“Stafford went well,” Pendergrass said.
It had gone well, but mentally, Sloane had already moved on. He had retained his own ballistics expert to review the evidence and the report prepared by Barry Dilliard, the head forensic scientist of the firearms section of the Washington State Patrol crime lab.
“You don’t want to match wits with this guy in his arena,” Sloane’s expert had warned. “This is the Doogie Howser of ballistics.”
Sloane watched a woman behind a cash register at an establishment selling Mexican food reach behind her and slide open a glass door to retrieve two cans of soda. When she turned to put them on the counter, the sliding-glass door slid closed, but not completely, leaving a two-inch opening.
And the nagging thought that had bothered Sloane for two days finally crystallized.
“David?”
Sloane looked to Reid, knowing he had missed whatever question had been posed.
“Excuse me.” He walked away to make a call on his cell phone.
When Jenkins answered, Sloane said, “I need you to find Micheal Hurley.”
Though Barry Dilliard’s curriculum vitae said he was forty-six years old, nobody in the courtroom would have believed it. Sloane watched at least one juror mentally add the years as Dilliard recounted for Cerrabone how long he had been with the forensic unit. With an easy style, Dilliard told how he had received an MFA in English literature from a school on the East Coast, but when he moved back home to Seattle, he had been unable to find the teaching job he craved and took a low-level job in the crime lab to pay the bills and student loans. He joked that maybe if he had studied forensic science he’d be teaching James Joyce to college students. Once at the crime lab, Dilliard found he had a natural aptitude for determining things like the trajectory of bullets. During his subsequent twenty-three years, he had been rapidly promoted and had developed innovative methods and equipment to re-create crime scenes that were being employed by crime labs throughout the country.
He didn’t look like Doogie Howser, the boy-genius doctor on the television show of the same name. He looked more like the actor Ron Howard when Howard played Richie Cunningham on the television show Happy Days—before he lost his reddish-blond hair. The hair swept across Dilliard’s forehead, and with clear blue eyes and boyish features he looked like he would have been more comfortable wearing long shorts and flip-flops instead of the hunter green suit, white shirt, and tie.
Dilliard said he viewed each crime scene much the way he considered jigsaw puzzles, one of his passions. “The pieces are all there but scattered. They need to be fitted together to see the full picture.”
Good at making the mundane interesting, when Cerrabone asked him about the use of a .38 revolver and whether it had enough power to shoot through the double-paned sliding-glass door, Dilliard related how Jack Ruby had used a .38 Special, a Colt Cobra, to kill Lee Harvey Oswald. “It has plenty of power, and it’s a reliable weapon.”
Dilliard became downright gleeful when asked to talk about his latest forensic toy—the $140,000 Leica ScanStation C10, which he called a “crime-scene time machine.” The machine took a 360-degree photo of the crime scene, then used lasers to scan it. The result was a 3D image that could be computer-manipulated “to re-create what the evidence and science indicate happened,” Dilliard said.
For the next hour and a half, the jury was treated to a simulation showing the crime scene in a 3D image, beginning with Vasiliev slumped on the sofa. Then the image changed to a 3D aerial view of the outside of the home, with the image of an androgynous-looking mannequin sitting and watching a flat-screen television mounted on the opposite wall.
“The image matches Mr. Vasiliev’s exact measurements,” Dilliard said. As the image rotated, an equally androgynous-looking figure appeared outside the back door, raised a gun, and fired a shot, a blue line showing the trajectory of the bullet through the glass, striking the back of Vasiliev’s head, and deflecting off course before becoming wedged in the baseboard.
“Were you able to draw any conclusions concerning the height of the shooter, based upon your simulation?” Cerrabone asked.
“Based upon the trajectory of the bullet, which the ScanStation duplicated and which we confirmed the old-fashioned way through photographs and measurements and a scanner on a tripod, I concluded that the shooter was between five feet two and five feet five inches tall,” Dilliard said.
Cerrabone continued for another twenty minutes before concluding what had been the most entertaining witness to date.
Sloane stood. “Mr. Dilliard, how tall am I?”
Dilliard considered Sloane. “I don’t know.”
“Give me an estimate.”
“Maybe six-two or three . . .”
Sloane put his hands in front of him, as if holding a handgun the way the mannequin had held it in the video. Then he spread his feet, bent his knees, and lowered. “How tall am I now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your simulation shows the figure outside the sliding-glass door standing erect. What if the person were taller, like me, but spread their feet and squatted, as I just did. Wouldn’t that result in the same trajectory?”
“We used the information provided by Kaylee Wright, the tracker, concerning the location of the foot impressions on the concrete patio in relation to the sliding-glass door and to one another. You will note that in the simulation, the shooter stood with the right foot positioned sixteen inches in front of the left, measuring from heel to heel, and the width is eight inches. That is typical of someone who has taken a shooter’s stance, knees flexed, upper torso turned at an angle. That evidence was the basis for my providing the three-inch differential for the range in height.”
“But if they flexed their knees more than the simulation, they could have been taller than five feet five inches, correct?”
“Could have been.” He shrugged, letting both Sloane and the jury know he wasn’t buying the argument.
“And the stance you mentioned, right foot in front of the left”—Sloane stood as Dilliard had described, even angling his body—“would that not be a stance more commonly associated with someone shooting with the left hand?”
“It usually would, yes.”
It was a significant concession. Reid was right-handed.
“You also assumed, did you not, that the sliding-glass door was closed when the shot was fired?”
“The door was closed when I arrived, and I reviewed Officer Adderley’s report as the first responding officer, which confirmed that to have been the case.”
“Both of which still require that you make the assumption that the door was closed when the shot was fired, don’t they?”
Dilliard’s eyes narrowed. “I’m aware of no evidence that the door was open and then closed, if that is what you’re postulating. The measurements would not make sense. Based upon the distance the person stood from the sliding-glass door, the position of their feet, the height and location of the bullet hole, the angle and trajectory of the bullet to its target on the sofa, the glass door was closed. If it had been opened, the measurements would not have worked, the angle would be off.”
With the day drawing to a close, Sloane had one last line of inquiry and wanted to leave the jurors with something to ponder over the weekend.
“Did you draw any significance from the fact that just one bullet was found at the scene?” Nothing in Dilliard’s report indicated that he had, but Pendergrass had found a report Dillard had authored in another case in which he had drawn a significant conclusion from that piece of evidence.
“Nothing that I noted in my report.”
“I didn’t ask you what you noted in your report. I asked if you drew any significance from the fact that there was only a single hole in the glass.”
Dilliard smiled. “That just one bullet was fired?”
The jury laughed, and Sloane joined them. Then he said, “Mr. Dilliard, do you remember a case entitled State of Washington vs. Allan Green?�
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Dilliard nodded. “I do, though not in a lot of detail.”
“You authored a report in that case.” Sloane handed Dilliard a copy of his report, had him authenticate it, and gave him the chance to read it while providing a copy to Cerrabone and to the judge’s clerk. After introducing the report, Sloane read from it. “‘The fact that we have located five spent cartridges is also consistent with an act of rage or vengeance.’” Sloane looked up. “Did I read that correctly?”
“Unfortunately you did, though I think my English-lit teachers would cringe that I wrote that.” This brought more smiles from the jury. “Can I explain?”
Sloane wasn’t about to cut off a witness who had cultivated such a good rapport with the jury. Besides, Pendergrass had also obtained a copy of the file for which Dilliard had written the report, and Sloane had familiarized himself with the facts of that case. Confident Dilliard could wiggle but not free himself of what he’d written, he let him go on.
“When I wrote this report, I did not have the experience or the technology we have available today. A husband came home from work after learning that his wife was having an affair and shot her five times. The detective wanted me to note that evidence of multiple shots fired was consistent with a crime of passion or anger. With experience, I have learned that not only are such statements speculative, I have no business making them. My job is simply to evaluate the physical evidence at the crime scene and let you lawyers argue about its significance.”
“A crime of passion,” Sloane said. “Sort of like a mother accused of killing the drug dealer who overdosed her daughter would be a crime of passion?”
Cerrabone stood. “Objection. Speculation,” he said.
Underwood looked at Sloane over the black frames of his glasses to convey that he was not pleased. “Sustained,” he said. Sloane had expected the objection and thought it a tactical mistake by Cerrabone. Sloane wasn’t the least bit interested in Dilliard’s answer, concerned that Dilliard would take the opportunity to contend the two cases were not comparable given that Carly had been killed seven months earlier. Now there was no reason for Dilliard to explain.
“Thank you,” Sloane said, leaving the unanswered question for the jury to ponder for the weekend.
Outside the courthouse, Sloane, Barclay, and Pendergrass ditched the media and found a corner to talk. They agreed to take the night off and start in again Saturday morning.
“I need to meet with an expert,” Sloane said. “He can’t meet over the weekend.”
“You want me to take the meeting?” Pendergrass asked.
“No. Go home and drink a beer. I mean it. I don’t want you even reading the newspaper accounts. We still have a lot of long days and nights ahead.” Sloane turned to Barclay. “My meeting is down south. I’ll stay at Three Tree and meet you at the office tomorrow morning.”
He watched as she and Pendergrass walked up the street together. When they turned the corner, he pulled out his cell phone.
“What do you have?” he asked.
GOLDEN DRAGON RESTAURANT
INTERNATIONAL DISTRICT
SEATTLE, WASHINGTON
Micheal Hurley was not a man Sloane ever wanted to play poker with. The dark eyes—black, really—remained expressionless, as did the rest of his facial features. Hurley sat smoothing the snow-white goatee with his right hand, not the slightest hesitation when Sloane explained his theory. Sloane knew he was right, whether Hurley wanted to acknowledge the truth or not, and he had come prepared to explain why he was right, if Hurley denied it. Then it would be a matter of whether Hurley cared—the placid expression not of a poker player bluffing but of a poker player holding four aces, an unbeatable hand, and knowing there wasn’t a damn thing Sloane could say that would change that.
“Tell me why?” Hurley said. “Based upon the judge’s ruling, you can’t use it even if you’re right.”
Sloane couldn’t. Not in a court of law.
But before Sloane could respond, before he could tell Hurley that what had set the wheels spinning was when Cerrabone asked Officer Adderley whether he had tried to open the sliding-glass door and Adderley had responded, “No reason to,” a glimmer of light flickered in the black eyes, and the corner of Hurley’s mouth twitched beneath the facial hair. It was not a smile or even a grin but it served as a tacit acknowledgment that Sloane was right and that Hurley knew Sloane’s interest wasn’t about getting evidence admitted in a court of law.
Sloane just needed to know.
THREE TREE POINT
BURIEN, WASHINGTON
Just after eight in the evening it was not too late for Sloane to drive to Barclay’s house, but he had felt the need to be alone, to process the information Micheal Hurley had confirmed: that the reason Julio Cruz’s fingerprints were on the slider was because, as Sloane had deduced, Cruz had slid open the door. Unlike Adderley, Cruz had a reason to open the door. He needed to go inside to retrieve the bug they had planted in Vasiliev’s den, which they couldn’t very well have left for the CSI team to discover.
What it meant, Sloane was not yet sure.
When Sloane turned the corner, he was surprised to see Barclay’s BMW parked perpendicular to the laurel hedge. He pushed through the gate to the side yard. The interior of the house remained dark, not a light on in any window, not even the lights on the timer.
He looked for her along the beach, but saw no one out walking.
Back at the house, Sloane pushed through the back door but kept his keys in hand rather than place them on the hook protruding from the life-size Larry Bird cardboard cutout. He put his briefcase on the kitchen counter, about to call her name, when he felt the presence of others. The floor creaked unnaturally. A movement in the dark. The lights burst in a flash.
“Surprise!”
Two voices.
When the black spots faded, Sloane saw Barclay. Beside her, wearing an uncertain smile, stood Jake.
“I didn’t want to say anything to you after court,” Barclay said. “I wanted it to be a surprise.”
After the initial shock, Sloane had held Jake in a fierce embrace. At sixteen, Jake was nearly as tall as Sloane, though still thin as a rail. “How did you do this?” Sloane asked.
“Ms. Reid—Barclay called me a few days ago. She said she thought it would be a nice surprise,” Jake said. “She said you needed something to perk you up.”
Sloane had not mentioned his and Barclay’s relationship to Jake, not sure the boy was ready to hear it. He was uncertain how he felt about Barclay doing so.
“What happened to Italy?” he asked.
“The project ended early. And you can tell Charlie he was right. I’m sick of oil and vinegar.”
“Okay,” Barclay said. “I’m going to leave you two men to catch up.”
“Stay,” Sloane said.
She waved him off. “Not on your life.”
“Really, you don’t have to leave,” Jake agreed, but it sounded halfhearted.
She smiled. “You’re a polite young man. I can see that your mother did a wonderful job raising you. But a girl knows when men need their bonding time. I’ve taken enough of your father’s time these past months, and I’ll be seeing him a good deal more.”
Sloane walked her outside to the easement. “I don’t know what to say.”
“I really debated this,” she said. “I hope it wasn’t too bold of me. If it was, I apologize.”
“No, it was a very kind gesture.”
“You seemed down the last couple of days. I thought maybe you needed something to remind you of the good things in your life.”
“More than the watch?”
She looked up at the house as the light in Jake’s room came on.
“What did you tell him?” Sloane asked.
“I told him I was one of your clients, but he already knew all about it. He’s followed the story on the Internet. He didn’t say anything, but I’m sure he read the reports about us. Even if he hadn’t, he seems like a bright kid
.”
“I didn’t mean to imply that I thought it was something we should hide—”
“He’s sixteen,” she said. “Carly wasn’t thrilled when I dated. I know it will take time, but I’m not in a rush. I’m hoping the three of us will have a lot of time to get to know one another.”
Back inside the house, Sloane found Jake with his head in the refrigerator. His hair had grown well past his ears and touched the hood of his 49ers sweatshirt.
“You hungry?” Sloane asked—a dumb question of a teenager with the metabolism of a jackrabbit.
Jake pulled out a tomato that had rotted and mildewed. “Not anymore. How are you still alive?”
“The life of a trial lawyer. I’ve been working late and eating at the office. Come on, we’ll go up to the Tin Room.”
Jake shook his head. “I think I’d like to stay home.”
Sloane detected melancholy in the comment. “How about my famous grilled cheese?”
“You mean the cardiac-arrest sandwich? Sure.”
As Sloane pulled the cheese, mayonnaise, and butter out of the fridge, Jake retrieved the cast-iron skillet, then jumped up and sat on the counter. Tina would have swatted him with a towel.
“She’s pretty cool,” Jake said.
Sloane kept his focus on the refrigerator. “Barclay? Yeah, she’s a good person.”
“So she’s innocent?”
Sloane closed the fridge and pulled open drawers, looking for the cheese slicer. “Yes, she’s innocent.”
“Really? Or it’s your job to defend her even if she isn’t?”
They’d had conversations about Sloane’s job, defending clients to the best of his abilities no matter his personal feelings about their innocence or guilt. “Really.” Sloane spread mayonnaise on one side of the bread, then added the cheese.
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