Dog Tags (29 page)

“Mr. Morrison is on the call with us,” the judge says, referring to Eli. Eli stays quiet; he’s here primarily to listen. “Raymond
Santiago was shot and killed a little over an hour ago. His killer has not
been apprehended, and at this point his identity and whereabouts are unknown.”

My initial reaction to the news has nothing to do with the case. Instead I have what seems to be a surreal comprehension that
the young man who was in this house a few hours ago, whom I was talking to and whose protection I arranged, is no longer alive.

Intellectually, I understand that these things happen, but when they do, they still don’t seem quite real or possible.

“What happened to the protection?” I ask. It’s a pretty ridiculous question, but the only one I can think of in the moment.

“He was in the process of being protected when he died,” Judge Catchings says, drily.

Turning my attention to the trial, I would assess this news as an almost total disaster. I qualify it with “almost” because,
while the loss of Santiago’s information and testimony is devastating, his murder will surely compel the judge to let us put
this line of defense in front of the jury.

“Your Honor, the jury needs to hear this.”

“I agree. I’ll be issuing a ruling to that effect in the morning.”

“Your Honor,” Eli finally says, “our objections to this have not changed.”

“Noted.”

“And we would like an opportunity to be heard once again.”

“Denied. Anything else?”

“Yes,” I say. “I would like to go down to the scene of the crime as soon as I get off this call. I’ll need permission to be
arranged for Laurie Collins and me to be allowed in.”

“Mr. Morrison?” the judge asks, the implication obvious.

“I’ll take care of it,” Eli says.

“Good. See you tomorrow, gentlemen.”

As soon as I hang up, I tell Laurie what has happened. We watch
television as we dress. The news coverage has begun, and reporters are on the scene with camera crews. Santiago’s name has
not yet been released, and the reporters are obviously not aware of any connection between him and the Zimmerman case.

Laurie and I get in the car and head to the crime scene. The officers manning the periphery have been alerted, and we are
let in, though cautioned not to interfere with the forensics people doing their work.

We look around, and not surprisingly Laurie sees the events from a cop’s perspective, speculating on how the killer could
have known where Santiago was going. “He had to have information,” she says. “There’s no way he could have followed him and
pulled that off. He had to be in position, waiting for him to arrive.”

“Where was he?” I ask.

She points. “I would say in either of those buildings. Probably in an upper-floor window. They’ll be able to pinpoint it pretty
easily. But the shooter didn’t just show up; this was all set up in advance.”

“Maybe Santiago told the wrong person,” I say.

She shakes her head. “Not possible. Santiago didn’t know where he was going; he didn’t even know he was going into custody
until you told him tonight.”

I start to wonder out loud if I could have given it away to someone, but Laurie correctly points out that I didn’t know where
Santiago was to be held, either. “The leak had to be with the police,” she says.

We walk toward the lobby of the hotel, which has been set up as a police command center. Captain Dessens and I see each other
at the same time.

“Oh, shit,” he says. I often bring out that reaction in people.

“Well, if it isn’t the great protector,” I say.

“What do you want, Carpenter?”

“I want to know who shot my witness.”

“You’ll be the first one I tell when we find out. So…”

“What are they doing here?” I ask, pointing to a uniformed army officer, talking to a man whom Central Casting would send
in if I were looking for an FBI agent. I’m surprised they’re here, and very surprised that the army could be here this soon.

“They were waiting to question your boy.”

That really pisses me off, since Santiago was to be my witness. The fact that the feds were going to take first crack at him
is both annoying and now moot. I try to talk to them about it, but they wave me off.

As we’re leaving, I walk up to Dessens and say, “See you next week.”

“Where?”

“You’ll be on the witness stand, and I’ll be walking around in front of you. Should be fun.”

T
ODAY IS SCIENCE DAY,
and Eli starts the morning court session by bringing in his forensics witnesses. The first is Police Sergeant Roger Halicki,
a seasoned veteran who has no doubt spent more days in court than I have.

Halicki and Eli go through the rehearsed testimony without missing a beat, and the jury pays complete attention for the two
hours it takes to go through it. Billy had gunpowder residue on his hand and blood on his shirt, both of which are thoroughly
incriminating.

By the time I get up, I don’t know whether to cross-examine him or change our plea to guilty.

“Sergeant Halicki, in the diagram you showed, am I wrong in thinking that the gunpowder residue was concentrated on the right
side of the right hand of Mr. Zimmerman?”

“You’re correct.”

“Is that normal?” I ask.

“I’m not sure there is a normal. But it could be explained by various factors; for instance, the victim was shot at close
range. He could have been grabbing for the gun as the trigger was being pulled.”

“Did you find residue on the victim’s hand?”

Halicki shakes his head. “No.”

“But if he had such residue, that would have been a possible explanation for the pattern found on Mr. Zimmerman?”

“Yes.”

“So if someone else was holding the gun along with Mr. Zimmerman, that would help explain it?”

“I’m not aware of anyone else who was holding the gun at the time.”

I nod. “So therefore you didn’t test anyone else.”

“Correct.”

I’ve gotten as much as I can out of this, which isn’t much, so I change the subject. “You said there were two shots fired,
one of which hit and killed Mr. Erskine. Where did the other shot go?”

I let him use the diagram of the scene that Eli employed, and Halicki shows that the other bullet was found down and across
the street.

“So it was fired in a completely different direction from where the victim was standing?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Any idea why?”

“Again, if the victim were wrestling for the gun…”

“Excuse me, Sergeant Halicki, but is this the same wrestling match we’ve already determined you have no evidence of ever happening?”

Eli objects that I’m being argumentative, and Catchings sustains.

“Can you tell if the gunpowder residue on Mr. Zimmerman’s hand was from the first or second bullet?” I ask.

“No, we cannot determine that.”

“Is it possible the second shot was aimed at the dog, Milo? Others have testified that he was running off with the envelope
in that direction.”

“I have no way of knowing that,” Halicki says.

“Do you own a dog?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“I do.”

“As a dog owner, does it make sense to you that Mr. Zimmerman would arrange for his dog to take the envelope, and then try
to shoot him once he had done so?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“But you would agree that the shot missed badly?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“Sergeant, if Mr. Zimmerman were going to shoot Mr. Erskine, why bother to have the dog steal the envelope? Why not just take
it from him after he was shot?”

Eli objects that Halicki cannot be expected to read Billy’s mind, so I withdraw the question and move on.

“Now, where did you catch Mr. Zimmerman?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean where was he, and how did you find him? Maybe an anonymous tip, or security trapped him at an airport trying to leave
the country? That kind of thing.”

“He was at the scene,” he says.

I feign surprise; I am a terrific surprise feigner. “So there was a shootout?”

“No.”

“Was he holding the gun when you arrived? Maybe threatening to shoot some hostages?”

“No.”

“Where was the gun?”

“On the ground next to Mr. Erskine’s body.”

I’m wearing my most confused face. “About how long after the shooting did the police arrive?”

“Less than ten minutes.”

“And he just hung out waiting for you?”

“He was on the scene,” he repeats, making little effort to conceal his annoyance.

“So if I can sum up your testimony so far, your theory is that Mr. Zimmerman directed his dog to steal an envelope from the
victim, which the dog did. Mr. Zimmerman then shot Mr. Erskine, after which he turned and tried to shoot his own dog, who
had the envelope.

“Failing that, Mr. Zimmerman decided to hang out with the body until the police could get there to arrest him. Is that about
it?”

Not surprisingly, Halicki argues with my version, and after a few minutes I move on.

“So let me try it another way. Here’s a hypothetical, based on your testimony. If another person were there, wrestling with
Mr. Zimmerman for the gun, could that explain the strange residue pattern, the fact that a shot was taken at Milo, and the
fact that the shot missed badly?”

“I’m not aware of any other man being present,” he says, which irritates me.

“Are you familiar with the concept of hypothetical questions?”

“Of course I am.”

“Great, then please answer the one I asked. Hypothetically, could the presence of another man, the shooter, have caused all
these factors to occur?”

He’d love to avoid answering the question, but can’t figure out a way to do so. “It’s hypothetically possible,” he says.

“Glad to hear it.”

As soon as court is over I call Colonel Mickelson, and I’m put right through to him. It could be due to his continuing desire
to suck up to Kevin’s brother-in-law, General Prentice, or it could be that he’s very interested in any developments in this
case. Or both.

“Too bad about Santiago,” he says when I mention the murder.

I’m annoyed that an FBI agent and army investigator were at the scene to question Santiago, and I ask him if he had any part
in it.

“Sure,” he says. “Captain Meade was there on my orders. But I can’t speak to the presence of the FBI agent.”

“You were interfering with my witness.”

“Back on the streets, I think the expression we would use as a response to that comment is ‘tough shit.’”

I don’t think I’ve fully intimidated him.

“You think our conversation was in confidence?” he asks. “What am I, your priest?”

“Santiago was—”

“Santiago was a soldier, and he was corrupt. And people died because of him, some of whom were in my command. Now, you may
think I’m fine with that, and I’ll just back off and let you go about your business. But that’s not how the army operates;
we take care of our own, and we deal with them when they need to be dealt with.”

“So Santiago is dead,” I say.

“That’s not my fault.”

“Somebody tipped the shooter off.”

“And when we find out who that was, they will be dealt with. But if you’re trying to find him in the army, you’re wasting
your time.”

“Right, I forgot. Your men are pure as the driven snow. Erskine, and Chambers, and Lawson, and Iverson, and Greer, and Santiago,
they were all choirboys.”

“You left out Zimmerman,” he says, a trace of amusement in his voice. My anger is having absolutely no impression on him.

“Billy Zimmerman is the only innocent one in the bunch.”

“So go into court and prove it.”

K
ATHY
B
RYANT HAD HOPED NEVER TO SEE ME AGAIN.
This doesn’t exactly distinguish her from many other women I’ve known in my life, but her reason is better than most. Talking
to me rips the scab off the open wound that is her husband’s death.

This time she’s allowed me into her Teaneck home, probably having determined that even though I’m an irritant, I don’t present
a physical danger. She even offers me coffee, a gracious gesture that I appreciate and accept.