The Copy (4 page)

CHAPTER NINE

"PLEASE STATE YOUR NAME and title for the record."

"Harold Kinsel, Lead Forensics Specialist, State Police Bureau."

"Thank you, Mr. Kinsel." Alton smiled thinly at the man, who gazed back at him with dark mole-like eyes behind thick glasses. Sweat was beaded on his porcine brow at which he mopped frequently with a folded handkerchief. His appearance belied the considerable expertise of his resume.

Alton launched into a protracted back and forth exchange establishing the man's bona fides as an expert for the jury. He then walked his witness through the steps taken by his team in examining the evidence, the careful cross-checking and authentication of their findings, and at length came to the crux of the matter; and the linchpin of his case. He would seal up means and opportunity even though motive may forever remain a mystery.

"Mr. Kinsel, based upon the detailed forensic investigation you've just described to us, can you make a definitive statement as to whether the shotgun found at the scene was in fact the murder weapon?"

Kinsel mopped his brow once more, pushed his glasses up the pudgy nose, and answered in a carefully metered tone, "Yes, it was the murder weapon."

"And are your findings conclusive on that score?"

"Yes, sir, they are."

"Mr. Kinsel, can you explain to us how you can be so sure?"

Kinsel straightened in his chair. He cleared his throat and touched his top lip with the handkerchief before leaning in to the microphone. "Well, Mr. McBride, a shotgun shell - as you may know - consists of numerous lead projectiles encased within a plastic shell. Unlike traditional bullets they don't gather rifling marks while exiting the barrel, so cannot be identified by a standard ballistic firing test. However," He raised a thick finger in the air, "using some newer techniques there are ways to make the identification." He sat back in his chair with a knowing smile and mopped his brow, seeming to enjoy the attention in an altogether awkward manner.

Alton smiled back at him. "Please enlighten us, Mr. Kinsel."

"The shotgun shell, you see, has a fused end. Of course it would have to, otherwise the buckshot - uh, the projectiles within - would simply fall out. When fired the projectiles are expelled at velocity, breaking through the uppermost plastic casing. Fragments of this plastic were naturally found in the victim's cranial remains. Now normally one couldn't identify the source of a plastic fragment by its chemical composition - plastic being so ubiquitous - but," He paused for a breath with the chubby finger raised once more, "during the firing of the shell, when the plastic casing is torn apart at velocity the plastic polymers undergo a substantive change due to the high speed rending of their fibers combined with the additional chemical reaction with lead and gunpowder during the firing of the explosive charge. The result is a very distinct forensic signature on the edges of shell casing fragments that can, using highly specialized spectral and chemical analyses, be matched with the used shell casing found in the discharged weapon."

"Thank you, Mr. Kinsel." Alton McBride walked to his table and looked down at the blank legal pad sitting there, giving the jury a few moments to digest Kinsel's testimony.

With an expression that said he hadn't quite understood the details himself, he approached the witness.

In his pocket his phone vibrated. He considered briefly asking the judge for a recess but decided against it. Breaking momentum during testimony was a cardinal sin; and besides, regardless of what his investigator had to tell him, the case was locked up.

"So, Mr. Kinsel, what we are to understand then is that you found plastic shotgun shell casing fragments embedded in the victim's brain?"

"What was left of it, yes."

"And these fragments, you were then able to match them precisely and conclusively with the spent shell casing found in Mr. Bartell's shotgun. That being the shotgun found at the scene of the crime?"

"Correct."

"And Mr. Kinsel - and please take your time answering this question - are you able to swear to this court, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that these fragments were in fact fired from that same shotgun?"

"Yes sir, I am," said Kinsel without hesitation, just as they'd rehearsed it.

"Thank you, Mr. Kinsel." Alton turned and swept his gaze over the jurors. He nodded to himself, tapping a finger on his upper lip, as if digesting this revelation for the first time. Then he turned back to the witness. "Now, when Mr. Bartell was taken into custody was he tested for gunshot residue on his hands?"

"Yes he was."

"And what were your findings?"

"Gunshot residue was found on his right hand."

"And this tells us that he fired the shotgun in question on that evening?"

"No, it simply tells us that he fired a weapon containing shotgun shells of a make and manufacturer consistent with those found at the scene, sometime within a three to four hour window of being taken into custody."

"Was there any additional evidence you were able to ascertain from the weapon?"

"Yes," Kinsel said, his small eyes narrowing. "We found a partial print on the trigger of the weapon."

"A partial print?"

"Yes, well the trigger isn't wide enough to - well, you know." Kinsel swiped the handkerchief across his brow.

"Yes, Mr. Kinsel, thank you. I think we can understand that. Is a partial fingerprint enough to make a definitive identification?"

"If it includes the meat, uh, the middle section of the digit where the print spirals inwards, then yes."

"And did this partial print contain the 'meat', as you say?"

"Yes it did."

"And was a match found of this fingerprint?"

"Yes it was."

Alton turned to face the jury, relishing the theatrics of the courtroom drama. "And Mr. Kinsel, would you be so kind as to tell the court to whom that fingerprint belongs?"

"Yes, it belongs to Mr. Geoffrey Bartell."

"Thank you, Mr. Kinsel," Alton said as he let his gaze linger on the jury.

Then he turned and walked slowly to his chair. As he passed in front of the defense table he gave James Scott May a nod. "Your witness," he said.

May looked up distractedly. "The defense has no questions for the witness."

Without batting an eye Judge Lemar excused the witness. The peculiarity had worn off by the second day of trial as the defense team had steadily declined to cross-examine every single witness for the prosecution.

District Attorney Alton McBride remained standing and with a curt bow towards the court proclaimed, "In that case, Your Honor, the prosecution rests."

CHAPTER TEN

AS THE MONTHS WENT by Geoffrey and Jeff had settled into a brittle working relationship. They focused on the attainment of their combined goals while avoiding the awkward yet inevitable question of what the future held thereafter. The avoidance of that question however was developing a tension between them like a thunderhead gathering on the horizon - dark, silent and brooding. Both felt it, and both studiously ignored it for fear of what the answer would be.

The senate hearings had gone well, thanks in no small part to Senator Denville, and legislation was in the works that would launch GenLabs' technology into the mainstream. There were still plenty of hurdles - the bill was facing strong opposition from the conservative right as could be expected - but they were well on their way to victory.

Jeff stood at the window and watched the picket line on the street far below. A woman in a bright orange hat led a snaking line of protestors in front of the building, a bullhorn to her lips and indignant fervor written in her body language. Jeff couldn't make out the words nor read their hand-painted signs at this distance, but the pantomime below was one he'd seen before - and he knew their propaganda well enough.

"Fucking Reverend Costello!" Geoffrey's voice pierced the silence.

Jeff turned to see him striding from the private elevator. He made no reply to the outburst, just looked at Geoffrey for a few seconds before turning back to the window. Geoffrey sidled up next to him and together they watched the street below. After a minute Geoffrey broke the silence.

"Do you think these idiots have a clue as to what they're actually marching against?" He snorted. "They're puppets, the lot of them."

Jeff watched the line as it continued to snake from the south end of the building, outside his field of vision, down the main street out front, then disappearing again around the north corner. Two women stopped directly across the street and hoisted a banner between them, waving it vigorously as if they sensed him watching from behind the mirrored glass twenty stories above.

"I think some of them believe they're helping," Jeff said softly.

"Phh! This is Costello's doing. Riling up the masses from his TV pulpit. None of these sheep would be out there if not for him!"

Jeff nodded noncommittally. "Yeah, I suppose."

"We should have him whacked."

Jeff's head snapped around. Geoffrey made no move, just continued to look out the window, stone-faced. "Tell me you're kidding."

"I know people who know people," Geoffrey said as his eyes followed a wisp of cloud skittering across the late afternoon sky. He pursed his lips. "Wouldn't be that difficult."

Jeff leaned in toward him, his mouth a tight line. "Geoffrey, tell me you are kidding!"

Geoffrey watched the cloud until it slipped over the horizon, then turned to Jeff with a wistful expression. He looked him all the way down and back up again. At length his mouth broke into a lopsided grin.

"Of course I'm kidding!" he said, slapping Jeff on the shoulder. He strode to his desk and dropped into the plush leather chair. "Come on, enough sheep watching. Sit down. We need to talk."

Jeff turned from the window and walked over to the bar. He opened a bottled water and took a long swallow. "What are we talking about?"

"Jeff. Come. Sit."

"Okay." Jeff flopped down on the sofa against the wall next to his desk. "What?"

Geoffrey steepled his fingers, rested his chin on top and pursed his lips. "This thing that you do. I'm curious about it."

"What thing?"

"The symbol you're always doodling."

"Symbol?"

"Yes, Jeff, the fucking symbol you doodle on every piece of paper in front of you. The same one I've seen you draw on the frosted car window while you're waiting for the engine to warm up. What is it?"

"I'm not sure. I doodle a lot of things. You do too."

"No, this is different. It's a distinct symbol, almost identical every time."

"You mean the circle with the lines?"

"Yeah. The two wavy line cutting across, and the long vertical slash through the middle."

"I'm not sure," Jeff said, his brow wrinkled in thought. "It just sort of comes out. I get the urge to doodle or whatever, and that's what comes out. Just seems natural."

Geoffrey leaned forward, his hands now fisted and enclosing one another and his eyes searching. "When's the first time you recall doing it?"

"I don't know."

"Think, Jeff."

Jeff shook his head. "I'm not sure. Maybe the first morning. In the shower. I made some squiggles on the glass when it steamed up. But I'm not a hundred percent on whether it was that exactly."

"Hmm," Geoffrey said rocking back in the chair, his hands once again steeple and pressed against his lips.

"What are you thinking?" Asked Jeff, the curiosity now rising in him. "An anomaly of the process?"

"Could be," Geoffrey said. "Are you sure you haven't seen this mark somewhere? On television or billboards?"

"If I have I don't remember it."

Jeff got up and walked over to the desk. He perched on the edge, grabbed a thick marker from the pen holder and sketched out the symbol on Geoffrey's desk blotter. Both of them looked at it for a long moment.

"What about you?" Jeff asked. "Does it mean anything to you?"

"No," said Geoffrey. "That's the problem. I've no idea what it is. It's something in you that didn't come from me. And that's disturbing."

"What do you think it means?"

"I don't think it means anything, in itself. It' a normal expression of the subconscious." He looked at Jeff with serious eyes. "But the fact that your subconscious differs from mine is cause for significant concern."

They both turned their attention to the mark on the desk blotter, its edges now blurring and softening as the marker soaked its way into the paper.

After a minute Geoffrey looked at his watch then jumped to his feet. "I've got to go. Christmas party is at seven."

Jeff flinched. "You're going?"

"Yes I'm going. What did you think?"

"I just...well, I've generally been handling the domestic end of things while you've been-"

"Here working? Exactly! I've been working like a dog these last few months. It's time for a little R and R." Geoffrey launched himself out of the chair and headed for the elevator. "You stay here and work on this. I'll see you in the morning. We'll need to run some tests."

"You're staying at the house tonight?" asked Jeff, his face a mask of concern.

"Yep," Geoffrey called over his shoulder as he strode into the elevator. He turned and leaned against the back wall with his arms crossed and a smug grin on his face. As the doors slid shut he gave Jeff a wink.

"And who knows, I may even make love to my wife."