks put a hand up. He’d heard enough from me. He turned in his seat and directed his attention to Norm.

"Mr. Folkes, I’ve examined this bag, and the straw with the actual items located in the bottom of the sack. I am not satisfied that Detective Granger could have seen a straw protruding from the top of this bag. On that basis, there is no probable cause for his search, and all evidence gathered as a result is inadmissible. Including the straw. I am concerned, to say the least, at the recent trend among some officers in classifying soda straws and other innocuous items as drug paraphernalia. Be that as it may, you have no evidence to support an arrest, and I am dismissing all charges. I’m sure you had a lot to say to me, Mr. Folkes, but there’s no point—I’m afraid, you’re too damn late."

Jean hugged my neck, partially strangling me in the process. I patted her arm, gently, and she let go. She may not want to hug me when she gets my bill. The judge and his staff got up and left the courtroom.

Granger stormed out, shooting me with his index finger as he left. It didn’t bother me, I was used to it.

I said to Norm, So when can I expect you to file an appeal?

Not in this life, he replied, Granger doesn’t bust low-level operators like your client. There’s probably something else behind this arrest that you and I will never know about.

Norm packed his gear and followed my client out of the courtroom. Just me and Rudy Carp left in the room now. He was applauding, with what looked like a genuine smile on his face.

Rudy stood up and said, Congratulations, that was … impressive. I need five minutes of your time.

What for?

I want to know if you’d like to take second chair in the biggest murder trial this city has ever seen.

CHAPTER TWO

KANE WATCHED THE MAN in the plaid shirt open the front door to his apartment and stand there, stunned into a dead silence. He saw confusion take hold and Kane wondered what the man was thinking. He was sure that, at first, the man in the plaid shirt thought he was looking at his reflection; as if some joker had rung his doorbell, then fitted a full-length mirror right across the doorframe. And then, when the man realized there was no mirror, he rubbed his forehead and took a step back from the door as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. It was the closest Kane had come to the man. He’d been watching him, photographing him, mimicking him. Kane looked the man up and down and felt pleased with his work. Kane wore exactly the same shirt as the man at the door. He’d dyed his hair the same color, and with some trimming, shaving, and makeup he’d managed to copy the receding hairline in exactly the same pattern around the temples. The black-rimmed glasses were identical. Even the gray pants carried a precise bleach stain on the lower left leg, five inches from the bottom and two inches from the inside seam. Same boots too.

Turning his attention to the man’s face, Kane counted three seconds before the man realized this was not a practical joke and he was not staring at a reflection. Even so, the man looked at his hands, to make sure they were empty. Kane’s right hand held a silenced pistol down by his side.

Kane took advantage of his victim’s confusion. He pushed the man hard in the chest, forcing him back. Kane stepped inside the apartment, kicked the door shut behind him, and heard the door slam against the frame.

Bathroom, now, you’re in danger, said Kane.

The man held up his hands, his lips moved soundlessly as they struggled to find the words. Any words. None came. The man simply reversed down the hall and into his bathroom until the back of his thighs touched the porcelain tub. His hands shook as he held them high, his eyes tracing every inch of Kane, confusion fighting his panic.

Likewise, Kane couldn’t help but study the man in the bathroom and notice the subtle differences in appearance. Up close, he was thinner than the man by a good fifteen to twenty pounds. The hair color was close, but not quite right. And the scar—a small one just above the man’s top lip, on his left cheek. Kane hadn’t seen the scar from the photos he’d taken five weeks ago, nor did he see it on the picture held by the DMV that appeared on the man’s driver’s license. Maybe the scar had formed after the license picture had been taken. In any event, Kane knew he could replicate it. He had studied Hollywood makeup techniques; a thin, quick-drying latex solution could replicate almost any scar. Kane nodded. One thing he had got right was the eye color; that at least was an identical match to the contacts. He thought he might need to add darker patches around the eyes, maybe lighten his skin just a little. The nose was a