Act of God

by Susan R. Sloan

  “Connecting all the dots, so to speak?”

  “Yes, you could say that,” the police officer agreed amiably, taking his lead from the prosecutor. “Connecting all the dots.”

  “Then let’s start at the beginning, Detective,” Brian suggested. “And see exactly how the dots led you to Corey Latham.”

  During his two days of direct testimony, Dale Tinker described the procedure he had followed in the Hill House investigation. “We did everything by the book,” he assured the court. “We knew how important this was, and we didn’t want any of it coming back on us because of sloppy work or stupid mistakes.”

  “It took you some six weeks to make an arrest,” the prosecutor said at one point. “On average, is that a long time?”

  “It depends on the case,” Tinker replied. “Some solve quick, some take longer. Six weeks is a relatively short time for a major crime, really, but it probably seemed to the public like it took forever.”

  “When, during that time, did you get your first concrete lead?”

  “Well, we were collecting evidence right along, of course, but the big break came about a month into the investigation.”

  “What break was that?”

  “A sport utility vehicle with a military sticker was reported having been seen on Madison Street the night before the bombing.”

  “What did you do as a result of that information?” Brian prompted.

  “First we identified everyone connected with the seven military bases in the Puget Sound area who drove a dark-colored SUV,” Tinker declared. “Then we visited the bases, and interviewed all those personnel we had previously identified. With permission from the owners, we also did a cursory inspection of those vehicles.”

  “Then what?”

  “We narrowed the list down, using some additional information we received, and then reinterviewed five naval officers at the Bangor Submarine Base. Based on those interviews, we determined the defendant to be a person of interest.”

  “What was that additional information?” the prosecutor prompted.

  “We received information that the wife of one of the officers at Bangor had an abortion at Hill House a couple months before the bombing, and that her husband was pretty steamed up about it.”

  “What did you learn from speaking to the five officers at Bangor?”

  “Our interviews confirmed that only one of the five had recently been in that situation: the defendant, Corey Latham.”

  “What did you do then?”

  “We obtained a search warrant.”

  “And when you conducted the search of the defendant’s home and vehicle,” Brian inquired, “what, if anything, did you find?”

  “First, we examined the defendant’s sport utility vehicle, and collected what were later determined to be traces of chemicals and fibers that the FBI labs confirmed were consistent with those used to make the bomb that blew up Hill House. Then we performed a search of the home. Trace materials found in the defendant’s garage produced the same results as those found in the vehicle.”

  “Detective Tinker, why did you reach the conclusion that this crime was abortion-related?”

  “We considered a number of alternatives, naturally, including international terrorism, the possibility of a disgruntled ex-employee, and the targeting of a particular current employee. We even considered random sabotage. But after our preliminary investigation, we settled on the abortion attack for one specific, and we think, valid reason.”

  “And what was that reason?”

  “When we interviewed the survivors, we learned something about the group of antiabortion protesters that had taken over the corner of Boren and Madison.”

  “What about them?” Brian asked.

  “They were always there,” Tinker said. “Rain or shine. They came every day the clinic was open, half a dozen to a dozen of them.”

  “Yes?”

  “On the day of the bombing, they didn’t show up,” the police officer said. “Not one of them.”

  In the Hill House section, Carl Gentry nodded, having been the one who supplied that bit of information to the police.

  Craig Jessup called Dana at home at ten o’clock Thursday night.

  “Sorry to be calling so late,” he said, “but I wanted to be sure and catch you before you headed off to court tomorrow.”

  “You found out already?” she asked.

  “No, it’s not about the jury list,” Jessup replied. “I’ve got something else for you.”

  “What?”

  “A guy by the name of Pauley, Jack Pauley.”

  “What about him?”

  “How does means, motive, and opportunity sound?” the investigator replied.

  “You have what appears to be a very impressive record,” Dana said to Dale Tinker, when the police officer returned to the stand on Friday morning.

  “I just try to do my job the best I can, ma’am,” the detective said modestly.

  “Yes, you claim an eighty-two percent arrest rate. I’d say that speaks for itself. But tell me, do you offhand know how many of your arrests result in convictions?”

  Tinker shifted in his seat. “No, I couldn’t say.”

  “Well, I could, Detective,” Dana said smoothly. “But that’s because I checked. It’s only forty-eight percent. How would you explain that?”

  The police officer shrugged. “I’m not responsible for how prosecutors try their cases, or how juries come to a verdict,” he said. “I give them the goods, I testify, and that’s all I can do.”

  In the second row of the jury box, Allison Ackerman smiled to herself. While the evidence so far clearly tilted toward the defendant’s guilt, she was coming to respect the defendant’s attorney a little bit more each day. Here, in barely two minutes, McAuliffe had taken an upstanding police officer, who in direct testimony had come across as a shining protector of the people, and made him appear ever so slightly shoddy.

  “Well, let’s talk a little about those ’goods,’ shall we, Detective?” Dana invited pleasantly. “You’ve testified that once you received Mr. Auerbach’s description of the vehicle parked on Madison Street the night before the bombing, you identified all local military personnel who drove such vehicles, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you made two assumptions, did you not?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

  “Well, first you assumed that this vehicle was somehow connected to the bombing.”

  “Oh, I see what you mean. Well, we thought it was possible, yes.”

  “And second, you assumed that this vehicle came from one of the local military bases.”

  “Well, sure. It made more sense than to assume that someone from somewhere else had a reason to blow up a building in Seattle. And we couldn’t very well investigate every military base in the country.”

  Dana walked over to the defense table and picked up the poster she had shown to Milton Auerbach. “I’d like you to take a look at this sticker, Detective, which was identified by the previous witness as looking like the one he saw that night.”

  Tinker looked. “Yes?” he said.

  “It’s a sticker from a United States military base, not here in Washington, but in Nevada.”

  “I can see that. So what?”

  “So, what kind of vehicle did you say the defendant drives?”

  “He drives a dark green 1995 GMC Jimmy.”

  “A 1995 Jimmy,” Dana echoed.

  “That’s right.”

  “Well, tell me, Detective Tinker, what if I told you that this particular sticker came from the windshield of a 1996 charcoal gray Toyota 4Runner, and that it was parked on Madison Street between Minor and Summit on the very same night?”

  There was a startled murmur in the courtroom, and the judge had to rap his gavel several times to restore order. Brian glanced sharply at Mark Hoffman, but the associate shook his head in response. Dale Tinker glared at Brian, who shrugged.

  “Objection, Your H
onor,” Brian said uneasily. “Does defense counsel have some evidence of this other vehicle to introduce?”

  “If it becomes necessary,” Dana replied.

  “Objection overruled,” Bendali ruled. “Proceed.”

  “Detective Tinker?” Dana prompted.

  “Mr. Auerbach said the car he saw was parked between Minor and Boren,” the police officer insisted.

  “Yes, I know,” Dana responded. “But it was late at night, it was his fiftieth wedding anniversary, his wife was dying, and he had just had champagne. Couldn’t he be forgiven for making one small mistake?”

  “I don’t know that he made a mistake,” Tinker said defensively.

  “That’s true,” Dana conceded. “Well then, let’s move on to that additional piece of information you received about the naval officer whose wife had had an abortion at Hill House. Where exactly did that information come from?”

  “It was a tip.”

  “Yes, of course. I understand that. But what sort of tip was it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, we all know that the police get tips from informants all I the time. I’m simply asking if this particular tip came from one of your regular, reliable sources, or from someone else.”

  “Someone else,” he mumbled.

  “And who was that?”

  “We don’t reveal the names of our informants,” Tinker said.

  “I do realize that,” Dana acknowledged. “So let me put it another way. Was anyone in your department acquainted with the person who provided you with this particular information?”

  There was a long pause. “No,” the detective said finally. “It was an anonymous tip.”

  “Anonymous?”

  “Yes,” Tinker admitted.

  “Did you record the call? Were you able to trace it?”

  The detective scowled. “It wasn’t a call, so we couldn’t trace it. It was an anonymous letter.”

  A buzz rose among the spectators, and several members of the jury, including Allison Ackerman, blinked.

  “But that doesn’t make it any less reliable,” Tinker argued. “It turned out to be true, didn’t it?”

  “Did you make any effort to find out who sent this anonymous letter?” Dana inquired, choosing to ignore his last remark.

  He shrugged carelessly. “Sure we tried, but we didn’t get anywhere.”

  “I see.”

  “Look, we had the old man’s ID on the car, and we had a tip about an abortion,” Tinker declared. “We put it together, and took it where it led us, which was right to the door of your client.”

  “So it was,” Dana murmured. “Now, let’s take a look at all this incriminating evidence you claim to have found when you searched my client’s premises. You say there was aspirin residue in the Jimmy, is that correct?”

  “Yes, all over it, front and back, and we found it in the garage, too.”

  “Was it a particular kind of aspirin? A special brand, perhaps? Or some exceptionally high dosage used specifically for bomb making?”

  “No, it was just ordinary aspirin, which according to the FBI is exactly what would be used for bomb making.”

  “You say there were traces of sulfuric acid, as well, is that also correct?”

  “Yes, both in the car and in the garage.”

  “What is sulfuric acid most commonly associated with, Detective?”

  “Well, it’s something you’d find in car batteries, if that’s what you’re asking,” Tinker replied.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I was asking,” Dana confirmed. “And how about the fertilizer you found in the car and in the garage? Was this some rare variety of fertilizer, one that would have to be purchased for the specific purpose of making a bomb?”

  “No, it was common garden fertilizer.”

  “Common garden fertilizer? You mean the kind someone would use to, say, fertilize a bed of roses?”

  Tinker shrugged. “I suppose. But you don’t need any special fertilizer to make a bomb, just one that has a high enough concentrate of sodium nitrate.”

  “All right,” Dana continued. “Now, you say you found fibers consistent with the material used to make duffel bags, is that correct?”

  “Yes,” he replied. “Once again, in the vehicle and in the garage.”

  “What kind of duffel bags?”

  “Military duffel bags.”

  “Detective Tinker, relying on your expertise, gained from twenty-eight long years as a police officer, would you say that it would be unusual to find fibers from a military duffel bag in the vehicle and in the home of a military man?”

  “Of course not,” Tinker replied. “That was the whole point. We came to it from the other direction, you see. Fibers from a military duffel bag were found at the crime scene.”

  “Yes,” Dana agreed. “And we’ve already heard testimony about the easy availability of military duffel bags to the general public. So let me ask you, did you find any methyl alcohol in your search of Mr. Latham’s premises?”

  “No.”

  “How about Vaseline?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing as common as Vaseline was found anywhere in the house?”

  “No.”

  “How about wax?”

  “No,” Tinker said.

  “According to the FBI expert, whose testimony the court heard, those ingredients were necessary parts of the bomb, too. How do you explain not finding any traces of them in Corey Latham’s car or home?”

  “I can’t,” Tinker admitted. “Look, a case doesn’t always get handed to us, all wrapped up nice and neat, the way we might like it to be. If it did, then we’d have everything we needed to make it airtight. We don’t. But we did find enough concrete evidence to arrest your client with confidence. That’s our job, and we did it. He had the means, the military know-how to make a bomb. He had the motive; his wife had an abortion and he was steamed about it. And he had the opportunity; we found what could have been bomb-making materials right there on his premises. On top of that, his alibi could not be reliably confirmed, and his vehicle was seen at the scene.”

  Dana turned on him sharply. “His vehicle, Detective?” she challenged.

  “Well, a vehicle that was identified as being consistent with his,” Tinker amended.

  “You said, ’consistent with.’ That simply means the vehicle might have looked something like the one he drives, doesn’t it, not that the vehicle seen at the scene was his?”

  “Yes.”

  “That vehicle was never identified by anyone as a 1995 GMC Jimmy, was it?”

  “No,” he conceded.

  “So what we have is a man who was understandably upset because his wife had an abortion,” Dana summarized thoughtfully. “A man who uses military duffel bags because he’s in the military. A man who was undeniably in possession of lethal products like aspirin, fertilizer, and battery acid. And a man who is unlucky enough to drive a car that might or might not resemble one that might or might not have been seen at the scene the night before the bombing. Do I have it all straight now?”

  “Yes,” Tinker said grudgingly.

  “And on the basis of that—what did you call it—concrete evidence?—you stopped looking for anyone else, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we were sure we had the right guy.”

  “The right guy, Detective Tinker, or after six weeks of extraordinary pressure—any guy?”

  He sighed. “You can see it your way,” he said. “We see it ours. Whether you like it or not, every bit of evidence we were able to gather pointed directly at only one person, your client, and no one else.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You latched on to the defendant, and stopped looking at anyone else, didn’t you?”

  “Let me remind you that we were out there ’looking,’ as you call it, for a month before we got to him. We found nothing.”

 
“Couldn’t that simply mean that the real perpetrator was better at what he did than you were at what you did?”

  “In my experience, that’s rarely the case.”

  “Granted, it’s rarely the case,” Dana conceded. “But is it possible?”

  Tinker shrugged dismissively. “Anything’s possible, I guess.”

  Brian Ayres stirred in his seat. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like where this was headed.

  “Then isn’t it also possible, Detective,” Dana pressed, “that someone else planted the bomb at some other time between nine in the evening and eight in the morning, and therefore wasn’t noticed by Mr. Auerbach, or anyone else who has yet come forward? Which is why you haven’t caught him?”

  “Again, Ms. McAuliffe, if you’re going to insist on the hypothetical, anything’s possible.”

  “Detective Tinker, who is Jack Pauley?”

  “I have no idea,” he replied, doing his best to control his irritation.

  In the Hill House section, Frances Stocker’s head shot up. The detective might not know who Jack Pauley was, but the psychologist did. She still saw his wife in her nightmares, a limp doll with her head attached by a thread to her neck.

  “What if I told you that Jack Pauley works in construction, and is considered a demolitions expert? What if I also told you that he’s a drunk and a wife abuser? What if I further told you that his wife had an appointment with a therapist at Hill House on the very day of the bombing, and that he ran a real risk of exposure? Would that jog your recollection any?”

  “I remember the name now,” Tinker said, pulling a small notebook out of his jacket pocket, and thumbing quickly through it to refresh his memory. “Let’s see, wasn’t his wife killed in the bombing?”

  “Yes,” Dana corroborated. “As a matter of fact, she was.”

  “There were two young kids,” he said, finding the page. “We talked to the guy. He said he was out with some friends the night before the bombing.”

  “Did you check?”

  “Yes, of course we checked,” Tinker retorted. “We’re not amateurs, Ms. McAuliffe. We confirmed he was at the bar he said he was at until about one o’clock in the morning. And we also confirmed that he drives a red Dodge pickup.”

  “Where did he go after he left his friends?”