Falls the Shadow

by William Lashner

  “And your book is in one of those series, Doctor?”

  “Nah. When I pitched them, they said they wanted someone a little more famous, like that Dr. Lee guy, who doesn’t really know as much as he thinks, believe me. So instead I decided to start my own series. Well, you know, the idiot thing and the dummy thing had all been copyrighted, so I had to come up with something new, something fresh.”

  “So what is the title of your book, Dr. Grammatikos?”

  “Forensic Science for Mental Midgets.”

  Dalton turned to the jury and watched as they laughed. I told myself they were laughing with my expert and not at my expert, although my expert wasn’t laughing.

  “How is it selling, Doctor?” said Dalton.

  “Not so good.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s not quite the right title for Harvard.”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” said Dalton.

  “But you should read it, Counselor,” said Anton, leaning forward, nodding his head sagely. “It’s right up your alley.”

  Mia Dalton’s jaw tightened as the jury laughed again.

  “No objection,” said Dalton.

  “Dr. Grammatikos is hereby qualified as an expert in the forensic sciences,” said the judge. “Go ahead, Mr. Carl.”

  “I want to ask you now, Doctor, about the E-Zee Self Store just outside Exton, Pennsylvania. Are you aware of that facility?”

  “Now I am, sure.”

  “How did you become aware of it?”

  “You gave me a call, asked me to examine one of the units there, number twenty-seven.”

  “Did you ever learn who had rented that unit?”

  “Yeah, I did. I examined the records at the self-store office.”

  “And whose unit was it, Dr. Grammatikos?”

  “It turned out to be rented by the defendant sitting over there, François Dubé. He rented it out about the time he and his late wife separated, but before the murder. According to the books, he paid for five years of storage in advance.”

  Every head in the courtroom swiveled to stare at François, who looked up at me with a quizzical expression. I gave him a look that said it was going to get worse before it got better.

  Slowly, carefully, I took Anton into the storage locker, let him describe the strange scene, with the lounge chair, the television and VCR, the box of videos, the six-pack of beer. He had taken photographs of the locker, and after a long bit of legal wrangling, I was able to introduce those into evidence. He testified, based on the amount of dust, the state of insects trapped beneath the recliner, the self-store records, that the locker had been set up in this weird way at least two years before he examined it but after the date François Dubé was first arrested.

  “Now, Doctor, it’s important to know if this was indeed set up after François was in jail, because he has not been out since his arrest. Are you sure about your analysis?”

  Anton shrugged. “I been doing this for a while, Counselor. I even wrote that book. Besides, I had something a little more concrete as to date.”

  “What was that?”

  “The beer bottles had dates printed on them based on the day and date they were brewed. That batch was brewed two months after the defendant’s arrest.”

  “Thank you, Doctor,” I said. “Now, you mentioned a box of videos, is that right?”

  “Sure, there was a box. You can see it in a couple of the pictures.”

  “What kind of videos were in the box?”

  “It was a rather eclectic selection. There were two types of commercial videos. There were some kids’ videos, about five or six, and then a number of commercial pornographic tapes. You want me to give you the titles?”

  “Sure, go ahead.”

  “Aim to Please, Succubus, Oh My Gush 7—”

  “Is this necessary, Mr. Carl?” said the judge.

  “Not really, sir, I just get a kick out of the titles.”

  “Then that’s enough.”

  “Fine. Now, Doctor, were there any noncommercial videos?”

  “Yes. There was the defendant’s wedding video, they made a beautiful couple, and one family video, with shots of the defendant and his wife and his very young daughter. And then there were three homemade videos of, how should I put it, a more prurient nature.”

  “Sex videos?”

  “There you go.”

  “Who was in them?”

  “The defendant and a number of other persons I couldn’t identify. Along with some objects and masks that were also in the storage locker.”

  “I want to show you some videocassettes,” I said as I brought three cassettes, each in its own plastic bag, to the witness. “Do you recognize these?”

  “These are the sex videos I was talking about. I recognize the labels with the spots, and I put a tape on each of them with my initials.”

  “Now, after you took the photographs and examined the videos, did you examine the storage unit for fingerprints?”

  “That’s what you told me to do.”

  “Did you find any?”

  “Sure. The place was thick with prints.”

  “Even after all those years?”

  “A place like that, a storage locker with little air circulation, almost zero foot traffic, and a layer of dust over everything, is a perfect place for the maintenance of prints. There’s no limit to how long they could stay in such an environment.”

  “Were you able to match up any of the prints you found?”

  “Sure I was. Some of the prints, I am sorry to say, were yours. You got to be more careful, Victor. In fact, I found two of your prints on the one opened bottle of beer.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “I also found prints on certain of the stored objects that matched the defendant and the victim. This was not unexpected, since some of the stuff in the locker apparently came directly from the apartment they shared.”

  “Were there any prints that you were not able to identify?”

  “Absolutely. There were a number of prints that I couldn’t account for. This was to be expected also, especially since the guy in the self-store office had records that movers were used to transfer the stuff from the defendant’s apartment to the unit.”

  “Were you able to match up any of those unidentified prints?”

  “One.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You provided me police records that showed certain unidentified prints found at the scene of Mrs. Dubé’s murder. One of the prints found on the light switch at the crime scene matched up with a print found in the storage unit. It appears to be a right index finger.”

  “How confident are you in the match?”

  “Very confident. I found twelve matching ridge characteristics in the two prints. I’d like more, but I found no dissimilarities, so it looks pretty solid. I also found the same print on one of the homemade porno videos.”

  “Any idea who belongs to the print?”

  “None.”

  “But based on your testimony, some unidentified person was in the locker, held the video at some point, and was also at the crime scene.”

  “That’s right.”

  “The murderer, perhaps?”

  “Objection,” said Dalton.

  “Sustained,” said the judge. “This is not argument, Counselor.”

  “I am so sorry, Judge,” I said, staring at the jury, who could tell I was not sorry at all. A few of the jurors had dazed expressions on their faces, as if nothing was getting through one way or the other, but some were looking at Anton with creases of concentration spreading across their foreheads. They saw the possibilities, and they would tell the others. This case all along had begged for another suspect. I had intended to use Sonenshein to create one for me, until that blew up in my face. Now I was using a fingerprint to do it. Whose fingerprint? Who else’s? Dr. Bob, come on down.

  “Now, back to the videos,” I said. “I notice that these labels are spotted and stained
.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Were you able to identify the stains on these labels?”

  “Sure.”

  “What were they?”

  “Blood,” said Anton Grammatikos. “Human blood.”

  I let the murmur in the courtroom rise and swell and recede again, like an ocean wave, before I continued.

  “Whose blood was on the label?” I said.

  “I took a small sample from each of the labels and came up with a DNA signature. Then I matched that signature with the police forensic reports for this case. I’ve concluded that the blood on these labels is the blood of Leesa Dubé.”

  I looked at the jury. Puzzled expressions all around. Mia Dalton had the same puzzled expression. She seemed to want to jump up and object, but she couldn’t quite find something to object to. It was fun to watch her search and fail.

  “Could you make any conclusion, Dr. Grammatikos, as to whether these tapes, found in the locker, were at the crime scene at the time of the murder?”

  “After analyzing the photographs of the pattern of blood on the floor and the walls of the crime scene, and then comparing the blood patterns on the labels, the best I can say is that it is quite possible that the videos were at the apartment at the time of the murder.”

  “Your Honor,” I said, “I’d ask that these videos be placed into evidence, and then I ask that we be permitted to play these videos, in their entirety, to the jury.”

  I said it calmly, matter-of-factly, I didn’t put any undue emphasis on the words, so it was rather interesting the reaction my simple statement received. As I expected, François jumped up in protest, shouting “Non, mon Dieu, non,” which I think is French for “My lawyer is screwing me up the ass.” Beth jumped up and stared at me as if I were an idiot. There was quite the commotion all through the courtroom, tittering from the jury and spectators alike. Only Mia Dalton surprised me by not joining the melee. She sat calmly, deep in thought, as the judge cut through the commotion with his gavel and his high-pitched voice and said, none too kindly:

  “In my chambers, now.”

  69

  “I won’t let this happen, Mr. Carl,” said Judge Armstrong. “You will not turn my courtroom into a pornographic emporium.”

  “Without the magazines or the twenty-five-cent peep-show booths,” I said, “it would hardly qualify as an emporium, Judge.”

  “What possible purpose could be served by playing those tapes?”

  “That’s a good question, Your Honor,” said Beth. “I’m curious myself.”

  “Those videos,” I said, “not just their existence but the images captured on the magnetic tapes, are central to our defense. They are the reason that Leesa Dubé is dead, they are the reason my client is on trial for her killing.”

  “Go ahead, Mr. Carl,” said the judge. “Explain how playing those tapes is crucial to proving your theory of the case, and you better dazzle.”

  “It’s not enough for the jury simply to know that these tapes exist. They have to see them, Judge, they have to feel the revulsion that I felt when I first saw them and that the killer felt, too. The person who killed Leesa Dubé was trying to help her in her divorce case. Mr. Gullicksen had told Leesa she was in danger of losing her child. He testified that evidence such as these tapes would have helped her cause. She told someone of her problem, and this someone simply tried to help. First he broke into the defendant’s storage locker to find the tapes and then broke into Leesa’s apartment to give them to her. He thought he was giving her back her daughter. But something went wrong. Leesa must have awoken, must have been frightened by the stranger in her apartment. She grabbed her gun, confronted the burglar. A struggle in the darkness ensued, ending with the gun firing and a bullet piercing Leesa Dubé’s neck from close range. It was an accident, it was against all the intruder’s intentions, but accidents happen, and Leesa Dubé still was dead. After it was over, while she lay dead on the floor, blood all over the room, the killer took a photograph of the defendant and put it into her hand to frame my client. And then broke into my client’s apartment to plant the blood and the gun.”

  “That’s your theory?” said the judge.

  “That’s it.”

  “That’s about the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “But it’s more than just a theory,” I said. “It’s what actually happened.”

  “And why would the killer frame your client?”

  “To protect himself,” I said, “and also to protect the daughter. When you see the tapes, you’ll understand. Some of the actors are quite possibly underage. They provide not only the motive for the killer’s being in the apartment but also for the frame-up after the killing.”

  “It all seems far-fetched, Mr. Carl. I don’t know how you’re going to prove it up or get a jury to buy it.”

  “We have a plan,” I said.

  “I suppose you do. I’ll have to preview these tapes before I decide, of course, but my inclination is that they have no business being played in my courtroom. Ms. Dalton, you have been unusually quiet in this debate. What is your position?”

  “I have no objection, Judge.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “If these tapes are as Mr. Carl describes, and I’m willing to believe they are, pending my own review, then I have no objection to their being played. As a matter of fact, they only serve to strengthen the Commonwealth’s case.”

  “How so, Ms. Dalton?” said the judge.

  “Dr. Grammatikos testified that the tapes were in the victim’s apartment at the time of her death. We’ll accept that opinion. These tapes were surely something the victim intended to use in the divorce proceedings. If the defendant was aware that his wife had found the tapes, he would have immediately gone to retrieve them. He would never let his wife use them against him in the custody fight. So he went to find the tapes, fought with his wife, killed her, took the tapes, and put them in his private storage locker, still covered with blood. The tapes strengthen our case immeasurably.”

  Just then I felt a sharp pain in my shin. I looked down. Beth had kicked me, she had kicked me hard, but she needn’t have bothered. I understood exactly what was happening, and all of it was bad. The judge was exactly right. As I explained my new theory of the case, it sounded far-fetched, even to me. And I knew Dr. Bob. How would it sound to the jury? Not so good, I realized. And Dalton was exactly right, too. The tapes did help her case, they provided a specific motive driving François Dubé to have killed his wife. I thought I was being clever, but as always when I thought I was being clever, I was too clever by half.

  “If Mr. Carl doesn’t put the tapes into evidence and play them for the jury,” said Mia Dalton, “I will.”

  “All right,” said the judge, shaking his head, not just at the argument but also at the state of the modern world. “Let me review the tapes in camera, and I’ll decide. I’m not happy, but if both sides want these tapes played, then I suppose I’ll go along.”

  On the way out of the judge’s chambers, Beth said to me, “Do you have any idea what you are doing?”

  “I thought I did,” I said, “but now I’m not so sure.”

  “Why doesn’t that statement inspire me with confidence?” she said.

  The next morning the courtroom was closed to the public and the press, though I noticed that a number of court clerks had wiled their way into the viewing. A cart with a television monitor and VCR stood in front of the witness stand. The first tape was inserted, the play button was pushed. There might as well have been popcorn.

  All it needed was some cheesy organ music to accompany the embarrassment of moaning and groaning that came from the television’s tinny speakers.

  Having seen and heard it all before, I didn’t have to look carefully at the videos again, thank goodness, so I spent my time calculating their effect on the courtroom inhabitants. The jury watched the dark, murky images on the screen with the general arc of emotions elicited by pornography in the unini
tiated: first horror, then transfixion, then boredom. And then, as the tapes ground forward, it was horror again. I caught them taking quick glances at François, all trying very hard to hide their disgust even as their pinched mouths betrayed them. The judge was also scanning the jurors’ faces, to gauge their reactions and determine if he had made a mistake in allowing the tapes to be played. Dalton and Torricelli sat at the prosecution table with arms crossed, putting on a little show of shock and dismay. So alike were their postures and expressions, they must have practiced the pose together the afternoon before.

  But the more interesting show, at least to me, was happening at the defense table. François was leaning back in his chair, watching raptly as he debased himself on the video screen. At first he mimed embarrassment and dismay, but that didn’t last long. After the opening moments, when the courtroom had made it through the initial graphic images and settled into the viewing, François’s expression changed. The false appearance of humiliation turned into a sly smirk. He couldn’t help himself. Even though the afternoon before he had loudly castigated me in his smarmy Gallic accent, claiming that I was crucifying him on the cross of America’s Puritanism, now, as his sexual fantasies played across the video screen, he couldn’t help but gloat, and his expression betrayed his thoughts. You’re all jealous, he was thinking, you would all take my place in an instant had you the guts and imagination.

  And this was interesting. Sometimes he subtly mouthed a moan along with the video. It was as if he couldn’t help himself, like a schoolgirl listening to her favorite song on the radio, singing to herself without even knowing she was moving her lips.

  I’d had the son of a bitch pegged right from the first, didn’t I?

  But even more interesting, for me, was watching Beth’s reaction. And even though I tried not to admit it to myself then, I can admit to myself now that, to me, she was the most crucial viewer in the courtroom. I might have been able to make my argument and relay my theory with just a basic description of the tapes by Anton Grammatikos, who would have relished describing their contents more fully to the jury. Yes, I thought that seeing it would make my theory more believable to the jury, and yes, the showing increased the impact of what I would tell them in my closing, and so yes, the showing of the tapes was more than justifiable as legal strategy. Still, I also knew that showing them in the courtroom could turn at least some of the jurors against my client. Yet I was willing to take that risk, because I hoped it would turn Beth against him at the same time.