Chapter One
She should have known better.
When she thought about it later, she realized she’d let herself get lulled into complacency.
Into routine or by routine.
Take your pick.
Into thinking he had changed.
For four weeks of trial, Harry Kugel walked the ten steps from the side door to the defense table with his head slumped forward.
For four weeks of trial, he sat upright. He might whisper in his lawyer’s ear. He might put his hand to his mouth and issue a soft cough. But he was a poised model of courtroom behavior.
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For four weeks of trial, Flynn Martin sat in the front-row pew directly behind Harry Kugel. She didn’t need to reserve it. Her fellow reporters understood.
On day one, when Harry first walked those steps from side door to defense table, Flynn was surprised at his clueless bearing. He stared straight ahead from his chair at his counsel’s table, where he would sit for hours. He didn’t look around. He didn’t hang his head. He could have been a businessman striding to a table to close a deal, one last check of the numbers before the handshakes and champagne.
Harry Kugel’s attire took full advantage of his right to appear to the jury as an innocent state bureaucrat mistakenly identified as PDQ, the serial killer. Who, me? He walked into the courtroom as if the side door were a special portal to his mansion of carefree privilege, never mind the pair of beefy Denver cops who stared at Harry as the trial proceeded at its methodical pace toward its inevitable conclusion.
Thirteen months after the arrest, Harry Kugel had lost weight. He hadn’t had much to lose from the get-go, but on his first trip through that side door, he looked smaller than she remembered. Gaunt.
He wore the same black suit every day, but the shirts switched from gray to blue, and the ties rotated among four.
Flynn kept a running tab for amusement.
“Two Truths and a Lie”
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Day 1: Black suit, gray shirt, yellow paisley tie.
Day 2: Black suit, blue shirt, gray striped tie.
Day 3: Black suit, gray shirt, solid maroon tie.
And so on.
Noting his apparel was silly, but during the trial, Flynn liked to keep busy. Her notes were jotted down with all the other swirling doodles and her lame attempts, each day, to play courtroom sketch artist and generate a reasonable rendering of the ice-cool Black judge or the slender and tall assistant DA who interrogated witnesses with an easy aplomb.
The judge was no fool. Flynn kept a running tab of scratch marks under two headers. A scratch went under H. L. (“Harry Lives”) for each time the judge sided with the defense. A scratch went under H. D. (“Harry Dies”) for each time the judge agreed with the prosecution. Even though Colorado had outlawed the death penalty, a life sentence was the same thing to Flynn. Bye fucking bye.
Harry’s case, if the judge’s daily decisions were any indication of a trend line, was circling the drain.
Given her prominent position near the front of the room, Flynn vowed that her attention would never wane. Whenever she felt a tug of weariness, she’d focus on Harry Kugel’s three victims and the brutal ways the three women had died. The effect was like mainlining four shots of espresso.
The puzzle was Harry’s weird demeanor, in the face of so much evidence, during his entrances.
Harry’s lawyer knew. All the reporters knew. The assistant DA’s smooth delivery carried a touch more confidence with each passing day. Harry’s parents, who had declined all interview requests from Flynn or any other reporters, knew it too. The jury, despite each of their personal claims that they had the ability to keep an open mind, watched evidence grow like an animated time-lapse movie of plate tectonics showing how mountains are made.
The big problem for Harry was everything Harry was carrying in his bag the night he was arrested. Syringe. Fentanyl. Mask. And all the theatrical tidbits that went with the instruments of murder. And then there was the supply of fentanyl in his condo. And his DNA at Mary Belson’s townhome and Mary Belson’s spine-tingling testimony of how she’d fended off his attack.
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On and on.
To her relief, the prosecution saw no need to call Flynn Martin to the stand. There was plenty of evidence to show that Harry Kugel had been in regular contact with Flynn Martin for weeks leading up to his arrest and that he had invaded her home in an over-the-top attempt to prove his credibility. But the prosecution focused its case squarely on PDQ’s long-unsolved trio of murders, the detailed patterns of the scenes he’d left behind, and the direct link to his attempt to kill Mary Belson.
The defense, such as it was, attempted to discredit expert witnesses and raise questions about how evidence had been obtained or processed. The defense team was left spinning in place, bald tires looking for traction in mud.
The only doubters in town were a band of freaks who showed up outside to rally support for Harry Kugel. Mostly women, but not all. Flynn interviewed the three delusional souls together while standing in Civic Center Park over the lunch recess. She did her best to maintain a straight face and show respect.
Betty Kerr worked as a receptionist for a chiropractor in Lakewood. Wendy Kazanski, a hefty bruiser with a cross tattoo by her left eye, worked at a Jiffy Lube in Thornton. The third, by comparison, came across as levelheaded. Ellie Stuffel said she was a student of the American judicial system, and she’d come armed with facts about prison conditions and recidivism rates and knew how other countries ensured convicts were provided dignity through humane living conditions.
Kerr knew Harry Kugel could not be a serial killer because he loved classical music too much and knew so much about composers. “He’s not put together like a killer,” she said. Kazanski pointed out that the state did diddly and squat when it came to actual rehabilitation, and, well, Harry had healed himself “and squelched every desire to murder for over fifteen years.” As a result, she said, he should be allowed to walk free.
“But don’t you think he should pay a price for the three murders if he’s convicted?” Flynn had asked.
“What good does that really do if he’s no longer a threat?” said Kazanski, perplexed.
“Don’t you think the families of the victims will feel better knowing his freedoms will be taken away, given that he ended three lives?”
“This trial isn’t about serving the needs of the families’ feelings,” she said. “It’s about Harry, and he didn’t do it.”
Stuffel wore a small white button on her red paisley top: I Harry. She stood erect like a proud athlete. Medium-length dark hair pulled back from her face in a ponytail so tight it could’ve been a cheap work-around for a facelift. She wasn’t unattractive, but there was something off kilter about her face.
“What do you mean by the button?” Flynn said. “Have you met him?”
“I don’t need to,” she said.
“Have you communicated with him?”
“He hasn’t replied,” said Stuffel. “But I’ve sent him encouragement. He needs to know he’s not alone.”
Flynn bit the inside of her cheek so hard she worried about drawing blood. But asked, “This is someone you’d like to get to know?”
“I feel like I already know him,” said Stuffel. “Now he needs to get to know me.”
Flynn’s story exploded. X lit up. The station’s Facebook page spilled comments like Niagara Falls. Talk radio jumped in the fray. The network aired her piece a day later and Flynn was debriefed, standing in the spot where she’d conducted the interviews, for three minutes by the morning show anchor in New York. The Denver Post waited a day and then dispatched a reporter to create their own version of her interviews in an obvious attempt to catch up with the buzz.
The in-the-flesh crowd was supported by plenty of online chatter, Reddit threads, TikTok proclamations, and random YouTube discussions claiming that Harry had been railroaded.
One woman claimed she would marry the killer, even if it meant the only contact would be during visiting hours sitting on chairs while Harry Kugel was shackled to the floor.
To put on a good show, the jury pretended to mull things over for a full day and now, four weeks later, the sentencing of Harry Kugel.
Also predictable.
Also a done deal.
Except Flynn feels a strange sensation, an unexpected queasiness, as she realizes the Harry Kugel saga is reaching the finish line.
She realizes how much mental space he’s occupied in her thoughts and how much she’s been worrying that he might slither off the hook and find a way to avoid prison. She assumes she’s not alone. The whole city likely feels some equivalent sense of relief, of a return to level ground.
Of reassurance that justice comes around.
Of course, any veteran reporter knows dozens or hundreds of stories where victims never taste anything close to that messy emotional business of closure, let alone sense that the legal system is really watching out for their needs.
But big noisy cases like PDQ? The system knows how to put on a show. We got our man. We will afford him every courtesy the legal process allows, but we will give the city the satisfaction it craves.
The station wouldn’t let her cover the trial. She was too integrated into the fabric of Harry’s capture. The city knew Flynn’s role in exposing a clique of corrupt cops, including a few top dogs, at the Denver Police Department. The massive shake-up began on the first day after Harry’s capture. The station granted her leave to attend the trial and bear witness to how one arrogant, self-absorbed narcissist was being held accountable for his ugly crimes.
But today, the station has agreed to let Flynn Martin cover Harry’s fate.
Which isn’t a question.
Which is only a formality.
In fact, Flynn Martin has written the script for her live shot and rehearsed it in her head.
Harry Kugel is fucking going away forever and forever and a day, and when he’s done with that he’ll be breaking rocks in hell for all of eternity.
One can dream of saying what the whole city is thinking!
But instead she’ll play it with the appropriate control and serious demeanor that the moment requires.
This morning, Judge Imani Washington sentenced former state bureaucrat Harry Kugel to life in prison following his recent conviction on three counts of first-degree murder and one count of attempted murder of a fellow state employee, who served as a key witness for the prosecution. The sentencing draws the curtain on a case that left the city wary and on edge for more than fifteen years.
She will fill in a line or two about Harry’s reaction as the sentence is read and she’ll mention any gasps or cheers from the room as a whole, from Harry’s parents, and from the friends and relatives of Harry’s victims.
The room, as it was for trial, is elbow to elbow. Court TV waits. The podcast people from Dateline: True Crime Weekly wait. The assistant DA waits. The defense table waits. A cough. Low chatter.
Flynn keeps her eyes on the side door. She might need help with a transition to her Harry-free world. And the best people she can think of to help her process the approaching transition are the two men in her life—her father, Michael, and her son, Wyatt. Between them, they’ll have good suggestions. Ex-husband Max would simply advise that she stop thinking about Harry Kugel. But ex-husband Max is the kind of guy who thinks you tell an overweight person, Start putting less food in your mouth. Simple, case closed, you’ll be skinnier tomorrow and skinnier next week. What’s the issue?
As tender and sympathetic as Max was during the days and weeks after Harry’s arrest, Flynn has realized that she is never going back to his black-and-white view of the world. Max told her once that he saw his role as a cop as no different from that of a garbageman, “Except there’s no set route and some days it’s ordinary trash and other days you’re dealing with toxic waste.”
And here comes Harry in through the side door.
Same clueless bearing.
Black suit, black shirt, red tie.
The first splash of red. Flynn doesn’t need to check back in her notes to know that fact.
Red . . . danger.
Red . . . passion.
Ugh, thinks Flynn, you are seriously paying way too much attention to this evil creep. Stop it.
Harry sits.
The judge enters.
Everybody rises, everybody sits.
It’s kind of like church, but Flynn’s only experience there has been as a reporter covering funerals and memorial services. Raised by two agnostics, who rubbed off beautifully.
The judge gives Harry one last chance to speak. The moment is theater. The judge is obliged to give Harry his time. It’s in the script, even if the whole room knows Harry’s heels remain on the plank and even if he is looking straight past his toes and the water is churning with starving, short-tempered sharks.
“I rehabilitated myself,” says Harry. Voice calm. Clinical. Flynn heard the same bullshit drivel the night he was arrested. “I was an upstanding, hardworking, tax-paying citizen. I killed my monsters. I left the old me way behind. I’m reborn. There was then and there is now. The state can save itself a lot of money by keeping another cell empty and letting me go. My track record at work is exemplary. I am a good neighbor. I care about fine and refined music. I ask the court to see me as who I am today and let me walk out the front door of this courthouse a free man.”
The judge replies as if Harry Kugel never said a word, emphasizing that Harry Kugel was convicted by a jury of his peers and that he has not once demonstrated an ounce of remorse or once uttered any words to indicate he is willing to take responsibility for his actions.
“And as a result, I sentence you today to three consecutive life terms,” says Judge Washington. “Plus another twenty-four years for the conviction on the charge of attempted murder.”
Harry’s body doesn’t flinch. Soldier erect, statue still. He’s got his back to Flynn.
Two cops move to the defense table, handcuffs ready.
He turns. He leans over the oak rail that separates the well of the courtroom from the pews. Harry Kugel’s lawyer utters something like “Whoa,” and Flynn hears a quick collective gasp flash through the room as if the tiger has discovered that the zookeeper’s failed to lock the cage.
Harry’s eyes switch from bouncy to dull. He delivers his message in a voice intended so only Flynn can hear.
But barely.
A voice of wrath.
“This is not over. No way. No how.”
Mark Stevens is the author of ”No Lie Lasts Forever,” ”The Fireballer” and The Allison Coil Mystery Series, which includes three Colorado Book Award finalists and one winner. Stevens has had short stories published by Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, Mystery Tribune, and in ”Denver Noir” which won the CBA for Best Anthology in 2023. He was one of three co-editors for ”Four Corners Voices,” an anthology of fiction, essays, and poetry that won the CBA for Best Anthology in 2025. In 2016 and again in 2023, Stevens was named Rocky Mountain Fiction Writers’ Writer of the Year.
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