Blood Defense (Samantha Brinkman Book 1)

by Marcia Clark

  Alex looked up and frowned. “Dale warned us about that, didn’t he?”

  “Not the stalking part. But that’s not our biggest problem. They did a video of the crime scene—for our viewing pleasure.” Or rather, for the jury’s. It was a painfully effective tool, and from what I’d read in the crime-scene reports, this one in particular was going to be graphic. I popped the DVD into my computer and turned the monitor so we could all watch. “And I took a look at the autopsy report. I’ll tell you about it when we get to that part.”

  I hit play.

  It was a small apartment. The kitchen and dining areas were on the right, and the living room, which led to a tiny balcony, was straight ahead. A short hallway between the living room and kitchen led to a bathroom on the right and two bedrooms on the left.

  The video zeroed in on a set of knives in a butcher block on the kitchen counter. One slot that looked about the size of a carving knife was empty. I pointed to it. “They think that’s where the killer got the murder weapon. The coroner says the perp used the same knife for both victims. The cops never found it.”

  The living room was neat. No drawers pulled out, no couch cushions thrown around. The camera moved down the hall and into the first bedroom on the left. Chloe lay on the floor, faceup, eyes half-open, her body twisted to the right, knees bent and turned to the left. I paused the disc and studied the scene. She was dressed in jeans and a white long-sleeve T-shirt—which was now soaked in blood. One hand was stretched out to the side, and the other lay just below her stomach, as though it had been clutched at her chest and then fallen. She looked so small and crumpled—like a marionette whose strings had been cut mid-dance.

  “Jeez,” Alex said. “That’s a lot of blood. How many times did he stab her?”

  “Coroner counted four stab wounds. Two nonfatal, two very fatal strikes that went straight to the aorta.”

  I hit play, and the camera pulled back to scan the room. All of the dresser drawers were open, and it looked like someone had gone through them in a hurry. Two pairs of jeans and a few camisoles were on the floor. The lamp on the dresser had fallen on its side, and three small silver-framed pictures lay on the floor next to a broken flower vase. The camera zoomed in on a hoop earring that’d come off Chloe’s ear and landed on the floor next to her head. “Looks like she fell against the dresser when she and Dale were fighting.”

  “But why the ransacking? What was he looking for?” Michelle asked.

  “I’ll be saying that’s a sign the burglar did this and he was looking for more jewelry.”

  Michelle gave me a skeptical look. “And they’ll be saying Dale was trying to make it look that way. Awfully violent for a burglar.”

  Alex pointed to the blood that’d run down Chloe’s arm. “And it looks like he stabbed her while she was on the floor.”

  I countered. “So the burglar panicked. He’s high on . . . whatever. The girls come in, surprise him, he freaks out . . .” I looked from Alex to Michelle.

  She shrugged. “I guess. But I don’t love it.”

  Alex raised his eyebrows. He didn’t say anything, but his expression said he agreed with her.

  I hit play again. The camera moved out of Chloe’s room, down the hall, and into Paige’s bedroom. The eerie quiet made it feel as though we were following in the murderer’s footsteps.

  There was similar ransacking here. All the dresser drawers had been pulled out; a brassiere spilled over the edge of one drawer, and some T-shirts had been thrown to the floor. The drawer in Paige’s dressing table had been yanked out and lay upside down on the floor, and the closet door stood wide open. We didn’t see a body until the camera moved to the far side of the bed. Paige lay on the floor, facedown. She was in a white robe, and a towel partially covered her head. She’d probably had it wound around her hair, turban style, before the attack. According to the crime-scene and autopsy reports, she’d been freshly showered. Blood had seeped through the back of her robe, and there was a huge pool of blood under her head. A cell phone lay a few feet away.

  Michelle blew out a breath. “Stabbed in the back? And what’s with all the blood under her head?”

  “He cut her throat. Twice.”

  Bad as it’d sounded in the reports, seeing it was a hundred times worse. The attack was gruesome—and the girls looked painfully young and defenseless.

  Alex pointed to the cell phone. “Think she was trying to call the cops?”

  I nodded. “Seems so.” I studied the rest of Paige’s room. “The only good news is that there’s a fair amount of ransacking here, too, so that might give our burglary theory more traction.”

  “Anything missing?” Alex asked.

  “According to the reports, no. But how would the cops know? It’s not like there was an empty TV stand. If the burglar took cash or some other small stuff like jewelry, the only way they’d know something was missing is if someone close to the girls told them. And from what I’ve seen so far, no one did.”

  I hit play again. The camera zoomed in on blood impressions near the foot of Paige’s bed. It slowly followed a short, faint blood trail to her body. I paused the DVD. “According to the autopsy report, she fell near the foot of the bed first, then dragged herself to the side of the bed.”

  It was a hideous mental image, the victim bleeding out and desperately trying to crawl away from her killer. The image of Dale’s face came back to me, his eyes warm and smiling. If he’d done this, he was one hell of a sociopath. In which case there might be—no, probably were—other victims. Jeezus. It was a whole new reason to get this case to court as fast as possible. Before any more bodies turned up.

  “Where was Paige when the killer cut her throat?” Michelle asked.

  “The coroner says she got cut once where she fell, but it was a superficial wound. Just enough to bleed out a little. The final, fatal cut to the throat was done at the side of the bed.”

  Michelle shook her head. “Sorry, this feels a lot more personal than a freaked-out burglar.”

  I sighed. It really did.

  The next frame clicked over, and we were back in Chloe’s room. The camera zoomed in on a crime-scene tech who was holding a print brush and pointing to two black spots on her dresser. I hit pause. “Dale’s prints. Just the pinkie and ring fingers on the left hand. But since they’d been dating for two months, those prints don’t worry me.”

  I clicked through the frames until the camera moved back into Paige’s room. “These prints do.” The camera focused on the same crime-scene tech, who was now pointing to black spots on top of Paige’s nightstand, which was just a foot away from her body. I let the disc play as the camera followed the crime-scene tech to the drawer of the dressing table that’d been thrown to the floor. He was pointing to three more black spots. “And especially these.”

  I paused the disc again. “I know Dale might’ve gone through their apartment with the crime-scene tech back when he took the burglary call. But prints on that drawer and the nightstand probably mean he was in that room recently, because those areas get a fair amount of use.”

  Michelle sighed. “And I’d think Paige would’ve cleaned that nightstand fairly regularly.”

  Alex shrugged. “Even if she didn’t, that burglary happened two months ago. If Dale left his prints there when he was investigating the burglary, wouldn’t you think they’d have rubbed off by now? A nightstand, a dressing table—they get a lot of use.”

  I nodded. “Though prints can hang around for a long time if the conditions are right.”

  “Did they get any of his prints on that butcher block in the kitchen?” Michelle asked.

  “No. But he wouldn’t have to touch it to pull out a knife. And a cop would know better.”

  Alex frowned. “So wouldn’t a cop know better than to leave those prints in the bedroom? How come there’s no evidence the place was wiped down?”

  I pointed to him. “Exactly. And that’s one of the points we’ll make. But keep an eye out for follow-ups from the
crime-scene tech saying he went back for a second look and found wipe marks.”

  Michelle scanned her notes. “What about DNA?”

  “They’ve got Dale’s skin under Chloe’s nails, his sweat on her arm, and a trace of his blood on her right index finger. That all fits with them having a fight.”

  “Any on Paige?”

  “No. Which I’d call good news, except she got stabbed from behind. There was no sign of a struggle, no bruising or scratching on her body. The coroner’s theory is that she was stabbed in the back first, then stabbed in the throat after she fell. So there wasn’t much contact. And Dale’s hair is short. He wouldn’t shed much.”

  Michelle nodded. “Makes sense. Paige was just a witness who had to be killed. Wrong place, wrong time. Not a girlfriend who’d been driving him crazy. He’d have known to be careful.”

  Alex rubbed his neck. “So we can use the ransacking to say the burglar did it, and if there’s no evidence anyone tried to wipe the place down, we can use that to say the killer couldn’t be a cop. Any other good news?”

  “We have the usual stuff that doesn’t fit.” Every crime scene has it. The cops pick up everything in sight, so there are always pieces of evidence that don’t match up to anything—or anyone. “They got some stray hairs on Paige’s robe that don’t look like hers or Dale’s. But there were no roots, so there’s no DNA. Can’t even tell what gender the hairs are. And it’s a terry-cloth robe, so hairs would stick to it for some time. They could belong to anyone—the cleaning lady, a friend who borrowed the robe, someone who used the dryer in the apartment building before she did.”

  “What about Chloe? Any stray hairs on her?” Michelle asked.

  “Not on her body. A couple on the floor. But that’s just as bad. Could’ve been left there anytime, by anyone. Even if they match the ones on Paige, it probably won’t take me very far.”

  “What about prints?” Michelle asked.

  “They found two that don’t match anyone on the door of Paige’s closet—”

  Michelle looked up from her legal pad. “That’s something. The video shows the door was left open.”

  “Yeah. But again, we can’t say when those prints got there. And there were some stray prints on Chloe’s dresser—but same thing. They could’ve been there for days, weeks, even months.”

  Alex frowned. “So what’re you going to do?”

  “Oh, I’ll still argue that stuff proves someone else was there. The question is, will anyone buy it? Would you?”

  He looked down at his iPad. “Not so far.”

  “Anyway, the tox report might be our only bit of really good news.” I pulled it out of the stack of discovery Zack had given me. “Paige had a low level of cocaine and a .06 blood alcohol level. I don’t know what we can do with that yet. And they found semen in Paige’s body that indicated recent sexual activity.”

  Alex looked up. “Mr. Perfect?”

  “Maybe. Chloe had a low level of heroin in her blood. So Dale was right. She was kind of loaded. That might help us with the homicidal drug-dealer theory. So how about this? Chloe owed him money, and he went to the apartment looking for it. Or for the drugs he’d sold her.”

  Michelle frowned. “Maybe.”

  But no matter whom I tried to lay it off on—a burglar or a drug dealer—I’d have to concede that Dale and Chloe had a fight, and that he’d knocked her around. Juries don’t like guys who punch their girlfriends—especially if that guy is a cop.

  It wouldn’t be enough to slam the shoddy investigation, pound the table about lazy cops, or point to some vague, possible straw man.

  I needed a real suspect.

  FOURTEEN

  I gave Alex a copy of the discovery so he could get up to speed on the witnesses, because I’d be taking him with me to do the interviews. I never talk to witnesses alone. If they decide to “forget” something on the witness stand, I need someone who can testify to what they told me—and that can’t be me.

  Michelle went back to man the phones, which had slowed down some. Alex went to his office, and I went back to work. An hour later, I heard Michelle tell someone in the anteroom to take a seat. A few seconds later, there was a sharp rap on my door, and Michy stepped in. “You’ve got a visitor—”

  “No press. I don’t have time right—”

  “It’s Dale’s daughter. Lisa Milstrom.”

  I glanced at the paperwork on my desk to make sure there were no grisly crime-scene photos. “Send her in.” I hadn’t intended to talk to her until we got closer to trial, but since she was here, I might as well see if there was a chance she might be a good character witness—or maybe good camera fodder on the cable news circuit. Dale wouldn’t like it, but I couldn’t afford to worry about that. He needed all the help he could get.

  Michelle waved her over, and a slender girl in a blue-and-black maxi dress and boots walked in. I introduced myself and reached out to shake her hand, expecting to wind up holding the dead fish I usually got from kids. But Lisa’s shake was surprisingly firm. A little cold and clammy, but firm. I studied her face as she settled into one of the chairs in front of my desk. Her long, light-brown hair and delicate features showed she took after her mother. But I saw a little of Dale in her high cheekbones and slightly bent nose.

  I sat down and folded my hands on the desk. “Nice to meet you, Lisa. What brings you here?”

  Her tongue darted over her lips as she glanced around the office. When her eyes finally settled on me, she took a deep breath. “I—uh, I just wanted to tell you that my dad didn’t . . . I don’t think he did this.” Lisa cleared her throat and sat up straighter. “I mean, I know he couldn’t have done it.”

  She’d tried to deliver the message with solid conviction. But it was laced with fear and wobbly hope. I could tell she thought I knew the truth, but she was too scared to ask. It impressed me that she had the courage to come here on her own—and that she cared enough to do it for a dad she hadn’t really known for most of her life.

  There was no way I was going to tell her how bad it looked for him, but I didn’t want to lie to her, either. “I promise you, we’ll do all we can to prove he’s innocent.” I didn’t want to let her start asking questions, so I steered the conversation away from the case. “Your dad told me you just moved here a couple of years ago. How do you like LA?”

  Lisa shrugged. “It’s okay, I guess. It was a drag at first, when I didn’t know anyone.”

  “When was that?”

  “Freshman year.”

  “That must’ve been rough.” I felt for her. Being a freshman was bad enough. But being a new girl on top of that was a real bitch. A real lonely bitch. Still, she seemed pretty together. Nothing like the hot mess I’d been when I was in high school.

  She dipped her head and sighed. “It totally sucked. But it’s a lot better now. And Dad really helped. He took me out to dinner, took me to the station.” Lisa spoke with a look of pride. “He even took me on a ride-along.”

  I smiled. “I did a couple when I first joined the public defender’s office. Kind of crazy, isn’t it?”

  She returned my smile, and her face finally relaxed. “Yeah. I really loved it.” She tilted her head and gazed over my shoulder. “It kind of made me think . . . it might be kind of cool to be a detective.”

  “Absolutely.” But I doubted she’d follow in Daddy’s footsteps. She didn’t seem the type—too soft, too nice. I guess that might’ve been my bias showing. In any case, it looked like Dale had been a positive force in her life. But in the next moment, the memory of those gruesome crime-scene photos flashed through my mind. It was hard to reconcile them with the man who’d shown up for Lisa. Hard—but not impossible. It’s a truth you learn early when you’re on the defense side of things: very few people are all bad. I once defended a serial killer who cared for a whole family of rescue dogs. “Sounds like it’s been good getting to know him.”

  Lisa nodded. “It has—not that I don’t like my stepdad.”

  �
�When did your mom remarry?”

  “Three years ago. That’s why we moved back here. Lonnie’s a sound editor. He works at Paramount.” She paused and dropped her eyes, a guilty look on her face. “He’s a nice guy, but . . .”

  “He’s a stepdad.”

  She looked at me with relief. “Exactly.”

  I could relate. I hadn’t met my stepdad, Jack, until I was a junior in high school. He was a great guy, but I’d had a hard time warming up to him—even without the competition of a real father coming into the mix.

  We chatted for a little while longer about school and her plans for college. I let her do most of the talking so I could get a bead on her, see how she’d play in court or on camera. But there was one question I’d had on my mind since Lisa had walked into my office. I held off until she was about to leave. “What does your mom think about all this?”

  Lisa pressed her lips tightly for a second. “She doesn’t believe he did it, either. But . . .” Lisa trailed off. “She said he did have a temper.” She added quickly, “Not that he ever hurt her or anything. She just said she didn’t want to believe it but that anything’s possible.” Lisa tilted her chin up, her expression defiant. “But I told her she’s wrong. I know he didn’t do it. Just because I haven’t known Dale all my life, that doesn’t mean I can’t tell.”

  Her loyalty was as touching as it was painful. I did my best to give her an encouraging smile, and as I walked her to the door, I told her again that we’d be fighting for him. “It was great to meet you, Lisa.”

  She stepped back and gave me a swift hug. “I’m so glad he has you. I know you’ll win.” She headed out through the anteroom and stopped with one hand on the door. She looked from me to Michelle. “Thanks for—for everything.”

  I waved, and as the door closed behind her, Michelle said, “Nice kid.”

  “She really is.”

  Michelle and I exchanged a look: if we lost this case, it’d crush her.