Episode 21: "Wrongful Death"

Day Two

Scene One

Jim hung up the phone, looking frustrated.

"Anything?" Karen asked.

"No." He cracked his neck and stood up. "I need a break," he told her. "You want any coffee?"

"No, thanks, I'm good."

Jim made his way down the hall to the locker room, where he poured a cup of coffee and sat next to the window at the far end of the room. He usually managed to leave "home" at home, but today, thoughts of the unresolved situation with Christie kept intruding. There had been no chance for them to talk last night. It was after ten when she finally got home. As she chatted excitedly about her upcoming trip to Paris, Jim realized she was going purely on nervous energy. After a glass of wine, she unwound enough to come to bed and, eventually, fall into an exhausted sleep beside him. In the morning, she was up early and ready to leave by the time he got out of the shower. On her way out the door, she hurriedly asked him to call Dr. Cohen and re-schedule their weekly appointment. Then she was gone.

"Jim?" Karen interrupted his reverie. "We got something."

Jim put aside his thoughts of Christie. "What is it?" he asked, standing up.

"A cop in the 1-7 took a report from a lawyer about a threatening letter. It had a drawing of 'Blind Justice' that sounds like the one at our homicide scene. He's faxing it over right now."

Jim followed Karen into the squad room. Karen drummed her fingers on the desk as they waited at the fax machine for the letter to come through. She grabbed it from the machine as soon as it finished printing. Jim shifted impatiently as she read it. "Well?" he asked.

"Sorry, Jim, I'm still reading."

"What about the drawing?" he demanded.

"It looks a lot like the one at our DOA's."

"What's it say?" Jim asked.

"I'm still reading – it's two pages," Karen explained, understanding Jim's impatience. After a moment, she said, "I'm done."

"Give me the highlights."

"Well, whoever wrote this is definitely out for revenge. There's something about a child's death and 'justice denied.' He says the people responsible won't escape, and if he can't get justice in the courts, there are other ways. He also says something I don't understand. I'll read it, 'This will be another Judge Lefton and end up on TV.' What's that about?"

Jim shook his head. "I have no idea. Let's tell the boss and contact this lawyer."

Scene Two

Jim and Karen stood up when the door to the law firm's conference room opened. A burly man of about fifty, with salt-and-pepper hair, entered. "Detectives?" he said in a booming voice, "Bob Cromwell. Sorry to keep you waiting. Judge Meyer insists on doing things on his own timetable."

Jim extended a hand. "Jim Dunbar." Cromwell took his hand. "This is my partner, Karen Bettancourt."

"This is about the letter I received?" Cromwell asked.

"That's right," Jim confirmed. "We're looking into the possibility it's related to a homicide we're investigating. The victim was Dan Hoffman. Does that name mean anything to you?"

The color drained from Cromwell's face. "Oh, my God. He was a juror on a case I tried a couple of months ago – that case." He gestured to the copy of the threatening letter on the conference table in front of him.

Karen spoke up. "OK, let's start at the beginning. Who do you think sent this?"

"Anton Belski. He and his wife Davida were the plaintiffs in a wrongful death case I tried two months ago. I do civil trial work, mainly medical malpractice defense."

"You said it was a wrongful death case – who died?" Jim asked.

"Their ten-year-old son, Rudi," Cromwell replied. Jim bowed his head.

"Tell us about the case," Karen said, looking somber.

"OK. Rudi got sick – with flu-like symptoms – a few days before he died. In 99.9 per cent of cases, that's what it is – some kind of flu-like illness. When he didn't get better, the parents took him to the free clinic in their neighborhood. The family didn't have health insurance. Anton fancied himself an artist and didn't have a steady job. Davida supported the family by working as a secretary for a construction company, but she didn't get any benefits. Anyway, the doctor at the clinic thought it was some type of flu and, as I said, in almost all cases, that's what it is. The next day, Rudi was a lot sicker, so they took him to the ER. By that time, it was obvious he didn't have an ordinary flu bug. The ER doc called in my client – a pediatric infectious disease specialist – who diagnosed the child as having necrotizing fasciitis, commonly known as 'flesh-eating bacteria.' They treated Rudi aggressively, but it was too late. The infection was too overwhelming. He died the next day." Cromwell shook his head. "Poor kid."

"Sad," Jim agreed. "What happened at the trial?"

"Well, I was surprised the case even got to trial. It was a tragic case, but there simply wasn't any negligence. The Belskis' lawyer found some hack to testify as their expert witness, but it was obvious he didn't know what he was talking about. The jury saw right through him. They came back with a unanimous defense verdict in less than two hours."

"So you got a win," Jim observed.

"Yeah," Cromwell agreed, "not the kind of win you take a lot of pleasure in but a win, nonetheless. And now . . . you know, I was the one who wanted Dan Hoffman on the jury. I never imagined, when we were picking that jury, that it would come to – this."

"And you think Anton Belski is the author of this letter – why?" Karen asked.

"Several reasons. The letter refers to his child's death, and this is the only case I've tried recently that involves the death of a child. Also, as I mentioned, Anton's an artist – at least, he thinks he is, and the drawing looks pretty professional to me. And did you notice the reference to Judge Lefton?"

"Yes," Karen replied, "what does that mean?"

"Judge Jean Lefton, a judge in Chicago, came home one night and found her husband and her elderly mother murdered. The killer was the plaintiff in a medical malpractice case which she dismissed."

"So where can we find Belski?" Jim asked.

Cromwell shook his head. "I don't know his present whereabouts. His attorney may know where he is." He picked up a piece of paper and looked at it. "After I got your call, we put together a list of everyone associated with the case. I have the address in Washington Heights where the Belskis were living at the time of the trial, but I don't know if they're still there. The wife's employer's name and address are on here, too. It also has the names of all the jurors I could remember or find in my trial notes." He held out the list to Jim, looking surprised when Jim didn't take it.

Karen took the list and looked it over. "You don't have the jurors' addresses or phone numbers?"

"No, juror information is confidential. You'll have to get that from the court."

"Thanks for your time, Mr. Cromwell," Jim told him, "we'll be in touch." He and Karen stood up and started to leave.

"Detectives?" Cromwell stopped them. "This guy is dangerous, isn't he?"

"Yes, he is," Jim replied gravely, turning toward him.

"What should I do, to protect my family and myself?"

"Well, we can't make any promises," Jim told him. "But now we know the people who are at risk, we'll talk to our boss when we get back to the precinct. And there are some common-sense things you can do – vary your routines, be aware of your surroundings, try to avoid places where you know he can find you – "

"Like here?" Cromwell interrupted.

"Yes. Ideally, you might want to consider leaving the city until we have him in custody."

"I can't do that," Cromwell remonstrated, "I have a trial starting day after tomorrow."

"Well, then, be very careful." Jim paused for a moment, then added. "There is one other thing you could do to help us out."

"Yes, of course," Cromwell replied, "what is it?"

"You could fax that list to our boss, while we're on our way back downtown. We'll call and let him know it's coming."

"Here's the fax number," Karen said, handing Cromwell her business card.

"Consider it done," Cromwell said.

"Thanks." Jim took Karen's arm as they walked out of the room.

Scene Three

Fisk emerged from his office as soon as he saw Jim and Karen returning to the squad. "We got the jurors' contact information from the Jury Commissioner, and we're getting the word out to the precincts where they live, to check up on them and warn them. Oh, and we finally heard from the ME. Cause of death on Hoffman was exsanguination from multiple stab wounds from some kind of weapon with a double-edged blade, like a dagger or small sword. He had been dead at least 36 hours when he was found. So he was probably killed sometime over the weekend."

"Any word on Belski's whereabouts?" Jim asked.

"We got in touch with the landlord of the building in Washington Heights," Tom replied. "Belski hasn't moved, as far as the landlord knows, and his rent is paid through the end of the month."

"The super said he hasn't seen either of them for several days," Marty added, "but it's a pretty good-sized building, and he doesn't keep tabs on the tenants' comings and goings. I also contacted the wife's work, but she hasn't shown up the last couple of days, and there was no answer when her boss called her."

"OK, then, let's pay Mr. Belski a visit," Jim said, standing up and taking hold of Hank's harness.

"I'll call the 3-3 and have a couple of uniforms meet you there," Fisk told them.

"But, boss – " Jim protested. Marty shook his head disgustedly.

Fisk cut him off. "No 'buts' about it, Jim. I wouldn't let any of my detectives go in there without back-up."

Jim nodded. "All right." He ordered Hank forward and followed Karen out of the squad.

Scene Four

Jim and Karen approached the Belski apartment, followed by two uniformed officers. "This is it," Karen told them. She knocked on the door. There was no answer. She knocked again, louder, calling out, "Anton Belski! Police! Open the door!" When there still was no response, one of the uniformed officers looked a question at her. She nodded and stepped back. Both of the uniformed officers ran at the door, attempting to break it open, but the door held.

"Son of a bitch," the taller one said. "I think he's got something pushed up against the door."

From inside the apartment, a woman's voice screamed, "He's got – "

"Mrs. Belski?" Karen called out, but there was no response.

"Damn," Jim said, "He's barricaded himself in."

"Yeah," Karen agreed, "and his wife's a hostage." She reached for her phone. "I'm calling the boss. We need to call in SWAT and the hostage team. Let's start clearing the building."

Scene Five

Three hours later, Belski was still barricaded in his apartment. In the SWAT command post, Jim closed his phone, muttering, "Son of a bitch."

"What is it?" Karen asked.

"That was the lieutenant. We've got another dead juror. Emma Goldschmidt, a retired school teacher. Same m.o. as Hoffman – multiple stab wounds and the same drawing. Looks like she was killed sometime over the weekend, too."

"Oh, no."

"Good news is, they've located the other jurors, and they're all OK."

"Thank God."

They listened as the SWAT commander, Joe Marchetti, and the lead negotiator, Ted Yamada, continued discussing their strategy. It was obvious they'd had the same debate before. "Look, Ted," Marchetti declared, "it's been over two hours, and the guy is refusing all contact. You can't negotiate with someone won't communicate with you. Besides, the only person who might be able to get him to talk is in there with him. We need to go in and get him."

"I don't think you should do that, not yet," Yamada protested. "The guy isn't crazy, you know. We need to give him enough time to figure out that he doesn't have any options."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Marchetti replied, "what he'll do when he figures that out." He turned to his second-in-command. "Tell the team to get into position."

Yamada picked up the phone. After several minutes, he put it down, shaking his head. "Still no answer. I'll try the bullhorn again," he said, picking up the horn and walking toward the door. Before he reached the door, there was a single gunshot from inside the apartment building, followed by a woman's scream.

Marchetti ordered his team to move in, but before they could do so, a woman leaned out of the front window of the Belski apartment, screaming for help. "What happened?" Yamada asked, using the bullhorn. "He shot himself!" she screamed.

Scene Six

Jim was seated across the table from Davida Belski when Karen entered the interview room. She was carrying a cup of tea, which she handed to Davida. "Here you go," she murmured.

"Thank you." Davida's thin face was pale and drawn, and her dark brown hair fell limply to her shoulders. Her hand shook slightly as she picked up the cup, but she steadied herself as she raised it to her lips and drank.

"Are you OK to talk about what happened?" Karen asked gently. Davida nodded. "Yes," Karen said, for Jim's benefit.

Davida set the cup down and looked at Karen, standing at the end of the table. Then she said, "That son of a bitch. I hope he rots in hell."

Karen looked at Jim. His expression was as shocked as hers. "Davida – " she began.

Davida interrupted her. "You heard right," she said firmly. "He was a no-good bastard."

"Why don't you start at the beginning?" Karen suggested, sitting down next to Jim.

Davida took a deep breath. "When Rudi – " her voice broke when she spoke the name of her dead son. She took a sip of tea and began again, in a stronger voice, "When Rudi died, Anton blamed me. He said it was my fault – because I didn't have health insurance with my job, and I didn't make enough for us to afford it."

Watching with Fisk and Tom from the observation room, Marty muttered, "Son of a bitch."

Davida continued, "Then he decided to do the lawsuit. It wasn't because of Rudi. He didn't care that Rudi . . . died. He only cared about the money. He said they owed him, and when they paid, he'd never have to work again." Her lower lip quivered, and she took another sip of her tea.

"Then you lost the trial," Karen prompted. Davida nodded. "What happened then?"

"He wouldn't let it go," Davida said. "He said if they wouldn't pay money for what they did, they would have to pay some other way. I didn't know what he was doing a lot of the time. Sometimes he would be gone for days. . . ."

"Do you know where he was this past weekend?" Karen asked.

Davida shook her head. "No. All he said was, he got 'partial payment.' Then he wouldn't let me go to work yesterday or today. He said I had to stay home."

"Did he say why?"

"No, he wouldn't tell me when I asked. But isn't it obvious? He wanted to use me when the police came. And he did."

"So what happened this afternoon?" Karen asked.

"Anton was looking out the window and saw you coming. He pushed a dresser up against the door so you couldn't get in. I told him I wanted to leave, the police didn't want me. That's when he pulled out the gun and told me I wasn't going anywhere. After all the other police arrived, I kept talking to him, telling him he had to give himself up, he wasn't going to escape. He believed me, I guess. That's when he started talking about – you know, ending it." She took a deep breath and sipped her tea. "I'm not gonna lie to you, I didn't try to talk him out of it. I couldn't take it any more." She bowed her head, covering her face with her hands.

"I think we're done," Karen told her. "Is there anyone we can call for you?"

Davida looked up. "My sister lives in Queens. I can stay with her."

Karen handed her a pad and pen. "Give us the address, and we'll have an officer take you there. You can wait here."

"Thank you."

Back at his desk, Jim brought a hand up to his mouth, thinking. Karen gave him a knowing look. "I know that look," she said, "something's on your mind. Spill it."

"That obvious, huh?"

"Yeah."

"I was just thinking – what if Davida 'helped' her husband shoot himself?"

"You want to test her for gunshot residue?" Karen asked.

Jim shook his head. "Nope. You?"

"No."

Scene Seven

"Jimmy?" Christie called from the entry.

"Over here," Jim answered from the couch, where he'd spent the hour since he got home from work, drinking beer and decompressing.

She sat next to him and kissed him. "How was your day?" she asked.

"We cleared our homicide," he told her.

"Good, that's good," she said, distractedly. "I wish I could say we're ready for Paris, but we're not."

"Let me get you a glass of wine," he offered.

"Bless you."

Jim returned from the kitchen with a glass of wine and held it out to Christie. After she took it, he sat down next to her. "You know, Christie, I've been thinkin' . . . ," he began.

She turned toward him. "Yes?"

"I miss seeing you."

"Oh, Jimmy," she said, her voice catching in her throat.

He shook his head at her misunderstanding. "No, no, I don't mean seeing seeing – well, I miss that, too, but that's not what I meant."

"What is it, then?" she asked, puzzled.

Jim paused, biting his lip. "I miss you. We've both been working so much lately, we've hardly seen each other."

"Jimmy, I – " she began.

"Look, I know you have to do this Paris thing. But when you get back, I want to take you out on a real date – just you and me, Hank stays home. You can tell me all about Paris." He smiled at her and took her hand. "So what do you say, Mrs. Dunbar, will you go out on a date with me?"

"Yes, I'd like that," she whispered, smiling back at him and putting her head on his shoulder.