Preston flashed a smile. “I kind of like it. It makes you look cute and innocent, something we both know you’re not. I’m sure you’ll be a big hit at the jail. From the way you’re dressed today, I gather you’ve given up trying to get criminals to talk by dressing seductively.”
“I’ve given up a lot of things,” Carolyn said.
“Abernathy’s got you down, huh?” he said. “Take a seat.”
Brad Preston was an exceptionally handsome man. His blond hair was fashionably cut, his eyes a vibrant blue, his skin bronze and unlined. He was a natural athlete, but more than anything, Brad was a thrill seeker. The walls were lined with photographs of him standing in front of high-powered race cars.
Carolyn walked over and flopped down in one of the two blue chairs facing his desk, inhaling the scent of freshly brewed coffee. Brad’s assistant, Rachel, made him a pot every morning, using the gourmet blends he brought from home. His favorite was vanilla mocha. He offered her a cup, but she declined. “One of the DA’s investigators said they were going to let Abernathy plead guilty to two counts of tampering with evidence if he agreed to spend thirty days in a mental hospital,” she told him, swinging her leg back and forth. “What happened to the perjury counts? Every case Abernathy processed evidence in is up on appeal. Jesus, he even handled the DNA testing on the Tracy Anderson homicide. The next thing I expect to hear is that Carl Holden is back on the streets.”
“I’m sorry, Carolyn,” Preston said, avoiding her eyes. “Holden’s conviction was overturned almost two years ago. The DA’s office decided not to try him again because they felt certain they couldn’t obtain a conviction without the DNA evidence. After what’s come to light regarding Abernathy’s lab work, of course, it’s been ruled inadmissible. If you recall, none of the surviving rape victims were able to positively identify him. The entire case hinged on the DNA.”
Carolyn closed her eyes, appalled at what she was hearing. She had known it was bad, but she hadn’t known it was this bad.
A fresh-faced woman in her mid-twenties walked into the room. “Harry’s back from court,” Rachel told Brad, referring to the agency’s superior court officer, who represented other officers’ recommendations on routine felonies, thus saving them the time of juggling scores of court appearances. “Do you want his report now, or do you want him to come back later? He said everything went pretty good. Walker’s recommendation was the only one that didn’t fly.” She saw Carolyn in the chair behind her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were in a conference, Brad. Should I close the door?”
“Please,” her boss said, taking a swallow of his coffee.
Carolyn straightened up in her seat, her face frozen into hard lines. “Why didn’t someone notify me about Holden?”
“I only found out myself a few months ago,” Brad said, cracking his knuckles. “I knew how much it would upset you, so I decided there was no reason to tell you. Holden is only one in God knows how many cases that were affected. As far as Abernathy is concerned, it’s taken the county years to unravel what he did and put together accurate accounts as to which cases were compromised. The man was the chief forensic officer for the county. The poor guy had a nervous breakdown. The cops and prosecutors put tremendous pressure on these people, and the amount of evidence they process is enormous. They aren’t miracle workers. Abernathy decided to give them what they wanted, probably just to get them off his back.” He cleared his throat. “The DA didn’t have much choice but to cut a deal with him. They want to keep as tight a lid on this thing as they possibly can. The only person willing to testify was Warner Chen, and Abernathy’s attorneys have painted him as a disgruntled employee who intentionally set out to discredit the boss so he could inherit his job.”
“Why would they give Abernathy’s job to Chen?” Carolyn asked him. “He went and blabbed everything to the press. They ran an article in the paper just last week. If the cat’s already out of the bag, why let Abernathy skate?”
“They fired Warner Chen last week,” Preston said. “That’s when he got pissed and went to the press.”
“Abernathy’s not crazy, Brad. He’s a lazy, incompetent moron. They say he didn’t run tests on half the evidence that came into the lab. He simply fabricated reports, or he used the DNA samples collected from the suspects after their arrests, and then claimed they matched whatever was found at the crime scene. The man had a God complex. He probably got off on the fact that he could control who went to prison and who walked. Sure, he was influenced by the investigating officers, but there’s no excuse for what he did. He should have received the same treatment as any other criminal. With his position and the opportunity it presented to destroy lives, if it were up to me, he would have received twice as long a sentence as the average offender.” She slumped back in her chair, disgusted with the whole situation. “This is a disaster. Now even I don’t have faith in the system.”
Preston tapped his pen against his teeth. “We cut deals with murderers all the time. Why not one of our own? I’m not saying I agree, just that I understand why the DA’s office felt they should run damage control. The more this is played out in the media, the more cases will come up on appeal. The courts are already swamped. How can we come up with the resources and manpower to retry half the crimes committed during the eleven years Abernathy ran the lab?”
Carolyn didn’t answer. Discounting Robert Abernathy’s gross misconduct, forensic evidence was not always accurate for a variety of reasons. Samples could be corrupted, or too small for the necessary tests to be conducted. Evidence could be contaminated at the scene or during processing at the lab. Sometimes equipment malfunctioned. Bias was another problem, as demonstrated by Abernathy’s desire to please the police and prosecutors. Courts and juries had learned to rely so heavily on forensic evidence, particularly DNA, which was presented as irrefutable, that eyewitness testimony, logic, and material facts were no longer sufficient to bring in a conviction.
Preston stared up at the ceiling, then slowly met her gaze. “I have more bad news. Holden’s been convicted of a new crime. I want you to handle the report. The offense is destruction of private property. Judge Reiss placed him on summary probation, so no one’s asking you to supervise him.”
“Summary probation!” Carolyn exclaimed, bolting to her feet. “Carl Holden is a serial rapist and murderer. And you’re telling me Reiss didn’t think someone should actively supervise him? We’ve got a violent criminal on the street and no way to keep tabs on him. He’s not even on parole. Christ, how irresponsible can we get?”
“I assigned the case to you for two reasons,” Brad said, forging ahead despite her outburst. “Since you handled the original investigation eight years ago, you know Holden better than anyone else. A little intelligence gathering might come in handy if he commits another act of violence in the future.”
“I don’t want to gather intelligence on him,” Carolyn said, crossing her arms over her chest. “Let Judge Reiss gather intelligence on him.” Realizing she was being unreasonable, she added, “Fine, give me his file. I’ll do the best I can.” Her thoughts turned to the murder victim’s husband. “Has anyone told Troy Anderson?”
“I assume the DA did,” Preston said, entering the case assignment into his computer.
Carolyn walked over to his desk and picked up a framed picture of him with a young blonde, standing next to a race car. “New trophy?” she asked, showing it to him before she placed it back on his desk.
“Not recently,” he said, answering without looking. When he finally saw what she’d been referring to, he laughed. “That’s my mechanic, Trixie. Want to see one of the girls I’ve been dating?”
“I’ll pass,” Carolyn answered. The fact that he’d referred to her as a girl was enough.
The Carl Holden case had been one of the first major crimes Carolyn had handled as an investigative probation officer. The woman he’d murdered, Tracy Anderson, had been a thirty-six-year-old housewife. Carolyn had recommended that Holden be s
entenced to thirty-two years for the combined total of the four rape convictions, plus the indeterminate term of twelve years to life on the homicide. The judge had imposed her recommendation, which totaled forty-four years. Holden had served eight.
“What’s the destruction of property about?”
“Some guy jumped him in a bar,” Brad said, placing his arms behind his neck. “In the ruckus he pushed Holden into a plate-glass window. The culprit skipped before the cops got there, so the owner of the bar filed a complaint against Holden.”
Carolyn snorted. “He made a scene in the courtroom when he was sentenced on the original crimes, in case you’ve forgotten. He claimed I betrayed his trust, that I twisted the statements he made during the interview to convince the judge into imposing a longer sentence. Just so you know, Holden hates me. I doubt if he’s going to tell me any secrets.” She was about to walk out when he called out to her.
“I scheduled Holden for four-thirty tomorrow.”
“Damn,” Carolyn said, “now I’ll have to stay late on Friday night. The least you could have done is let me decide when I wanted to see him. Thanks, Brad, thanks a lot. You’re a real sweetheart.” He had that stupid grin on his face that she despised. He tried to look serious, but the corners of his mouth and the glint in his eyes gave him away. Brad saw life as a series of adventures. In the right context, it made him seem boyish and appealing. At the moment, she felt like slugging him.
“Just trying to make things easier for you.”
“Don’t do me any more favors, okay?” Carolyn said, disappearing through the doorway.
She was sitting at her desk, about to open Carl Holden’s file, when Veronica Campbell stepped up behind her and said, “What’s going on?” ruffling her hair.
Carolyn spun her chair around, relating what she’d just heard about Robert Abernathy, as well as the fact that she would be seeing Carl Holden the next day. “Norton at the DA’s office told me victims have been calling them nonstop since the story broke last week,” she continued. “They’re trying to figure out if Abernathy was involved in their cases. I don’t know why the D.A.’s office thinks they’re covering up anything since it’s been in all the papers.”
“There’s plenty of people in prison who won’t hear about it,” Veronica told her, taking a seat in the chair beside Carolyn’s desk inside the cramped space. “Not if they squash it now. Most of them are probably guilty anyway. Didn’t you handle cases other than Holden where Abernathy processed the evidence? I had a ton of them.”
“Of course. Holden is the first murderer to be set free, though. What about you?”
An outspoken woman in her late thirties, Veronica had a daughter almost the same age as Carolyn’s son, John, as well as three other children, aged eight, five and two. She wore her frizzy blond hair short, had a round, friendly face, and was about twenty pounds overweight, most of it left over from her last pregnancy. The two women had known each other since grade school. They didn’t always agree on everything, but they were best friends. “Remember that child mutilation I handled last year?”
“The eight-year-old boy, right?”
“Billy Bell,” Veronica said, pulling a tissue out of her sweater and blowing her nose. “This is the umpteenth cold I’ve had this year. Drew has it too, and the baby’s been up three nights with the croup.”
Not wanting to listen to her ramble on about her husband and children, Carolyn prompted her, “The case…”
“It’s on appeal right now. Davidson at the DA’s thinks we may lose the conviction on Lester McAllen. Billy’s mother committed suicide after the…” Veronica’s eyes glazed over, and the area around her mouth grew pale. “Well, you know…losing a child that way. I mean, not many women could withstand that kind of pain.”
“This one got to you, didn’t it?” Carolyn said. “Why didn’t you go to Brad and ask him to reassign it?”
“This is the job, you know,” she said, rubbing her finger across her eyelid. “The father owned a painting business. They struggled for years to have a baby. The wife took fertility drugs. When the doctor told them it was going to be a multiple birth, they opted to abort all but one fetus. After Billy was killed, I’m sure they had regrets about that. They were a nice, middle-class family. The mother worked for a bank, and the father owned a painting business. They worshiped that kid. When I called to tell him about Abernathy, he said he’d had to file bankruptcy. He wasn’t even sure he could keep his house.”
Carolyn’s eyes expanded. “You called him?”
“I call all the victims on the cases I handle as soon as I verify they were involved,” Veronica said, leaning her chair back against the partitioned wall. “The victims have a right to know. Even the ones who read the articles in the paper may not fully understand the implications. I mean, a forensic scientist falsifying and tampering with evidence doesn’t say much to people outside the system. Tyler Bell didn’t think it had anything to do with him because the man who killed Billy was already in prison.”
Veronica leaned forward and opened one of the drawers in Carolyn’s desk, rummaging around to see if she had any food, then closing it when she saw it was empty. Carolyn was always munching on something—raisins, nuts, granola bars. Recently, she’d become a die-hard chocoholic. She usually had two or three candy bars stashed away, and Veronica would occasionally sneak in and steal one.
“I’m sorry I don’t have any comfort food,” Carolyn told her. “I ate the last Hershey bar yesterday and forgot to go to the store to pick up some more.”
“It’s all right,” Veronica said, standing. “A candy bar isn’t going to fix things. I need something that will make me feel better for longer than two minutes. I’m trying to dig up some old charges or something to slap McAllen with if he gets out. With guys like that, you know there’s always something left hanging when they get shipped off to prison.”
After Veronica walked off, Carolyn stared out the window at the parking lot. A desk with a window was highly coveted, and she’d earned hers by seniority. Veronica used to work in the cubicle next to hers. She’d lost her spot after taking two years off to stay home with the baby. Beyond the parking lot, Carolyn could see the Ventura foothills. If the building had faced the other direction, she would have had a partial view of the ocean.
She thumbed through Holden’s file. When she reached the autopsy photos of Tracy Anderson, she started to set them aside, then forced herself to look at them. When the job became overwhelming, the lifeless bodies of victims reached out from the photographs and spoke to her. She reminded herself that this was the last stop on the train. By the time a case reached her desk, the police had concluded their investigation, the DA had successfully brought in a conviction, yet the most important part of the process was still to come—determining the extent of the punishment. And it was here that she had the chance to make a difference.
Carolyn was certain Holden had killed other women, burying their bodies where no one would find them. How could such a vicious criminal be back on the street? She placed her palm on her forehead, contemplating what Abernathy had inflicted on those no longer alive to protest. She felt great compassion for the families, but the victims were her boss. When she went to deposit her paycheck, she didn’t see the numbers or the county insignia. Unlike others, she never complained about her salary. The modest salary she made seemed more than adequate. Far too many of the victims had paid with their lives.
The system had failed Tracy Anderson, just as it had failed Billy Bell. Carolyn was a part of the system. Eight years for snuffing out the life of a vibrant young woman was not justice, nor was it the forty-four-year sentence the court had ordered Carl Holden to serve at her recommendation. Now a job she’d thought was done had been undone. She had a lot more work to do for Tracy Anderson.
To clear her head, Carolyn headed to the break room for a cup of coffee. She heard a phone ring two or three times, then abruptly stop, not followed by the sound of someone speaking. People were letting thei
r voice mail pick up. In most instances, probation officers answered calls when they came in so they wouldn’t have to track down callers later.
A cloak of silence seemed to have fallen over the entire agency. No one seemed to be making calls, either—calls to set up appointments with defendants or victims, to talk over cases with police officers and prosecutors, even to check to see if their kids got home from school safely. She glanced inside the cubicles as she passed, seeing her fellow probation officers either intently reading or staring at their computer screens. Her coworkers were probably searching for old warrants, probation violations, other jurisdictions that might have charges still pending against an offender. They were all trying to right the overturned ship, or maybe come to terms with their anger.
CHAPTER 3
Thursday, September 14—3:45 P.M.
Robert Abernathy shuffled to his bronze Acura in the parking lot of the Ventura County government center. He had thirty days to get his affairs in order before he surrendered to Bollinger’s Psychiatric Hospital in San Francisco. At fifty-eight, he was a heavyset man with a round, jowly face and thinning gray hair. His deeply set eyes were obscured behind dark glasses. The inexpensive brown suit he was wearing was wrinkled, its underarms stained with perspiration. Today’s meeting at the DA’s office had lasted four agonizing hours.
Sullivan’s Evidence Page 2
