“What’s your theory of the case, Detective? That Natalie Stevens rented a motel room, that sometime that evening she shot a man in her motel room, that she carried the body of the man she had shot out to her car, evidently wearing a short fur and heels, that she loaded him into the trunk, drove him a few blocks to the street in front of Kim Beecher’s picture window, dumped the body, and then drove home?”
“Something like that.”
“Why didn’t you introduce her blood-spotted clothing into evidence?” I asked.
“We couldn’t find it.”
“The fur?”
“We couldn’t find that either.”
“Surely you found some shoes with heels in her closet.”
“We found a good number of those.”
“Any of them have traces of blood on them?”
“Not that we could find.”
“You have some fairly advanced techniques for detecting blood, don’t you? Even if the shoes have been wiped clean?”
“There are some chemicals that can bring out latent blood spatters, yes.”
“And were you able to bring out any latent blood spatters?”
“No.”
“How about the rags that might have been used to wipe the shoes clean? Or wash cloths? Find anything like that?”
“We found wash cloths and some towels in her bathroom, but there wasn’t any blood on any of them.”
“Did you check the trash bin outside the house? The washing machine and dryer?”
“Of course.”
“So, if this unidentified woman that Mr. Beecher saw was Natalie Stevens, she did a very thorough job of getting rid of the clothes she’d been wearing.”
“I would say so.”
“But not a thorough job at all of getting rid of the murder weapon. If you hadn’t found that gun in her room, Danny Golden wouldn’t have had a test bullet to compare in his comparison microscope.”
“I guess not.”
“You wouldn’t have been able to connect the murder weapon to Natalie Stevens.”
“We would have known that the bullet was fired by a Glock 32, and that a Glock 32 was registered to her father, Mark Stevens.”
“Which would have connected the crime to Mark Stevens, not Natalie.”
“Clearly she had access.”
“So did her stepmother, Chloe Stevens. Did you show a photograph of Chloe Stevens to Mr. Beecher to see if he could identify her as the woman he had seen?”
“We didn’t.”
“Did you see if he could pick Chloe Stevens out of a line up?”
“No. You had already tainted that identification.”
“I had? How did I do that?”
“You showed him a picture of Chloe Stevens and suggested to him that she could be the woman he saw.”
“And that tainted the identification?”
“In my opinion.”
“Hadn’t you already shown him a picture of Natalie Stevens and asked him if she might not be the woman he saw?”
“It was part of my investigation.”
“And didn’t you subsequently ask him to pick Natalie Stevens out of a lineup, after you had already tainted the identification?”
“I didn’t taint the identification.”
“No? Let’s go back to your theory that the defendant transported this body in her car. How do you know it was her car, by the way?”
“She admitted that it was hers.”
“It was registered to her father, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it his name on the title documents?”
“Well, sure.”
“How many sets of keys were in the house? Do you know?”
He hesitated. “I don’t know.”
“You found evidence of the decedent’s blood in this car registered to Mark Stevens? Fibers from his clothing?” There’d been no report to that effect among the papers the prosecution had turned over to me in response to my discovery motions.
“We found that blood on the bumper.” He didn’t know of his own knowledge that the substance was blood, but I let it go.
“This was blood on the back bumper that dripped or rubbed off as the body was being hoisted into the trunk of the car?” I asked.
“No. It was on the front bumper.”
“Is it your theory that the body was transported in the engine compartment?”
There was little ripple of nervous laughter somewhere back in the gallery.
“Or possibly tied to the front of the car like a deer carcass?”
An outright guffaw prompted the judge to bang his gavel, and the burst of laughter cut off abruptly.
“We assume that the body was transported in the trunk or passenger compartment, but that it had been wrapped in a sheet or something. The blood on the front bumper would have been from when she ran over him.”
“Was there a sheet missing from the motel room?”
“No.”
“You found the sheet, though, and there were matching fibers in the trunk of the car.”
“It didn’t have to be a sheet. It could have been a tarp or anything else of that nature.”
“So there were no sheet fibers in the trunk of the car. You mentioned a tarp. Does that mean you found one, maybe in a dumpster near where you found the body, maybe in the trash bin behind the Stevens house?”
“No.”
“Did you find fibers on the balcony walkway of the motel? Of a sheet, a tarp, or the defendant’s clothing?”
“No.”
“Did you find blood?”
“No.”
“So your theory is that the defendant carried the body in her arms from the room to the staircase, down the stairs, and to her car, possibly wrapped in a sheet or tarp? According to the autopsy report, this body weighed 182 pounds.”
“She could have dumped the body over the rail. That wouldn’t have required such great strength.”
“Did you find crushed shrubbery beneath the walkway, an imprint in the dirt, some blood spatters—anything?”
His eyes moved, then returned to me. “No.”
“So your theory is that the defendant, possibly wearing heels, muscled this body down the stairs or over the rail, then up into her car, that after dumping the body she disposed of a tarp or sheet, her shoes, and possibly all of her clothing, somewhere far from the place where she dumped the body and far from her own house, somewhere it would never be found, but that she found nothing better to do with the murder weapon than tuck it under her mattress. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“It seems to be.”
I glanced at Natalie, and she jerked her head at me. I held up a finger. “If I could have just a moment, your honor.” I went to the table and put my head next to Natalie’s.
“This isn’t my car,” she whispered, all but inaudibly. She put a hand on the registration paper. “This is Chloe’s IS 250. My car is a CT 200.”
“You’re kidding.”
She widened her eyes at me, and I nodded. “Okay,” I said, and I went back to the lectern with my copy of the registration paper.
“Could you tell us a little more about this car of Natalie’s that you impounded?” I asked McClane. “It was a small Lexus of some sort?”
He checked his notebook. “Yes. License plate GBX 118.”
“What was the model?”
“I don’t have that here.”
“You identified it by the license plate.”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps you could take another look at Exhibit 12, refresh your memory.” The court reporter took it to him.
“Lexus IS 250.”
“You still have the car you impounded in the police lot, don’t you?”
“I believe we do. I don’t think anyone ever picked it up.”
“That car is a Lexus CT 200,” I said. “You showed it to me.”
“No, it’s not.”
“Both are registered to Mark Stevens. Both are white. Actually, I think the IS 250 is off-white. Your honor, we need a recess to a
llow this witness to examine that vehicle. I’d like to accompany him.”
“No need,” McClane said. “I’ve got the vehicle identification number here in my notes.” He ran a stubby index finger along the line of type, eyes flicking back and forth between it and the registration. “Well I’m damned.”
“The plates were changed,” I said. “Do you think it was before the crime or after?”
He was still comparing his notes and the registration paper.
“If the defendant is guilty of this crime, then it was premeditated. She changed plates with her stepmother’s car before going out to commit the crime, though it would have been smarter to change plates with a stranger in a parking garage somewhere. Do you think she was trying to implicate her stepmother? If so, why wouldn’t she have changed the plates back and wiped the blood from the bumper?”
McClane looked up and met my eyes with a look of defiance. “People don’t think of everything, do they?”
“Let’s suppose for a moment that Chloe Stevens, Natalie’s stepmother, committed the crime. Let’s suppose she was in her own car when she dumped the body, then, after she was seen, she realized she needed to get rid of the plates. She changed plates with her stepdaughter, broke her headlight, and smeared blood on the bumper. Did you check the stepmother’s car for blood or fibers?”
“No.”
“Because you had a theory of the case, and when you didn’t find evidence to support it, you stopped looking. Isn’t that right?”
“It’s not right. We did a thorough, competent job.”
“You got the wrong car!”
“We didn’t get the wrong car, we just got the wrong plates.”
“The eyewitness didn’t identify the car. He identified the plates.”
Biggs objected. “Not a question, your honor.”
“Your whole case against Natalie Stevens just fell in the toilet, didn’t it, detective?”
“Objection,” Biggs said, more loudly. “Not proper cross-examination.”
“It didn’t fall in the toilet,” McClane said. “We’ve got the motel registration, the car, the murder weapon…”
“Your honor,” Biggs shouted. “They’re arguing the case.”
“Yes, they are,” Judge Cheatham said. He looked at me. “Are you done questioning this witness?”
I smiled. “I am, your honor. Thank you.”
The judge said, “Mr. Biggs, do you have further questions for this witness?”
Aubrey Biggs, on his feet behind his table, was smoothing his jacket with his hands. “Your honor, it’s nearly four o’clock. Counsel for the defense has made a number of allegations about some of the evidence in this case, allegations which are not themselves evidence and which at this point are entirely unsubstantiated. With the court’s permission, we would like a recess until tomorrow morning to give us a chance to look into it.”
The judge nodded. “Looks like some sloppy police work.” It was something he shouldn’t have said in front of the jury, and Biggs reddened, but he didn’t say anything. “Very well,” Cheatham said. “Court recessed until nine-thirty tomorrow morning.” He banged his gavel and stood.
“You did good,” I told Natalie Stevens as the jury filed out. “You were paying attention, and it helped us score some points.”
“You did a good job with it.”
I made a face. “I’m embarrassed I didn’t notice they had the wrong model number, but I don’t know cars.”
“And you tend to assume the police know their business.” The deputy sheriff came up beside her and laid a hand on her arm.
“Yes, and I shouldn’t. I’ll try to do better.”
Chapter 27
My cell phone rang as I was pulling out of the parking lot. I punched the button, held the phone to my ear. “Robin Starling.”
“Oh. You’re out of court. I was going to leave a message.” It was Rodney Burns.
“What’s up?”
“I think I’ve got something. Could you stop by, or do you want me to give it to you over the phone?”
“You got fresh coffee?” I wasn’t totally zonked, as I had been the day before, but I was fatigued.
“I can have.”
“Be there in fifteen minutes.”
Fifteen minutes was optimistic, but I was leaving downtown ahead of rush hour, and I made it on the nose. The coffee pot was giving a last snort as I came in, and Rodney was standing by with his hand on the handle of the carafe.
“I’ve got it almost ready for you. You drink it black, don’t you?”
“Sure,” I said. Rodney was moving his head around and his shoulders were jerking. “Either you’re on one heck of a caffeine high, or you’ve got something good.”
“Oh, I’ve got something all right. I don’t know if it’s good, but it’s something.” He handed me my VCU Ram mug and took a sip from Edgar Allan Poe.
“You know how you asked me to track Mark Stevens for you, see if he flew somewhere other than China and then back to the United States?”
“Yes?” I said hopefully.
“Well, he didn’t. Not that I could find.”
“Oh.”
“But look at this.” He handed me a sheet of names. There were Chinese characters at the top, interspersed with English—Cathay Airlines, Hong Kong-Los Angeles. The date was December 9.
“What am I looking at?”
“The manifest for a flight from Hong Kong to LAX that departed 5:35 a.m., December 9. Mark Stevens arrived in Hong Kong about 10 p.m. the night before.”
I scanned down the list looking for Stevens. What I saw instead was… “Larry Smith,” I said.
“Bingo.”
Larry Smith was the man whose identification David Stevens had given me, presumably the identification of the man Natalie was accused of killing. “There are a lot of Smiths in the world,” I said. This one had been in seat 29B.
“Yes, there are.”
“Any of these hieroglyphics next to the name tell us anything about him?”
“Not really. This tells us something.” He gave me two more passenger lists, one of a flight from LAX to Washington-Dulles, and one of a flight from Dulles to Richmond International. I put down my coffee mug to shuffle between them.
“How do you get these things? I thought it took a court order.”
“Well, sometimes.”
There was a Larry Smith on both manifests. “So Mark Stevens flew from Richmond to Hong Kong, and just a few hours after he arrived, Larry Smith left Hong Kong for Richmond,” I said. “And you’re thinking it’s the same person.” I looked up.
Rodney eyed me owlishly over the rim of his mug as he slurped coffee.
I didn’t see Paul that night, or Brooke. Dr. McDermott brought over Deeks, two bottles of Lowenbrau Dark, and homemade sandwiches with dill-pickle spears.
“I don’t know what kind of beer you drink,” he said. “This was my favorite back in the day, but it’s been in the fridge awhile.”
“Hopefully not since back in the day.”
“No, not that long. A few months maybe.”
I didn’t really drink beer, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. “Thank you.”
Deeks barked and jumped up to brace his paws on my thigh. He was growing. I picked him up to give him a hug and got a faceful of dog slobber.
“Yes, I love you, too,” I said. I put him back down.
“I try not to reward him when he jumps,” Dr. McDermott said. “He’s your dog, of course. I just don’t want to be the one to mess him up for you.”
He was right, of course. Deeks might hit a hundred pounds, and that was a lot of dog to be jumping up on people. “I’ll try to do better,” I said.
“Oh, I’m not criticizing.”
We had our sandwiches and beer. If I ever did become a beer drinker, Lowenbrau Dark was going to be at the top of my list. “This is just what I need,” I said, examining the bottle. “Another high-calorie item to become attached to.”
“On the posit
ive side, it’s fat free,” Dr. McDermott said.
“Isn’t that true of all alcohol?”
“One of God’s gifts to humanity.”
After he left, Deeks and I walked about a mile-and-a-half through the neighborhood. Since it was full dark and Deeks always came when I called, I walked him off-leash. He disappeared once, I suspect to do his business up against somebody’s house. I told myself I should feel guilty about it. On the other hand, if a brown dog poops in the dark, does it leave a turd in your yard? Well, maybe. I suspected that a tree falling in the woods made a sound, too, even when there was no one to hear.
On Wednesday Aubrey Biggs did not call Tom McClane back to the stand for redirect examination. He called his next witness with no mention of what he had called my unsubstantiated allegations, which suggested to me that they had now been substantiated. I might have to call McClane as my own witness just to clarify the point when it came time to put on the defense case.
The bailiff ushered Devon Matthews into the courtroom. She was wearing a sweater set and a wool skirt, and her blonde hair hung halfway down her back. The outfit and the hair gave her a sixties’ coed look that was likely to play well with the jury.
She gave her name and address and said she worked at the Best Western on the Chippenham Parkway.
“In Richmond?” Biggs asked her.
“Yes, on the Southside.”
“What are your duties at the Best Western, Ms. Matthews?”
“I’m a desk clerk.”
“Were you on duty on Sunday night, December 6?”
She was.
“Did you see the defendant Natalie Stevens that night?”
Devon looked at Natalie, then her eyes darted to meet mine before her gaze returned to Mr. Biggs at the lectern. “I don’t know.”
“Didn’t Natalie Stevens check into the motel that night?”
“A Natalie Stevens checked into the motel, but a lot of people come and go. I don’t remember the face.”
“But it was someone who gave the name of Natalie Stevens.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And the person who gave the name of Natalie Stevens was a young woman.”
Dog Law (A Robin Starling Courtroom Mystery) Page 20