by David Roys
‘What if I were able to stop the email somehow or intercept it?’
‘It wouldn’t matter, the member would know as soon as they tried their old PIN and it failed. There’s no way you could gain access without being found out. You see Detective, we don’t actually store the PIN in our database, only a key that can be used to verify a PIN is entered correctly. Chris did explain it to me once but I’m afraid I’m not much of a scientist. He said that to crack an eight-digit PIN would take the kind of computing power you only find at the NSA.’
Julian pulled a piece of paper from a desk drawer and wrote an eight-digit number.
Ben thought for a moment. ‘You said that all access to lockers is recorded, right?’ he said.
‘That’s right. All access to the lockers, and access to any area that is secured by a swipe card, which means everywhere but reception.’
‘Could you print a list showing Chris’s access over the last week?’
Julian made a few more clicks and a printer in the corner of the office whirred into life. He took the single sheet of paper and handed it to Ben. ‘Shall we make our way to the locker rooms, Detective?’
Ben followed Julian through the maze of corridors and glanced through the access list. From the records, Chris had visited the gun club the day before Jasmine Allan had been killed and had returned the following day. Both times he had accessed his locker, but he only visited the shooting range on the first visit. What was the second visit for?
‘Here we are Detective,’ said Julian. He swiped his access card against the locker door and then entered the PIN which he read from the piece of paper. He then stepped to one side to allow Ben to conduct his search.
The locker was strong with a solid lock and thick metal sides. It reminded Ben of a safety deposit vault in a bank rather than a locker in a sports facility. Chris’s locker was empty except for five boxes of bullets on the bottom and an aluminum case that sat on a shelf about midway up. Ben put on a pair of latex gloves and pulled an evidence bag from his pocket. He picked up the first of the boxes and read the label on the side Action Express .50 caliber. He placed the boxes in the bag and then lifted the case down from the shelf. It was heavy, maybe four pounds or more—almost twice the weight of his Smith & Wesson revolver. He opened the case and looked at the weapon. It was matt black and had the longest barrel Ben had ever seen on a hand gun—probably ten inches. The engraving on the side read Desert Eagle Pistol, Magnum Research Inc. The weapon was in pristine condition, clean and oiled. It looked factory new. It looked like it was only ever used for target shooting on the range and had never seen the light of day. Ben couldn’t imagine trying to conceal a weapon of this size. This was not a weapon for criminals.
‘Will there be anything else Detective?’ asked Julian. Ben figured he was eager to get back to whatever it was he did to fill his day, that or he simply didn’t like having the cops around. Not good for business.
Ben closed the aluminum case, placed it in the evidence bag along with the ammunition before sealing the bag. ‘No, Julian, you’ve been most helpful.’
When Ben returned to the station, he took the evidence straight to the forensics team. He completed the paperwork and checked the evidence hoping to catch up with the CSI that was working on the case, but before he finished he noticed Karl Schroder, the CSI, rushing up the corridor. Karl was a large man, not in height but in girth and he bounded up to Ben like a giant puppy, clearly excited, and with good reason. The bullet that killed Jasmine Allan had been recovered from the crime scene a little over an hour ago. It was quite a remarkable find and it was understandable that Karl was excited; his team had done an amazing job.
‘What have we got?’ asked Ben.
‘A positive DNA match for one thing, but this is one hell of a round.’
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Ben, ‘it’s a .50 caliber AE?’
Karl shuffled excitedly. It was clear that to him this was a game and he was determined to spin it out as long as he could. He was enjoying himself.
‘You’re half right,’ he said. ‘It’s .50 caliber, sure, but this is no AE. It’s a solid steel bullet with a Teflon coating.’ Karl grinned, his eyebrows were raised, waiting for a reaction, but when none came he added more prompting. ‘You know what that means don’t you?’
Ben was getting tired of the game. ‘I could cook eggs on it?’ he said. The sarcasm was lost on Karl.
‘No, it means this is an armor piercing round. This girl must have really pissed someone off. You can’t buy a box of these from Wal-Mart you know? It’s either an illegal import or your shooter has access to military hardware.’
Ben took a moment to let the pieces fall into place. He asked himself why anyone would go to the trouble of getting an armor piercing round to shoot someone in the head when a hollow point would be far more effective and Chris had five boxes of those sitting in his locker. The more he uncovered in this case the less it made sense. ‘Could you tell if a gun had been used to fire a round like that?’ he asked.
‘Sure,’ said Karl. ‘The Teflon coating would leave traces in the barrel. If the steel rounds were used regularly there would be damage to the barrel itself.’
Ben passed the evidence bag to Karl. ‘Take a look at this,’ he said. ‘This Desert Eagle belongs to Chris Sanders, our main suspect. I lifted it from his gun locker earlier today. I want a full report before tomorrow’s hearing. Can you do that?’
‘No problem. I’ll get onto it now,’ said Karl. He waddled off with the evidence bag; he was wearing a big fat smile, like he’d been given a bag of jelly donuts. Ben sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. He was feeling tired and needed a drink, but that would have to wait. Right now he had to interview his suspect and find out what he knew about armor piercing rounds and why he’d made two visits to the gun club surrounding the death of his former colleague and, by the looks of things, lover.
FIFTEEN
The bed in the holding cell was hard and the blankets didn’t quite cover Chris’s body. He’d managed to get some sleep by curling up under the covers, trying desperately to keep warm, but his mind hadn’t wanted to let go of thoughts of Michelle and what she must be feeling. His wrist watch told him it was morning but there was no natural light in the cell. Tired and aching, he put his head under the blankets and hoped the world would go away. He felt broken, but he knew self-pity would get him nowhere. He needed to fight to get his life back, but was that even possible? Was he going to jail? He couldn’t go to jail, he’d go mad.
Chris threw back his blanket and stood by the side of the bed, stretching his back. He walked over to the small porcelain sink and splashed water on his face. There was no mirror in the cell, but he could imagine how he looked, he felt the stubble on his face. He really needed to get cleaned up and have a night in his own bed but he figured, unless his luck changed, that wasn’t going to happen soon.
He heard a sound at the door as the bolts slid back and the hatch opened. Eyes appeared at the hatch and a voice said ‘Breakfast.’ The hatch closed once more and a second hatch slid open about midway down the door and a tray of food was slid in. The metal plate was full with crispy bacon, scrambled eggs, toast and on the tray was a flask of coffee. Damn, this food was better than he got at home and there was no Michelle here to nag him about his cholesterol. Maybe things were looking up after all. The coffee was strong and hot. The food tasted good. He thought about what Bob had said to him the night before. He thought about the extracts from Jasmine’s journal that implied they were having an affair, about the emails that suggested the two of them had arranged to meet on Monday morning. Jasmine had been smart and she could certainly have created the fake email trail, which would probably fool anyone, but there was no reason for her to do that, unless she was crazy. Had he really been such a poor judge of character to get mixed up with a psychopath?
Ben Naylor walked to his desk, a Styrofoam coffee cup in his hand. He used his other hand to thumb through his in-tray. Three sheets down he fou
nd what he was looking for, the lab report from Karl. He drained the cup and dropped it in his trash basket, then opened the envelope and pulled out the four page report. He flicked through the pages skimming the text, taking in the highlights. The report said that CSI could not positively match the gun to the bullet, not because of differences but because there were no distinctive marks on the steel bullet. However, the inside of the gun barrel was found to contain minute traces of Teflon. ‘Son-of-a-bitch,’ he said, a little too loud. He looked up and saw the faces of the office on him. ‘Son-of-a-bitch,’ he said again, to himself this time. He dropped the report on his desk and sat down to read it in full making notes with a pencil. He had no idea why Chris Sanders would kill his work colleague in this way, but he knew he now had enough to keep him locked up while he gathered evidence. Even better, Chris’s big shot lawyer had withdrawn from the case. Getting this guy put in holding with no bail was going to be easy.
Ben picked up the report and the other case notes and walked through to the holding cells. He opened the door to Chris’s cell and found him sitting on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands.
‘Come on Chris,’ he said, ‘it’s time to go see a judge and find out if you’re going home any time soon.’
‘What’re the chances?’ Chris asked.
‘Slim to none,’ Ben said. ‘You’ve got ten minutes to get yourself together. I’ve arranged a duty lawyer to meet us at the courtroom if that’s what you want.’ He walked back out of the cell but the door remained open. Two uniformed officers stood at the door.
Chris used the can in the corner of his cell. The uniformed officers had the decency to look the other way. He washed and tried to get cleaned up as much as he could, running water through his hair with his hands. He was sure he looked a mess, but the judge had probably seen worse.
The traffic in Washington D.C. could be unpredictable but whatever the reason for this morning’s holdup, Bob was frustrated at the slow pace he was making towards the eighth district precinct. He’d not called ahead, figuring he’d make plenty of time, but now it looked like he was going to be late and he’d tried calling through to Detective Naylor but had only gotten his voicemail. He hoped he would get to the station before they left for the courtroom. For one thing, Michelle would be pissed if Chris ended up going to jail when he could have been there to prevent it. She had such faith in Chris, and some of that conviction had rubbed off on him.
The traffic crawled another few feet and then stopped once more. The heat of the day was oppressive, even for nearly 9:00 AM, but thankfully Bob was comfortable in his air-conditioned luxury car. Some of the other commuters didn’t look to be quite so comfortable and tempers were beginning to wear thin. Another shuffle forward and Bob applied the brakes, then felt the breath knocked from him, as though he’d been punched in the back. His body was thrown forward when his car crunched into the car in front, in a split second the air bag deployed and stopped him from striking the wheel. His head whipped back and hit the head rest. He felt shocked and disoriented. The seat belt had tightened across his shoulders and he felt tight across his chest. It took a few moments for him to gain his composure and to realize that the guy behind had not been paying attention and had rear-ended his car with enough force to make him hit the car in front.
Bob looked in his rear view mirror. He could see a large Ford SUV with tinted windows. The driver was getting out, presumably to check if he was OK. He undid his seatbelt to try to alleviate the tightness around his chest, but it didn’t go away—he must have gotten quite a smack. How fast could he have been going? We were crawling for God’s sake. Bob reached across and opened the door. He swung his legs out of the car and stood, expecting to see the driver from the car behind with a sorry look on his face, no doubt hoping to avoid a lawsuit. When he found out who he’d hit, he was going to have an aneurism. Bob smiled to himself at the thought, but the tightness in his chest seemed to be getting worse now, damn those seatbelts, he should have just used the airbag instead, but Michelle insisted he wore it. Thinking of Michelle made him remember where he was going and why. Now he was definitely going to be late. Bob rubbed at his chest and shoulder, trying to get the aching to go, but now it was getting heavy, really heavy. The guy from the car behind started to run towards him with his arms stretched out, like he was going to hug him, and then Bob felt his legs give way and he hit the ground like a sack. The face of the driver appeared above him, saying something, but Bob couldn’t quite make out what it was. There were more faces too, gathered round looking down at him. They all looked concerned. The pain was getting quite strong now, pushing down on his chest, squeezing and now stabbing across his shoulder and through his neck and jaw and then suddenly he realized what was going on. He looked to the driver with pleading eyes and tried to raise his hand. He thought of Michelle, of his wife Susan. He felt sad, then angry. What a stupid fucking way to die. He tried to tell the driver to call Michelle but he was on the phone already, calling the paramedics, he guessed, but there was no point. He knew it was over. He would like to see his family one more time. He thought of Michelle and then a massive pain swept over him like a wave starting in his chest and flowing out through his entire body. He arched his back, trying to get some respite and then he let go, his vision faded to black.
SIXTEEN
The journey to the courtroom for the hearing was short and there was no conversation. Chris wondered about Michelle and Bob, he’d not heard anything since Bob had left yesterday. He hoped beyond all hope that Michelle had somehow seen that this was all a big mistake, but he doubted it.
He was taken to a meeting room in which waited the duty solicitor and was allowed a ten minute meeting in private before the hearing. The lawyer introduced himself as Andrew Sarrs, he looked barely old enough to have passed the bar and Chris shook hands but didn’t expect much from him.
Andrew fumbled through his notes and looked embarrassed. Chris sighed and stared at the ceiling. He was screwed.
Andrew said, ‘This arraignment is intended to confirm the charges against you and to determine whether you can be released on bail until the preliminary hearing.’
Chris waited for the young man to tell him something he didn’t know. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘Well,’ he said, appearing to struggle to find quite the most tactful way to break the bad news, ‘I don’t hold out much hope of you getting bail.’
Chris said, ‘You have done this before haven’t you?’
The young lawyer blushed. ‘Of course I have,’ he said. ‘The thing is, you’ve been charged with first degree murder and typically that means no bail. Furthermore, there is considerable evidence suggesting you did it. The gun found in your locker appears to have been used to have fired the shot that killed Jasmine Allan. Records show that you visited the gun club around the time of the murder giving you ample opportunity to have collected and returned your gun. There is a considerable trail of evidence to suggest that you were having an affair with the victim, which you neglected to mention to the police. You have no alibi. The only thing in your favor is the fact you have no prior convictions, but to be honest, there’s no way you’re getting bail.’
‘Thanks for your confidence in me,’ Chris said.
‘I’m sorry Chris,’ said Andrew. He pushed the notes to one side and closed the manila folder. Chris thought the young man looked genuine and he felt sorry for him. ‘I’m afraid that’s just the way it is,’ he said. ‘The best thing you can do right now is prepare yourself for some time in jail.’
Chris knew this was coming, but still, it hurt. Surely there was something he could do? He thought about Bob, maybe he’d changed his mind. ‘Has there been any word from my wife or from Bob Whittaker?’ asked Chris.
‘I have no messages for you. Would you like me to pass a message on?’
Chris watched Andrew as he opened his folder and pulled out a pen. At least he seemed to be able to take messages OK, even if he wasn’t such a great lawyer. ‘Tell Michelle
I love her and I didn’t do it and I wasn’t having an affair.’ Chris watched Andrew as he wrote, his handwriting was neat. When he’d finished he looked up, seemingly happy to have found something he could finally do to help.
‘And any message for Mr. Whittaker?’ he asked.
‘No. No message.’
The courtroom was empty. Chris was led in by a uniformed officer, Andrew followed behind and they sat at a wide table. It smelt of furniture polish. The officer of the court told them to stand and the judge walked in through the door behind the bench and walked straight to her seat and sat. She didn’t look up. Chris thought she looked pissed. That’s all I need, he thought. The judge leafed through her notes. Chris was pretty sure this wasn’t the first time she had looked through her notes, was she playing a power game? Drawing out the time, trying to make him sweat? Or was she really just catching up on the latest formality? She stopped reading and looked up at Chris, then glanced over to Andrew, then back to Chris.
‘Mr. Sanders,’ she said, ‘do you understand this is an arraignment to decide on whether you are eligible for bail?’
Chris nodded, but the judge continued to stare. He figured he needed to answer. ‘Sure,’ he said. The judge didn’t look too impressed and continued with the formalities and Chris tried to tune her out—he watched her talking but in his mind her volume was set to low. There was no way out of this. Andrew sat and scribbled notes. After a while the judge finished her little speech and stated that, under no circumstances, should Chris be allowed to go home. So that was it. He was going to jail. As he was led away, Chris thought about Michelle.
Michelle was sitting in Chris’s office at the university. Everything was pretty much as it had been on Monday morning when she’d brought in breakfast for Chris, maybe a little tidier. How things had changed from that morning when they’d both had no cares or worries. She was amazed to see that the rooms looked so tidy in comparison to Chris’s workspace at home. Chris was a brilliant man but when it came to tidying up he was useless. She hoped the cleaners that worked in this room had more patience than she. Michelle thought about the cleaners. What if they were in early on Monday morning? It’s possible they had seen Chris on the sofa asleep. He could have a concrete alibi. She grabbed her bag and rushed to Frank Myers’s office. She looked at her watch—it was past midday, she wondered why she hadn’t heard from her dad. Maybe he was held up, or maybe the arraignment was taking longer than expected. Michelle didn’t have much hope for Chris getting out on bail, as he was charged with first degree murder. Her time around her father had taught her that, when dealing with murder charges, bail was only posted on the rarest of circumstances. Michelle ran up to Frank’s office door and burst in.