DIANE BRAY’S HOUSE is A WHITE CAPE COD WITH A gambrel roof, and although the police have secured and cleared the scene, the property has not returned to life. Not even Berger can enter without permission of the owner, or in this case, the person acting as custodian. We sit in the driveway and wait for Eric Bray, the brother, to appear with a key.
“You may have seen him at the memorial service.” Berger reminds me that Eric Bray was the man carrying the urn containing his sister’s cremains. “Tell me how you think Chan-donne got an experienced policewoman to open the door.” Berger’s attention flows far away from monsters in medieval France to the very real slaughterhouse before our eyes.
“That’s a little wide of my boundaries, Ms. Berger. Maybe it’s better if you restrict your questions to the bodies and what my findings are.”
“There are no boundaries right now, only questions.”
“Is this because you assume I may never be in court, at least not in New York, because I’m tainted?” I go ahead and open that door. “In fact, they don’t get much more tainted than I am right this minute.”
I pause to see if she knows. When she says nothing, I confront her. “Has Righter given you a hint that I may not prove very helpful to you? That I’m being investigated by a grand jury because he has this cockeyed notion that I had something to do with Bray’s death?”
“I’ve been given more than a hint,” she quietly replies as she stares out at Bray’s dark house. “Marino and I have talked about it, too.”
“So much for secret proceedings,” I sardonically say.
“Well, the rule is, nothing that goes on inside the grand jury room can be discussed. Nothing’s gone on yet. All that’s happening is Righter is using a special grand jury as a tool for gaining access to everything he can. About you. Your phone bills. Your bank statements. What people have to say. You know how it works. I’m sure you’ve testified in your share of grand jury hearings.”
She says all this as if it is routine. My indignation rises and spills over in words. “You know, I do have feelings,” I say. “Maybe murder indictments are everyday matters to you, but they aren’t to me. My integrity is the one thing I’ve got that I can’t afford to lose. It’s everything to me, and of all people to accuse of such a crime. Of all people! To even consider that I would do the very thing I fight against every waking minute of my life? Never. I don’t abuse power. Never. I don’t deliberately hurt people. Never. And I don’t take this bullshit in stride, Ms. Berger. Nothing worse could happen to me. Nothing.”
“Do you want my recommendation?” She looks at me.
“I’m always open for suggestions.”
“First, the media’s going to find out. You know that. I’d beat them to the draw and have a press conference. Right away. The good news is, you haven’t been fired. You haven’t lost the support of the people who have power over your professional life. A fucking miracle. Politicians are usually quick to run for cover, but the governor has a very high opinion of you. He doesn’t believe you killed Diane Bray. If he makes a statement to that effect, then you should be all right, providing the special grand jury doesn’t come back with a true bill, an indictment.”
“Have you discussed any of this with Governor Mitchell?” I ask her.
“We’ve had contact in the past. We’re acquainted. We worked a case together when he was AG.”
“Yes, I know that.” It also isn’t what I asked.
Silence. She stares out at Bray’s house. There are no lights on inside, and I point out that it was Chandonne’s MO to unscrew the lightbulb over the porch or pull out the wires, and when his victim opened the door, he was hidden by darkness.
“I would like your opinion,” she then says. “I’m confident you have one. You’re a very observant, seasoned investigator.” She says this firmly and with an edge. “You also know what Chandonne did to youyou are intimately familiar with his MO in a way no one else is.”