Guilt

by John Lescroart

  'Doctor,' Farrell began. 'On Friday, you testified that you lost a vial of blood from your office on May thirty-first. Have you ever located that vial of blood?'

  'No.'

  'In other words, it's lost.'

  'That's right.'

  'How did you discover it was lost?'

  'It didn't come back from the lab when it was supposed to.'

  'Oh!' Farrell was intrigued.'This blood then, was it supposed to go to a lab from your office?'

  'Yes. We send our blood work out to the Pacheco Clinic where they've got a lab facility.'

  'Is the Pacheco Clinic far from your office?'

  'No. A mile, maybe a little more.'

  'All right, then. Now, Doctor, how do they keep track of the blood they work on in this lab?'

  'We have a requisition slip that we attach to the vials with tape. Then they fill in a report form for results.'

  'Let's back up a minute, shall we? You attach your requisition slip to these vials with tape?'

  'Yes.'

  'What kind of tape?'

  'Regular Scotch tape.'

  'Scotch tape on glass vials. Hmm. Is that sticky enough, Doctor? Does the tape ever come off?'

  'If the vial gets wet, sometimes, yes.'

  'All right. Did you discover that this missing vial of blood – Leo Banderas's blood – never got to Pacheco lab because it wasn't logged in? Was that it?'

  'No, not exactly. They're not logged in as such.'

  'So you don't know whether this vial of blood ever got to the Pacheco lab?'

  'No, I don't know.'

  'It could have been delivered there and lost there, isn't that true?'

  Jenkins objected to the question as speculation, and she was sustained, but Farrell thought he'd made his point anyway. He decided to move along. He turned to the jury and gave them a relaxed smile.

  'Dr Harris, you testified that you'd lost other vials of blood from your office, is that true?'

  'Yes.'

  'Many of them?'

  Harris thought a minute. 'Over the years, say three or four.'

  'Three or four? Has it ever happened, to your knowledge, that someone has dropped a vial of blood?'

  'Yes.'

  'Is this something – dropping a vial of blood – that could get someone fired if it happened a lot?'

  'Possibly.'

  'Your honor, objection! Speculation.'

  Again Thomasino sustained Jenkins, and again Farrell didn't care. He was putting points on the board.

  'Dr Harris, did you have the opportunity to review the lab report that Mr Drumm signed?'

  'Yes, I did.'

  'And the blood in the second vial, was it the blood of your patient, Leo Banderas?'

  'I don't know. There was no way to tell.'

  'But the blood in the vial was A-positive, was it not?'

  'Yes. But there was nothing to compare it with. Mr Banderas died several months ago and was cremated. There's no trace of his DNA left.'

  'So you're saying, Doctor, that there's no way to tell if the blood in the second vial belonged to Mr Banderas or not, is that right?'

  'Yes, that's right.'

  'Then there is no particular reason to believe that the blood in the second vial, the blood found at the crime scene, had ever been in your office, is there?'

  'No.'

  In his free time over the weekend, when he wasn't chatting with Dr Harris – and amid all different kinds of soul-searching regarding Diane Price – Farrell had tried intermittently to focus on Abe Glitsky. He wished he'd had better luck formulating a plan, because the Lieutenant was in the witness box now and Farrell was approaching him and didn't know what he was going to say. Glitsky's testimony, easily delivered over two hours with Amanda Jenkins leading him every step of the way, had done some damage. This was in large part due to Glitsky's air of authority on the stand – if he had come to suspect Mark Dooher, there had to be some reason. He was a professional cop with no particular ax to grind. In fact, he was the Head of Homicide. It looked to him as though the defendant was guilty. That's why he had delivered Dooher's case to the DA, and why the Grand Jury had indicted him.

  'Lieutenant, you've given us Mark Dooher's version of the events of June 7th, and then your own interpretation of those events, which led you to arrest him for the murder of his wife. For the benefit of the jury, can you tell us a specific instance of an untruth you uncovered in Mr Dooher's statement to you on the night of the murder?'

  'A great deal of it was untrue. That's what all these other witnesses are here to talk about.'

  'Yes. But do you have any proof you can show us that Mr Dooher lied? Say a credit-card receipt that proves he was really buying clothes downtown when he said he went to Dellaroma's Deli? Anything like that?'

  'I have statements of other witnesses,' Glitsky repeated.

  'And the jury will get to decide who they believe among those witnesses, Lieutenant. But to get back to my question – now for the third time – do you, personally, have something you can show us, or describe for us, that proves anything about Mark Dooher's actions on the night of the murder?'

  Glitsky kept his composure, wishing that Jenkins would object about something. The testimony of the other prosecution witnesses – taken together – would constitute proof, he hoped. But he didn't have a smoking gun, and Farrell was nailing him for it. 'I don't have a credit-card receipt, no.'

  'Isn't it true, Lieutenant, that you don't have anything that proves Mark Dooher told even one small lie?'

  'Not by itself, no.'

  'Not by itself or not at all? Do you have something specific, or don't you?'

  Farrell was going to squeeze it out of him. He glanced at Jenkins. Couldn't she call this speculation or leading the witness or something? Evidently not.

  'No.'

  But Farrell wasn't going to gloat over this minor victory. He simply nodded, satisfied, and took aim at his next target. 'Now, Lieutenant Glitsky, as the investigator in charge of this case, did you analyze the reports of the crime-scene investigator, Sergeant Crandall, and the lab reports on blood submitted by Mr Drumm?'

  'Yes, I did.'

  'And yet didn't you hear both of those gentlemen testify that they found no evidence tying Mark Dooher to the scene?'

  'No.'

  A look of surprise. There was some whispering in the gallery. A few of the jurors frowned and leaned forward in their seats. Farrell took a step towards him. 'You did not hear them say that?'

  'No, sir. That was a conclusion you drew.'

  This stopped Farrell cold. Glitsky had maneuvered him into a trap. Crandall's testimony – the knife, the fingerprints – did not preclude Dooher from being on the scene. Neither did Drumm's tainted blood.

  But two could play this game. They were going to do a little dance. 'Your honor,' Farrell said, 'would you please instruct the witness to answer only the questions I ask him?'

  The Judge did just that – a rebuke for the jury's benefit. See? Farrell was telling them, Lieutenant Glitsky doesn't play by the rules.

  Farrell inclined his head an inch. 'Lieutenant, did you hear Dr Strout identify the kitchen knife, People's Three, as the murder weapon?'

  'Yes.'

  'And did you hear Sergeant Crandall testify that the only fingerprints on the knife belonged to Mr and Mrs Dooher, and were entirely consistent with normal household use?'

  'Yes.'

  'And did you also hear Sergeant Crandall's testimony about the surgical glove found at the scene?'

  'Yes, I did.'

  'Well, then, Lieutenant, I must ask you. In your professional opinion, why did Mr Dooher wear this surgical glove if he knew – as he must have known – that his fingerprints were already all over the murder weapon?'

  'To point to a burglar.'

  'To point to a burglar?'

  As soon as he'd repeated Glitsky's answer, Farrell realized it was a critical mistake. Glitsky jumped on it before he could stop him. 'Without the glove there's no evid
ence of a burglar.'

  Farrell kept his poker face on, but these, suddenly, were bad cards. He couldn't let it rest here. 'And yet, Lieutenant, didn't Sergeant Crandall testify there were no fingerprints on the glove?'

  'Yes.'

  'There was absolutely nothing connecting this glove to Mr Dooher?'

  Glitsky had to concede it. 'That's right.'

  Farrell decided that wisdom dictated a shift of emphasis. This was where, Farrell knew, it was going to get serious in a hurry, and he took in a breath, slowing down, coming to a stop in the center of the courtroom. In the jury's eyes, here was a man wrestling with a moral dilemma.

  Finally, he turned back to Glitsky, having come to his difficult decision. 'Lieutenant, do you ever wear surgical gloves when you investigate a bloody crime scene?'

  Jenkins stood and objected, but Thomasino overruled her.

  The Lieutenant nodded. 'Yes.'

  Farrell saw no need to say more. He had larger prey in his sights. 'In the early portion of this year, and especially in the latter half of April, did you have occasion to spend a great deal of time in St Mary's Hospital?'

  Jenkins slammed a palm on the table and was up out of her chair. 'Your honor! I object. What does that question have to do with the death of Sheila Dooher?'

  But this time, Farrell wasn't going to wait meekly for a ruling. 'I'm afraid it has everything to do with it, your honor. Its relevance will become clear during my case. Either I make the point now or I'd like permission to re-call Lieutenant Glitsky at that time.'

  The Judge's eyes were invisible under his brows. He called a recess to see the attorneys in his chambers.

  Glitsky stayed in the witness box. There was no place else he wanted to go, anyway. No one he wanted to talk to.

  Across the courtroom, Dooher and Christina had their heads together, conferring in whispers, their body language so intimate it was embarrassing. He tried to imagine Dooher objectively in that moment – a middle-aged white male in the prime of his life. He kept himself fit. He looked good. And clearly, he could attract a beautiful younger woman.

  Studying him, Glitsky tried to imagine the moments of rage. Or had it been calm deliberation? How was it possible that none of it showed? And yet there was no visible sign, no way to see what Dooher had done except in what he'd inadvertently left behind.

  And yet Glitsky knew.

  Dooher looked up, perhaps feeling the long gaze on him. His eyes came to Glitsky for a fraction of an instant – flat, completely without reaction, as though Glitsky didn't exist – and then he was back in his conversation with Christina Carrera.

  In the gallery, the huge crowds from the pre-trial had slimmed somewhat with the judicial rulings on what issues were going to be allowed, but still, every seat appeared to be taken, although just at the moment a knot of reporters had congealed around the bar rail. They smelled a fresh kill coming, and Glitsky was afraid it was going to be him.

  'All right, Lieutenant. Do you remember the question I asked you, if you'd had occasion to spend a lot of time in St Mary's Hospital in the spring of this year, around the time of Sheila Dooher's murder?'

  A wary look. 'Yes.'

  'How many days?'

  'I don't know exactly. Thirty or forty.'

  Farrell was damned if he was going to ask why and get the sympathy flowing for what Glitsky had gone through. His wife had been dying of cancer. The jury didn't need to know that. For Farrell, this was a tough moment – personally he felt for Glitsky's grief. But so be it. He had to have the testimony.

  'Were you a patient or a visitor there, Lieutenant?'

  'A visitor.'

  'And during those thirty or forty days, were you ever near a nurse's station?'

  'Yes.'

  'Did you ever witness blood being drawn?'

  Glitsky knew where this was going, and cast a cold eye on Jenkins. But the attorneys must have slugged this one out in chambers. The cavalry was not on the way.

  'Yes.'

  'Do you remember ever seeing any vials of blood, sitting out on a tray, or a table, or at a nurse's station?'

  'Yes.'

  'And were these vials guarded in any way? Or under lock and key?'

  'No:

  'All right. Thank you, Lieutenant. That's all.'

  Lunch was a somber affair.

  A fierce, cold, wet storm had blown in off the Pacific while Glitsky had been on the stand during the morning, and Christina was standing at her window, watching the rain slanting down while her two companions sullenly finished their take-out Chinese.

  She'd flown down to Ojai on Saturday morning, back again last night. She'd needed to get some perspective, get out of the glare of all of this. To a degree, it had worked.

  But now the heaters had come on and smelled musty in the tiny room, and Mark and Wes still hadn't gotten back to the people they'd been before she'd kissed Mark on his doorstep.

  That kiss had changed Wes profoundly. In spite of his skills in the courtroom, he appeared more distracted with every passing day, more upset with her and, especially, with Mark.

  She wanted to shake Wes out of his doubts. She'd had her round of them on Friday, all about the blood. Glitsky's testimony had opened up another whole universe of possible explanations. Doubts had to be part of it – if the prosecution didn't have some decent facts, it wouldn't get cases past the Grand Jury. And hadn't Wes been the one who'd drilled into her the notion that the facts aren't as important as how you interpret them? Why couldn't he see that now?

  She knew what was bothering Wes. This case wasn't about the facts to him. It was about his confidence in Mark. And the kiss had undermined that.

  She turned from the window, about to say something, try to lighten things up, but just then the cop from the Hall knocked and said they were reconvening.

  Emil Balian had dressed well, in a conservative dark suit with a white shirt and rep tie. Amanda Jenkins had paid for his haircut, which eliminated the unruly shocks of white hair which normally emanated, Einstein-like, from the sides of his scalp. Most importantly, Glitsky thought, he'd shaved, or someone had shaved him. Abe thought, all in all, he looked pretty good – respectable, grave, old.

  Abe had met Balian on the day after the murder. With Paul Thieu, he'd gone back to the scene early in the afternoon and there was an elderly man in plaid shorts and Hawaiian shirt standing in the driveway. 'Saw all about it on the television,' he said without preamble as they'd gotten out of their car. 'You guys the cops?'

  Balian introduced himself, saying he lived a couple of blocks over on Casitas. So this was the place, huh? Too bad about the lady. He'd known her a little. He knew just about everybody, which was what happened when you walked as much as he did. You got to know people, stopping to chat while they worked on their gardens or brought in groceries or whatever.

  Emil worked for forty years as a mail carrier and just got in the habit of walking, plus he had a touch of phlebitis and he was supposed to stroll three or four miles a day, keep his circulation up.

  Balian wasn't shy. He talked incessantly, telling Glitsky and Thieu all about his life in the neighborhood. He bought into St Francis Wood back when a working man could afford a nice house. Eleanor, his wife, had a job, too – and this was in the days before women worked like they do now. They hadn't had any children, so pretty much had their pick of neighborhoods. Money wasn't much of a problem back then, not like it is now being on a fixed income.

  During this extended recital, Glitsky kept trying to back away, get to the house. He knew they were going to have to canvass the area sometime for witnesses anyway. He was reasonably certain that this old man was talking for the sheer pleasure of hearing himself talk.

  But it turned out better than that.

  Jenkins crossed the floor and came to rest a couple of feet in front of the witness box. 'Mr Balian,' she began, 'would you tell us what you did on the evening of June 7th of this year?'

  'I sure will. I had supper with my wife, Eleanor, at our home on Casit
as Avenue, and after supper, like I always do, I went out for a walk.'

  'And what time was this?'

  'It was just dusk, maybe a little before, say eight o'clock, thereabouts. We always eat at seven sharp, used to be six, but about ten years ago we went to seven. I don't know why, really, it just seemed more civilized or something. So it was seven.'

  'So to get the timing right, was it seven o'clock when you began dinner, but near eight when you started your walk?'

  'That's right.'

  'Was there any other way you could mark the time? Did you check your watch, anything like that?'

  'No, I don't usually wear a watch. In fact, I don't ever wear a watch. After I retired, I said what do I need a watch for anymore and threw the old thing in my drawer…'

  'Yes, well, was there any other…?'

  'The time. Sure. As I said, it was near dusk. When I left it was still light out and when I got back home, maybe an hour later, it was dark. While I was out, the street-lights came up, so that ought to pinpoint it.'

  'Yes, it would, thank you.'

  Jenkins turned back to where Glitsky sat at the prosecution table and he gave her a reassuring nod. The way Balian answered questions drove Amanda crazy, and she didn't want to lose patience with him. After all, he was her witness, the backbone of her case. She took a breath, turned and faced him again.

  'All right, Mr Balian. Now on this walk, did you happen to notice anything unusual?'

  'Yes, I did. There was a different car parked out in front of the Murrays'.'

  'A different car. What do you mean?'

  'I mean the Murrays don't own that car, or else they just bought it, so I wondered who it was might be visiting them, was how I come to notice it.'

  'Can you describe the car, Mr Balian?'

  'It was a late-model, light-brown Lexus with a personalized license plate that read ESKW.'

  Jenkins entered a photograph of Dooher's car into evidence. The vanity plate was meant to be sort of a humorous rendering of ESQ, for Esquire – Dooher's advertisement that he was a lawyer.