“I found a very small shard of metal in her throat where she’d been cut.”
“Part of the murder weapon?”
“I can’t be sure until I see the rest of the weapon—and I’m not a weapons expert, you understand—but I would think so.”
“This is good stuff, Doc.” Punch nodded. “I’ll tell the sheriff we’re working on it.”
“Detective, there is something else.”
“What?”
“The blade that was used on her. It was enormous.”
“Like a hunting knife?”
“Bigger.”
“Bigger?” Punch looked at the doctor thoughtfully. “How about a bayonet?”
“Why would you think that?”
“Just a hunch.”
“Well, I’d have to see the weapon, but that might well do it.”
“Okay. How long before you get the DNA results back?”
“Well, since we’re not matching them with a known sample, it’ll probably be a couple of weeks. And you understand that if this individual is not in the Combined DNA Index System, we might not get anything useful back?” It wasn't really a question.
“Got it, Doc. Any way you can hurry them up? I’d kinda like to know one way or the other.”
“No.”
“Thanks, Doc. Do what you can. We need to get this guy.” He reached for his phone. “Sorry, gotta take this . . . Polson.”
“Punch, this is Cale. I got good news.”
“Hit me.”
“We identified six distinctive sets of prints in the house. The victim’s, of course. Her mom. Her housekeeper.”
“She had a housekeeper?”
“Apparently, and some from one Thomas Olsen. That set was registered years back by the military.”
“Bingo! We've been looking at him, anyway. He was one of her clients.” Punch felt his heart begin to pound. “Where were his prints?”
“Everywhere.”
“Gimme a little more, Cale.”
“All over the house. On the bottle, on the shot glasses. At the sink. All over her bedroom,” Cale said, obviously reading from a list.
“Great. Look, let me get going, and thanks a lot.”
“No problem. Just let me know if you come across someone else you want to try and match to these other two sets.”
“Will do.”
19
“Seriously, could you defend someone you knew was guilty?” Veronica asked Sam as they sat in a restaurant, waiting on their drinks. No one had been arrested yet, and the murder was still a topic of conversation.
“How would I know they were guilty?” Sam asked.
“Well, the evidence.”
“I guess I’m kind of surprised to hear you say that—how long have you worked for Judge Howard?”
“About a year.”
“So you know that no one is guilty until a jury says they are. Until then, they are presumed innocent.”
“Well, I know that’s what the law says, but the reality is a lot of the time everyone knows they are guilty. It’s just a matter of going through the motions, isn’t it?” Veronica took a long pull from a margarita. Sam liked the way her mouth pursed around the straw. He was sipping scotch tonight.
“What everyone knows is maybe there is evidence tending to indicate guilt, but a person is not guilty until he or she is adjudicated as such by a judge either following a plea of guilty or after a finding by a judge or jury. Until then, the person is not guilty.”
“You are such an idealist! Who knew? But really, a lot of times people know—”
“People don’t really know. Even if a person admits to, say, shooting someone, it does not mean they are guilty under the law. The law recognizes any number of defenses and allows the presentation of mitigating or extenuating circumstances which can result in someone being found not guilty of murder, for example, even where they have admitted killing the person.”
“Well, thank you, Professor Johnstone,” Veronica teased. “So, seriously, you’d take the case?”
“Oh, I doubt it. There would have to be a reason for me to get involved. But the thing is, for our system of justice to work properly, the question is not, ‘How do I defend this guilty man?’”
“What is the question, then?”
“The question is, ‘What is this man entitled to under the law?’”
“I understand, but I find it repulsive to even think about defending a murderer or child molester or someone like that,” Veronica said.
“I’ll grant you, there is a high ‘ick’ factor in a lot of cases,” Sam allowed. “And I think most people agree with you, because most people look at what lawyers do, and unless they or a family member have a problem, they want to denigrate the entire profession and the people in it. But that comes from a misunderstanding of what the profession is about.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, as an attorney I’m neither a judge nor a member of the jury. My job is not to decide or even to be seriously concerned with whether the defendant is guilty. My job is only to advocate on behalf of my client and insist that she is afforded all of the rights she is entitled to under the law.” Sam signaled the waitress for another scotch. “What that means is that I have to ensure that she is not punished until and unless the State demonstrates beyond a reasonable doubt that she committed the crime as charged. When I sign on to defend someone, I have to understand that gal is placing her property, liberty, or—in a case like this—even life in my care. For an attorney, ‘the truth’ is what the law and the evidence show.”
“That’s a little idealistic, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely,” Sam agreed. “But our system doesn’t demand ‘absolute truth’—we don’t speak of ‘God’s truth’ or ‘scientific certainty’ or anything along those lines. The system demands only that a defendant’s guilt be determined beyond a reasonable doubt by a jury of his peers.”
“Good enough for government work?”
Sam smiled. “How about, ‘close enough to the truth to allow the public to continue to allow our somewhat disorderly system of justice to operate?’ It is the lawyer’s job to ensure that the system works as well as possible.”
“Of course, but I guess I still don’t know how you can stomach it,” Veronica said.
“It’s not always easy. Some defendants are incredibly difficult people,” Sam allowed. “The clear majority have substance abuse issues; along with that come the usual co-occurring disorders. Most have a visceral dislike of authority and anyone they perceive as being part of a system they believe is arrayed against them. But even if defendants are a total pain in the ass—and a lot of them are—and even if I think a client is technically guilty of the crime charged, I have to set aside my personal ethics and prejudices and replace them with what I like to call ‘the lawyer’s conscience.’”
“I didn’t know lawyers had a conscience,” she teased.
“And until I became a lawyer, I didn’t, either,” Sam said. “But understand a ‘lawyer’s conscience’ is not everyone’s conscience. A lawyer’s conscience is a unique way of viewing a legal situation. In forcing the State to play by the rules and prove a defendant’s guilt, we not only serve the client we’ve got but the innocent ones to follow, and hopefully we continue to distinguish our society from those that eschew an open, transparent system of justice.”
“All that said, would you—could you—represent whoever eventually gets arrested for this?”
Sam sat back in his chair and twirled the ice in his glass. “I doubt it.”
“After all that? Why not?”
“I’m probably not the right guy. I’m newer to town, so I don’t know all of the players who would be important in a case like this,” Sam said. “Assuming I was on my own, I’d have limited resources. Murder trials are incredibly expensive and time-consuming. So, that’s the could side.”
“You’d get a high fee, right?”
“Potentially. But despite what you see on television, m
ost people accused of murder are not particularly well-off. Most defendants are appointed public defenders. Those who aren’t are generally represented by firms that are well-off—you’ve got to have the resources to be able to independently investigate and test evidence. It’s the rare firm that can do so,” Sam said. “The other issue is time. Big trials are huge time-sucks, so once you take the case on and get paid your fee—if you get paid—that’s it. You’re stuck with the deal you struck. In the meanwhile, new clients and new problems arise. It’s a huge commitment, and I don’t know that I’m professionally or personally ready to commit myself to something like that.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” she said. “Personally and professionally, I mean.”
“But as far as the would side goes, well, I’m not saying I wouldn’t at least give it a look,” Sam said. “I’ve always kind of wanted to try a murder case.”
“Bucket list?”
“Personal challenge.”
20
Punch had been on the phone all morning and hadn’t put it down when it rang again. “Polson.”
“Punch, this is Jensen.”
“Tell me something good,” Punch said.
“Roger. State lab just called. They’ve got an ID on the DNA they got from the victim—the stuff that wasn’t hers, I mean.”
Punch’s heart skipped a beat. Just as predicted, it had been weeks. “Whose is it?”
“I don’t know, they said they can only tell you.”
“For Christ’s sake.” Punch hung up and dialed furiously. “This is Detective Punch Polson from the Custer Police Department. I need to talk with whoever is doing the DNA for the Emily Smith murder here in town.” Predictably, he was switched several times until he was finally connected with someone who knew something.
“I’m told you have a match for that DNA sample we asked for?” Punch asked.
“We do,” the technician said. “Your man’s name is Thomas Olsen.”
“You sure?”
“I can say with a reasonable degree of scientific certainty that the DNA in our possession would match fewer than one man in a billion. So, in language even a cop would understand: ‘Fuckin’ A.’”
Punch laughed. “All right, I deserved that. Thanks a lot.” Then he had a thought. “Does that DNA from Olsen match all of the DNA on the scene?”
“No.”
“No?” Punch said, taken aback. “Let me ask that question this way: you got a match for Tommy Olsen, right?”
“Right.”
“And you’ve obviously matched the decedent’s, right?”
“Right.”
“So, are you saying there’s another set of DNA on scene that you haven’t matched?”
“I am.”
“Where?”
“There was some semen on her sheets that doesn’t match Tommy Olsen.”
“Christ. So, that means what?” Punch asked. “That she had sex with two guys before she died?”
“It appears that way.”
“Let’s assume that. At the same time?”
“That’s not something we’d be able to tell you,” the technician said. “But assuming she did laundry on occasion, I’d guess within a tight timeline. Sorry, we can’t do better than that.”
“Any idea who the other guy was?”
“No.”
“Can you get me a match?”
“Doubt it. If he was in the system, we would have matched this one. So, not unless you bring me a second, known sample you want to see matched to the first.”
“Can you check?”
“It would take a miracle without a suspect’s DNA to compare to. It would be expensive as hell, and I’d need a directive or order or something with your name on it. It costs money to run a blind check, and my boss won’t authorize it without something in writing from you or your boss.”
“Well, hold off for now,” Punch said. He hung up and sat at his desk for several minutes, thinking through the various possibilities and the meaning of what he’d been told. It was a complication, but the evidence against Olsen was good. He dialed Jensen.
“Jensen.”
“Find Olsen.”
“You want me to arrest him?”
“Not yet. But I’m going to try to get a warrant, so just watch him until I get one and then we’ll bang him.”
“You think he did it?”
“Yeah. I’m pretty sure he did. But I’d feel better if the dude would confess. Me and him are gonna have us a little ‘Come to Jesus’ here soon.”
Punch had been kept waiting for ten minutes before he got in to see County Attorney Rebecca Nice, and was irritable as a result. She was oblivious to his anger, however. “So, what do you have?” she asked.
“I've got Olsen’s prints all over the murder scene, his DNA in her, and an eyewitness who can place him or at least a guy who looked like him at the scene the night she was killed,” Punch replied tersely.
“Is that it?”
“She had her throat cut by a big-ass knife. Olsen was a Marine.”
“What does that tell you?”
“Knives are particular weapons, for particular people.”
“You got the weapon?”
“Not yet. That’s why I want a warrant.”
“Motive?”
“I haven't spoken with him yet. I’ll need to talk with him to fully develop a motive, of course.”
“Did she know him?”
“Yeah. He was her client. She was doing his divorce.”
“Why would he kill his own divorce attorney?”
“I don't know. Maybe her fee was excessive?”
“Hilarious. Okay, let’s take it from the top, but let me tell you something: you damned sure better have the right guy.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Get me your affidavit, and I’ll draft the warrant. In the meanwhile, this needs to be our little secret.”
“Okay.”
Tommy was hungover. The light hurt his eyes, his tongue tasted like a scout troop had spent the night on it, and the pounding in his head sounded like someone banging on the wall. The pounding continued as he came out of his fog, until he finally realized someone was at the door and opened it.
“Thomas Olsen?”
It was a cop. Or at least he looked like a cop. “Yes?” Tommy said.
“My name is Ken Polson. I’m a detective with the Custer Police Department. I’d like you to come downtown and talk with me.”
“This is about Emily, right?”
“Right.”
“Are you thinking I did it? Because I didn’t. She was kinda my girlfriend.”
“I just want to ask you some questions,” Punch said. “Also, Mr. Olsen, I’ve got a search warrant here.”
“For what?”
“For a knife.”
“Why? You think I killed her, don’t you?”
“Tell me you didn’t.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then you won’t have a problem with my men looking around, will you?”
“Not really.”
“Not really?”
“Well, what if you were to find something else?”
“Like what?”
“Something, uh, illegal.”
“How illegal?” Punch asked.
“Like maybe a little weed.”
“I’m not here for weed, Mr. Olsen. I’m here for murder.”
“I already told you—”
“Yeah, well, you’ll excuse me if I don’t take your word for it,” Punch replied. “I’m gonna leave some guys here to execute this warrant. How about you come with me in the meantime?”
“What if I don’t want to come?” Tommy asked.
“Well, that’d cause me some difficulty. I’d either have to arrest you here and now or apply for a warrant from the judge. Either way, it would be a lot easier for both of us if you’d just accompany me down to the station.”
“But I don’t know nothin’.”
�
�Sometimes people know more than they think they do. You want this guy caught, right? I mean, she was your girlfriend.”
Tommy stood quietly, thinking. “Right.”
“Well, if you didn’t do it, then I’d hope you’d tell me everything you know, so I can figure out who did do it.”
“I don’t like this,” Tommy said. “But if it will help figure out who killed Emily, then I’ll do it.”
Half an hour later, Punch and Tommy were in the interview room, getting ready to begin, when Punch’s phone rang. “Just a minute,” Punch said. “I need to take this.” He stepped out of the interview room and said, “Polson.”
Jensen was excited. “Boss, we found it!”
“What’d you find?” Punch asked.
“One of those big army knives that attaches to a gun.”
“A bayonet?” That would do the trick.
“Yeah!”
“Excellent,” Punch said. He’d moved to a position behind a two-way mirror, and was watching Tommy cool his heels, awaiting more questions. It was an old trick, but like most old tricks, it was an effective one. “Tell me more.”
“It gets better: it’s got what looks like a little chink in it, and blood and hair on it.”
“No shit,” Punch said. “Please tell me you handled it properly.”
“I did, boss. I didn’t want to blow this one.”
“Good. Get it to the lab boys as soon as possible.”
“We’re already on our way to Cale’s office.”
“Mr. Olsen,” Punch said as he opened the door to the small room. “We’ve had a development.”
21
“So, tell me about this guy,” Sam asked Veronica as they had dinner in one of the town’s locally-owned restaurants. She’d told him that the police had a suspect, someone she knew.
“Well, I actually went to high school with him,” she said.
“And?”
“Nice enough. Didn't know him well. Shop guy, you know? Partied, drank a lot, raced cars he built, that kind of thing.”
“Didn’t hang out with the cool kids like you, eh?” Sam smiled, cutting a piece off his steak.
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