"You're questioning a procedure that convicts a lot of people."
"It had to be his DNA on that cup. All of our work, our concentration on him.” Sharon pawed around in her purse and drew out an envelope and spilled the contents between them. “These are photos of the cups. See how his cup is flattened. He did that."
Tom ignored the pictures. “Am I the only one who wants this charade to stop? You and I need to get on with our lives—together, I hope."
"I want that too, Tom. I need a little more time on this before we give up. He's playing with us. I almost think that he deliberately set it up to get rid of us."
"So he didn't murder Mary Olson and is making you go to a lot of work for nothing, luring you on?"
"What do you think, Tom?"
Tom said nothing for several seconds. “I won't give you an ultimatum. But can you give me a time limit?"
Sharon fumbled with the photos. “A few weeks?"
Tom held out his hand and took the pictures from Sharon. He stared at the pictures. He squinted at the photograph of the crumpled cup. “What's this on the cup? On the bottom?"
She held up the print and moved it close to her nose. “Printing. Like a stencil. Syr0406. So?"
Tom shuffled the photographs around. “The dates on the bottoms of your cups are different.” He pointed at two prints. “It's a place and a date. Someplace, April. I know from working at Shaw's that everything has an expiration date. Even bottled water."
Sharon studied the photographs. “GrB0806.” She stared at Tom. She said nothing for several moments.
Tom licked his lips.
"Will there be anything more?” the waiter asked at the side of the table.
Tom looked at the man. “Do you have any disposable cups or plates in your kitchen?"
The man seemed puzzled.
"Like this?” Tom held up the photographs of the coffee cups.
The man still looked quizzical. “I think so."
"Would you ask around and find out if they have markings like this on the bottom...” Tom pointed to the stenciled numbers. “...and what they mean?"
"Uh, all right, I suppose."
"And we'll have two cappuccinos."
Sharon remained silent until the cappuccinos came and the waiter assured Tom that the information he asked for would be with him in a few minutes.
Five minutes later the waiter brought the check. “That's the production run, the name of the city, and the month and year of production. It's so they can be traced if there's a problem."
"Thanks. You've been a big help.” Sharon smiled. “I think."
* * * *
Sharon's statement that the DNA from the cup did not match the DNA from the victim caused the judge to perk up. He glanced from Sharon to Edwin Rooker to Ann Pine. He seemed poised to speak, when Rooker asked: “What did you do next?"
"I reviewed the photographs of the materials, the cups, and discovered that the date and city of manufacture of the cup that the defendant left in the trash was different from the date and city of manufacture of the other cups used that day. I then consulted with the leader of the team."
Ann Pine glared at Sharon.
"What did you do then?"
"We prepared the documentation for the search warrant on the defendant and his home and to acquire his DNA."
"Did you participate in the execution of the search warrant?"
"I did."
"What did you find?"
Ann Pine was on her feet. “Your Honor, objection, most vigorously. Counsel is putting the cart before the horse. There's no foundation for showing the results of the search warrant."
The judge nodded. “I agree. What was the basis for the search warrant?"
Sharon suspected that the judge had not looked at much in the file, expecting the case to be developed in open court. Not that that was unusual. But most judges would find time during the routine questioning of a witness to at least scan the documents already in the record. It was likely that the judge had been thinking of his winter skiing vacation. She knew that Rooker would have to move carefully.
Rooker seemed unflustered. “Officer Lucelli, what did you do based upon what you knew up to that point?"
"Can I explain my thought processes?"
"Your Honor?” Rooker asked the judge.
"Please do,” he said, “especially since Miss Pine has not objected."
"Well, I concluded that Mr. Kluge was trying to avoid our efforts to salvage his abandoned DNA by throwing away cups that belonged to other people. I believed that he would do this because he was aware that we were trying to obtain his specimen surreptitiously, and that one or two episodes of us finding a different DNA on cups would send us off on another scent and that he'd be clear. That was the basis for Judge Nguyen issuing the current warrant."
"Anything else?"
"No."
Edwin Rooker half turned toward Ann Pine. “That's our case. Your witness, Counselor."
Kluge's lawyer rose and placed her clenched fists on the table. “Your Honor, the State's case speaks for itself. No questions."
The judge looked from one to the other. “It's your turn, Miss Pine."
"No evidence, Your Honor."
Of course, Sharon thought, better to stay silent than to risk her client blowing the case.
Ann Pine stood up. “No more than speculation and suspicion on the prosecution's part, over perfectly normal behavior by the—Mr. Kluge. The writ should issue. Mr. Kluge should be released and the State prevented from extracting a specimen for DNA testing.” She sat down and leaned back.
"Your Honor,” Rooker countered, “when there's only one reason for a person's actions, it logically follows that that is why he did it. Since the only purpose of his actions is to throw the authorities off the scent, it is because of his knowledge of his guilt. The warrant was properly issued."
The judge stared down at his desk. He picked up his pen and began to write on the file's docket card.
Sharon fell into Tom's arms outside of her apartment house. “It's over."
"Are you sure?"
"You brought it to a head. If you didn't notice the printing on the cups, we wouldn't have gone for the warrant. The case would still be active. Win or lose, this was the key point of the case. We all knew that the DNA would be critical. That's why he had his lawyer all ready to fight on short notice when we requested a specimen. We've—I've—done all I can do."
"Well, what did the judge say?"
"Upstairs. I'll tell you all about it upstairs. Now we can get along with other things. You and me, I mean."
"Sure,” Tom said. “I'm glad of that.” And arm in arm they climbed the stairs.
Copyright (c) 2007 Bruce Graham
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SOLUTION TO THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER
She made a few bucks and tried not to think of who she was or what her future held. The booze helped.—Martin Limón
From “A Crust of Rice,” AHMM, Jan./Feb. 2005
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MYSTERY CLASSIC: THE LODGER by Marie Belloc Lowndes
Originally published in 1911.
"There he is at last, and I'm glad of it, Ellen. ‘Tain't a night you would wish a dog to be out in."
Mr. Bunting's voice was full of unmistakable relief. He was close to the fire, sitting back in a deep leather armchair—a clean-shaven, dapper man, still in outward appearance what he had been so long and now no longer was—a self-respecting butler.
"You needn't feel so nervous about him; Mr. Sleuth can look out for himself, all right.” Mrs. Bunting spoke in a dry, rather tart tone. She was less emotional, better balanced, than was her husband. On her the marks of past servitude were less apparent, but they were there all the same—especially in her neat black stuff dress and scrupulously clean, plain collar and cuffs. Mrs. Bunting, as a single woman, had been for long years what is k
nown as a useful maid.
"I can't think why he wants to go out in such weather. He did it in last week's fog, too,” Bunting went on complainingly.
"Well, it's none of your business—now, is it?"
"No, that's true enough. Still, ‘twould be a very bad thing for us if anything happened to him. This lodger's the first bit of luck we've had for a very long time."
Mrs. Bunting made no answer to this remark. It was too obviously true to be worth answering. Also she was listening—following in imagination her lodger's quick, singularly quiet—"stealthy,” she called it to herself—progress through the dark, fog-filled hall and up the staircase.
"It isn't safe for decent folk to be out in such weather—not unless they have something to do that won't wait till tomorrow.” Bunting had at last turned round. He was now looking straight into his wife's narrow, colorless face; he was an obstinate man, and liked to prove himself right. “I read you out the accidents in Lloyd's yesterday—shocking, they were, and all brought about by the fog! And then, that ‘orrid monster at his work again—"
"Monster?” repeated Mrs. Bunting absently. She was trying to hear the lodger's footsteps overhead; but her husband went on as if there had been no interruption.
"It wouldn't be very pleasant to run up against such a party as that in the fog, eh?"
"What stuff you do talk!” she said sharply, and then she got up suddenly. Her husband's remark had disturbed her. She hated to think of such things as the terrible series of murders that were just then horrifying and exciting the nether world of London. Though she enjoyed pathos and sentiment—Mrs. Bunting would listen with mild amusement to the details of a breach-of-promise action—she shrank from stories of either immorality or physical violence.
Mrs. Bunting got up from the straight-backed chair on which she had been sitting. It would soon be time for supper.
She moved about the sitting room, flecking off an imperceptible touch of dust here, straightening a piece of furniture there.
Bunting looked around once or twice. He would have liked to ask Ellen to leave off fidgeting, but he was mild and fond of peace, so he refrained. However, she soon gave over what irritated him of her own accord.
But even then Mrs. Bunting did not at once go down to the cold kitchen, where everything was in readiness for her simple cooking. Instead, she opened the door leading into the bedroom behind, and there, closing the door quietly, stepped back into the darkness and stood motionless, listening.
At first she heard nothing, but gradually there came the sound of someone moving about in the room just overhead; try as she might, however, it was impossible for her to guess what her lodger was doing. At last she heard him open the door leading out on the landing. That meant that he would spend the rest of the evening in the rather cheerless room above the drawing-room floor—oddly enough, he liked sitting there best, though the only warmth obtainable was from a gas stove fed by a shilling-in-the-slot arrangement.
It was indeed true that Mr. Sleuth had brought the Buntings luck, for at the time he had taken their rooms it had been touch and go with them.
After having each separately led the sheltered, impersonal, and, above all, the financially easy existence that is the compensation life offers to those men and women who deliberately take upon themselves the yoke of domestic service, these two, butler and useful maid, had suddenly, in middle age, determined to join their fortunes and savings.
Bunting was a widower; he had one pretty daughter, a girl of seventeen, who now lived, as had been the case ever since the death of her mother, with a prosperous aunt. His second wife had been reared in the Foundling Hospital, but she had gradually worked her way up into the higher ranks of the servant class and as useful maid she had saved quite a tidy sum of money.
Unluckily, misfortune had dogged Mr. and Mrs. Bunting from the very first. The seaside place where they had begun by taking a lodging house became the scene of an epidemic. Then had followed a business experiment which had proved disastrous. But before going back into service, either together or separately, they had made up their minds to make one last effort, and, with the little money that remained to them, they had taken over the lease of a small house in the Marylebone Road.
Bunting, whose appearance was very good, had retained a connection with old employers and their friends, so he occasionally got a good job as waiter. During this last month his jobs had perceptibly increased in number and in profit; Mrs. Bunting was not superstitious, but it seemed that in this matter, as in everything else, Mr. Sleuth, their new lodger, had brought them luck.
As she stood there, still listening intently in the darkness of the bedroom, she told herself, not for the first time, what Mr. Sleuth's departure would mean to her and Bunting. It would almost certainly mean ruin.
Luckily, the lodger seemed entirely pleased both with the rooms and with his landlady. There was really no reason why he should ever leave such nice lodgings. Mrs. Bunting shook off her vague sense of apprehension and unease. She turned round, took a step forward, and, feeling for the handle of the door giving into the passage, she opened it, and went down with light, firm steps into the kitchen.
She lit the gas and put a frying pan on the stove, and then once more her mind reverted, as if in spite of herself, to her lodger, and there came back to Mrs. Bunting, very vividly, the memory of all that had happened the day Mr. Sleuth had taken her rooms.
The date of this excellent lodger's coming had been the twenty-ninth of December, and the time late afternoon. She and Bunting had been sitting, gloomily enough, over their small banked-up fire. They had dined in the middle of the day—he on a couple of sausages, she on a little cold ham. They were utterly out of heart, each trying to pluck up courage to tell the other that it was no use trying anymore. The two had also had a little tiff on that dreary afternoon. A newspaper seller had come yelling down the Marylebone Road, shouting out, “'Orrible murder in Whitechapel!” and just because Bunting had an old uncle living in the East End he had gone and bought a paper, and at a time, too, when every penny, nay, every halfpenny, had its full value! Mrs. Bunting remembered the circumstances because that murder in Whitechapel had been the first of these terrible crimes—there had been four since—which she would never allow Bunting to discuss in her presence, and yet which had of late begun to interest curiously, uncomfortably, even her refined mind.
But, to return to the lodger. It was then, on that dreary afternoon, that suddenly there had come to the front door a tremulous, uncertain double knock.
Bunting ought to have got up, but he had gone on reading the paper and so Mrs. Bunting, with the woman's greater courage, had gone out into the passage, turned up the gas, and opened the door to see who it could be. She remembered, as if it were yesterday instead of nigh on a month ago, Mr. Sleuth's peculiar appearance. Tall, dark, lanky, an old-fashioned top hat concealing his high bald forehead, he had stood there, an odd figure of a man, blinking at her.
"I believe—is it not a fact that you let lodgings?” he had asked in a hesitating, whistling voice, a voice that she had known in a moment to be that of an educated man—of a gentleman. As he had stepped into the hall, she had noticed that in his right hand he held a narrow bag—a quite new bag of strong brown leather.
Everything had been settled in less than a quarter of an hour. Mr. Sleuth had at once “taken” to the drawing-room floor, and then, as Mrs. Bunting eagerly lit the gas in the front room above, he had looked around him and said, rubbing his hands with a nervous movement, “Capital—capital! This is just what I've been looking for!"
The sink had specially pleased him—the sink and the gas stove. “This is quite first-rate!” he had exclaimed, “for I make all sorts of experiments. I am, you must understand, Mrs.—er—Bunting, a man of science.” Then he had sat down—suddenly. “I'm very tired,” he had said in a low tone, “very tired indeed! I have been walking about all day."
From the very first the lodger's manner had been odd, sometimes distant and ab
rupt, and then, for no reason at all that she could see, confidential and plaintively confiding. But Mrs. Bunting was aware that eccentricity has always been a perquisite, as it were the special luxury, of the well born and well educated. Scholars and such-like are never quite like other people.
And then, this particular gentleman had proved himself so eminently satisfactory as to the one thing that really matters to those who let lodgings. “My name is Sleuth,” he said. “S-l-e-u-t-h. Think of a hound, Mrs. Bunting, and you'll never forget my name. I could give you references,” he had added, giving her, as she now remembered, a funny sidewise look, “but I prefer to dispense with them. How much did you say? Twenty-three shillings a week, with attendance? Yes, that will suit me perfectly; and I'll begin by paying my first month's rent in advance. Now, four times twenty-three shillings is"—he looked at Mrs. Bunting, and for the first time he smiled, a queer, wry smile—"ninety-two shillings."
He had taken a handful of sovereigns out of his pocket and put them down on the table. “Look here,” he had said, “there's five pounds; and you can keep the change, for I shall want you to do a little shopping for me tomorrow."
After he had been in the house about an hour, the bell had rung, and the new lodger had asked Mrs. Bunting if she could oblige him with a loan of a Bible. She brought up to him her best Bible, the one that had been given to her as a wedding present by a lady with whose mother she had lived for several years. This Bible and one other book, of which the odd name was Cruden's Concordance, formed Mr. Sleuth's only reading: he spent hours each day poring over the Old Testament and over the volume which Mrs. Bunting had at last decided to be a queer kind of index to the Book.
However, to return to the lodger's first arrival. He had had no luggage with him, barring the small brown bag, but very soon parcels had begun to arrive addressed to Mr. Sleuth, and it was then that Mrs. Bunting first became curious. These parcels were full of clothes; but it was quite clear to the landlady's feminine eye that none of these clothes had been made for Mr. Sleuth. They were, in fact, secondhand clothes, bought at good secondhand places, each marked, when marked at all, with a different name. And the really extraordinary thing was that occasionally a complete suit disappeared—became, as it were, obliterated from the lodger's wardrobe.
AHMM, October 2007 Page 14
