Mistaken Identity (50 page)

“I’m only asking for information.”

“Information is going up against Citrone, and I don’t know anything anyway, I swear.”

Lou sipped his coffee and looked at the kid’s face. “You’re afraid.”

“Bullshit.”

“Don’t work in clothes, kid. They’d make you in a minute.”

“I’m not afraid, there’s nothing to be afraid of. That I don’t want to fuck with Citrone? Nothing wrong with that, I’m new on the job.”

Lou edged over the table. “What’s the big deal? Citrone the President of the United States? Did I miss something when I was in the can?”

“Citrone’s the old man. He knows everybody.”

“Then he must know Lenihan, like you said the first time.” Lou held his coffee cup. “Kid, Lenihan was in business with two guys from the Twentieth. They were in it together, with a detective, Della Porta, who got it last year and who used to be in the Eleventh. You think Citrone knows something about it? He’s an old-timer, like you said.”

Vega stood up abruptly, reached in his pocket, and flipped open his wallet. “Don’t call me, don’t find me, don’t bother me.” He threw a creased five on the table. “Stay away from me. Stay away from my father.”

Lou rose, his knees creaky. “Listen, I just want to talk.”

“You heard me,” Vega said, and lumbered from the booth and out of the diner.

Lou watched him jog across the parking lot to his patrol car.
Running scared,
Lou thought.

“What happened to your friend?” she asked. The waitress appeared and tugged a pad and a stubby pencil from a black apron.

“My friend? He had to see a man about a horse.”

“Wha?” The waitress scratched her head with her pencil.

“It’s an expression. Don’t you know that expression?”

“No. You wanna order?”

“Gimme three scrambled eggs and answer me this. You see a lot of cops in here, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“You ever see a cop in here named Lenihan? He was from the Eleventh.”

“Lenihan? Isn’t he that blond babe from the newspaper?”

Babe?
Lou thought he heard her wrong. Maybe he did need a hearing aid. “Babe? When did men become babes?”

“Wha?”

Lou wiped his forehead, still damp. “Forget it. Did Lenihan eat here?”

“Sure.”

“Who’d he eat with?”

“Other cops.”

“Which other cops?”

The waitress shrugged. “How would I know?”

“Cops wear nameplates, for one thing.”

“I don’t read their nameplates. Besides, I don’t talk about my customers.”

“It’s just a question. Who’d he eat with, usually?”

“You a cop? I thought you were a cop.”

“No, I’m just a guy. An old guy who wants to know.”

“Well, you’re shit out of luck, old guy who wants to know,” the waitress said, and shifted her weight. “You still want those eggs?”

“You got ketchup, right?”

“’Course.”

“Then yes,” Lou said, and sipped his coffee as she sashayed off.

B
ennie faced the blood expert on the witness stand. “Dr. Pettis, you and I have met before, so I won’t introduce myself.”

The professor nodded, with a jowly smile. “Good to see you again, Ms. Rosato.”

“And you, sir,” Bennie said, hamming it up. The jury liked Pettis and she wanted them to know that Pettis liked her, too, so she wasn’t the enemy. It was the best tactic with a reasonable expert put up by the other side: make him your own. “Dr. Pettis, the Commonwealth has provided you with various items to examine in this matter. It has provided you with photos, a complete file, blood samples, and a sweatshirt, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“The Commonwealth did not provide you with a weapon to examine, did it?”

“No.”

“Is it your understanding that the police have not recovered the murder weapon in this case?”

“Yes.”

Bennie was watching the jurors’ faces. They looked attentive, and she guessed they were already wondering about the absence of the murder weapon. She walked calmly to the witness stand. “Dr. Pettis, what kind of forensic evidence can be found on a gun used to commit a murder?”

“Objection,” Hilliard said, half rising. “This is beyond the scope of direct examination. Dr. Pettis didn’t discuss murder weapons on direct.”

Bennie faced Judge Guthrie, who sat listening behind his tented fingers. “Your Honor, Dr. Pettis has been qualified as a forensics expert, and I’m asking him some basic questions about forensics.”

“I’ll permit it,” Judge Guthrie said, and his mouth disappeared behind his finger steeple.

Bennie returned to Dr. Pettis. “Please tell us the type of evidence you usually find on a murder weapon, such as a .22 caliber gun, for example.”

“Obviously, one would find fingerprints on the gun, which may result in a positive identification. There may also be flakes of skin, hair, or other trace evidence that could help identify the person who shot the gun.”

Bennie raised a hand. “But in this case, there was no weapon, so no suspect can be identified or eliminated on that basis in this case, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Dr. Pettis, are you also aware that a sweatshirt was found in a Dumpster in an alley, is that right?”

“I was told that by the prosecutor, yes.”

“No gun was found in the Dumpster, that you know of?”

“Not that I know.”

Bennie took a moment to look at the jurors’ faces, one by one. If they were wondering, let them wonder. “I have another forensics question, Dr. Pettis. When a person fires a gun, from any distance, aren’t certain residues deposited on their hand?”

“Yes, provided there’s no intermediate barrier, such as a glove.”

“Can you test for the presence of such residues in your lab?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Were you asked to perform any such test on Alice Connolly’s hands?”

“No.”

“You have no knowledge if any samples of residues were taken from Alice Connolly’s hands, do you, Dr. Pettis?”

“I do not.”

“Thank you. Let’s move on.” Bennie crossed to the evidence table and plucked the large baggie containing the sweatshirt from the evidence table. “Dr. Pettis, I am showing you what is marked as Commonwealth Exhibit 13. Do you recall testifying about the spatter pattern on this sweatshirt?”

“Yes.”

Bennie extracted the sweatshirt and unfolded it, releasing a stale, distasteful scent. The blood dotting its surface was caked and dried, but she couldn’t help feeling vaguely nauseated. “Dr. Pettis, blood spatter analysis is well accepted in the law enforcement community, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“And most law enforcement professionals, such as the police, are familiar with its principles, are they not?”

“Objection, calls for speculation, Your Honor,” Hilliard said from his chair.

“Overruled,” Judge Guthrie said. “Dr. Pettis may so testify.”

Dr. Pettis faced Bennie. “Law enforcement professionals, such as police, would be familiar with blood spatter analysis. I myself lecture on it at police academies around the country.”

“Do you lecture on blood spatter to the Philadelphia police, as part of their training?”

“I do, and on other forensic principles as well.”

Bennie cocked her head, still holding the sweatshirt. “Do you have an estimate of how many police officers you’ve trained over the years in principles of blood spatter analysis?”

“I’m so long in the tooth, God only knows,” he said, and the jurors smiled with him. “Thousands, easily.”

“Thank you.” Bennie held up the sweatshirt. “Dr. Pettis, didn’t you testify earlier that the blood spatter pattern on this sweatshirt is typical?”

“Yes, I did.”

“You teach this in your lecture course to the police, is that right, sir?”

“Yes.”

Bennie faced the jury, still holding the sweatshirt against her own chest. She didn’t need hair or skin analysis to tell her it was Connolly’s; it would have fit Bennie exactly. “Tell the jury, Dr. Pettis, do you ever re-create spatter like this in your lab?”

“Yes. All the time. I do it to test my hypotheses and confirm my conclusions.”

“So you
create
blood spatter, all the time? How do you do it?”

“I simply spray blood, I use pig’s blood, at different garments. If it’s at a distance I use a spray gun. But short of that, I simply flick the blood onto the garment, as Jackson Pollock did with paint. It isn’t difficult.”

Bennie smiled inwardly. Thank God for the expert’s modesty. “So isn’t it true that an individual familiar with blood spatter principles can
create
blood spatter?”

“Yes.”

Bennie tossed the sweatshirt aside to signal to the jury how useless it was. She never was one for subtle cues. “I have no further questions,” she said, but Hilliard was already reaching for his crutches.

Dr. Marc Merwicke was the most respected of the city’s medical examiners, and Bennie wondered as Hilliard qualified him if his signature was the one on Lenihan’s false blood alcohol levels. But Dr. Merwicke’s appearance belied the suggestion that he could be capable of anything as exciting as a criminal conspiracy. Dressed in a gray suit and a solid tie of platinum color, Merwicke was about forty years old, with wet-down hair prematurely gray and a pallor that belonged in a morgue. Bennie felt a cold chill looking at him, thinking of her mother, then Lenihan. So much death; it was all around her. Her life was thick with it, as were her thoughts.

Hilliard asked a series of questions that took Merwicke through the autopsy he performed on Della Porta. Over Bennie’s objections, Merwicke launched into a complete and painstaking examination of grisly autopsy photos, wound site photos, and magnifications of exit and entrance wounds. They were projected on a large screen pulled down from the wall, like a macabre movie, and Bennie watched the librarian turn away and the back row of the jury shudder almost collectively.

Merwicke finally testified that the “shooter”—borrowing the term from police lingo—could have been a man or woman, but was a tall person. Bennie watched nervously as several of the jurors turned to size Connolly up. The jurors frowned further when Merwicke testified that hair and skin samples from the defendant matched several found on the sweatshirt, linking the blood-spattered exhibit to Connolly.

“I have one last question, Dr. Merwicke,” Hilliard asked, returning to the podium. “Does your office routinely perform tests for gunshot residue on the hands of murder suspects?”

“Yes.”

“Did you perform a residue test on Alice Connolly’s hands in this case?”

“No.”

“Why was that, Dr. Merwicke?”

“Lawyers,” the witness said flatly, and the jury laughed.

“Move to strike, Your Honor,” Bennie said, standing up. She didn’t understand the answer and she wasn’t about to lose the residue point. “A lawyer joke isn’t responsive, Your Honor.”

“Your Honor,” Hilliard said from the podium, “I was about to ask the witness to explain his answer.” Judge Guthrie nodded, and Hilliard asked the witness to elaborate.

Dr. Merwicke’s mouth tightened. “I meant that we can’t always perform the tests we need to because criminal defense lawyers obstruct our efforts.”

“Objection!” Bennie said, angry. “Move to strike that question and answer, Your Honor. There has been no evidence in this case that defense lawyers obstructed efforts to test Ms. Connolly’s hand and—”

“But they did,” Merwicke broke in, pointing a finger. “Alice Connolly’s first lawyers did. They filed a motion. They made such a stink, my office couldn’t get a sample. We had to take it to court, and by the time we could get a judge to rule, your client’s hands were clean.”

“Move to strike the testimony!” Bennie said, though it shocked her. There hadn’t been any motion about it in the Jemison file and she had been too busy to check the docket sheets herself. “Your Honor, the witness may not testify as to any decisions or filings by previous defense counsel in this matter. Ms. Connolly has a right to assert all protections due her under the Constitution.”