The case against Aaron Hathorne had been strong, but not a slam dunk. Joe found himself cross-examining nationally known psychologists and psychiatrists during the trial and dealing with Hathorne’s aggressive investigation team as well. He was no longer close with his family, but he had a very deep trust fund and access to seemingly unlimited amounts of money. Still, the case against him as mentally ill and dangerous was one an upstate jury had taken little time to accept. Hathorne was stoic during the trial but visibly crumbled at the verdict. After he had awaited complete freedom for years, Joe’s office snatched it from him under a new rubric.
The case had won Joe statewide acclaim in legal circles, and on top of that Joe had persuaded the judge to confine Hathorne to a psychiatric hospital rather than release him on intensive probation. The confinement was reviewable every twelve months, and Joe had just scored again by keeping him confined for at least another twelve.
“Who’s your doctor again?” Craig asked, referring to the principal state psychologist who supervised Hathorne’s treatment at the St. Lawrence Psychiatric Center in upstate New York.
“Gabe Seigel.”
“Oh, good. He’s a ballbuster. So you’ll tell the victims?” By that, Craig meant Hathorne’s victims, now adult males, a few of whom had worked with Joe and testified at the trial.
“Of course. This week.”
“Excellent. How’s the city?” Craig ran the bureau from Albany.
“Hot.”
“Someday you’ll learn. Nice and cool up here.”
“Yeah, whatever.”
“How are you otherwise?”
“Well . . .” Joe trailed off, sighed, and gave Craig his news.
“Oh, shit,” he said after Joe had finished. Craig knew Joe’s backstory and most of the details of his post-divorce life, including Halle. He didn’t understand Joe the way Halle did, but he was a friend, and Joe trusted him with details he didn’t easily share. “Man, I’m sorry about that.”
“Thanks. I’m stuck with cremating her, I guess. And my brother resurfaced and wants to help.”
“Oh, wow. Where’s he now?”
“He’s been back in Staten Island for a year or two. He actually brought money for the cremation instead of asking for it. That was a surprise.”
“I hope you took it.”
“I did, yeah.”
“Will you do a service?”
“Shit, no.”
“Yeah, I get that. Still, there are arrangements and stuff. Take some time off.”
“You just gave me time off. I didn’t use it well. Anyway, I’m fine. I’m meeting with a Brooklyn ADA this afternoon. That’s about it.”
“KCDA is involved? Do they have a suspect?”
“No, but I guess their office is involved early. I doubt it goes anywhere. She was lost, Craig. Homeless, they think.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s nothing to say,” Joe said, again uneasy and anxious. “Thanks for the good news on Hathorne, though.”
“It’s your good news. This is why I brought you back, Joe. You’re a winner.”
CHAPTER 17
Wednesday, July 13, 1977
West Seventy-Ninth Street and the Hudson River
Upper West Side, Manhattan
10:23 p.m.
“You know who’s out here, right?” Robbie said, his voice purposely hushed. It had been maybe forty-five minutes since their mother had walked away, but it seemed like hours. The stillness was like lead; the heat of the night pressed on them.
“No one’s out there. Shut up.”
“Son of Sam,” Robbie said, as if evoking a deity at a forbidden ritual.
“Stop.”
“He’s out here somewhere,” Robbie said, looking over his left shoulder toward Seventy-Ninth Street. Whenever they moved, their sweat-soaked shirts made squishing sounds against the vinyl. Joe felt his heart pounding.
“The papers say he looks for guys and girls together,” Joe said, not sure about the word “couples” but not wanting to use it, in any event. “Like, kissing and stuff.”
“He looks for people in cars,” Robbie said. “Like us. Just sitting here.” The air in the station wagon was impossibly heavy, the open windows making no difference. Not even insects made a sound. Every now and then a car would enter the traffic circle, its headlights washing over them, tires spitting gravel into the darkness. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“But . . . Mom.”