Devil in the Dock (A Robin Starling Courtroom Mystery) (8 page)

“And?”

“There were a few points of identification between the print and the print on the decedent’s left middle finger.”

“How many points?”

“I think it was four or five. I’d have to look at my notes to be sure, but it wasn’t many. As I said, the print was mostly smeared.”

“Do you have your notes with you?”

He didn’t.

“How many points of identification are required to establish a match?”

“In the United States, there’s no set number. It depends on the clarity of the impression and the uniqueness of the formations.”

“In the United States there’s no set number? Does that mean that other countries set some minimum number of points necessary to establish a match?”

He shifted in his chair. “Yes. England, I think, requires sixteen points, Germany only twelve or so.”

“Or so,” I said.

“What other countries require in the way of fingerprint identification is not something that comes up very often,” he said.

“Have you speculated as to how Bill Hill’s fingerprint may have gotten on the handle of that knife? Could he have been trying to pull it out of his chest?”

“Well, maybe, but it wouldn’t explain the fingerprint—assuming the print was his, which we haven’t established.”

“Quite a coincidence, isn’t it, if it’s not his? That the print would have four or five points of identification with one of the two people who might have handled the knife?”

“I’m not a statistician. All I can tell you is we couldn’t establish a match.”

“You said the decedent couldn’t have made the print pulling the knife out of his chest. It wasn’t still in the wound, was it? Didn’t you say the knife was on the floor?”

“The decedent was wearing gloves.”

“Wearing gloves.”

“The blood did show an imprint of the fabric of one of the gloves on the underside of the knife handle,” Hernandez volunteered.

We spent a little time working out which part of the knife handle was the underside. “Doesn’t it seem strange to you that the decedent was wearing gloves?” I asked.

“No, not really. Hill didn’t have his heat on, and it was cold in that house. According to the thermostat, when we found him it was sixty-two degrees in the house, and the high on March 9, the day of the murder, was only fifty-seven.”

“And there was blood on the gloves, I take it. Both gloves, or only one of them?”

“Only the right. There was blood on the palm of the glove and especially the tip of the index finger. We think he used that finger to write Shorter’s name on the floor, that he dipped it in the blood running out of his chest.”

Way to end on a high note.
When I sat back down, Shorter leaned toward me. “Even I thought that was a waste of time, and I got nothing going on.”

“I’ll try to be more entertaining.”

He only grunted.

“Ms. Starling?” the judge said. “Are you prepared to continue, or do you need a short recess?”

I half stood. “Ready, Your Honor.”

“Call your next witness,” the judge said to Maxwell.

The preliminary hearing ended just before lunch the next day, and the judge bound Shorter over for trial in circuit court. I asked that the defendant be admitted to bail. As the magistrate had done before him, the judge declined. As the courtroom cleared, Shorter said, “You said I was going to see some action at the preliminary hearing.”

“You did. We got an outline of the prosecution’s case against you, and we got to cross-examine the two key witnesses—the police detective and the medical examiner.”

“And here I go back to jail.”

“You were always going back to jail. Defendants never win at the preliminary hearing.”

“That’s not what you said. When the magistrate denied bail, you said to wait until the preliminary hearing. I’ve been waiting.”

“I was hoping something would come up.”

“Besides, I know of at least one case you won at the preliminary hearing. I read about it in the paper.”

“That was a fluke.”

“Great.”

“You seem to think I have an obligation to exercise skill and diligence to acquit you,” I said.

“And you don’t? I believe we have a contract.”

“And it’s your opinion that people ought to honor their contracts?”

He studied me. “If they don’t want to face the consequences.”

“But if I’m okay with the consequences, screwing you over would be a valid choice, wouldn’t you say?”

His lips pulled back to expose the brownest teeth I’d ever seen. “Majority opinion is on my side on this one,” he said.

“So for this we defer to majority opinion? The majority’s opinion is binding when it comes to the moral obligations of a contract, but not when it comes to being pleasant to our neighbors?”

The deputy sheriff was standing by, the handcuffs cupped in one hand, but Shorter stayed in his seat.

“You read books, don’t you?” he asked me.

“Since early childhood.”

“There may be more to you than meets the eye.”

“Maybe. I like to think moral principles are real, like mass and color,” I said. “They don’t change as the public consensus changes, and we don’t get to make up our own.”

“And these moral principles are grounded on what?”

I hesitated.

“You’re building castles in the air with this moral edifice of yours, but you are quick on the uptake, I’ll give you that.” He stood, finally, and the deputy sheriff cuffed his hands behind him. Shorter didn’t look upset, but his expression was calculating and not particularly pleasant. He’d given me two compliments in a row. I thought he might as readily drive a knife into me as give me a third.

The deputy led him away. As I put my papers back into my briefcase, a cold spot developed between my shoulder blades. The shiver started there and radiated outward.
I do not like Bob Shorter,
I said to myself.

Surprisingly, there aren’t that many places to eat near the courthouse—a Subway up near the Coliseum, a couple of places down around the VCU Hospital. One of the best within a couple of blocks was the Richmond on Broad Café, occupying a space on East Broad Street that had once served as a drugstore. Even though it was a block out of my way, I decided to stop off for a bite to eat on my walk back to the office.

As soon as I walked through the double glass doors, I regretted my decision. Mike McMillan and Sarah Fleckman were sitting across a table from each other, him with a sandwich in front of him, her with a quiche. His back was toward me. Her gaze flicked toward me and away.

I took a breath and went to the counter to order a salad with spinach and roasted butternut squash. Brooke, I was sure, didn’t know Mike was having lunch with Sarah, and it put me in an awkward position. I paid for my salad and, after a moment’s hesitation, took it to a table by the front window, close enough to Mike and Sarah’s table for me to pick up at least some of their conversation but still out of Mike’s line of sight. I know what you’re thinking, but I was acting for his benefit. Mike was a friend. I owed it to him to learn enough to acquit him of the suspicions Brooke was going to have when she found out about this—to be honest, of the suspicions that I myself had at the sight of him and Sarah leaning across the table toward each other, talking earnestly.

As soon as I sat down, though, they stopped talking and started working on the food in front of them. Sarah’s fork clinked against her plate. Mike drank his tea and ate his sandwich. I was halfway through my salad before Sarah said, “You’ve been ready a long time. I understand that.”

She gave him time, but Mike didn’t say anything. He reached for his tea.

“Like I said, I’m ready now, too,” she said.

Mike drank. I couldn’t see his face, but his neck seemed flushed where it was visible above his collar.

Sarah said, “I thought . . . I just wanted you to know. In case it mattered.”

“It doesn’t,” Mike said. “I’m sorry.”

“I waited too long then.” She sounded as if she might start crying, but I kept my eyes on my salad, avoiding any possibility of making eye contact. “I’ve let the best thing that ever happened to me just slip away,” she said.

“Sarah, don’t.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” She pushed her plate with its half-eaten quiche away from her. Mike pushed the rest of his sandwich into his mouth and stood with his tea, his chair scraping back behind him.

“I’m sorry,” Sarah said again, getting to her feet. A glance showed me that tears had broken free and were trailing down her cheeks. She was a beautiful woman, even with tear-reddened eyes. She bumped the corner of the table as she went around it, and she strode for the door, her head down and her small purse clutched in one hand.

Mike turned to watch her go, and his eyes focused on me.

I chewed my mouthful of salad a few more times and swallowed. “Mike McMillan,” I said, as if in surprise. “Fancy seeing you here.”

He glanced at the door, and I followed his gaze, but Sarah was gone. Mike took a breath and exhaled. Then he took two steps and pulled out the chair across from me. He dropped into it, leaning back with his legs out. When he didn’t say anything, I put another forkful of salad in my mouth.

He cleared his throat. “Where’s Paul?”

I shrugged, chewing.

“Does Brooke have you following me?”

I swallowed. “I’ve been in court. Bob Shorter’s preliminary hearing.”

“Just my luck then. How’d the hearing go?”

“Judge bound him over.”

“So you lost.”

“I didn’t win.”

One corner of his mouth rose. “Never concede defeat,” he said.

“‘Never say die.’ It sounds more dramatic, if you’re looking for a motto for me.”

He sat, mouth pursed, head nodding thoughtfully. I started to take another bite of salad, then put my fork down. “I didn’t hear much,” I said. “You’ve been ready—now she’s ready. I assume the best thing that ever happened to her would be you.”

His head moved equivocally. “The best and the worst.”

“And now you’ve slipped away.”

“I am marrying Brooke.”

“And you stood by that.”

“I did.”

“Where is Brooke anyway?”

“Fredericksburg, working with a company up there.”

I nodded.

“Sarah called me this morning, said she was having a personal crisis and needed to talk.”

“Are her personal crises still your business?”

“No. Of course not, though maybe I wasn’t as clear on that this morning. I thought maybe this crisis was something I ought to clean up.”

“And it turned out not to be anything you could clean up.”

He sighed, shook his head.

“You need to let her go, Mike.”

“I know. I have.”

I took a sip of my water.

Mike said, “I don’t know why she’s so insecure about this.”

“Well, you are marrying someone else.”

“I meant Brooke.”

“I know what you meant. I have to say, it’s not like her. I’ve never known her to be insecure or clingy. It may be a reflection of the uncertainty she has about getting married generally—the permanence of it, the loss of freedom . . .”

“She’s not losing her freedom! She can do anything she wants, work late, hang out with you, take up long-distance running—”

“Listen to rap music at full volume,” I continued for him. “Have MSNBC on the television whenever she’s home. Keep her clean laundry piled on the sofa to fold whenever she decides to take the time . . .”

Mike was beginning to look a little panicked. “You know her better than I do,” he said.

I grinned at him. “I’m kidding. But you see what I mean. There’re a lot of ways a person might find a permanent roommate constricting.”

“So you’re telling me I’ve found myself yet another woman who loves me but doesn’t want to marry me.”

“Not at all. She said she’d marry you, didn’t she? She wants to marry you. There’s just a lot of uncertainty in her life at this point. Having a dark-haired beauty like Sarah Fleckman bumping around the edges of yours doesn’t help.”

He sighed, then nodded. “I’ll do better.”

“I know how I’d feel if one of Paul’s old girlfriends kept turning up.”

“Really?” His mouth quirked upward at the corner. “I’d think you’d either chew her up and spit her out or ignore her entirely. Besides, Paul doesn’t have any old girlfriends. He’s always fallen for hot women who were out of his league and worshiped them from afar. Until you.”

“Ah. Probably good for me to be taken down a peg.”

“I didn’t mean that. You’re as far out of his league as any of them. This is just the first time he’s managed to develop a relationship with one of the goddesses he’s fallen for.”

“Oh, wow,” I said. What was it with me and Aphrodite?

“I didn’t mean it quite that way, either.”

“You mean I’m not a goddess?”

“Just flesh and blood. Impressive as hell, but just flesh and blood.”

“I can settle for impressive as hell.”

“So are you going to tell Brooke about this?”

“No.” I shook my head decisively. “That would be like throwing a gas can onto a fire.”

Mike exhaled carefully as some of the tension eased out of him.

“But you are,” I said.

The Monday after Shorter was bound over for trial, I cleared my desk except for the autopsy report on Bill Hill, the police reports, and the exhibit list I’d gotten from the prosecution. On the wall I pinned the crime scene photos. I was sitting at my desk, drumming my fingers and looking at my wall of photos when Brooke stuck her head in.

“Hard at work, I see,” she said.

“As usual.”

Brooke came in and sat down. She said, “I thought you were going to say something about how late I was, but I stopped off at a client’s.”

“I’ll make a note of it.”

As I’ve mentioned before, Brooke’s business seemed to grow like kudzu, while mine still lurched from case to case. I wasn’t jealous of her success, but it was a continuing point of comparison.

“So what are we looking at?” Brooke asked, her eyes on my wall of photos.

“Crime scene photos. I’ve got a client sitting in jail and a trial in three weeks. Take a look at this print of his neighborhood off Google Earth. See, here’s the murder victim’s house, and here, just around the corner, is my client’s.”