Diagnosis Murder 3 - The Shooting Script (24 page)

"Must be a lot of work running this place," the man said to Steve.

"It's a lot of work running anything," Steve said.

"Bet it would be a lot easier if you had a million dollars," the man said.

"Everything would be easier with a million dollars," Steve replied.

The man reached into his jacket, took out a check, and set it on the counter.

"Life just got easier," the man said.

Steve glanced at the check. It was from Toffler & Templeton and it was made out to him for one million dollars. He'd heard of the venerable publisher, of course. Anyone who'd ever walked into a bookstore in the last sixty years knew their ubiquitous logo: two "T"s separated by an elegant quill as an ampersand.

"I'm Mitch Stein, senior editor of Toffler & Templeton's true-crime imprint," Stein said, offering his hand. "We'd like to hear your story."

"My life isn't really that interesting."

"It became interesting when you arrested Lacey McClure for murder," Stein said. "We'll pair you up with Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Andy Andrews to create the definitive account of your investigation."

Steve set his Coke down on the check, using it as a coaster. "I'm not interested."

"You don't have to do a thing except talk." Stein looked down as the ring of moisture beneath the glass widened, the absorption heading for the red ink of the inscribed amount and signature.

"If I participate in the writing of this book, my career is over," Steve said.

"No offense, but your career is already over," Stein said quickly, racing the absorption, hoping to change Steve's mind before the ink smeared, voiding the check. "You're going to need this money to live on."

"I'll live," Steve said.

"Wouldn't you prefer to live well?" Stein asked.

"I've still got to live with myself," Steve said, walking away.

Stein glanced down at the check. It was wet. The moisture from the glass had smeared the red ink. What was once a million dollars now looked like drops of fresh blood.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Superior Court Judge Aurelio Rojas stared down from the bench at his crowded courtroom with weariness and disapproval, as if the very presence of the people before him was a disappointment. The only thing that would have pleased him was greeting an empty courtroom, which would prove that at least one day had gone by without a lawless act being committed that demanded his judgment.

But that day was never going to come, and, rather than accept it, he wore a permanent expression of glum disdain and chronic displeasure. If his expression was an accurate reflection of his attitude, then it probably boded well for the prosecution. It was the only edge the prosecution appeared to have, since they were clearly outmatched in sheer star power by the expertly coiffed and outfitted group at the defense table.

Their backs were to the spectators' gallery where Mark and Steve sat. Even so, the defense table radiated beauty, poise, wealth, power, and supreme self-confidence with such intensity that Mark felt like he should be wearing sunscreen.

Lacey McClure was dressed in the same conservative suit she wore in her movie
Thrill Kill
when she played the housewife who takes on the Mob. She also wore the same look of moral outrage she displayed in the courtroom scenes when the killers of her cop husband were set free on a technicality. Her performance on this day wasn't so much for the benefit of the judge, who didn't seem to notice it, as for the cameras, which noticed everything.

Her codefendant Moira Cole didn't have her idol's, admittedly limited, acting ability or natural charisma, but she did have her natural beauty, though with a harder edge. An attempt had been made to soften that edge and to deemphasize her resemblance to Lacey with a new haircut, makeup, and a sexier wardrobe that accentuated her femininity.

Arthur Tyrell managed to look both respectful and utterly at ease, leaning forward with his elbows on the table, his gold pen poised to take notes on his brand-new blank legal pad. There were no notes, files, or papers in front of him, which by itself conveyed his command of the facts, and projected strength.

ADA Karen Cross sat at the prosecution table with several files stacked beside her, using the last few seconds before the hearing to scribble a couple more notes to herself on a pad seemingly already filled with writing. She looked like a student cramming at the last minute before a final exam and wore an off-the-rack suit that accentuated her frailness. Mark wondered if she, too, was affecting a pose, to look like the vulnerable underdog up against the aggressive, high- powered attorney. Then again, it wasn't so much a pose as a clear statement of the truth, even if she was consciously taking advantage of it.

The truth was that Karen Cross already had a distinct advantage. The threshold of proof required to establish that there was enough evidence to go to trial was exceeding low. The defense rarely succeeded in getting the case dismissed.

The gallery where Mark sat was filled to capacity with witnesses and reporters, who represented only a small fraction of the journalists who were camped outside the building. But no one was being deprived of the experience of watching the preliminary hearing unfold. The hearing was being broadcast live on Court TV from a single camera mounted above the jury box.

Mark had no doubt the hearing would be covered with ridiculous significance and high drama by Court TV's team of legal pundits, despite the fact that there was little doubt what the outcome would be. The hearing would play like a dress rehearsal of the murder trial, a preview of the block buster entertainment event to come.

Judge Rojas cleared his throat and looked directly at Tyrell, as if he were a child who might misbehave at any moment.

"This is a preliminary hearing to determine if there is enough evidence to merit a trial," Rojas said, more for the benefit of the public than of the experienced attorneys in front of him. "It is not a trial, so save your histrionics for the jury. Is that clear?"

Rojas didn't expect a verbal answer, but looked to the two attorneys to see the acknowledgement on their faces.

"Are the People ready?" the judge asked.

Karen Cross rose from her seat. "Yes, your honor."

"Is the defense ready?" the judge asked.

Arthur Tyrell glanced significantly at his clients, cleverly drawing everyone's attention to them, giving the two women a chance to shamelessly emote for the cameras, then he rose and faced the Judge. "Yes, Your Honor."

"Proceed," the judge said, tipping his head to Karen.

"Your Honor, the People call Officer Tony Blake to the stand."

The uniformed cop, the first to respond to the murder scene, rose from his seat in the gallery, was sworn in, and took his place on the witness stand.

Karen asked him some straightforward and perfunctory questions to establish that a crime had actually taken place, and where and when it had happened.

Officer Blake set up a couple of key points Mark knew that the prosecutor would come back to later: that the police responded to a "shots fired" 911 call at four thirty p.m., and arrived at the scene to find Cleve Kershaw and Amy Butler naked together in bed, shot to death.

Karen sat down. Tyrell rose and strode casually up to the witness stand.

"Officer Blake, were there any witnesses to the shooting?" Tyrell asked.

"No," the officer replied.

"Did anyone report seeing either of my clients at the scene?" Tyrell tipped his head towards the prosecution table to indicate Lacey McClure and Moira Cole, who both un flinchingly met the officer's gaze.

"No," Officer Blake said.

"Did you see either of my clients at the scene?"

"No," Officer Blake said.

"Who called 911 and reported hearing gunshots?" Tyrell asked.

"According to my dispatcher, it was a neighbor who identified himself as Dr. Mark Sloan."

Tyrell nodded, then looked directly at Mark. And in that one, economical glance, Tyrell communicated a wealth of information, none of it good. The lawyer was saying he knew exactly who Mark was and where he was sitting. And Tyrell wouldn't have known that unless Mark mattered to him. And there was only one reason that Mark would matter.

In that instant, Mark knew what was going to happen to him and that he was powerless to stop it. The realization and the dread must have shown on Mark's face, because Tyrell allowed himself the tiniest of smiles before turning back to face Officer Blake.

Karen Cross didn't appreciate the significance of Tyrell's glance at Mark, but she noticed the smile and knew it meant misery for her.

"Were there any other calls to the police reporting the gunshot?" Tyrell asked the officer.

"Not to my knowledge," Officer Blake said.

"So the only evidence that you had that the shots were fired at four thirty that afternoon was the phone call from Dr. Sloan."

"Yes," the officer said.

Tyrell paused, as if mulling this new information for the first time. He wasn't, but Karen Cross was. She was trying to extrapolate from the question what Tyrell's line of de fense was going to be and how it might affect her case. She didn't have to wait long to find out.

"When you arrived at the scene," Tyrell asked, "did you discover anyone in the house with the victims?"

"Yes."

"Who was it?"

"Dr. Sloan," The officer said.

"In fact, you caught him in the act of butchering Amy Butler with a knife."

Karen bolted up from her seat. "Objection! That isn't a question, it's a statement. He's putting words in the witness' mouth."

"Sustained," the judge said, then turned to Tyrell. "I remind you, Mr. Tyrell, that this is a courtroom and not a stage. You're making your case to me and not to the cameras. I won't tolerate any more dramatic performances."

Tyrell nodded. "I'll rephrase the question."

But the damage had already been done. The image of Mark Sloan, gutting a naked young woman in bed with bloodthirsty glee, was already planted in the minds of the viewers watching the hearing on television.

Steve glanced at his father, who was stone-faced. Mark was trying hard to keep his emotions from showing. He didn't want to look guilty, though he certainly felt it—well aware now how his actions could be misinterpreted and used to torpedo the prosecution. But there was no way to stop Tyrell now. The best Karen Cross could hope to do was to contain the damage.

Tyrell faced the officer again. "Was Dr. Sloan with the victims?"

"Yes," the Officer conceded.

"Was he holding a sharp implement in his hands and cutting into Amy Butler's naked body?"

"Yes."

"Did you draw your weapon?"

"Yes."

"Why?" Tyrell asked.

The officer was taken aback. This was not a question he could dodge with a simple yes or no answer. It took him two long seconds to think of how to respond in a way that would cause the least damage to the case.

"It's standard procedure when responding to a call of shots fired to be prepared to defend yourself against an armed assailant," the officer replied. "We were startled to encounter Dr. Sloan with the bodies."

"I don't blame you for being startled," Tyrell said.

"Objection," Karen said.

"Withdrawn," Tyrell replied. "You arrested Dr. Sloan, didn't you, Officer Blake?"

"Yes."

"Why?" Tyrell asked.

Once again, Officer Blake shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wrestling with another question he didn't want to answer.

"Although we were responding to a report of gunshots, we didn't know for certain how the victims had been killed," Officer Blake said. "We discovered him holding a scalpel to one of the victims."

"Was he performing a lifesaving medical procedure?"

Karen Cross objected. "Officer Blake isn't qualified to answer that question. He isn't a doctor, nor does he have medical training."

"Sustained," the judge said.

Tyrell sighed. "Would it be fair to say, Officer Blake, that at the moment you entered the room and saw Dr. Sloan slicing the victims, you weren't certain whether or not you'd caught the murderer in the act?"

"Yes," Officer Blake replied.

"In fact, the only information you had that shots had even been fired came from Dr. Sloan, the man you found hacking up the bodies. Isn't that true?"

"Objection," Karen said. "Argumentative."

"The witness has already testified that Dr. Sloan made the 911 call and that he discovered him cutting into one of the victims," Tyrell argued.

"There's a big difference between a small surgical incision and hacking," Karen argued.

"Is there?" Tyrell asked, enjoying the opportunity to underscore again the negative image of Mark Sloan he was creating.

Karen realized too late that she'd been expertly manipulated once again. She would have been better off not objecting. All she'd managed to do was multiply the damage.

"Objection sustained," the judge said, glaring at Tyrell. "Please try to present the facts without embellishment, Mr. Tyrell."

"Yes, Your Honor." Tyrell approached the witness stand. "Officer Blake, would it be accurate to say that Dr. Sloan initiated this investigation and controlled all the facts as you knew them?"

"Objection," Karen said, unable to disguise her irritation. "Officer Blake wasn't then, nor is he now, omniscient."

"Sustained," the judge said. "Please limit your questions to matters that mere mortals, and this witness, are qualified to address."

"Yes, Your Honor," Tyrell said, turning his attention to the witness again. "Was Dr. Sloan alone with the bodies be fore you arrived?"

"Yes."

"Do you have any idea how long he was alone in that house, or what other procedures he might have performed on the victims?"

"No," Officer Blake replied.

"You testified earlier that you arrested Dr. Sloan," Tyrell said. "Was he transported to the station and charged?"

"No," the officer said, his face beginning to redden from both anger and embarrassment.

"He wasn't?" Tyrell asked, feigning surprise. "Was he released without being charged?"