“All right, you win,” he said.
I said, “You’re a lawyer. Tell me exactly what I’ve just won.”
“I’ll be in court tomorrow, at nine A.M., fully representing Felix.”
“Glad to hear it.”
Another glance down showed Hollis hadn’t moved. I tossed the revolver back into the foundation, at the far corner. I placed my Beretta back in my previously empty shoulder holster. “Quick question,” I said. “What town are we in?”
“North Tyler. Why?”
A North Tyler cruiser came roaring in and sliding to a halt. “Good to know,” I said. “One of my best friends works at the Tyler Police Department. I don’t want her involved.”
“Aren’t you the considerate one.”
“You should try it one of these days,” I said, and with the arrival of another North Tyler police cruiser, we were quickly too busy to talk to each other anymore.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Court proceedings for the murder trial of Felix Tinios of North Tyler were delayed for nearly an hour the next day. I thought that was all right, since I was aching and was also yawning from lack of sleep. The courtroom was more crowded than usual, and I was pleased to have Paula Quinn sitting next to me. She seemed to be in a very good mood, and I knew exactly why.
She whispered in my ear, “That’s some bruising on your face, pal. Tell me again where you got it?”
“There was an accident. I was driving. Air bag went off. You know how it is.”
She whispered in my ear again, closer this time, and her lips briefly brushed my ear. “Sure. All I know is that there was one hell of a police response yesterday to a housing development in North Tyler, and that you were there. Along with Felix’s lawyers. Both of them.”
“Things happen,” I said.
She was going to say something else when the doors opened to the judge’s chambers. The last hour we had sat here while a lot of behind-the-doors haggling had been going on. Raymond Drake—his beard shaved into a Vandyke, making him look like a pirate, how appropriate—strolled out, wearing a nice gray pinstriped suit with a starched shirt, red tie, and pleased expression on his face. He went over and sat down next to Felix, and they conferred. Earlier this morning, Raymond had asked to take over as Felix’s defense counsel, since his previous counsel was resting in the Porter Hospital with a variety of broken bones.
Assistant Attorney General Deb Moran had instantly objected, and Judge Crapser had taken them all back to her chambers for a long meeting, and from the expression on Moran’s face, I could tell she had lost her argument.
Judge Crapser then came in, we stood up, we sat down, and then she said, “You may bring the jury back in.”
More standing and sitting. I looked to the left. Kimberly Moore was there, but she was missing one daughter. It was just the older daughter, Justine, with her this morning. I thought about Brianna for a moment, and then the judge rapped us to order and then talked to the jury, saying that due to an unfortunate accident, Hollis Spinelli couldn’t be here to represent his client, but that attorney Raymond Drake of Boston—also licensed to practice in New Hampshire—would now be representing Mr. Tinios. She also cautioned the jury not to read anything either positive or negative into this decision.
When she was finished, she looked forward and said, “Mr. Drake, go ahead.”
He stood up and said, “Thank you, Your Honor. I’d like to recall Woodrow Flaven back to the stand.”
Lots of heads turned and a gaunt man with a mournful look on his face, wearing a black suit, came forward and took the witness box. He was a forensics expert for the state police, had assisted in processing the crime scene of Fletcher’s murder, and had previously been cross-examined by Hollis, to no apparent impact.
Since he was already sworn in, that part was skipped, and Raymond got right to it.
“Mr. Flaven, you were the lead technician at the crime scene that night, January twelfth, correct?”
“Yes, I was,” he said, speaking crisply. I imagined he had testified in scores of such cases, and wasn’t particularly impressed with a flashy out-of-state attorney who had just shown up.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” Raymond said, with a facial expression that said anything but. “Aren’t you an employee of the New Hampshire State Police? How did it come that you were assisting the Porter police that night?”
“They were short-handed and requested our assistance.”
“And because you’re a professional, and an expert in evidence collection, you were eager to assist.”
Flaven said, “It was a Friday evening. I was off duty. I was called back, and did my job.”
“I see, and I’m sure the Porter police were grateful for your assistance.”
Moran stood up, and before she could say anything, Judge Crapser said, “Mr. Drake, if you please, do move it along, all right? Enough of the commentary.”
“Very well, Your Honor.” He went back to the long polished table that belonged to him and Felix, examined a few sheets of paper, and turned and said, “You were the lead in processing the fingerprints at the crime scene, correct?”
“I was.”
“And could you remind the jury whose fingerprints were found at the scene?”
“The deceased, Mr. Moore, and the defendant, Mr. Tinios.”
“Ah, I see. And how did you secure the identification of Mr. Moore’s fingerprints?”
“His fingerprints were recovered postmortem,” he said, his voice still crisp and strong. “Then they were matched to those at the scene.”
“Ah, all right, then. And Mr. Tinios’s fingerprints, they were also recovered at the scene.”
“Correct.”
“But you didn’t know Mr. Tinios had left them there. In fact, you didn’t even have an indication of the existence of Mr. Tinios.”
“Correct,” Flaven said, slightly exasperated. “But we were able later to match his fingerprints to those on file.”
“Oh?” Raymond said, his voice sounding quite naïve. “Could you please tell the court and the jury how that took place?”
Flaven said, “Very simply. We were able to submit the fingerprints we found at the homicide scene to the FBI’s Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System. It’s called IAFIS. It has the fingerprints of about seventy million people on file.”
“Seventy million,” Raymond said. “Wow. It must take days, or even weeks, to get a reply to your request for information.”
“Not at all,” Flaven said, looking pleased with himself. “It took less than a half hour. The results positively came back to Felix Tinios, the defendant, of North Tyler.”
Raymond rubbed at his chin. “I see. So you were definitely able to match the fingerprints at the scene to those on file belonging to Felix Tinios.”
“Definitely,” he said.
“One hundred percent?” Raymond asked.
“Nothing in life is one hundred percent, but I’d say this is pretty close.”
Raymond shook his head, said, “Dear me,” and slowly walked back to his table. He looked crestfallen, tired, and I wondered if I had done wrong by insisting he come here this morning and jump into representing Felix.
Then something happened that had never happened before during the trial.
Felix turned and searched the faces of the people sitting in the rows behind him. Then he spotted me, nodded, and grinned.
He raised his right hand and waved at me.
Waved at me.
Then I knew, and smiled and waved back.
A whisper in my ear from Paula. “Mind telling me what the hell is going on?”
I turned and whispered to her. “In about sixty seconds, Felix Tinios is heading home, a free man.”
Raymond picked up a couple of sheets of paper, slowly went back to the witness box, scratching the back of his head. “I’m a bit confused, Mr. Flaven, so I hope you can help me out. After his arrest, Mr. Tinios was taken to the Porter police station, and then to the Wentwo
rth County jail, correct?”
“To the best of my knowledge, that is correct.”
“And was he fingerprinted at both locations?”
“I can’t say for certain, but I would imagine that is true.”
“So we have an occasion where two additional sets of fingerprints were taken from my client.”
“Quite possibly.”
“Thank you,” Raymond said, scratching the back of his head once more. “So. Tell me this, Mr. Flaven. Here are the two fingerprint identification sheets from the Wentworth County Sheriff’s Department and the Porter Police Department. They have already been placed in evidence as state’s exhibit 40A and 40B. Would you examine them, please?”
Flaven took them both, but I could tell there was a slight hesitation in the action, like he knew he was slowly descending a staircase that was going to empty him into a pit.
Raymond said, “Could you tell the court whose fingerprints these are?”
“Felix Tinios, of North Tyler.”
Raymond said, “Thank you very much, Mr. Flaven.”
Once more, back to his table, this time limping, like every step was a shooting flare of agony. He ruffled through some sheets of paper, picked up a single, stiff sheet, and then came back to the forensic specialist.
“Mr. Flaven, could you tell me what this piece of paper is?”
He slowly took the paper, like he was afraid it was going to contaminate him somehow. “This is . . . this is the on-file fingerprint record of Felix Tinios.”
“And from whence did it come?”
Flaven swallowed. “IAFIS.”
“Oh? That acronym again. Could you repeat what that means?”
“The FBI’s Integrated Automated Fingerprint Identification System.”
Again, Raymond scratched the back of his head. Assistant Attorney General Moran was busy playing with a pen, and her young assistant leaned in to say something to her, and she nearly took his head off with her finely manicured hand.
He said, “Ah, I see. Those would be the records of Mr. Tinios. As reported by the FBI. You say they exactly match the ones found at the scene of the homicide.”
Earlier Flaven had seemed like a tall man. In the preceding few minutes, he had definitely shrunk. “I—”
“Mr. Flaven,” Raymond said, speaking louder. “You have in your hand the official FBI fingerprint record of my client, Felix Tinios. The record that matches the fingerprints found at the scene of the crime. Is that true?”
Flaven nodded.
Raymond said, “I’m sorry, could you say that aloud?”
Flaven said, “Yes, the fingerprints match the ones found at the crime scene.”
Raymond grinned. “Mr. Flaven, as a court-recognized expert in forensics, one that has spent years investigating crime scenes for the New Hampshire State Police and other law enforcement agencies, would you tell me if the fingerprints taken at a later date, at the Porter Police Department and the Wentworth County Sheriff’s Department, are they a match?”
Assistant Attorney General Moran stood up and the judge wouldn’t even let her say a word. She turned to the witness and said, “Mr. Flaven, if you please, answer the question.”
He cleared his throat. “They’re not a match.”
Raymond said, “I’m sorry, my ears aren’t what they used to be. Could you answer the question once more? Please? Do the fingerprints from the most recent post-arrest records for my client match the fingerprints found at the scene or from the FBI file?”
“No,” Flaven said. “They are not a match.”
Raymond turned and looked to the jury, smiling. All fourteen members were stock-still, hanging on every syllable. “Dear me, not a match. Could you explain further?”
Flaven’s face was flushed, but as the professional he was, he moved on. “There’s indications of recent injuries to the index finger and middle finger of the right hand.”
“Recently healed wounds, perhaps?”
Flaven nodded. “Perhaps.”
No limping this time, Raymond practically ran back to his table and returned with several papers clipped together. “Your Honor, I’d like to enter this into evidence, as defendant exhibit nineteen. It’s a report from a Dr. Marble McKee, of Exonia Hospital, indicating that my client, Felix Tinios, was a patient at the emergency room on the evening of January third of this year.”
“Your Honor . . .” Moran started, and then, realizing the position she was in, sat back down.
“I’ll allow it,” she said.
She passed the papers over to Raymond, who went over to Flaven. “Would you mind reading the highlighted area, Mr. Flaven?”
He cleared his throat again, and said, “The patient suffered severe lacerations to the index finger and middle finger of his right hand. Wounds were cleaned, two stitches applied to each.”
Raymond took the papers from Flaven’s hand. “So nine days before this homicide, my client suffered injuries to two of his fingers, injuries that readily appeared in fingerprints taken after his arrest. Yet, at the crime scene, at the apartment, on a weapon found there, fingerprints were recovered that didn’t match. The only match is to fingerprints on file at the FBI. How can you explain that, Mr. Flaven?”
“I can’t.”
Raymond’s voice rose. “Come now, Mr. Flaven. You’re a proven expert, a court witness, one who’s been working forensics for years. Can’t you explain the difference?”
“No.”
“Mr. Flaven . . .”
“I’m sorry, I can’t.”
Raymond nearly bellowed. “Mr. Flaven, isn’t it possible that the old fingerprints were somehow transferred to that apartment and weapon in an attempt to frame my client?”
“Ah . . .”
Moran stood up. “Your Honor! Objection!”
The judge paused briefly and said, “I’ll allow it. But don’t press it, Mr. Drake. Mr. Flaven, you may answer the question.”
Flaven seemed to shrink even more. “Ah, well, it is possible, but then again, almost anything is possible.”
Raymond said, “Thank you for that philosophical explanation, Mr. Flaven. Again, how can you explain the discrepancy in the two sets of fingerprints?”
“I can’t.”
“But it’s possible that old fingerprints were somehow transferred to that apartment?”
“Yes, it’s possible.”
Raymond stood up straighter. “Your Honor, I ask for a dismissal of all charges against my client.”
“Objection!” Moran said. “Your Honor, this is just one—”
Raymond over talked her. “Your Honor, please. We have video surveillance of my client leaving an apartment in Porter. That’s it. No witnesses, the weapon used to murder the unfortunate Mr. Moore was used by agent or agents unknown who tampered with the evidence, and the state’s own witness and representative agrees that the fingerprints recovered at the crime scene do not match my client’s. Your Honor, please. Something nefarious no doubt occurred the night of Mr. Moore’s murder, but there’s no evidence my client was involved.”
Assistant Attorney General Moran slowly sat down. The judge looked to her and then Raymond Drake. There was a very long pause where it seemed no one in the courtroom was breathing. “Miss Moran, you, the Porter police, and the state need to look again at this case. Something odd is happening. I don’t know what it is. But I do know that Mr. Drake is correct. The charges are dismissed without prejudice. Mr. Tinios, you’re free to go.”
Some bit of chaos then erupted, with a number of people trying to gather around the state’s attorneys and Felix and his attorney, and Paula kissed me on the cheek and said, “I’ve got to get to work. Later?”
“You can count on it.”
Outside in the large waiting area Kimberly Moore was sitting, hunched over, both hands holding tissue paper, while her older daughter, Justine, rubbed her back. I came up to her and Justine said, “Here to gloat?”
“No,” I said. “Here to tell you that late last night, a w
oman named Carol Moynihan was arrested by the North Tyler Police Department.”
“So?”
“Contact them,” I said. “I believe she will also be charged later with the murder of your father.”
Kimberly raised her head, eyes red rimmed. “Why?”
“Because of the casino question. Because your husband had a land survey of Tyler Beach that could have cost some people millions of dollars. And Carol Moynihan was working for some of those people.”
Her daughter spoke up. “But the surveillance tapes. The ones from the grocery store. They showed . . . they showed that man leaving the apartment building the night my dad was shot. How come she didn’t pop up on the tape?”
I said, “She’s a former Marine. Tough. Fit. I’ve been in that apartment. There’s a large tree right next to the upper floor. It would have been easy for her to go out the window, climb down the tree, and slip through the backyards of the neighbors.”
Justine returned to rubbing her mother’s back, and I started to walk away, and Kimberly said, “Mr. Cole?”
“Yes?”
“You said some paperwork, is that right?” she asked.
“That’s right.”
She wiped at her eyes. “The day . . . the day Fletcher went up to Porter, I was in his office. I was dropping off some mail, and I saw an envelope addressed to a man in Massachusetts. Box something-or-other. I dropped it in the mail. Fletcher, he got so angry. But he told me it would be all right. I mean, I thought he wanted it sent. I didn’t think he was going to keep it on his desk, stamped and addressed like that.”
Justine stared at me and I let the noise of the people around me blunt what I was feeling. Fletcher Moore’s widow went on. “You don’t . . . you don’t think that what I did. I mean, those papers. I might have mailed them by mistake. Did I have something to do with his death? Do you think that?”
Justine’s eyes were filling up. She pursed her lips.
“No,” I said. “I don’t think so at all.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Storm Cell Page 25