Glitsky 02 - Guilt (34 page)

'Only Mrs Dooher's blood?'

'Yes. Only Mrs Dooher's.'

'A lot of blood.'

Crandall shook his head. 'I wouldn't say a lot. A few drops, splattered and smudged.'

'But again,
nothing
at all that ties this piece of evidence to the defendant. Nothing at all, is that right?'

'Yes. That's right.'

'Good!' Farrell brought his hands together histrionically, delighted with the results of his questions so far. 'Now, Sergeant, don't the police routinely wear surgical gloves, just like this one, when they are investigating crime scenes?'

Jenkins stood up, objecting, but Thomasino let the question stand, and Crandall had to answer it.

'Yes, sometimes.'

'Just like this one?'

'Sometimes, yes.'

'Sometimes, hmmm. So you, personally, have access to gloves just like this one?'

'Objection! Your honor, Sergeant Crandall isn't on trial here.'

But Farrell spoke right up. 'Your honor, I'm trying to establish that the glove could just as easily have come from the police presence at the scene. Absolutely
nothing
has been offered to connect this glove with the defendant.'

Thomasino nodded and sighed. 'It seems to me you've done that already, Mr Farrell. Let's move on to the next point.'

Farrell bowed, acquiescent. 'Sergeant, you've told us that your initial impression upstairs – before you knew about the lividity in Mrs Dooher's shoulder – was that a burglary had occurred and she'd woken up and the burglar had stabbed her after a struggle. Do I have that right?'

'Yes.' Crandall shifted in his seat. Farrell, keeping him to short answers on simple factual questions, had succeeded in making him appear restless, edgy. And he wasn't finished yet.

'In other words, the room
looked,
to your practiced eye, as though a burglary had been in progress, isn't that correct?'

'That's the way it looked to me. Until I looked more carefully at the body.'

'It was made to look like a burglary?'

'Your honor.' Jenkins stood at her table. 'How many times do we have to hear the same question?'

Thomasino nodded. 'Let's move it along, Mr Farrell. You've established that the scene looked to Sergeant Crandall like a burglary had been interrupted.'

'I'm sorry, your honor. I just wanted it to be clear.'

Farrell turned to the jury and bowed slightly, an apology. Turning back, facing the Judge and the witness box, his voice was mild. 'So, Sergeant, based on your training and experience, you reached the conclusion that Mr Dooher had been the person in the room who had faked this burglary?'

Crandall did not respond quickly. 'Yes, I'd say that's right.'

'He wanted it to look like a burglary, and so he left the side door open so there'd be no sign of a burglar's forced entrance? Is that your contention?'

'I don't know why he left the door open. Or even if he did. He might have let himself in with a key.'

'Indeed he might have, sergeant. So, what evidence did you uncover that shows that Mr Dooher, as opposed to someone else, did any of this?'

'Objection. Argumentative.'

This had been Farrell's intention, so it didn't surprise him when Thomasino sustained her. Moving a step or two closer to the witness box he had his hands in his jacket pockets. 'Just to recount for the jury, Sergeant, so far we've established that none of the evidence found at the scene in any way places Mr Dooher there at the time of the stabbing of his wife, isn't that the case?'

'Not directly, but-'

Farrell held up a finger, stopping him. 'Not only not directly, Sergeant. You've testified that there was
nothing at all.
These were your own words: nothing at all. Then you concluded that Mr Dooher attempted to make it look as though a burglary had taken place when in fact he returned to his home to kill his wife, and yet he apparently took no great pains to create a false impression of illegal entry, which surely would have aided his deception. Then he left no evidence behind,
none at all,
that would implicate another person?'

'No, that's not true. There was the blood.'

Farrell gave every impression of relief that Crandall had reminded him of that thorny problem. 'Ah yes, the blood, the blood. The tainted blood. But, of course, that's not your area, is it?'

'No, it's not.'

Farrell had wounded Crandall and had him in his sights again. He was going to bring him down.

'Sergeant, in your thorough investigation of the crime scene, you must have found a great deal of evidence that Mark Dooher, in fact, lived in this house, isn't that right?'

'Yes. Of course.'

'Did you find his fingerprints, fibers from his clothing, hairs and so forth?'

'Yes, we did.'

'And would you have expected to find those things?'

'Of course.'

Farrell gave him another smile. 'A simple "yes" is fine, Sergeant, thank you. Now, did you find anything you would not have expected to find relating to Mark Dooher?'

'Like what?'

'I don't know, sir. I'm asking you, but I'll rephrase it for you. Did you find anything specific – either at the crime scene itself, or in Mr Dooher's car, or his office, or in your subsequent analysis of lab results and blood tests and so forth that, based on your training and experience, led you to suspect that Mark Dooher had killed his wife?'

Crandall didn't reply. Farrell pressed his advantage.

'And isn't it true that you found no physical evidence, either in the bedroom itself or on the person of Mrs Dooher that linked Mark Dooher with this crime?'

Crandall hated it. His face had flushed with suppressed anger. 'I suppose if you-'

'Sergeant! Isn't it true that you found no evidence linking Mark Dooher with this crime? Isn't that true?'

He spit it out. 'Yes.'

Another smile. 'Thank you.' Wes beamed up at Thomasino. 'That's all for this witness, your honor.'

Had Glitsky not encountered similar situations dozens of times before, he wouldn't have believed it. It still amazed him. Amanda's next witness, who'd been sitting out here in the hallway forty-five minutes ago, had disappeared.

So Glitsky was out in the echoing, linoleum corridor, chatting with a severely displeased George Crandall. Crandall had vented his pique about Farrell's cross-examination for a couple of minutes, and now was telling Glitsky about a book he was going to write, based on his true-life experiences as a big-city cop.

'Really, though, I don't have much more than a title at this stage. I got friends who say that's the important part, anyway. You get a good title, you sell a lot of books.'

'What's the title?' Glitsky asked him.

'Wait. First, here's the idea. You know all these celebrities who grow up and remember that somebody abused them when they were seven and that's why they've been married eight times and they've got substance-abuse problems and if all of us normal people just tried to understand them they'd be happier?'

'Sure. I worry about them all the time.'

'Exactly. So I'll call it
Who Gives a Shit?
What do you think?'

Glitsky liked it a lot, but didn't think it would sell very many books. He was starting to tell that to Crandall, but had to cut the discussion short. Amanda Jenkins was ascending the stairs holding the arm of a tall, disheveled young man with horn-rimmed glasses – the crime-lab specialist, the 'blood guy', Ray Drumm.

Mr Drumm, exquisite boredom oozing from every pore, endured a two-minute lecture from Judge Thomasino on the relative merits of wandering off, leaving the Hall of Justice to smoke a cigarette outside when you were due to testify in a murder trial. Contempt of court was mentioned, but didn't seem to make much of an impact. Finally, Drumm was sworn in and took his seat in the witness chair.

Like most of the professional lawpersons in the building, Glitsky had no use for Drumm. A career bureaucrat who wasn't yet thirty-five years old, Drumm was taciturn when he wasn't being simply obstinate. Perhaps he was truly brain dead, but Glitsky didn't think it was that. He had the attitude -I got my job, I can't get fired, bite me.

But Jenkins couldn't let her feelings show, though Abe knew she shared his own. Getting information from Drumm was pulling teeth under the best of circumstances. God forbid you did something to put his back up – and Jenkins had already interrupted his precious cigarette.

He sat slumped on his elbow, but she greeted him cordially, then began leading him through the blood issues, bringing him around to the samples found in the room. 'And what did you find in analyzing these samples?'

A roll of the eyes. Drumm had much more important things to do at this moment. Clearly. He sighed. 'There were two different blood types – Mrs Dooher's and another one.'

'Was the second one Mr Dooher's?'

'No.'

'Do you know whose blood it was?'

'We know it was A-positive. We ran DNA tests and-'

Farrell was up, shot out of a cannon. 'Your honor! This is the first the defense has heard about DNA testing. The prosecution has said they couldn't-'

'Just a minute, just a minute!' This was Jenkins, voice raised.

Thomasino gavelled the room quiet. Jenkins turned to the witness. 'Mr Drumm, you did not, in fact, run DNA on this blood, did you? Perhaps you were thinking of Mrs Dooher's blood.'

He shrugged. 'Maybe that was it. I thought you were talking about her.'

Jenkins looked round at Farrell – what could she do about this idiot? -and then turned back to Drumm. 'No, I was asking about the
other
blood sample from the murder scene, the blood type of that second sample. What was that?'

'I just said. A-positive.'

Jenkins shook her head. 'No, Mr Drumm, you just said Mrs Dooher's blood type was A-positive. Were they both A-positive?'

Drumm couldn't have cared less. 'Did I say that?'

They wasted another minute or two while the reporter read back what he'd said, and then Drumm asked to see his lab results again and Jenkins got them from her table and brought them to him. He turned a page, turned a page, turned back a page.

'Mr Drumm, have you found the blood type?'

Glitsky wanted to take out his gun and shoot off the guy's kneecap. Wake him up. Or maybe shoot him in the head, put him to sleep.

'I'm looking,' Drumm said. 'Yeah, here it is. A-positive for the second blood.'

'And while we're here, what was Mrs Dooher's blood type?'

As though he hadn't just a second before reviewed the report, Drumm scanned it again. 'She was O-positive.'

'Did you run DNA testing on the second sample?'

'No.'

'And why not?'

'I don't know. Nobody asked me to.' Jenkins was hoping against hope that Drumm would supply the useful information that they hadn't run DNA because they had nothing to compare it to – the blood had belonged to a man who was dead and cremated. But then, certainly without meaning to, Drumm gave her something. 'The DNA didn't matter anyway.'

This brought an audible reaction from the gallery – nothing approaching an outburst, more a sustained hum. Thomasino tapped his gavel and it disappeared.

'Why didn't it matter whose blood was mixed with Mrs Dooher's at the murder scene?'

'Because the blood did not come directly from a body. It came from a vial.' Jenkins questioned him to bring out the EDTA angle and the picture gradually began to emerge.

'In other words, Mr Drumm, the second blood discovered at the murder scene was brought there?'

'Looks like it.'

Farrell's direction was becoming clear. He wasn't going to take up much of Mr Drumm's incredibly valuable time. His cross-examination consisted of two questions.

'Mr Drumm, did you find any of Mr Dooher's blood in either of the two samples you analyzed?'

And: 'Mr Drumm, did you find any of Mr Dooher's blood on either the knife or surgical glove that were found at the scene?'

The answer to both was no.

Peter Harris didn't like testifying for the prosecution against one of his patients. From the witness box, he raised a hand, greeting Dooher. The jury certainly noticed.

But Jenkins needed him to put the tainted blood in Dooher's hands. 'Dr Harris, are you the defendant's personal physician?'

'I am.'

'And on what date did the defendant have his last appointment with you?'

Harris by now knew the date by heart, but he pulled out a pocket notebook and appeared to be reading from it. 'It was a routine physical, Friday, May thirty-first, at two-thirty.'

'Friday, May thirty-first, at two-thirty. Thank you. Now, Doctor, do you draw blood from patients in your office?'

'Yes, certainly.'

'Often?'

A shrug. Ten times a day, sometimes more. It's a routine procedure.'

Jenkins nodded. 'Yes. And when you draw blood, what do you do with it?'

'Well, that depends on the reason we drew the blood in the first place.'

Glitsky saw Jenkins straighten her back, take a deep breath. He was glad she was slowing herself down. Her questions weren't precise enough. She wasn't getting what she wanted. She tried again. 'What I meant, Doctor, is when you draw this blood, you put it in vials, don't you?'

'Yes.'

'And what happened to these vials?'

'We send them to the lab.'

'Good. Before you send them to the lab, do you lock them up?'

'No.'

'Are they within anyone's reasonable reach?'

Harris was uncomfortable with this, but was trying his best to be cooperative. Again, he looked over at Dooher, gave him a nervous, apologetic smile. 'Sometimes.'

'On a counter, or a tray, or by a nurse's station, something like that. Is that what you mean?'

'Yes.'

'Before you can take these vials to the lab, they are often left sitting out in your office, accessible to anyone who wanted to take one, is that right?'

A wry expression. 'Not so much anymore, but yes.'

'Do you lose a lot of these vials, Doctor?'

'No.'

'Have you ever lost a vial?'

'Yes. A couple of times.'

'Did you lose a vial on Friday, May thirty-first?'

'Yes, we did.'

'And whose blood was that, the blood missing from your office on May thirty-first?'

The patient was Leo Banderas.'

'And what blood type does Mr Banderas have?'

'A-positive.'

Glitsky shifted his gaze over to the defense table. This testimony was going to be Dooher's darkest hour. The defense team seemed to know it, too, and the three of them sat, rapt, waiting for what was going to come next.

'Do you happen to know, Doctor, what time Mr Banderas's appointment was for on that Friday, May thirty-first?'

Slowly, though he knew the answer, Harris reached for his little book and checked it one last time. 'One forty-five.'

'Or forty-five minutes before the defendant's appointment?'

For the third time, Harris made eye contact with Mark Dooher. Then he nodded to Jenkins. 'That's right.'

Jenkins glanced up at the wall clock. It was late enough that Thomasino would adjourn for the weekend the minute she let Harris go, and the jury would have a couple of days to live with this most unlikely of coincidences. Thank you, Doctor. That's all.' She turned sweetly to Farrell. 'Your witness.'

But Farrell had barely moved to get up when Thomasino interrupted.

'Ladies and gentlemen, it's a quarter to five and I think we've all had a long week. We'll adjourn now until-'

'Your honor!' There was a shrillness now to Farrell's voice, an edge of panic. 'Your honor, if the court pleases, I just have a few quick questions for this witness and then we can start out fresh on Monday morning. And the doctor won't have to come back downtown to court,' he added helpfully.

The Judge looked again at the clock, shook his head no, and whacked his gavel. He told Farrell and the rest of the room that court was adjourned until Monday morning at nine-thirty.