Injustice: A Detective Oliver Rousseau Novel

By Cynthia Townley

He watched... and waited.

"Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?"
"Come quick! Someone is breaking into my house."
"Can you get out of the house?"
"No, he's already inside!"

A call to 911 leads the Major Crimes team to an apparent homicide... as a series of senseless murders unfold committed by the media-dubbed "Nawlins Night Stalker".

One murder, then two... and more in the offing... as Oliver and the team scrambles to learn the how and the why - until the evidence points to a startling discovery – the Night Stalker is one of their own. But when the psychics examine the evidence, they uncover something far more sinister than murder - a dark secret that has fiery consequences.

Injustice delves into the magnitude of one person's quest for justice and asks the questions: Can we really believe in forensic evidence? And what happens when we accuse the wrong person of murder?

Townley carefully creates page by careful page a haunting and disturbing reality.
B. Harper, New York

Don't miss this top-grade thriller with its beloved characters that will keep you glued to this page-turning read. Townley is that good at what she does.
S. King, Washington

Townley is equally skilled at reflecting procedural details, uncovering fault, and treating her flesh-and-blood characters – with compassion and humor.
The Blue Bay Book Club, Georgia

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cynthia Townley
• Release date: Jul 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310819162

Cynthia Townley

Cynthia Townley is the author of the popular crime-fiction series – the Detective Oliver Rousseau novels.Cynthia has shown us that the best books might just land outside the present boundaries.She lives in a suburb of Houston, Texas with her husband. For more information you can visit her on Facebook at Mystery Crime Novelist – Cynthia Townley or visit her website, www.cynthiatownley.com.

Book preview

New Orleans, Louisiana - December 20, 2011

On the first floor of her off-campus apartment building, in the community laundry room, Kelly MacDonald pulled her clothes out of the hot dryer and into the basket as her cell phone announced, New text message received. She saw it was from Ellen, the girl who lived across the hall, before the message faded away. She put the phone in the laundry basket and decided she would answer the text when she got upstairs. Undoubtedly, her friend was checking in to tell her she had arrived at the airport and was at the gate for her flight to Minnesota as Kelly had asked her to do. Christmas was the busiest time of the year to travel and a lot of students were heading home to spend the holiday with family. Long lines through security and flight delays were to be expected. Kelly had already heard from several other friends who were waiting on delayed flights.

She was glad she was from New Orleans and didn't have to travel to see her family. Normally, she wouldn't even have the laundry room to herself on a Tuesday night. Earlier, when she realized nearly everyone in the building was leaving, she considered going to her parents and staying through the holiday but then dismissed the idea. She was a grown up now and could tough it out for a few weeks. Besides, it's not like she was confined to the apartment. But with the two girls recently kidnapped and then found murdered, she was on high alert and conscious of every little noise. Who wasn't? Before classes ended, Tulane had sent a text advising female students to stay in pairs if they went out. Her friends were glad to be leaving to get away from their paranoia. There were even times over the past several weeks when she felt she was being watched, and now that the apartment building was quiet, she was thinking she just might go to her parents after all.

Balancing the laundry basket on her hip, she started up the dimly lit stairs to her apartment on the second floor. When she reached midway on the narrow wooden stairs she heard a noise, stopped, and looked down behind her. She wasn't sure where the noise had come from. It was a hundred year old three- story house converted into apartments with two on the first floor: one belonging to the manager, Ben, while the one next to the electrical room was vacant. There were four apartments on the second floor and the third floor. She knew everyone in the building. From her position on the stairs, she could see the front door with the porch light on outside. No one was there and that door required a key to enter and it automatically locked when it closed for the safety of the residents.

Catherine Singh, a resident on the third floor, had said she was staying in town for Christmas but thought she would be sleeping over at her boyfriend's part of the time.

Catherine?

She listened.

She looked up, wishing Ben had replaced the burned-out lights in the high ceiling. One bulb did not provide adequate lighting and she'd have to talk to him about it.

A creak in the floor! It sounded like it came from directly above her. With the exception of Catherine and Ben, she didn't think anyone else was in the building.

Catherine is that you?

Silence.

Ben?

No answer.

Hello? Is someone there?

Normally she'd hear the mumblings of conversations behind closed doors, or the occasional TV or iPod turned up too loud, but tonight the building was eerily quiet so what she'd heard really stood out. For a second, it sounded like someone moving around.

Feeling spooked, she shifted her basket to the other hip and hurried up the stairs, frequently looking behind her to see if she was being followed. She wasn't. Then she felt silly. It was probably nothing more than the moaning of an old building she told herself. Still, she'd feel better when she reached the safety of her apartment.

At the top, a man jumped down from the third floor landing scaring her half to death.

Startled, she screamed and dropped the basket and started to laugh at the joke but then fear gripped her chest as her brain registered the fierce look on his face. This was no joke! GO, GO, GO! Her brain screamed… RUN!… GET OUT! Turning to flee, she felt a forceful push from behind that sent her tumbling down the narrow stairs and she cried out in pain as blow after blow battered her body. At the bottom, she lay dazed and barely able to move. She hurt everywhere but the worst of the pain was shooting from her hip down her right leg. She thought her hip might be broken and winced when she tried to move. Through the haze of pain, the imminent danger penetrated her brain when the intruder loomed above her at the top of the stairs. MOVE! Taut with fear, she tried to sit up but the pain was excruciating. She glanced at the front door a mere three feet away. Grinding her teeth, she used her arms and scooted toward the door… a little at a time… willing her feet to move.

Her vision swam before her eyes, her legs weren't cooperating with her efforts… and she was fighting nauseousness, wave after wave of dizziness as pain racked her body. Her brain was screaming to hurry… she was almost there… she could feel the cold draft coming from under the door when a hand grabbed her by her shirt collar and hair and dragged her down the hall.

No one heard the long wailing scream of terror.

2013

Normally, Defense Attorney Daniel King would be satisfied with the outcome of a trial if he was able to keep his client off of Death Row. That was generally the biggest obstacle he faced because the majority of his clients were guilty. Still, even knowing that, the Constitution allows for the presumption of innocence and the best defense he can offer. But this case was different. This was one of those rare cases when he knew his client was innocent, knew it deep down in his gut, and his biggest obstacle in the State of Louisiana vs. Erik Marquette - was trying to convince a jury of that when the odds were so greatly stacked against him. He had gone up against the big gun himself, District Attorney Ricky Burdett. To say the prosecution had an almost bulletproof case was a massive understatement of gargantuan proportion. There was none better for the prosecution and none worse for him. This case was so bad it had almost cost him is marriage and his life. Almost from the onset, he had gotten death threats against him and his family and had to move his wife and son out of New Orleans until the trial was over. It was the kind of case where even his closest friends questioned, How can you defend that monster?

From the very beginning, the prosecution had the deck stacked in their favor. They had everything, everything except motive. There was simply no motive for Erik Marquette to kidnap, rape, and murder Kelly MacDonald. None. And not only Kelly but the two other co-eds before her. He couldn't forget that. It had taken some fast talking but he had been able to convince the judge to keep those other two murders out of this trial. There had been no evidence whatsoever linking his client, or anyone else for that matter, to The Campus Killer's first two victims so unless new evidence was found those girls would never get justice. Those first two murders would likely remain unsolved because it was a practical impossibility to try someone else when the manner of death in all three victims clearly pointed to one killer - his client.

Even if the jurors knew nothing about The Campus Killer case from two years ago it would be difficult for them to remain objective when the prosecutor presented at trial, the knife believed to be the murder weapon with Senator MacDonald's daughter's blood on it; a knife which had been found in his client's home. Who wouldn't convict him? Evidence like that was almost irrefutable. Almost. There was only one defense. The knife had been planted! It was the only reasonable explanation because Erik Marquette was not a killer and anyone who spent one hour getting to know him would know that.

Looking at his summation notes, he knew he probably hadn't convinced all twelve jurors of his client's innocence but he hoped he had planted the seed of reasonable doubt in at least one. That's all he needed.

Now, he could only wait and see if the jury bought his theory.

He looked around the courtroom. There was a quiet energy. The people on the other side of the courtroom, family and friends of the victim, seemed so sure this was a slam-dunk case of guilt they were afraid to leave in case the verdict was handed down while they were gone. They hovered around each other, whispering in their cliquish circles, bolstering each other's spirits.

Behind the defense table, there were only media-types. No family to support his client. Daniel's stomach was twisted in knots. The longer the jury deliberated the better for his client he thought. That meant they were actually reviewing the evidence and testimony. He looked at the twelve empty chairs wondering if he had missed anything, anything vital that would convince them Marquette didn't do this terrible deed. He didn't think so and he had done the best he could. If there was anything more he could had said to convince the jury his client was innocent, it was unknown to him. He sighed. Maybe he should have pushed harder for a change in venue but the reality was, it would have been impossible to get an untainted jury in this high-profile case because there wasn't a sole in Louisiana who hadn't heard about it. It had been all over the TV and on the front-page of the newspaper for weeks following the gruesome discovery of the third victim on Christmas Day. The local media had sensationalized it to the point it had garnered the attention of national media, which was bound to happen anyway since the victim was the daughter of a United States Senator, but not even Jesus got this much coverage!

Someone stirred behind him and he recognized the man from the 48 Hours TV program, and there was Dateline, and people from CNN and Fox News. He had heard them speculating outside one day during the lunch break, how many more would have died if Marquette hadn't been caught?

And there it was! How many more young women would have died if Marquette hadn't been caught? As soon as his client was in police custody, the killings had stopped; a telltale sign the cops had the right man behind bars. Who wouldn't believe he was guilty?

Means, motive, and opportunity he reminded himself. Those were the three aspects of a crime that must be established before guilt can be determined in a criminal proceeding, and that was the prosecutor's job, not his. It was up to Daniel to discredit the prosecution's theory that his client had premeditated the murder of the victim in order that it would meet death penalty qualifications. Daniel felt he had successfully discredited the theory of motive because the defendant had no knowledge of the victim prior to her death. There had been no phone calls, no emails, no texts, and no social link between the victim and his client. Surely, if nothing else, the jury believed that.

By removing motive, he also hoped he had removed means. That Erik Marquette was a man gave him the ability to commit rape and murder, and in all likelihood, he could have known the apartment below the victim was vacant when she was murdered because it was only a block from the college where he worked. But according to him, he didn't. If Daniel did his job correctly, then the jury had no reason to believe his client knew where the victim lived – because he'd already established they had never met.

Opportunity? He couldn't totally eliminate that possibility since the defendant worked at the same university where the victim attended classes. Tulane was a big school. There was no point in even trying because the prosecution went to great lengths to have the jury believe their paths had crossed - even though they didn't produce one witness who had seen them together. The prosecutions lack of motive and lack of material witnesses that could place them together actually made his case stronger, and you can bet he had brought that up during his closing arguments in hopes of creating the ever attainable reasonable doubt. Just one! All he needed was one juror!

He looked at his client who was sitting quietly and calmly waiting to hear his fate, waiting to hear if he would be found guilty of first degree murder when he'd never had so much as a speeding ticket before this trial. Incredible! It had been like defending Forrest Gump. Erik Marquette was a quiet man, a good man, but that made him vulnerable. He'd never been in a position to defend himself before. When faced with an opponent, Erik was the type of man who would rather walk away than fight. He grew up in a house with a loving mother and father, graduated high school, and went on to get a job like so many other working class people did. He didn't have a college degree but he did have a good work history, hardly ever missed a day of work, and he had worked his way up to a supervisory position in the janitorial department at Tulane. And while he didn't have any friends to speak of, he was hardly a recluse. His neighbors had good things to say about him. He was productive in society and often volunteered to help others. What he wasn't, was a psychopathic killer who had savagely murdered three girls but had the misfortune to be charged with one.

While Daniel had put on the best defense he could under the circumstances, he feared the murder weapon with the victim's blood on it was going to put a needle in his client's arm. That it had been planted in Erik's house he had no doubt, but he realized now that for all his grandstanding in court, all the witnesses called and the testimonies given, it might not be enough to sway the jury.

And what of the cops? God, he hoped he'd never have a need to call nine-one-one because he had the feeling they would drive around in circles before coming to his aid. How does one get around the murder weapon being found in your client's home without offending someone? Someone put it there. Why not the cops? At the time, it had made sense.

The side door opened and the Bailiff walked up to the bench and spoke quietly to the judge.

Daniel's stomach muscles tightened. No! It was too soon!

The judge scanned the courtroom, his eyes meeting Senator MacDonald's.

Daniel looked over and saw that indeed, the senator, his wife and daughter, and their entourage of New Orleans elite, were all present.

In a loud clear voice the judge said, The jury has reached a verdict. Please take your seats.

Daniel leaned over and whispered to his client, Find a spot on the wall above the judge and don't look away. If the news isn't what we're hoping for, we'll appeal it. Don't forget that.

All rise. The Bailiff yelled as the jury was let into the courtroom and took their respective seats.

When the gallery was seated again and quiet, the judge turned to the jury. Mr. Foreman, have you returned to the courtroom with a unanimous verdict?

We have, Your Honor.

Please read it.

We, the jury, in the case of the State of Louisiana versus Erik Marquette, do unanimously find the defendant guilty of first degree murder and recommend the sentence of death by lethal injection.

CHAPTER 1

Today

He watched and waited …

He swirled the ice around in the glass of amber liquid and looked at the time in the lower right corner of the computer screen with building anticipation. It would only be a few minutes before the show began. Clicking through the photographs on the website, he felt himself becoming aroused.

* * *

In the quiet house on Fourth Street, Judge Albert Holmes sat in his Garden District mansion as he did most nights after a long day. It was not a mansion by most people standards, but in New Orleans, and particularly the Garden District, a three- story house over 6,000 square feet constituted a mansion, and wealth; a hallmark of success, and once upon a time, the respectability of the Old South. He took a sip of the smooth Chivas Regal, a taste he'd acquired many years ago. Moving the window curtain aside, he watched a jogger going by. While that wasn't unusual, the fact that he recognized the person was. He let the curtain drop back into place.

After the kids were out on their own, he and his wife had been the only two occupants in the big house until she had succumbed to cancer three years ago. Now it was just him rambling around the old house, and a service that came once a week to clean and do what little laundry he had, and to cook a few meals. People might assume there was live-in help because of the sheer size of the house, and indeed the third floor had been designed for servants when the house was built over a century ago, but he valued his privacy too much to have strangers living in his house. He left that lifestyle to the football players with their million dollar contracts, driving flashy cars and throwing elaborate parties, and to the corporate moguls with their nannies pushing baby carriages down the sidewalk, and the Hollywood-types that only come around a couple of times a year pretending this is where they can be normal. If they weren't normal when they got to here, staying a few months wasn't going to change that.

People come and go so much anymore that he only knew two of his neighbors from the old days. He had dinner once a month with his daughter and spoke to his son occasionally on the phone, and saw him on those rare occasions when he visited and wasn't running out to meet up with his old friends. That was okay with him. He had grown accustomed to the solitude and discovered he liked his own company. Plus, he had his cronies at the club whom he played cards with once a week.

He was just about to sit back down when he heard a noise. He knew every sound the old house made and this noise was different from the normal creaks and groans. This sound was foreign. He cocked his head, straining to hear. There it was again! Annoyed at the interruption, he went to the front door, his hand hovering over the light switch but he didn't turn it on. Looking out through the oval window toward the street, he didn't see anyone and he certainly wasn't expecting visitors at this time of night. He was about to go back to his… there it was again! The sound was coming from the back of the house. Tightening the robe hanging loosely around his thick middle, he grabbed the cordless phone from the end table in the living room and went over to the arched wall between the dining room and kitchen.

The sound was constant now, and forced, and he peered around the corner. His breath caught in his throat when he spotted a dark figure hovering at the back door window. Then his eyes narrowed as the knob moved back and forth in its metal housing.

With shaking hands, he quickly dialed the phone.

Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?

Come quick! Someone is breaking into my house.

What is your address, sir?

1204 Fourth Street, in the Garden District. I'm Judge Albert Holmes. Someone's picking the lock on my back door.

The lock finally gave way and the door swung inward. In that split second he saw the dark figure was wearing a ski mask covering all but the eyes and mouth before fleeing into the living room where he bounded up the stairs in slippered feet.

Judge Holmes, can you get out of the house?

Entering his bedroom, he locked the door behind him. In a panic, he looked around for a place to hide.

No, he's already inside. I'm in my bedroom. I locked the door, he said in slurred whisper. He hurried into the bathroom and locked the door.

Hurry! He whispered.

Officers are on their way. How many intruders did you see?

Putting his ear against the door, he cupped the mouthpiece with his hand. One.

Can you describe this person for me? Is it a man or a woman? Is the intruder armed? What is the person wearing?

Eeerrk. A loose board on the stairs.

Do you think I give a damn? He's coming up the stairs now. I can hear him! He took a breath. He's wearing a black ski mask…

Eeerrk.

OH, GOD! Just get someone HERE!

The operator quickly typed the information into her computer. They're on their way, sir. Just stay on the line with me and try to remain calm. Where is the intruder now?

The judge heard the door knob wiggle in his bedroom, from out in the hall but it didn't open. Leaning against the door, his body sagged in relief.

Abruptly, the bedroom door was kicked in and he jumped, his heart slamming in his chest, his body taunt with fear.

The operator heard the forced entry through the phone. Judge? Judge?

Crouching down on the cold tile, he put his eye to the keyhole. The bedroom was dark but the streetlights shining through the windows from out front provided enough light so that he could see someone walking toward his closet.

He was desperate now, and scared. Cupping the phone's mouthpiece again he whispered, Hurry! He's right HERE!

Where are you in the house?

Master bathroom on the second level. HURRY!

The intruder came out of the closet and looked toward the bathroom.

Okay, Judge. If he busts through the door, keep the line open. Do not hang up the phone. Help is on the way. They'll be there any minute now. Is there anyone else in the house besides you and the one intruder that you know of?

He scurried into the shower stall. No! Oh, god! Oh, god! HURRRRY, PLEEEASE!

The operator muted her headset and relayed that information to the officers en route. The call was a Code 3. Emergency, lights and siren.

Copy that. I'm two miles out, the responding officer said.

Ten-four. Three miles out, the backup officer responded.

With his back to the shower wall, the judge heard the doorknob jiggle. He squeezed his eyes shut, too afraid to breathe as he waited for the sound of splintering wood. In his mind, he saw the police pulling into his driveway and storming the house but the only noise was the bathroom door being kicked open. He jumped again, flattening himself to the wall.

Moving swiftly, the intruder's arm extended around the shower stall so quickly it startled the judge and he let out a yelp.

It took a second to register that the cold pressed to his throat was a knife and then a sharp stick as it pierced his neck. His chin quivered as the warm trickle of blood ran down the folds of his neck, and his bladder released; the warm liquid running down his legs and into his slippers.

Ppp… please ddd… don't hurt me. I'll give you anything you www… want.

Raising the front of the mask, the intruder smiled menacingly and pried the phone from the judge's fingers as his eyes widened in recognition.

It was eerily quiet and the operator sensed someone was on the phone. In a purely reflexive action born out of fear she pressed back in her chair trying to distance herself from… she didn't even know. It was a terrifying moment. She swallowed hard. Who's there? Stop this at once! Don't hurt anyone!

Not heeding her warning, in one smooth motion the sharp blade slashed the judge's throat.

Holmes gasped, raising both hands to the open wound, blood spurting between his thick stubby fingers as he tried gasping air.

Sirens were getting close now.

Who is this? The operator demanded in a stern voice. She strained to hear… gurgling and wheezing.

Hello? Hello?

CHAPTER 2

Officer McMannis was first on the scene and he approached the house with his gun drawn, assessing the situation while waiting for backup.

In his earpiece the operator said, Intruder could still be at the scene but I think the homeowner is down. Use extreme caution. I've dispatched EMTs.

Weapon?

No shots fired.

McMannis tried the front door and found it locked. Shining his Maglite through the ornate glass window, he could see no movement inside. The house, like many others in the Garden District, had a wide front porch spanning across the entire front of the house. He moved over to the large living room window and shined his light inside. Nothing. Walking down the front steps, he went around the side of the house, alert to the slightest sound.

I've checked the front door and it's locked, McMannis said quietly into his microphone. I'm on the left side of the residence going to the back. Where's my backup?

ETA one minute.

All the neighbors had been awoken by his siren, and the lights from the neighboring house illuminated the yard that ran along the side of the house. The Garden District was about as upscale as it got in New Orleans. Most of the homes on Fourth Street were surrounded by black wrought-iron fences and tall shrubbery. In the spring and summer, the homes boasted beautiful gardens, some award-winning, hence its name, but now the foliage had been trimmed back for the winter.

At the back door, McMannis turned the brass knob and the door opened.

His adrenaline was pumping.

Officer Savalas has arrived on scene.

Shining his flashlight inside, he could see into the kitchen but there was no one in his line of sight. Have him cover the front. I'm going in through the rear entrance.

Copy that.

McMannis wondered if the intruder had taken the time to close the door on his way out or if he was still in the house. In the kitchen, he made a wide sweeping arc with his weapon and flashlight, registering a hallway leading out