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Kristi had met him several times during the course of writing the book, had interviewed him and he’d come across as smooth, a man who under the pretense of humility was always making certain everyone in the room knew how smart he was, that in fact, he was a genius. And, of course, a brutal murderer. He’d been so arrogant as to think that he was convincing Kristi of his innocence, when exactly the opposite had been true. He was just one of those people who thought because his IQ was in the stratosphere that he could fool everyone because they were, if only in his own estimation, of lesser intelligence.
Kristi had seen right through him. She had let him think he was manipulating her into his way of thinking, when exactly the opposite had been true. The more he told his well-practiced story, the more false it rang, but she never let him know it. She saw through his well-practiced charm and knew the twinkle in his eye wasn’t because he was clever, but because he thought he was pulling a fast one on her.
In one interview at the prison before his release, she’d listened raptly and allowed a small smile to play on her lips, gazed into his eyes as if he were a god, and he’d not been able to help himself, thinking he was so damned smart and charismatic. Because he’d assumed that he’d captivated her into believing his bullshit, he’d even allowed her to tape the entire conversation despite his attorney’s vociferous objections.
Cooke was just that self-involved.
She searched through her computer files, found the interview in which Cooke had agreed to speak to her during the time he was appealing his original conviction. Kristi hit play and there he was, Dr. Hamilton Cooke, dressed in a prison uniform, his demeanor comfortable and even relaxed in a plastic chair, cinder block walls as a backdrop as he spoke into the camera she’d been allowed to set up. She’d sat on one side of a small table, he on the other, her voice and all other sound picked up by the microphone, only the doctor visible.
Cooke’s features were even, his nose pointed, nearly aristocratic, his black hair having silvered, his smile pinned on to a clean-shaven face with a strong jaw. Tiny crow’s-feet fanned from blue eyes that had kept Kristi in sharp, almost inquisitive focus.
He’d never faltered during the interview, his story unchanging.
Cooke had sworn that his wife, Beth, had slipped and fallen in the shower, hit her head on the tile surround, and died before help could arrive. His daughter had been the person who found her. Hamilton, who had been outside in the back, by the pool house, had come running upon hearing his daughter’s screams. He claimed he had tended to Beth, trying his best to save her as the frantic daughter dialed 9-1-1.
It was all for naught.
She watched the recording for what had to be the twentieth time as he explained. “Sadly,” he said, his lips pulling into the slightest of frowns, “she was already gone when the EMTs arrived.” He stared straight into the camera. “A freak accident. That’s all.” He shrugged. “The police made more of it than there was.”
The police being Kristi’s father.
The trouble with Hamilton Cooke’s story was that the medical examiner had begged to differ about the extent of Beth Cooke’s injuries, that they were inconsistent with a fall and more likely the result of blunt force trauma from a weapon that was never located—a hammer of some kind.
And Cooke had been convicted. Largely because he’d insisted on testifying and thinking he could convince the jury that he was innocent. They, too, had disagreed, and when Kristi had interviewed him he was in the process of appealing his conviction. He’d seemed to think that her book would help and he kept referring to his story.
“So glad we could do this,” he said on the recording, allowing himself to smile sadly, just enough to show off the hint of a dimple. “So we can set the record straight, you know. My first attorney botched the case, horribly.” He’d said the phrase as if it tasted bad. “Poor choice.” His eyes darkened a bit, a little shadow skating through the blue orbs only to disappear in an instant. “But that’s behind me. I’ve got new representation and she’s dedicated.” His chin lifted a fraction of an inch. “She’ll make certain justice prevails.”
That attorney, Reggie Lucerno, had arrived not ten minutes into the interview. A tall, striking woman with scraped back red hair, mile-high cheekbones, and wide green eyes that snapped with intelligence, she strode into the small interview room. Her high-heeled boots clicked against the floor as she walked, a long camel-hair coat billowed, and a cloud of outrage surrounded her, all of which was caught in the camera’s eye. “I can’t believe this! I told you no interviews.” Rolling her eyes to the ceiling, she said, “Sometimes I wonder why I even try.”
“Reggie—” he’d begun, but she cut him off.
“This”—she’d made a quick back and forth motion with her hand over the table, to include Kristi—“this is over! Now! You can’t go talking to the press or . . . or some what? Novelist?”
“True-crime writer,” Kristi corrected, and she remembered standing and extending her hand as she introduced herself. “Kristi Bentz.”
“Bentz?” Reggie had repeated as the light had dawned. At that point she’d ignored Kristi’s outstretched palm and turned her furious gaze onto her client. “As in Rick Bentz? The detective who fucking arrested you? For the love of God, Hamilton—” Outraged, she glared at Kristi. “As I said, we’re done here. This is over.” Snapping her head toward the doorway, she shouted, “Guard!” Then to Kristi in a more modulated voice, “This is outrageous.” Jabbing a finger as she walked closer, the heels of her boots clicking ominously across the floor, her image no longer visible on the screen, only Cooke’s face, flushed with anger, caught on camera.
“Outrageous,” Reggie repeated, her voice a hiss but still being recorded.
Kristi remembered how infuriated the attorney had been, her lips knotted, a little tic appearing over one eye, none of which was recorded, of course. Reggie had leaned in close. “We’ll sue.”
“Do it,” Kristi had said, irritated herself and not intimidated in the least. Who the hell did this woman think she was? To Hamilton she said, “I’d like to take this up later.”
“Uh-uh. Not gonna happen,” Reggie insisted, and sent a hard look at her client, silently warning him to keep his mouth shut just as a burly, uniformed guard hurried through the doorway. His hand was on the Taser strapped to his belt. “Trouble?” he asked, eyes scanning the room.
“No trouble,” Kristi assured him. Gathering her recorder and briefcase, she ignored the lawyer and said, “If you change your mind, I’d love to continue this.”
Reggie gave a soft, bitter laugh. “In your dreams. When I said this was over, I meant permanently.” She turned her attention to the guard. “We’re done here. My client is finished with the interview. Please escort Ms. Bentz out.”
And that had been the end of the interviews.
Kristi had tried and been declined.
Reggie Lucerno had been as good as her word.
A powerhouse of an attorney, she had managed to have Cooke’s case retried on appeal and get his conviction overturned.
During that second trial, covered widely by the media, rumors had surfaced linking Hamilton and Reggie romantically, despite the fact that Reggie was already married to Aldo Lucerno, a self-made millionaire who had become New Orleans’s “Oyster King.” Those rumors had been denied, of course, by both client and attorney, but like a bad smell, lingered, and the hounds of the press were always on the watch, prowling after the attorney, who just happened to divorce her husband during the weeks and months leading up to the trial. This created more of a buzz, keeping Hamilton Cooke in the national spotlight, though never again had he been interviewed.
