Chain of Evidence

by Ridley Pearson

  Unlike the other suicides, he viewed this one as the audience views a magic show: looking for the tricks. He tried to reconstruct how a Zeller or a Kowalski could paint so clear a picture. A speed key or other lock-picking device could get a killer inside-no trick there. But then what? Overpower Payne-knock him unconscious, careful to tap him on that part of his head that would later shatter when the bullet entered. You would have to know about the gun, he thought. Some advance work would have to be done. But guns were registered, and most home weapons were kept in bedside drawers or on the top shelves of closets.

  What ate at him was the absence of physical evidence. At the Stapleton jump, the trace evidence-crucial to any investigation-gave no indication of the presence of a mystery visitor. The Lawrence hanging evidence had come in the same way: Teddy Bragg’s report indicated finding some copper filings on the body-these from the lamp cord used for the hanging, the anticipated random cotton and synthetic fibers typical to any floor, and head and body hairs, but only from the victim. No evidence to suggest foul play. The scenario before him placed out the same way-it appeared a straight-ahead suicide. Having been trained in criminalistics, this is where Dart put his faith-the transference of evidence was virtually impossible to avoid; hairs and fibers were in a constant state of exchange: the person entering a room deposited such evidence; the person leaving a room carried such evidence with him. Every variety of organic matter from leaves to pollen, car-floor carpeting, clothing, food, seeds, hairs, dirt, and dust. It seemed inconceivable that the suicides had been staged without any such evidence being shed-and Dart knew that this was exactly what the prosecuting attorney would say: “No evidence, no case.”

  Webster wandered over to check on them, and Abby asked him, “Did the wife enter the study?”

  “Says she did, yeah. Said she felt for his pulse-his left hand.” He chuckled. “Can you imagine thinking that the thing in that chair might have a pulse. You talk about dreaming.”

  “How long was she in the room?” Dart asked him.

  “Don’t know. Didn’t say.”

  Dart, his mind on fiber evidence, dropped to one knee and brought his head nearly to the floor, looking into the room. To Webster Dart said, “She was wearing slippers: blue fuzzy slippers. Is that right?” He glanced up at the patrolman, who appeared not to remember.

  “I … ah …”

  “Find out.”

  “Yes, sir.” Webster took off a brisk pace, and Dart could hear him charging up the stairs.

  “What?” Abby asked, kneeling.

  “Get down low.” Dart demonstrated, nearly touching his ear to the floor.

  Abby teased, “I love it when you talk dirty,” and then duplicated his actions.

  “See them? The fibers?” he asked. “Play with your focus,” he instructed.

  “Got ’em!” she exclaimed excitedly. “Blue fibers!”

  “Yup. And do you see where they lead?”

  “To the armoire. Not to the body.”

  “Yup. And?”

  She rocked her head, and they were nearly kissing, both of them with their ears to the hardwood floor. “There’s a dark swath cut down the rug between here and the deceased.”

  “You’re good,” Dart told her. Her bottom was sticking high in the air, and for a moment he wasn’t thinking about fiber evidence.

  “And there’s a lighter swath between the armoire and the desk.”

  “The nap is worn down.”

  “That’s a hell of a lot of trips to the armoire,” she pointed out.

  “I agree.”

  “And the darker swath?” she asked.

  “The nap is raised,” he pointed out. “It’s going a different direction from the rest of the nap.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Exactly.” With the pieces coming together in his head, Dart wanted into the room, and was tired of waiting for Teddy Bragg. He told Abby, “Wait here. Don’t let anyone inside.”

  “Joe?”

  He hurried off. In the foyer, he ran into Webster just coming down the stairs. The patrolman confirmed, “Blue fuzzy slippers, Detective. She’s still wearing them.”

  Kowalski was admiring the view, working on his second cigarette. As Dart passed him, Kowalski asked, “Are you fucking her, Dartelli?” Dart kept walking. “The reason I ask is she has that look, you know? All rosy around the chest and neck. A little more smiley than normal for her. And because on account of I’m only seeing your car out here, so I’m thinking the two of you rode together, and it’s kinda late for that,” Dart reached his car. “She any good, Dartelli? You know, if what they say about how a woman’s lips are the same in both places, I’d say you scored big.”

  “Shut up, Kowalski,” Dart said, fishing two pairs of shoe covers and latex gloves out of the back of the Volvo where Dart kept a first-aid kit, a flak vest, and an evidence collection kit.

  “Real nice mouth on her,” Kowalski said.

  Dart shut the back of the wagon and heard a vehicle approaching. Probably Teddy, he realized, deciding to hurry. He passed Kowalski but then stopped. He said, “You know, I used to think that you’re as dumb as everyone says you are, as dumb as you act.” The big man’s head pivoted, and he looked into Dart’s eyes. Dart continued, “If you’ve fucked with these crime scenes in any way, I’m going to have your ass.” Smoke flowed out of Kowalski’s nose, and he squinted at Dart with such loathing that the detective thought he might take a swing at him. “Tell Teddy that I went in without him.”

  “You can’t do that!” Kowalski protested.

  Dart held up the paper shoe covers. “So stop me.” He turned and went inside.

  At the study door, with Bragg’s step van just pulling up outside, Dart and Abby slipped the paper shoe covers over their shoes and donned latex gloves.

  Dart told her, “I want you to guide me. Keep me away from the blue fibers wherever possible, and off that raised nap.”

  Dart kept close to the near wall and reached the armoire without requiring any directions from Abby.

  “Exactly what are you looking for?” she asked.

  He opened the armoire, revealing a large television and an assortment of stereo equipment. He ran his gloved hand blindly along the interior of the piece of furniture.

  “What’s up, Joe?” she asked.

  Dart’s fingers bumped a stout piece of metal concealed beneath the first shelf. He hooked it, pushed it, pulled it. Pop! The edge of the armoire jumped away from the wall. Dart slid his fingers into the crack and pulled it open like a door.

  “Jesus …,” she gasped.

  “Stay close to the wall,” he advised.

  Abby joined him. Dart pulled the armoire all the way open and found the interior light switch.

  They heard the front door open and the voices of Kowalski and Teddy Bragg.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Dart said as he led the way into the hidden room.

  The room had no windows. The area closest to the hidden door was laid out like a computer/video laboratory, the remainder dedicated to library stacks crowded with books of every shape and size, cloth and leather-bound. On closer examination, the books appeared worn and quite old. One of the stacks held several long rows of video tapes.

  “Ten to one,” Abby said, “this is the evidence that the Feds never found.”

  The electronic equipment included two computers, a white table, several lights on tripods, two video cameras, a scanner, a color laser printer, and a multiline telephone.

  “Nice gear,” Dart said.

  “Major money,” she said.

  A VCR and twenty-seven-inch television occupied a separate table.

  Kowalski entered behind them. Dart looked first at his shoes, furious the man had not worn shoe covers-in theory, any hairs-and-fibers evidence was now contaminated. This kind of behavior was so typical of the man, that Dart realized mentioning it was useless. Kowalski was useless.

  Kowalski stepped over and opened one of the leather-bound books.


  “Gloves!” Dart chastised. But the man had already touched the book.

  Kowalski, ignoring Dart completely, flipped though the pages. “Geez! Enough to make even me blush.” Abby peered over his shoulder, and Dart watched as her face reddened noticeably; she looked quickly away, stepped back and coughed, clearing her throat.

  “I thought you was tough, Lang,” Kowalski teased.

  “Gloves, Kowalski!” Dart said irritably.

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “Gloves!” Dart repeated, stealing the book from the detective.

  Dart glanced at it. The photograph in question depicted a naked woman suspended beneath a horse via a leather harness. In a challenge of proportions, she was engaged in intercourse with the stud, nothing left to the imagination. Dart slapped the book shut, revolted.

  Kowalski had the tact to say, “You ever play horsey, Lang?” Wearing latex gloves now, he took the book from Dart, opened it and said, “Oh my god! This one’s doing it with Flipper for crying in your beer! Fucking a porpoise, Dartelli. Get a load. Geez, what a pecker those things have!”

  “Cool it,” Dart reprimanded.

  Kowalski held the book up in front of the woman. “What is that, Abigail, a porpoise or a dolphin?”

  She averted her eyes, “No thanks.”

  Dart took the book away once again. “Enough!” He added, “Act like a detective, just once.”

  “Easy, Fred,” Kowalski said back to him as an obvious warning. He towered over Dart by a good three inches and outweighed him by sixty pounds. “Just having a little fun is all.” He glanced at Abby and back to Dart. “She got no reason being here anyway.”

  Dart’s mind froze.

  Abby spoke up. “Smut like this, and you’re wondering what Sex Crimes is doing here? Get a clue, Kowalski.” She pulled a leather-clad book from the shelf, obviously incredibly old. She gently opened the volume. “Latin,” she said, studying it. “Twelfth-century drawings.” She turned the pages, shaking her head at what she saw. “It appears the Roman clergy enjoyed pornography.”

  Returning the bestiality book to the shelves, Dart told Kowalski about the federal charges against Payne and Abby’s earlier involvement. Kowalski didn’t seem to be listening. He seized upon the same book-a kid in a candy store-opened it and asked, “Hey, Dartelli, would you recognize a boa constrictor if you saw one?” He had the arrogance to laugh. “What about half of one?” He looked up at Abby Lang and said, “Talk about getting snaked!”

  Once again Dart stepped over to Kowalski, but he was spared the confrontation by Ted Bragg, who entered and, in an angry voice, condemned them all for having entered the room before he had a chance to go over it. “This is a crime scene, not a convention!” he complained. “Get out!”

  Dart said to Kowalski, “Go ahead, tell him about the rug.”

  Kowalski looked paralyzed.

  “The rug,” Dart repeated, cherishing the moment.

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Lieutenant?” Dart asked Abby.

  She said to Bragg, “The wife claims to have entered and checked the body. Fiber evidence contradicts this-”

  “What the fuck?” Kowalski blurted out.

  She continued, “We have her crossing the room to the bookshelf, the desk, and here, to this room. Further evidence suggests a variance in the nap of the rug between the door and the deceased. Photos of that would be good to have before the place is walked all over.”

  “Nap?” Bragg inquired.

  Dart answered. “Someone vacuumed that section of the rug, Buzz, long before we got here.”

  “Vacuumed?” Bragg asked.

  “What the fuck?” Kowalski repeated.

  Looking directly at Kowalski, Dart said, “Someone hoping to remove hairs-and-fibers evidence, in an effort to conceal what really went on here.”

  Bragg, his annoyance showing, said, “And what really went on here, Ivy?”

  “It’s a homicide, Buzz. I want it treated as a homicide.”

  “Who’s lead on this?” Bragg inquired.

  Kowalski, stunned and out of sorts, had yet to break eye contact with Dartelli. “I’m lead,” he announced authoritatively, defiantly, “and until you tell me that we got evidence to the contrary, Teddy, we treat it the way we see it: a suicide. You got any reason to doubt that, then I’m willing to change horses, if and when we make sense of it.” To Dart he said, “You have information I don’t have?”

  Dart just stared at the man. He was thinking that he’d gone too far, that it was time to close ranks.

  CHAPTER 13

  Not even the bathroom would work for his purposes. Dart needed someplace isolated, someplace there was no chance of being overheard, and preferably a location that wouldn’t raise eyebrows. He ruled out either of the interrogation rooms because they would attract far too much attention. He ruled out the crib-too easily interrupted. A vehicle would work, he realized, though getting the two of them into the same car would take some logistics and, at this point, some negotiating.

  And then he hit upon it: the elevator. Kowalski’s use of the elevator, in what was only a two-story building, was the subject of much teasing within CAPers.

  The opportunity arose a few minutes after the lunch hour, when both Dart and Kowalski were summoned to Teddy Bragg’s office. Dart found Kowalski playing computer solitaire on a PC that belonged to another detective. Kowalski offered no apologies for using his time this way. Instead he said, “Just a minute, okay, Dartelli? I almost got this thing.” Dart waited him out, his impatience mounting. Finally Kowalski lost the hand, closed the game off the screen, and spun around in his chair. “Piece of shit,” he said.

  “You played the jack of diamonds on the wrong pile,” Dart informed him, not fully understanding why he began with confrontation.

  “Bull-fucking-shit I did. I suppose you play the game more than me, huh? I don’t think so. Mind your own fucking business.”

  “Bragg wants us downstairs. He has the initial workup on Payne.”

  “Sure. Why not?” As Kowalski stood out of the chair, Dart was reminded how large and how solid the man was. Suddenly the idea of a one-on-one confrontation in an elevator didn’t seem like such a stroke of brilliance. But it was all he had, and he intended to follow through.

  As they entered the hallway, Kowalski asked, “You taking the stairs?” Making it sound like a chore.

  “No. Let’s ride,” he said, clearly surprising the man. He stabbed the CALL button, and a moment later they stepped into the empty elevator car. He felt his heart pounding, and the pulsing of a fatigue headache at his temples. This was a little bit like deciding to ride a wild bull, he realized. He pushed the button marked 1, and the elevator doors slid shut. He tried to settle his nerves, knowing full well that Kowalski’s reaction would be indignation. Dart counted to three and pulled the red STOP button. The car jerked to a halt.

  “Hey, what the fuck?”

  Dart faced the man. Kowalski had dark Mediterranean skin, haunting brown eyes and heavy, masculine features. If he had been fifteen years younger he would have been working Guess jeans ads. His center teeth were stained from smoking the non-filters, and his voice sounded like someone chipping ice.

  Dart explained. “Lewellan Page.”

  “Who?”

  “Lewellan Page-the girl who witnessed the Lawrence murder.”

  Kowalski made a move for the elevator control panel, but Dart blocked his effort. “Get this thing moving,” he complained.

  “I wanted to talk in private,” Dart explained. “The point is not to embarrass you, but to understand your thinking. Your reasoning.” An oxymoron if he ever heard one.

  “Lawrence?”

  Like talking to a bull elephant. “The suicide over on Battles,” Dart reminded.

  “The hanging?” the detective asked rhetorically, the case finally registering.

  Dart couldn’t tell if the man was acting or not; every detective had an actor inside.

  “Oh,
her,” Kowalski said.

  “Yeah, her,” Dart agreed.

  “What’s to tell?”

  “You interviewed her. You wrote up that interview. And you kept it out of your report. Why?”

  Kowalski looked confused-a child trying to connect the dots. He had to be wondering just how Dart had gained such knowledge, what else the detective knew, and how it all impacted him. He stuttered, “She’s a kid, Ivy. What the fuck?” Attempting once again to reach past Dart, he said anxiously, “Get this thing moving-this is giving me the creeps in here.”

  It wasn’t the elevator but the topic making him nervous, Dart realized. “She’s a witness,” he said emphatically.

  “Bullshit. She’s a bored nigger kid who sees whites as bad. The only whites she’s ever seen are cops. They come and take people away. They make trouble. Get a clue, Dartelli. She gets me by the cajones and tries to invent some story about a guy doing Lawrence. I mean, give me a fucking break, will you? How do you operate this thing?” He stepped forward.

  Dart maintained his position between Kowalski and the panel. “Not good enough,” Dart warned. “She witnessed a Caucasian male pulling a chair out from underneath Lawrence. She described the man’s flailing legs perfectly. I think she actually saw it. You’re saying she invented it?”

  “Probably saw it in a movie or something. How the fuck should I know? Did you bother with any of the rest of it? There was a note, I think. The place was locked up. No sign of a struggle. No evidence to suggest foul play. What’s the fucking big deal?”

  Dart felt confused. He believed Lewellan Page’s story. Kowalski had investigated David Stapleton while on Narco. Did Dart dare play that card as well?

  “Was Lawrence involved in trafficking?” Dart asked, hoping to see a reaction in Kowalski that might tell him something.