Silent Justice
Page 37
Colby was playing the devil’s advocate, although just as a means of leading Crenshaw in his attack on Rimland. “But we’ve been told about areas where there have been unusually high numbers of these cases. Including in Blackwood.”
“But that’s entirely consistent with the random distribution of cases over a large population. You have to bear in mind—we have over four hundred million people in this country. Even with a disease as rare as leukemia, it’s inevitable that some cases are going to occur close to one another. That doesn’t mean there’s been some tremendous outbreak. It’s just inherent in the nature of random distribution.”
“It doesn’t prove that the disease has been caused by some external agent?”
“No. Far from it. Think about it—if leukemia really was caused by something like the air or the water, wouldn’t you see a lot more cases than we do? Particularly in the contaminated areas? We keep hearing about the eleven cases of leukemia in Blackwood—what about the literally hundreds and thousands of people who drank the same water but did not get leukemia?”
Colby nodded, obviously pleased. “Well, Doctor, if it isn’t the water—what does cause leukemia?”
“Nobody knows. That’s the truth of the matter. We just don’t know. But we know this—it existed a long time before TCE or perc did. We don’t know what brings it to the surface, any more than we understand what causes other cancers—although most researchers are looking at genetic causes, rather than environmental ones.”
“In other words—you’re just born with it?”
“Born with it, or born with a genetic predisposition to develop it, yes.”
“Whose position would you say has more support in the medical and scientific community—yours, or Dr. Rimland’s?”
“Objection,” Ben said. “The question calls for hearsay.”
“No,” Colby rejoined, “the question calls for an expert to give an expert opinion regarding the state of research in a field within his realm of expertise.”
Judge Perry made a shrugging gesture. “I’ll allow it.”
Colby restated his question.
“The consensus of current medical opinion is dramatically in support of the position I just espoused—that we don’t know what causes leukemia, but it’s probably genetic, rather than environmental. Dr. Rimland’s position is … well … on the fringe, to say the least.”
Colby wouldn’t let it go at that. “He’s considered to be a nut, basically. Right?”
“Objection!” Ben said.
Perry nodded. “I’ll have to sustain that one.”
“I’ll withdraw it,” Colby said. “But Dr. Crenshaw, Rimland’s position has not been generally accepted, has it?”
“No. It certainly has not. Mind you, we would jump at any real evidence regarding the causation of leukemia. If we could figure out what causes it, we might be able to develop a cure, even a vaccine. But these unsupported fringe theories don’t help. To the contrary, they hurt, because they distract public opinion from the serious work that might potentially lead to a solution.”
“Thank you,” Colby said. “No more questions.”
Ben raced up to the podium. Crenshaw had raked his expert over like wheat in a thresher. He had to try to rehabilitate Rimland’s reputation if he hoped to prevail on the causation issue.
Get mad, he reminded himself. Get mad, and stay mad.
“Dr. Crenshaw, have you yourself performed any studies concerning the causes of leukemia?”
“No, I have not.”
“Dr. Rimland has. He’s been working on it for almost ten years.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“So he’s been working on it for a decade, and you haven’t worked on it at all. And yet, you want to tell this jury that you know more about it?”
“Sometimes it takes an outsider to reveal the flaws in scientific methodology. In this case, I think Dr. Rimland is much too close to his own work. He’s invested too much time in cancer clusters and chemical leukemogenesis to admit that his work is basically a flawed premise leading to a flawed and unsubstantiated conclusion.”
“Dr. Rimland’s studies conclusively link TCE and perc to leukemic growths.”
“In laboratory animals, even if you accept his methodology. Not humans.”
“Are you suggesting he should have injected humans with this toxic waste?”
Crenshaw looked at Ben dismissively. “Of course not. But you have to understand—animals are not like us. Not entirely, anyway. There is evidence that some cases of leukemia, or leukemic-emulating diseases, are transmitted virally. Lab rats have very different immune systems, different ways of processing disease. There is no parallel evidence with regard to humans.”
Was it Ben’s imagination, or had Crenshaw’s use of scientific jargon increased considerably now that he was being crossed? He was answering Ben’s questions—but in a way that would be virtually incomprehensible to much of the jury.
“Dr. Rimland is hardly the first medical researcher to use lab rats.”
“No.”
‘“Weren’t lab rats used extensively in tests of the new AIDS treatments?”
Crenshaw bowed his head slightly. “Yes, I believe that’s so.”
“And those treatments are now being used on humans, and have dramatically decreased the number of AIDS deaths.”
“That’s true. But the critical moment of discovery was when the treatments were used on humans. Until then, no one went around claiming they had solved the problem. And might I remind you—Dr. Rimland has not discovered a cure. All he has is a theory of causation—a theory he is entirely unable to prove with regard to Homo sapiens.”
Ben drew in his breath. He would never get anywhere with Crenshaw on this point. He might as well try something else. “Dr. Crenshaw, can you look this jury in the eye and tell them with absolute certainty that the tainted water did not cause the Blackwood leukemia outbreak?”
He shrugged the question away. “ ‘Absolute certainty’ is not a term used in the field of medical research.”
“Don’t duck my question, Doctor. The jury wants to know. Are you absolutely certain Dr. Rimland is wrong?”
“I find his conclusions entirely unsupported by convincing medical evidence.”
“Once again, you fail to answer my question.” Ben took a step forward. “Why is this so hard for you to answer, Doctor?”
“Because it’s a foolish question. As a scientist, I only accept conclusions based upon available evidence. Here, the evidence doesn’t exist.”
“I’m going to ask the question one more time, Doctor. Are you absolutely sure Dr. Rimland is wrong?”
Crenshaw was beginning to look a bit uncomfortable. He folded his arms across his chest. “I’ve already answered that question.”
“But you haven’t.”
His voice rose. “I’ve said what I have to say.”
Colby tried to bail his witness out. “Your honor, I object. Asked and answered.”
“But he hasn’t answered,” Ben replied. “And if he doesn’t, I think I know what conclusion the jury can draw from his silence.”
“Your honor!” Colby said. “That’s grossly improper.”
Perry nodded hastily. “Mr. Kincaid’s last remark will be stricken. I instruct the jury to ignore it.” He peered down at Ben. “Counsel, let’s move on to something else.”
“Fine. Let me ask you this, Dr. Crenshaw. What if he’s right?”
Crenshaw’s discomfort appeared to increase. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“What if he’s right? What if these poisons do cause cancer—and did in Blackwood?”
Colby jumped up. “Objection.”
Ben ignored him. “What if they do cause cancer and we don’t do anything about it—because you and others like you are more interested in collecting a corporate paycheck than in discovering the truth?”
“Your honor!” Colby repeated.
Judge Perry banged his gavel. “Mr. Kincaid!”
Ben plowed on ahead. “What if the guilty parties aren’t punished? What if this corporation—and others like it—go on taking the most profitable course—the one that kills children?”
Judge Perry continued banging. “I’m terminating this examination right now, Mr. Kincaid. Sit down!”
Mad, Ben told himself silently. Get mad and stay mad. “Because I think the truth is, you just don’t know, Dr. Crenshaw. You don’t have the answers, so you’re willing to say what the big corporation wants you to say. But if you’re wrong, you’ve done a gross injustice to this jury—and those eleven families.”
“Your honor!” Colby was practically screaming now.
Judge Perry pointed to the back of the courtroom. “Bailiff!”
“If you’re wrong, Dr. Crenshaw,” Ben continued, “then those eleven deaths—and all the others that might well follow—are on your head.”
The bailiff came up behind Ben, ready for bear.
“I’m done,” Ben said, throwing up his hands. “No more questions.”
”Sorry to bother you, ma’am,” Mike said awkwardly, as he lowered himself into an armchair. “I know you’ve been through a lot already.”
What was with this woman, anyway? he wondered. He’d called ahead; she knew he was coming. And yet there she was, in a shimmery pink nightgown with puffball sleeves, her hair a mess, yesterday’s mascara still smeared under her eyes. She looked more like a cathouse madam than someone who expected to be interrogated by a homicide detective.
“I knew you’d be back,” the woman said. “You, or someone like you.” There was a pronounced slurring to her words. Her eyes seemed to roam about, detached from what her mouth was saying. “They always say this is the last time. But it never is.”
“Again, I’m sorry for the intrusion. Believe me, no one was more surprised than me when there turned out to be a connection between this latest spate of murders and, uh, your … late husband.”
“Ex-husband,” she corrected. “We hadn’t been married for more than a year, when Jim went ballistic. Hadn’t lived together for longer than that. And hadn’t … you know. Lived as man and wife. For even longer than that.”
“I’m sorry.” During that long speech, Mike managed to catch a whiff of strong liquor on her breath, whiskey or something like it. Pamela Fenton was drunk. Which could explain a great deal, including the slurred speech and unsightly appearance. “Did you have any … indication of your husband’s violent tendencies?”
“Not in the least.” She leaned back against the sofa, spreading her bare legs in a manner that Mike wished she wouldn’t. “He was always timid. A pipsqueak. Didn’t have the balls to get what he wanted. That was the problem.”
Her problem? Mike wondered. Or his? “So he didn’t … beat you?”
“No. Never.” She hiccuped. “More the other way around.”
“And he didn’t have any guns?”
“Not till the day he decided to shoot up the law school. And he’d bought that shotgun at a pawnshop that very day. Who’d"a thought? No one’s safe anymore.”
No, Mike mused, not as long as any crazy with twenty bucks in his pocket can stroll into a pawnshop and walk out with a deadly weapon. “I know you’ve been asked this before, but—do you have any idea why he went to the law school that day?”
“I’m as clueless as you, sonny boy. All I know is what I read in the paper. That he said he was looking for some professor or another. The Cobra.”
“The Tiger,” Mike corrected. “Professor Joseph Canino. Did you know him?”
“Never heard of him. Much less seen him.”
“Then why was your husband after him?”
“Beats hell outta me. Musta been somethin" he worked up after I dumped him.” Her speech was worsening.
“They’ve never found Professor Canino. He was gone the day your ex stormed the law school. Hasn’t been seen since.”
“That’s what I hear.”
“I don’t suppose you know where he is.”
“I told you—I never seen the man in my life!” Her voice was becoming strident. Her drugged state probably caused her to talk louder than she realized. “I got no clue!”
“All right. I’m sorry.” Mike had to placate her, he sensed, or this already mostly worthless interview would come to a screeching halt. “I don’t suppose you know what your husband was after? What he was looking for?” Mike had spent the morning reviewing the file on the case. “He said he wanted something he called "the merchandise."“
The woman lurched forward. “I told you already! He was my ex-husband. And I don’t have the slightest goddamn idea what he was looking for!”
“All right, all right.” Mike held up his hands. “Stay calm.” It was definitely time for a switch in subjects. “Let’s talk about something you do know about. Why did you leave your husband?”
“Who wouldn’t leave him? He was worthless!”
Worthless being a relative term, Mike thought, as he gazed at the unappealing hulk on the sofa. “He was employed, at the time. Had a decent job at the Blaylock plant.”
“He had a peon job, fit for a peon. Hadn’t had a promotion in twelve years.”
“Still, he was employed.”
“He was a loser, would you get that through your head already!” Spittle flew from her lips as she spoke. “A creep. Couldn’t do anything right! Couldn’t even get it up!”
Which was far more information than Mike actually needed. Or wanted. “So what made you finally decide to leave him?”
“Why not? I’d had enough.”
“Was there … someone else?”
She whipped her head around. “What the hell business is it of yours?”
Mike shrugged. “I have to follow all possible avenues—”
“Look, a woman’s marriage vows can only go so far, you understand me? If a husband can’t do his duty, than she’s entitled to-—to—try to do somethin" to remedy the situation. You know what I’m sayin"?”
All too well. “What happened to your relationship? With the … other man, I mean?”
“He dumped me, the son of a bitch. Couldn’t handle the pressure.”
“The pressure?”
“From assholes like you! After Jim held up the law school and got himself killed. The police were all over us, every bleedin" second. And the press was even worse. Reporters sticking microphones in our faces every time we went outside. They wouldn’t leave us alone. Everyone wanted a piece of us! He couldn’t take it anymore. So he split.”
“I see,” Mike said, although, as he gazed across the room at her, he could contemplate other possible explanations for the lover’s departure. “What was your husband doing? Ex-husband, that is. During the year or so after you left him, but before he died?”
“How the hell would I know? I never spoke to him. Never once. He called a few times, but I always hung up on him.”
“Did he have any friends?”
“Oh, maybe a few other losers from the plant. Don’t bother asking their names. I didn’t know them.”
“Was Harvey Pendergast one of them?”
She cocked her head to one side. “Now that you mention it, that does sound familiar.”
“What about Tony Montague?”
“Montague? No. I’d remember a crazy-ass name like that.”
“You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
Mike frowned. That screwed up the theory that was forming in his brain. “What about favorite places? Somewhere he liked to go. Other than work.”
“I’m tellin" you, I don’t know.”
“Did he have anything he liked to do? A hobby? Something for his spare time?
“Who cares?”
“He had to do something during that year.”
“Yeah, but I don’t know what it was. Can’t you get that through your thick head? I don’t know!”
Mike drew back, for both their sakes. She was about to terminate the interview, and he was about to terminate her.
“Fish? Where did he go?”
“I dunno. Out of state, usually. I think he thought it was more fun if he had to drive a ways to get there. More like an adventure. But I don’t know where exactly he went.”
“Did he fish alone?”
“Nah. He’d go with some other losers, most times.”
Some other losers. The wheels inside Mike’s head started spinning. Like Harvey?
His mind raced back to the first crime scene. The closet, where Harvey had hidden.
There was fishing gear there.
And Margaret, the second victim, had a fishing license in her purse. And George, the third victim, the one whose body still hadn’t turned up, had told Mike during their interview that he wanted to get away to fish. And Tony Montague was found dead in a fishing cabin.
They were all fishers. That was the connection. That was the link for which he’d been searching so long.
“Are you sure you don’t know where your ex-husband used to go to fish?” Mike asked.
“I’m positive.”
“Maybe someone at the plant will know. Thanks you for your help, ma’am.”
“You mean that’s it?”
“Yup. And with any luck, you won’t be bothered again.” Mike was already out the front door when he heard his cell phone beep. “Morelli.”
It was Tomlinson.
“What’ve you got for me, buddy?”
“What you probably want least,” Tomlinson replied. “Another corpse.”
Mike felt as if his heart had stopped beating. “From the same murderer?”
“We think so, yeah.”
It would be George Philby, no doubt. The man Mike had failed to save. When he let the killer slip through his fingers.
“You still there, Mike?”
“Yeah,” he said bitterly. “I’m on my way.” He snapped the cell phone shut, furious at himself, at the killer, at the whole wide world.
Fred the Feeb stood in line at Tulsa International Airport, waiting to get his ticket. Jesus and Mary, Mother of God! How could such a podunk airport make you wait so long just to get a plane ticket?
He’d finally decided—he was making a break for it. He had no choice. He couldn’t put it off any longer. He couldn’t go on kidding himself that alarms and big dogs were going to make a difference. Not if he wanted to live long enough to see another sunrise.