or love. If I were in your shoes, I’d be looking for one of those two motives.”
“What about the other ten percent?”
“Fear, compulsion, or insanity. Maybe the defendant was driven by one those.”
By the time I was done talking to Jim I didn’t feel like I’d cleared up any of the questions I’d been asking about the trial. Which meant I’d likely have to rely entirely on the evidence that would be presented in court. The way it was supposed to be. The way every other juror would likely reach a verdict.
And if that was the case, based on what I’d heard so far, Tony Beniquez didn’t have a prayer of walking out of there a free man.
And maybe he didn’t deserve to.
I woke up in the middle of the night, positive there was someone in my room.
I wasn’t sure how I knew it. The room was completely dark, curtains drawn and every light off. But I felt a presence. Someone standing there in the pitch black. Watching.
I didn’t know what had awoken me, didn’t recall any dreams, didn’t remember hearing any sounds, but all the hair was standing up on my arms, and I had to force myself to breath naturally so whoever was there didn’t know I knew.
My gun, a Colt Detective Special, was in the bathroom, in my overnight case. The intruder stood between me and it.
My mouth was dry. Hands were sweating. But I couldn’t let the fear paralyze me, couldn’t think about why the intruder was there, or what he wanted to do to me. I had to use the adrenalin and act. Get to my weapon. Fight. Escape.
I tensed my legs, picturing the move in my head; I’d roll off the side of the bed, land in a crouch, then follow the wall with my hand until I reached the—
“I can see you.” The voice was male, a whisper. “I know you’re awake.”
I didn’t recognize the voice, but it sounded forced, like the man was trying to disguise it. It was also unnaturally calm, which kicked my fear into overdrive. Anyone that relaxed breaking into someone’s house was stone cold.
I needed to be stone cold as well to survive this. Now if I could just get my damn legs to move.
“Stop snooping around. Give your testimony, and then get the fuck out of town. This will be your only warning. If you don’t do as you’re told…”
The gunshot sounded like thunder, the bullet slamming into the headboard above me.
Raw terror fueled my actions, and I did the roll-and-crouch move, seeing a silhouette of a retreating figure, dressed in black and wearing a ski mask, open the bedroom door and slip through.
In four steps I was in the bathroom.
Six steps later I was in the hallway, gun in hand.
Movement, on the stairs. I swung around, saw a startled Greta clutching the V neck of her nightgown. Heard movement in the rear of the house, and tracked it, moving low and fast, seeing the back door yawing open. I sidled up to the doorway, back against it, squinting out into the darkness of the Hauppdorf’s backyard. Quickly found the wall switch, but the porch light didn’t come on.
“What’s going on?” Greta moaned.
“Someone broke in. Stay back. Call the police.”
I checked the doorknob, the frame, saw they were solid. I closed it, locked it, and tried to get my heart rate under control before the cops arrived.
# # #
No sign of forced entry.
The bulb to the outside porch light had been unscrewed. So had five other bulbs throughout the house.
The slug dug out of the wall behind the headboard was a .45.
Arnold Hauppdorf hadn’t been home. He’d supposedly taken a walk, something he and his wife claimed he did every night. When Arnold arrived he looked more fascinated than shocked. He swore both doors were locked when he left.
The police on the scene were two uniforms I hadn’t met before, a man and a woman. The woman took me aside and asked if I’d been molested. I told her I hadn’t.
They sent a patrol car to Vincent Corelli’s house, but the locksmith wasn’t home.
Corelli made some sense for this. An
“What about the other ten percent?”
“Fear, compulsion, or insanity. Maybe the defendant was driven by one those.”
By the time I was done talking to Jim I didn’t feel like I’d cleared up any of the questions I’d been asking about the trial. Which meant I’d likely have to rely entirely on the evidence that would be presented in court. The way it was supposed to be. The way every other juror would likely reach a verdict.
And if that was the case, based on what I’d heard so far, Tony Beniquez didn’t have a prayer of walking out of there a free man.
And maybe he didn’t deserve to.
I woke up in the middle of the night, positive there was someone in my room.
I wasn’t sure how I knew it. The room was completely dark, curtains drawn and every light off. But I felt a presence. Someone standing there in the pitch black. Watching.
I didn’t know what had awoken me, didn’t recall any dreams, didn’t remember hearing any sounds, but all the hair was standing up on my arms, and I had to force myself to breath naturally so whoever was there didn’t know I knew.
My gun, a Colt Detective Special, was in the bathroom, in my overnight case. The intruder stood between me and it.
My mouth was dry. Hands were sweating. But I couldn’t let the fear paralyze me, couldn’t think about why the intruder was there, or what he wanted to do to me. I had to use the adrenalin and act. Get to my weapon. Fight. Escape.
I tensed my legs, picturing the move in my head; I’d roll off the side of the bed, land in a crouch, then follow the wall with my hand until I reached the—
“I can see you.” The voice was male, a whisper. “I know you’re awake.”
I didn’t recognize the voice, but it sounded forced, like the man was trying to disguise it. It was also unnaturally calm, which kicked my fear into overdrive. Anyone that relaxed breaking into someone’s house was stone cold.
I needed to be stone cold as well to survive this. Now if I could just get my damn legs to move.
“Stop snooping around. Give your testimony, and then get the fuck out of town. This will be your only warning. If you don’t do as you’re told…”
The gunshot sounded like thunder, the bullet slamming into the headboard above me.
Raw terror fueled my actions, and I did the roll-and-crouch move, seeing a silhouette of a retreating figure, dressed in black and wearing a ski mask, open the bedroom door and slip through.
In four steps I was in the bathroom.
Six steps later I was in the hallway, gun in hand.
Movement, on the stairs. I swung around, saw a startled Greta clutching the V neck of her nightgown. Heard movement in the rear of the house, and tracked it, moving low and fast, seeing the back door yawing open. I sidled up to the doorway, back against it, squinting out into the darkness of the Hauppdorf’s backyard. Quickly found the wall switch, but the porch light didn’t come on.
“What’s going on?” Greta moaned.
“Someone broke in. Stay back. Call the police.”
I checked the doorknob, the frame, saw they were solid. I closed it, locked it, and tried to get my heart rate under control before the cops arrived.
# # #
No sign of forced entry.
The bulb to the outside porch light had been unscrewed. So had five other bulbs throughout the house.
The slug dug out of the wall behind the headboard was a .45.
Arnold Hauppdorf hadn’t been home. He’d supposedly taken a walk, something he and his wife claimed he did every night. When Arnold arrived he looked more fascinated than shocked. He swore both doors were locked when he left.
The police on the scene were two uniforms I hadn’t met before, a man and a woman. The woman took me aside and asked if I’d been molested. I told her I hadn’t.
They sent a patrol car to Vincent Corelli’s house, but the locksmith wasn’t home.
Corelli made some sense for this. An
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