How Could You: crime, #1

By Wesley Harden III

The story of murder and privilege. A millenial is charged with a crime he swears he did not commit. The evidence is compelling. Will money an influence free him? Based on actual events.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wesley Harden III
• Release date: Dec 23, 2019
• ISBN: 9780988880627

Wesley Harden III

Wesley Harden III is a retired surgeon living in Northern Virginia with his wife, Debbie, and their two dogs, Milo and Odie.

Book preview

Book One

The Party

Murray walked up to Carol, handing her a fresh martini. I’ve seen practically every vagina in this place. When am I going to see yours?

Carol was Murray’s wife’s best friend. She was also the wife of Murray’s colleague, Hazell Bishop, the Chief of Surgery. Despite the aroma of alcohol on his breath, she knew he wasn’t kidding. Murray was a gynecologist.

She placed the palm of her hand softly on his cheek and gave it a gentle caress. Murray, if I told you my vagina was rotting and about to fall out of my pelvis, I still wouldn’t let you look at it.

Well, if that’s the case, we need to get to the office right now.

Before he could speak, she turned and walked toward the tree, beautiful and elegant as ever, the enticing slit in her dress approaching the slit of her buttocks.

She held up her martini glass thanking him for the drink.

Murray thought religion was an unnecessary encumbrance. A Jew, he felt no incongruity at attending the country club Christmas cocktail party and hadn’t missed one in ten years. Neither had Carol. Seeing her here was as much a holiday present as his teenage daughter’s new iPhone.

Carol told me you asked after her vagina again today.

He said nothing, concentrating instead on guiding his Lexus through the night.

You may be the busiest gynecologist in a fifty-mile radius, but you’re such an ass. You’re a recurring embarrassment. Carol. Really?

The car came upon them as if out of nowhere, his red and blue lights flashing against the mirrors and luxury beige interior.

Christ Murray, you’re getting pulled over.

After a moment he whispered, I don’t think so.

The police car, without siren, whipped around them on the two-lane road and disappeared into the night until they could no longer see the flashing strobes against the trees and wet pavement.

Huh, Murray muttered more as a sigh of curiosity than relief. His charmed life with alcohol continued. He gave no further thought to his near-DUI experience or the shrew sitting beside him, wrapped in fur, dangling earrings glinting in the light of each passed streetlamp. But he did slow down a little.

He mused that if he had killed his wife when they first got married, he’d be out by now. It was a recurring joke inside his brain. Or, even better, justifiable homicide.

As he turned onto the lane that ran up to the house, Murray’s heart pounded in his chest. He could make out the first hint of the lights flashing against the nest of trees surrounding their home. A moment later, Miriam saw it too.

Oh my God! I hope nothing has happened to Rebecca. Don’t slow down, Murray, speed up!

Don’t panic, Miriam, maybe there was a break-in or something. At least there’s no ambulance.

Three cars, two locals and a State Police cruiser were parked in the circular driveway. There was no one outside. Murray pulled the car as close to the house as the cop cars would let him. He was out of the car and had Miriam by the hand entering the house quickly. A local Tomaqua patrolman, DeWayne Jackson, grim-faced, stood by the door. He nodded. Murray knew him well, as he had delivered his two sons.

DeWayne, what the hell’s going on?

Police business, Doc. I’ll let the Sarge talk to you about it. They’re in the den.

They ran to the den and found Rebecca in a long flannel nightie sitting on a chair sobbing. On the couch sat their son, Daniel, hands behind his back, head down, staring at the rug.

Miriam went straight over to Rebecca.

Sergeant, what’s going on here?

Good evening, Doctor. Sorry I have to tell you we’re taking your son into custody. He’s under arrest.

For what?

Questioning. There’s been a murder and he’s a suspect.

Murder? Miriam screamed. Did you say murder?

Yes, Ma’am, I did.

She left her daughter’s side and started screaming, How could you? over and over again. Not ‘There must be some mistake’ or, ‘You have the wrong kid.’

She balled her fists and raised them to strike her son. The State Trooper grabbed her mid-lunge as she screamed, I hate you! I wish you’d never been born!

It was not the first time Daniel had heard those words.

The Trooper held her until she no longer seemed a threat, then released her.

She ran into her husband’s arms, limp and inconsolable as if she might faint.

What happened? he said to the State Trooper who stood silently a few feet from Daniel.

The Sergeant spoke, We can discuss the details of our investigation there. We have to take your son now.

They helped Daniel to his feet and guided him past his parents. He smirked at his mother as he was escorted from the room.

The last thing Murray focused on was the silver bracelets around his son’s wrists. Miriam kept screaming until she was hoarse. They followed Daniel and the officers to the patrol car and waited until they drove away. Jackson told them not to touch anything in the house, gather what they needed, and go to a motel. They would be by in the morning with a search warrant for the premises. 

Rebecca was silent, nearly catatonic as Murray led her to the bedroom to gather a few things. He pulled some articles of clothing and toiletries for his wife and himself and they walked out the front door. Jackson closed and locked it behind them. He applied strips of yellow barrier tape to the front door and took position in his patrol car for the night.

Murray looked in the rearview mirror at the front of his home lit by decorative flood lights. The police car, steam coming from the tail pipe, was the last thing he saw.

Tomaqua, New York was a quiet little town until the state revamped its corporate tax structure and it suddenly blossomed into a miniature Silicon Valley. That meant an influx of young, aspiring computer geniuses, and babies, and irregular menstruation. Doctor Murray and Miriam Schindler and their two children, Daniel and Rebecca, lived at 17 Chagas Run, a very high-end address for a very high-end family.

Tomaqua County was situated north of the Pennsylvania line, west of the Hudson and a two hour drive down Interstate 87 to the City. The Schindlers moved there after Murray finished his OB-GYN residency at NYU and a failed partnership on the Upper East Side. That was ten years ago. Miriam was furious at his seemingly rash decision to leave the practice as if leaving warm, predictable civilization for the tundra. The City was the only New York that mattered. She often said if they moved the capitol from Albany to, say, New Rochelle or south of the Tappan Zee Bridge, the rest of the state could secede, and no one would notice. She included the Island, of course, although that was a universe unto itself.

Murray picked the place by having Miriam call all the New York OB-GYN practices within a hundred miles of the City. Her complaint was heavy vaginal bleeding. Most could see her right away, certainly within a day or so. The one practice which made her wait until at least a month, likely more, depending on the nature of the crisis was Tomaqua. There the OBs were too busy to see anyone, and no one was taking new OB patients. They packed their belongings, said adieu to the brownstone, and headed north. Murray was instantly busy. Quite fortuitously, the busiest OB-GYN practitioner in town keeled over dead from a heart attack six months after they moved in. Murray, guided by the three As: able, affable and available, proceeded to build a very large, successful practice. He proudly pointed out women in this part of New York had to drive past at least five different OB-GYN practices to get to his.

Miriam, her head resting against the window, sobbed loudly. Rebecca, in the back, sat perfectly still. In the rearview mirror, Murray could see her unblinking, wet eyes illuminated by passing streetlights, her gaze fixed on her mother. How had it come to this?

Things started going bad for the boy when his sister was born. Jealous of the diverted attention, he became increasingly boisterous and recalcitrant. Acting out at times of most consequence, Murray’s recurring salve was ‘boys will be boys’ as if that explained everything. Nothing he said pacified her. Nothing the boy did eased her disappointment. There were many discussions with the guidance counselors. They even sought therapy to ease the friction between mother and child. To no avail. Things would be better for a while, but old antagonisms resurfaced. Murray dearly loved his son. The bond between mother and child, if there ever had been one, was nearly non-existent.

Murray pulled in front of the Hampton Inn. His wife stared into middle distance, her head still against the side window. Rebecca sat motionless, upright, a blank expression on her face.

Wait here, he said, as if they might get out of the car and wander into the woods.

Murray walked in and requested a room for the night.

The plump young girl behind the counter said sure, then in an instant of recognition said, Hi, Doctor Schindler.

Murray studied her for a second, Do I know you?

The girl smiled and said, Sure, you delivered my baby girl two years ago.

Murray studied her. Besides fat, she had a stud in the side of her nose, one through her tongue, a ring through her lower lip, and enough ear piercings to set off a metal detector.

Oh, yes, of course He glimpsed at her name tag. Martha. How could I forget? Medicaid. Now the room.

Yes, sure. How many nights?

One.

What’s the matter, something wrong at home?

Yes. Something is wrong at home. Can I have the room?

Sure, I need your driver’s license and credit card.

With two fingers, he pushed them across the faux marble countertop.

She handed him the small envelope containing the room keys and said, Here you go, Doc. One-oh-seven. Just around the corner. She smiled, and said innocently, Have a nice stay. Call me if you need more towels.

He parked the Lexus and, removing the few bags from the trunk, guided his wife and daughter to the room. She acted as if her legs were powerless to make the journey. He settled them into bed. Neither said a word. Despite the silence, he made eye-contact with Rebecca. He had no words to describe the lost look on her face.

He left the room and drove to the police station.

I’m Doctor Schindler. I’d like to get some information about my son. He was arrested tonight.

Yes, Doctor Schindler. I’ll have one of the detectives come out to speak to you as soon as he’s available.

"How long will that be?

Can’t say for sure.  Could be a few minutes. Could be hours. He pointed to a seat against the wall. You can have a seat. Can I get you water?

No. I’m fine. I just need to talk to somebody about my son.

The clock on the wall read 2:30. He had experienced his wife in all states of joy and anger but had never seen her as inconsolable as tonight. He sat in the chair trying to sort out this misunderstanding. That’s what it had to be. Had to. He looked at the clock. Two thirty-five.

‘Murder?’ Did he actually say murder?

Three-fifteen.

Sorry, officer. When can I see my son?

Sir, the detective will be out as soon as he can. Please sit.

Do you know who I am?

Sure, I do. An ordinary citizen whose son is being questioned. He pointed with the eraser of his pencil.  Now sit.

It was after six when the door opened and a young man in a white shirt and loosened tie entered the lobby.

Hello, sir. He extended his hand, which Murray shook. My name is Detective Counsel. I’m questioning your son, Daniel.

What’s going on, Detective? Where’s my son?

Come with me, sir. We can chat in my office. The detective nodded to the desk sergeant and led Murray to his office.

Please, sit.

Murray sat. Counsel sat behind the desk.

Let me get to the point, sir. I’m conducting a preliminary investigation into a crime we believe your son was involved in.

I was told it was a murder.

That’s correct.

What murder? How could my son be involved in a murder?

Do you know a Howard Zepps?

No, I’ve never heard the name. In fact, he had. Howie. Zepps.

Well, I’m not at liberty to go into the details at this time. However, we believe your son was involved in the murder earlier this evening of a drifter, a vagrant named Wilson Prettyman.

Murray felt the blood drain to his feet.

I don’t understand.

We found this Zepps kid near the scene of the crime, this Prettyman’s little campsite, and took him into custody. We found Mr. Prettyman dead, garroted, by his campfire. He paused. Do you know what garroted means, Mr. Schindler?"

"It’s Doctor Schindler and, yes, I do. I’m not stupid, Detective, get to the point. How is my son involved in this?"

Zepps says your son did the garroting.

Not possible. My son isn’t capable of such a thing.

We believe he is. His sanctimonious denial tells me otherwise. But I won’t get into details at this time. Suffice it to say, you’ll need to get an attorney for your son. This morning, in fact, as he’ll be arraigned by the District Justice at 1 p.m., charged with aggravated assault and homicide.

Murray buried his head in his hands, muttering something about a big mistake.

He used an extension cord. Counsel held up a plastic evidence bag.  Murray saw the extension cord. Mr. Prettyman was also sodomized.

All of this was beyond Murray’s comprehension. How would he explain any of this to his wife and daughter? His first formed thought as he walked to his car from the police station was that there had been a colossal mistake. He did not think, despite his son’s rebellious, challenging disposition, that he could be capable of such a heinous crime. How could he? It sickened him. He pulled off the road and vomited.

It was eight-thirty when he returned to the motel room. Miriam and Rebecca were still asleep. He did not know whether he should let them sleep or wake them, so he could tell them what he knew. He decided to shower and realized he had overlooked packing fresh underwear.

Finally, Miriam stirred, and Murray made her a coffee from the little station that sat beside the TV. Her hair was disheveled and there were wrinkle marks from the pillow imbedded on her cheek. She had a forlorn look Murray had never seen.

What did you find out?

Murray looked over at Rebecca still asleep on the other bed.

They didn’t go into any detail. The detective I spoke with said some vagrant had been murdered at his campsite. He was strangled. Murray did not mention the extension cord. He also left out the part about the sodomy.

How do they know he did it?

They said he was in cahoots with that Zepp kid.

I knew that little prick would get him into trouble. Prick was a new word for her.

That’s all I know. This detective said Daniel was going to be arraigned at the county magistrate’s office this afternoon.

Do we know him?

No, but we might have voted for him.

I guess we should get him a lawyer.

Well, of course. Who should we call?

Christ, I don’t know. I can’t even think straight.

I’ll call DeSoto. Maybe he can help. As the words left his mouth Miriam was sobbing again.

All he handles are real estate closings, divorces, and drunk driving arrests, she said between sobs.

We have to start someplace. At least let me see what I can find out.

He called his attorney, Jack DeSoto, and asked if he could meet him in his office at eleven. An unusual request for a Sunday morning. DeSoto agreed.

Murray, DeSoto stood up and extended his right hand across his desk. He was dressed in jeans, turtleneck sweater, and bomber jacket.

What’s the matter? Kids egg your house again?

Murray took a chair across from the attorney and stared at middle distance.

I saw you at the party last night. Sorry we didn’t get a chance to speak. DeSoto was quiet for a moment and sat down. What’s going on, Murray?

Daniel was arrested last night?

Drugs?

No! What makes you say that?

Nothing, Murray. Just that Daniel has a certain youthful exuberance, is all.

Both men were silent for a few moments.

DeSoto spoke, What happened?

Murder. He was arrested for murder.

DeSoto sat motionless making no sound for many seconds.

What are you talking about? Daniel? Murder? Is this some sort of joke?

Murray choked back tears, but finally spoke. He was arrested last night. The police say he murdered some bum with an extension cord. He did it with some kid named Zepps. When we got home from the party the cops were at the place and they had him in handcuffs. I spoke to detective something-or-other later and he said he was being arraigned today at the magistrate.  We want you there.

Of course, Murray. But, you must understand; I have no experience in murder. I’ve never tried a criminal case bigger than burglary. Surely you know this.

Jack, we have nowhere else to turn on such short notice.

DeSoto sat for a moment. Murray thought his brain might have vapor-locked.

What time is the arraignment?

One.

Okay, I’ll be there.

Murray could not bring himself to look DeSoto in the eye.

Thank you, he said softly.

Murray turned and left.

When Murray returned to the motel room, Rebecca was in the shower and Miriam sat on the edge of the bed looking at the local Sunday morning news. Murray could tell she had been crying. It was past eleven.

Well?

Jack said he would attend the charging. We’ll have to see what happens next. I wonder if Jack is up to something like this.

No. I mean yes, she said. He’s local, he knows us. He knows Daniel. He’s our man.

Murray sat on the foot of the other bed and stared at the TV as well.

After a few moments, he turned to Miriam, I’m going to go home and put on a suit. Do you want me to pick up a dress for you?

They may not let you into the house.

Then again, they might.

No, she said. I’m not going.

You’re not going. What do you mean you’re not going? He’s our son–your son!

"My son would not do such a thing."

Murray knew there was no point in arguing. He read it in a posture he had seen a million times before.

I’ll tell him you’re sick.

Do that.

Murray drove up the driveway. A black sedan was sitting on the circular driveway by the door. He parked the car and went in. Two men in rumpled, ordinary raincoats over ordinary suits, stood in the spacious foyer. They looked at him as he walked in.

Who are you?

Doctor Schindler. This is my home. Who are you?

The tall one said, I’m Lomax. This is Dobson. We’re criminal investigators for the county.

I need a few things. When can we return?

Dobson looked at his watch. We were just leaving. We’re finished here. You can move back in any time.

What can you tell me?

Not a thing.

They walked past him, hands in their coat pockets.

Was it you who found the extension cord?

Good day, Doctor Schindler.

They closed the door gently behind them.

The charging was in one hour.

He quickly shaved and put on a fresh shirt, tie and suit. He felt the need to be conservative. Unusual for him.

Returning to the car, he called Margaret, his office manager.

Margaret, something has come up. Cancel office hours for tomorrow.

Okay, what about Mrs. Wellbettle? Her D and C is tomorrow.

Cancel it.

She’s been waiting for a month.

She’ll live. He hung up.

This is a formal hearing for the State’s charges against Daniel Schindler. Mr. Schindler has been charged with aggravated assault and felony murder against Wilson Prettyman.

Murray looked at his son standing beside Jack DeSoto. DeSoto was quite attentive. Daniel looked bored.

This isn’t the time for a plea. But, instead, is a presentation by the Tomaqua County Criminal Court and the State of New York of sufficient grounds to charge Daniel Schindler with a crime. Mr. District Attorney, present your evidence in this matter.

Murray figured this was the biggest crime the judge had even presided over and he was going about it with slow enunciation and deliberate intensity.

The county district attorney, whose name Murray did not know, stood up and spoke,

We have an eyewitness statement from Mr. Howard Zepps, that he witnessed Mr. Daniel Schindler choke Mr. Prettyman, a decorated Afghanistan war veteran, to death at approximately 10 p.m. last evening. It was about the time he asked Carol about the state of her vagina.

Do you have sufficient corroborating evidence to support this eyewitness testimony?

We do.

Then I direct Daniel Schindler to be held over for trial at a date to be determined by the Court.

DeSoto stood up.

I request bail, your Honor.

Denied. You should know better, Mr. DeSoto. This is a capital case.

Murray looked at his son expecting some expression. The apathy he had seen earlier on the boy did not change. Daniel, clad in an orange jumpsuit, shackled at the wrists and ankles, turned, looked at his father and shrugged. He was led away.

Murray watched his son be escorted out of the room by a sheriff’s deputy. He kept his eyes on his son until the door closed behind him. He thought he might cry. He walked up to the magistrate.

I want to see my son.

He pointed in the direction of the sheriffs chatting in the corner. One of them laughed. He approached them. I’d like to see my son.

Was that your boy they just took away?

Yes. I haven’t seen him since he was arrested.

Go to the Tomaqua County Jail and see the desk clerk.

Sorry, I don’t even know where that is.

Google it.

The sheriffs resumed their chat as if Murray wasn’t there.

Murray stood in silence for a moment and suppressed his rage then turned and walked away. It was pointless to argue with brutes.

Google told him not just where the jail was but the fastest way to get there. Traffic was light. It was, after all, still Sunday afternoon. The wind picked up and he pulled the collar of his cashmere coat up around his neck.

He drove to the county lock-up. A single cyclone fence adorned with a tight coil of razor wire on top. It was not like Tomaqua County needed a maximum-security jail. He stepped up to the cage and asked the female officer behind the bars to see his son. She looked up.

I’m sorry, sir. How can I help you?

My name is Doctor Murray Schindler and I want to see my son.

Yeah, they just brought the prisoner back. Wait here and I’ll come get you.

Prisoner.

Ten minutes passed.

She opened the metal, reinforced door and led him to a small room with a table and four chairs and patted him down.

The linoleum was scuffed, and the place reeked of stale cigarette smoke.

A few moments later, Daniel was led into the room. His hands and legs were still shackled. Murray stood and instantly assessed his son’s condition. He looked unbeaten. There were no cuts or bruises. He stood as still as a pole while his father placed his arms around him and kissed him on his cheek.

They took seats on opposite sides of the table.

Daniel, what the fuck is going on?

"Weren’t you there? They arrested me for murder." His voice dripped with attitude.

Murray felt as if he might reach across the table and throttle his son.

Tell me what in God’s name has happened.

Daniel was silent, not taking his eyes off his father. He smirked.

We were hanging out last night with this bum, Wilson something or other, and smoking a joint. Howie was there. He dissed Howie saying this is the worst shit he ever smoked. Howie got pissed, flew into a rage, and killed him.

It’s that simple?

Yes.

Then how come you’ve been charged? Are you an accomplice, an eye-witness or what?

Howie told them I did it.

Murray sat back in his seat. He had known this Howie Zepps for about six months and did not care for him. He was a smarmy little fuck; ingratiating to the point of nausea. If there was a railroad passing through Tomaqua, Zepps would have been from the wrong side. Wealth and a willing accomplice to any mayhem Danny could conjure up were the only attractions this Zepps character had for the Schindlers.

Zepps did it? The actual killing?

Sure. Why would I lie?

So, he said you did it and you said he did it?

Yep.

It won’t matter. You’re both going to jail. They won’t care who did it.

Get some CSI shit going. It’ll prove who did it. Besides, I’m only seventeen. I’m still a minor.

Not sure they’re going to see it that way, regardless of who committed the murder.

What was that putz DeSoto doing there? You need to get me a real lawyer.

I’ll talk with him tomorrow and see what he has to say.

Fine. Then get me a real one.

Murray had never struck his children, but he felt an irresistible urge to smack his son.

I’ll see what he has to say. In the meantime, behave and keep your mouth shut.

Murray stood.

Hey, Dad. Can you get me a carton of smokes? Any brand. Menthols preferred.

No. Murray walked out closing the door behind him.

It was now late afternoon, cold and dark outside.

The Light

Yo, Jackson. It’s for you

Patrolman Jackson rocked forward in his seat and reached for the phone, interrupting his solitaire game, one which he finally thought he might win. Putting the iPhone down, a finger inadvertently traced across the screen and the game was lost. At ten-thirty on a Saturday night this could only be trouble. He doubted it was anyone calling to wish him an early Merry Christmas.

Officer Jackson, how can I help you?

Officer, my name is Helen Sachetti. I live at 500 Turtle Pond Road. I want to report a strange light in the woods behind our home. I’ve never seen it before and it flips off and on.  I’m wondering if there are kids back there up to no good. I think there might be a fire, too. These woods are dry, and I think whoever it is needs to be chased off.

What’s the address again? He jotted her response on a sticky note, peeled it off, and put it in his pocket. I’ll be by in a bit.

He yelled through the glass at the other office.

Some kids probably smoking weed in the woods.

Swing by in the morning.

Naw, I better go, she’s worried about a forest fire. He pulled on his belt, adjusted his weapon against his hip, and yelled again. No, if her house burns down tonight, it’ll ruin her Christmas and we’ll never hear the end of it.

Jackson pulled on his parka, dropped the phone in his pocket, and left.

See ya, Sarge. Don’t wait up.

The Sergeant’s head rocked forward, and he gave the Patrolman his middle finger.

He started the car and, as he waited for it to warm up, found the address on the GPS.

Jackson was not all that familiar with the address. With the influx of IT to the area, numerous high-end developments had burrowed themselves into large tracts of woods that made up most of the county. She really should have called the Sheriff’s Department as it was just outside the town’s corporate area. The Tomaqua Police Department handled the calls inside the town. The Sheriffs or State Police everything else.  But she called us, he thought, and it was close enough to go either way.

He parked in her driveway, little concerned