Falls the Shadow (30 page)

Defense attorneys like weakness. We are always on the prowl for some small flaw we can relentlessly attack, a crack to pound and pry until the whole facade of personality crumbles into dust. That’s why we’re such fun at parties. But Detective Torricelli, lunkhead though he might be, was a surprisingly uninviting target. Not that there weren’t flaws. The man was as ugly as a pig’s foot and had the surly manner of the guy who cleans your sewers. But though he might not have been a stellar detective in the street, he had learned to play one on the stand.

Dalton had called Torricelli to go through his entire work on the case as a review for the jury. But he wasn’t only there for backup, he was also there to add a little kicker at the end, because it was Torricelli who had performed the initial interrogation of François Dubé.

“Did you inform the defendant of his constitutional rights?” said Mia Dalton.

“Sure I did,” replied Torricelli from the stand. “And he signed a form that said his rights had been read to him and that he had understood them.”

“I’d like to show you People’s Exhibit Forty-eight. Do you recognize that exhibit, Detective?”

“Yeah, that’s the form that the defendant signed while he was with me.”

“I move People’s Exhibit Forty-eight into evidence.”

“Any objection, Mr. Carl?” said the judge.

“Only to the detective’s sport coat,” I said, “not to the form.”

“You don’t like plaid?” said the judge.

“I haven’t seen a plaid that blue, Your Honor, since my prom tux.”

Torricelli turned his baleful glare upon me as the jury laughed. I was hoping they’d laugh long enough to miss the rest of his testimony. No such luck.

The statement François gave to Torricelli was very similar to the story François gave me. He had worked late the night before. He was exhausted the night of the murder. He had left the restaurant early and gone home alone to get some sleep. It was a no-alibi alibi, it couldn’t be directly disputed, but because there was no corroboration, it didn’t do much good either. If you believed François, you thought he was asleep in his bed at the time of the murder; if you thought him a lying, murderous son of a dog, then he had no alibi. Torricelli shook his noggin enough during his recitation of the statement to let the jury know exactly on which side of that line he stood.

“Did the defendant say anything to you about the pending divorce from his wife during his interrogation?” said Dalton.

“He told me it wasn’t going smoothly,” said Torricelli.

“Did he mention that he had been accused of physical abuse?”

“No, he did not.”

“Did he mention anything about his daughter?”

“He said that she was what they had been fighting over, more than the money. He said that his wife was seeking full custody and intended to move away. And then he said something I thought a little strange, considering the circumstances.”

“Objection,” I said.

“No editorializing, Detective,” said the judge. “Just answer the questions.”

“What did the defendant, François Dubé, say, Detective?”

“He said, and I wrote this down exactly, because it seemed of interest. He said”—and then the detective recited in monotone—“ ‘I could never let her take my daughter away, don’t you see? She is my life, she is everything to me. Take my daughter and you might as well kill me dead.’ And then he looked at me and said, ‘And I know that Leesa felt the same way.’ ”

“Did you ask him what he meant by that?”

“I did, yes. He simply shrugged and looked away. That was the end of the interview.”

“What do you mean, that was the end? You had no more questions?”

“No, ma’am. I had more questions. But after that he refused to give me any more answers. He said he wanted a lawyer. Mr. Robinson was hired to represent him,” said Torricelli, nodding at Whitney Robinson in his customary seat in the front row behind our table. “After Mr. Robinson came on board, there were no more interviews.”

“Thank you, Detective,” said Dalton, heading back to her seat. “I pass the witness.”

“I didn’t know he was being graded,” I said, to some titters, as I rose, pulled my jacket straight, buttoned it over my yellow tie.

I stood at the podium for a moment, thought about what I was going to do, what I was getting myself into. Torricelli stared at me, at first with wariness and then with a slight smile as he saw my hesitation and mistook it for fear of his undoubted gifts on the stand. But it wasn’t Torricelli I was afraid of just then.

I felt a cold wind flit across the back of my neck. I spun around. A reporter, out for a smoke, had slipped back inside, letting in a draft. He started at my sudden movement, as if he had been caught at something. My gaze slipped over to Whitney Robinson, who stared at me with his forehead creased in concern, as if somehow he could read my exact dilemma.

“Mr. Carl,” said the judge.

I turned around again. “Yes, sir.”

“Do you have questions for this witness?”

I thought about it for a moment more, slipped my tongue into the gap that still existed in my teeth, pressed its tip into the hole in my gum. I felt a clip of pain just then, and somehow that decided it. I pounded the podium lightly.

“Oh, yes,” I said.

“Detective Torricelli,” I began, “you were the lead investigator on the Leesa Dubé murder, isn’t that right?”

“I took the lead on this case, yeah,” he said from the stand. “It was my ups when the call came in.”

“And as part of your investigation, you spoke to Mrs. Dubé’s friends and family, isn’t that right?”

“When we are investigating a murder, we try to learn as much about the victim as we can.”

“How did you find the names of all these people you interviewed?”

“We spoke to the victim’s family, and they gave us names of friends. The friends gave us more names. That’s how it’s done.”

“You didn’t use a little black book?”

“During our initial and subsequent searches of the victim’s apartment, we couldn’t locate an address book or a PDA. Without that, we were forced to build a chain of contacts from our interviews.”

“Was that unusual, not finding an address book or a PDA?”

“Not really, though in this case it was a little surprising. Mrs. Dubé seemed to be a very organized woman.”

“Could the address book have been stolen during the time of the murder?”

“There was no other evidence of a robbery. It’s unlikely that a robber would leave the jewels and cash and yet take the address book.”

“Unless the murderer’s name was in the book and he wanted to remain nameless. Now, Detective, without the address book, were you able to talk to Leesa Dubé’s doctors?”

“We found some names and made some calls, sure, but such inquiries are often not effective, and these calls were similarly not helpful. There is the matter of doctor-patient confidentiality, which often makes getting information difficult, and the prior doctor visits can happen months, sometimes years, before the crime. In specific cases, where the medical status of the victim becomes more relevant, we have ways to get more specific help.”

“Was this one of those cases?”

“No. The report of the medical examiner gave us no indication of a medical problem. We did find the name of the victim’s gynecologist, and we asked if she had noticed anything unusual going on with the victim in the year or so before her murder. The answer she gave, without violating doctor-patient privilege, was no.”

“What other doctors did you call?”

“The pediatrician for her daughter. Mrs. Cullen, the victim’s mother, had the pediatrician’s name. Again, there was nothing noted by the doctor which might have had an impact on the investigation.”

“None of the abuse invented by Mr. Gullicksen for the divorce pleadings?”

“Objection to the term invented,” said Mia Dalton.

“I’ll rephrase. Did the child’s doctor see any signs of abuse?”

“There was nothing noted by the pediatrician, no.”

I turned, smiled at François like an uncle who had just received comforting news. These are the things you resort to in a murder case. “Did you contact any other doctors in the course of your investigation, Detective?”

“Not that I recall.”

“What about the victim’s psychiatrist?”

“Objection,” said Dalton. “Assumes a fact not in evidence.”

“Sustained.”

“Were you aware, Detective, if the deceased was seeing a psychiatrist?”

“No.”

“A dermatologist?”

“No.”

“A chiropractor?”

“No.”

“A dentist?”

“No.”

“You weren’t aware whether or not the victim had a dentist?”

“I assume she did, but it wasn’t of much interest to us. There was no question as to identity, for which dental records might have been of use. There was no damage to the victim’s teeth in the attack. The M.E.’s report noted that the victim’s teeth were in excellent shape. There was no reason to talk to her dentist.”

“Except that Leesa Dubé’s dentist might have been one of the names in the missing book.”

“Is that a question, Counselor?” said Torricelli.

“Not really, but this is: There was quite a lot of Leesa Dubé’s blood spilled on the floor at the time of her murder, isn’t that correct?”

“Yeah. So?”

“Is it possible to determine if all of the blood that bled out of the deceased was accounted for on the floor, or if some was missing?”

“No.”

“So some might have been taken, collected for some purpose by the killer, isn’t that right?”

“Technically, yes.”

“Only technically?”

“Well, if such was the case, we would expect to see some indication of the collection process. Everything leaves a mark.”

“Let me show you this photograph of the crime scene, People’s Exhibit Ten, which shows the apartment floor covered in blood. I want you to look at the bottom-left corner of the photograph. Do you see a pattern there, Detective?”

“Not really.”

“You don’t see a swirl in the blood?”

“I don’t know, maybe.”

“Maybe a swirl, is that it? Maybe a swirl caused by a small towel, used to wipe up some blood, for some later purpose?”

“I can’t tell from this photograph.”

“Maybe to be stored in a plastic bag, to be used later to wipe some of the blood off on a shirt or on the sole of a boot?”

“Am I supposed to answer that?”

“Where was the photograph in Mrs. Dubé’s hand taken from?”

“I don’t know.”

“Your theory is that she was shot in the neck and in her death throes grabbed the photograph of her husband to show it was he who killed her, isn’t that right?”

“I’m just testifying as to what I found.”

“The woman was mortally wounded in the neck, was bleeding badly, and you believe she grabbed hold of a photograph. My questions is, examining the blood at the crime scene as you did, the position of her body, the layout of the room, could you tell us from where she took the photograph?”

“Not precisely.”

“Isn’t it just as likely that the photograph was put into her hand?”

“She was gripping it pretty tightly.”

“But right after her death, her muscles would have gone slack, that’s what the coroner testified to. Isn’t it possible that the photograph was put into her lifeless hand and then the fingers pressed over it to frame the husband?”

“It seems far-fetched.”

“And then the blood was taken, as that swirl shows, to be placed in the husband’s apartment.”

“You’re going off into the ozone there, Counselor.”

“And maybe this was all done by someone familiar with the victim’s personal situation, as well as familiar with the properties and consistencies of blood. Maybe by someone like a dentist?”

“What is it with you and dentists?” said Torricelli.

“It’s called dentophobia. Fear of men with hairy forearms wielding drills and picks in your mouth. I cheerfully admit to my own case of it. And based on your smile, you might have a touch of it yourself. Tell us, Detective, do you ever talk to the dentist while he’s cleaning your teeth?”

“Maybe.”

“Ever tell him how goes the family as he’s digging away into your gums?”

“Mostly I just scream.”

“So, Detective, let me ask you again. Do you have any idea of the name of Leesa Dubé’s dentist?”

“No.”

“Don’t you think you ought to find out?”

“Our investigation is complete.”

“Obviously not.”

Just then I heard a rustle from behind me, something I’d been expecting for a while.

Whitney Robinson III was standing up, trying to slide past the other spectators on his bench as he made his way to the exit. The expression on his face when he saw me catch him in his egress was horrifying, as if my few questions about blood and dentists had somehow rent the entire fabric of his life. Then, finally, he was out into the aisle, turning to the door, stalking out of the courtroom. At his first opportunity, he would make a call.

And I knew damn well whom he would be calling.

Torricelli waylaid us before Beth and I could leave the courtroom. The jury had been dismissed, the judge was off the bench, François had been taken away by the bailiff, and I wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there, too, but Torricelli had other ideas. He was not a man easily gotten around, especially when he stood in the aisle between you and the door.

“Detective,” I said. “I hope I wasn’t out of line with that crack about the sport coat.”

“My wife says worse.”

“And yet you persist.”

“Old habits. Nice bit of vaudeville today.”

“I do my best.”

“You want to give me the handle of the dentist?”

“Not yet.”

He snorted. “Figures. I thought I’d seen it all from you, Carl, but then you go and blame the murder of that woman on a noble professional.”

“I tried to pick a suspect the jury would despise even more than a lawyer.”

“Pretty low, even for you.”

“You think that was low,” I said, “hold on to your hat.”

“I was expecting you to mug me about planting the evidence I found. I was geared for a grilling.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“I know what my reputation is. I’m too fat to be smart, I’m too surly to be truthful, I’m a lifelong cop so I must be on the wrong side of the line.”

“You don’t have to convince me.”

“That’s right, I don’t. But no matter how slipshod you run your business, I give a damn about mine. I don’t like to get things wrong. It alters the balance of things, you understand?”

“You talking karma, Detective?”

“Call it what you want. But I go out of my way not to slap the right beef on the wrong tuna.”

“Why am I suddenly hungry for surf and turf?”

“You have the wrong man this time, Detective,” said Beth.

“I don’t believe we do,” said Torricelli. “But if you think so, tell me the skinny I need to get it straight. Give me a name.”

“That would spoil the surprise.”

Another snort. “Dalton told me to go out and earn my paycheck. I’ll have the name by morning.”

“You want to know something?” I said after Torricelli had headed out the door and we were left alone in the courtroom. “I might have underestimated that man.”

“Is that possible?” said Beth.

“It’s scary to think so, isn’t it?”

“Do you think it was too soon to bring up the whole dentist thing?”

“The jury liked it.”

“But, Victor, Torricelli will probably discover your dentist’s name. And if he wasn’t in town that day, or he has an alibi, or we can’t figure out a motive, all of which is quite possible, then it’s game over.”

“I know.”

“So?”

“We don’t have much choice, do we? After the Sonenshein debacle, we have to take a risk. And this is it.”

“But—”

“Beth, look at me.”

She turned to face me, her pretty, worried eyes focused on my own.

“Do you trust me?” I said.

Her gaze rose to the ceiling. “Why does that question always scare me?”

“Look at me.”

She did.

“I don’t like him,” I said, “and I don’t like how you feel about him, and I wish we never took the damn case. But a woman is dead, a little girl has lost her mother, her father is my client and he’s fighting for his life. All of that I take as seriously as anything in this world. So whatever happens in this courtroom the next few days, you have to trust me that I’m trying to do the right thing.”

“Is it going to be wild?”

“Yes.”

“But you really do believe François, don’t you?”

“I don’t believe a word out of his pouty little French mouth, but he didn’t kill his wife.”

“Okay. Good. Then let’s do it. Let’s you and I nail that dentist to the wall.”

“If he doesn’t nail us first.”