No Jurisdiction

By Eris B. Blount

Bristin McGillis-Medina, now head of the High Profile Crimes Unit, catches the case that will baffle her when Sunday Miller, daughter of Supreme Court Justice, Charles Miller, slated to be the first black Chief Judge of the New York Court of Appeals, is found dead in a shallow grave in Union Square Park.

Sunday had been working for a pharmaceutical company that had developed a new drug claiming to cure hypertension. This could mean billions for the company, but Sunday had discovered a secret.

During the course of her investigation, a series of questionable accidents occur as Bris gets closer to the truth leading to the dramatic conclusion that will leave you stunned.

No Jurisdiction is a mystery suspense thriller that will keep you engrossed to the very last page.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jan 20, 2020
• ISBN: 9781796080131

Eris B. Blount

Eris B. Blount is an undergraduate of Mercy College in Dobbs Ferry, New York with a Bachelor’s Degree in Behavioral Science. He is also a trained paralegal specializing in criminal law and has taught several creative writers’ workshops. He is a native of Brooklyn, New York, and enjoys movies and working out. Some of Eris’ other soon-to-be-published novels include No Jurisdiction and Bounds of Insanity (part of the Lucid trilogy), Black & White Stripes, Deep Desire, Quantum of Evidence, Psychout, The Vertical File, Troubled Hearts, Split Dilemma, and The Girls of Smithtown.

Book preview

Chapter One

The office, spacy, giving her plenty of room to move around and Bris appreciated the atmosphere. No hassling, nudging, noise—a very welcome change from the constant chattering and clutter she’d experienced in the old one. And the window overlooking the city, perfect, except for the occasional pigeon trying to make the ledge a home. She’d had a boxed screen installed to protect her plants and, eventually, they’d gotten the message.

Sitting in the swivel chair behind her walnut desk, she had just wrapped up another investigation. The evidence she’d uncovered enough to convince any jury of the defendant’s guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. But what troubled her was the boy’s age, only sixteen, and under New York law that made him eligible for life without the possibility of parole.

Equally painful wasn’t just his age, but the grisly scene she’d uncovered revealing the manner in which he’d executed his parents—stabbed multiple times, heads severed, bodies buried in the backyard of the brownstone in their trendy Manhattan neighborhood on Riverside Drive.

She’d surmised it was done for the inheritance. The Menendez Syndrome, she called it. Well, they didn’t get away with it and neither would he.

Sighing, she rose walking over to the percolator fixing herself a cup of Sanka.

Bris, she heard Sam call over the intercom attached to the top of her desk. They need you down at Union Square Park, southeast corner at 14th Street. Be sure to see a Detective Binch. He’s the lead ... Bris, you there?

She hurried over to the desk and pressed a button. Got it, Sam, Union Square, 14th Street. I’m on my way.

Good, bring me the details, ASAP.

Picking up the phone, she dialed an extension. Tracy, meet me downstairs in five.

She grabbed her sweater, purse, keys, and leaving the coffee on the desk, steaming, she gaited out the office. As lead investigator for the High Profile Crimes Unit, she knew that whatever summoned her had to be something major.

Tracy was in the lobby waiting just as Bris had instructed; short, brown, petite, Bris could see her standing there, the copen skirt suit unveiling thick muscled calves. She was Bris’ intern, an advanced graduate student of New York University Law School and under her tutelage.

Bris approached and the two of them moved toward the entrance. We’re needed at Union Square. We’re taking my car.

They passed through the rear of the building entering the lot. Bris pressed a button on the remote unlocking the door and disabling the alarm. The black Cadillac Escalade was a gift from Jon and though Bris preferred a much cheaper SUV, the car did have its advantages.

They got in putting on seat belts. Bris started the engine, eased up the ramp, and onto the expressway.

The 14th Street entrance at Union Square Park was crowded when they arrived—pedestrians looking on, police blocking off the area surrounded by yellow tape.

Nearing the mouth of the scene, Bris flashed her badge at the uniforms standing there. Bristin McGillis-Medina. This is Tracy Hansen, my assistant.

Nodding, the officer stepped aside.

They went pass several uniforms and over to detectives congregating around a statue of George Washington, brass railings surrounding it. Directly beneath it was a shallow grave, a young, ashen dark woman lying there in a clear plastic bag, no visible signs of trauma. She lay there, peacefully, as though asleep but, nevertheless, dead.

Mrs. McGillis-Medina? came an inquiry from a plump, average height, crimson detective with a pointed nose and receding black hair. I’m Hyman Binch, Manhattan Bureau Major Case Squad. The DA recommended you down here.

Yes, this is Tracy Hansen, my assistant.

He nodded, slightly.

Taking in his attire, Bris noticed the absence of a suit. He was casually dressed in polyester beige slacks, a taupe pullover sweater, and brown rugged boots. She didn’t see a wedding ring giving the impression he wasn’t married.

That fella over there, he pointed to a slender pink man with silver horn-rimmed glasses holding the leash of a gray Pit Bull, found the body. Said the dog dug it up.

Any ID? she asked, Tracy taking notes.

Not yet. Crime Scene is on the way.

Bris looked around. A kiosk at the 14th Street entrance. Directly across the street a Whole Foods Store, Filene’s Basement Store, Forever 21 Bags. Behind the statue on the other side of the street she could see a coffee shop, neon lights, a Virgin Megastore, and Starbucks a few paces away.

Within minutes Crime Scene and Emergency Service Units arrived. They dug a hole around the body lifting it out while carefully preserving the area.

One of the detectives slit the plastic bag open and checked the body for identification, then shouted, Hey Lieu! You might wanna see this!

Binch, Bris, and Tracy went over to him, Binch taking the contents of the girl’s wallet. Holy shit! he said, passing it to Bris.

Checking it, Bris’ pulse quickened. The girl’s name was Sunday Miller, daughter of Appellate Supreme Court Judge Charles Miller.

They stared at each other, gravely. This is where it gets real interesting, Binch said.

Chapter Two

Nothing on the body suggested she was hurt in any type of way, Bris said. No bruises, cuts, or anything like that. She was sitting on the couch in Sam’s office.

He sat behind his massive mahogany desk, fingers steepled over his belly. She could see a small paunch, love handles pressing against his shirt, and speckles of gray hair showing prominent signs of aging. The brown spots on his pale forehead appeared to be getting darker.

We’ll see what the medical examiner has to say, Sam replied. Something or someone killed that girl and we better find out what happened real soon. Has Judge Miller heard about it yet?

Binch and I will be going out to see him this afternoon. He’s in a court conference right now and we couldn’t reach him.

Sam glanced at his desk, momentarily, brow wrinkled, then looked at Bris. I ... don’t think we should release any information about this right now. Were there any reporters at the scene?

Yeah, I saw one or two. Nothing major.

Good. He picked up the phone, dialed. Mitch, this is Greenwald. That girl found in Union Square, keep a lid on it until I say so ... Right. When they come just hold ’em off awhile till I get this thing straightened out ... All right, I’ll get back to you on this. He hung up. Mitch is gonna keep it tight-lipped for now, at least until Judge Miller is notified. The last thing we need is for him to hear about his daughter on the news.

Good call, Bris said, rising and Sam followed, the two of them walking across the carpeted floor toward the door.

Oh yeah, I thought you’d like to know the Janowsky kid pled out.

Bris stopped. What?!

Turns out he was bipolar. Since he was off his meds, what is it, Zyprexa, we pleaded out on Man One, mental disease or defect.

How did that happen?

We checked it out. According to our expert there was too much activity in a part of his brain called the amygdala which regulates emotions, and not enough in the prefrontal cortex, the seat of rational thought. The kid had a history of violent behavior.

Wow. Well what was the plea?

Twenty flat. He’ll be out in about eighteen and a half, give or take a few years.

Maybe he’ll get the help he needs, Bris said, sighing.

Let’s hope so.

She stepped out the door and Sam closed it. It wasn’t The Menendez Syndrome after all. She shook her head, dismayed, walking toward her office. The boy’s life must have been a tragedy practically from the beginning.

Bris pulled the SUV off the expressway in Great Neck, Long Island, with Binch on the passenger side. The streets, pristine, the lawns, immaculate; roomy houses spread apart and even the air smelled different from the smog and smoke in the city—fresh, green.

She parked in front of a beige and brown Colonial and shut off the engine.

This is not going to be easy, Binch said as they sat there staring ahead.

Bris knew he was right. A heaviness pervaded the atmosphere, dark and gloomy. But, delivering this type of news was now a part of her job and though she dreaded it she knew it had to be done. Might as well get it over with, she said, sighing.

They unfastened their seat belts and got out. Making their way up the concrete walkway and reaching the door, Binch rang the bell.

Close to four o’clock, the sun still bright and shining. After several minutes the door opened. A woman was standing there, ivory, blonde, plump clad in a maid’s uniform. Yes.

I’m Detective Hyman Binch and this is Investigator Bristin McGillis-Medina. We’re here to see Judge Miller.

The woman’s brow creased as though sensing something imminent.

May we come in?

She stepped aside, they entered, and she led them through the foyer and into a large living room. Please have a seat. I’ll inform the judge you’re here.

Binch and Bris sat on a white leather sofa, two matching smaller ones on each side, a chandelier dangling overhead; the place stacked with red oak furniture. Paintings loomed in the background.

Bris could see a vacuum cleaner half wrapped as if the maid had just finished cleaning the burgundy Persian carpet.

Minutes later Judge Miller came into the living room. He was a tall, burly, brown man with a full mane of gray hair and wearing a blue pinstripe suit. It seemed as though he’d just recently got home.

Bris and Binch rose.

He waved them back to the couch.

Sir, Binch started. I’m from the Manhattan Major Case Squad—

What did you say your name was? Miller asked.

Hyman Binch.

And you? he continued, looking at Bris.

Bristin McGillis-Medina.

He pondered a moment. That name sounds familiar ... Oh yes, you’re the one that closed the Malcolm Lucid investigation, suffered that terrible ordeal. Is that right?

Yes, we—

I thought I recognized you from the news. Really good investigative work. I hear you’ve been promoted?

Yes, High Profile Crimes Unit. I’m the lead in that department which brings me to the reason why we’re here, sir. There’s no easy way to say this, but we found your daughter.

Daughter? What’s this about?

Bris tried to remain composed, professional. Sunday. We found her in Union Square. She’s dead, sir.

Dead?!

Yes, Binch said as if sensing Bris’ difficulty. She was discovered this morning. It doesn’t appear she was molested or anything. We’ll know more after the autopsy.

Silence and Bris could feel a lump in her throat.

Did you find the person responsible? Miller asked.

Not yet, sir, Binch said. But we intend to.

Miller stared at the floor and Bris could see wrinkles on his forehead.

When he looked up, his eyes were misty. Do that. His voice crackled as though holding back emotion.

Suddenly, Bris became reticent. What could she say to a man—no, a respected judge who had just lost his only daughter. The intensity in the room caused her own heart to palpitate, and Miller looked as if he’d aged ten years right before her eyes.

Binch sat there, deadpan, but this was all so new to her. Maybe in time she’d develop that same callosity.

Binch rose and she followed. We’ll try our best to keep you informed, sir, he said. We’ll, uh, see ourselves out.

Miller stared at the floor, contemplating, as they moved toward the door.

They got back inside the car, sitting there a moment collecting thoughts, then Bris started the engine and eased away. She knew Sam and the police would be pressured to solve Sunday’s death, especially if it turned out to be murder.

She suffered a fatal heart attack, the medical examiner said. She was short, umber, a sky blue plastic cap covering her hair and wearing a matching lab coat. The name tag said C. Nelson. Right now I can’t determine what caused it, so I’m running a DESI—Desorption Electro Spray Ionization test. It can detect minute amounts of drugs or poisons lurking in the whorls of the prints. The results should be here in about thirty minutes or so.

Bris was inside the autopsy room, the body lying on the examination table. What are we looking at? she asked. Simple body removal, obstruction?

I really can’t tell, but she was quite a consumer, Nelson said, then went over to a table where plastic jars sat filled with medical samples. I found this in her stomach. She picked up one of the jars.

Bris could see pieces of what looked like an insect floating around in some type of solution. What is that?

A Tiger Beetle. It’s rare, mostly found in warm, sandy regions. Our girl was entomophagous—one of those people who consume bugs as a delicacy.

Bugs?!

Yes, it’s called entomophagy, a common practice in many parts of Asia, Africa, and Latin America. I’m sure you’ve heard of chocolate covered roaches, fried or roasted termites, people eating grasshoppers.

Bris was starting to feel nauseous.

It’s not uncommon, Nelson said, placing the jar back in place. There’s plenty of these consumer groups here in the US. I’m going to run some tests on it and the other contents of her stomach to find out just how long ago she’d eaten. That would give us the approximate time of death. Also, you need to know she was pregnant.

Pregnant?

Two weeks.

A tall pink man wearing a similar white coat came into the room. Here’s those test results you requested, Carol.

Nelson took them and began interpreting. Humph. Looks like our girl was poisoned. See this, she said, showing Bris the results. Through a simple fingerprint we can now determine exactly what type of drugs or poisons are in the system, or even if explosives were handled. Seems as if she was on high blood pressure medication. I’m going to run some more tests to see how much amlodipine besylate was in her system. That’s obviously the cause of the heart attack.

So we’re looking at an accident, an overdose of blood pressure meds?

Yes ... and, no. The only problem is the girl was in good health. She didn’t have hypertension. This was no accident. My guess—a homicide.

Chapter Three

Bris followed the West Side Highway taking the Henry Hudson to the Taconic Parkway, down Interstate 84 to Route 22 heading toward Dover Township. When she and Jon married she’d sold her orange County home and now lived some sixty miles north of Manhattan.

Though it was an easy forty minute commute, she missed the big house in Warwick. She’d grown up there and her mother had left her the property when she’d died.

But, Bris couldn’t bear the memories of her ordeal with Malcolm Lucid. The man had almost killed her and staying in that house only reminded her of how close she’d come to death.

Jon understood and they’d agreed that Dover Township in Dutchess County was the perfect getaway for both of them—a mountainous area filled with plenty of woods and fresh air.

Easing up on the gas pedal nearing the final stretch of road, her stomach began churning. Bris dreaded passing this precipice; an extremely steep, overhanging mass of rock. The road, narrow, railing thin, and the cliff at least a thousand feet.

Although there had never been an accident on this pathway, it still frightened her.

Once