Bury the Lead - By David Rosenfelt Page 0,65

that?”

“The surveillance on Mr. Cummings.”

“To my knowledge, he was not placed under surveillance.”

“I see. So you believed Mr. Cummings was very possibly lying, which means you believed he was very possibly the killer, but you did not have him watched? You had no fear he would murder again?”

Millen is in a box. My guess is, he did not suspect Daniel until the cell phone story proved a lie, and therefore had no reason to have him followed. Claiming now that he doubted Daniel’s story all along makes him look partly responsible for Linda Padilla’s death.

“He was not followed,” Millen says, tight-lipped.

“Why not?” I ask. “You didn’t consider him a potential danger to the public?”

“It’s very easy to look back and judge decisions; hindsight is twenty-twenty. But we were in the middle of an intense investigation . . .”

“So you thought he might be the murderer, but you didn’t have him followed because the investigation was too intense? You operate more efficiently in mellow investigations?”

He doesn’t have a good answer for this, so I ask basically the same question another half dozen times until Tucker objects and Calvin orders me to move on.

“In your dealings with Mr. Cummings, did he seem like an intelligent man?”

“I suppose so,” he says grudgingly.

“Were you familiar with his work as a crime reporter?”

“Somewhat.”

“When you searched his car and apartment, were you surprised that the evidence was right there for you to find it?”

“Nothing surprises me anymore. If the world operated solely by logic, these people wouldn’t have been killed in the first place.”

“So you admit it would be illogical for Mr. Cummings, or any guilty person, to keep the evidence in his apartment like that?”

“Serial killers are not logical people.”

“Are they self-destructive?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do they want to be caught?”

“Often they do.”

“Captain, do you believe my client hit himself in the head in Eastside Park that night?”

“I do.”

“With what?”

Millen reacts, though he certainly had to know this was coming. The police never found anything that could be shown to have hit Daniel’s head.

“I don’t know. He must have gotten rid of it.”

“Where?”

“I can’t be sure,” he says. “We couldn’t test every piece of wood in the entire park.”

“But you tested everything within five hundred yards of the pavilion?”

“We tried to.”

“You tried to?” I say with mocking disbelief. “Any chance you succeeded?”

He stares a dagger at me, but his voice is controlled. “I believe we did.”

“No DNA evidence tying anything to Mr. Cummings?”

“No.”

“So you believe that Mr. Cummings was self-protective enough to hide the incriminating weapon he used to hit himself, but self-destructive enough to leave the severed hands in his car?”

I’ve trapped him in a small corner, and he looks worried. He finally comes up with, “As I said, serial killers are rarely logical. It would be nice if what they did made sense, but it often doesn’t.”

“It would also be nice if your testimony made sense. No further questions.”

My eye contact with Kevin as I head back to the defense table confirms my fears. I made headway, but not nearly enough.

Since this is Tucker’s last witness, Calvin adjourns for the day, giving me until Monday morning to come up with some kind of defense case. As I leave the courtroom, I find myself alongside Eliot Kendall. It’s the first time I’ve seen him in almost a week; I had assumed that his business interests had called him back to Cleveland.

“Mind if I walk with you?” he asks.

“Not at all,” I lie. I’d rather be alone to rehash today’s testimony in my mind, but he asked nicely and I don’t feel like insulting him.

We go down the courtroom steps and start heading toward the parking lot. “I haven’t seen you around for a while,” I say.

He nods. “I was back home. My father died.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Eliot’s father was Byron Kendall, an enormously powerful trucking magnate, possibly a billionaire. If I weren’t so consumed with the trial and oblivious to the world, I probably would have learned about his death from the media.

He nods sadly. “Thank you. He was eighty-four and very sick for years, but it still comes as a shock.”

“Is your mother alive?” I ask.

Another sad shake. “No, she died almost fifteen years ago. What about you? Parents alive?”

“No. My mother died four years ago, my father last year,” I say. “Being an orphan, even a middle-aged one, takes some getting used to.”

He nods, and we don’t say anything for a while, each reflecting on what we have lost. He breaks the silence. “How’s