“They have some results back on the car,” he told Madison. “I’m going to head over and see what they found.”
Madison called his office to inform his receptionist he would be in by noon. With his practice a ghost of what it once was, he could now afford such luxuries. The patients who did come in invariably asked him about his arrest. It made for a very uncomfortable doctor/patient relationship, but he always politely brushed the questions aside and tried to satisfy their curiosity with a direct denial of the charges and a promise to come through all of this unscathed.
He wished that Jeffrey Hellman could make him the same promise.
Chandler arrived at the Division of Law Enforcement exactly thirty minutes later. Located on Broadway near downtown Sacramento, the expansive two-story red brick structure that housed several agencies and employed 2,500 people was imposing. He drove into the large parking lot behind the building off 50th Street and proceeded to the security gate at the back entrance. He completed an information card on himself, and had Lou Palucci paged.
Chandler looked around the entryway while he waited. A large circular security desk was surrounded by a vast expanse of bulletproof glass; behind the Department of Justice guard were large black-and-white monitors that projected images of the parking lot, corridors, and strategic points of sensitive areas of the state crime lab.
Palucci was a man in his late forties, with graying temples and about thirty pounds of excess fat drooping over his belt. His dress shirt was pulled tight like the skin across a drum, the buttons fighting to contain the large belly.
“I still have my department ID if that helps,” Chandler said as he shook Palucci’s hand.
“Not a problem. I’ve already had you cleared.”
“It didn’t show my arrest for armed robbery last year?”
“You haven’t lost your sense of humor, Chandler.”
“Some claim I never had one,” he said with a grin. “So congrats on your promotion. When did you move into the director’s seat?”
“Been about three years now.”
“Looks like it suits you well.”
Palucci patted his stomach, risking that the vibration would force the buttons beyond their limits. “I sit on my ass all day. That, plus Jan’s cooking, and I had no chance. Crept up on me.”
Jan was a good cook, no doubt about that—but Chandler wondered how gaining thirty pounds and buying a new wardrobe could “creep up” on you. He took the red badge that the guard handed him as Palucci signed him in.
“Nice digs,” Chandler said as they walked past a couple of rooms with tan Formica table tops, Bunsen burners, Petri dishes, flasks, large computerized gas chromatographs, and comparison microscopes.
“All this equipment was written into the budget five years ago when the state’s coffers were full and the economy was exploding. Now we’re struggling to keep our current levels of funding. We’re severely understaffed. Only two percent of the physical evidence the identification officers collect actually makes it into the crime lab. That’s a pretty sorry statistic, huh?”
“Two percent’s not a whole lot better than New York City. We’re big, no doubt about that, but not necessarily better. Our lab’s so specialized and departmentalized that last month when our toilets were out of order I had to get special permission from the Ballistics Unit just to use their john.”
“New facilities notwithstanding,” Palucci said, “being smaller is nice in some ways, frustrating in others. I wish we had the manpower you guys have.”
“What’s the saying? Grass is always greener? Yeah, we’ve got the manpower, but we’ve also got more cases. We’re so behind in processing the physical evidence the DA goes to trial before the tests and reports are completed. The prosecutors hate us because of the delays, the defense hates us because we uncover evidence that fries their client, and the judges hate us because we clog up the court system with continuances.”
They arrived at the trace evidence lab. Spread across the table top were several photos of the hood and fender of Madison’s Mercedes. Close-ups of detail on the grille, showing clothing fibers and blood, and perspective shots that showed a broader range of location and relationships of one item to another, were cataloged and neatly arranged across the table.
A man was pecking away on the computer near the photos.
“Kurt Gray,” Palucci said, “this is Ryan Chandler. He’s a forensic investigator with NYPD. Used to be a cop with Sacramento PD.”
Gray pried his attention away from the monitor and swiveled his chair around to look at Chandler. A few pimples that decorated his forehead became noticeable as he brushed the hair off his face with his right hand. Moderately deep crow’s feet emanated from the corners of each of his eyes.
“Glad to meet you, Kurt,” Chandler said as he shook his hand.
“Chandler’s working with the defense on the Madison double murder case.”
Gray withdrew his hand. “Oh.”
“I just want to know what’s going on,” Chandler said. “I’m not gonna bust your chops. I happen to know Madison’s innocent, and it’s my job to find things that can help him prove it.”
Gray’s face was contorted with disgust.
“Chandler’s okay,” Palucci said. “You don’t have to worry about him. I’ve known him a long time. It’s okay to answer his questions.”
Gray turned back to his computer and talked toward the screen. “So what do you want to know, Mr. Chandler?”
“I’ve got a meeting to attend,” Palucci said to Chandler, backing away. “I’ll only be a half hour. You need to leave, Kurt’ll be your escort.”
“Thanks, Lou.”
“No problem.”
“You can drop the mister,” Chandler said to Gray. “My friends call me Chandler.”
“I don’t mean to state the obvious,” Gray said, “but I’m not your friend. What is it you want to know?”
“Have you completed an analysis of the clothing fibers?”
The criminalist continued working the keyboard. “Yes.”
Chandler waited for further information, but after a few seconds it was obvious that none was forthcoming. “What did your analysis show?”
“The fibers that we pulled off Madison’s car were an exact match to those in the clothing that the victims were wearing. An exact match. And there’s a report in the file that says the blood spatter under the chassis of your client’s Mercedes is consistent with the blood type that was found in the tire marks near the male victim. I guess your boy was in a hurry.”
Chandler could tell that Gray had already concluded that Madison was guilty based upon the physical evidence. “My boy is one of the most well-respected orthopedic surgeons in all of northern California. My boy also happens to be innocent.”
Gray did not reply. His eyes remained fixed on the monitor, his fingers working the keys.
“What else do you have?”
“The interior of the car was dusted for latents. Madison’s prints were the only ones found.”
“It was his car. And the driver could’ve been wearing gloves.”
“Right.” He had still not taken his eyes off the screen.
Chandler looked at the monitor, then swung his gaze back to Gray. “Have you finished your report?”
“It’s not my report. Saperstein, the other criminalist, has some kind of bleeding ulcer and he’s laid up in the hospital. The boss threw the file on my desk and told me to get the report out ASAP. So that’s what I’m doing. Or trying to do. If you’d leave me alone for a few minutes...”
Chandler frowned. “Fine. I’ll wait for Lou to get out of his meeting.”
“Then have a seat over there,” Gray said, nodding at a chair next to a desk in the comer of the room. “I can’t let you out of my sight.” He looked away from his computer screen for the first time and grinned. “Regulations.”
“No problem,” Chandler said, walking across the lab and sitting down on the chair. He picked up a newspaper as Gray
turned his attention back to the report. The Sacramento Herald headline at the bottom of the front page was bold: “Police Commended for Quick Arrest in Doc Murders.” He read on. “Confirmed sources indicate that evidence continues to mount against Sacramento orthopedic surgeon Phillip Madison in the hit-and-run double murder of one week ago. The source stated that an announcement was expected within the next couple of days that could likely seal the coffin of the prominent orthopedist even before his trial begins...”
Chandler threw the paper down. He hated this “confirmed sources” garbage. If people had something to say, they should put their names to it. If they were not prepared to put their names to it, they should not say anything. Many a lie had been couched behind the veil of a “confirmed sources” quote. Sacramento was much better off when the Bee was the only paper in town. When the Herald burst on the scene a dozen years ago, it brought shoot-from-the-hip journalism to California’s capital.
Chandler rubbed the small of his low back. There has to be something that can clear Phil. But what?
Twenty minutes later, Palucci returned just as Gray was completing his report. Chandler took his friend aside, out of earshot of anyone in the lab, and asked if he could see the file.
“You can ask questions, but I can’t let you see it. I’m already sticking my neck out in letting you come in here.”
“Just let me take a quick look. I’m only out here for a few days, so anything that can help me be more productive during that time is important.”
Palucci sighed and looked at Chandler’s pleading eyes. “You sure this guy is clean?”
Chandler nodded. “Absolutely. You know who he is?”
“No, and I don’t want to know. We just do our jobs the best we can, no matter who—”
“Hey, you’re talking to me, Lou, not some idiot bureaucrat. You don’t need to bullshit me.”
Palucci picked the file up off the desk. “Why don’t we grab a bite in the cafeteria,” he said, leading the way out of the room.
Chandler bought lunch, a couple of cellophane-wrapped tuna sandwiches and Cokes. “Godawful food here,” Palucci grumbled as he chewed the first bite of his sandwich. “That’s why I bring something from home or go out.”
Chandler did not hear a word he had said; he was scanning the various forensic reports, growing more dismayed as the evidence against Madison mounted. He felt the knots tightening down in his intestines. The war had begun, and it was beginning to look like the worst enemy would be the physical evidence against his client.
“Chandler, eat your sandwich,” Palucci was saying.
“Huh?”
“Eat.”
“This food’s garbage.”
“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”
“No. Sorry.” He mumbled something to himself, then said, “This isn’t going to be easy.”
“I haven’t seen the file,” Palucci said. “But the forensics don’t usually lie.”
“In this case they have.” He shuffled the papers in the file. “Get the police report yet?”
“If it’s not in there, it hasn’t come through. Either that, or it’s sitting in a bin waiting to be filed.”
Chandler glared at his friend.
“No, I’m not gonna go hunting through the secretary’s desk for it.”
A moment later, Chandler closed the case folder. “Thanks for the sneak preview.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
They smiled and shook hands as Chandler rose from his seat, then threw his sandwich in the trash on the way out. He had no stomach for eating.
CHAPTER 14
CHANDLER SPENT THE LAST HOUR of the afternoon reviewing his notes, then unpacking his clothing and shoving it into the dresser in Madison’s guest room. He called Denise, talked to Noah, and apologized for not being there for his first soccer game. He was supposed to be coaching the team, a responsibility he had to bow out of at the last minute due to his unexpected trip to California.
Denise was still being tolerant of his need to be away, but Chandler knew there was a limit to her understanding. He figured he had another three, maybe four days before she began voicing her disapproval.
Denise told him that Hennessy, his boss, had called inquiring as to when he could expect his star forensic investigator to return. He had a murder case to report on, and he did not condone the taking of unauthorized vacations in the middle of a case workup. He, too, had a tolerance point for this type of behavior, star expert or not.
Chandler sat down at the teak desk in the large, meticulously decorated room and jotted down some supplemental thoughts on what he had seen in the forensic reports. The room was so well appointed, with elegant bedspread, plush carpeting, and lacy drapes, that he felt like he was staying at a three-hundred-dollar-a-night bed-and-breakfast inn.
As Chandler finished making his notes, Madison came home. He had been at the hospital late, consulting on a case as a favor to a friend.
“Hey doc,” Chandler said as he descended the stairs from the third floor. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
“Good. I just got a call from Jeffrey. He wants to meet us for dinner. He’s anxious to hear what you found out today.”
They drove over to the Bohemian Quarter, a provincial French restaurant tucked into the hills of old Fair Oaks, fifteen minutes from the house. The dimly illuminated candlelit interior was a perfect backdrop for the sobering, crow-eating discussion they were about to have regarding the evidence. The fireplace behind their table roared and occasionally crackled as the logs burned vigorously.
“How does it look?” Hellman was asking as the menus were handed to them by the hostess.
“How does it look?” Chandler sucked on his bottom lip a moment, then said, “Let me put it this way. It looks like the good doctor is a cold-blooded drunken hit-and-run killer. Does that paint a clear enough picture for you?”
“Shit,” Hellman said, reaching for his glass of water.
“What have they got?” Madison asked.
“A left ear print on the Mercedes’s windshield that matches the left ear of the female victim. They have no fingerprints in the car other than Phil’s. An empty six-pack of beer in the backseat. The blood spatter on the underside of the car matches the male victim’s blood type, and the tire mark found on the victim’s coat matches the tread on Phil’s car. There were clothing fibers on the grille, and guess what? They matched those on the victim’s coat. Other fibers matched the ones on the wiper blade.”
“I’m quickly losing my appetite,” Madison said, closing his menu.
“The good news is that your blood alcohol level was zero.”
“All I had was a glass of wine with dinner.”
“Yeah, but because of the beer cans they found in your car,” Hellman said, “they were probably thinking you’d consumed a lot more alcohol, like the entire six-pack. A solid positive reading and the fat lady would’ve been singing.”
“But because it was zero,” Madison said, “it hurts their case.”
Chandler was shaking his head. “Not really. It doesn’t hurt them but it doesn’t help them, either. It takes about an hour for one drink to clear your system. But if you’d drunk six cans of beer over a period of time, the alcohol would’ve been completely out of your system in about four to five hours.”
“I was arrested, what, about five hours after those people were run down.”
“Exactly,” Hellman said. “Even if they claim you drank the entire six-pack, they’d have absolutely no evidence to support it. After five hours, the reading would’ve been zero. So blood alcohol levels won’t have any bearing on your case one way or the other. I doubt they’ll even bring it up.”
“Then all we have to worry about, “Madison said, “is the mountain of other incriminating evidence.”
“We’re not giving up,” Chandler said. “There are some things that have piqued my interest.”
“Oh?” Hellman asked as the server came ov
er. The man was dressed in a tuxedo and was all smiles. No one at the table wore a face of cheer, and being the seasoned waiter that he was, he appeared to sense the tension and adopted a more serious, professional appearance. He introduced himself by name and recited the various specials for the evening.
A moment later, they placed their orders. The man collected their menus and announced he would bring the salads shortly. Madison turned to Chandler. “You said there were a few things that piqued your interest.”
“Your fingerprints aren’t on any of the beer cans. And the prints on the steering wheel are smudged.”
“Probably meaning that the driver was wearing gloves,” Hellman said.
“What else?” Madison asked.
“All the physical evidence proves is that the car was definitely at the crime scene. It doesn’t prove that you were driving it. Am I right?” He was looking at Hellman.
“Yeah, it’s all circumstantial. There’s no direct link. In fact, I wouldn’t be worried, except for the fact that Phil doesn’t have an alibi, and there’s no evidence pointing to any other suspect. Phil’s easy prey.”
“Let’s look at this from another angle,” Chandler said. “Who else could’ve done this? I mean, it’s not like some punk ran down a couple of people and fled the scene. This person broke into your garage, stole your car, drove it into the worst neighborhood in town, and then returned the car to your garage. He left a six-pack of empty beer cans in the backseat, and wore gloves. This isn’t the work of a common criminal or car-theft punk. This was a calculated plot designed to frame you, Phil. We need to start approaching this from a different perspective. Agreed?”
Hellman nodded, eyebrows straining skyward, as if to say, I’ve got nothing better to offer.
“All right then. Was there anyone who hated you enough to construct an elaborate crime, kill two people, and then pin it on you?”
“Didn’t you tell him?” Hellman asked, looking at Madison.
“I hadn’t gotten to it yet. Your phone call interrupted us.”
Hellman shook his head. “I forgot that you take forever to tell a story.”
False Accusations Page 8
