Diary of a Serial Killer Page 7

  Q Yes.

  A Well, he had a container of those and he kept wiping his hands with them while he was talking to us. Over and over again.

  Q I see. And did you discuss the reason for your visit?

  A Yes. First we got his information, ID, et cetera. Then we asked him about his whereabouts on the night of March 11, and he said that he had spent all night alone at home. And when we told him that a witness had seen his car driving on Yale Street at about ten that night, he said that they must have made a mistake.

  Q Was there any further conversation?

  A Not really. We left him our card, and told him if he could think of anything that might help corroborate his story that he was home alone that night, that he should call us.

  Q Did he call you?

  A No.

  Q What was the next significant thing that happened in your investigation relative to the defendant?

  A Well, I guess the next significant thing was the emergency phone call we got from the housekeeper, Mrs. Perez.

  …ASSISTANT DISTRICT ATTORNEY CARTIER: Would you please state your name for the record.

  GABRIELLA PEREZ: My name is Gabriella Perez.

  Q And Ms. Perez, am I correct in stating that English is not your primary language?

  A Sí. But I understand English. I have been taking classes for two year. Two years. Sorry.

  Q That’s fine. I just want you to know that if you need a translator, we can get one for you. So if you don’t understand something, let me know, and we’ll try to straighten it out, okay?

  A Yes. Okay.

  Q Good. Now I’d like to know if you are familiar with the defendant in this case, Alan Lombardo.

  A Sí. I know Mr. Lombardo.

  Q And can you point him out to the court?

  A I’m sorry?

  Q Sorry. Do you see Mr. Lombardo in the courtroom today?

  A Sí. He’s sitting over there.

  ASSISTANT DISTRICT ATTORNEY CARTIER: May the record reflect that the witness just pointed at the defendant?

  THE COURT: The record will so reflect. Continue.

  ASSISTANT DISTRICT ATTORNEY CARTIER: Now Ms. Perez, what is your relationship with Mr. Lombardo?

  MS. PEREZ: My relationship?

  Q Yes. How is it that you know Mr. Lombardo?

  A Oh. Sí. I am his housekeeper. I come to his house every two weeks, and I clean.

  Q I see. So were you working at Mr. Lombardo’s house on the morning of March 14?

  A You mean the morning I found all those fingers inside Mr. Lombardo’s freezer?

  (Commonwealth v. Lombardo, Volume II, Pages 54–57; Volume III, Pages 14–15)

  August 27

  Attorney Terry Tallach shifted in his seat. The chair he’d chosen looked great, and probably cost close to a thousand dollars, but he was starting to think about an extra trip to the chiropractor after sitting in it for all of five minutes.

  Terry was with Zack in the offices of Zack’s father, the Honorable Nehemiah H. Wilson, whose official title was Senior Justice of the Federal District Court of Massachusetts. To Terry, however, Zack’s father’s title was Judge Most Likely to Crush Himself from the Weight of His Own Pompous Bullshit. They were seated in leather chairs around an oval mahogany-and-glass coffee table at one end of the room. At the other was the judge’s massive mahogany desk and matching workstation, bookcases, credenza, grandfather clock, file cabinets—Jesus Christ. It was like a freakin’ tropical rain forest over there.

  They had come to discuss the Alan Lombardo case, which Judge Wilson had handled as a trial lawyer twenty years ago. Zack promised that they would not stay more than a half hour. That was about all Terry figured he could take. Judge Wilson was the worst father and grandfather he had ever known, and Terry had trouble keeping that opinion to himself.

  “So, Alan Lombardo has been filing motions, has he?” the judge said, lighting an obnoxious-smelling cigar. Nehemiah had thick white hair which he combed straight back from his tanned, leathery face. He was wearing a midnight-blue Armani suit, a shirt Terry had seen on sale, for God’s sakes, at Thomas Pink for two hundred dollars, a yellow bow tie, and, of course, braces. He looked like he thought he was the balls, at least in the world of assclenchingly reactionary Yankees. And he looked like he wanted everyone to know it. As the judge blew out the match, he called out over his shoulder toward the open office door, “Mary, could we have some coffee in here, please?”

  A voice from the waiting room outside the office called back, “Right away, Your Honor.”

  Judge Wilson turned back to his guests and shook his head. “Alan Lombardo. When I saw that name on the phone message, I have to admit that it came as a bit of a surprise. How did you two end up with this jackpot?”

  “Judge Baumgartner gave me a call the other day—” Zack began, but his father cut him off.

  “You know, Harry did a good job judging that trial. One of his first murder cases, too. Can’t understand what he’s thinking, putting you on this, though. Damnedest thing. No question of guilt.”

  “That’s what he said,” Zack responded evenly. “But Lombardo has been filing motions claiming he was innocent, and then that new murder in Indian Oaks got Judge Baumgartner thinking. So after a few misfires, he appointed us to look into it. Lombardo waived the conflict of interest, and here we are.”

  Zack’s father studied them as he took another hit off his cigar, settled it in the ashtray on the table, and shook his head again. “Yes. Here we are.” He sat back up. “Alan Lombardo. Well. Hell of a thing.” He pursed his lips. “Damned frustrating case, but in the end, there wasn’t an awful lot I could do. They had him cold for all nine murders. I was friends with the prosecutor, Jim Cartier, but there was no way we could plea-bargain this case. And Lombardo insisted he was innocent, so I didn’t even have an insanity defense.”

  There was a light tap on the door, and then a young, very good-looking woman wearing perfect makeup, an expensive outfit, and insanely sexy shoes came into the office with a coffee service. “Thank you, Mary,” the judge said, as she placed the tray down on the table before them. “We’ll take it from here.”

  “Very good, Judge.” Pretty Mary straightened up, and marched her hot little body out the door. Ol’ Nehemiah watched her every step of the way. If Judge Daddy wasn’t doing her, it was damn sure he was trying.

  Zack cleared his throat, poured himself a cup of coffee, and then asked, “You know, Dad, I always wondered how you ended up with the Shooter case. I mean, especially after the Heinrich trial, I thought you could pretty much pick and choose whatever you wanted to do. This seemed like such a tough set of facts.”

  Judge Wilson laughed. He picked up his cigar again and took another puff. It was illegal to smoke in a government building, but it was pretty clear that the old man didn’t give a crap about that. The room smelled like he spent a lot of time smoking cigars in here. “You’re right. I probably should have checked into the case more carefully before I jumped in,” he said. “But when Alan first approached me, I really felt for the guy. And then, when he paid the fee that I quoted, in full, in advance, well, I just couldn’t turn that kind of money down.”

  Terry had to know. “How much did you charge?”

  The judge looked for a second like he might balk, then a smile came over his face. “Biggest single fee I ever earned,” he answered. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.” He took another toke from the cigar, and blew a cloud of bluish smoke into the air.

  Holy crap. Two hundred fifty grand. No wonder Judge Wilson grabbed the case. For a quarter of a million dollars, Terry would represent a psycho accused of killing nine people.

  Wait a minute. He already was representing a psycho accused of killing nine people. Accused and convicted. For about fifty bucks an hour.

  Zack broke the silence. “Wow. I always thought Heinrich was the biggest fee you got.”

  “Oh, hell no,” the judge replied. “I was on retainer to Heinrich before he got indicted, so
I could only charge him my hourly rate. Back then, I was probably billing out at one fifty per. Maybe two hundred. I spent a lot of time on that case, but it couldn’t have been more than what? Three hundred hours? What’s that? Sixty thousand? At the most.”

  Terry wasn’t sure he heard correctly. “You were on retainer before Heinrich got indicted?”

  “For years. He ran one of the biggest construction companies in Springfield. Say what you want about the man, his word was his bond, and he was an excellent businessman. He had all kinds of issues—unions, government permits, bonding, insurance, corporate, criminal, you name it. If anyone that was doing work for him needed a lawyer, I was the guy.”

  Damn. If he was charging two hundred dollars an hour back in ’84, no wonder Nehemiah was wearing Armani.

  “So, back to Lombardo,” Zack said. “He paid the big fee, you took the case, and started getting ready for trial. What was your strategy? Do you remember?”

  The judge sat back and ran his hand through his hair. “Funny how that case has stayed with me, even though I handled dozens, if not hundreds, of criminal files before the President appointed me to the bench.” He pointed to a picture of Reagan shaking hands with the judge at some black-tie thing. It was one of several photos mounted on the walls, all featuring Zack’s father as he socialized with hotshot politicians and other celebrities. In one he looked like he was about to tongue-kiss Newt Gingrich. The display was about as classy as the lobby of a Las Vegas tourist trap. “Ronald Reagan. Greatest president ever.”

  Terry saw Zack smiling, and then he quickly checked his watch. They’d been in the office less than ten minutes, and Judge Nehe had already mentioned Reagan by name. Shit. He owed Zack twenty bucks.

  “Anyway,” the judge continued. “My strategy? Alan insisted that he didn’t do it, so the first thing I did was try to establish alibis. I thought we might have had a chance to argue that he got framed if we could show that it was impossible for him to have killed these people.”

  “I read the transcripts,” Zack said. “So I can guess how that turned out.”

  “You’ve probably met Alan by now,” the judge replied. “I don’t know what your impressions are of him, but when I knew him, let’s just say that he was not your average defendant.”

  “Yeah. I think it’s safe to say that he isn’t your average inmate, either,” Terry said.

  The judge nodded. “Still a pretty strange duck, eh? Well. Anyway. Back in 1984, when the Spam hit the fan and he got indicted, Alan was working as an accountant. Very successful business. You know how those guys are—watching everybody else’s money, and making tons of it themselves. He lived alone in a pretty nice house over in Indian Oaks. Had his office in his home. But even with all his money, the guy had no friends, no family. At least none that I ever found. And I put investigators on it, just to make sure. He was an only child. Mother and father both dead. No aunts or uncles living. No cousins. Nothing.” The judge twirled the cigar around in his mouth. Talk about disgusting. Terry felt a little queasy. “And here’s the topper. Lombardo told me that not only did he have no friends or family, he never left his house after dark.”

  “Really?” Zack exclaimed. “I had no idea.”

  “Most of the victims were killed at night, right?” Terry asked. “So if he never went out, he couldn’t have killed them.”

  “Well, he said he never went out at night. He lived alone, remember? Like a goddamned monk. There was no way I could prove anything. For all I know, he was out on the town seven nights a week.”

  “And there were no phone calls, no visitors? Nothing you could document to show he was home when any of these things happened?” Zack asked.

  “Zachary, I wish I could have found just one alibi. But every one of those nine shootings was done at night. And I couldn’t find a single thing that would prove that Alan Lombardo was home on any of those nights.”

  “So it was just his word against…” Zack let it hang there.

  “Exactly. His word against a Tupperware container of fingers that Mexican girl found in his freezer.” The judge sighed. “And that awful journal the cops found in his computer.”

  Thirty-Seven Seconds

  IF ZACK HAD THOUGHT TO COMPILE HIS PREferred environments for reaching and subduing a gunman without any weapons of his own, this courtroom would not be on the list.

  The shooter was still dozens of feet away, on the other side of the room. One of the beams of the emergency lights was shining directly into Zack’s eyes as he approached, so it was impossible to see the shooter’s face, but it was clear that he was aiming his gun at the gallery, off to Zack’s left, where a room full of terrified people were diving for cover, or scrambling for the aisles, frantically trying to escape the attack.

  Zack had to stop the madman before he fired another shot into the crowd, where Justin, Zack’s seven-year-old son, was surely scared to death, if not already hit and bleeding.

  Or worse.

  Zack fought to keep those images out of his head. But his brain was going so fast it was almost impossible to control. He fixed his gaze on the weapon that the shooter was slowly sweeping back and forth across the room. It was only a matter of time before he squeezed off another shot. As Zack ran toward the assassin, he tried to keep his concentration solely on getting to the hand that gripped that gun. If only this room weren’t so wide open—

  If only Zack knew what the hell he was doing.

  He had no training for this kind of situation. He had never been in the military, and had no real interest in military strategy. The only thing he knew about violent confrontations came from a talk given a few years ago at a local bookstore by a former Navy SEAL. The author was promoting his most recent hardcover, called Fight Smart, Stupid. The book was all about how SEALs succeeded in almost every one of their operations because they were so careful to prepare. Their overriding strategy was to fight a battle only after manipulating the situation so that every possible aspect of the engagement was to their advantage.

  The author said that because SEALs were so committed to putting the odds in their favor, they rarely directly confronted an adversary unless they had already established a detailed plan of how to do so. That was why, he said, when an unexpected confrontation with an enemy force arose, the three most frequently heard words in radio communications between SEALs were “Run away. Over.”

  Of course, the SEAL at the bookstore had not been talking about being in a room while a nut was shooting bullets into a crowd containing your seven-year-old kid.

  Because for Zack, there would be no planning, no manipulation of the odds, and no running away.

  Instead, in a few seconds, there would only be a direct, unarmed confrontation with an armed enemy.

  The enemy who had just fired a fourth shot into the crowd.

  Monster

  STEPHANIE EMERGED FROM THE BATHROOM after her morning shower wrapped in a towel, with another on her head.

  According to the phone calls she had made last night, she was going to stay home from work this morning so she could go with her father to the doctor.

  That was an intriguing change in her normal routine.

  She opened the top drawer of her dresser, grabbed a black bra and panties from a jumbled pile of them in there, and threw both onto the bed. Then she walked out of the camera’s field of view, only to return a minute later with a pair of jeans and a bright red pullover, which she tossed onto the bed next to her underwear.

  Then she stepped over to the mirror, used the towel on her head to dry her hair some more, and then realized that she hadn’t remembered to bring her hairbrush out of the bathroom. She went back in to get it.

  As she brushed her hair and dressed, he called up on the right side of his computer screen the file he’d labeled “The Final Moment.” As the image displayed itself on his monitor, he took the time to call up on the other side of the screen the file he had labeled “A,” the pictures he had taken of Iris Dubinski.

  As he had done
with the Chatham images a week earlier, he used his computer’s photo-editing program to isolate and then remove the portions of the Dubinski pictures that specifically displayed the three gunshot wounds she had suffered. Then, he superimposed the images of the three wounds onto the Stephanie Hartz images contained in The Final Moment.

  After he was done, he admired his work. Now Stephanie stood before the mirror with a horrendous bloody hole in place of her left eye, a startlingly grotesque gash down the middle of her face in place of her nose and upper lip, a bullet hole in the center of her chest, another in her groin, and in the rear view, bullet holes in each buttock.

  He had already predetermined that The Final Moment would be his blueprint for the transformation of Stephanie Hartz from healthy young woman into lifeless corpse, but as he studied the series of injuries that she would suffer, he realized that many of them would take place after she had died. The human body was, of course, a limitation which he was very familiar with, but he found his mind wandering to the final confrontation, and wishing for something more.

  As he closed his computer files he returned to watching Stephanie, now fully dressed, as she emerged from the bathroom again. She was wearing makeup! Mascara, maybe a little lip gloss. That was interesting. He’d have to give that some thought as he plotted out the details of her death. Would he like her to be in her normal state, clean, but unpainted, or would he prefer her corpse to display an ironic patina of glamour as it lay there, destroyed by his attack?

  As Stephanie left the bedroom, presumably heading to meet her father, he turned off his computer. He pushed his chair back from the table and walked to the closet on the other side of the room where he kept the tools of his chosen trade—a roll of duct tape, a pair of pruning shears, and his collection of pistols and ammunition. He would have to remember to bring an extra clip or two when he put her down. Her body was going to absorb so many bullets he would need to reload.