by Sydney Bauer
Once again Joe and Frank referred to their knowledge of blood spatter flight characteristics. Most people didn’t realise that even in flight, blood maintains a spherical shape – a result of surface tension which binds the molecules together. And so, the tear shapes created on impact helped forensic experts to calculate exactly the angle at which the force was released – in this case, the position, height and angle of the gun as it released the bullet that entered Stephanie Tyler in the middle of her chest.
‘Basically,’ Martinelli went on, ‘we measured the length and width of the ellipse-shaped stains using viewing loops and BPA software. The point of convergence was already known considering the scrape marks made by Ms Tyler’s chair on the tiled kitchen floor, so that gave us a free ride on determining exactly where the weapon was placed and the angle at which it was directed.’
‘Which was?’ asked Joe, knowing Martinelli would confirm it came from the area just inside the kitchen door where J.T. Logan had allegedly entered the room to shoot his mother from point-blank range.
‘A foot inside the kitchen door from a height of five feet three inches above floor level at a downward angle of thirty degrees.’
Joe nodded. ‘And the singe marks on the kid’s T-shirt?’ he asked.
‘Consistent with the marks that would be produced when firing a high-powered rifle loaded with .460 Weatherbies from the right shoulder.’
Joe stole a glance at Frank. There was no point in bringing up the lack of J.T.’s shoulder markings given Martinelli’s job was purely to report what he had found – not analyse what he hadn’t.
‘And the residue?’ Joe continued.
‘Trace elements on the T-shirt, but not on the boy’s hands. The residue on the shirt suggests the sleeves were in immediate contact with the gun, which isn’t such a stretch considering the sleeves were way too long for the kid in the first place.’
Joe looked at Frank once again – this was all going exactly to play. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.
‘That’s pretty much it – all the data is in here,’ Martinelli said, throwing Joe the report. ‘The house was full of prints but most of them belonged to the family. There was some blood spatter but no prints on the gun-bar the single pointer finger on the trigger – which means the kid probably wiped it after taking it from the cabinet and again after shooting his mom. The absence of excessive prints can be explained by the fact he was wearing that oversized T-shirt. He could have kept his hands inside the sleeves, which would also explain the residue findings on said shirt.
‘Ballistics confirmed the bullet in a tree in the rear of the victim’s backyard was the same one fired from the rifle – which means it travelled a good fifty feet through human flesh and a double brick wall before it came to rest in a particularly sturdy oak.’
There was silence, as this fact alone gave them cause to pause.
‘Gus’ report should take care of all the other stuff,’ finished Martinelli, referring to Boston Medical Examiner Gus Svenson’s impending autopsy report. ‘He’ll have results on the victim’s toxicology, biopsies, blood tests and basically give confirmation of the cause of death.’
‘One of Gus’ easier conundrums,’ commented Frank.
‘If it walks like a duck, and talks like a duck . . .’ said Martinelli as he stood to leave.
‘Thanks, Dan,’ said Joe.
‘No need to thank me, Joe, it’s you poor suckers I feel sorry for now. You get to distribute this info to the masses and watch them feed on it for the next three months.’ And Martinelli shook his head as Joe walked him towards the door.
‘FYI, ADA Carmichael called about an hour ago,’ Martinelli added. ‘Wants this info ASAP,’ he said, pointing to the report in Joe’s hand. ‘Told me to keep my day free – expects to get a grand jury hearing some time this afternoon.’
Amanda Carmichael – Joe was still seriously pissed at the grandstanding ADA for her performance at Monday’s arraignment. Even if she was right about J.T. Logan being the shooter, the fact that she used Joe – and Frank – to score herself some early points in front of the judge had not gone down well with either detective. While the cops were there to help the DA’s Office build cases again offenders, the DA’s Office usually reciprocated by discussing the appropriate course of action. It was a matter of respect. But Amanda Carmichael had jumped the gun and held her own personal advancement party without giving Joe or Frank as much as a heads up – and it was not something Joe would forget.
And so, given Carmichael’s obvious desire for speedy justice, it was no surprise she had gone directly to Martinelli for his help in securing a grand jury indictment. Truth be told, she probably would not need Joe’s testimony in any case, considering the irrefutable evidence in the forensics analysis report. Today was a little earlier than Joe had expected, but once again, it did not surprise him. The woman was on the fast track to personal glory; she’d have her precious indictment before the day was out and with it the official go-ahead to take this case to trial – in an adult court, with a guaranteed audience of millions.
‘One thing’s for sure, I’m gonna think twice before I rag on my teenage kids again,’ said Martinelli. Dan Martinelli, like Joe, was a father to four boys – three of whom were now in their teens.
‘Nine times outta ten it’s the lack of raggin’ that gets you into trouble, Dan,’ said Joe, slapping Martinelli on the shoulder as they reached the door.
‘You’re right,’ said Martinelli. ‘But there’s always that exception to the rule, isn’t there? God save us all.’
32
‘What’s wrong, Mother?’ asked the boy, his mouth slightly agape, his large brown eyes widening like two round orbs of innocence. ‘Who was that on the phone? You seem . . . upset?’
‘I . . .’ his mother began. But the rage she had felt mere seconds before was already surrendering to the more powerful emotion of fear. Her thirteen-year-old son had her in the palm of his hand. He controlled her every emotion and response. And he knew it.
‘It’s your father. He’s sick,’ she said, unable to hold his gaze. And she knew he took this as a sign of her acquiescence, her inability to hold her ground.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ the boy asked – his permanent accessory slung over his shoulder, the rifle sitting silent and ominous, immediately within his reach.
‘He collapsed. They called an ambulance. He was rushed to the ER. They had to pump his stomach. They said it was something called “Warfarin”. Said it is an anti-cogalient . . .’
‘Anticoagulant,’ corrected the boy, but the mother chose to ignore him.
‘Said if they had not stopped him from ingesting it that his brain would have haemorrhaged and his blood wouldn’t have been able to clot and . . .’
‘Warfarin . . . ?’ said the boy, a look of pure curiosity on his face.
‘Rat poison,’ said the mother through gritted teeth.
The boy lifted a finger as if to say, ‘Well now, that’s where I’ve read that chemical name before!’
‘He collapsed in the middle of that job interview,’ she said, her breath catching as she felt the anger rise once again. ‘The one he’d been counting on to help us pay the . . .’
‘The one he got all dressed up for this morning?’ asked the boy, a look of mock pity on his perfectly formed face. ‘In that ugly old grey suit?’
‘Yes,’ she said, and she could feel the sweat sting at her underarms, as her heart raced and her stomach knotted and her eyes began to swim with tears. ‘The man who was interviewing him called 911, told the paramedics he suspected he was on drugs.’
‘Talk about blowing an interview,’ smiled the boy. ‘I mean, my number-crunching dweeb of a father a drug addict? How ridiculous is that?’
And in that moment she met his eyes again and for once – for ONCE – managed to stare him down, her eyelashes not moving as her son was forced to blink.
‘Where are you going?’ he said then, as she moved past him – in the widest arc she c
ould manage given the narrowness of their house – towards the living room. He pulled the rifle from his shoulder and started turning it over in his hands.
‘The hospital, of course,’ she said, grabbing her handbag from the sofa, before running her chipped manicured fingers through her strawberry blonde hair. ‘They refuse to release him until somebody signs him out.’
‘So, I’ll be making my own dinner then,’ said the boy.
‘I expect you’ll be doing whatever you please.’
The boy laughed. ‘Well, you’re right again, Mother. I’d say I most certainly will.’
Deirdre McCall closed her eyes as her hands gripped the sides of the toilet seat beneath her, the memory finally fading from her brain. She was in the dance hall cubicles, ensconced in the far stall of the old but clean ladies’ room that had a pair of scratched pink ballet shoes painted delicately on the outside of the door. She could hear the children at the basin outside, perhaps wondering who had been in the end lavatory for so long, and she had even resorted to lifting her feet and balancing them on the back of the old wooden door in front of her, in case anyone decided to bend over in curiosity and sneak a peek or two.
It was as she had feared. After the woman named Kelly had called, Deirdre had asked her ‘understudy’ to take her class while she ran to the local newspaper vendor for a copy of USA Today. She had read the story about the teenage son being arrested, noted the name of his attorney, gone to a payphone, called directories, and was connected to the Boston-based firm of Wright, Wallace and Gertz forthwith. She had answered – the Kelly woman, her accent unmistakable – and Deirdre remained silent, gripping the dirty silver receiver so tightly that her hand had begun to turn blue, only moving when an impatient old lady began banging on the booth’s smudged plastic door, a look of pure intolerance on her sour, creviced face.
Of course she had no way of telling exactly how Mrs Kelly had got the information. The article she spoke of was organised by the dancing school headmistress without her permission – a sort of sixty-fifth birthday present which left Deirdre in the awkward (dangerous) position of not being able to say ‘no’. But the story had run over a year ago and she honestly believed that he had not seen it, that she was safe – that her successful, TV star son still believed that his poor sap of a mother was dead, buried . . . gone. And so she had been forced to make a decision – a decision to which, despite what her current location and physical stature might suggest, she was determined to hold firm!
Sometime last night, when the moon was high and the temperature unbearable, she had realised that, as pathetic as it may seem, she was actually ‘happy’ being who she was, and doing what she did, and seeing the joy on the faces of those who conquered a step thanks to Miss McCall’s caring and learned instructions. Somehow, she had managed to build a new life independently of the man she once loved and the boy she once bore – finding peace in the knowledge that the intensity of the devotion she received from the former, was (almost) enough to balance the wretchedness the latter had caused.
So she had promised herself that she would not, under any circumstances, allow her son to intimidate her again. Thirty years ago she had failed to stand up to him and her weakness had cost her dear husband his life. But that was before she understood that boys like her son would never be stopped unless someone had the guts to confront them. Which, if it came down to it, she was willing to do – when eventually the time came.
And so, as she finally released her toes from the back of the splintered cubicle door, and as she stood and flushed the lavatory just to allay any suspicion, and as she made her way outside to the basins to stare at herself in the scratched bevelled mirror that stretched the length of the far bathroom wall, she said a prayer for the only other two people in the world who understood exactly where Miss Deirdre Hall was coming from.
Maybe the day will come when I can actually help them, she thought, imagining her two young grandchildren folding into her arms. But then the image of her son’s face overshadowed her and, hands still wet, she hurried from the bathroom to the comfort of the hall beyond, where the music seemed to soothe her – if only briefly – until the memories returned again.
33
‘Hey, DC. Over here,’ said Tony Bishop, signalling for David to join him at the far right-hand booth at the back of a crowded Myrtle McGee’s. It was almost 9.30am and David only had a half-hour before Barbara Wong-McGregor was meeting them at their offices. He had a million things to do – including catching up with Joe and ME Gus Svenson, but Tony had been insistent that they meet up ASAP. And so here David was, one eye on his old college buddy, and the other set firmly on his watch.
‘What’s up?’ said David as Tony rose to shake his hand.
‘This and that,’ said Tony, taking his seat again. ‘I ordered you the eggs and some coffee.’
‘Thanks,’ said David. ‘I couldn’t sleep last night so I got up early to go for a run, which meant I didn’t get time for breakfast and . . . in fact . . .’ David signalled for Mick who was passing a nearby table.
‘Hey, Mick, can you add a fresh OJ to my order? And some water, one of the big bottles, ice cold if that’s okay.’
‘Well, as you can see I don’t have any other customers to look after this morning so why don’t I just hop to the orchard and pick those oranges you requested by hand,’ said Mick, his words dripping in sarcasm but his grin betraying his jest.
‘That would be great,’ smiled David. ‘Just make sure they’re ripe – you know, and extra sweet with no pips.’
‘Don’t push your luck, Davey boy,’ said Mick as he made his way back to the counter.
‘You’re busy,’ said Tony, stating the obvious.
‘I’m flat out,’ replied David. ‘But you said this was urgent and a man’s gotta eat so . . .’ And then David sensed, by the furrow in Tony’s brow, that this conversation was not going to be easy – and for one horrible moment he suspected that his friend was going to ask him about Amanda Carmichael and what, if anything, she and David meant to each other.
‘You’re representing Stephanie’s son,’ said Tony.
Ah, thought David, so that was what this was about. ‘I know what you’re thinking, Tony – that Steph was our friend, that I am defending her killer. But . . . the thing is, there is more to this case than meets the eye. You know there is no way that I would ever do anything that went against what I believe Stephanie would have wanted. I would never spit on her memory, Tony. She meant too much to us – to you.’
‘That’s not it,’ said Bishop, instinctively lowering his voice. ‘Although, I have heard some rumours.’
‘What rumours?’ asked David, knowing that this was exactly where it would get sticky. David knew that Tony’s firm represented the Logan/Tyler family interests and, as such, would never divulge any information he had come across as part of his legal responsibilities to his client. But he also knew that Tony had no direct responsibility for either of their accounts, which made him curious as to why he would be . . .
‘You know that we represent them,’ said Tony, reading David’s mind.
‘Yeah,’ said David. ‘But I also know that you are in corporate and Logan and Stephanie’s interests were more familial, or media related.’
‘Did she do what the rumours are claiming, DC?’ Tony asked then, unable to help himself. ‘Did she change that much? Did she really abuse her kids to the point where one of them would turn a gun on her and blow her to smithereens?’
‘Jesus,’ said David, completely in shock. ‘Where the hell did you hear that?’
‘Let’s just say I have a source close to home.’
‘Shit,’ said David. ‘We are trying to keep this quiet until we have a chance to . . .’ But he stopped short, knowing exactly where Tony got his information.
‘Stephanie was not an abuser, Tony,’ he said. ‘You knew her. You know she was incapable of such things.’
Tony nodded.
‘So what the fuck else has Logan told
you?’ asked David.
‘He’s our client, David. And the only reason I told you what he told me about Stephanie was because it won’t be privileged for long.’
‘He’s going to release it?’ asked a furious David.
Tony gave the slightest of nods.
‘Shit.’
‘Look, David,’ said Tony then, leaning into the table, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘I am here because . . .’ He took a breath. ‘I am here because whatever happens I need you to know that there is more going on than you realise. There is some new information that I obtained via my firm and . . . Amanda is investigating it and . . . it might be a good thing – for your client, I mean, for the kid, Steph’s son. It might see him . . .’
‘Jesus, Tony, what the hell are you trying to say?’
But Tony was shaking his head, knowing he had probably already over-stepped the mark. ‘I guess I just needed to know that we were on the same page – about Stephanie, I mean.’
‘She was a good person, Tony, which is more than I can say for her husband.’
‘He’s my client, David.’
‘And you rag on me for representing criminals,’ said David, rising quickly to his feet. ‘It isn’t always about you, Bishop. The world doesn’t exist so that Tony Bishop can make his millions and ease his conscience all at the very same time.’
‘I’m sorry,’ was all Tony could think of to say.
‘Yeah, well, so am I.’
34
‘Well, first up,’ said Barbara Wong-McGregor, falling into the seat across from David and Sara, Arthur having taken top spot at the head of their small conference room table, ‘one thing is for sure, that when you finally decide on your defence strategy for this kid – and I am convinced, that despite what we all might be speculating, that is exactly what you are currently doing . . .’ and then she paused, as David stole a glance at Sara, realising that Barbara, like Sara, felt the need to stress that the boy was their priority, and perhaps more to the point, that they had nothing concrete against Jeffrey Logan – at least, not yet, ‘. . . you will not make the mistake of going with “diminished responsibility”.’
