Proof Positive (2006) (32 page)

If there are other cases, Hooper added.

Cashman drove home from the district attorney's office in a daze. How could they suspend him after all he'd done for the police, the prosecutors, and the people of this state? He was a hero; he'd saved the lives of people who could have been the victims of some of Oregon's most vicious criminals. He didn't deserve this.

Cashman put any thoughts of going to jail out of his mind. That was simply not possible. He worried most that he would be fired for fabricating evidence and lying in court. If that happened, no other forensic laboratory in the country would hire him. What would he do then?

When he entered college, he did plan to major in some area of science, but he had not done well in chemistry or the other science classes he'd taken. That's when he decided to be a science teacher. But the idea of being a teacher never excited him. Then, when he was in graduate school, he had noticed an opening for a forensic scientist at the crime lab in Colorado and he had falsified his transcripts. Things would have gone badly for him if he'd been caught, but he'd made such a good impression at his interview that no one had questioned his credentials or checked with his schools. After his first job, no one had asked about his school credentials again.

Cashman guessed that it would be just as easy to take on a new identity and falsify his rTsumT again, but that would mean working somewhere else. He liked working at the Oregon state crime lab. He was respected there. He didn't want to go anywhere else.

Cashman willed himself to calm down. As he saw it, he had five potential problems: the Cohen and Prochaska cases, the assault on Paul Baylor, and the disposal of Weaver and Clark. Bernie knew that the police might call what he'd done to Clark and Weaver murder, but he could not bring himself to label his actions in this way. Taking the lives of Clark and Weaver had been necessary to preserve the greater good, but he was objective enough to know that others might not see his actions in this light. His greatest fear was that he would be charged with murder, but when he thought about the possibility, he really didn't see that happening.

There was no evidence that he'd shot Doug Weaver or was there? There was a piece of evidence that could pose a problem. The .38 he'd used to shoot Weaver was still in his home. In the excitement of his escape from Weaver's house, he'd forgotten to get rid of it. Then he'd put it in his nightstand. He'd planned to dispose of it, but he had not gotten around to it yet. Okay, he'd get rid of the gun. How to do that, though? Cashman thought back to the meeting. Greene was definitely trying to get him to panic. That was it! He'd bet he was under surveillance right now. They were counting on him panicking and running to get rid of the weapon. They knew they didn't have the evidence for a search warrant for his house, but if he was caught taking the murder weapon out of his house Well, he wasn't going to fall for that.

And there was another reason why he couldn't get rid of the gun right away. He needed it for protection until he could get another weapon. Cashman shivered involuntarily when he remembered the way Martin Breach had looked at him. He knew all about Breach. The man was ruthless and insane a maniac with a penchant for torture and mayhem. No, he needed the gun for now, but he vowed to get another as soon as possible.

What about Mary Clark? They knew about the pubic hairs, but there was no way they could prove he took them. As far as he could figure it, there was no way they could charge him with Clark's murder. And if there were evidence that he had assaulted Paul Baylor, he would be sitting in a jail cell.

So he was safe from the most serious charges. That left criminal charges connected with the manufacture of evidence. He was in trouble there. They couldn't get him for the Raymond Hayes case now that he'd gotten rid of the hammer and the evidence bag, and he didn't think they would be able to prove that he was responsible for planting any of the evidence in the Cohen case, but he couldn't see a way to explain the thumbprint or the ballistics evidence in Prochaska.

A thought occurred to Cashman. He smiled. What if he admitted his sins and repented? He could say that he knew Prochaska was a dangerous criminal, and got carried away. Alec DeHaan could argue that he had succumbed to the pressures of the job. Maybe he had mental problems, depression, something like that. Could they fire him if he faked the evidence because of a mental disorder? Wasn't that covered by the Federal Disabilities Act? Yes, that was it. He would deny everything else and say that what he did in Prochaska was the product of temporary insanity. That would take care of everything.

As soon as he was home, Bernie poured himself a glass of twenty-five-year-old scotch and sipped it while he prepared a dinner of coquilles St. Jacques. The scallops he'd purchased at his favorite fish market were exceedingly tender, and the wine he chose to accompany them was exquisite. By the time he finished dinner, Cashman was certain that what had happened during the Prochaska trial was only a temporary setback. His world was in disarray now, but he was certain that his life would be back on an even keel very soon.

Chapter
46.

MARTIN BREACH HAD A BIG GRIN ON HIS FACE WHEN ART PROCHASKA walked into his office in the Jungle Club. He stood up, walked around his desk, and hugged his friend. Henry Tedesco watched the homecoming from a sofa at the side of the room.

Welcome back, Artie, Tedesco said, his Irish brogue making the greeting sound like poetry.

It's great to be out of that jail, Prochaska said to Breach. Thanks for having Charlie pick me up.

What? Did you think I was going to have you take a fucking taxi?

Art smiled. He knew Martin would never let him take a taxi, but he felt that he should thank him anyway. Charlie had driven him home, where Maxine had showered with him, helped him get rid of weeks of sexual tension, and fed him a heaping plate of bacon, eggs, and toast. While he was eating, Maxine told Art that Martin wanted to see him about some business when he was ready.

When Art was seated and Martin was back behind his desk, Breach offered Tedesco and Prochaska Cuban cigars from one of several boxes he had smuggled into Miami along with his narcotics shipments. Art lit up, but Tedesco declined. Martin pointed his cigar at Prochaska.

Frank tells me this fuck Cashman set you up.

It looks that way.

That's not nice. If the Jaffes hadn't caught on to this prick, bad things could have happened to you.

I knew Frank would do right by me, Art said.

That don't change the fact that this fuckhead faked evidence to frame you.

No, it don' t, Art agreed.

What are we going to do about this guy?

Art shrugged. It looks like we don't have to do anything. Frank told me the cops think he killed two people. It'll do him good to do time. I got friends in OSP who'll look him up once he's there.

Breach shook his head. That might not work. Frank told me that everyone thinks Cashman killed the broad in the lot and that lawyer, but he doesn't think they can prove it. Worst he's probably going to get is some time for fucking with the evidence, but that won't amount to much and it won't be hard time. With Alec DeHaan as his lawyer he'll probably cut a deal and he won't do time at all.

Prochaska's brow furrowed as he thought about what Breach had just said. Tedesco could almost see wheels turning.

That ain't right, Art said when he had mulled over the situation.

My thought exactly, Breach agreed. I was thinking maybe Charlie should pay Cashman a visit, maybe take him somewhere so we could explain why what he done was bad. Maybe give him an attitude adjustment.

Prochaska smiled. That's a good idea, Marty.

I'm glad you agree, Artie.

Chapter
47.

COME ON, COME ON, CHARLIE LAROSA WHISPERED TO TEDDY Balski, a cat burglar who worked for Martin Breach. Balski, who was crouched next to the lock on the side door of Bernard Cashman's house, looked over his shoulder.

You want to do this? he asked, making no attempt to hide his annoyance.

I don't like standing around out here where anyone can see us, answered LaRosa, who had been looking around nervously while Balski jimmied the lock. It was three-thirty a.m. and there were no lights on in the homes of Cashman's neighbors, but it would take only one citizen with an urge for a late-night snack to screw up their operation.

There, Balski said.

LaRosa opened the door. Cashman's state-of-the-art alarm system issued a plaintive whine for less than three seconds, because Martin Breach had bribed an employee of the security company to give him Cashman's code and the location of the keypads.

Cashman's bedroom should be at the top of the stairs, LaRosa whispered as the men moved through the kitchen into the entryway at the front of the house. He had memorized the floor plan of Cashman's house, which Breach had also purchased.

LaRosa and Balski crept up the stairs stealthily. They planned to knock Cashman out and take him to the warehouse that Breach used for torture and interrogations. Normally, Charlie didn't have any feelings about his assignments, but he liked Art and he hoped that Cashman put up a fight so he could hurt him. It was one thing to go down for something you did, but framing a guy for something he hadn't done, well, that wasn't right.

When they reached the top of the stairs, LaRosa signaled Balski to step back. Then he opened the door quietly and walked into the dark bedroom. He had taken a step when he saw a flash of light. Then he died.

It was a good thing that Bernard Cashman had been so worked up that he could not sleep, or he might not have heard the brief whine his alarm emitted before Charlie LaRosa punched in the security code. Moments later, he was crouched at the side of his bed, .38 Special in hand.

Employees of the crime lab were also police officers, and Cashman had excelled on the shooting range. Now that he'd killed twice, he was not troubled by the thought of taking another life. True, he was frightened by the knowledge that someone had broken into his home, but his fear was tempered by the anticipation of punishing the burglars for daring to invade his property.

The door to his bedroom opened. Moonlight backlit a large, black shape. Cashman aimed at the center of the silhouette and fired. Then he aimed a second shot at the intruder's head. The burglar staggered backward and fell. Someone else issued a startled cry. Cashman rushed to the door and pumped two shots into Teddy Balski, who stared at Cashman for a second before tumbling backward down the stairs.

Cashman descended the stairs slowly, his gun leading the way, until he was standing over Balski, whose ragged breathing told Bernie that he was still alive. Cashman aimed between Balski's eyes and fired another shot just as he heard the sirens.

Cashman froze. Someone had called the police. From the sound of the sirens, they would be at his house in minutes. Did he have anything to worry about? No. These men were burglars, there were two of them, and they had broken into his bedroom in the middle of the night. If ever a homeowner had a right to use lethal force to defend himself, it was under circumstances such as this. Cashman was breathing a sigh of relief when he heard the police car skid to a halt in front of his house. He was about to open the door for the officers when a thought paralyzed him.

The gun! He had shot the intruders with the .38 Special he'd used to kill Douglas Weaver. Normally, no one would think of running a ballistics check to see if his gun was the murder weapon in Weaver's case, but he was a suspect in Weaver's murder and someone was bound to think of testing his gun. What was he to do?

A pounding on his front door distracted Cashman.

Open up, police, a man shouted.

I'm coming, Cashman yelled back as his mind raced to find a solution to his dilemma. Don't shoot. I live here. I'm a policeman, too.

Suddenly, Cashman thought of a plan.

I'm holding a gun, he shouted through the door. I'm putting it down on the floor.

Cashman opened the door and stood back with his hands up. Two policemen stood on his front porch. They were young, they were extremely tense, and they were pointing weapons at him.

It's okay. They' re dead, Cashman assured the officers. Two men broke into my house. I shot them. There's no danger.

Please keep your hands up, sir, and identify yourself, said a tall, thickly built redhead, who Cashman figured was in his late twenties.

I'm Bernard Cashman, a forensic expert at the Oregon state crime lab. I own this house. I'm glad you' re here. I'm scared to death. Cashman pointed at the .38, which he'd tossed on the floor. That's their gun. You'll need it for evidence.

Can you show me some ID, Mr. Cashman?

Certainly. My wallet is in my bedroom. You'll have to come up, anyway. One of the men is on the stairs and the other is in front of my bedroom door on the landing.

On the way to Cashman's bedroom, the officers checked Balski and LaRosa for signs of life. When the criminalist had satisfied the officers that he was who he claimed to be, the redhead took him downstairs to the kitchen, to wait for the experts from the crime lab and the detectives.

Cashman put up water for chamomile tea, which would calm his nerves, and a pot of coffee for the police and forensic scientists. While he ground the coffee beans, Cashman sighed deeply and pretended to be distraught.