Dark Lady (44 page)

“So that it’s also possible that the killer, not Brett, absorbed a heavy spray of blood. Thus creating the void on Mr. Case’s chest and leaving Ms. Allen with the far lighter spray caused by CPR?”

“Again, that’s possible. But what about the absence of a contact pattern on Ms. Allen’s mouth?” Caroline raised her eyebrows. “Do you happen to know, Dr. Corn, how long it was between the murder and the time these pictures were taken?”

“In my understanding, about two hours.”

“More than long enough, in other words, for Ms. Allen to lick her lips. Or, as we know she did, to vomit and then wipe her mouth.”

“I suppose so.” Rising, Corn walked to the second bulletin board. “But as we talk, Ms. Masters, I should note the existence of a spurt of blood on Ms. Allen’s neck. Which is neither spray nor teardrop, but similar to the kind of spewing pattern I might expect from an agonal breath.”

“One spot?” Caroline stood next to him. “Are you familiar with Officer Mann’s testimony that he lent Ms. Allen his jacket?”

“Yes.”

“And could the single spot you note be a smear? Caused by contact between the jacket and Ms. Allen’s skin?” Narrow-eyed, Corn considered the photograph. “Yes,” he said tersely. “At this point, I can’t tell.” Turning, Corn headed for the witness stand. “While you’re here,” Caroline interjected, “there’s something else I’d like to ask you. About this picture.” Corn turned back to her. “Yes?”

Caroline rested her index finger beneath a smudge mark on James Case’s neck. “What’s that?” Corn studied the mark. “On the body,” he said dryly, “it looked like a braise. Left by a finger, perhaps.”

“Could you lift a print?”

“We could not.” Corn’s voice remained dry. “As I believe you pointed out yesterday to Sergeant Summers, that’s quite difficult on the body of a male. At least in the absence of blood.” Towle, Caroline noticed, was leaning forward from the bench. Quietly, she asked, “Could it also be difficult, Dr. Corn, because the person who made this mark was wearing gloves?” Corn angled his head. “Impossible to say. At least from this.”

“Then hang on.” Quickly, Caroline walked back to the defense table and produced a photograph from her briefcase. “Subject to proof,” she said to Towle, “this is a blowup of the area on Mr. Case’s neck. With the court’s permission, I’d like to ask Dr. Corn about it now, rather than recalling him.” Towle looked toward Jackson. “Mr. Watts?” Jackson stepped forward, took the photograph from Caroline, and studied it for what seemed quite long. When he gave it back to her, his expression was blank. “Subject to proof,” he said to Towle. “Thank you,” Caroline responded, and gave the photograph to Corn. Standing next to him, she indicated with a finger a faint line at one edge of the bruise. If he’s honest, her expert had told her, then he can’t say no. At least not for sure. “Do you see that line?” Caroline asked. Slowly, Corn nodded. “I see it, yes.”

“Could it have been made by the seam of a leather glove?” For a long moment, Corn squinted, silent. “Yes,” he said at last. “That’s possible.”

“And yet we know, from her fingerprints in Mr. Case’s blood, that Ms. Allen was not wearing gloves.” Corn appeared troubled now; though whether by doubt, or by being cornered, Caroline could not tell. “We know that, yes.” He looked up at Caroline, expecting her to drive the point home. Instead she passed the photograph to Judge Towle, and said simply, “Thank you, Dr. Corn. You may sit down now.” Corn gave her a brief, querying glance, and then resumed the stand. Standing in front of him, Caroline permitted a moment’s silence. “Are you quite certain,” she asked, “that whoever killed Mr. Case did so while sitting astride him?” A look of surprise, and then renewed confidence. “Yes. I am.” “And why is that?”

“There are several reasons. The void on Mr. Case’s chest, the angle of the chest wound—suggesting a thrust down and in—and the presence of spray on the grass behind him all suggest as much.” Caroline nodded. “All right, then. Could you demonstrate the motion with which you believe the murderer slashed the victim’s throat?” Corn hesitated for a moment. And then he raised his right arm and cocked his wrist; with a blunt downward-slashing motion, he cut James Case’s imaginary throat. “Like so,” he said. “That would be the motion.”

“Thank you.” As if puzzled, Caroline paused. “But shouldn’t you have used your left hand? Assuming, that is, that you were imitating Brett Allen.” Corn looked surprised and then gave her a slight smile. “I guess so.”

“And the reason you agree with me?”

“Her fingerprints on the hilt of the knife—the ones in the victim’s blood—were made with her left hand.”

“Just so.” Caroline moved to the bulletin board again, standing next to the photograph of the gashes in the dead

man’s neck. “You measured the depth of the victim’s neck wounds, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And was the depth of the wound uniform?”

“Of course not. As you would expect, it was deepest at midthrust.”

“But were the wounds deeper at one end than the other?” At the edge of her vision, Caroline saw Jackson stir. “As I remember,” Corn answered, “they were deeper on the right side.” Caroline nodded. “Tell me, Dr. Corn, are you familiar with a phenomenon known as the tailing effect?” A brief pause. “Yes.”

“And could you describe it to us?” Corn glanced at Jackson and then faced Caroline again. “As a very general rule, the blade of a knife is presumed to enter the throat more deeply—assuming a horizontal slash wound—than it exits.”

“And here, in both cases, the right-side wound was deeper.”

“Yes.” Pausing, Caroline folded her arms. “And what, assuming the tailing effect, does that suggest about the person who killed James Case?”

“Objection.” Quickly, Jackson came to the bench. “The question not only calls for speculation but piles one piece of speculation on the other. Starting with the motion with which the murderer wielded the knife.”

“With which,” Caroline retorted, “Mr. Watts was perfectly content—as long as the killer was Ms. Allen, sitting on the victim’s chest. Which is also the foundation for my seeking Dr. Corn’s expert opinion.” Nodding, Towle turned to Jackson. “I’m going to allow it, Mr. Watts. And weigh it for myself.” He turned to Corn. You may answer, Dr. Corn.” Corn looked steadily at Caroline. “It is speculative. But if I’m correct about how the wounds were inflicted, and the

tailing effect holds true, the murderer is more likely to be right-handed.” Behind her, Caroline felt a stirring in the courtroom. “Thank you,” she said crisply. “I have nothing more.”

“So,” Jackson said, “are you going to offer us the real killer? Or do you prefer a nameless phantom?” Caroline shrugged. “I don’t know yet.” It was six o’clock, and they stood beneath the trees on the lawn of the Connaughton County Courthouse. The press had gone to file their stories—that Caroline had called for Jackson to dismiss the case. Brett had returned to prison, and the rest of Caroline’s family to Masters Hill. So that now it was only the two of them, in the light of early evening. Caroline kicked off her shoes. Jackson was in an edgy humor, she decided—he treated her with a mixture of familiarity and distrust, and his tone was sardonic. But he had approached her for a reason, and she could guess what it was. Caroline breathed in deeply, face raised to the failing sun, waiting out his silence. “It’s weird,” she said. “Being locked up like this all day. You forget there’s a world.” Hands in his pockets, Jackson looked around them. Connaughton Falls was in the heart of the valley that embraced Resolve, and the vista of hills and forests was familiar to them both from childhood. “Did you ever miss this?” he asked. “Some. Because I knew I’d never come back.” Jackson glanced at her sideways. “Well, you’re back,” he said finally. “And you’re the best I’ve seen. There’s capable—like me—and then there’s something more.” His tone was one of detachment; because he could acknowledge her gifts, this he was also smart enough to beat her. “You make it sound,” Caroline replied, as if Bret’s defense is a matter of talent. Perhaps you should consider that it may be something more.” Jackson turned to her. “Brett’s defense so far, Caroline, is possibility upon surmise, ‘could be’ upon ‘should be’ upon ‘might be.” What impresses me is your ability to assimilate what is obviously a slough of expert advice, all in ten days, and find some black hole in each witness’s testimony from which to extract yet one more ‘possibility.”” Caroline shook her head. “The holes are there, and the possibilities are real. Your problem—your witnesses’ problem—is that when Megan Race came along with a motive, she made all of you assume too much. So that you believed you had the practical equivalent of a locked-door killing: no other suspects need apply.” Jackson shoved his hands in his pockets. “Yes,” he said sharply. “Megan. Tomorrow’s witness.” This did not call for an answer, and Caroline gave him none. After a time, Jackson took off his suit jacket, unknotted his tie, and sat with his back against a tree. “So who is Megan the biggest problem for? Brett, or me, or you?” Caroline sat next to him, gazing out at the lawn. “One of us,” she answered quietly. “Brett’s not even in the running.”

“And you won’t tell me anything.”

“I can’t. For Brett’s sake. Unless you dismiss the case for good.”

“Which I can’t, as you damned well know. Not without reason.” Caroline shrugged. “So there we are.” Jackson turned to her. Softly, he said, “Even if an inch-by-inch survey of Megan’s apartment turns up funny fingerprints?” Caroline’s face closed. “If I understand you,” she answered coolly, “you’re assuming a conflict between Brett’s interests and mine. Or, perhaps, my ambitions.”

Jackson shook his head. “I’m trying to understand .you, Caroline. And I can’t.” Caroline tented her fingers, placed them in her lap. “Then perhaps it will help,” she said at last, “to know that I’ve put ambition aside. You’re now the only one of us who still wishes to become a judge.” His silent gaze was without comprehension: it was as if Caroline watched them both, trapped in a moment only she understood. By instinct, she touched his arm. I’d have taken anyone else for a prosecutor, Jackson. But that’s really all I can say to you.” He gazed at her hand. “Because of Brett?”

“Yes.” Slowly, Jackson slid his ann from beneath her fingers. “Then let’s set aside Megan and discuss where we are right now.” Caroline felt awkward. And then she felt the reflex of her adulthood: the withdrawal of feeling in exchange for thought. “You want to offer me manslaughter,” she said. Jackson smiled without humor. “How did you ever guess?”

“Is there a recommended sentence that goes with it?”

“Ten years.” His smile vanished. “It’s open for one day only, Caroline. Let me know before court tomorrow.” Caroline felt herself go cold. “I thought this wasn’t about your star witness. And whatever I may have in store for her.” Jackson’s eyes narrowed. “And I thought .you had no conflict.” He paused for a moment. “I don’t know what you’ve got for Megan. But it can’t change the case we’ve built already, and Fred Towle isn’t going to bounce me. Because your questions have been about reasonable doubt, not probable cause. And you’ll have to offer a New Hampshire jury more than some song and dance about a right-handed drug dealer in gloves who paddled in by canoe while Brett was swimming, cut James’s throat, and paddled out again. In the end, it just won’t wash.”

This, Caroline feared, might be true. “Then why the offer?”

“Because between intoxication and jealousy, I expect you can entice a jury to believe that Brett acted without thought. That might even be a just result. But what you can’t guarantee her is ten years.” Jackson’s voice became soft again. “Out by age thirty-two, Caroline, with the rest of her life back. Not much of a price for what we saw in those pictures.”

“Those pictures,” Caroline retorted, “may never get into evidence—at least not the ones of Brett. Because most of what you have is a direct result of her first statement to Mann, which I’ll suppress for sure. That makes a whole lot else—the pictures, the search of Brett’s person and property, her second statement—the proverbial fruit of the poisonous tree.” Jackson rested his arms on his knees, regarding her quite calmly. “I can tell you what’ll happen. You’ll get Brett’s first statement tossed and, if you’re very lucky, the second. But all the physical evidence resulting from finding the body comes in because we would have found him without her help. And at trial, Brett will have to tell her story, anyhow, and give me or my successor a shot at cross-examination. Because no reasonable jury will forgive her for not explaining herself in the face of all the evidence.” Caroline stared at him. “Or your successor?” she repeated. “That’s right. I find that I’m not enjoying this case quite the way I should.” Caroline sat back. Was this distaste or prudence’? she wondered; the deeper stress she sensed in him could be dislike of what he was doing, fear of losing a judgeship, or the ascendancy of doubt over zeal that comes with middle age. From her own experience, it was probably all of these. “Back in high school,” she said at last, “could you have imagined this conversation?” Jackson gave the small, lopsided smile that had hardly

changed since then. “Even if I could have, Caroline, I couldn’t have guessed how it would feel.” Caroline became quiet, without quite knowing why. Then it came to her: this was likely the last civil conversation she would have with Jackson Watts. Turning, she gazed at the lawn, the trees, the deepening shadows. “I’ll talk to Brett,” she said. “But if you’re still calling Megan, I’d have her ready to go.”

Tonight, everything about Brett—the vivid green eyes, the coils of brown hair, the quick movement of her hands—seemed to quiver with suppressed anxiety. She looked far more real than Caroline felt, standing on the precipice of doubt. So that Brett’s long silence startled her. “I must not be explaining this well,” Caroline said. “You explained it fine.” Brett’s gaze was steady and penetrating. “Ten years and out. I’m just trying to read what you’re not saying.” Caroline felt one thought intersecting with another. And then she remembered the moment in a famous murder case, in which a celebrity was accused of cruelly butchering his wife, when Caroline had known that he was guilty—the day two months after the killing that the accused, prompted by his public relations expert, had offered a reward for the “real” murderer of the beloved mother of his two young children. “I was wondering,” Caroline said at last, “what you would say if I asked who you think murdered James. A drug dealer?”