Silent Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense bk-9

by William Bernhardt

  In the late afternoon, Ben called his EPA expert to the stand. Ben considered him a relatively safe witness. Although he wasn’t in Ben’s back pocket in the sense that he was being paid to cooperate or had a vested interest in the outcome, he was definitely on the side of the angels. He knew the EPA was as concerned about the Blackwood water as his clients were—and was equally anxious to do something about it.

  Kenneth Thorndyke was as large as any man Ben had seen in his entire life, and yet he entirely defied the stereotype of overweight. According to him, at least, he was a man of action. He was the first to suspect that there was something wrong with the water in Blackwood, and he led the research team that went out to run tests.

  “What caused you to suspect the water was tainted?” Ben asked.

  “Actually, I didn’t,” Thorndyke replied. “I was just investigating a complaint. Common everyday procedure. Several Blackwood residents reported that they thought the water tasted funny, or smelled funny, or felt funny in the shower. Frankly, these complaints are not uncommon, and we can’t investigate them all. But when the number of them rises above a certain threshold, we try to check it out.”

  Ben took the witness through a detailed chronology of just exactly what tests were performed and how and why. He wanted to make sure the EPA study couldn’t be attacked on scientific grounds.

  “What did you learn from these tests?” Ben asked.

  “We learned the water was poisoned. We—”

  “Objection.” Colby was on his feet again. “Your honor, I object to the use of that inflammatory and misleading word.”

  Ben assumed he wasn’t referring to the word “water.”

  “Your honor, I’m not aware that counsel has the right to restrict my witnesses" vocabularies. Surely they are permitted to choose their own words.”

  Judge Perry frowned. “Well, I don’t plan to stifle anyone’s testimony. But I would appreciate it, Mr. Thorndyke, if you kept your language factual and unemotional.”

  “Very well, your honor,” Thorndyke said, nodding. Ben appreciated the fact that Thorndyke was being so compliant. He also appreciated that he hadn’t mentioned that Ben had asked him beforehand to use the word “poison” as many times as possible. “Anyway, we ran chemical analyses on the Blackwood water wells and found severe contamination in Well B.”

  “What were the contaminants?”

  “We found traces of TCE and perc, both industrial solvents.”

  “Were you familiar with these substances?”

  “Of course. They’re both on the EPA’s list of suspected carcinogens.”

  “Which means what?”

  “It means they give you—”

  “Objection!” Thorndyke had tried gamely to get it in, but Colby was too quick for him. “Once again, counsel tries to slip in medical evidence from a nonmedical witness.”

  “Sustained,” Judge Perry said wearily. “Mr. Kincaid, please keep your witness on the subject upon which he has actual knowledge.”

  If I must. “Without getting into a discussion of the possible medical side effects, could you please explain why the discovery of these chemicals concerned you?”

  Thorndyke twisted his immense girth around awkwardly. He could only barely move in the witness box. “People expect their water to be pure, but most times it isn’t. Some things that filter into water aren’t harmful—although people would be pretty grossed out if they knew what they were. Some pollutants, like fluoride or certain minerals, are actually helpful. But we try to single out the ones that, uh”—he glanced up at the judge—“that… are not helpful.”

  “Such as TCE and perc?”

  Thorndyke nodded. “Exactly.”

  “Did your study attempt to determine the source of the pollution?”

  “Objection,” Colby said, predictably enough. “Once again, Mr. Kincaid tries to lure his witness outside the proper scope of his testimony.”

  “How does he know that?” Ben replied. As always, he addressed the judge, not the opposing attorney. “I just asked if the EPA study considered the source. Why don’t we hear the answer?”

  Judge Perry nodded. “I suppose I’ll allow it. But I caution you, counsel—I don’t want any improper testimony.”

  “Of course not, your honor.” Perish the thought. “Mr. Thorndyke, you may answer the question.”

  “We did try to determine the source. We found trace elements of TCE in a ravine that feeds into the well. We followed the ravine less than half a mile to—”

  “Again I must object,” Colby said. “This is not testimony relating to a scientific study. The mere fact that some TCE is found in a ravine does not prove—”

  Judge Perry waved him down. “Quite right, counsel. I agree entirely. Mr. Kincaid, I want you to discontinue this line of questioning. And I instruct the jury to disregard what little has been said.”

  Ben could live with that. He’d gotten further than he’d expected. And he felt certain even the densest juror realized what was half a mile up the ravine.

  This time, Colby did not waive cross-examination. He strode to the podium, fidgeting with his pocket watch, peering at the witness through a squinted right eye.

  “You’re not a medical doctor, are you, Mr. Thorndyke?”

  “No.”

  “And you’re not a scientist, are you?”

  “No. Although I made a B in high school biology.”

  Thorndyke grinned, but no one grinned back. Ben had warned him about the dangers of cracking jokes on the stand. Ben had been right.

  Colby’s squint intensified. “And you don’t want people to be misled into thinking you are, do you?”

  “No-oo …”

  “You’re not qualified to say what is or is not a carcinogen, are you?”

  “No. But I’m qualified enough to say I don’t want any in my drinking water. Or my son’s.”

  Yes! Ben thought. He restrained himself from giving the witness a high five.

  “Mr. Thorndyke,” Colby said, his voice dark as the grave, “this is a very serious matter, and I would appreciate it if you treated these jurors with the dignity they deserve.”

  Ouch. Ben winced. Slung that one back in our faces, didn’t you?

  Colby continued. “You are not the man who made the decision to put these chemicals on any list, are you?”

  “Well … no.”

  “And you do not know what tests—if any—were conducted to determine whether they should be placed on said list, do you?”

  “I didn’t do it, but I know how it was done. Concentrated injections were given to laboratory rats—”

  “Lab rats?” Colby allowed himself a small grin. “All this fuss is over lab rats?”

  “The rats died.”

  “I’m sure rats die all the time. This will probably sound like a crazy question, but—did any of these studies involve—say—human beings?”

  “You can’t test poi—” He stopped himself. “—Suspected carcinogens on people!”

  “People are probably a little hardier than lab rats, wouldn’t you imagine?”

  “We’re all mammals. We’ve learned that lab rats can be good indicators—”

  “Sir, you keep saying "we." But you are not a scientist and you were not involved in this testing in any way, were you?”

  “No, but—”

  “Excuse me,” Judge Perry said, interrupting. “Just answer the question posed to you.”

  “Thank you, your honor,” Colby said, bowing his head slightly. If these two old pals became any more deferential to one another, Ben was going to barf. “Mr. Thorndyke, you said you found traces of TCE in the ravine. But you don’t know how it got there, do you?”

  “It’s obvious to me that—”

  Again, Judge Perry cut in, doing Colby’s work for him. “Sir, this court is not interested in your speculations. You are here to tell us what you know. If you don’t know, say so.”

  Thorndyke drew in his breath. “I cannot say with utter certainty how the
TCE got into the ravine.”

  “Thank you.” The judge settled back in his chair. “This court appreciates honesty.” He cast a wayward glance toward Ben. “Even if you may have been encouraged to avoid it.”

  “Exactly how much TCE did you find in the ravine?” Colby asked.

  “How much?”

  “Yes. What quantity?”

  Thorndyke shrugged. “It would have been a tiny amount. Less than one part per thousand.”

  Colby appeared stricken. “Less than one part per thousand? All this fuss is for less than one part? Barely a decimal?”

  “In the ravine,” Thorndyke added. “In the well—”

  “In the well,” Colby interrupted, “you also found what you yourself referred to as "trace amounts."”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t take—”

  “In fact, the quantities you found were less than one gram per gallon of water, correct?”

  “That’s true. But you have to realize—”

  “Those traces would be diluted by immersion in water, correct? If you know. I realize you’re not a scientist.”

  Thorndyke did a slow burn. “They would be diluted. But they would still be TCE. And TCE would still be—”

  “Just answer the question,” Judge Perry said, cutting him off. “I won’t warn you again.”

  Colby proceeded apace. “And that water would be distributed throughout the hundreds of homes serviced by Well B, thus diluting it even further.”

  “This stuff is deadly!” Thorndyke burst out. “You don’t have to have—”

  Judge Perry leaned forward. “This is absolutely your last warning, mister. Another outburst like that and I’ll have you evicted from the courtroom and have your entire testimony stricken.”

  “You will admit,” Colby said, “that the TCE is greatly diluted when it enters the well.”

  “It doesn’t take much!”

  “Really? And just how much does it take?”

  Thorndyke twisted around in his seat. “Well … I couldn’t say exactly. No one knows—”

  “Mr. Thorndyke, that’s the first thing you’ve said today that I agree with totally. No one knows. No one knows if TCE is harmful, especially in such tiny amounts. No one knows how it got into the well. And no one knows what causes leukemia. Including you.”

  Chapter 32

  IT HAD TAKEN MIKE WEEKS to get an appointment to see Myron Blaylock. He had been desperate to get in, desperate to see the man before there was a fourth victim. And now that he was finally in, Mike was certain there was going to be a fourth victim—Blaylock himself. Because Mike was going to kill him with his bare hands.

  “I can give you ten minutes,” Blaylock said, snapping his pocket watch closed. “So let’s not shilly-shally about.”

  A pocket watch? Mike wondered. What kind of affectation was that? Although, as old as Blaylock was, he might own the original model. “Mr. Blaylock, I’ve been waiting for weeks to talk to you—”

  “My apologies.” The elderly man’s spindly legs quivered a bit when he stood in one place too long. Mike was relieved when he lowered himself into a chair. “I’ve been quite busy of late.”

  “The lawsuit?” Mike asked.

  Blaylock tilted his head. “I see you stay abreast of current events, Lieutenant.”

  “I do my best.”

  “You’ve heard about this frivolous suit?”

  “A little bit.” Mike decided not to mention that his best friend was the plaintiffs" attorney. Somehow, he didn’t think that would endear him to the old codger. “Are you sure it’s frivolous?”

  “Of course it’s frivolous. No one knows what causes cancer. To blame it on chemicals used half a mile away … it’s just preposterous.” It could be his imagination, but Mike thought Blaylock’s face did not quite bear the conviction of his words. Was it possible the geezer was having doubts? “Your time is running, Lieutenant. I assume this is not what you wanted to talk about.”

  “No. It isn’t. I’m trying to figure out who’s been bumping off your employees.”

  “Well, I wish you’d get on with it.” Blaylock’s voice caught fire. “I don’t like this kind of turmoil in the workplace. Absences have risen to an all-time high. Apparently some people are afraid to come to work, afraid they might be the next to go.”

  Mike noted that Blaylock’s consternation was all related to business; he hadn’t said a word about the minor inconvenience to the people being murdered. “I’ve talked to most of your top executives,” Mike said. “And a lot of your employees. Everyone who worked with the deceased. I’ve been trying to learn why anyone might want to kill these people.”

  “And what have you learned?”

  “I haven’t learned scratch. That’s why I’ve come to you.”

  “Me?” Blaylock pressed a gnarled hand against his chest. “You think I could help you? I didn’t even know those people.”

  “You must’ve known something about them.”

  “Lieutenant, I have thousands of employees—”

  “And three of them—who are now dead—had been with the company more than fifteen years. Two of them for more than twenty.”

  “Nonetheless, I am not the personnel manager. I’m afraid I can’t help you.

  Blaylock pressed his hands against the desk, as if signaling that the interview was over.

  Mike quickly jumped in; he hadn’t nearly gotten his ten minutes" worth yet. “Was there anything these three victims had in common? Other than working here?”

  “Not that I’m aware. I believe I was told they worked in different departments.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Perhaps there is no connection. Perhaps there are multiple murderers.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “The murders themselves were each quite different, were they not?”

  “They were different,” Mike agreed. “But I think that was an intentional ploy to mislead me. Different as they were, they were all hallmarked by extreme violence. Cruelty in the first degree. How many people can have the capacity to inflict that magnitude of pain?”

  “In my experience,” Blaylock said, “quite a few.”

  “I just can’t believe it. I think there’s one killer—the man who slipped away from me at George Philby’s house. And I think there’s a rational—or at least explicable—reason for these murders. These three people must’ve had something in common. Do you have any idea—”

  “I told you, I didn’t know them.”

  “Perhaps they all worked together at some time—”

  “They didn’t.”

  “Or were members of the same club. Ate lunch together. Worked on a joint project.”

  “No, no, no,” Blaylock said. “If anything like that were true, I’m sure one of my executives would’ve reported it to me. And to you.”

  “There must be some connection,” Mike repeated.

  “Must be? Or you want there to be? That would make your job easier, of course. If the man is simply a crazed lunatic, picking off victims at random, you’ll probably never catch him.”

  “There is a connection,” Mike said. “I just have to figure out what it is.

  “Well, I’m afraid I can be of no use to you,” Blaylock said. He pulled his watch out of his vest pocket and checked the time. “And I see that your ten minutes have expired.”

  “I’m not done,” Mike protested.

  “But I am.” Blaylock pushed the button on his intercom. “Janice, would you please escort Lieutenant—”

  “Where did the money go?” Mike asked abruptly.

  Blaylock blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “The money,” Mike said calmly. Now it was his time to relax and let the old gasbag squirm. “The sixty million. That disappeared. Six years ago.”

  “Cancel that, Janice.” Blaylock took his finger off the intercom. “It seems we’re not done talking.”

  Ben had spent an hour the night before preparing Scout to take the witness stand. By normal standards, an hour wou
ld be a very short prep period, especially for such a vulnerable witness, but Ben was concerned about overwhelming the boy. Hard as he tried not to show it, Scout was obviously nervous about sitting in that chair next to the judge and talking to a lot of strangers. Who wouldn’t be? So Ben simply reviewed what he would say, tried to give him some glimmer of what to expect on cross-examination, and let his father take him away for an ice cream.

  The next morning, after Judge Perry called the case back into session, Ben called the boy to the stand. He bravely soldiered his way to the front of the courtroom, brushing a ridiculously long shock of blond hair out of his eyes. He was dressed in a suit with a clip-on tie—and looked miserably uncomfortable in it. The suit must’ve been his father’s idea. Ben had the impression Scout wouldn’t have chosen it in a million years, not even if he was on the way to a funeral.

  After he was sworn, Judge Perry asked the boy the usual series of questions to determine whether he was competent to testify despite his tender age. Scout asserted proudly that his daddy had taught him the difference between the truth and a lie, and apparently the judge was satisfied.

  After Scout settled in, Ben began the questioning. “Would you state your name please?”

  “Scout,” he said. “Er—I mean, that’s what they call me. I guess my actual name is Harold Marvin Michaelson.”

  “Thanks. We’ll just call you Scout, if that’s all right with the court.” Judge Perry nodded graciously. “How old are you, Scout?”

  “Nine,” he said quietly.

  “Speak into the microphone,” Judge Perry instructed him. “Doesn’t do anyone any good if the jury can’t hear you.”

  “Yes, sir.” Scout cleared his throat and leaned closer to the mike. “I’m nine. "Bout to be ten, though.”