Murder One (33 page)

“No. I’m saying that it is an absolute certainty. This isn’t like DNA analysis, where ultimately you can only say that the chances of the sample belonging to anyone but the defendant are astronomical. No two people ever born anywhere on planet Earth have ever had the same fingerprints. Never. Those prints were made by Keri Dalcanton. Period.”

LaBelle continued debunking any theories Ben might advance. “Is there some way those fingerprints could have been … planted?”

“No. Despite what you might have read in Dick Tracy or Batman comics or something, there’s no way to fake a fingerprint. Ms. Dalcanton’s fingers made contact with the chains and the knife. Unquestionably.”

“Thank you,” LaBelle said. “I’ll conclude and let Mr. Kincaid examine the witness. If he thinks there’s any point.”

Hard to turn down an invite like that, Ben thought, as he pushed himself to his feet. He sensed that the jury was not going to be responsive to any Simpsonesque theories of how the police could’ve planted the fingerprints. The expressions on their faces suggested that they believed Bare, and indeed, they had no reason not to trust him. Ben would have to do the best he could with the facts as they were.

“Mr. Bare, were you in the courtroom during the testimony of Corporal Wesley?”

“Yes, I was.”

“Then you heard the evidence regarding alleged sexual activities between the defendant and the deceased.” He hated to keep reminding the jury about the most lascivious aspect of the case, but it was better than letting this damning fingerprint testimony go unrebutted.

“Oh yes. Hard to miss that.”

“Then you understand that there has been a suggestion that chains such as those found on the dead body were used on occasion in these sexual activities.” Somehow, it sounded worse when he used these euphemisms than it would if he just came out with it.

“I kind of got that idea.”

“So it’s entirely possible that the chains used did in fact belong to Keri Dalcanton, or were kept in her apartment. In fact, we saw chains in a photograph taken in her apartment.”

“Okay.”

“For that matter, lots of people keep chains in their homes for other reasons.”

“They do?”

“Ever heard of snow chains?”

“In Tulsa?” He shrugged. “I guess it’s possible.”

LaBelle rose. “Your honor … I fail to see the relevance …”

Judge Cable fingered his glasses. “I’m a bit mystified myself, Mr. Kincaid. Could you please get to the point?”

“Certainly. Mr. Bare … if the chains belonged to Keri Dalcanton, is it any big surprise that her fingerprints were on them?”

Bare gave a sidewise glance toward some of his police buddies in the gallery. “It was no surprise to me, that’s for sure.” A mild round of laughter followed.

“I don’t think you quite take my meaning. If I went into your apartment and started dusting your personal belongings, wouldn’t I likely find your fingerprints on them?”

“Yes.”

“And similarly, when you dusted Keri Dalcanton’s belongings, you found her prints. But that doesn’t prove she killed anyone, does it?”

“If you ask me—”

“All it proves is that at some time or another, she touched the chains. Which is hardly unusual, if they belonged to her.”

“But there were no other prints found on the chains or the knife.”

“So the killer used gloves. It hardly takes a rocket scientist to work that out.”

“I don’t think so. Gloves would prevent someone from leaving prints, but would also probably smudge existing prints. I found clear unsmudged prints on both items.”

“Sir, how long was the chain in question? The one on which you found the prints.”

Bare’s expansive forehead crinkled. “Oh, gosh. I don’t know exactly. Twenty or thirty feet.”

“So someone else could have held the chain—in another place—and neither left prints nor smudged the existing ones.”

“I suppose it’s possible,” Bare said grudgingly. “But what about the knife? The handle is palm-sized. Keri Dalcanton’s prints are mere, unsmudged, vivid and unmistakable. If someone else had held the knife after she did, even wearing gloves, the prints would be smudged. In fact, I feel comfortable saying not only that Keri Dalcanton held that knife, but moreover, that she was the
last
person to hold that knife.”

Ben frowned. He needed to figure some way around this. Everything Bare was saying made perfect sense.

He glanced out of the corner of his eye toward the defense table. C’mon, cocounsel, help me out here. Think of something.

A moment later, Christina began making a strange movement with her right hand, under the table where the judge couldn’t see. Was this some sort of obscene gesture? From sweet little Christina? Surely not.

He watched more carefully. She was making a stabbing motion, like she was holding a knife. But when she thrust out, she shook her head. When she moved her hand inward, she nodded.

Ben’s eyes lighted. Clever girl.

“Tell me, Mr. Bare.
You
say you’re certain Keri was the last person to touch the knife?”

“Definitely.”

“Does that necessarily mean she was the one who stabbed him?”

“I’d say there’s—”

“Let’s think about this before we jump to any conclusions.
You
say you know Keri touched the knife. But that doesn’t prove she was the one who put me knife into Joe McNaughton’s body.” He paused “Maybe she was the one who took it out.”

Bare frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“Why wasn’t the knife in the body when it was found?”

“Well, I’m sure I don’t—”

“Obviously, someone removed it.”

“True, but—”

“And that person—not the killer—would be the last one to touch the knife.”

Bare straightened. “I have always assumed—as would any logical person—that the person who plunged the knife into the body was also the person who took it out.”

“Yes, you assumed,” Ben shot back, “but as we’ve already learned so many times in this trial, what the police assume for convenience is not necessarily what happened. Isn’t it possible that someone else killed Joe McNaughton—and that Keri discovered the body and removed the knife?”

“But why?”

“Maybe he wasn’t dead yet. Maybe she wasn’t thinking logically. Maybe it was her knife and she wanted to prevent the police from making the obvious assumption—the wrong assumption. Or maybe the killer removed the knife but Keri found it and picked it up. My point, sir, is that the evidence doesn’t necessarily lead to your conclusion.”

“I think this is all very far-fetched.”

“No doubt. You’re a policeman. But answer this one question for the jury—and please tell them the truth. Isn’t it possible that the last person to hold the knife—the person who left prints on it—was someone other than the person who killed Joe McNaughton?”

Bare squirmed a bit “I suppose it’s remotely possible—”

“And therefore, the fact that Keri’s prints are on the knife does not necessarily—does not utterly without doubt—mean that she is the killer. Right?”

“I suppose there is a remote—”

“Which is not at all what you said before. But I appreciate the fact that you’ve told us the truth now, sir. And I think the jury does, too.”

T
HE CLOCK ON THE
courtroom wall indicated that it was past four, and given that Judge Cable would never dream of working past five, and LaBelle didn’t like to split a witness’s testimony over two days (because it gave the defense all night to prepare a cross based on the direct they had already heard), Ben felt sure LaBelle would call for a recess. But once again, he was wrong.

“The State calls Sergeant Frank Bailey to the stand.”

Ben had met Bailey during the prelim for the first trial, but he was still taken aback by the man’s immense frame. He was even larger than Loving, something Ben would not have previously thought possible. Shoulder to shoulder, he filled the witness box and then some. In the words of the immortal Jim Croce, he was “built like a ’frigerator with a head.”

With a quick flurry of questions, LaBelle established that the man was a career member of the police force with a wife and six children. Bailey answered questions in the traditional cop manner—short and to the point. As Ben knew, police officers were coached by the D.A.’s office to testify in that Jack Webb nothing-but-the-facts manner. The idea, of course, was that the less they said, the less likely the defense attorney would be to trip them up. As Mike had told Ben a thousand times, cops were not prepared for trial with a lecture about the exalted search for truth. They were trained like soldiers preparing for combat. It was us-against-them—the
them
being the defense lawyers, who would at every possible opportunity be trying to make the police officer look like Bozo the Clown.

After he finished with the preliminaries, LaBelle cut to the heart of the matter. “Sir, in the course of your work for the police department, did you ever have occasion to know a man named Joe McNaughton?”

“Of course,” Bailey said matter-of-factly. “I knew Joe for years.”

“Did you work with him?”

“Yeah. I saw him almost every day, till he got shifted over to the Catrona investigation.”

“Did you feel that you knew Sergeant McNaughton well?”

“Like he was my brother.”

“Were you in contact with him prior to his death?”

“Constantly. We weren’t working together, but we saw each other around. And we talked.”

LaBelle turned a page in his notebook, signaling to the jury that he was moving on to a new and more interesting subject. “Were you aware that Sergeant McNaughton was engaged in a, uh, liaison with Keri Dalcanton?”

“Oh sure. Lots of the boys knew about her. I was at the club the night he met her.”

“And you were aware that the two developed a … relationship? A sexual relationship.”

“Sure.” Bailey shifted his bulky frame. “He told me about it. Repeatedly.”

“What did he say?”

“Objection, hearsay.” Ben knew he was going to get creamed, but he had to make the gallant effort, just the same.

“Your honor,” LaBelle explained tiredly, as if Ben’s petty little objections were the most wearisome thing in the world, “as with Corporal Wesley, these statements come from the deceased, a witness who is obviously unavailable, and given the circumstances surrounding the statements and the utter absence of any motivation for falsehood, I ask that the court accept these statements as evidence just as it did the previous ones.”

“Your honor,” Ben jumped in, “these statements are different because—”

Too late. “I’ll allow it,” Judge Cable said, cutting him off. “Overruled.”

LaBelle nodded toward his witness. “You may answer the question.”

Bailey did. “Basically, he said she was a pistol. A real hot potato. Always ready and eager to please. He liked that.”

Well, who wouldn’t, Ben wondered. Except, perhaps, McNaughton’s widow. A quick glance into the gallery told him she wasn’t pleased at all.

“Did he have any concerns regarding the relationship?”

“Well, I know he worried a little about her age. She claimed she was eighteen, but she was awful young looking, and he didn’t want to get into any trouble with the law.”

How noble, Ben thought. Of course, this concern didn’t stop him from dropping by her apartment every night for another go with the whips and chains.

“Did he have any other concerns?”

“Yeah. More than once he told me that he was worried about … well, this is kinda delicate.”

“I understand it’s hard to talk about private matters you were told in secret,” LaBelle said. “But I must assure you, it’s for the best. Please answer the question.”

“Well,” Bailey said, his massive frame drooping a bit, “he did tell me he was worried about Keri’s … fondness for violence.”

“For violence?” LaBelle said, as if surprised. “Was she violent?”

“Oh, yeah. Well, you can understand, if you’ve seen those pictures …” He nodded toward the graphic exhibits resting on the edge of the judge’s bench. “Or if you’d heard Joe talk about … some of the things she liked to do. Really weird stuff. Weird and violent.”

“Was her taste for violence restricted to sexual activities?”

“Unfortunately, no. I think Joe could’ve lived with that. He didn’t like it, but it was worth it to get … well, you know. But it wasn’t just the kinky sex. She had a horrible temper—that’s what he told me. Said she used to fly off the handle with the least excuse, screamin’ and yellin’ and throwin’ things. Said she got all red in the face and crazy, like she totally lost her head or something. One time, she even came at him with a knife.”

Someone in the jury box gasped. The word
knife
had the effect for which LaBelle had undoubtedly been hoping.

Keri leaned close and whispered in Ben’s ear. “This is not how it happened. Not at all.”

Ben patted her hand. The time for explanations would come later.

“A knife?” LaBelle repeated, making sure every juror got it. “McNaughton told you she came at him with a knife?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you sure about this? It’s very important.”

“I’m sure. It’s not the sort of thing you’re likely to forget. Something about her wantin’ to go out barhoppin’, but he had to go home and do somethin’ with his wife, and she just lost it. Grabbed a knife out of the kitchen and tried to stop him. He said he thought she would’ve killed him if he hadn’t seen her comin’.”

“If he hadn’t seen her coming,” LaBelle murmured meaningfully. “That time.”

“Your honor!” Ben said, jumping up.

Judge Cable nodded. “Mr. LaBelle, please stick to the questions and keep your comments to yourself.”

“Of course, your honor,” he said. “Sorry.” Although Ben did not detect much sorrow in his face or voice. He turned another page in his notebook. “Sergeant Bailey, did you have occasion to talk to Joe McNaughton in the early evening of the night he was killed?”

“Yes. I saw him at headquarters. We talked.”

“Did Sergeant McNaughton mention Ms. Dalcanton on this occasion?”

“Yes, he did.”

“What did he say?”

“Said there’d been a big blowup. With both his wife and his—Keri Dalcanton. Said his whole life was fallin’ apart all around him.”