by Steven James
“Last I heard,” Ralph said. He had squeezed his hands into fists. “The Lord’s by the side of the sheep, not the wolves. Someone like you is gonna burn in—”
“No one is beyond redemption, Agent Hawkins.”
I grabbed Ralph’s arm. “Come on. I need to get to the courtroom.”
Finally, Ralph stepped aside, and the officers quickly directed Basque past us to the hallway. As they did, he called over his shoulder to me, “Patrick, when this is over I hope we can meet again under less awkward circumstances, perhaps break bread together. Partake of the body and the blood.”
His words the body and the blood echoed down the hall as the door swung shut and Ralph filled the room with words I doubted Basque would find in his recently dusted-off Bible.
I glanced at my watch. Time had been evaporating. I needed to hurry.
We finished our business in the restroom, jogged up the stairs, and arrived at the courtroom just as a granite-faced female officer was getting ready to close the doors.
10
12:25 p.m.
Everyone in the room was settling into their seats.
I’d never been in this courtroom before and couldn’t help but think that, with its paneled walls, faux marble columns, and straight wooden chairs, it was reminiscent of the days when the building had been erected nearly a hundred years earlier.
In the subdued light everything looked imposing—the judge’s expansive bench, the witness stand raised nearly two meters above the courtroom floor, seating for over two hundred people in the gallery. The scent of dust and old books filled the air.
At the defense’s table on the other side of the room, a slim, intense woman in her early forties sat conferring with Basque. She had tight lips and stick-like fingers and was wearing the same charcoal gray pantsuit she’d chosen for an interview on Fox News last week. I recognized her right away: Ms. Priscilla Eldridge-Gorman, Richard Basque’s lead lawyer. Her legal team sat beside her.
Thirteen years ago Basque had been tried and convicted in Dela-field County, Wisconsin. Since then, he’d always maintained his innocence and eventually convinced a law professor at Michigan State University to look into his case. For three years Professor Renée Lebreau had her grad students review the trial proceedings and transcripts, and eventually they uncovered discrepancies in the DNA evidence and in the testimony of one of the eyewitnesses who claimed to have seen Basque leaving the scene of one of the murders. Ms. Priscilla Eldridge-Gorman demanded Basque’s sentence be commuted, but after a careful judicial review, the Seventh District Court ruled in favor of a retrial instead.
And so, here we were.
A sharply dressed Hispanic man in his late thirties hastened across the room and slid into the chair beside me, interrupting my thoughts. “Good to see you, Pat.”
“Emilio.” I knew Assistant State’s Attorney Emilio Vandez from a brief meeting we’d had last month in preparation for the trial.
He pulled a stack of file folders from his briefcase and set them in front of us. He took a long time straightening them. “It looks like we’re in good shape for today.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
Emilio set two pencils beside the stack and then carefully positioned them parallel to each other. He took a deep breath. “I don’t know what’s wrong with this AC though. I should have brought a sweater.” Then he looked around the room as if he were searching for a clue as to why it was so cold.
I’d heard Priscilla Eldridge-Gorman was good, really good, and I began to wonder if Emilio Vandez was a match for her.
Then the bailiff called for all to rise, the judge entered from his chambers, and the trial of Richard Devin Basque resumed.
Twenty minutes ago, standing hidden and invisible in the crowd of protestors, Giovanni had watched Patrick Bowers enter the courthouse. Now, he returned to his rental car parked a block away from the police barricade.
He’d flown in and rented the car under a false name and worn a disguise while waving his “Death Does Not Equal Justice” sign.
No one knew he was here.
He drove to a nearby alley, called Denver’s dispatch department, and left an anonymous tip reporting the location of Sebastian Taylor and Brigitte Marcello’s bodies. Then he tossed the prepaid cell phone into a dumpster.
And so.
Everything was in place.
Through his contacts, he knew that Sebastian Taylor had tried to bribe members of the jury in order to get Basque set free. He still didn’t know why Taylor had wanted Basque acquitted, and the governor had stayed remarkably tight-lipped throughout the night about his motives, even as things progressed toward more and more discomfort. But that didn’t matter. None of it did. The jury wouldn’t even be giving a verdict.
No, Giovanni had taken steps of his own.
He turned on the police scanner he’d brought with him to monitor the afternoon’s events.
And waited for the story to unfold.
11
The trial, which had been scheduled to start late last fall, had been bogged down in a legal quagmire for months—postponed five times by judicial reviews and a slew of recesses and interruptions.
However, that was good news for me because it meant I wouldn’t have to sit through an endless round of opening statements, arguments, and counterarguments. We could cut right to the chase. And after the preliminary trial rituals and an hour of questioning from Emilio, Ms. Eldridge-Gorman strode to the middle of the courtroom and paused for a moment beside the table containing the bags, photos, sketches, and other physical evidence to begin her cross-examination.
She slowly turned to face the jury. “Before we begin, I would like to remind the jury that we’ve heard from three of the country’s leading DNA analysts, and each of them has corroborated my client’s innocence. Mr. Basque is a victim of the system who has spent the last thirteen years in—”
“Objection, Your Honor!” Emilio Vandez was on his feet before Priscilla could finish her sentence. “Here we go again. Is she going to question the witness or just restate her case?”
The judge, a white-haired hawk of a man named Lawrence Crad-dock, glared first at Vandez, then at Priscilla Eldridge-Gorman. “Get on with your questions. We already know how you feel about the defendant. You’ve made it abundantly clear over the last four months.” He took a long narrow breath that seemed to suck half the air out of the courtroom. I had the sense that he was going to say more, but he held back.
She nodded. She’d probably expected the objection and had simply taken advantage of the opportunity to reiterate her claims of Basque’s innocence. Just another gimmick to manipulate the system to her client’s advantage. I hated these games of posturing and showmanship. All too often they overshadow facts and evidence and end up undermining justice.
“Dr. Bowers,” Ms. Eldridge-Gorman went on, “please state your name and position for the court.”
“Special Agent Patrick Bowers. I’m an environmental criminologist for the FBI’s National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime. Currently, I’m based at the field office in Denver and when needed, I serve on a violent crimes task force working in conjunction with the Denver Police Department.”
“But you used to be a detective.”
“Yes. With the Milwaukee Police Department—for six years. I was the one who apprehended the defendant.”
“Yes,” she said stiffly. “You were. But we’ll get to that in a moment. Can you kindly state your qualifications?”
I’d already gone through all this with Emilio, but it’s typical for the defense to ask you to repeat your qualifications so they can try to poke holes in your testimony by diminishing or discrediting them in the eyes of the jurors.
Repeating my resume was the last thing I wanted to do, but I didn’t want anything to interfere with the prosecution’s case, so I decided to just get it over with. “I’ve been with the FBI’s violent crime division for nine years and, as I mentioned, served as a homicide detective for
six. During the last fifteen years I’ve assisted with or been the lead investigator in 618 cases in seven countries and served as an expert witness in 91 criminal and civil trials. I have a bachelor’s degree in criminal justice from the University of Wisconsin–River Falls, a master’s in criminology and law studies from Marquette University, and a PhD in environmental criminology from Simon Fraser University. I’ve also worked as a consultant for the National Law Enforcement and Corrections Technology Center in Denver, Colorado, been on the board for the American Academy of Forensic Sciences, and served as a liaison between the National Geospatial-Intelligence Agency and the FBI to help integrate the military’s geospatial research with that of the law enforcement community.”
There. Done. Enough of that.
Ms. Eldridge-Gorman paced briskly toward me. The stark clacking of her confident heels ricocheted like gunshots around the room. “And isn’t it true, Dr. Bowers, that five years ago you won the President’s Exemplary Service Award for Law Enforcement Innovation and you’ve written two books on geospatial investigation, one of which won the Silver Badge Award for Excellence in True Crime?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“And, don’t be modest now, you’re one of the world’s leading experts in environmental criminology and geospatial investigation.
” I didn’t like where this was going.
“Those are my areas of expertise.”
“Your vita is quite impressive, Doctor.” I assumed she was calling me doctor every chance she got to try to make me sound like an egghead. Another tactic. More games. She savored a moment of stillness and then added, “Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” It’s never a good sign when the defense attorney starts congratulating you for your accomplishments. She flashed me a fabricated smile, and I knew she hadn’t just been fishing for information but had already moved me closer to some sort of verbal trap.
“As a geospatial investigator you study the timing, location, and progression of crimes, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And using computer models and geospatial analysis, you develop what is known as a ‘geographic profile’ to help narrow down the number of suspects or focus the investigation on one specific locality?”
“If the case warrants a geoprofile, yes. That’s correct.”
Looking past her, I saw Calvin in the back of the room. He wasn’t here to testify, only to observe, and he must have noticed something because he was scratching busily at a pad of paper.
“And you use defense satellite information to study these locations.” She consulted her notes. “A system called FALCON.”
“Yes: the Federal Aerospace Locator and Covert Operation Network. It’s the world’s most advanced geospatial digital mapping program.”
Her tone shifted from complimentary to condescending. “It’s only fair to mention, however, that your approach is somewhat controversial, isn’t it, Dr. Bowers?”
“Objection!” Vandez shouted. “Dr. Bowers’s investigation techniques are not on trial here, Mr. Basque is.”
“Her question is relevant,” Judge Craddock responded harshly. “A technique can be controversial but still effective and well-established.” He eyed her. “But Ms. Eldridge-Gorman will make certain that she doesn’t insult or badger the witness.”
“Of course, Your Honor.” She thought for a moment. “Let me rephrase the question. Your investigative strategies are considered by some to be unconventional . . . ?”
“Investigations should be more concerned with discovering the truth,” I said, “than with following convention.”
“And you don’t look for motive?”
“No.”
“Or use behavioral or psychological profiling?”
“No.”
“In fact”—she glanced at her notes—“you’ve even written, and I quote, ‘I don’t care why someone commits a crime. I would rather catch him than try to psychoanalyze him.’”
Actually, I was kind of proud of that one. “Yes. I did write that, and the rest of the paragraph as well: ‘Investigators need to stop asking “why?” and start asking “where?” It doesn’t matter why the offender committed the crime, our goal is to find out where he is.’”
“And you’ve even derided the use of DNA analysis. Isn’t that correct?”
“I’ve never derided it, I just don’t depend on it. Criminals watch CSI too. It’s not uncommon for them to leave other people’s blood, hair, saliva, even semen, at crime scenes to misdirect investigations. They’re using the system against us. And they’re good at it.”
“So you prefer geographic profiling.” She didn’t offer it as a question.
“It’s one of the most effective tools I know of for narrowing the suspect pool in cases involving serial offenders.”
“But Dr. Bowers”—she flavored her words with slowly escalating sarcasm—“isn’t geoprofiling only useful if there are five or more crime locations? Isn’t that the minimum number needed for an accurate geoprofile?”
“The more linked cases, the more accurate we can be, yes. Given twelve or more locations we can be up to 97 percent accurate in narrowing down the most likely location of the offender’s home base.”
Now, she feigned ignorance. “But how do you know that a series of crimes are linked? If you have, let’s say, sixteen murders in two states over two years, how can you tell that they’re all committed by the same perpetrator?”
“Linkage analysis,” I said, “otherwise known as Comparative Case Analysis, is typically the responsibility of local law enforcement. CCA is done through a careful review of offender initiated linkage, eyewitness descriptions, crime scene locations, victimol-ogy—that is, characteristics or relationships of the victims that point to a connection between the crimes—and physical evidence found at the crime scenes. With regard to the sixteen murders Mr. Basque is accused of, I analyzed the data myself and felt confident that the homicides were committed by the same person.”
“But you might have been wrong?”
I peered past her to the morbid photographs spread across the evidence table. “It’s possible. All investigations deal in terms of probabilities, not certainties.”
I thought she might jump on that, but instead said, “And for your investigative approach to work, isn’t it true that the offender must have a stable anchor point? Not just be passing through the area?”
She’d done her research, I had to give her that much. She was quoting almost directly from the fifteenth chapter of my book Understanding Crime and Space.
“That’s right,” I said. “Peripatetic, that is, transitory offenders, skew the results. Imagine a person standing in a closet, spray painting the walls while turning in a circle. If he left in the middle of the job, it might be possible to locate the precise location where he’d been standing by analyzing the patterns and density of the droplets of paint on the walls. But it would obviously be impossible if he walked around the closet while painting.”
“Yes, but what if he is moving, Dr. Bowers? What if the offender is a commuter, so to speak? He drives to the city, commits his crime, and then returns to his home in the suburbs afterward. That’s possible, isn’t it? And that would make the geoprofile completely useless—or at best, inaccurate—correct?”
I’d heard all of these objections before, dealt with them in depth in my book, addressed some of them earlier in the proceedings during Emilio’s examination. “Just like any investigative technique, geographic profiling has its limitations.”
Ms. Eldridge-Gorman opened her mouth, but before she could respond I added, “But so does every method. Before you can match DNA you need to find some DNA. It’s the same for fingerprints or hair or bite mark analysis.”
After a quick breath I went on, “In the latest geoprofiling software, we’ve been eliminating some of the issues you just mentioned. We’ve included spatial temporal movement analysis that calculates the mean center of the crimes based on crime sequence and not just location
. This helps us see if the anchor point of the crimes is shifting. Enhanced virtual temporal topographies reveal the synchronic and diachronic changes of crime patterns within specific locations. Also, we’ve added a Bayesian journey-to-crime model that incorporates current research about—”
I noticed the glazed eyes of the jury members.
Oh. That was brilliant, Dr. Egghead. Just brilliant.
Maybe I should have gone into my use of multivariate statistics too. That would have been good. Or spatial density analysis and the use of kernel smoothing routines to reduce the effects of the psychological barriers associated with mental maps. I’m sure that would have really impressed them.
Priscilla looked pleased that she’d lured me into using techno jargon. “So, in layman’s terms,” she said, “you’ve been improving the technology and refining your approach since my client’s arrest thirteen years ago.”
“That’s correct.”
“So you admit, then, that when my client was arrested, your investigative strategy needed improvement.”
“That’s not exactly—”
A slight grin. “Back to my question. If this technique only works with an offender who has a stable anchor point or home base”—she raised her hands in a dramatic display of bewilderment—“how do you know he’s not mobile before you catch him?” Then she gave me a pretend smile. “The answer is you don’t, do you, Dr. Bowers?”
“No—”
“So, your conclusions could be completely—”
I’d had enough of this. “Every investigation is a holistic process. You continually evaluate the evidence and revise your investigative strategy as needed.” My voice had turned harsh, argumentative, and that was probably what she’d been shooting for. I tried to tone it down. “Geographic profiling is just one facet of a well-rounded investigation.”
As I said the words “well-rounded investigation,” I glanced again at the pieces of evidence lying on the table. Juanita Worthy’s faded pink blouse, splattered with dark stains . . . the scalpel Richard Devin Basque had been holding when I arrested him . . . the enlarged Associated Press photos of the sixteen known victims . . . a map of the Midwest with the locations of each crime marked with red thumbtacks . . . a hatchet, still stained with blood . . .
