by Jan Burke
Two were on the police commission: Dan Soury and Michael Pickens. Soury, who chaired the commission, had a thick, full beard. He could not have grown that out so rapidly in the weeks after the murders. He crossed Soury off the list.
Three were from the Homicide Division: Captain Bredloe, Pete Baird, and Vince Adams. He recalled that Bredloe and Randolph had been at odds on occasion, but Lefebvre did not know of any disagreement that would have led to murder. No matter how he tried, Lefebvre could not picture Bredloe in the role of the attacker. Besides, Bredloe was tall and broad-shouldered, and Lefebvre thought Seth would probably have described the attacker as a larger man if Bredloe had been the one.
Baird and Adams had investigated a homicide case believed to be connected to Dane, but had not been able to come up with any solid evidence. They weren’t alone — Lefebvre himself was working on such a case.
Lefebvre started to cross off the name of Robert Hitchcock, Elena’s partner. Then he realized that he could not account for every moment of Hitch’s time on the night of the murders. A long shot, but still…
The next three men on his list — Dr. Alfred Larson, Paul Haycroft, and Dale Britton — all worked in the crime lab. Larson managed it, Haycroft worked for him, and Britton was part of the crime scene unit that had examined both the Cygnet and the Amanda. Britton had seemed quite taken with Tory Randolph, while Larson and Haycroft had been ill at ease during their part of her show in Seth’s room yesterday.
The last three men on his list were uniformed officers. Earl Allen, Duke Fenly, and Ned Perry. He was well acquainted with “the aristocrats,” as Earl and Duke were known. They were large men, often called upon to help transport violent criminals. Again, too large, thought Lefebvre. Still, he would need to take a closer look at their activities on the night of the murders. He knew very little about Perry, only that he had been one of the first to respond to their call for backup on the Amanda. He had seemed uneasy in Seth’s room, but Lefebvre had been uneasy, too — so he wasn’t ready to hold that against him.
He decided to start with the uniformed officers. Their movements would be the easiest to check. He went downstairs and asked for their schedules and records of calls between about eleven o’clock on the night of June 3 and one in the morning on June 4 — roughly the time of the murders. The sergeant who supplied the information didn’t hide his curiosity over the request, but didn’t hesitate to comply with it. Lefebvre ignored the curiosity and thanked him for his help.
Looking at the logs, he noticed that Perry and his partner had been busy with a nearby domestic violence call during the time of the attack on the Amanda. Duke and Earl had been near the downtown area, arresting a felon on a parole violation. Their time had been completely taken up with these activities. Relieved, he crossed all three names off his list.
While he was downstairs, he put in a request for an additional guard on Seth’s room, but despite his arguments of urgency, the sergeant told him that they were stretched thin now, and if he could manage it at all, tomorrow would be the earliest — if the request was approved by higher-ups.
Lefebvre hid his annoyance and went back to the homicide room.
He found it much more crowded and filled with the hum of conversation. He returned a few greetings, then sat down at his desk and took out a pen and paper. His notebook was full of disjointed reminders, notes made in the anxious hours of the previous night. Seeking an orderly approach to the problem, he started to make a list of the avenues he would pursue from here.
The first of these was to take a look at the physical evidence against Dane.
This brought to mind a problem that had nagged at him throughout the night — the anonymous tip he had received, telling him about Dane’s supposed meeting with a triggerman — the one that had brought him to the marina in the early hours of June 4. If Dane had not killed Trent and Amanda Randolph, then Dane had been set up, and the informant who had called Lefebvre was very likely the murderer. What bothered Lefebvre most was the awareness that this was not the first time he had been contacted by the informant.
On two other occasions, he had heard that obviously disguised voice — the caller had spoken as few words as possible, almost as if he had been sending a telegram. Just before midnight, on a night when he had been working late at his desk, going over department files on Whitey Dane, Lefebvre had received the call. “Dane on Cygnet paying shooter. Returns to Marina South soon. Slip three-zero-five.”
Even if he had never heard the weird, altered voice before, even if two previous tips from that same caller had not led to important arrests, Lefebvre would have gone down to the marina. But because he thought of this informant as reliable, that night he paged Elena and Hitch. Yes, they said, Dane had a boat called the Cygnet and moored it in slip number 305.
If Seth had not heard the watch, Lefebvre never would have questioned the snitch’s information. Over the last few hours, he had wondered about the previous cases. Although he remained convinced that they were good arrests, he made a note to look at those files as well. Perhaps there was some link between them, some person within the department or commission who was connected to all the cases.
He looked over the list of names again and wondered how long it might take him to ferret out the man he sought. For Seth’s sake, he hoped it would be soon. He neatly folded the page, placed it in his top desk drawer with the pen, and locked the drawer.
Lefebvre felt a certain pride in the Las Piernas lab. A year or so ago, there had been pressure to close it down and to rely on the county forensic science services. He had nothing against the county lab, but they were over-burdened and would be far less convenient to use. And the thought of losing scientists like Paul Haycroft was one he’d rather not contemplate.
Haycroft was studying photographs of blood-spatter patterns when Lefebvre walked into the lab. Although both Larson and Haycroft had solid, broad-based experience in a number of areas of forensic science, this was Haycroft’s specialty. The department’s success in solving cases where bloodstains were present was higher than average, and Lefebvre knew this was due in part to Haycroft’s ability to interpret the evidence.
Haycroft looked up as he heard Lefebvre approach, and seeing him, smiled. “Hello, Phil. Decided to take a little time away from the boy and help us solve murders, eh?”
“The thought has occurred to me, Paul,” Lefebvre said. “But actually, I need to see if I can come up with anything more on the Randolph case.”
Haycroft’s brows rose. “You don’t think we have enough to prosecute Dane?”
Lefebvre shrugged. “I would like to feel satisfied that we are doing our best to make sure the man who attacked Seth and his family is punished.”
Haycroft sighed. “I’m relieved to find someone else who feels that way. When we put Mr. Dane away, I’d like it to be for good. I suspect he is more clever than many of us believe. In fact — well, let me show you something.”
He put the photos away and rose from his desk. Lefebvre followed him as he went to the property room and signed for the box for the Randolph case. He took Lefebvre to a microscope with a video camera and monitor attached to it. Haycroft sat at the microscope itself and motioned Lefebvre to sit in front of the monitor. He found a labeled slide and set it up for viewing. After some minor adjustments, he said, “There. I’ve got it at about four hundred and fifty X.”
On the monitor, Lefebvre saw two thin parallel lines with a row of dark marks between them, the darker row looking somewhat like beads on an invisible string. “Hair or fiber?”
“Hair,” Haycroft said. “From the inside of the shoes — the bloodstained shoes we found on Dane’s boat.”
“Inside of the shoes, but not from the outside?”
“Right. This is just a sample, of course. Several of these were recovered from inside the shoes.”
“You found these hairs?”
He shook his head. “No, Dale Britton had the good sense to look for hair and fiber evidence. He was on the mo
bile crime scene unit that day, thank God. We found these inside the shoes. One of our trace evidence technicians did the identification work.”
“So is this hair Dane’s?”
Haycroft laughed. “Only if he is a cat.”
Lefebvre looked away from the monitor. “A cat?”
“Yes, among other indicators, that medulla pattern — the pattern of the material in the middle of the hair shaft — tells us this is from a cat.” He pointed to the row of dark marks on the monitor.
Lefebvre stared at Haycroft in disbelief. Reading his look, Haycroft said, “Yes, once we had identified it as cat hair, I asked Vince Adams if Dane had a cat. And he told me what I suspect you also know.”
“That Dane is highly allergic to cats.” Lefebvre paused, then asked, “Did Detective Adams have anything more to say about this?”
“Yes. He told me to keep my mouth shut.”
Lefebvre frowned. “But—”
“I told Al about it anyway.”
“Good. And what did Dr. Larson say?” Lefebvre was sure the lab’s director would be concerned.
“Al had two theories. One was that Dale or Vince — who found the shoes — contaminated the evidence. They both own cats, you see. For that matter, so does Dr. Larson. But he didn’t process the scene. Dale and Vince were there.”
“Locard’s Exchange,” Lefebvre said. “‘Whenever two objects come in contact with one another, there is always a transfer of material across the contact boundaries.’”
“Yes,” Haycroft said, pleased that Lefebvre could quote this tenet of forensic science.
“Because of static electricity in his clothing, Vince Adams picks up cat hairs on, say, his cuffs. He later touches the shoes on the Cygnet and the hairs transfer to them.”
“Something like that, yes. When I asked how he handled the shoes, he admitted that in order to preserve the blood evidence on the outside, he had carefully placed his hands on the inside of the shoes. He was wearing gloves, but still, he could have transferred hairs to the shoes.”
“You said Dr. Larson had two theories.”
“The second is that Dane intentionally placed cat hairs in the shoes to eliminate himself as a suspect.”
“A little far-fetched?”
“If it were anyone but Dane, I would think so.”
“Yes, I see what you mean.”
“In any case, don’t let the boss know I talked to you about this, all right? Or anyone else, for the time being. Al’s actually going to try to match the hairs up to Dale’s or Vince’s cat, but both of them are touchy about it.” Haycroft smiled. “Dale had to let Al comb his cat, of course — Al’s his boss. But he resented the implication that he was sloppy on an important case. Dale’s a little — well, lacking in physical coordination at times. He’ll trip over his own two feet. But when he’s concentrating on a case, that clumsiness disappears. He’s never careless when it comes to handling evidence.”
“And Vince?”
“Oh, Vince was so mad about it, he told Al he’ll have to get a court order to come anywhere near his cat.”
“Al?”
Dr. Al Larson, who had been staring into a microscope, gave a start. He looked up at Phil and said, “Oh! How long have you been standing there?”
“Not long. Can you spare a few moments?”
He hesitated slightly, then smiled and said, “Sure. I could use a break. Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”
They moved to a small break room, aglow with the light from a wall of vending machines. Lefebvre declined Larson’s offer of coffee, then waited while the other man got a cup for himself. As they sat down at one of the empty tables, Larson said, “What’s on your mind, Phil?”
“Trent Randolph.”
Larson’s smile disappeared. “I liked Trent Randolph very much,” he said quietly. “I can’t tell you how difficult it has been for me to work on this case. He was brilliant. And to have a scientist on the commission… a terrible loss.”
“How well did you know him?”
“Personally? Not well. After he was appointed to the commission, he spent a great deal of time here, though. So he was well acquainted with the lab and everyone who worked in it — he reviewed the whole lab and had wonderful suggestions — and resources. He even donated equipment.”
“Didn’t you resent that a little? Not the donations, but having some newcomer from the commission reviewing your work?”
Larson pushed the coffee cup away. “Not in the least. I invited him to do so. I knew what Michael Pickens was trying to do to this lab.”
“Commissioner Pickens wanted it shut down.”
“Yes,” he said. “Move everything to the county. I saw the chance to have an ally, someone who would be able to give an informed and respected opinion to the commission.”
“And Randolph was that ally?”
“Absolutely. Pickens is no scientist. Randolph was able to silence his objections quite easily. And he was able to help us acquire funding that we’ve needed for years. Until Randolph came on the scene, Pickens always made sure we were shortchanged. He kept us from obtaining new equipment, then complained that we weren’t able to do the job because our equipment was outdated.”
“Politicians,” Lefebvre said.
“Exactly! But Randolph outmaneuvered him. He got O’Connor from the Express — you know him?”
“I’ve met him once or twice,” Lefebvre said.
“Trent Randolph got that old man in our corner, and between the two of them, they put Pickens on the defensive for once. So the recommendations for the budget looked a little different than they had for the last few years — and we got our funding.”
“Is that funding secure without Randolph on the commission?”
Larson moved the paper coffee cup to the center of the small table, the coffee still untouched. “We’ll be fine this year, but who knows what will happen without Trent?” He frowned, then added, “I’ve only talked to you about the funding, but he was — he was more than that to us. He was a colleague. And a man of integrity.”
Lefebvre waited.
Larson suddenly looked him directly in the eye and said, “I know why you’re asking.”
Lefebvre told himself to keep his face impassive, to stay calm. “Oh?”
“It’s the boy,” Larson said.
Lefebvre didn’t answer.
“Don’t be angry with me for suggesting this, Phil, but there are those around here who think you’re too attached to Seth Randolph — a little too devoted, let’s say. Staying overnight in his room and so on. I won’t repeat the crudest comments—”
Lefebvre felt an impulse to let his fist fly into Larson’s face. With an effort, he held his temper, but Larson must have read something of the intent in his eyes, because the lab director turned pale and beads of sweat broke out on his forehead.
His voice cold, Lefebvre said, “Are you implying—”
“I’m simply warning you that there are rumors. Just a word to the wise — okay? I don’t even know who started them. Besides, most of them are saying you’re after the ex-wife.”
“Tory?” He nearly laughed.
“Yes, after all, she’s a beautiful woman and—”
Lefebvre suddenly stood, and Larson went another shade of white.
“First you suggest I’ve molested a young witness,” Lefebvre said quietly, “and then you insult my tastes. And you will not say—”
“Forget I said anything at all!” Larson said just as Dale Britton stepped into the break room, carrying a clipboard and looking owlish.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he said, “but I need your signature on this, Al.” He leaned across Lefebvre’s vacant chair with the clipboard and knocked the coffee cup over. Larson came to his feet, but not in time to prevent the lukewarm liquid from splashing over his lap, staining the front of his pants.
Britton was still apologizing to his boss when Lefebvre left the room.
Lefebvre returned to his desk some time later, so lost i
n anger that he pulled the top drawer open before he realized that he had not unlocked it. The list he had made earlier was missing from the drawer. He felt a cold knot form in the pit of his stomach. He looked up to see Pete Baird watching him.
“Have you been here all morning?” Lefebvre asked.
“Look,” Pete said, “you work your way, I’ll work mine. Just because I’ve been working from my desk—”
“That’s not what I meant,” he said hastily. “I just wondered — did you see anyone approach my desk while I was gone?”
“All sorts of people. Look.” He pointed to the desk tray. As usual, during the morning hours various bulletins and paperwork had been placed there.
Lefebvre didn’t miss Baird’s look of amusement. Ignoring it, he said, “Has anyone used my desk or looked through it?”
The amusement faded. “Exactly what are you getting at, Lefebvre?”
“I had some paperwork here. It was in this drawer. It’s gone now.”
“And you think someone from this squad took it.”
Too late, Lefebvre saw his mistake. “No, I just wondered if someone might have used the phone and accidentally picked up the paperwork.”
“No one has used your frickin’ phone. Or sat at your desk. Or taken anything that belongs to you.”
“I must have mislaid it, then,” Lefebvre said, and closed the drawer. When he tried to relock it, he found the lock was broken.
Baird continued to watch him, frowning. Lefebvre left the squad room without saying anything more to him.
He went downstairs, trying to walk off some of the tension he was feeling. If he had any doubt that someone within the department was involved in Trent Randolph’s murder, that doubt was gone now. He wandered near a pay phone in the hallway and got as far as fishing coins out of his pocket. He stopped before pulling the card out of his shirt pocket. Elena had a late-night surveillance assignment tonight. She might be sleeping. He did not know what he would have said to her anyway.