"And what happened next?"
"Well, nothing much. I naturally gave Mr. Bartell a wide berth. Around 4:30 I knocked politely and inquired if he should need anything. He said no and told me to take the rest of the night off."
"And did you?"
"Uhm, well, no sir, idleness is not in my nature. I inquired with Chef if she required any help with dinner. As it turned out she was short a few supplies, so I volunteered to procure them for her. I took a walk to the market. Stretched my legs. Took some fresh air. I thought it might help release some of the tension." Arthur gave a forced chuckle, which served to underscore his discomfort rather than mask it. "I certainly didn't know what was in store, did I?" His eyes lost focus and his brow creased as the memory descended on him.
After a few moments Alton McBride touched him on the hand. "Mr. Graves, I know this is difficult for you."
"Ahem, yes, I'm sorry," Arthur said, clearing his throat.
"What time did you return to the house?"
"Oh, it was 5:37 PM."
"5:37? That's awfully specific, Mr. Graves. How is it that you're so sure about that?"
"Uhm, yes, well it was just that upon my return I found a car parked in the driveway. Thinking we might have a guest for dinner I naturally checked my watch to ascertain if Chef would have time enough to make accommodations."
"Naturally," said Alton, his words tinged with sarcasm, "And who was the guest?"
"Well, I don't know. None of the other staff reported having answered the door, nor having seen anybody arrive."
"And this car, Mr. Graves, was it one familiar to you?"
"No, sir, it was not."
"Now, if I'm not mistaken, you described this car to the police at the scene as a newer black Mercedes four-door sedan, is that correct?"
"Uhm, yes, that is correct."
"And did Mr. Bartell, at that time, own such a vehicle?"
"Well, no, it certainly was not one of the family's cars, no."
"Alright, Mr. Graves, what happened after that?"
"Uhm, yes, well I went to the kitchen to deliver Chef's supplies. We chatted for a few minutes and then I went to my apartment to do a spot of paperwork. That's when I noticed the car was gone."
"The car? The Mercedes in the driveway was gone?"
"Yes, quite."
"That's rather peculiar."
"Uhm, yes sir, indeed it was."
"So what did you do then?"
"Well, as it struck me peculiar I went back into the house to make inquiries." Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose as a pained expression suffused his features. "That's when the shouting began."
"The shouting?"
"Yes, ahem, from the den. Mr. Bartell was bellowing in a most heated manner at someone."
"And who was he screaming at, Mr. Graves?"
"I, uh, I don't know."
"Did you not recognize the other voice?"
"Uhm, well, no, I mean, I couldn't distinguish it."
"What exactly do you mean, Mr. Graves?"
"Well, it was, uhm, it's difficult to say. The only voice I could distinguish was Mr. Bartell's."
Alton McBride stopped pacing and stood very still directly in front of the witness stand. "Are you saying he was shouting at himself?"
"No, no, there was definitely an argument taking place, it's just that I couldn't make out another voice. It was rather peculiar."
"Alright, Mr. Graves. We'll leave that alone for the moment. Can you tell us what you heard?"
"Yes, uhm, well the walls are quite well insulated so, of course, I couldn't discern much."
"But you did hear something, didn't you, Mr. Graves?"
Arthur closed his eyes and again pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes I did."
"And can you please tell the court what you heard?"
"Ahem, yes, well, there was one phrase that I could make out which was repeated a number of times during the exchange."
"And what was that?"
"Well, it makes little sense, but I kept hearing Mr. Bartell shouting the phrase 'this is not your life'. I heard it a number of times during the altercation."
"And what do you think that means, Mr. Graves?"
"Objection," James Scott May called in a bored voice from the defense table.
"Withdrawn," replied Alton, turning back to face the witness, "Mr. Graves, please tell the court what happened next?"
Arthur Graves looked at him with a forlorn expression. His eyes were flat and seemed to be asking if he could avoid the question. He rubbed his forehead then returned his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose.
"Well, ahem, next came the shot."
"The shot?"
"Yes, uhm, the shotgun blast," Arthur said, squinting towards the jury. His head ticked involuntarily. "It was so very loud," he said with wrinkled brow.
"This shotgun blast came from the den?"
"Ye...yes."
"And what did you do then?"
"I, uh, I was stunned. I fell back against the wall and covered my ears. I just stared at the den door for, well I don't know how long, it seemed like just a few moments but I suppose it could have been longer. I was in shock. I kept thinking, or hoping I suppose, that Mr. Bartell would come through the door with a smile and explain that everything was alright and it had just been a harmless accident. I just," He shook his head, "just couldn't believe it was happening."
"Mr. Graves, I know this is hard, and we are nearly done. I have just a few more questions, so if you can please focus."
"Yes, I'm sorry. I'm just, it's just..."
"I understand, sir. Can you please tell me what occurred next?"
"Uhm, once I recovered my senses I entered the panic code."
"The panic code?"
"Yes, on the alarm system. We have various emergency protocols, as is common for high net-worth households, and I initiated the panic protocol."
"Which is what exactly, Mr. Graves?"
"Well, uhm, what it does is locks down the house with steel blast doors at every door and hallway, while simultaneously alerting the Police Department."
"So every room in the house is sealed off from one another?"
"Yes, sir, that is correct."
"So you didn't enter the den?"
"Oh no, no, I wouldn't have even if it hadn't been sealed. I was terrified. I waited for the police to arrive."
"Thank you, Mr. Graves. I sincerely appreciate your perseverance."
Alton walked back to the prosecution table.
"One last question, Mr. Graves," he said, turning around and looking into Arthur Williams' eyes.
"Who was in that den with Geoffrey Bartell?"
CHAPTER EIGHT
JEFF LANDED IN DC with a knot in his stomach. The flight had been uneventful but he was plagued by an encroaching sense of dread. He dialed Geoffrey as he exited the terminal building, the briefcase his only luggage. His palm felt clammy against its handle. He didn't know what was in it, but he had a good idea. Senator Denville was a permanent fixture in Congress and currently headed up the Senate Committee on Ethical Biogenics. If he had "come around" then the briefcase most likely held a tidy sum of money, possibly one installment of a much larger package.
"Good, you've landed," said Geoffrey without any preamble.
"Yeah, heading for the taxi stand now. Where am I going?"
"The Jefferson. Presidential suite. Grab the key at the front desk, go up and wait. Denville will come straight up at two PM."
"Awfully cloak and dagger," said Jeff as he stepped out into the frigid DC air. Unusually cold for this time of year he thought vaguely as he headed for the nearest taxi cab. "What are we discussing with Denville?"
"Not much to discuss. Just exchange pleasantries, give him the briefcase, ask about his grandkids, and head home."
"Come on, Geoffrey, don't treat me like a child."
"Look, there's not anything to discuss; I've already set everything up. This trip is just logistics. That's why I sent you."
Jeff swung open the cab door and tossed the phone onto the back seat with a scowl, then climbed in behind it. "The Jefferson," he snapped at the driver. After taking a steadying breath he lifted the phone again. "You know what, Geoffrey? Maybe I'll just turn around and head home," he said, making no attempt to disguise the anger in his voice. "You're the one who gave us the pep talk about being a team, remember?"
There was a tense silence before Geoffrey responded. "Okay, you're right. And I apologize."
"Apology accepted. Now tell me why I'm here."
"Well, it seems the good senator has had a change of heart," said Geoffrey with a note of pride in his voice, "It appears he's realized the benefit of early detection and prevention of hereditary disease."
Jeff's stomach fluttered. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"
"Yes I am, Jeff. This very afternoon Denville will be recommending that the Biogenics Committee classify fetal gene manipulation as a safe and acceptable disease prevention technique."
"Can he convince the entire committee?"
"He's confident that he can, yes."
Jeffrey watched the trees slide by the cab window as he absorbed the news. They were bare and brown and their skeletal fingers grasped in vain at the few rays of sun filtering through the cloud cover. Further out the Potomac was a golden sliver against the grey skyline. From here one could almost conceive an aura of worthwhile purpose emanating from the city. But Jeff knew better. He disliked the game of politics, yet he endured it as a necessary evil in pursuit of the life-saving improvements he believed GenLabs' could bring to the human experience. Sordid as it was he'd comfort himself with the trite old saw of the end justifying the means. And in this case the end certainly did justify almost any means. Gene manipulation being green-lighted by Congress opened the way to massive nationwide adoption of their technologies and later, even, a pill that could be mass marketed. GenLabs could single-handedly reduce birth defects to almost zero, and practically eliminate every other life-crippling disease and genetic disorder that haunted modern man.
"This is huge," he said, finally releasing the breath he'd been unwittingly holding, "The scope is almost unimaginable."
"Not to mentions the profits!" Geoffrey laughed.
"Why is Denville doing this now? He's always opposed us."
"Every man has his price, Jeff."
"And what was his?"
Geoffrey laughed again in a short burst. The sound came through the line with a distorted maniacal tone that Jeff could not decipher whether was due to the cellular connection or something darker.
"Trust me," said Geoffrey, "you'd rather not know."
CHAPTER NINE
"PLEASE STATE YOUR NAME and title for the record."
"Harold Kinsel, Lead Forensics Specialist, State Police Bureau."
"Thank you, Mr. Kinsel." Alton smiled thinly at the man, who gazed back at him with dark mole-like eyes behind thick glasses. Sweat was beaded on his porcine brow at which he mopped frequently with a folded handkerchief. His appearance belied the considerable expertise of his resume.
Alton launched into a protracted back and forth exchange establishing the man's bona fides as an expert for the jury. He then walked his witness through the steps taken by his team in examining the evidence, the careful cross-checking and authentication of their findings, and at length came to the crux of the matter; and the linchpin of his case. He would seal up means and opportunity even though motive may forever remain a mystery.
"Mr. Kinsel, based upon the detailed forensic investigation you've just described to us, can you make a definitive statement as to whether the shotgun found at the scene was in fact the murder weapon?"
Kinsel mopped his brow once more, pushed his glasses up the pudgy nose, and answered in a carefully metered tone, "Yes, it was the murder weapon."
"And are your findings conclusive on that score?"
"Yes, sir, they are."
"Mr. Kinsel, can you explain to us how you can be so sure?"
Kinsel straightened in his chair. He cleared his throat and touched his top lip with the handkerchief before leaning in to the microphone. "Well, Mr. McBride, a shotgun shell - as you may know - consists of numerous lead projectiles encased within a plastic shell. Unlike traditional bullets they don't gather rifling marks while exiting the barrel, so cannot be identified by a standard ballistic firing test. However," He raised a thick finger in the air, "using some newer techniques there are ways to make the identification." He sat back in his chair with a knowing smile and mopped his brow, seeming to enjoy the attention in an altogether awkward manner.
Alton smiled back at him. "Please enlighten us, Mr. Kinsel."
"The shotgun shell, you see, has a fused end. Of course it would have to, otherwise the buckshot - uh, the projectiles within - would simply fall out. When fired the projectiles are expelled at velocity, breaking through the uppermost plastic casing. Fragments of this plastic were naturally found in the victim's cranial remains. Now normally one couldn't identify the source of a plastic fragment by its chemical composition - plastic being so ubiquitous - but," He paused for a breath with the chubby finger raised once more, "during the firing of the shell, when the plastic casing is torn apart at velocity the plastic polymers undergo a substantive change due to the high speed rending of their fibers combined with the additional chemical reaction with lead and gunpowder during the firing of the explosive charge. The result is a very distinct forensic signature on the edges of shell casing fragments that can, using highly specialized spectral and chemical analyses, be matched with the used shell casing found in the discharged weapon."
"Thank you, Mr. Kinsel." Alton McBride walked to his table and looked down at the blank legal pad sitting there, giving the jury a few moments to digest Kinsel's testimony.
With an expression that said he hadn't quite understood the details himself, he approached the witness.
In his pocket his phone vibrated. He considered briefly asking the judge for a recess but decided against it. Breaking momentum during testimony was a cardinal sin; and besides, regardless of what his investigator had to tell him, the case was locked up.
"So, Mr. Kinsel, what we are to understand then is that you found plastic shotgun shell casing fragments embedded in the victim's brain?"
"What was left of it, yes."
"And these fragments, you were then able to match them precisely and conclusively with the spent shell casing found in Mr. Bartell's shotgun. That being the shotgun found at the scene of the crime?"
"Correct."
"And Mr. Kinsel - and please take your time answering this question - are you able to swear to this court, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that these fragments were in fact fired from that same shotgun?"
"Yes sir, I am," said Kinsel without hesitation, just as they'd rehearsed it.
"Thank you, Mr. Kinsel." Alton turned and swept his gaze over the jurors. He nodded to himself, tapping a finger on his upper lip, as if digesting this revelation for the first time. Then he turned back to the witness. "Now, when Mr. Bartell was taken into custody was he tested for gunshot residue on his hands?"
"Yes he was."
"And what were your findings?"
"Gunshot residue was found on his right hand."
"And this tells us that he fired the shotgun in question on that evening?"
"No, it simply tells us that he fired a weapon containing shotgun shells of a make and manufacturer consistent with those found at the scene, sometime within a three to four hour window of being taken into custody."
"Was there any additional evidence you were able to ascertain from the weapon?"
"Yes," Kinsel said, his small eyes narrowing. "We found a partial print on the trigger of the weapon."
"A partial print?"
"Yes, well the trigger isn't wide enough to - well, you know." Kinsel swiped the handkerchief across his brow.
"Yes, Mr. Kinsel, thank you. I think we can understand that. Is a partial fingerprint enou
gh to make a definitive identification?"
"If it includes the meat, uh, the middle section of the digit where the print spirals inwards, then yes."
"And did this partial print contain the 'meat', as you say?"
"Yes it did."
"And was a match found of this fingerprint?"
"Yes it was."
Alton turned to face the jury, relishing the theatrics of the courtroom drama. "And Mr. Kinsel, would you be so kind as to tell the court to whom that fingerprint belongs?"
"Yes, it belongs to Mr. Geoffrey Bartell."
"Thank you, Mr. Kinsel," Alton said as he let his gaze linger on the jury.
Then he turned and walked slowly to his chair. As he passed in front of the defense table he gave James Scott May a nod. "Your witness," he said.
May looked up distractedly. "The defense has no questions for the witness."
Without batting an eye Judge Lemar excused the witness. The peculiarity had worn off by the second day of trial as the defense team had steadily declined to cross-examine every single witness for the prosecution.
District Attorney Alton McBride remained standing and with a curt bow towards the court proclaimed, "In that case, Your Honor, the prosecution rests."
CHAPTER TEN
AS THE MONTHS WENT by Geoffrey and Jeff had settled into a brittle working relationship. They focused on the attainment of their combined goals while avoiding the awkward yet inevitable question of what the future held thereafter. The avoidance of that question however was developing a tension between them like a thunderhead gathering on the horizon - dark, silent and brooding. Both felt it, and both studiously ignored it for fear of what the answer would be.
The senate hearings had gone well, thanks in no small part to Senator Denville, and legislation was in the works that would launch GenLabs' technology into the mainstream. There were still plenty of hurdles - the bill was facing strong opposition from the conservative right as could be expected - but they were well on their way to victory.
Jeff stood at the window and watched the picket line on the street far below. A woman in a bright orange hat led a snaking line of protestors in front of the building, a bullhorn to her lips and indignant fervor written in her body language. Jeff couldn't make out the words nor read their hand-painted signs at this distance, but the pantomime below was one he'd seen before - and he knew their propaganda well enough.
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