Trial by Blood

by William Bernhardt

  “How long would that take?”

  “Maybe fifteen, sixteen hours.”

  “The killer stayed that long?”

  “Or left and came back. I can’t say. The process would leave a green, or possibly brown residue that we didn’t observe in the tub, though we later detected a little of it chemically. Presumably the killer drained the tub and washed away the residue. The only remains would be a bleached powder. You could crush it in your fist. Pound it to dust.”

  “Did you find any of this dust?”

  “Yes. Scattered traces in the tub. The final remains of Harrison Coleman.”

  Dan watched the jurors’ reactions. They were repulsed by the thought.

  “Have you heard of anyone doing this before?”

  “Yes. It’s based on alkaline hydrolysis. Sometimes used in mortuaries and other places. But I’ve never seen it used by a private citizen to eliminate traces of a crime.”

  “No more questions. Mr. Pike?”

  He didn’t particularly want to cross and prolong the jurors’ exposure to this subject, but a few questions needed to be asked. “Did you find any chemical traces on the syringe?”

  “Yes. Ketamine.”

  Which apparently everyone had. Ketamine had been used in Camila’s case as well. “What is that?”

  “A tranquilizer. Can be used as a painkiller or anesthetic. Or in excessive doses, a paralyzing poison.”

  “How quickly would it take effect?”

  “Almost immediately. At first, the victim wouldn’t be able to move. Death would follow.”

  “Painless?”

  “Far from it. The victim would feel as if he were burning alive from the inside out. He might not be able to move, but he would feel it, just the same. And once the body was immobilized—the killer would be able to do anything with him he wanted. Like place him in the bathtub. And chemically destroy his body. While he was still—”

  “Please just answer the question. We don’t need any embellishment.” He changed the subject. “Were you present when Quint brought the syringe to the police station?”

  “No, I was in my lab.”

  “Did anyone else have contact with the syringe before you did?”

  “Or course. Many people. The admitting officer, the lead detective. My assistant. And of course, the killer.”

  “You don’t know for a fact that the killer used the syringe, do you?”

  “I found traces of—”

  “But many people had contact with that syringe before you did, right? Like police officers?”

  “True.”

  “Objection,” Kilpatrick said. “Relevance.”

  Seriously? “I’m demonstrating that there is significant reason to doubt the story the prosecution is feeding the jury.”

  “Doubt?” Judge Smulders blinked. “That’s important, right?”

  “Very important, your honor. The defense is all about the doubt.”

  Smulders shrugged. “Then I guess I’ll have to allow this one.”

  “Thank you, your honor. No more questions.”

  Chapter 39

  Dan felt he’d done a decent job so far of reminding the jury that there were lots of possibilities and that no evidence pointed with absolute certainty toward Ossie.

  The key words being, so far. If he could deal with the remaining evidence as effectively, they might stand a chance.

  During the break between witnesses, he contemplated ditching his cane. He felt much sturdier. Maybe that was buoyancy emanating from a cross that went well—and maybe that was completely delusional—but he felt he could survive without it. His ribs still hurt like the blazes, but the cane wasn’t helping with that, and he worried that the jury might suspect the cane was some sort of sympathy play. He decided to tentatively try crossing the next witness without it. He’d stay close to the table, just in case.

  He noticed more of the Coleman clan sneaking into the courtroom during the break. Phil joined his father and Benny, though he didn’t look like he wanted to be there. He wondered how anyone who had done two tours of duty in Afghanistan could stand Dolly’s attempts to tell everyone around her what to do.

  Before he looked away, Dolly motioned for him. Her version of a royal summons, he supposed.

  He approached cautiously. “If you’ve come to see Ossie on the stand, you’re early.”

  “No,” Dolly said, “we’ve already heard his sad story. It won’t be improved by the witness stand.”

  “Then what brings you here?”

  “May I remind you, Mr. Pike, that this trial concerns the violent death of a member of our family? We are very determined to see that justice is done.”

  “And a potential threat to your inheritance is eliminated.”

  She drew herself up. “Justice, Mr. Pike. Perhaps you’ve heard of the concept.”

  “Just didn’t know you were all that fond of Harrison.”

  “I loved that boy,” Zachary Coleman said, cutting in. “Can’t believe he’s gone. Losing two sons...” He shook his drooping head. “It’s too much. Too much.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest—”

  “Everyone I love disappears,” Zachary muttered.

  “Not true, Papa.” Dolly patted him on the shoulder. “You’ve still got Benny and me. We will not desert you.”

  Zachary looked at her but said nothing.

  He tried to think of something to break the silence. “I’m afraid you haven’t picked the most exciting day to attend. Primarily technical and forensic witnesses today.”

  To his surprise, Benny spoke. “I like tech. Thought about being a research scientist when I was younger.”

  He tried not to appear skeptical. “Indeed.”

  “Yes,” Dolly murmured. “Till he discovered that it required intelligence.”

  Benny chuckled. “My wife is such a kidder.”

  “When he learned that,” she continued, “Benny decided a better choice might be managing his father’s estate. Since it doesn’t actually require him to do anything—”

  “I have to—”

  “—that a child couldn’t do.”

  He decided to make a hasty retreat to the defense table. These people were a thousand times nastier than the trial was likely to get.

  Kilpatrick called a few more necessary if unexciting witnesses. A toxicologist to provide more information about the poison on the syringe. The lieutenant who was the first to arrive at the crime scene. Zachary Coleman wheeled to the front of the courtroom and testified about his net worth. None of it was in question—presumably Kilpatrick wanted to create a motive.

  He didn’t even cross. He’d save his ammunition for when it could really do some damage.

  After the mid-afternoon break, Kilpatrick called the St. Pete PD’s expert on dactylograms—fingerprints—to the stand. Dr. Brenda Palmer had testified on many previous occasions in a calm and matter-of-fact manner. Wire-rimmed spectacles. Small scar beneath her left ear. About a size six.

  Fingerprint evidence wasn’t nearly as certain as people thought it was from watching television, which he had gone to great lengths to prove last time he saw Palmer on the stand. He had a hunch that this time she would be much more careful about what she said.

  Kilpatrick spent about five minutes establishing her credentials, then brought the witness’ attention to the syringe, specifically, a three-quarter thumbprint found at the base of the syringe plunger.

  “Could you describe the print in question?”

  “Certainly. I found a near-full ten-point ridge match between the print taken from the syringe and the prints taken from the defendant after his arrest.”

  “Can you put that in layman’s terms?”

  “Sure. You probably already know that everyone’s fingers have ridges on them, and the ridges vary significantly from one person to the next.” He noticed that Palmer did not claim, as she had on previous occasions, that everyone’s fingerprints were different. That was an old cliché that had never b
een proven, and he demonstrated during a previous trial that it was possible for prints from two different people to look quite similar, especially when only viewing a partial print. As here. “Our natural body oil causes an impression of those ridges to be left on a flat adhesive surface when touched. We have a system for reading those prints at strategic points. That’s how we determine whether there’s a match.”

  “And was there a match in this case?”

  “There was. The print on the syringe matches the prints from the defendant.”

  “Any room for error?”

  “No. The match is clear.”

  “Thank you. Pass the witness.”

  Was it his imagination that the witness tensed when she saw him approach? Had prior experience left her apprehensive? He’d like to think so. Better than thinking she was holding back laughter because he looked so silly trying to inch forward without his cane.

  “You mentioned that you found a ten-point match, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “But the system you and most fingerprint analysts use to compare prints has twelve points, doesn’t it?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “So two of the points didn’t match?”

  “Two of the points weren’t present. As I said, this was a partial print.”

  “Since you didn’t have all twelve points, the reliability of the match decreases significantly, wouldn’t you say?”

  “No, I would disagree with that statement. For the ten points available, the match is strong.”

  “But the fact that you don’t have all twelve points increases the chance that you may have a false positive, right? That the two prints could be similar, but not identical.”

  “I find that highly—”

  “In fact, doesn’t the International Association of Crime Analysis advise against even offering an opinion on prints when you don’t have twelve points?”

  Her shoulders rose. “That organization tends to be rather conservative.”

  “It’s the organization that lays out the ethical rules for your profession.”

  “Guidelines, not rules.”

  “And you’re violating those guidelines by testifying.”

  She craned her neck. “I make my own judgments about when it’s appropriate to testify, on a case-by-case basis. In this instance, I felt that the commonality on the ten points we had was sufficient to merit offering a professional opinion.”

  He took a step closer. “Did the DA weigh in on that decision?”

  “I’m...not sure what you mean.”

  “The District Attorney very much wanted you to take the stand against my client, didn’t he?”

  “I would assume the prosecutor always wants his staff—”

  “No, it’s more than that. He told you he wanted you to testify. Am I correct?”

  She hesitated before answering. “I...did have a conversation with the District Attorney about this case.”

  “And he instructed you to testify.”

  “He told me he hoped I could support the strong case they were building.”

  “And you did what he wanted. Even though it put you in conflict with the professional guidelines of your profession.” He pivoted toward the jury box. “Once again, we see that the law enforcement community was intimately involved and extremely determined to build a case against my client.”

  “Objection,” Kilpatrick said. “That’s not a question. More like a summation.”

  “I’ll withdraw it.” Since the jury had already heard it. He plowed ahead. “When did you receive the syringe?”

  Palmer glanced at her report, then announced the date.

  “That was four days after it was recovered. Four days after my client was arrested.”

  “I believe that is correct.”

  “Do you know where the syringe was during those four days?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know who had possession?”

  “No. But we have strict chain-of-custody procedures at the department. We make sure everything is handled properly.”

  “I’ve already heard enough to call that statement into question. And of course, if the police are the ones behind the frame, putting the syringe in their custody is no protection at all.”

  “Objection,” Kilpatrick said. He was becoming visibly incensed.

  “I’ll withdraw. But you will acknowledge, Dr. Palmer, that if a member of the police force wanted to get at that syringe during this four-day period, they probably could’ve managed it?”

  She squirmed. “Possibly...”

  “Probably. And they fingerprinted my client almost immediately after he was arrested, didn’t they?”

  “That is standard procedure.”

  “So someone could have reproduced that thumbprint from the exemplar taken from Ossie. Could’ve pressed it onto the base of the syringe.”

  “Objection,” Kilpatrick said. “There is no evidence—”

  This time he stood his ground. “I didn’t ask the witness if it happened. I asked if it was scientifically possible.”

  “Then—he’s calling for speculation.”

  “Which I can do, given that this is the cross-examination of an expert witness. You are capable of offering an opinion as to whether a fingerprint could be reproduced on another surface in four days’ time, aren’t you, Dr. Palmer?”

  Despite the pending objection, she answered. “Yes. It could be done. It’s essentially what we do in the lab to run our tests. We don’t tamper with the original. We copy the print to a surface we can safely run through analysis.”

  “Are you the only person on earth who knows how to do that?”

  “Of course not.”

  “My point exactly. Thank you. No more questions.”

  Chapter 40

  After a brief team meeting, Dan returned to his boat. He thought he’d had a good day in court, but he also knew this was an uphill battle. Regardless of what the judge told the jurors, he did have a burden of proof—the burden of convincing the jury that everything the prosecution said was wrong. So far, he had batted down most of the evidence, but it was about to get much worse, and at some point, jurors start to think that where there is so much smoke, there must be fire.

  Tomorrow he would have to confront the man who put his father in prison. Just the thought made him sick. Made him want to rip the man’s head off. But in the courtroom, he had to stay calm and do his job. Even when it was tearing him apart.

  He’d felt bad all afternoon. He was probably working too hard, too soon. He’d felt a sharp tremor rip through his body the second he approached the boat. The sight brought back too many memories. The three men. The little bastard with the tire iron. How they had...damaged him. Violated him. How they took him apart piece by piece.

  Maybe that was the real reason he came back here alone. He had to prove to himself that he still could.

  Mr. K had security everywhere, of course. Several security officers watching the boat, the courthouse, plus plainclothes officers dogging his footsteps. He didn’t know who they were. Mr. K thought it best they remained undercover, unknown even to the man they were protecting. Camila had offered to come over tonight, but he turned her down, claiming he had too much work to be a good boyfriend.

  He didn’t need a babysitter. This was who he was and what he did, right?

  But anxiety still clutched at his chest. His fight or flight instinct told him to run—but for some reason he didn’t listen.

  He’d like to call that bravery. But he suspected it was just stubbornness. Possibly stupidity.

  He knew he wouldn’t sleep much tonight, not that he ever did while a trial was in progress. He’d spend the night rehearsing witness examinations, strategizing, trying to solve the deepening mystery of Ossie Coleman, who he was and why so many people were out to get him.

  And trying to convince himself that he was not scared. Even though he knew better.

  * * *

  When he entered the courtroom the next d
ay, he spotted Bradley Ellison in the gallery, ready to roll. He nodded politely but kept walking, suppressing his thoughts. You’ve already ruined one man’s life. Now you’re gunning for someone else.

  A few minutes later, Kilpatrick called his next witness.

  Terry Dodgson was the hiker who first stumbled onto the now-famous cabin in the wilderness with the yellow triangle. Lean, wiry. Big bushy beard. Unkempt hair. Red ring on his right hand. Good that Dodgson preferred the great outdoors, because his social skills, not to mention grooming skills, were not highly advanced. He looked hardy and earnest, but no one you’d hire to run your corporation.

  Dodgson explained that he loved the Florida outback. He hiked almost every day. He made a living, if that was the word, by contributing articles to an online outdoor-adventures website. He lived in a house his father had left him. He didn’t shop, didn’t have a wife, and didn’t have children—so his needs were relatively small.

  “I couldn’t believe it,” Dodgson said. “I’d hiked all over this area. Slow going. Lots of brush, no trails, no roads. Never saw another person. Much less a cabin.”

  “What did you do when you found it?”

  “At first, nothing. Didn’t want to intrude. Anybody who went to the trouble of building something way out there clearly did not want company. Then I noticed the triangle.”

  “The yellow triangle on the gable?”

  “Right. I read the news online every morning. Helps me get ideas for things I might write about. So I knew about Ossie Coleman, the kid with no memory of the last fourteen years except a cabin with a yellow triangle.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “I waited outside for a while. Didn’t see anyone. I slowly walked to the front porch. No windows. I knocked on the door. No one answered. The door was open slightly.”

  “And then?”

  “I stepped inside. And saw the corpse. The old man on the floor. Smelled him, too. I think he’d been there a long time.”

  “And then?”

  “I decided it was time to call in the professionals. But it took two hours just to get to a cell signal, and two more hours before I met the police officers.”