Finally, Christina broke the silence. “Ben, I know things look gloomy at the moment, but I think you’re doing a great job in there. Sans pareil.”
“Thanks for the kind words, but we’re losing, and you know it.”
“You’ve been losing from the second you accepted this loser case. Any little thing you can do to improve the situation—and you’ve done several already—is pure gravy. And a testament to what a fine trial attorney you’re becoming. You shouldn’t get so upset about every single unfavorable ruling. You know how trials go. Comme çi comme ça.” She poked him in the side. “Look, when this is all over, let’s go camping again, okay? You and me, backpacking in Heavener State Park. I’ll show you the runestone left by the Nordic discoverers of this continent.”
Ben smiled faintly. “Deal.”
Despite the late hour, Ben found both Jones and Loving working at their desks at the hotel room. They took no particular notice when he walked in.
“I’m back,” Ben said.
Jones glanced up quickly. “Hi, Boss.”
Loving echoed with a grunt.
Ben was perplexed by their marked lack of interest. “Is something wrong?”
“Nope.” Jones continued typing away.
“Well … have I done something to offend you?”
Jones frowned, still typing. “Not that I’m aware of. Have you done something that you feel guilty about?”
“No, but …” He dropped his briefcase. “Normally when I come back from court, you two are hanging by the door like vultures, pumping me for information about what happened. Now I’m handling the trial of the century, and you guys act as if you’re not even interested.”
Jones pivoted around in his chair on wheels. “But, Boss—” He pointed to the television in the corner of the room. “We saw it all as it happened. Court TV, remember?”
Of course. “You watched the whole first day?”
“Right.” He stopped momentarily. “Don’t worry. I still got my work done.”
“Oh, no doubt.” Ben craned his neck awkwardly. “So … how’d I look?”
Jones smiled. “You really want to know?”
Good question. “I suppose.”
Jones sprang out of his chair. “First of all, ditch the suit.”
“Huh?”
“That gray pinstripe. Lose it. The stripes show up wavy and blurred on television. It’s very distracting. Gray isn’t good for color television, anyway. Makes you look evil, like a Mob lawyer or something. Stick to the Reagan ensemble-—blue suit, red tie. It’s a winning combination.”
“I see.” Ben tugged at his tie. “Anything else?”
“Well, yes, now that you mention it. Stop doing that.”
Ben froze. “Doing what?”
“That thing you do with your tie. Adjusting it. Whatever.”
Ben slowly lowered his hands. “It’s just a nervous habit.”
“Exactly. And it makes you look nervous. Not exactly the message you want coming from the defense lawyer.”
“Hmm. I’ll see what I can do.”
“And while you’re at it, don’t move your head around so much.”
“Huh?”
“Your head. It bobs when you talk.”
“That’s because my words carry great conviction.”
“Well, whatever it is, stop it. It’s very distracting on television. It makes you look like one of those plastic birds that dips its beak down into a glass of water.”
“I’m trying to impress a jury, not the folks back home.”
“Hey, you’re the one who asked.” He turned back to his work. “Other than that, you’re not bad. You’ve even got some camera appeal. Boyish charm and all that. Maybe you could get one of those news show jobs commenting on legal issues. Sort of a Geraldo Rivera gig.”
“How wonderful. Anything else I should know about?”
“Nothing comes to—oh, there is this one thing.”
“Yes?”
“You’re being sued by Channel Eight.”
“What, for not giving interviews?”
“Nooo.” Jones tossed him the pleadings. “For smashing their minicam against the courthouse wall.”
“Oh, that.”
“I was hoping maybe if you offered them an exclusive interview, they’d settle for costs.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Whatever. It’s your funeral.”
Truer words were never spoken, Ben thought. It still embarrassed and terrified him. He’d never even thought he had a temper, much less one that could get so incredibly out of control. But he knew now that he did.
He knew now that he truly was his father’s son.
He turned his attention to Loving. “How’s the investigation going?”
“It ain’t,” Loving groused. “I ain’t got a thing.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“You and me both.” He stood and shoved his enormous hands in his pockets. “I haven’t been able to find a trace of that weasel I saw at O’Brien Park, much less link him to Whitman.”
“Mmm. Well, keep trying.”
Loving pounded a ham-fist down on the desk. “Damn. I never should have let that creep get the drop on me.”
“You couldn’t help that.”
“I could’ve. And I should’ve. I screwed up.”
Ben gave him a friendly slap on the back. “Cut yourself some slack. You did the best you could.”
“Yeah. But it wasn’t good enough.”
Ben tried to sound optimistic. “I’m sure you’ll turn something up soon.” It’ll have to be soon, he thought. Because if it’s late, Wallace Barrett is going up the river, maybe on a one-way trip.
Loving glanced down at the stack of mail on his desk. “Oh yeah. You got a package.” He tossed a medium-size padded folder to Ben. “I already sent it through an x-ray machine. It ain’t a bomb.”
“I’m sure the owners of the Adam’s Mark will be glad to hear that.” Ben took the package and pulled open the staples sealing it shut. He reached in and withdrew …
A videotape.
All at once, Ben’s blood ran cold. He held the tape between two fingers, like a bomb. Despite the fact that the tape barely weighed a pound, his arm trembled.
He checked inside the folder. No letter, no words of explanation or description. No label on the tape itself.
Just like before.
“Have we got a VCR in here?” Ben asked quietly.
“In the bedroom.” Jones pointed without looking up.
Ben entered the bedroom, flipped on the TV, and plugged the tape into the VCR. A few moments later, the machine whirred to life.
This time, there was no mystery about the image that filled the television screen. It was an outside view of Ben’s office—Ben’s former office.
Before the explosion.
The camera was hand-held, or perhaps shoulder-held, and the shots were taken from the opposite side of the street. Ben could just make out the reflection on glass; the cameraman must have shot through a pane of glass. He had probably broken into the empty space that used to be the bar.
About thirty seconds after the tape began, Ben saw three figures emerge from the front door of his former office. It was him. Just behind and on either side of him were Christina and Jones. He was pulling them out the door. The expressions on their faces were wild, panic-stricken. They raced across the street and out of the range of the camera.
Barely a second later, Ben saw his office burst into flames. The noise of the explosion was just as deafening as it had been in real life. Ben found himself reliving the horror of the moment, the flying debris, the smoke, the collapsing infrastructure. It was horrible, nightmarish. But the most nightmarish part of it all …
Ben’s knees sagged. He dropped down onto the edge of the hotel room bed.
He had been there. The maniac had been there.
He was there with his camera, taking pictures, recording the whole hideous incident for posterity. He had
been ten, maybe twenty feet away from them when it happened.
He could’ve killed Ben if he had wanted to. But he didn’t. Not then, anyway. He wanted to play with him first. He wanted to torture him. He wanted him to suffer.
He had been there.
Jones entered the bedroom. “So what’s the—” His eyes darted to the television screen, and his voice disappeared. “Oh my God.” Jones dropped onto the side of the bed beside Ben and stared slack-jawed at the flickering image on the television screen. “I don’t believe it.”
The smoke cloud on the television screen billowed out, almost obscuring the office ruins.
And then they heard the laugh.
It started soft, then grew louder, larger and louder, strong in its undisguised malevolence. In its hatred.
It was him. He had been there.
After what seemed an eternity, the horrible laughter faded, replaced by a voice that was both threatening and merry.
“Sick heart,” the voice said over and over again. “Sick heart. Sick heart. Sick heart.”
Chapter 48
AFTER A LONG AND mostly sleepless night, Ben dragged himself back into the courtroom. The scene was much as it had been the day before. Reporters and sightseers crowded the aisles and offered their opinions to anyone who would listen. There were several familiar faces in the courtroom, and several city council members, including Whitman.
Despite her traumatic experience the day before, Cynthia Taylor was back, sitting silently in one of the front rows where the jury couldn’t miss her, where she had undoubtedly been strategically placed by the prosecution. There were several other people he couldn’t identify but recognized from the day before; the fact that they seemed to have reserved seats told Ben they must have some importance. Potential witnesses, perhaps, or maybe writers taking notes for their forthcoming best-sellers.
Wallace Barrett was already in his seat at the defendant’s table, with three men from the sheriff’s office standing discreetly in the background. Ben slid into the chair beside him.
“How’re you holding up?”
Barrett shrugged. “Doing the best I can. Under the circumstances.”
Ben nodded. If he thought he was having a bad time, imagine what it must be like for the man on trial.
Barrett coughed once, then spoke. “It’s … not going too well, is it?”
Ben hesitated before answering. He made it a policy to tell his clients the truth, no matter how grim it looked. But he knew Barrett needed some sort of boost if he was going to get through another day like the last. “It always looks dismal when the prosecution is putting on their case. Our prospects will improve once we get our turn at bat.” Ben smiled and tried to sound convincing. “You’ll see.”
Barrett gave Ben a quick nod. He probably didn’t believe it, but it was a nice thought, anyway.
Barrett’s eyes turned toward the jury box. The jury was filing in, taking their seats. As they did every day, they gazed across the courtroom and looked into the defendant’s eyes, trying to see what there was to see. Barrett met their eyes, giving them a practiced smile and a look of total confidence. Ben just hoped it was enough.
Ben pulled his notebook out of his briefcase and prepared for the day’s trial. Despite his wretched night, he felt much sounder than he had the day before. It always took at least a day before he found his footing in the courtroom. At least. Surely the worst of the prosecution’s case was over. It had been tough, but they’d survived. Now, Ben felt like he was ready for anything.
He was wrong.
“The State calls Lieutenant Michaelangelo Morelli to the stand.”
Ben’s eyes went wide as cantaloupes. Mike?
Sure enough, Mike pushed himself out of his seat in the back of the courtroom, shrugged off his trenchcoat, and pushed his way into the aisle. He was wearing a suit and tie, a phenomenon Ben didn’t think he’d observed since Mike’s wedding.
This had to be some last-minute decision. When he had last talked to Mike, he hadn’t said anything about testifying, and Ben felt certain he would have if he’d known. It must’ve been a recent decision by Bullock, probably made last night as the prosecution forces evaluated the first day’s trial. But why?
He watched as Mike trudged up to the witness stand and took the oath. He didn’t look at all pleased about being there. That, at least, gave Ben some small measure of comfort.
Mike introduced himself and briefly outlined his position, his duties, and his years of service leading to his current position as one of the chief homicide detectives on the Tulsa police force.
If anything, Bullock seemed even more confident than usual. Perhaps the delight of putting a close personal friend of the defense counsel on the witness stand was giving him an extra charge. “Lieutenant Morelli, did you have any connection with the investigation of the murder of Caroline Barrett and her two children?”
“Yes I did.”
“What exactly was your role?”
“I was the homicide officer assigned to the crime scene.”
“What are your duties as homicide officer at the crime scene?”
“Basically, to take charge and secure the area, protect the integrity of the evidence, and collect whatever clues or witnesses we could find.”
“And did you perform these duties?”
“I did. To the best of my ability.”
Wait a minute, Ben thought. Aren’t we leaving out a few steps here? He began scribbling notes furiously on the left side of his legal pad.
“What did you do when you arrived at the crime scene?”
“I cordoned off the area and posted a sentry to ensure that no unauthorized personnel were allowed inside the house. Entrance was restricted to those who had to be inside and could follow evidence purity procedures.”
“I see. Then what did you do?”
“We laid butcher paper down on the floor to cover the main walkways and to protect any evidence that might be there.”
“I see. And after that?”
“Then I allowed in members of the police staff who were trained to gather evidence. First, the photographers and videographers, so they could make a record of the scene of the crime exactly as it appeared when I arrived. Then we sent in representatives from the hair and fiber department. Then the blood specialists. And finally, the DNA experts.”
Ben stared deeply into his friend’s eyes. Granted, a general sense of unease was part of Mike’s makeup on a day-to-day basis. But this time there was something more. He simply did not want to be here. There had to be some reason.
“Please explain to the jury what the photographers do.”
“They make a visual record of the crime scene. Principally, the three corpses, although in this case I had every square inch of the house photographed.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Well, given the nature of the case and the … er …” Ben watched Mike squirm for the right word. “Well, since there were no eyewitnesses and the crime involved prominent members of the city, I thought it best to take every possible precaution.”
“I see. What does the hair and fiber team do?”
“They look for trace evidence. Hairs, obviously, bits of clothing, fabric. Anything that might help identify the perpetrator.”
“Were they successful in finding any such trace evidence?”
“Sure, lots of it.”
“Any fibers that matched clothes belonging to the defendant?”
“Of course. Lots. He did live there, after all.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Bullock’s thin smile could’ve cut glass. “Just answer the questions, if you would.”
Mike almost grinned. “Whatever you say.”
“Tell us about the blood team. What did they do?”
“They searched and scraped for traces of blood. All over the house, but particularly near the bodies.”
“Lieutenant, I won’t ask you about their results, because we’ll have a member of that team testify shortly. But
let me ask you this. Had you allowed any disturbance of the crime scene before or during the blood team’s sampling?”
At last Ben saw the light. That was why Bullock had dragged Mike to the stand. He was laying the foundation for the credibility and purity of the forensic evidence yet to come. The lab experts wouldn’t be able to fend off Ben’s questions about chain of custody. So Bullock was using Mike to establish it in advance.
“No,” Mike answered. “I made sure all blood splatters, drops, and traces were undisturbed from the moment I arrived until well after the blood team had completed their work.”
“And what about the DNA experts?”
“Same thing. I believe they removed skin tracings from under the fingernails of one of the victims. I didn’t allow anyone near those fingernails before the DNA experts were able to do their work.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant. No more questions.”
Bullock sat down, and Ben took his position behind the podium.
“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Ben said.
“Morning to you, counsel.”
Ben tried not to smile. He felt ridiculous, standing here pretending to cross-examine his old college roommate. Like two little boys playing Perry Mason.
“I heard you tell the prosecutor that you were the homicide officer in charge at the Barrett home after the tragedy occurred.”
“That’s right.”
“And I heard you say that once you arrived you secured the crime scene.”
“That’s also correct.”
“Funny thing, though. I didn’t hear you say exactly when you arrived at the crime scene.”
Mike smoothed his lips with his tongue. “I arrived on the morning of March 12. Just after sunrise. About six-thirty A.M.”
Ben put on his puzzled expression. “But I thought the murders occurred in the late afternoon of the previous day.”
“That’s correct.”
“Well, were you delayed?”
“Yes. I was investigating the murder of a homeless person on the north side of town.”
“So you were not in fact securing the crime scene from about six P.M. on Sunday night—after the murders—till about six-thirty the next morning. Correct?”
Mike tried to look nonchalant. “There was another officer in charge at that time.”
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