The Final Judgment

by Richard North Patterson

  “There are.” Corn turned to the picture of James’s stomach. “As I understand the prosecution theory, Ms. Allen cut the victim’s throat while sitting astride his torso, perhaps during intercourse. You will note from the photographs of Mr. Case’s chest that there is a void—a distinct lessening of spatter—on the area of his chest and stomach. Suggesting that the spray was blocked by Ms. Allen’s chest and stomach.”

  Watching, Judge Towle seemed to nod. “In sum,” Jackson said, “the pattern on both Mr. Case and Ms. Allen is consistent with the belief that she cut his throat and then stabbed him?”

  “It is.”

  Slowly, Jackson turned to Brett, eyes a little melancholy. “How could a woman as slight as Ms. Allen inflict such grievous wounds?”

  Facing Brett, Corn’s expression was somber. “Quite easily.”

  “On what do you base that?”

  “The murder weapon, to begin with. The blade was razor sharp.” Pausing, Corn retreated to the professorial. “A number of years ago, a famous pathologist, Bernard Knight, established that it takes just a little over one pound of force to stick a sharpened knife into the human body. Which, when one thinks about it, we know from our own experience. After all, how much force does it take for a nurse to give you a flu shot?” Folding his hands, Corn finished quietly. “The knife was quite a fine one, and it was well maintained. With a knife like that, Mr. Watts, a woman like Brett Allen would have no trouble killing this boy at all.”

  Nine

  Walking toward Corn and the bloody photographs, Caroline took her time. Her face was as serene as she could make it.

  “Are you familiar,” she asked, “with Ms. Allen’s account of the murder?”

  Corn gazed at her, neither welcoming nor defensive. “I believe so, yes.”

  “Specifically, that she and Mr. Case had wine and marijuana. That afterward, while making love, Mr. Case passed out. That she went swimming. That she saw a shadow over Mr. Case. That when she returned, she heard a gurgling sound. That in the belief that Mr. Case might be choking in his own vomit, she got on his chest and administered CPR. That this caused blood to spray on her face. And that, in horror and shock, she pulled out the knife she discovered in his chest.” Abruptly, Caroline’s voice softened. “You are aware of all that, aren’t you?”

  Corn folded his hands; the effect was of someone bracing himself. “Yes, Ms. Masters. I am.”

  “Well, what’s wrong with that? From your review of the medical evidence, couldn’t it have happened just as she says?”

  Corn frowned. “I don’t believe so.”

  “But it is consistent with the lack of struggle, is it not?”

  “It could be.”

  “And with the agonal breaths you describe.”

  “Possibly.”

  Caroline put her hands on her hips. “By the way, you’re not asserting here that Brett Allen did kill Mr. Case, are you? Only that she could have.”

  “Yes. Who killed this man is beyond my province.”

  “And the entire reason that you prefer Mr. Watts’s story to Ms. Allen’s is that, in your view, the spatter on Ms. Allen is inconsistent with CPR?”

  Corn pursed his lips, forming a small o. “It’s the totality of the circumstances. But sticking to the spatter pattern, it’s at least two things. First, the appearance that the blood on Ms. Allen’s torso accounts for the void on Mr. Case’s. Second, the fact that the teardrop pattern of some spatter on Ms. Allen is inconsistent with what CPR would cause.”

  Caroline nodded. “All right, Dr. Corn. Let’s take CPR first. You’re not saying that all the blood on Ms. Allen is inconsistent with CPR?”

  “No. CPR could have caused a brief spray from Mr. Case’s throat, resulting in the light spattering found on Ms. Allen’s face. But it could not, in my opinion, explain the teardrop spatter.”

  Caroline looked puzzled. “But as you described the fatal wound, at least in its first seconds, a spray would alternate with a spewing pattern—almost a gushing. Correct?”

  “Yes.”

  Turning to the first bulletin board, Caroline gazed for a moment at James’s dead, staring eyes. “Indeed, on Exhibit Twenty-three, the streaks of blood on Mr. Case’s face reflect that spewing effect.”

  “That’s true.”

  Walking to the second board, Caroline stood next to a picture of Brett’s face. “But there is no such pattern on Ms. Allen’s face, is there?”

  Corn paused. “There is not. But that could be the result of distance.”

  Caroline turned to him. “Forgive my indelicacy, Doctor, but does ‘spray’ travel farther than ‘spew’?”

  “Not necessarily. But you’re assuming that, through those first seconds, Ms. Allen kept her face equidistant from Mr. Case’s throat.” Corn examined the board. “I also point out Exhibits Thirty-five and Thirty-six—the heavier spatter on Ms. Allen’s breasts and stomach.”

  For a moment, Caroline simply looked at him. With a hint of asperity, she asked, “Are you familiar with the term ‘cast-off pattern’?”

  “Of course.”

  “Could you define it for us?”

  Corn gave her a glance of oblique annoyance. “It’s the blood spatter made by the entry of a sharp object into the human body.”

  “Or exit?”

  “That too.”

  “What are the characteristics of a cast-off pattern?”

  For a moment, Corn gazed at the photographs of Brett. “It can have a teardrop effect,” he conceded. “As you see on Ms. Allen.”

  “And can that effect result from the withdrawal of a knife?”

  “It’s possible. Yes.”

  “So that it’s also possible that the medium-velocity splash pattern on Ms. Allen’s face resulted from her administration of CPR, and the teardrop pattern on her torso from the withdrawal of the knife?” Here Caroline paused for emphasis. “And not from the agonal breaths you ascribe to Mr. Case?”

  Turning to Caroline, Corn seemed to study her with the interest of a professional. “Yes,” he said at length. “That’s also possible.”

  “Which leaves Mr. Watts only with the void in the pattern of blood on Mr. Case’s chest.”

  Corn’s small brown eyes were watchful. “If you’re referring to the pattern of blood and not to the prosecution’s entire case.”

  Caroline nodded briefly. “You’ve already told us that the void would have been caused by the murderer sitting astride Mr. Case. From the pattern of blood on the victim’s face, what pattern would you expect on the murderer?”

  Corn removed his glasses, polishing them with a handkerchief. “Hard to say, Ms. Masters. Again, it might depend on distance.”

  Turning, Caroline pointed to the spray on Brett’s shoulders and breasts. “Wouldn’t you expect a pattern heavier than this?”

  Corn studied the photograph. “All that I can tell you,” he finally answered, “is that it’s possible….”

  “So that it’s also possible that the killer, not Brett, absorbed a heavy spray of blood. Thus creating the void on Mr. Case’s chest and leaving Ms. Allen with the far lighter spray caused by CPR?”

  “Again, that’s possible. But what about the absence of a contact pattern on Ms. Allen’s mouth?”

  Caroline raised her eyebrows. “Do you happen to know, Dr. Corn, how long it was between the murder and the time these pictures were taken?”

  “In my understanding, about two hours.”

  “More than long enough, in other words, for Ms. Allen to lick her lips. Or, as we know she did, to vomit and then wipe her mouth.”

  “I suppose so.” Rising, Corn walked to the second bulletin board. “But as we talk, Ms. Masters, I should note the existence of a spurt of blood on Ms. Allen’s neck. Which is neither spray nor teardrop, but similar to the kind of spewing pattern I might expect from an agonal breath.”

  “One spot?” Caroline stood next to him. “Are you familiar with Officer Mann’s testimony that he lent Ms. Allen his jacket?”

&
nbsp; “Yes.”

  “And could the single spot you note be a smear? Caused by contact between the jacket and Ms. Allen’s skin?”

  Narrow-eyed, Corn considered the photograph. “Yes,” he said tersely. “At this point, I can’t tell.”

  Turning, Corn headed for the witness stand. “While you’re here,” Caroline interjected, “there’s something else I’d like to ask you. About this picture.”

  Corn turned back to her. “Yes?”

  Caroline rested her index finger beneath a smudge mark on James Case’s neck. “What’s that?”

  Corn studied the mark. “On the body,” he said dryly, “it looked like a bruise. Left by a finger, perhaps.”

  “Could you lift a print?”

  “We could not.” Corn’s voice remained dry. “As I believe you pointed out yesterday to Sergeant Summers, that’s quite difficult on the body of a male. At least in the absence of blood.”

  Towle, Caroline noticed, was leaning forward from the bench. Quietly, she asked, “Could it also be difficult, Dr. Corn, because the person who made this mark was wearing gloves?”

  Corn angled his head. “Impossible to say. At least from this.”

  “Then hang on.” Quickly, Caroline walked back to the defense table and produced a photograph from her briefcase. “Subject to proof,” she said to Towle, “this is a blowup of the area on Mr. Case’s neck. With the court’s permission, I’d like to ask Dr. Corn about it now, rather than recalling him.”

  Towle looked toward Jackson. “Mr. Watts?”

  Jackson stepped forward, took the photograph from Caroline, and studied it for what seemed quite long. When he gave it back to her, his expression was blank. “Subject to proof,” he said to Towle.

  “Thank you,” Caroline responded, and gave the photograph to Corn. Standing next to him, she indicated with a finger a faint line at one edge of the bruise.

  If he’s honest, her expert had told her, the ME can’t say no. At least not for sure.

  “Do you see that line?” Caroline asked.

  Slowly, Corn nodded. “I see it, yes.”

  “Could it have been made by the seam of a leather glove?”

  For a long moment, Corn squinted, silent. “Yes,” he said at last. “That’s possible.”

  “And yet we know, from her fingerprints in Mr. Case’s blood, that Ms. Allen was not wearing gloves.”

  Corn appeared troubled now; though whether by doubt, or by being cornered, Caroline could not tell. “We know that, yes.”

  He looked up at Caroline, expecting her to drive the point home. Instead she passed the photograph to Judge Towle, and said simply, “Thank you, Dr. Corn. You may sit down now.”

  Corn gave her a brief, querying glance, and then resumed the stand.

  Standing in front of him, Caroline permitted a moment’s silence. “Are you quite certain,” she asked, “that whoever killed Mr. Case did so while sitting astride him?”

  A look of surprise, and then renewed confidence. “Yes. I am.”

  “And why is that?”

  “There are several reasons. The void on Mr. Case’s chest, the angle of the chest wound—suggesting a thrust down and in—and the presence of spray on the grass behind him all suggest as much.”

  Caroline nodded. “All right, then. Could you demonstrate the motion with which you believe the murderer slashed the victim’s throat?”

  Corn hesitated for a moment. And then he raised his right arm and cocked his wrist; with a blunt downward-slashing motion, he cut James Case’s imaginary throat. “Like so,” he said. “That would be the motion.”

  “Thank you.” As if puzzled, Caroline paused. “But shouldn’t you have used your left hand? Assuming, that is, that you were imitating Brett Allen.”

  Corn looked surprised and then gave her a slight smile. “I guess so.”

  “And the reason you agree with me?”

  “Her fingerprints on the hilt of the knife—the ones in the victim’s blood—were made with her left hand.”

  “Just so.” Caroline moved to the bulletin board again, standing next to the photograph of the gashes in the dead man’s neck. “You measured the depth of the victim’s neck wounds, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “And was the depth of the wound uniform?”

  “Of course not. As you would expect, it was deepest at midthrust.”

  “But were the wounds deeper at one end than the other?”

  At the edge of her vision, Caroline saw Jackson stir. “As I remember,” Corn answered, “they were deeper on the right side.”

  Caroline nodded. “Tell me, Dr. Corn, are you familiar with a phenomenon known as the tailing effect?”

  A brief pause. “Yes.”

  “And could you describe it to us?”

  Corn glanced at Jackson and then faced Caroline again. “As a very general rule, the blade of a knife is presumed to enter the throat more deeply—assuming a horizontal slash wound—than it exits.”

  “And here, in both cases, the right-side wound was deeper.”

  “Yes.”

  Pausing, Caroline folded her arms. “And what, assuming the tailing effect, does that suggest about the person who killed James Case?”

  “Objection.” Quickly, Jackson came to the bench. “The question not only calls for speculation but piles one piece of speculation on the other. Starting with the motion with which the murderer wielded the knife.”

  “With which,” Caroline retorted, “Mr. Watts was perfectly content—as long as the killer was Ms. Allen, sitting on the victim’s chest. Which is also the foundation for my seeking Dr. Corn’s expert opinion.”

  Nodding, Towle turned to Jackson. “I’m going to allow it, Mr. Watts. And weigh it for myself.” He turned to Corn. “You may answer, Dr. Corn.”

  Corn looked steadily at Caroline. “It is speculative. But if I’m correct about how the wounds were inflicted, and the tailing effect holds true, the murderer is more likely to be right-handed.”

  Behind her, Caroline felt a stirring in the courtroom. “Thank you,” she said crisply. “I have nothing more.”

  Ten

  “So,” Jackson said, “are you going to offer us the real killer? Or do you prefer a nameless phantom?”

  Caroline shrugged. “I don’t know yet.”

  It was six o’clock, and they stood beneath the trees on the lawn of the Connaughton County Courthouse. The press had gone to file their stories—that Caroline had called for Jackson to dismiss the case. Brett had returned to prison, and the rest of Caroline’s family to Masters Hill. So that now it was only the two of them, in the light of early evening.

  Caroline kicked off her shoes.

  Jackson was in an edgy humor, she decided—he treated her with a mixture of familiarity and distrust, and his tone was sardonic. But he had approached her for a reason, and she could guess what it was.

  Caroline breathed in deeply, face raised to the failing sun, waiting out his silence. “It’s weird,” she said. “Being locked up like this all day. You forget there’s a world.”

  Hands in his pockets, Jackson looked around them. Connaughton Falls was in the heart of the valley that embraced Resolve, and the vista of hills and forests was familiar to them both from childhood. “Did you ever miss this?” he asked.

  “Some. Because I knew I’d never come back.”

  Jackson glanced at her sideways. “Well, you’re back,” he said finally. “And you’re the best I’ve seen. There’s capable—like me—and then there’s something more.”

  His tone was one of detachment; because he could acknowledge her gifts, this said, he was also smart enough to beat her. “You make it sound,” Caroline replied, “as if Brett’s defense is a matter of talent. Perhaps you should consider that it may be something more.”

  Jackson turned to her. “Brett’s defense so far, Caroline, is possibility upon surmise, ‘could be’ upon ‘should be’ upon ‘might be.’ What impresses me is your ability to assimilate what is obviously a
slough of expert advice, all in ten days, and find some black hole in each witness’s testimony from which to extract yet one more ‘possibility.’”

  Caroline shook her head. “The holes are there, and the possibilities are real. Your problem—your witnesses’ problem—is that when Megan Race came along with a motive, she made all of you assume too much. So that you believed you had the practical equivalent of a locked-door killing: no other suspects need apply.”

  Jackson shoved his hands in his pockets. “Yes,” he said sharply. “Megan. Tomorrow’s witness.”

  This did not call for an answer, and Caroline gave him none.

  After a time, Jackson took off his suit jacket, unknotted his tie, and sat with his back against a tree. “So who is Megan the biggest problem for? Brett, or me, or you?”

  Caroline sat next to him, gazing out at the lawn. “One of us,” she answered quietly. “Brett’s not even in the running.”

  “And you won’t tell me anything.”

  “I can’t. For Brett’s sake. Unless you dismiss the case for good.”

  “Which I can’t, as you damned well know. Not without reason.”

  Caroline shrugged. “So there we are.”

  Jackson turned to her. Softly, he said, “Even if an inch-by-inch survey of Megan’s apartment turns up funny fingerprints?”

  Caroline’s face closed. “If I understand you,” she answered coolly, “you’re assuming a conflict between Brett’s interests and mine. Or, perhaps, my ambitions.”

  Jackson shook his head. “I’m trying to understand you, Caroline. And I can’t.”

  Caroline tented her fingers, placed them in her lap. “Then perhaps it will help,” she said at last, “to know that I’ve put ambition aside. You’re now the only one of us who still wishes to become a judge.”

  His silent gaze was without comprehension: it was as if Caroline watched them both, trapped in a moment only she understood. By instinct, she touched his arm. “I’d have taken anyone else for a prosecutor, Jackson. But that’s really all I can say to you.”

  He gazed at her hand. “Because of Brett?”

  “Yes.”

  Slowly, Jackson slid his arm from beneath her fingers. “Then let’s set aside Megan and discuss where we are right now.”