Falls the Shadow (25 page)

Fingerprints and blood.

Dalton’s slow but steady presentation of evidence against François Dubé continued, day by day. After Gullicksen testified about the bitterness of the divorce proceedings and the allegations of child abuse, allegations that caused the jury to squint with disapproval despite the judge’s instructions and my stirring cross-examination, Dalton called a uniformed officer to the stand, the first cop to arrive at the crime scene. There had been no word from Leesa Dubé for a number of hours, he said. She hadn’t shown up to collect her daughter from her parents’ house in the morning as planned, he said. She hadn’t shown up for work. She couldn’t be reached by telephone. The police had been called and directed to the scene. The door had been locked, it was forced open. A scene of horror.

The photographs were passed around the jury box, hand to hand, mouths tightening at the posture of the body, at the spill of the blood. Leesa Dubé in her bloody T-shirt, her right arm twisted beneath her lifeless body, the blood splattered across her face and forming a pool around her head in the shape of a lopsided heart. The jurors sneaked glances at François as they examined the photographs. His mouth was twisted as if he had eaten an overcooked steak au poivre.

And then Dalton began with the meat of her case, fingerprints and blood.

The Crime Scene Search officers testified as to how they had processed the crime scene, as to where they had found the fingerprints they’d lifted, as to where they had found the blood. And then they testified as to their search of François’s apartment the day after the murder, pursuant to a request by Detective Torricelli, and what they had found there.

“Officer Robbins,” said Dalton, “did any latent prints you found in Leesa Dubé’s apartment match any of the inked impressions given to you by the detectives?”

“Yes, ma’am. We found matches to two individuals.”

“Go ahead.”

“We found a number of prints matching those of the victim and four others, two found on a wall switch, one on a door, and one on a table, that matched up with the prints of the defendant, François Dubé.”

“Did you find any other prints that matched those of the defendant?”

“Yes. There were two latent prints found on the cartridges loaded into the revolver found at the defendant’s apartment.”

“The revolver that was introduced as People’s Exhibit Six?”

“That’s right, the gun found in Mr. Dubé’s apartment that was determined to be the murder weapon.”

A nice dramatic moment for Dalton, but not so hard to deal with. Before the divorce, François had lived in that apartment, before the divorce, the room would have been filthy with François’s fingerprints, as would the gun, which he had purchased and loaded and given to his wife.

“Now, Officer Robbins,” I said as I stood before the technician, “the prints you discussed with Ms. Dalton, coming from the wall switch and the door and the table, were latent prints, were they not?”

“That is correct.”

“There were no visible prints at the crime scene that you were asked to test, is that correct?”

“That’s right.”

“A visible print would be a print that was made, let’s say, after the murderer had accidentally gotten the blood of the victim on his fingers and then touched something, so that the print was visible without special techniques.”

“Right.”

“But even with so much blood, there were no bloody fingerprints at the crime scene that matched the defendant. All you had to work with were latent prints.”

“That’s right.”

“Are you able, Officer Robbins, with any of your fancy tests or super-scientific instruments, to determine the age of a latent print?”

“No, sir.”

“The prints on the wall switch, for example, could have been there a week, a month, maybe longer?”

“That’s right. Latent prints have been known to survive, in certain conditions, for years.”

“For years,” I repeated, and then repeated again. “For years. Fascinating.”

“Of course, they are usually removed with cleaning.”

“I suppose they would be,” I said, nodding, as if the officer’s interjection was thoroughly welcome. “And we all know, Officer Robbins, how often we all scrub our light switches clean. Scrub, scrub, scrub. Did you find any latent prints at the crime scene or on the outside of the murder weapon that you weren’t able to match up?”

“There were no prints on the outside of the gun. It had apparently been wiped clean, possibly by the shirt that was wrapped around it when it was found.”

“Wiped clean and then left at the defendant’s apartment until it was conveniently discovered by Detective Torricelli?”

“Yes, sir. But there were numerous prints at the crime scene we could not identify.”

“They could have been the prints of anyone, isn’t that right?”

“That’s right.”

“A friend, a lover, the real murderer, or maybe all three in one?”

“We couldn’t match them up.”

I looked at the jury, raised an eyebrow. I work on that in the mirror at home, the one raised eyebrow. It should be a course of its own in law school. You sort of have to relax one half of your face, contract the muscles on the other, all while keeping a sweetly sardonic expression. You do it wrong, you look like you just ate bad jalapeño. You do it right, it denotes skepticism, it denotes shared knowledge, it was as good as shouting to the jury. I raised my eyebrow, they thought of my opening and of Leesa Dubé’s as-yet-unnamed lover.

Not bad, but that was just the fingerprints.

The more difficult evidence to explain away was the blood. There was blood everywhere at the crime scene, on the victim, on the floor, on the walls, gouts and gouts of blood, but that wasn’t the blood that concerned us. No, the blood that concerned us was found in François Dubé’s apartment after he was arrested and a search was conducted by Detective Torricelli incident to the arrest.

“All right, let’s talk first about the shirt,” I said during my cross-examination. “This white shirt that happened to be discovered by Detective Torricelli, the one balled up in the corner of the defendant’s closet, wrapped around the gun. You examined this shirt yourself, did you, Officer?”

“Yes, I did.”

“And you found the blood smeared on the front?”

“That’s correct.”

“And this blood you determined to be the blood of the victim?”

“Correct.”

“And so we are to assume that this shirt, this white shirt, the most popular color for criminals about to pursue a criminal act, was worn during the murder.”

“I don’t know what you are to assume. I just testified as to what I found on the shirt.”

“You testified you found a single smear, with a repetitive transfer pattern created, as you testified, by the balling up of the shirt.”

“That’s right.”

“Now I’d like to show you photographs from the crime scene. This photograph, People’s Exhibit Twelve, for example, showing a close-up of the victim’s face. What do you see on her cheek?”

“Something dark. The photograph is in black and white, but it appears to be blood.”

“Is it a smear of blood?”

“No, sir. It appears to be a series of droplets.”

“And this picture here, People’s Exhibit Fifteen. What do you see on the wall?”

“Blood.”

“Droplets of blood in a specific pattern, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And this one here, People’s Exhibit Nine, a pattern of droplets on the floor?”

“That’s what it shows.”

“Now, droplet patterns are very valuable in investigating a crime scene, aren’t they?”

“They can be.”

“In fact, you are trained to examine these patterns of droplets to determine direction of travel or the location of the blood source, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, we are.”

“So what did the pattern of droplets on this shirt tell you, based on your training?”

“There was no pattern of droplets on the shirt.”

“No pattern, then, just the droplets?”

“There were no droplets. Only the smear.”

“But from these photographs it seems what happened was pretty clear. The victim was shot, and blood started flying all over the place. Droplets hitting everywhere.”

“Not everywhere.”

“Hitting the walls, the floor, the victim, everywhere we can examine with the camera. But in this maelstrom of blood, we’re to believe not a single speck landed on the white shirt the defendant was wearing while he went about the process of murdering his wife? Because, based on your testimony, there were no spots, no splatters, not a single droplet.”

“That’s what I found, yes.”

“Scotchgarding just gets better and better, don’t you think?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained. Move on, Mr. Carl.”

“Sure, Your Honor, maybe we’ll move on to the boot. The victim’s blood was found on the sole of one of the defendant’s boots, is that right, Officer?”

“Yes.”

“And you were directed to the boot by the ever-vigilant Detective Torricelli, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you don’t know for certain how the blood got there, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“But let’s say that Ms. Dalton is correct in her supposition. Let’s say that the boot was worn at the time of the murder, that the wearer of the boot had accidentally stepped in the victim’s blood, and then the boot was worn back to the defendant’s apartment. Let’s say that.”

“Okay.”

“Then what would we expect to find?”

“Blood on the boot.”

“Yes, of course, which is precisely what you found. But what else would we expect to find, Officer?”

“I suppose you’re going to tell us.”

“Footprints. I’m talking about the murderer’s footprints, marked in blood. Did you find such footprints?”

“There were footwear impressions in blood found at the crime scene.”

“And how were they discovered?”

“Some were apparent. Others, more faint, were developed using a solution of leucocrystal violet. After being sprayed with the solution, even faint bloodstains become visible. Then photographs can be made.”

“You make it sound like there were a lot of footprints.”

“There were more than we would have liked. When the responding officer entered the scene, he immediately went to the victim to check out her condition. Others came in with him. There was a significant amount of traffic before the crime scene was secured.”

“And all these footprints showed up?”

“Many did.”

“Were you able to identify all the footprints you found?”

“Some of them we were. We compare the markings of the shoe soles much like we compare fingerprints. Imperfections in the treads, scuffs on the soles, holes and such often show up and allow us to make positive identifications. We could positively identify the shoe prints of the first responding police officer and the landlord. Others we were not able to identify.”

“You were not able to positively identify, for example, any of the footprints as matching the defendant’s boot?”

“Not to a reasonable certainty, no.”

“But there were bloody shoe prints you found that you were not able to positively identify, isn’t that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No idea whose shoe they could be?”

“No, sir.”

“The murderer, perhaps?”

“I couldn’t say, sir.”

“Of course you couldn’t. And in the defendant’s apartment, while executing the search warrant, did you search for any bloody footprints?”

“We made an examination.”

“With that fluid stuff, leuco something?”

“Leucocrystal violet, yes.”

“What did you find?”

“Nothing.”

“No bloody footprints.”

“No.”

“Even though there was blood on the boot.”

“That’s correct. Of course, the floor could have been cleaned before our tests.”

“Yes, it could have. It would have made perfect sense, wouldn’t it have, for the defendant, racked with a guilty conscience and fear of getting caught, to clean the floor of all evidence while leaving blood on the bottom of his boot, and to wipe the murder weapon clean of prints while leaving it wrapped inside a bloody shirt on the floor of his closet. One last question. The blood on the boot, was it a droplet of blood?”

“No.”

“A series of droplets?”

“No.”

“How did you describe it in your report?”

“Let me check. Yes, here. I said it was a smear on the arch of the sole.”

“A smear on the boot discovered by Detective Torricelli. A smear on the shirt discovered by Detective Torricelli.” I turned to face the good detective sitting red-faced at the prosecution table. “A smear in court.”

“Objection.”

“Mr. Carl,” said the judge with a bite of anger in his voice.

I spread my arms out wide, put on my most innocent expression. “What?” I said.

And then I raised an eyebrow.

Lucky me, I was back in the chair, my temporary crowns pried off, the permanent metal covers of my bridge being fitted and fixed by Dr. Bob. No Novocain for this procedure, just pressing and pulling, bending and scraping, the excruciating squeal of metal against raw nerve.

“So let me get this straight,” said Dr. Pfeffer as he adjusted the light and peered into my mouth, his expression hidden by his mask. “Daniel’s sister, Tanya, is missing. This Reverend Wilkerson knows where she is but won’t say. This Miss Elise also knows where she is, but Miss Elise is somehow hooked up with the reverend. And someone named Rex, who is as big as a house, guards the entrance to the Hotel Latimore, where all the answers are to be found.”

“Ahaouih,” I said.

“Interesting. This whole thing sounds faintly Tolkienish. Maybe what you need is a Hobbit. Open wider. It’s still not quite a perfect fit. A few more adjustments.”

He reached in, did something painful, nodded as if the way my eyes scrunched and hands balled was only to be expected.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“Iohwohw.”

“A difficult dilemma. But I think what you’re attempting is most valuable. This little girl could be in dire trouble, and you could be the only one looking out for her.”

“Ahihehahly,” I said.

“And, Victor, this I can tell you with utter certainty: You must never underestimate the effect of childhood trauma. You would think we can escape it, but we never do. It often explains everything. Open wider. Yes, another tweak is needed.”

He reached in again, the back of my neck constricted in pain.

“Let me tell you a story. Very instructive. There was a doctor who lived in New Jersey. A medical doctor.” Dr. Bob sniffed in disparagement. “For what that’s worth. A young man with the whole of the world in his grasp, a lovely wife, a beautiful daughter, an honorific of which, to be honest, we are all overly proud.”

Dr. Bob reached for another set of pliers. He adjusted the light, shook his head as if in pity for the young intern whose story he was relating, snapped the teeth of the pliers twice before reaching them into my mouth.

“One day our doctor was driving home after picking up his young daughter from school. Suddenly an orange Gremlin turned without stopping at a stop sign and forced the doctor out of his lane, spraying the doctor’s Pontiac with pebbles in the process. Remember the Gremlin, a beastly little car? If it had been a Cadillac, our doctor might have let it go, but a Gremlin? Doctors don’t get cut off by Gremlins. Hold still. Yes, looking much better. So our young doctor followed the Gremlin, angrily bleating his horn. He caught up to it at another stop sign, jabbed his finger at the other driver, ordered the car to the side of the road.”

Dr. Bob peered closely at my mouth for a moment, let out a perplexed “Hmm,” and readjusted the light. He took one of his pointy metal thingers and scraped at the gum line of my lower front teeth. “I’m not sure I like that?”

“Wha?”

“Do you floss?”

“Uhie.”

“Well, sometimes is apparently not enough. I don’t have the time this afternoon, but next visit you’ll need a full cleaning. Much would be made in the press about the driver of the Gremlin, about his suspended license, his prior drug convictions, and, as was the case in those days, his race. But if you read carefully the news reports, you can see that just then, in a strange neighborhood, on the side of the road, with this stranger coming at him, bellowing in that harsh, professional voice, the other driver was simply scared. Scared enough to pull a gun out of his waistband and fire into the good doctor’s chest.”

“Oohieah.”

“Yes indeed. Now, as a criminal lawyer, Victor, you must know that most murders are accidents of blind happenstance. Afterward, no matter how much investigation occurs or brainpower is used, no one can really figure out why the murder victim lies sprawled on the ground. Nobody intended it, everyone wishes it would be otherwise, including the killer, but there’s nothing to be done. Another absurd event in an absurd world. But the pure contingency of it all doesn’t lessen the murder’s impact, does it?”

“Iowuherah.”

“Think of the doctor, his glorious grip on the world loosed in an instant. Think of the driver of the Gremlin, destined to die in jail. And think of the daughter, sitting in the back seat of the car, lap belt tight, watching her father slam on his brakes, curse, charge after the Gremlin. Watching helplessly through the windshield as her father yells, and then backs away, and then clutches his chest and spins around and collapses to the ground. Think of her, the daughter, and the scars she undoubtedly carries from a bullet that cut not her flesh. Think of how that brutal event still curses her life, affects her behavioral patterns in ways she doesn’t even recognize today.”

“Iaheeah.”

“Of course you can. What I’m saying here, Victor, is if you can save this young girl, this sister of Daniel, from any such pain, if you can help her minimize the traumas of an already traumatic childhood, then that is a cause worth fighting for.”

“Ighahee.”

“Perfect. Let me take off the metal framework so I can send it back to the laboratory to have the porcelain put on. One more visit and we’ll be done, Victor. It will be nice to have that hole finally filled, won’t it?”

“Ahouhie.”

“Tilda.”

Another magically quick appearance. “Yes, Doctor.”

“Owheooah?” I said.

“I’m just about finished here,” said Dr. Bob. “Prepare the cement so I can reattach Victor’s temporary crown.”

“With pleasure, Doctor.”

“Isn’t it nice to see Tilda so enthusiastic about her work? Somehow your very presence encourages her so. What do you think it is, Victor?”

“Ehaeal?”

Dr. Bob laughed.

I was standing at the reception desk, waiting for Deirdre to return from the back room after maxing out my credit card, while Dr. Bob made his notations on my file. I absently took in the photographs in Dr. Pfeffer’s smile hall of fame on the wall.

“When this is over,” I said, “are you going to take a picture of my mouth for your wall?”

He looked up from the file, gave me an appraising stare before turning to face the array of photographs. “No,” he said.

“What would it require?”

“Massive reconstruction,” he said, turning his attention back to the file.

“You know, some of those smiles look awfully familiar.”

“I would hope so. You’re sleeping with one of them.”

“Excuse me?”

“We’ll call you to set up your next appointment. Sometimes the laboratory takes longer than we expect. Remember that you’ll be having a thorough cleaning, too. I can see you wince. Don’t worry, Victor, the procedure is relatively painless.”

“Relative to what?”

“That’s always the question, isn’t it?”

“What about Tanya?”

Dr. Bob put down his pen. “What about her?”

“I need to find her.”

“I suppose you do.”

“I could use some help.”

“Are you asking? Think a moment, Victor. Are you asking? Because a favor like this is not easily repaid.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“One never knows in advance, does one? But I like to be of assistance when I can, and sometime in the future, you might be of assistance to me.”

“Sort of like paying it forward.”

“Sort of, but without the swelling music and the tears.”

I thought for a moment. I felt like I was getting myself into something I didn’t quite understand, but I needed the help. Tanya needed the help. “Okay. Yes. I’ll repay you if I’m able.”

“All right, then. We have a deal. I’ll see if the Hotel Latimore takes reservations.” He chuckled as he folded the file, slapped it on the desk, and headed back toward the examination rooms.

I watched him go and then turned again to the wall of smiles. Healthy gums, shiny teeth, a certain arrogant joie de vivre. That one there, I figured, must be Carol Kingsly. Or maybe that one there, because I have to tell you, more than one looked awfully familiar. But it wasn’t only the strangeness of the smiles on the doctor’s wall that was preying on my mind, smiles hung like trophy heads in a hunting lodge. There was something else that puzzled me. I had come to the conclusion that Dr. Bob wasn’t one for idle chatter. All his stories had a purpose. And so what the hell was the purpose, I wondered, of the strange story of the doctor and his daughter and that little orange Gremlin?

I figured it out eventually, yes I did, even a dumb cluck finds the acorn now and then. And I figured it out, perversely, while staring at photographs of the dead body of Leesa Dubé.