Chapter 11
After the meeting with Stark, one no-less-pressing problem remained: the police. It was unlikely they were going to back off, and their surveillance could become a serious obstacle. I needed to find someone who scared them as much as the plague scared an ordinary person. And what scares cops more than a competent lawyer?
The sign above the door in a Brooklyn alley was modest: "Sinclair & Partners. Civil Law." No flashy glamour, just the essentials.
Matthew Sinclair turned out to be a man in his mid-forties, with attentive eyes and a calm, confident demeanor. He listened intently to Diego's story about the detectives' visit and the subsequent interrogation, not interrupting, only occasionally making short notes in his pad. The only sound in the office was the scratching of his pen.
When the story was finished, the lawyer thought for a few seconds, tapping his pen on the desk. "Well, Diego," he finally said, setting the pen aside. "They committed a whole bouquet of violations. Let's break it down. First, interrogating a minor without a guardian or lawyer present, even if it's framed as an 'informal chat.'"
"But they said it was just a request to come down to the station," Diego countered.
Sinclair allowed himself a faint smile. "A 'request' from a detective is a tool. They create a situation where refusing looks like an indirect admission of guilt. It's a classic tactic to bypass protocol and get someone talking without legal protection. A 'request' from a man with a gun on his hip and the power to complicate your life carries a different weight, doesn't it?"
He folded down one finger. "Second, and this is the most important part. The moment Detective Doakes indirectly accused you of the explosion, the interview shifted to a 'custodial interrogation.' At that exact moment, they were obligated to read you your rights. The right to remain silent, the right to an attorney. They didn't. That's a gross violation of the Fifth Amendment, known as the Miranda rule."
A second finger joined the first. "And third, the phone. Yes, you handed it over, but under what conditions? You are a minor, in a closed room, without a lawyer or guardian, under psychological pressure from two officers, one of whom just accused you of murder. Any court would find that your 'consent' was obtained under duress and was not voluntary. That's the Fourth Amendment—an illegal search."
Sinclair looked at Diego. "We can file a lawsuit that will cost their precinct and the city a very pretty penny. And more importantly, a huge scandal."
"I don't want a scandal. I just want them to leave me alone. And maybe a little money."
"A reasonable approach," Sinclair nodded. He turned to his computer. "Then we'll do this. I'll draft a complaint right now. The whole nine yards: unlawful detention, interrogation in violation of your rights, coerced search. And then, you and I will pay Captain Stacy a visit. Sometimes the threat of a public hearing is far more effective than the hearing itself."
---
When Captain Stacy saw Diego at his door, accompanied by a solid man in a sharp suit, he tensed up immediately. "Captain Stacy?" Sinclair began, not waiting for an invitation. "Matthew Sinclair. I represent the interests of Diego Parr. We're here to discuss the incident that took place at your precinct yesterday." He placed a thin folder with the draft of the lawsuit on the edge of the desk.
Stacy shot it a quick glance and then looked at the lawyer. "Listen, Mr. Sinclair, perhaps there's been a misunderstanding. Mr. Parr was invited to the precinct as a witness in the disappearance of Sarah Connelly. We're interviewing all her patients."
"A witness?" Sinclair raised an eyebrow slightly. "Captain, witnesses are usually interviewed in a more comfortable setting, not an interrogation room with a one-way mirror. And witnesses aren't asked questions like, 'Did you have to blow her up?'"
"Let's not exaggerate," Stacy interjected. "He wasn't in handcuffs. No one told him he was under arrest. He could have gotten up and left at any time. No one was holding him by force. He was not in custody."
Doakes, standing against the wall, snorted. "He came voluntarily. Got in the car himself."
Sinclair slowly shifted his gaze from the captain to the detective, and then back. "Voluntarily? Detective, 'voluntarily' is when there is a real choice. And what choice did a high school kid have when two police officers approach him on the street and 'offer' him a ride to the station?" The lawyer looked at Stacy again. "And you're seriously claiming he could have left?" He paused briefly.
"The legal test for 'being in custody,' Captain, isn't about handcuffs. It's about whether a reasonable person in a similar situation would feel free to terminate the encounter and leave. And the answer in our case is an unequivocal 'no.' And that changes everything. Witnesses are not deprived of their freedom of movement. From the moment my client got in your car until the moment he left the precinct, he was in custody. And during this unlawful detention, Detective Doakes conducted an interrogation, having forgotten about the existence of the Fifth Amendment to the Constitution."
The cops' argument, which had seemed perfectly logical to them, crumbled under the precise legal definition. Sinclair continued. "And that's not all. Let's paint a picture for a hypothetical juror. A lone high school kid in a locked room at a police station. Across from him are two detectives, one of whom has just accused him of a serious crime. And you, a man on duty, a person with authority, hold out your hand and ask for his phone. Do you seriously believe that in such a situation, his 'consent' was free and voluntary? Legal precedent calls this 'consent under duress.' It wasn't an offer; it was a demand, veiled in polite form."
Silence fell. Doakes glared at the lawyer but said nothing. Stacy was an experienced cop. He knew the lawyer would win in court. A lawsuit like this would be a disaster for the precinct. "Doakes, get out," he ordered.
Stacy looked at Sinclair again. "What do you want?"
"For starters," Sinclair slid the folder closer to the captain, "we want all records pertaining to yesterday's 'interview' to be destroyed. We want Diego Parr's name to never again come up in this or any other investigation without actual, lawfully obtained evidence. And we want your detectives, particularly Detective Doakes, to stay a cannon-shot away from my client. If these conditions are met,"—he tapped the folder lightly—"this document will never leave my briefcase. If not, we'll see you in court. The choice is yours, Captain."
"Fine," Stacy said slowly, making his decision. "We can arrange that. The records will be voided as obtained in violation of procedure. I'll personally see to it that his path and Detective Doakes's never cross again."
He expected to see satisfaction on Sinclair's face, but the lawyer didn't even blink. "Captain, don't get me wrong, I appreciate your prudence," Sinclair said in an even tone. "But what you've just offered is merely an assurance that my client's rights won't be violated in the future. We have not yet settled the fact that they were already violated in the past."
Stacy frowned. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about damages. Your department unlawfully detained a minor. Your detectives subjected him to psychological pressure, baselessly accusing him of murder. They violated his constitutional rights guaranteed by the Fourth and Fifth Amendments. All of this caused my client severe moral harm and emotional distress. That harm has a monetary value."
Now it all made sense. Of course, it was about money. "He didn't look stressed," the captain remarked dryly.
"The fact that my client possesses enviable self-control does not negate the fact of the violation," Sinclair parried. "In fact, it only worsens your position in the eyes of a jury. They will see a smart, calm young man whom the system tried to break, and they will not like that one bit. Captain, let's be frank. I can walk out of here right now and file this suit. The 'discovery' process will begin. I'll have to request Detective Doakes's personnel file. Has he had similar incidents before? Complaints of abuse of power? We'll subpoena everyone involved. The press will pick up the story about police misconduct against a high school student. And in the end, a jury will award my client damages. I'm thinking a number with six zeros. Plus, the city will pay all of my fees."
Sinclair paused, letting his words sink in. "Or," he continued, his voice quieter, "we can resolve this right now. Confidentially. No muss, no fuss. My client receives reasonable compensation for his ordeal, and your department and the city avoid public humiliation and unpredictable expenses. We sign a non-disclosure agreement, and this story dies in this office."
Stacy was silent for a long time, staring at the pile of reports on his desk. He didn't have the authority to make such financial decisions alone. That was a job for the city's lawyers. But he could get the ball rolling. "What sum do you consider 'reasonable'?" he finally asked, his voice devoid of all warmth.
Sinclair smiled, just barely. The negotiation had begun. "I think we can start at one hundred thousand dollars. It's a generous offer, given the circumstances. I will prepare a formal pre-litigation demand and send it to the city's legal department. I trust they'll have 48 hours to contact me before we move on to Plan B."
He stood, and Diego followed his lead. "Thank you for your time, Captain. I hope for a swift and mutually beneficial resolution to this unfortunate situation."
As the door closed behind them, Stacy picked up his intercom. "Doakes. In my office." The detective entered a minute later. Stacy picked up the folder the lawyer had left and slammed it on the desk. "You see this? This is a pre-litigation claim. For a hundred thousand dollars. Because of your 'chat' with the kid."
Doakes scowled. "I was just doing my job. That kid is dirty, I can feel it!" "Your 'feeling' just cost the city a small fortune!" "So we're just letting him go?" Raw displeasure was in Doakes's voice.
"Yes, we're letting him go!" the captain snapped. "Furthermore, you will not go near him again. No 'accidental' run-ins, no surveillance, nothing. As far as you're concerned, Diego Parr no longer exists. That's an order. Do you understand me?"
Doakes stared at the captain for a long time, his jaw tight. "Understood." "Now go, and handle the rest of the patients. But do it by the book. One more screw-up like this, Doakes, and you'll be investigating bicycle thefts in Staten Island." The detective silently turned and left, slamming the door.
---
Doakes, deprived of his suspect, grudgingly turned his full attention to the others. Due to a shortage of manpower after the riots, he'd had to hire a dozen private investigators to tail all of Sarah Connelly's patients. He himself took on reviewing the reports, trying to find any lead at all. A week of surveillance yielded absolutely nothing. The patients lived normal lives, went to work, sat at home. Nothing suspicious.
Then, on the eighth day, a call came from the precinct. One of the P.I.s he'd hired had been murdered. The one who was tailing a certain Maxwell Jordan.
At the morgue, Doakes walked past the tables to the medical examiner, who was bent over a report. "Cause of death?" "Same as the last two." He tapped a line in the report with his pen. "Tetrodotoxin found in the blood. An absolutely insane concentration. This is the third victim with the same 'cocktail' in the last month. Looks like we have a serial killer with a taste for exotic poisons. We found a notebook on him."
Doakes put on gloves and took the small, worn notebook. The detective's last entries. Day 1. Target is acting strange. Antisocial, barely talks to anyone.Day 3. Spends hours at the zoo.Day 5. Weird feeling. Like I'm being watched. Looked around—nothing. Wait, thought I saw something move in the bushes. Just a hedgehog.
The last page. The letters were "g," "scrawled" with immense effort, as if the hand was already refusing to obey. As if it was the last thing the man managed to do before he died. Just one word, taking up the whole page: HEDGEHOG!
Now, Detective Doakes's primary person of interest was Maxwell Jordan. Everything in the notes checked out. The kid spent hours at the zoo. But what struck Doakes as particularly odd was that he didn't do it at the lion or monkey enclosures, but in front of an unremarkable plaque that read "European Hedgehog." Hedgehogs again.
Doakes wasn't the type to sit in a car for weeks, afraid of spooking his target. Yes, the recent chewing out from Stacy over the Diego incident was still fresh. Someone else in his position would have laid low, followed protocol to the letter. But that would mean betraying who he was. His entire nature was that of a predator, one that charged straight ahead. If he got fired for it one day, so be it. He got out of his car, crossed the path, and sat on the bench next to the kid. "Find something interesting?"
Maxwell flinched, as if pulled from a trance, and recoiled from the sudden presence of another person. Doakes decided to push. "I think they're pathetic," he said, deliberately throwing out the taunt. "Hiding from the world behind their needles instead of facing it. Cowardly animals." He watched Maxwell's face intently, trying to catch a reaction. And he got one. In the kid's previously apathetic eyes, a flash of rage ignited. Maxwell knew who was in front of him—this detective had already questioned him. But he didn't care. He had already made his decision. Doakes saw what he wanted. He smiled faintly, stood up, and walked away.
---
Late that night, sitting in his car across from the dormitory, Doakes continued his surveillance. Maxwell was in his room. He thought he heard a quiet rustle near the open window. His hand instinctively went to the grip of his gun, and he got out of the car, looking around. On the sidewalk, in the beam of a streetlight, sat a small white hedgehog. Not just light-colored, but an albino, with ruby-red eyes. A sight that would make most people coo and reach out a hand. But Doakes didn't care.
He might be condemned for animal cruelty, but this was the third warning. Anyone who ignores that many signs is signing their own death warrant. A gunshot. The hedgehog's small body was splattered across the asphalt. In that same instant, a heart-wrenching, inhuman scream of pain tore from the first-floor window of the dormitory. Doakes sprinted across the road. Sleepy students began to poke their heads out of their rooms. "Everyone back! NYPD!" he roared, and the hallway emptied instantly. He stopped in front of the correct door and kicked it open with his shoulder. "You're under arrest for the murder of..." he began, reading the rights, but cut himself off.
The person standing in the middle of the room no longer looked like the downtrodden teenager from the zoo. His skin rippled, and long, sharp quills, like a porcupine's, were sprouting from his back and arms. "You bastard..." he hissed, his voice distorted with rage. "YOU KILLED SNOWBALL! MY BEST FRIEND!" Dozens of quills shot from his body toward Doakes. But the detective was already moving. His body, honed by years of training, dove out of the line of fire as he pulled the trigger. The bullet was faster than the quills. Doakes dodged. Maxwell did not.
He looked at the quills embedded in the wall next to where his head had just been. The plaster around them was hissing and blackening, spreading in ugly stains. "So that's what you are. Our serial poisoner," he said quietly, looking at Maxwell's body. He radioed for backup and forensics, then began to survey the crime scene—which was also the killer's apartment. People like Maxwell, withdrawn and antisocial, often kept diaries. In reality, little girls keep diaries with locks. Guys use computers.
An old laptop sat on the desk. Doakes lifted the lid. The login screen demanded a password. An attempt to get a hint was successful. The phrase "My best friend" appeared on the screen. The detective thought for a moment and typed: SNOWBALL. The screen unlocked. On the desktop, among the standard icons, was a folder: "Sarah Connelly." Inside were a dozen text files. Opening the first, Doakes realized they were transcripts of their sessions. Why go to such trouble, retyping conversations?
At first, it all looked like normal therapy. Teenage problems, difficulty socializing. But the further he read, the more the tone changed. Connelly's advice became stranger, pushing him toward the edge. The rising wail of sirens came from the street, but Doakes barely heard it. He was completely absorbed. The last files weren't just transcripts. They were detailed, cold-blooded instructions on how to create poisons, select victims, and surveillance tactics. He scrolled to the end of the last document. All he could say came out in a whisper of pure disgust: "Son of a bitch."
---
Six hours later, Captain Stacy's office looked more like an ashtray, overflowing with cigarette butts and empty coffee cups. "Doakes, what the hell was that?" The detective, sitting opposite him, looked like a man who had just stared into the abyss and wasn't impressed. "It started with the P.I.'s murder. He was killed by a mutant, Maxwell Jordan. According to the files on his laptop, his abilities were, let's say, highly specialized." Stacy waited silently.
"He could communicate with hedgehogs. Understand them, control them, even possess their minds, like some kind of medium. What's more, over time, he could enhance their natural abilities. That white hedgehog I had to shoot was one of those... 'upgraded' pets." "Are you telling me a serial killer used a hedgehog as a murder weapon?" Genuine disbelief was in Stacy's voice.
"Exactly," Doakes confirmed. "The forensics team found the same tetrodotoxin in the albino's quills as in the detective's blood. He used its cute appearance as a lure. The victim reaches out to pet it, and the animal gives them a little prick." Stacy rubbed his temples, trying to process what he'd just heard. "And Sarah Connelly? What was her role in all this?"
"This was basically her masterpiece. At the start of therapy, Maxwell was just a withdrawn kid who was afraid of his powers. But she wasn't treating him; she was egging him on. Here's a quote, from his own notes." He read from his phone: "'If society rejects you, reject it first. It's their own fault for not leaving a place for people like you.' After that, she gave him almost direct instructions on how to cover his tracks, how to use his... pets... for surveillance. That's most likely how he ID'd the detective."
"So you provoked him, not knowing what he was capable of?" "If I hadn't, he'd still be out there, planning his next murder with his prickly little partner," Doakes parried. Stacy ignored that. "So, did he blow up Connelly, too?" "I donSignature: "I don't know. Unlikely," Doakes shook his head. "This kid was her creation, not her killer. She was playing with fire, Captain, and I'm sure he wasn't the first. Whoever got to her... good for them. As far as I'm concerned, her murder case is closed. Let someone else deal with it." Stacy stared at the folder with "Connelly" on it for a long time, as if it were radioactive. "Alright," he finally said. "We'll hand the case over to SOB. We've got enough chaos on the streets without digging up the hornet's nest she left behind."