I WAS APPREHENSIVE as could be. But I was also curious beyond anything I could remember.
I backed out of the driveway and sped downtown. I got back to the courthouse in less than fifteen minutes. The crowd on E Street was even larger and more unruly than it had been at the height of the trial. At least a half-dozen Union Jacks waved in the wind; contrasting with them were American flags, including some painted across bare chests and faces.
I had to push and literally inch my way through the crush of people up close to the courthouse steps. I ignored every question from the press. I tried to avoid anyone with a camera in hand, or the hungry look of a reporter.
I entered the packed courtroom just before the jury filed back inside. “You almost missed it,” I said to myself.
Judge Fescoe spoke to the crowd as soon as everyone was seated. “There will be no demonstrations when this verdict is read. If any demonstrations occur, marshals will clear this room immediately,” he instructed in a soft but clear voice.
I stood a few rows behind the prosecution team and tried to find a regular breathing pattern. It was inconceivable that Geoffrey Shafer could be set free; there was no doubt in my mind that he’d murdered several people—not just Patsy Hampton, but at least some of the Jane Does as well. He was a wanton pattern killer, one of the worst, and had been getting away with it for years. I realized now that Shafer might be the most outrageous and daring of all the killers I’d faced. He played his game with the pedal pressed to the floor. He absolutely refused to lose.
“Mr. Foreman, do you have a verdict for us?” Judge Fescoe asked in somber tones.
Raymond Horton, the foreman, replied, “Your Honor, we have a verdict.”
I glanced over at Shafer; he appeared confident. As he had since the trial began, he was dressed today in a tailored suit, white shirt, and tie. He had no conscience whatsoever; he had no fear of anything that might happen to him. Maybe that was a partial explanation for why he’d run free for so long.
Judge Fescoe looked unusually stern. “Very well. Will the defendant please rise?”
Geoffrey Shafer stood at the defense table, and his longish blond hair gleamed under the bright overhead lighting. He towered over Jules Halpern and his daughter, Jane. Shafer held his hands behind him, as if he were cuffed. I wondered if he might have a pair of twenty-sided dice clasped in them, the kind I had seen in his study.
Judge Fescoe addressed the foreman again. “As to count one of the indictment, Aggravated, Premeditated Murder in the First Degree, how do you find?”
The foreman, “Not guilty, Your Honor.”
I felt as if my head had suddenly spun off. The audience packed into the small room went completely wild. The press rushed to the bar. The judge had promised to clear the room, but he was already retreating to his chambers.
I saw Shafer walk toward the press, but then he quickly passed them by. What was he doing now? He noticed a man in the crowd and nodded stiffly in his direction. Who was that?
Then Shafer continued toward where I was, in the fourth row. I wanted to vault over the chairs after him. I wanted him so bad, and I knew I had just lost my chance to do it the right way.
“Detective Cross,” he said in his usual supercilious manner. “Detective Cross, there’s something I want to say. I’ve been holding it in for months.”
The press closed in; the scene was becoming smothering and claustrophobic. Cameras flashed on all sides. Now that the trial had ended, there was nothing to prevent picture-taking inside the courtroom. Shafer was aware of the rare photo opportunity; of course he was. He spoke again, so that everyone gathered around us could hear. It was suddenly quiet where we stood, a pocket of silence and foreboding expectation.
“You killed her,” he said, and stared deeply into my eyes, almost to the back of my skull. “You killed her.”
I went numb. My legs were suddenly weak. I knew he didn’t mean Patsy Hampton.
He meant Christine.
She was dead.
Geoffrey Shafer had killed her. He had taken everything from me, just as he’d warned me he would.
He had won.