Cruel Justice

by William Bernhardt

  “Oh, I don’t know. Didn’t you tell me he had a reputation for being a sexual adventurer?”

  “Well, yes. But with women.”

  “And didn’t he tell you he was having trouble finding his next conquest?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Put it together, Ben.”

  “But—Bentley is handsome. Good-looking. Rich.”

  “And only ugly poor people engage in deviant sex practices? Welcome to the real world, Ben. The rich dudes are in there pitching, too. They have time on their hands and the money to get what they want.”

  “And you guys think Bentley was the child pervert.”

  “That’s the official word from Chief Blackwell. We found this.” Mike picked up a paper evidence bag and, using his gloved hand, withdrew a red baseball cap.

  “And that cap belonged to the little boy who was hit by the car?”

  “Yes. The boy’s parents have definitely ID’d it. The kid’s name is written under the brim.”

  “Any other evidence?”

  “Not that I know of. Let me check. Hubbell!”

  Within seconds, a uniformed police officer was standing at attention. “Yes, sir!”

  “Tell me what you’ve found,” Mike growled. “Other than the cap. And the corpse.”

  “So far, sir, we haven’t discovered anything noteworthy.”

  “What!” Mike’s eyes widened explosively; his fists clenched. “Do you mean to tell me you’ve been searching for over two hours and haven’t found a damn thing?”

  “I—I—” Hubbell swallowed. “We’ve been very thorough, sir. My men have searched the entire house. It’s a very large house—”

  “Then you’ll search it again,” Mike commanded. “And again and again, if necessary. And then start on the grounds.” Mike stepped right into his face. “And I hope you find something of interest this time. For your sake!”

  Mike stepped back, leaving poor Hubbell dangling in the breeze.

  “Dismissed!” Mike barked. Hubbell scrambled away as quickly as possible.

  Mike’s face and demeanor gradually returned to their prior states. “Sorry you had to see that, Ben.”

  “Not at all. I love to watch you go into your tough-cop routine. You ought to be nominated for an Emmy.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mike switched the toothpick he was chewing to the other side of his mouth. “But I know that if there are any more clues around here, Hubbell’s gonna find ’em.”

  “But what if they don’t find anything else? After all, they haven’t so far.”

  Mike stepped out of the light cast by the lamp on me marble table. “That’s what troubles me.”

  “How do you mean?”

  Mike’s voice slowed. He seemed to be choosing his words carefully. “Chief Blackwell’s treating this child-molestation case like a done deal. Solved. He’s pulling my men off the case. Told me to terminate the watch on Abie Rutherford in twenty-four hours.”

  “And that bothers you?”

  “Yeah. That bothers me a lot.”

  “You think Blackwell is wrong?”

  “Blackwell is a politician. He has to answer to the press. If you give him a likely suspect in a high-profile case, he’s going to take it.” Mike’s head slowly turned to face Ben. “But what if he’s wrong?”

  “How can he be wrong?” Ben asked. “If Bentley isn’t the one, how did he get that cap?”

  “I don’t know,” Mike murmured. “But somehow, the whole thing doesn’t seem right. It’s too easy. Too convenient.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Look, I’ve been chasing this man for months. I’ve studied all the profiles. Bentley doesn’t fit.”

  “You’ve said yourself that offender profiles are unreliable.”

  “Yeah, but not this unreliable. You have to understand. These pedophiles—they become consumed with this sexual need. This desire. It controls their whole life. Where is the evidence that child molestation played any part in Chris Bentley’s life? Where are the dirty magazines? The pictures of little boys? The naughty toys?”

  “Maybe he kept them somewhere else to be safe. Just as he took Abie to that North Side ruin with the mattress. It would be stupid to keep anything in his own home.”

  “Maybe,” Mike said, stroking his toothpick. “Maybe.”

  “And look at these pictures, Mike. You have to admit this guy is some kind of pervert.”

  “Yeah—some kind of pervert, but not the right kind of pervert. Everyone indulging in deviant sexual practices is not a pedophile.”

  Ben laid a hand on Mike’s shoulder. “Are you sure you’re not upset just because … you didn’t catch him? I know you’ve put a lot of time in on this case.”

  “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I need time for it all to sink in.” He half smiled. “My father always used to say, ‘Mike, the only thing you hate more than doing work is having someone else do it for you.’ ”

  Ben grinned. If only half of Mike’s stories about his father were true, he’d been a hell of a character. “Mike … did you like your dad?”

  Mike’s eyebrows rose. “My dad? Hell, yeah. He was great.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh yeah. We used to play basketball out on the driveway, wrestle. We fished, we camped. It wasn’t all just jock-macho stuff, either. He was the one who first turned me on to Shakespeare. And the greatest thing about him was, no matter how busy he got, and he was pretty busy sometimes, he always made sure he saved time for me.”

  “Sounds like a pretty spectacular dad.”

  “He was. He was my hero, all through my childhood. Hell, all through my life. He was a model father. He’s the reason I always wanted … I mean … you know, when I was married to your sister, we always wanted …” Mike’s voice trailed off. “But we never got any.”

  “Yeah,” Ben said quietly. “I know.”

  “Hell, my dad was the one who first turned me on to police work. Did you know that? I started showing some interest in crime, reading Sherlock Holmes, and he didn’t discourage me like some fathers would. He took me to the police station, introduced me around, helped me learn how to become a cop.”

  “So he approved of your career choice?”

  “Oh yeah. Is that so amazing?”

  Probably only to me, Ben thought. “I guess I’m not used to the idea of a father charting the course of his son’s life.”

  “Ah, but they all do.” Mike smiled. “One way or the other.”

  58

  JUDGE HAWKINS SURPRISED EVERYONE by arriving early the next morning. Ben was running late; he’d overslept (a nasty consequence of visiting crime scenes in the middle of the night) and he’d barely had time to grab all his files and scramble to the courthouse. Fortunately, he’d done his preparation the night before.

  “Let’s get this show on the road,” Judge Hawkins said. He appeared a bit grumpier than usual today. “And counsel,” Hawkins added, looking only at Ben, “some of the examinations yesterday were, in my humble opinion, somewhat over-leisurely. Let’s see if we can pick up the pace, shall we?”

  Ben didn’t smile. They had made it through three witnesses yesterday, for Pete’s sake. Hawkins was trying to intimidate him into going easy on the cross-ex of the prosecution’s witnesses. Ben wasn’t about to shortchange Leeman’s defense just to keep the judge from getting antsy.

  “The State calls Dr. Martin Paglino to the stand.”

  Another expert? Ben was surprised; he thought the State had completed the forensic aspect of its case. The jury was ready to get on with the nitty-gritty. Including the much-anticipated confession.

  Paglino was a short man of slight build with an academic bent. Turned out he worked the night shift in the forensics lab at Central Division, and consequently he was assigned the chore of analyzing the physical evidence collected at the Alvarez crime scene.

  “Dr. Paglino,” Bullock asked, after the preliminaries were completed, “did you have a chance to
examine the blood splatters that were scraped off the defendant?”

  “I did.”

  “And what did you find?”

  “I found that the blood came from the victim, Maria Alvarez. It matched both in type and in rtDNA structure.”

  “How reliable is rtDNA blood comparison, doctor?”

  “In my opinion? One hundred percent.”

  Bullock strolled past the jury box, allowing the jury time to absorb the import of that statement. “And did you find any of the defendant’s own blood on the surface of his skin?”

  “No.”

  “Was there any indication that he was harmed in any way?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “So there was no evidence of self-defense. Or even a struggle.”

  “No.”

  A bold conclusion, but as an expert, Paglino could get away with it. There was no point in objecting and creating an issue where none existed. Truth to tell, there was no evidence of a struggle.

  Bullock continued. “Did you search the crime scene for fingerprints?”

  “I personally did not,” the doctor said hastily, as if somewhat taken aback by the suggestion that he might actually perform physical labor. “I have people who do that for me.”

  “Of course. Did you examine the prints they collected?”

  “I did.”

  “Did you find any prints that belonged to the defendant?”

  “Oh yes. All over the crime scene.”

  “Objection!” Ben said. “Of course his, prints were all over the place. He worked there. He slept there!”

  Hawkins peered down from the bench. “I fail to see what evidentiary objection that statement conveys.”

  Ben didn’t either, but it was a fact he definitely wanted to bring to the jury’s attention. “Sorry, your honor.”

  Bullock proceeded. “Exactly where did you find the defendant’s prints?”

  “On his locker.”

  “What about the golf bag that was found inside the locker?”

  “His prints were all over it.”

  “Of course, he was a caddy.”

  “True. But that particular set of clubs was new. None of the caddies’ prints were on them.”

  A soft muttering was audible from the jury box.

  “Did you find the defendant’s prints anyplace else?”

  “Yes.” There was an extended pause. Ben had come to recognize this as a sign that Bullock’s witness was about to unload a biggie. “His fingerprints were found in numerous locations on the victim’s clothing.”

  “His prints were on Maria Alvarez?”

  “Yes.”

  “What part of her body?”

  “Mostly her upper body. Waist, neck, torso.”

  “Near the point where the murder weapon entered her body.”

  Dr. Paglino looked at the jury. “Exactly.”

  Bullock pivoted on one heel and returned to his table. “No more questions.”

  Ben was up before Judge Hawkins had a chance to invite him. “First of all, Dr. Paglino, let’s talk about what you didn’t say. Then we’ll get to what you did say.”

  The doctor bowed his head. “As you wish.”

  “For instance, you didn’t mention the necklace that was purportedly found in Leeman’s locker. Did you find Leeman’s prints on that?”

  “By its nature, a linked chain of gemstones makes a poor surface for body-oil deposits—”

  “Answer the question, Doctor.”

  “I’m trying to explain that this doesn’t necessarily mean—”

  “Leave the arguing to the lawyers, doc. Did you find his fingerprints on the necklace?”

  The doctor exhaled. “No.”

  “And you looked, didn’t you?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “Probably looked as hard as it was possible to look. Mr. Bullock probably ordered you to look eight or ten times. But you didn’t find anything, did you?”

  “As I said, no.”

  Ben realized he should move on. He was just so elated to have finally scored a point, no matter how small, that he wanted to savor the moment as long as possible. “What about the golf club? The murder weapon.”

  “What about it?”

  “I’ll bet you checked it for prints, too.”

  The good doctor was becoming visibly perturbed. “You’re right.”

  “Did you find Leeman’s fingerprints on it?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Where were the prints?”

  “Where would you expect? On the grip. The handle.”

  “So,” Ben said, “the prints were consistent with the possibility that Leeman tried to remove the club after she had been murdered.”

  “Objection!” Bullock said. “Calls for speculation.”

  “No I didn’t,” Ben said quickly, before Hawkins could rule against him. He’d seen this coming and chosen his words carefully. “I asked if the evidence was consistent with a particular hypothetical scenario. That’s a permissible line of inquiry with an expert witness.”

  Hawkins grudgingly overruled the objection. “The witness will answer.”

  “I’ll repeat,” Ben said. “Is the fingerprint evidence consistent with the possibility that Leeman tried to remove the club from the woman’s neck?”

  “The evidence is consistent,” Paglino said, “with the theory that the defendant held the club by the grip when he rammed it through the victim’s throat.”

  “That wasn’t my question,” Ben said calmly. “Stop trying to ram the prosecution’s conjectures down the jury’s throat. Just tell them what the evidence is.”

  “We found distinct fingerprints on the club grip. The defendant clearly held it tightly.”

  “But there’s no way you can tell from the prints why he held it.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. Now, you said you found Leeman’s prints all over the victim’s upper body.”

  “That’s true. It would be difficult to thrust in the club without impacting to some degree on the body.”

  “Doctor, wouldn’t these prints also be consistent with a simple hug?”

  Paglino paused. “Did you see any of the pictures taken of that woman at the crime scene?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Ben replied. “We all did.”

  Paglino nodded. “I wouldn’t have hugged a body in that condition. I don’t think anyone would.”

  “Maybe the hug occurred before the murder,” Ben suggested.

  “Maybe it did,” Paglino replied. “Maybe she didn’t like it. Maybe he wouldn’t stop. Maybe that’s why he killed her.”

  Damn. Just when he seemed to be on the verge of making a dent in their case, he played right into Bullock’s sex pervert theory. “You don’t know for a fact that that’s what happened, do you, Doctor?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then why do you keep suggesting events to the jury that are not supported by your evidence?”

  “I’m just answering your questions.”

  “You’re just saying exactly what your boss told you to say. Right, Doctor?”

  “Objection!” Bullock shouted. “This is grossly offensive!”

  “I agree,” Judge Hawkins said. “Consider yourself warned, counsel. Another outburst like that and you’ll be in contempt. Do you have any more questions of this witness?”

  “No,” Ben said quietly. Threaten me all you like, Hawkins. I made my point. And some of the jurors may have been listening. “That’s all.”

  “Anything more from the prosecution?” the judge asked.

  “Just one more witness,” Bullock answered. “The witness we’ve all been waiting for. The State calls Detective Theodore Bickley to the stand. And,” he added, “we instruct the witness to bring his videotape with him.”

  59

  WHILE THE WITNESS MOVED to the front of the courtroom, the bailiff set up the television and VCR and positioned them so the jury could watch.

  Lieutenant Bickley cou
ld’ve been Paglino’s brother—the one who couldn’t get into medical school. He was short, compact, wiry, aggressive. Overcompensating, according to Mike. Mike rarely spoke ill of another police officer, and this was no exception, but Ben still had the distinct impression Bickley was not one of Mike’s favorites.

  After the witness’s background and credentials were established, Bullock asked Bickley to recall the night of the murder ten years before.

  “Why were you at the crime scene, Detective?”

  “When Sergeant Tompkins radioed in, he indicated that he had discovered a homicide. I was the homicide detective on call that night.”

  “What did you do when you arrived?”

  “First, I conferred with the officers on the scene—Tompkins, Sandstrom, and Morelli. Then I inspected the crime scene. I carefully completed a search of the building and the surrounding grounds.”

  “Did you interrogate Leeman Hayes?”

  “I tried. He was cuffed to the door when I arrived. I read him his rights again, then asked him what happened. He didn’t respond.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Well, I realized this case was going to require special attention, so I finished the physical investigation and postponed the questioning for a more formal environment, after I’d had a chance to consult with specialists in … difficult witnesses.”

  “When did you resume the questioning?”

  “The next day. About twelve hours later.”

  “Is there a record of this interrogation?”

  “Yes. A videotape.”

  “Was it common procedure to tape interrogations ten years ago?”

  “No. Matter of fact, we had only obtained the video equipment a few weeks before. The reason I thought to use it in this case was, well, the defendant was not answering our questions verbally, but in some instances, he seemed to be … acting out his answers.”

  “You mean, in sign language.”

  “No. I don’t think he knew sign language. It was more like … pantomime.”

  “You’re saying the defendant was … a mime?”

  Ben frowned. Cheap shot, Bullock.

  “It’s hard to explain,” Bickley said. “I can probably explain it better if I can show me tape.”

  “The tape would assist you in delivering your testimony to the jury?”

  “Definitely.”