"Fucking Reverend Costello!" Geoffrey's voice pierced the silence.
Jeff turned to see him striding from the private elevator. He made no reply to the outburst, just looked at Geoffrey for a few seconds before turning back to the window. Geoffrey sidled up next to him and together they watched the street below. After a minute Geoffrey broke the silence.
"Do you think these idiots have a clue as to what they're actually marching against?" He snorted. "They're puppets, the lot of them."
Jeff watched the line as it continued to snake from the south end of the building, outside his field of vision, down the main street out front, then disappearing again around the north corner. Two women stopped directly across the street and hoisted a banner between them, waving it vigorously as if they sensed him watching from behind the mirrored glass twenty stories above.
"I think some of them believe they're helping," Jeff said softly.
"Phh! This is Costello's doing. Riling up the masses from his TV pulpit. None of these sheep would be out there if not for him!"
Jeff nodded noncommittally. "Yeah, I suppose."
"We should have him whacked."
Jeff's head snapped around. Geoffrey made no move, just continued to look out the window, stone-faced. "Tell me you're kidding."
"I know people who know people," Geoffrey said as his eyes followed a wisp of cloud skittering across the late afternoon sky. He pursed his lips. "Wouldn't be that difficult."
Jeff leaned in toward him, his mouth a tight line. "Geoffrey, tell me you are kidding!"
Geoffrey watched the cloud until it slipped over the horizon, then turned to Jeff with a wistful expression. He looked him all the way down and back up again. At length his mouth broke into a lopsided grin.
"Of course I'm kidding!" he said, slapping Jeff on the shoulder. He strode to his desk and dropped into the plush leather chair. "Come on, enough sheep watching. Sit down. We need to talk."
Jeff turned from the window and walked over to the bar. He opened a bottled water and took a long swallow. "What are we talking about?"
"Jeff. Come. Sit."
"Okay." Jeff flopped down on the sofa against the wall next to his desk. "What?"
Geoffrey steepled his fingers, rested his chin on top and pursed his lips. "This thing that you do. I'm curious about it."
"What thing?"
"The symbol you're always doodling."
"Symbol?"
"Yes, Jeff, the fucking symbol you doodle on every piece of paper in front of you. The same one I've seen you draw on the frosted car window while you're waiting for the engine to warm up. What is it?"
"I'm not sure. I doodle a lot of things. You do too."
"No, this is different. It's a distinct symbol, almost identical every time."
"You mean the circle with the lines?"
"Yeah. The two wavy line cutting across, and the long vertical slash through the middle."
"I'm not sure," Jeff said, his brow wrinkled in thought. "It just sort of comes out. I get the urge to doodle or whatever, and that's what comes out. Just seems natural."
Geoffrey leaned forward, his hands now fisted and enclosing one another and his eyes searching. "When's the first time you recall doing it?"
"I don't know."
"Think, Jeff."
Jeff shook his head. "I'm not sure. Maybe the first morning. In the shower. I made some squiggles on the glass when it steamed up. But I'm not a hundred percent on whether it was that exactly."
"Hmm," Geoffrey said rocking back in the chair, his hands once again steeple and pressed against his lips.
"What are you thinking?" Asked Jeff, the curiosity now rising in him. "An anomaly of the process?"
"Could be," Geoffrey said. "Are you sure you haven't seen this mark somewhere? On television or billboards?"
"If I have I don't remember it."
Jeff got up and walked over to the desk. He perched on the edge, grabbed a thick marker from the pen holder and sketched out the symbol on Geoffrey's desk blotter. Both of them looked at it for a long moment.
"What about you?" Jeff asked. "Does it mean anything to you?"
"No," said Geoffrey. "That's the problem. I've no idea what it is. It's something in you that didn't come from me. And that's disturbing."
"What do you think it means?"
"I don't think it means anything, in itself. It' a normal expression of the subconscious." He looked at Jeff with serious eyes. "But the fact that your subconscious differs from mine is cause for significant concern."
They both turned their attention to the mark on the desk blotter, its edges now blurring and softening as the marker soaked its way into the paper.
After a minute Geoffrey looked at his watch then jumped to his feet. "I've got to go. Christmas party is at seven."
Jeff flinched. "You're going?"
"Yes I'm going. What did you think?"
"I just...well, I've generally been handling the domestic end of things while you've been-"
"Here working? Exactly! I've been working like a dog these last few months. It's time for a little R and R." Geoffrey launched himself out of the chair and headed for the elevator. "You stay here and work on this. I'll see you in the morning. We'll need to run some tests."
"You're staying at the house tonight?" asked Jeff, his face a mask of concern.
"Yep," Geoffrey called over his shoulder as he strode into the elevator. He turned and leaned against the back wall with his arms crossed and a smug grin on his face. As the doors slid shut he gave Jeff a wink.
"And who knows, I may even make love to my wife."
CHAPTER ELEVEN
JAMES SCOTT MAY TUGGED at his jacket lapels and cleared his throat.
"The defense calls Dr. Joshua Stein."
As the first of his two witnesses made his way to the stand May considered the wisdom of their defense strategy. It was unconventional to say the least, and he vividly recalled his reaction when Geoffrey Bartell had suggested it - he had rejected the concept out of hand. But Bartell was charismatic and persistent, and after some discussion he'd finally seen the beauty in it. Its sheer audacity at first seemed outrageous, but that was Bartell - he rarely colored inside the lines, yet in truth the legal logic was so straightforward as to be easily missed.
After the bailiff finished swearing in the witness May approached the stand. "Dr. Stein, we thank you for taking the time to be with us today."
Stein nodded regally. He was a man accustomed to deference and accepted it without hesitation.
"Certainly, Mr. May," he said with a smile. His voice was a bass rumble and his mouth - wide and toothy - stretched below the overhang of an aquiline nose.
"Would you please begin by describing your professional background?"
"I was educated at MIT, where I earned multiple PhD's, with a specialty in Forensic Medicine. I have taught the subject academically for the last twenty six years. The first twenty at Harvard, and the last six here at the state university."
May nodded sagely and said, "And, Dr. Stein, in addition to your work as an educator, you also own and operate an independent forensic laboratory, do you not?"
"That is correct. I started Stein Diagnostics five years ago, after relocating here. We provide highly technical forensic testing and diagnostics services to local, state and federal agencies."
"Now why would a government agency pay you for forensic services?" May asked, wearing a look of feigned confusion, "Surely they have their own in-house labs?"
"Oh, they do," replied Stein flashing his toothy smile "With decades old equipment installed by the lowest bidder." He leaned back and steepled his fingers in a manner that would have seemed haughty on most, yet on Joshua Stein it served only to amplify his academic confidence. "I'm afraid, Mr. May, that more often than not our fine governmental agencies are simply not able to keep pace with technological changes in the field. Not for lack of desire nor negligence of duty you understand, but, due to antiquated administrative and budgetary proc
esses, those forensic labs on the front lines of law enforcement are often found wanting. So companies like mine must bridge the gap in order to best serve the public interest."
May was nodding along as Stein spoke. "Dr. Stein, does your company do any work for our local police department?"
"Most certainly we do," Stein replied.
James raised a finger to his lips as if a thought had just occurred to him. "I wonder, Dr. Stein, if you have provided any services to the police department in this particular case?"
"In fact we have," said Stein, his face carefully neutral as the ghost of a smile played at the corners of his mouth. "Our lab has provided DNA tests for the prosecution as well as the complex spectral analysis of the shotgun shell fragments about which the District Attorney's final witness testified yesterday."
"Ah, I see," Said May as he strolled toward the jurors' box. He stopped in front of them and leaned with both hands on the railing, "So, it would be fair to say that the police department as well as the District Attorney's office places their faith in your expertise, would it not?"
Stein let the smile break free. "It certainly seems that way."
James gave the jury a moment to absorb that fact, his eyes wandering over them, letting the moment stretch out until it bordered on awkwardness. Then he turned a sharp about-face. "Now, Dr. Stein, your labs have performed some forensic testing for the defense also, have they not?"
"Yes we have."
"And would you be so kind as to tell the jury the nature of these tests?"
"Certainly. We completed a very detailed DNA and fingerprint analysis of the samples found at the crime scene."
"Objection!" Alton McBride blurted, rising to his feet.
"Grounds?" asked the judge.
"Immaterial. And irrelevant. Your honor, this testing has already been done and entered into evidence. Plus the defense has no access to criminal databases for sample comparisons. This is ludicrous."
Judge Lemar gave McBride a long paternal look before finally telling him to sit down. "Continue counselor," he said to the defense attorney with a wave, then leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, a look of curiosity on his face.
"Thank you, your honor," said May, returning his attention to the witness, "Dr. Stein, what exactly did these tests involve?"
"Firstly, we took DNA samples from the hair, skull fragments, flesh and brain matter found at the scene and analyzed each sample against one another."
"For what purpose, Doctor?"
"To establish that all samples belonged to the same individual."
"And did they?"
"Yes, they most certainly did."
"I see," said May who was now pacing in front of the witness stand as the interaction took place. "And then?"
"Secondly, we had one of our technicians visit the morgue and take a set of fingerprints from the victim's corpse. These prints were carefully analyzed against the set taken by the police forensics unit at the time of the incident."
"And the point of all that, Dr. Stein?"
"Again, to establish beyond any shadow of doubt that the prints belong to the victim. Once both tasks were completed we then had a clean, verified, baseline samples of the victim's fingerprints and DNA."
"For what purpose, Doctor? As the District Attorney has so helpfully pointed out, the victim's DNA and prints have already been run against all available databases, and no match was found."
"While it is true no match was found, that only means the victim was not in the databases available to law enforcement at the time the search was run. However, if one had access to DNA and fingerprint samples of a suspected victim, one that was not in the databases at the time of search, then verifying the identity would be a routine matter."
"Forgive me, Doctor," said James Scott May as a low murmur began in the audience, "it sounds like you're implying you have access to such samples?"
"Yes, Mr. May," answered Joshua Stein. He looked out upon the increasingly restless courtroom with a rueful smile, "indeed we do. A set of DNA and fingerprint samples were provided to us for analysis and comparison."
"Who provided these samples?"
"The defendant, Geoffrey Bartell."
"Objec-" began Alton McBride as the murmurs in the pews behind him escalated.
"Sit down, counselor!" barked the judge, lifting his gavel and rapping it sharply. "And I will thank the audience to maintain their composure, and their silence. Now, Mr. May, please continue."
"Thank you, Your Honor," said James Scott May, standing perfectly still in front of the defense table. He wanted all of the jurors' attention on his witness without distraction. "Dr. Stein, were you able to obtain a match between the victim and these samples provided to you?"
"Yes we were," replied Stein into the absolute silence of the courtroom, "We obtained a one hundred percent positive match on both fingerprints and DNA samples."
"Is there any shadow of a doubt as to the accuracy of the match?"
"No. Not at all. The DNA sample matched one hundred percent of all markers, leaving absolutely zero margin for error."
"I see," said the defense attorney, his voice reverent, almost a whisper. "And would you please now share with the court the identity of the victim?"
"Yes, certainly," said Stein. He looked out over the room, which seemed to be holding a collective breath, his eyes at length settling on the man sitting at the table directly across from him.
"The victim was the defendant, Geoffrey Bartell the Third."
CHAPTER TWELVE
GEOFFREY BARTELL SWUNG THE Maserati into his parking space and gunned the engine before shutting it down. He smiled as the throaty exhaust note rumbled through the parking structure. Life was good. He'd had a fine night at the company Christmas party. With the positive results of the congressional hearings he was the hero of both employees and shareholders alike, and had basked in the kudos and back-slapping all night long. And why not? Had he not worked his ass off for this? Had he not sacrificed his personal life, lost very nearly everything, for the good of the company? But that was behind him now. Balance finally reigned in his life, or almost did. He'd had the distinct feeling that Camilla was purposely keeping a distance between them all night, and she'd discreetly avoided intimacy upon returning home. He'd caught an occasional shadow behind her eyes, as if something he said did not align with her expectations, and it gave him a sense of being an actor playing a role; a role that was in fact his life - or what used to be his life.
"No!" he said aloud, determined not to let his mind wander to such thoughts, to poison his mood. He took a deep breath then beat his palms against his chest. Once, twice, then swung the door open and climbed out. He clicked the remote over his shoulder as he made for the building entrance.
"Good morning, Mr. Bartell," smiled the guard, holding the security door open for him.
Geoffrey returned the smile. "Good morning, Jackson. And a wonderful morning it is too," he said as he stepped through the door. "Did you enjoy the party?"
"Yes, sir," replied Jackson, his smile broadening. "And thank you for the generous Christmas bonuses, sir!"
"No need to thank me," Geoffrey said with a wave of his hand. "The entire team has worked hard and we all deserve to be rewarded for our parts in any success."
He strode across the small private lobby and into the waiting elevator, which Jackson had dutifully summoned upon observing his approach. Geoffrey hummed a tune as the elevator made its way to the 20th floor and considered the one potentially sticky part in his plan: the copy. Jeff was a valuable asset as long as he remained malleable, yet a flame of doubt was kindling in Geoffrey as to the copy's continued pliability.
The elevator chimed and the doors slid open with a sigh. As Geoffrey stepped out onto the busy executive floor his personal assistant approached wearing a painted on mini-dress and a look of mild surprise. "First time I've gotten here before you in five years," said Misty with a playful smile.
"Well, all work and no play..." h
e replied, letting his eyes roam over her lithe form. "What do we have on the agenda today?"
"Meetings with R&D this morning on the drug development," Misty said as she followed him to his office, tapping and swiping at her tablet as she went. "A lunch with Adrian Henry from Norquest Labs - he's looking for a collaboration deal on nationwide collection sites. Proposal is in your inbox. Two back to back press interviews this afternoon, between three and four. A stack of messages for you, one from Senator Denville, all in your inbox."
"Sounds like a full day," Geoffrey said as he opened his office door. He stepped back and nodded for Misty to enter, then followed her in, swung the door closed and set the lock. Misty dropped her tablet onto a chair and turned to face him as he approached. Without a word Geoffrey pulled her roughly against him, their mouths locking into a frantic kiss while his hands slid up her body until they found her breasts.
Misty pulled back from the kiss and in a hoarse whisper said, "A little frustrated are we?"
Geoffrey said nothing. He kissed at her neck as his hands found her hemline and began sliding the dress up her thighs.
Misty nuzzled his ear. "Should have been with me at the party instead of the bitch," she taunted, her words becoming breathless.
"Fuck you," he said, roughly backing her up against the wall. He hooked his left arm under a knee and lifted her leg, while unbuckling his pants with his right.
"Mmmm," she replied, "that's what I'm counting on. Should have come home with me last nigh-" She gasped as he entered her.
Three frantic minutes later Geoffrey was running a washcloth under the faucet in his private washroom. He wiped himself down and then buckled his pants. As he straightened up he caught his image in the mirror and an odd thought struck him. What, he wondered, did Jeff see when he looked at him? Or what would he himself see if he could go back eight years and look out through this mirror into his own face?
The Copy Page 4