Falls the Shadow

by William Lashner

  “What about the victim’s psychiatrist?”

  “Objection,” said Dalton. “Assumes a fact not in evidence.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Were you aware, Detective, if the deceased was seeing a psychiatrist?”

  “No.”

  “A dermatologist?”

  “No.”

  “A chiropractor?”

  “No.”

  “A dentist?”

  “No.”

  “You weren’t aware whether or not the victim had a dentist?”

  “I assume she did, but it wasn’t of much interest to us. There was no question as to identity, for which dental records might have been of use. There was no damage to the victim’s teeth in the attack. The M.E.’s report noted that the victim’s teeth were in excellent shape. There was no reason to talk to her dentist.”

  “Except that Leesa Dubé’s dentist might have been one of the names in the missing book.”

  “Is that a question, Counselor?” said Torricelli.

  “Not really, but this is: There was quite a lot of Leesa Dubé’s blood spilled on the floor at the time of her murder, isn’t that correct?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “Is it possible to determine if all of the blood that bled out of the deceased was accounted for on the floor, or if some was missing?”

  “No.”

  “So some might have been taken, collected for some purpose by the killer, isn’t that right?”

  “Technically, yes.”

  “Only technically?”

  “Well, if such was the case, we would expect to see some indication of the collection process. Everything leaves a mark.”

  “Let me show you this photograph of the crime scene, People’s Exhibit Ten, which shows the apartment floor covered in blood. I want you to look at the bottom-left corner of the photograph. Do you see a pattern there, Detective?”

  “Not really.”

  “You don’t see a swirl in the blood?”

  “I don’t know, maybe.”

  “Maybe a swirl, is that it? Maybe a swirl caused by a small towel, used to wipe up some blood, for some later purpose?”

  “I can’t tell from this photograph.”

  “Maybe to be stored in a plastic bag, to be used later to wipe some of the blood off on a shirt or on the sole of a boot?”

  “Am I supposed to answer that?”

  “Where was the photograph in Mrs. Dubé’s hand taken from?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Your theory is that she was shot in the neck and in her death throes grabbed the photograph of her husband to show it was he who killed her, isn’t that right?”

  “I’m just testifying as to what I found.”

  “The woman was mortally wounded in the neck, was bleeding badly, and you believe she grabbed hold of a photograph. My questions is, examining the blood at the crime scene as you did, the position of her body, the layout of the room, could you tell us from where she took the photograph?”

  “Not precisely.”

  “Isn’t it just as likely that the photograph was put into her hand?”

  “She was gripping it pretty tightly.”

  “But right after her death, her muscles would have gone slack, that’s what the coroner testified to. Isn’t it possible that the photograph was put into her lifeless hand and then the fingers pressed over it to frame the husband?”

  “It seems far-fetched.”

  “And then the blood was taken, as that swirl shows, to be placed in the husband’s apartment.”

  “You’re going off into the ozone there, Counselor.”

  “And maybe this was all done by someone familiar with the victim’s personal situation, as well as familiar with the properties and consistencies of blood. Maybe by someone like a dentist?”

  “What is it with you and dentists?” said Torricelli.

  “It’s called dentophobia. Fear of men with hairy forearms wielding drills and picks in your mouth. I cheerfully admit to my own case of it. And based on your smile, you might have a touch of it yourself. Tell us, Detective, do you ever talk to the dentist while he’s cleaning your teeth?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Ever tell him how goes the family as he’s digging away into your gums?”

  “Mostly I just scream.”

  “So, Detective, let me ask you again. Do you have any idea of the name of Leesa Dubé’s dentist?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t you think you ought to find out?”

  “Our investigation is complete.”

  “Obviously not.”

  Just then I heard a rustle from behind me, something I’d been expecting for a while.

  Whitney Robinson III was standing up, trying to slide past the other spectators on his bench as he made his way to the exit. The expression on his face when he saw me catch him in his egress was horrifying, as if my few questions about blood and dentists had somehow rent the entire fabric of his life. Then, finally, he was out into the aisle, turning to the door, stalking out of the courtroom. At his first opportunity, he would make a call.

  And I knew damn well whom he would be calling.

  Torricelli waylaid us before Beth and I could leave the courtroom. The jury had been dismissed, the judge was off the bench, François had been taken away by the bailiff, and I wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there, too, but Torricelli had other ideas. He was not a man easily gotten around, especially when he stood in the aisle between you and the door.

  “Detective,” I said. “I hope I wasn’t out of line with that crack about the sport coat.”

  “My wife says worse.”

  “And yet you persist.”

  “Old habits. Nice bit of vaudeville today.”

  “I do my best.”

  “You want to give me the handle of the dentist?”

  “Not yet.”

  He snorted. “Figures. I thought I’d seen it all from you, Carl, but then you go and blame the murder of that woman on a noble professional.”

  “I tried to pick a suspect the jury would despise even more than a lawyer.”

  “Pretty low, even for you.”

  “You think that was low,” I said, “hold on to your hat.”

  “I was expecting you to mug me about planting the evidence I found. I was geared for a grilling.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  “I know what my reputation is. I’m too fat to be smart, I’m too surly to be truthful, I’m a lifelong cop so I must be on the wrong side of the line.”

  “You don’t have to convince me.”

  “That’s right, I don’t. But no matter how slipshod you run your business, I give a damn about mine. I don’t like to get things wrong. It alters the balance of things, you understand?”

  “You talking karma, Detective?”

  “Call it what you want. But I go out of my way not to slap the right beef on the wrong tuna.”

  “Why am I suddenly hungry for surf and turf?”

  “You have the wrong man this time, Detective,” said Beth.

  “I don’t believe we do,” said Torricelli. “But if you think so, tell me the skinny I need to get it straight. Give me a name.”

  “That would spoil the surprise.”

  Another snort. “Dalton told me to go out and earn my paycheck. I’ll have the name by morning.”

  “You want to know something?” I said after Torricelli had headed out the door and we were left alone in the courtroom. “I might have underestimated that man.”

  “Is that possible?” said Beth.

  “It’s scary to think so, isn’t it?”

  “Do you think it was too soon to bring up the whole dentist thing?”

  “The jury liked it.”

  “But, Victor, Torricelli will probably discover your dentist’s name. And if he wasn’t in town that day, or he has an alibi, or we can’t figure out a motive, all of which is quite possible, then it’s game over.”

  “I k
now.”

  “So?”

  “We don’t have much choice, do we? After the Sonenshein debacle, we have to take a risk. And this is it.”

  “But—”

  “Beth, look at me.”

  She turned to face me, her pretty, worried eyes focused on my own.

  “Do you trust me?” I said.

  Her gaze rose to the ceiling. “Why does that question always scare me?”

  “Look at me.”

  She did.

  “I don’t like him,” I said, “and I don’t like how you feel about him, and I wish we never took the damn case. But a woman is dead, a little girl has lost her mother, her father is my client and he’s fighting for his life. All of that I take as seriously as anything in this world. So whatever happens in this courtroom the next few days, you have to trust me that I’m trying to do the right thing.”

  “Is it going to be wild?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you really do believe François, don’t you?”

  “I don’t believe a word out of his pouty little French mouth, but he didn’t kill his wife.”

  “Okay. Good. Then let’s do it. Let’s you and I nail that dentist to the wall.”

  “If he doesn’t nail us first.”

  63

  It started with a phone call in the middle of the night.

  No one calls in the middle of the night to invite you to a party or set up a dinner date, not unless her wireless plan is seriously deficient. No, a phone call in the middle of the night is the heart-stopping herald of tragedy, of calamity, of nightmare become real. So when my phone rang in the middle of the night, yanking me out of a fitful sleep, between the time I realized what was going on and the time I was able to pick up the handset, the horrifying possibilities tortured me. My apartment building was on fire. My father had died. My mother was calling from Arizona to say hello.

  “What is it?” I said, on the verge of panic.

  No response.

  “Hello. Who is there?”

  No response.

  “Mom?”

  Nothing.

  After a few more moments of silence, I hung up. Wrong number, I figured, but even so, it wasn’t easy to get back to sleep. The call had jacked my heart rate, the scenarios of calamity were still flitting through my brain. Where my sleep had been fitful before, it became impossible now. I tossed and turned and stared at the shaft of streetlight that painted my ceiling.

  It felt as if I had just fallen back into slumber when the phone rang once more. I jerked awake, noticed that it was light out, grabbed at the handset.

  “What?” I said.

  “Dude, about the car.”

  “What car?”

  “The red Caddie ragtop. Is that price firm?”

  “What price?”

  “It says here twelve hundred. I was wondering if there’s any wiggle room.”

  “No,” I said. “No wiggle room, and no car. You must have the wrong number.”

  “You sure?”

  “Quite.” I hung up and looked at my clock. It was seven in the morning, I had barely slept, and I was due in court at ten that day. I tried to shake my brain awake when the phone rang again.

  “What?”

  “Dude, about the car.”

  “Didn’t we have this conversation already? What number are you trying to reach?”

  He told me.

  “That’s my number, but there’s no car,” I said. “Really there isn’t. It must be a misprint. Please, don’t call again.”

  I was getting out of the shower, toweling off, when the damn thing rang again. Still dripping, I bolted into the bedroom and picked it up.

  “Yo,” came a slow, deep voice. “I’m calling about the convertible.”

  I left a new message on my answering machine—“There is no car”—and slipped on my suit and tie. I stopped in the diner for a coffee, large, before heading on. I had just reached Twenty-first Street, and the caffeine had just started opening my eyes, when my cell phone rang.

  “Victor Carl here,” I said.

  “Hello, yes. Thank you for answering.” It was a woman’s voice, very proper. “I understand you have a litter of Labradoodles you are trying to sell.”

  Sometimes, I admit, I can be a little dense, but suddenly I knew who had rung my phone in the middle of the night.

  My office, when I arrived, was a madhouse. There were a score of applicants for the open paralegal position, with a base salary of $45,000, plus benefits, plus bonuses, all of which would have made it a pretty sweet gig, except that there was no open paralegal position at our office, and $45,000, plus benefits, plus bonuses, was more than Beth and I were pulling down as lawyers. The group of job seekers was standing in front of my secretary, Ellie, pointing their fingers at the large advertisement in the classifieds.

  “I don’t care what it says printed there,” she was telling them, “there is no job. It’s a mistake. Go home.”

  When she saw me, she raised her hands in exasperation.

  I slipped to the front of the crowd, leaned over, said softly, “Sorry about this. Any messages?”

  “You have seven offers for the Jimmy Page–autographed guitar.”

  “Jimmy Page? From Led Zeppelin?”

  “I didn’t know you had a Jimmy Page–autographed guitar.”

  “Neither did I.” I looked around at the crowd. “I’ll be in my office. I need to make a call. Just thank them for coming and tell them all that the job’s been filled. It will be easier.”

  “What’s going on, Mr. Carl?”

  “Someone’s having a little fun with me.”

  “With all this, I’m going to need a raise,” she said.

  “Sorry,” I said. “After we pay the paralegal, there won’t be enough money left for paper clips, let alone a raise.”

  I closed the door to my office, sat down at my desk, drained the coffee, watched the lights of my office lines twinkling. So Bob was playing games, calling me in the middle of the night, placing false advertisements in the newspaper to tie up all my phones. He’d have to do better than that, I figured, but still, it was annoying, and I didn’t have any doubt as to how he’d found out about my questions to Torricelli the day before. When a line cleared, I quickly snatched up the phone and dialed.

  Whitney Robinson III laughed when I told him what had gone on that morning.

  “You didn’t think he’d be happy, did you?” said Whit.

  “No,” I said.

  “Or that he wouldn’t find out.”

  “No, not that either.”

  “So there you go, my boy. What else could you have expected? It was a mistake to bring him into it. You are endangering his work.”

  “Dentistry?”

  “More like a ministry.”

  “Whit, I don’t have a choice here.”

  “We all have choices.”

  “And you chose to act as a spy.”

  He chuckled at my accusation. “I like to think I’m performing a service to both of you. Think of me as a conduit. I’m very fond of you, Victor, you know that. And he is a remarkable man, truly an extraordinary man.”

  “He’s a dentist.”

  “Oh, my boy, he is more than that. He is a sterling example to the rest of us. We all wander through the world spotting poor souls in trouble, and what we do is cluck our tongues in sympathy as we go on our way. But he stops, takes their hands in his, does something to help. I can’t tell you the number of people he’s helped in so many ways, large and small. And you are one of them, Victor, don’t forget. He’s helped you plenty already, and those young children you are so interested in. And he can help you more.”

  “Sounds like a bribe.”

  “If it does, then you still don’t understand. There is nothing venal here. He sees a woman in trouble, becomes involved in her life, and acts toward her as if she were his responsibility. You aren’t yet a father, Victor, but let me tell you from personal experience, a father will stop at nothing to save his chi
ld. Nothing. Remember that. But the extraordinary thing about this man is that he feels that same way toward total strangers. He sees a way he can help and he strikes out after it.”

  “Like some sort of Lone Ranger riding the range, trying to lend a hand.”

  “And succeeding, my boy. Succeeding.”

  “Like he succeeded with Lisa Dubé?”

  “He did what he could.”

  “He killed her, Whit.”

  “Oh, no, he did not. You’re being silly now. His whole life is about helping others. He’s not a murderer. He’s a lifesaver, if anything.”

  “He killed her.”

  “Stop it, now. You are upset, you haven’t thought this through. Listen to me, my boy. I know you don’t trust me as you used to. I understand that. Divided loyalties. But if ever you did trust what I said, then trust this: He didn’t kill that woman.”

  “Who did?”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Even if I believed you, Whit, I still have an obligation to my client.”

  “Save your client without bringing him into it.”

  “But the only way I can see to save my client is to use him to at least create reasonable doubt.”

  “Think about it, Victor. Examine all your options. You are endangering more than you know. Not just him, but his mission, too, and that he can’t allow. He can be a wonderful friend, as he has shown, but he can also be a most dangerous foe.”

  “I don’t know about that. A few false ads, a few late-night calls. I can handle it.”

  “Oh, Victor, my boy. Don’t underestimate him. Our mutual friend is just clearing his throat.”

  64

  I liked the image, Mia Dalton swaying on a hammock in a soft breeze, eyes closed, an umbrella drink in her hand and a rumba playing softly on the radio.

  “The prosecution rests,” she said.

  “I could use a little rest myself,” I mumbled to Beth.

  “Did you say something, Mr. Carl?” said the judge.

  Why did I feel like I was back in fifth grade? “No, sir.”

  “Do you have witnesses to present?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  “Let’s have the jury take a break while we go over some legal matters, and then you can begin your case.”

  “All rise,” shouted the bailiff. We all rose. The key for a defense attorney as jurors file out of the courtroom is to maintain your air of benign confidence until the door closes behind them. Then all bets are off, and you can sink back into your seat with a despondent expression of utter defeat.