He was speechless. In one minute, the momentum shifted.
Realizing she had a tiny advantage, Hailey pressed on.
“Kolker, is that the only way you can crack a case, planting the pen as evidence? Even coming from you, I’m shocked.”
Sensing that he was faltering, she leveled her eyes to his and put the accusatory shoe on the other foot. “Did you go in without a warrant? Did you find it, read the engraving, and place it there under her as she lay dead? You’re the one who’s sick, Kolker, not me. It’s so much more sensational to try and pin this on me, isn’t it? A regular street thug wouldn’t do, would it? Just how far will you go to make a name for yourself?”
“I didn’t-”
Suddenly, Kolker was keenly aware that his colleagues and superiors behind the mirrored wall were watching him.
All right, Hailey, that’s enough. Keep it simple, she warned herself.
How many times had liars done themselves in by creating an elaborate story that could be attacked from countless angles?
Learn from their mistakes…say no more…see where he goes with it.
She could see the wheels turning as it slowly started to dawn on him that the discovery of the pen wasn’t exactly the airtight piece of evidence that would clinch the case for him. In fact, there were any number of explanations why Hayden may have had the pen. She could have borrowed it, swiped it, used it, and then, unthinking, dropped it into her artist’s notebook.
“You mean that’s it? This pen is why you’re holding me? And the fact I was trying to help Melissa and Hayden?
“The kinky journal entries, as you so eloquently put it, Kolker, is research I’ve been doing for over a year on the psychopathy of serial killers. All of them, Gacy, Bundy, Zodiac, Boston Strangler, BTK…the notes weren’t about my patients at all, and I’ve sent the theory to over a dozen psych journals to see if they’d be interested in publishing. There are records. Try that on at trial. Oh, and they’d never get in at trial anyway because they weren’t in plain view on my desk, they were in a file drawer beside my desk. You searched without a warrant… I knew it.”
She looked him square in the face, unrelenting. “Oh…and the hair…your big forensic evidence. It means nothing. I hug nearly every patient when they leave each session, Kolker. I’ll have a string of patients testify to that at trial, so dig in, Kolker. They’re transfers from me to them. Or maybe they caught a hand in my barrette or touched my shoulder.”
He had lapsed into silence. Hailey didn’t let up.
“But she was clutching it…her hand was in a fist!” Kolker was limping now.
“Says you. By the time my lawyers and experts finish with your so-called crime tech, the jury will think you planted the hair just like you did the pen. That is, if they don’t see the obvious, that it’s a simple transfer. It’s not enough. And Kolker, the word ‘mitochondrial’ doesn’t scare me. It simply means DNA without skin, without the nucleus, the root attached to the hair. Big deal. Even if you have nuclear DNA with the root…so what? If a few hairs were torn from my scalp when one of them pulled away from a hug or when I pulled a sweatshirt off my head and it transferred to them…I never even felt it. Struggle? There was no struggle. It proves nothing…nothing, Kolker.”
She could see the wheels turning, that the magnificent dream he’d nurtured for days on end was fading. He hadn’t cracked a serial-murder case after all, not yet, anyway. He was not headed for a promotion and could forget being heralded in the press.
“You kept mementoes of the murders. I found Hayden’s poems in your office like the ones that were in her backpack the night she was murdered, and a photo of Melissa. Just like Gacy kept underwear and driver’s licenses off his victims. Killers keep them like normal people keep ticket stubs and photo albums. Explain that!”
Without a pause, she spoke evenly. “So you did search without a warrant. I thought so before, now I know for sure. Hayden gave me a stack of her poetry to show to a publisher who lives in my building. And Melissa showed me that photo because it pictured her with her sister. She left it at my office on the coffee table and I put it in her folder to give back.
“Kolker…this isn’t a murder investigation,” she said, “it’s a frame-up so you can claim you cracked the case. Just a grab for headlines. The whole thing makes me sick. Two innocent women, murdered brutally in your own backyard, Kolker, and I’m the best you can do? Wait until the papers hear that you arrested a woman even though the victims may have been molested.”
She got him again, on pure speculation. Instead of protecting the case, he protected himself and blurted a retort.
“But there wasn’t any sperm! We don’t know if the molestations were premortem or post-, whether the attacker was a man or woman.”
“You’re not even sure there was a molestation…are you? A partially clad victim doesn’t equal rape, Kolker.”
As he started wildly searching through his papers, she dropped the bombshell.
“I refuse to be questioned any further. I want to call a lawyer…now. When I thought you were actually investigating the murders, I wanted to help, but now…” She closed in for the kill. “And I want Rube Garland.”
She had never even met Garland, but she saw his name in a news article when she Googled Kolker’s name after he showed up in her hospital room.
The story detailed Garland’s client who walked free on a murder rap because of a legal loophole. It was Jack Kolker…then just a beat cop…who had neglected to sign his name on a bag of evidence.
That bag contained hair samples taken from the victim’s bedroom, the murder scene. The DNA just so happened to match up with Garland’s client’s. The paper’s front page had a shot of Kolker storming out of the courtroom, an angry snarl on his face.
The photo was accompanied with an interview with the defense attorney, Rube Garland, in which Garland gloated over NYPD’s failure to protect the chain of custody, leaving a hole in the case and making it ripe for a defense claim of planted evidence. Hailey insinuated now, as then, Kolker screwed up DNA hair evidence.
Before Kolker could utter another word, the door to the interrogation room burst open.
Two cops, both wearing suits, walked into the room. One was short, gray, and pensive…the other tall, dark, and looking incredibly angry.
“Kolker, you’re needed upstairs.” The little gray one spoke.
Without another word, Kolker gathered his papers and left the room, throwing one last glance over his shoulder at Hailey as he left.
It was a look of unmistakable hatred, pure loathing. She had totally humiliated him in front of his whole team, the brass, too.
But it didn’t matter now. Hailey sensed it. She was headed home.
It was over…at least for now.
The two detectives handcuffed her to the table, which was bolted to the floor.
“Wait here,” the short, gray cop said, and the two of them left her there alone, unattended.
Fully aware that others might still be seated in the observation room, she said nothing and remained expressionless.
After another long wait alone, they returned.
As the taller one jangled keys and reached for her handcuffs, she saw that the short cop was holding a large plastic garbage bag containing her empty purse, wallet, cell phone, and pager. All the wallet and purse contents were loose in the bag, having been searched thoroughly.
Hailey’s ribs ached as she stood.
“Ms. Dean, you may be required to return to headquarters for questioning.” The little gray one again, short but not curt, giving no explanation as to her detainment or her release.
She expected neither.
Nobody needed to tell her why she suddenly was being released. Kolker’s interrogation had bombed miserably. The department had obviously pinned their hopes on his theory, and with the discovery of Hailey’s pen at the second murder scene, the interrogation of Hailey Dean should have been the icing on the cake…case closed.