Dead River

by Fredric M. Ham

  Vetter went back to business, thumbing through the papers that were now strewn about. Finally he called his assistant and whispered something in her ear. She reached down and handed him a stapled stack of papers. The assistant smiled and returned to her seat in front of the judge’s stand. Vetter mumbled something and then cleared his throat.

  “The grand jury hearing for this case is scheduled for December 6, at 1:00 pm.” Vetter immediately raised himself up and carefully managed the five steps down to the floor. He disappeared through the pecan door.

  73

  EARLY TUESDAY MORNING, the day after the preliminary hearing, accused and attorney sat across the table from each other in the now-familiar light-green room in the county jail. Harley explained to Sikes the State would respond to his motion for pretrial discovery next week. They should also find out about the DNA test results soon. But for now, he wanted to talk to Sikes about another matter.

  “Son, do you remember me telling you that the police have the killer’s voice recorded?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I found out some more details. Apparently the voice was distorted, probably using an electronic device. In spite of this, there are two witnesses that say they recognized the voice.”

  Sikes didn’t speak, lowering his eyes and staring at the tabletop.

  “They both said it was yours.”

  Sikes snapped his head upward, his eyes filling with fire. “What!” He clutched his shackled hands and brought them down hard, smashing them into the tabletop several times.

  “Settle down, son.”

  “That—is—not—my —voice,” Sikes said, his eyes still fiery.

  “Okay, okay. Let me finish.”

  Harley cleared his throat and observed his client, not liking what he saw.

  “First of all, without more evidence than the testimony of two people that think they hear your voice on those tapes, they really don’t have much. But you need to tell me something.” Harley paused a few seconds then asked his question. “Did you ever call the Riley house?”

  This sent Sikes into another fit of rage, smashing his fists on the table. “No! I never called their house!” he shouted. “Damn it, who are these people that think it’s me? They’re lying!”

  “Stop hitting the table. They’re going to throw me out of here.”

  Harley twisted around to check the door. It was still closed. He turned back to Sikes and wagged a finger in his direction.

  “It doesn’t matter who they are,” Harley lectured.

  “It does to me.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Right now this isn’t that important. Why do you think it wasn’t brought up yesterday during the preliminary hearing?”

  “Why are you asking me? You’re the expert.”

  Harley’s patience was wearing thin, but he lowered his voice. “Look, the state attorney didn’t want the witnesses to testify during the preliminary hearing because he knows their testimony would be, at best, shaky.”

  “Then why even bring this up?”

  “Because I think the state attorney has a trick up his sleeve.”

  “A trick?”

  “Yes, he’s asking for your voice to be recorded, and then he wants some analysis performed on it.”

  “What analysis?” Sikes stiffened in his chair. “Hey, they’re not taking more of my blood, are they?”

  Harley chuckled then caught himself. “No, no more blood. They want to record samples of your voice and try to match them to the distorted recordings they got from the wiretap.”

  “Now that sounds like trickery to me.”

  “I read something about this recently. I don’t understand the technical details, but apparently there’s a new voice signal analysis technique that’s been developed for this purpose. Apparently they can take the recording of someone’s voice that’s been distorted and somehow recover the person’s actual voice.”

  “Trickery, that’s what it is. Can they record my voice without my permission?”

  “That’s where it gets interesting. On the surface it would appear so, just like they have the right to gather any other evidence, you know, like drawing your blood for DNA analysis —”

  “They’re not getting anymore of my blood!” Sikes interrupted.

  Harley’s eyes lowered as he shook his head, then he looked up again. “For God’s sakes, son, you don’t have to give more blood. So here’s the situation, I have my researchers looking into a legal precedent for this. Actually, the State may not have the right to record your voice without your permission. So without those results any testimony from their two witnesses would be essentially worthless.”

  “What’ll happen if they can record my voice?”

  “Then I’d prepare a defense that would discredit the evidence presented by their expert witness. We’d have our own expert, someone that could show the method is experimental and unreliable.”

  Walking to his car, Harley had an uneasy feeling about his client. He was convinced that Sikes was suffering from some psychological disorder. He was never sure which Sikes was going to emerge during their meetings. Maybe this would finally focus the legal defense strategy for his client. Maybe an insanity plea? Maybe insanity due to dissociative identity disorder?

  74

  MARK MASTERS looked much younger than his age. He was tall and thin, with neatly-trimmed short black hair. Masters was low-key and very articulate, but more importantly he was patient, diligent, and extremely resourceful. He didn’t fit the image of the typical private investigator. He tried to use this to his advantage, and it usually worked. Especially this time.

  Harley walked into the firm’s small conference room, two doors down from his office, at precisely four o’clock for their scheduled meeting. Masters sat at the large mahogany table, looking through several uneven stacks of papers and photographs.

  “Mark.”

  “Hi, Harley.”

  Harley plopped into the chair next to Masters to view the material he’d laid out on the table.

  “What do you have for me?” Harley asked.

  “Well, it seems as though our not-so-assiduous forensic lab examiner, Mr. Sam Weber, may be in serious trouble.”

  Harley’s eyes lit up. He knew something good was coming.

  “Go on,” Harley said.

  “When I found out about the hair samples that were analyzed at the FDLE lab in Orlando, I started checking out the examiner that did the analysis, Weber. As you know, there was supposed to be a comparison made of the hair samples found at the McCarthy house with the hair strands taken from the Riley girl provided by the medical examiner.”

  As usual, Masters was operating on the level of microscopic detail. “Yes, I know, Mark,” Harley said patiently. “So what happened?”

  “Well, initially I didn’t turn up anything on Weber. But then something happened. You’re going to love this. Sam Weber didn’t do the analysis. He faked the report.”

  “What?” Harley asked in astonishment. “So the report he wrote and submitted into evidence against our client is a fake?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But why would he do that?”

  “Backlogs and alcohol are two answers, plain and simple.”

  Harley was amazed. This is truly incredible. He suddenly popped up out of his chair and, in an uncharacteristic fashion, danced a quick, graceless jig in front of Masters, the buttons on his vest tightening with each gyration. Masters grinned. As quickly as Harley started, he stopped and fell into his chair.

  “How did you find this out?” inquired Harley, slightly out of breath.

  “Remember, Harley, I’m your super sleuth,” Masters said with a wink and a grin.

  Harley shivered with anticipation. He couldn’t wait to hear the details. “So Sam Weber has a drinking problem?”

  “Does he ever. One of my paid informants told me he overheard a conversation in a bar in Orlando one night. All he could pick up was Weber telling a man about the Riley girl’s murder and that
he did some lab analysis for the case. Apparently someone cranked up the jukebox and my informant couldn’t hear any more of the conversation. But he did recognize the man Weber was talking to.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Garrett Townsend. He’s a low-life, small-time drug dealer. He sells some pot and occasionally pushes designer drugs like GHB, ketamine, roofies, and ecstasy. So I tailed him for a while, watched him sell some drugs, and finally had an opportunity to have a drink with him.”

  “Let me guess, at the same bar?”

  “You got it. We sat and talked for a while. Then I asked him if he knew Weber. I got the standard, ‘I don’t know who the fuck you’re talkin’ ’bout.’ Now he’s pissed off because he thinks I’m a cop.”

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “I told him the truth. I said I was a private investigator, and I wanted to know more about what Sam Weber told him that night at the bar.”

  “Let me guess again, he told you to go fuck yourself.”

  “Right again, boss.”

  “So how’d you get the information?”

  “I proceeded to give him dates and times of some of his drug deals on the streets. Descriptions of his clients and the cars they drove, and license plate numbers. I didn’t have to say any more. He opened right up.”

  “So what did Sam Weber tell him about why he falsified the report?”

  “First of all, according to Garrett Townsend, Weber is a heavy drinker but can hide it fairly well, especially at work. The night Weber was called in to do the lab analysis on the hair samples, he did what he’s been doing for quite a while.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He reads the police reports to get the information he needs to write up his lab report, always in favor of the police.”

  “I still don’t see why he would falsify the report. Why not just do the analysis?”

  “Because this is what he’s accustomed to doing: read the police reports and write up his findings to support the police.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I found out he worked in the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Forensic Lab before he moved to Florida a few years ago. They were so backlogged in LA that the lab examiners started falsifying reports to get caught up. He happened to leave just before the scandal was uncovered. So he’s used to operating this way.”

  “Holy shit, Mark! This is like gold!”

  “I know. Let me finish.”

  “Sure.”

  “As you know, that night, Doug Goldman drove to Orlando and met Detective Wilkerson from Cocoa Beach at the FDLE Lab to have the hair samples analyzed.”

  “And?”

  “Then Sam Weber took the samples and told them it would take a few hours to do the analysis. Both Goldman and the detective left the lab and went home. After they departed, Weber immediately wrote up the report and slept for about two and a half hours. When he woke up, he called Goldman to let him know the quote-unquote lab analysis results of the hair samples were completed and the report was ready.”

  “So no one would have known the difference if Weber hadn’t gotten drunk and bragged about it to Townsend at the bar.”

  “Who knows? Maybe not.”

  “Amazing.”

  “Check this out. Weber also told Townsend that night in the bar that David Sikes obviously killed the Riley girl, so he wrote up his report accordingly.”

  “Do you think this Townsend guy will cooperate as a witness if we need him to testify about what Weber told him?”

  “I believe he will.”

  “Well, if he doesn’t, we can always subpoena him.”

  “Sure can, but I think he’ll be cooperative. I told him if he wasn’t, his street business would be in jeopardy.”

  “Didn’t he ask what would prevent you from turning him in after he testifies?”

  “Sure he did, but I put his mind to ease.”

  “How?”

  “I told him it would be difficult to get street information if he were sitting in jail.”

  “You never cease to amaze me. But watch yourself, okay?”

  “Don’t worry about me.”

  75

  THE RESPONSE to Harley’s discovery motion was received the following Friday morning. As expected, it contained nothing surprising, with one exception. There wasn’t a DNA report. The only indication of DNA in the summary was No Results Available. Harley concluded the results were probably negative, which was news almost as good as Sam Weber’s faked analysis. Everything seemed to be going in Harley’s favor. Maybe an insanity plea wouldn’t be necessary.

  Under normal circumstances a defense attorney would speak directly to the prosecutor concerning questionable evidence against a client, especially evidence that may have been fabricated or falsified. However, given the long-standing bad blood between Buckwald and Jacobson, a gentlemanly meeting of the minds regarding Sam Weber’s unscrupulous practices was out of the question.

  Harley scheduled an afternoon meeting with one of his partners, George Allison, to discuss the problem. If the situation wasn’t handled properly, there could be more harm done than good. Allison also knew Owen Jacobson and had an equally bitter relationship with him. But more importantly, Allison knew Judge Vetter. He knew the judge very well; they had attended law school together at Duke University.

  That Friday afternoon, Harley met with George Allison in the firm’s spacious main conference room. The large mahogany table in the room sat on thick, oyster berber carpet and was bordered by ten matching chairs. The cloth-covered walls were tastefully furnished with replica prints of Monet, Pissarro, and Renoir. A late-renaissance Spanish credenza hugged the back wall, supporting the standard law-firm baubles.

  Harley was anxious to hear George’s thoughts on the falsified report.

  “Are you serious?” Allison asked.

  “This will bust the case wide open and probably get us a dismissal,” Harley said. “However, we have to handle it very carefully.”

  “I agree. We both know you can’t go directly to Jacobson. That’s not an option, at least not right away. Any thoughts on what to do with this, this gift that’s fallen into your lap?”

  Harley leaned back in his chair. “I’ve considered a couple of options, but I wanted to run them by you first. See what you think.”

  “Sure. Fire away.”

  “Well, since you have a close relationship with Warren Vetter, I was considering having you approach him privately to discuss the matter. You could tell him what we have, let him decide what the next step should be. The only problem with that is he has a track record of siding with Jacobson, so it could backfire on us.”

  “You’re right. In fact, he may have a closer relationship with Jacobson than he does with me. We haven’t seen each other socially for quite a while. On the other hand, Warren and Jacobson have been very close for the past couple of years.”

  “Do you think their chummy relationship is related to the rumor that Jacobson has political aspirations? That he may be running for state attorney general?”

  “I think that’s exactly it. So that option’s out. What’s your other plan?”

  Harley leaned forward, planting his elbows on the mahogany table, and locking his fingers. “Let’s get someone from outside the firm to expose the lab scandal.”

  Allison reared back in his chair and clapped his hands together once. A smile formed on his face. “I love it. Go on.”

  “After the scandal breaks, we’ll file a motion for suppression of evidence, and at the same time we’ll also file a motion for dismissal of the charges against Sikes. The judge will have to throw out the hair analysis evidence for sure. Without that, the State really doesn’t have a case.”

  “Is there any other significant evidence?”

  “We haven’t seen any positive DNA results, and I doubt we will. But there are three concerns that we need to discuss. The first one is the prosecution’s witnesses, the McCarthys, who claim a voice on some audio tapes is Sikes. But I can tear th
at apart in court.”

  Harley showed Allison the State’s witness list with Joe and Sally McCarthy’s names. He detailed how the tapes were obtained and how the caller distorted his voice. Then he went on to describe his plan for discrediting any expert witness the State would bring into court.

  “I agree, Harley. How did the McCarthys get into the picture?”

  “They’re linked to the second concern.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s the note the Riley girl wrote, her Last Will and Testament.”

  “Her Last Will and Testament?” Allison asked.

  “Yes. She was probably forced to write a two-page letter that was mailed to the Rileys. The FBI lab in Quantico didn’t find any fingerprints, other than the girl’s.”

  “How was the envelope sealed, was it self-sealing?”

  “No, it was a regular lick-and-stick envelope, but no saliva was found. However, they did find something.”

  “So this gets better?”

  “Oh yeah. On the first page was a partial imprint of a phone number. So some detectives down at C.I.D. started calling all of the combinations of possible phone numbers and finally hit on one that gave them their lead. It was the son of the McCarthys. He’s attending Georgia Tech.”

  “Keep going.”

  “Sikes works for Joe McCarthy and was house sitting for them during the time of the kidnapping and murder of the Riley girl. That’s what led them to Sikes.”

  “So then the McCarthy’s were asked to listen to the tapes.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So let’s go over what our friend Jacobson has.” Allison counted on his fingers. “There’s the hair sample analysis, but that will have to be thrown out. There are the audio tapes, but I agree they won’t be a factor. You mentioned the DNA results will probably come back negative. So the only piece of evidence that’s even remotely significant is the phone number imprinted on the letter the Riley girl wrote.”