Guilt

Guilt Page 32

by John Lescroart

  He raised his bloodhound's eyes.

  'You're still mad at us and you think we've lied to you, but me going over to Mark's, that was an honest mistake. I would not lie to you. Mark wouldn't lie to you.'

  Dooher had stopped chewing, listening intently. And now he eyed Farrell levelly. 'If you've got doubts on that, Wes, I want to hear them.'

  Gradually, Farrell shook his head. 'I'm just tired,' he said. 'I'm going to sleep all weekend.'

  'What the hell is he doing here?' Mark asked.

  Christina and Wes were having coffee and Dooher was enjoying a snifter of Calvados when Abe Glitsky entered the restaurant and made his way over to their table.

  Nodding all around, friendly as you please, he leaned over Farrell's shoulder. 'Ms Carrera, I'd like to ask you a few questions before court reconvenes. I wonder if you'd stop by my office on the fourth floor after you've finished your lunch.'

  'How'd you know we were here?' Dooher asked.

  Glitsky favored him with the scar-split smile. 'Spies,' he said. 'They're everywhere.'

  Farrell was torn between the impulse to tell Glitsky to shit in his hat and curiosity over what he wanted to talk about with Christina.

  He insisted he be present and Glitsky said no.

  He then reminded the Lieutenant that he was entitled to all discovery in the case. This didn't rate an answer.

  Glitsky simply asked again if Christina would talk to him or not. She told Farrell she wanted to go, she could take care of herself. It would be best to find out what Glitsky had on his mind.

  'What's this about, Sergeant?'

  'Actually, it's Lieutenant now. I've been promoted.'

  'Oh, that's right, I remember. Congratulations.'

  Guarded, but curious, she sat kitty-corner from Glitsky at a scarred oak table in one of the interview rooms adjoining the Homicide detail. He left the door open, and let her have the power position at the far end of the table. He took his mini-recorder from his jacket pocket and sat it on the table in front of them.

  'This is Lieutenant Abe Glitsky, star number 1144,' he began, 'and I'm speaking with-'

  Christina reached over and grabbed the recorder, flicking it off. 'Wait a minute, what are you doing?'

  Life was a constant surprise, Glitsky was thinking. Never before had anyone – hardened criminal or anti-social cretin – ever taken his tape recorder and turned it off. He was sure this should be instructive, but didn't know what it meant. 'I thought you invited me up here to have a discussion.'

  'That's correct.'

  'So what's this?'

  'The tape is how we do interrogations.'

  'You're interrogating me?'

  'You got it right the first time, Ms Carrera. We're having a discussion, but it's pursuant to my investigation of Mark Dooher.'

  'Well, I'm not going to answer! I represent the man, Lieutenant. He's my client. Anything between me and Mark is privileged and you ought to know that.'

  'Actually, not. You only became a lawyer a couple of weeks ago, isn't that true?' He knew it was true; he didn't have to wait for her reply. 'And even if a case could be made that you had an attorney-client relationship before that – not saying it could – that relationship certainly didn't exist before Mr Dooher got charged with his wife's murder, and that's the time I want to talk about.'

  It rocked her. She sat back in her chair and took a breath, studying him. 'What for?'

  'Can I have the tape recorder back?'

  'I'm not going to talk to you. Are you accusing me of something?'

  'No, ma'am. If we come close to that and you'd like to have your own lawyer present, we can do this some other time, but one way or another, we're going to do it.'

  Her eyes narrowed. 'No, we're not. Not now, not ever if I don't choose to. Nobody ever has to talk to the police, Lieutenant – not me, not my client, not anybody. And you know it.'

  Glitsky backpedalled. He didn't want to lose her. 'I thought this would be the most pleasant way. You know what the newspapers are saying. I'm the investigator in this case. When questions come up, it's my job to get an answer for them, even if it happened to be in the middle of the trial.'

  'You're trying to get me to become a witness against my client.' She was getting angry herself now. 'This is the most unprofessional thing I've ever heard of, Lieutenant, and I really resent it. I met Mark Dooher on Mardi Gras of last year, say ten months ago. There was absolutely nothing between us until after his wife was dead. Does that answer your question?'

  'Yes, it does,' he said.

  She looked at him for a long moment. 'Lieutenant Glitsky, do you remember when I came up here to talk about Tania Willows and Levon Copes, and you sat in that chair out there,' she pointed through the open doorway, 'and laughed until tears came to your eyes? Do you remember that?'

  'Sure.'

  'And there was a moment right after that, after your Lieutenant came out and asked if you were okay, when you and I looked at each other and something went "click" -I don't mean sexually – where we just got something together. You remember?'

  Glitsky nodded.

  'So were we intimate then?'

  'That's not the kind of intimacy we're talking about.'

  'Well, then, Mark and I were not intimate. Are not intimate. I care about him a great deal. And while we're speaking so frankly, I don't know why you're persecuting him so horribly.'

  'The evidence says he killed his wife, Ms Carrera.'

  'I don't think it does. That's what you want to see.'

  Glitsky held himself in check, his voice flat. 'Because of my abiding hatred of the Church of Rome and my single-handed campaign to bring it to its knees?' He gestured to the empty walls of the room they were in, the external office with all the glamour of a train wreck. 'Or perhaps it's my ambition to rise to the top of this dung heap? You pick. One of the above.'

  He had gotten to her. Lowering his voice, Glitsky leaned in toward her. 'I'm trying to figure out why.'

  She put her elbows on the table. Their heads were inches apart. 'Lieutenant, there's no why. He didn't do it. That's why you can't find a reason for it.'

  'How about you?'

  'I've told you. I don't think he did it.'

  Glitsky was shaking his head. 'No. How about if you're the reason, if he killed Sheila so he'd be free to have you?'

  Her eyes went dull. She seemed to stare through him. Finally: 'You know, I'm sorry, Lieutenant. You must live in the bleakest world there is. You're telling me you've got Mark killing his wife, risking a murder trial and life in prison, all on the remote chance that he'll be free to have me, who has made no commitment to him? You flatter me, but please.'

  'It's not impossible.'

  'It is impossible,' she said. 'It's insane. The only way that's even remotely feasible is if I…' She stopped. 'If we did it together.'

  Glitsky had his arms crossed. He didn't respond except to reach over and turn the tape back on.

  After a few seconds, Christina stood up. Leaning over, she turned it off. 'If you want to pursue this further, Lieutenant, next time I'll bring an attorney.'

  He was watching her, her face a shifting kaleidoscope of emotions and reactions. 'I just want to say one last thing.'

  He nodded. 'All right.'

  'I am so sorry about your wife. I never had a chance to tell you that.'

  Then she was gone.

  Glitsky remained in his chair, legs stretched out, arms crossed. He had a couple of minutes before the lunch recess was over and he had to be back in court.

  Reaching under the table for the second tape recorder that was hidden there, he pulled it out, stopped the tape, and rewound to the last seconds.

  'I am so sorry about your wife. I never had a chance to tell you that.'

  He played it back again. A third time. It had struck him as genuine when she said it. Now it sounded sincere on the tape.

  Paul Thieu poked his head in through the door. 'How'd it go?' he asked.

  'She looked rattled. She
had to stop at the door and take a few deep breaths, then… what's the matter?'

  'Nothing. She didn't have anything to do with it. Dooher did it alone.'

  'How do you know?' Thieu asked.

  Glitsky sat still another minute. 'I just know,' he said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

  Farrell's plans might have included sleeping all weekend, but the weekend was a long afternoon away.

  Jenkins called John Strout, the coroner, as her first witness. The lanky Southern gentleman was at home on the witness stand, and gave a dispassionate and complete account of the medical issues surrounding Sheila's death.

  Most, if not all, of these, could have been stipulated by both parties – that is, they could have had the Judge read to the jury the undisputed facts about the details of Sheila's death – but prosecutors always wanted to have the coroner make a murder seem real to the jury, and in this case, Farrell had a small but, he thought, important point to make himself.

  'Dr Strout.' Farrell's fatigue had dissipated. He was standing in the center of the courtroom, listing slightly toward the jury. 'In your testimony, you often referred to the drug overdose that was the cause of Sheila Dooher's death. Did you list this on the coroner's report, People's One?'

  'I sure did.'

  'Could we look at that page of People's One a minute, your honor? Let the jury pass it around?'

  Thomasino hated this kind of theatrics. Of course the jury could review People's One, although there was all kinds of information in the coroner's report that had little or nothing to do with anything the jury needed to know. But Farrell wanted to keep them involved. As they were passing it back and forth, he said, 'Paying particular attention to the cause of death, which, you will notice, does list drug overdose along with a significant amount of medical jargon,' he moved over directly in front of Strout.

  'Now, Doctor, we had a talk – you and I – a couple of days ago, and you gave me several other coroner's reports from different cases that you've handled over the past months, isn't that correct?'

  'Yes.'

  Jenkins was on her feet. 'Irrelevant. Your honor, what's the possible relevancy of the causes of death in unrelated cases?'

  Thomasino leaned toward agreement. 'Mr Farrell, I'll give you about one minute to make your point.'

  Farrell had the other coroner's reports entered as Defense Exhibits A through D, and then came back to the witness. 'Let's start with manner of death here in Defense A, Dr Strout. What does it say here, for the jury's benefit, please, under "cause of death"?'

  'It says "drug overdose".'

  Farrell did his imitation of Thomasino raising his eyebrows. 'In fact, Doctor, in each of Defense A through D, the cause of death is listed as "drug overdose", isn't that true?'

  'It is.'

  Satisfied, Farrell nodded and moved a step closer to the witness. 'All right.' He'd primed the pump, and now Farrell was ready to strike oil. 'Dr Strout, do a lot of people die of drug overdose every year?'

  'Yes, hundreds.'

  Thomasino leaned forward over the bench. 'Your minute's about up, counsellor.'

  'My next question brings in Sheila Dooher, your honor.'

  The Judge nodded impatiently. 'All right, go ahead.'

  'And what about the overdoses that these hundreds of people die of every year? Except for the specific drugs involved, are these drug overdoses particularly different from that suffered by Sheila Dooher?'

  Farrell darted a quick glance at Thomasino. At least he'd brought his questioning back to people involved in this case.

  But Strout was frowning. 'I don't understand the question. Every case is different, though there are similarities if the same drugs cause the death.' He waited for Farrell to clarify what he wanted.

  'In the hundreds of drug overdose deaths every year, is there a common feature that might point to a murder rather than, say, an accident or a suicide?'

  Strout considered a minute. 'Generally, I'd say no.'

  'And in Mrs Dooher's case, specifically, was there any medical indication that she'd been murdered?'

  'No.'

  'So, Doctor, correct me if I'm wrong, but based on your autopsy, it sounds to me as if you don't know whether Sheila Dooher was murdered or not, do you?'

  'Well, the introduction of so many different drugs within such a limited time just shut down the respiratory apparatus. It's likely she had a malignant hypertensive response, potential cardiac arrhythmias, and then subsequently, severe hypotension.'

  'Excuse me, Doctor, but in your opinion, was this a crime or an article in the New England Journal of Medicine?

  'Objection!' Jenkins, he knew, was out of her seat. He didn't have to turn around.

  Thomasino grunted. 'Sustained.'

  Farrell shot a glance at the jury. He knew it never hurt to put in a dig when things got pedantic. Farrell was just a regular guy, a lay person, like these long-suffering jurors. There were traces of smiles on a few faces. He turned back to Strout. 'I'll repeat the question, Doctor. You don't know whether Sheila Dooher was murdered or not, do you?'

  'It's somewhat unusual to see so many different drugs…'

  'Excuse me again, Doctor, but it's a yes or no question. You don't know whether Sheila Dooher was murdered or not, do you?'

  Strout had to admit it. 'I don't know.'

  'You don't know whether Sheila Dooher was murdered? Is that your testimony?'

  'Yes.'

  Thank you.'

  It didn't take Amanda Jenkins long to realize that Wes Farrell wasn't the modest intellect, low-rung attorney he pretended to be. He'd hurt her on his opening statement and then again with Strout. She thought it was time she put some of her own points on the board, and she stood and told the court that the people would call Sergeant George Crandall.

  Crandall had been a marine and – though today he wore a business suit -still looked and acted like a marine. He stood up in the gallery and walked, a ramrod, up to the witness stand, where he pre-empted the clerk, raising his hand and swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help him God without any prompting. Obviously, Crandall had been here before.

  Controlling his own show, he sat down and nodded at Jenkins.

  Crandall sat up straight, but completely at home in the witness box. Knowing it was going to be a while, he unbuttoned his suit jacket, though he did not lean back in the chair, nor did he cross his legs.

  Jenkins spent a moment or two establishing that Crandall was an expert homicide investigator with fifteen years of experience and was now, in fact, Head of the police department's Crime Scene Investigation Unit. He had arrived at the murder scene within an hour of the 911 call.

  'Were you the first policeman on the scene?'

  'No. Sergeants Glitsky and Thieu of Homicide were already there, as well as the Lieutenant and Sergeant from Taraval station and some patrolmen.'

  'And had these people found anything relating to the murder by the time you arrived?'

  Farrell knew Amanda would be using the word 'murder' a lot that day – trying to condition the jury to accept what she couldn't prove. He couldn't do anything about it, and let it go.

  'Would you tell us, Sergeant, what you found at the scene of the murder?'

  'One of the first things we found is what we did not find.'

  'And what was that, Sergeant?'

  'We found there was no sign of a forced entry at the side door. Or anywhere else for that matter.'

  'No sign of forced entry?'

  'No. We believe that egress was through the side door, by the driveway, because we found a surgical glove and a knife near that door.'

  Jenkins produced these and they were entered as People's Exhibits 2 and 3.

  The knife matches other knives found in the defendant's kitchen, is that right?'

  Before Crandall could even think about answering, Glitsky noticed some quick back and forth at the defense table. For the first time, Christina stood up. 'Your honor, we've stipulated that
the knife belonged to the Doohers.'

  Glitsky moved uncomfortably in his seat. Jenkins hadn't gotten her sea legs yet and he felt for her. Her first murder case had gone high profile and sideways, and she wasn't doing well. She appeared to be groping for another direction, a specific question, but she couldn't seem to frame it except in a general way.

  'Was there anything else about this side door?'

  Fortunately, Crandall was on her side, inclined to help. He nodded.'The Sergeant from Taraval reported that the light over the door had been out when they arrived, but he turned it and it went back on.' This was technically hearsay, but nobody objected. 'The alarm system also was not turned on. Upstairs, in the master bedroom, Mrs Dooher was in the bed.'

  'And how was she lying?'

  'On her side.'

  'On her side? Not on her back?'

  'No, on her left side.'

  Jenkins moved back to Glitsky's table and he gave her a surreptitious thumbs-up as she gathered some material. 'Sergeant Crandall, would you look at these crime-scene photographs and tell us if you recognize them?'

  Jenkins handed them over and Crandall agreed that they were accurate. The jury got to look at them. Crandall continued, mentioning the tossed blanket and sheets, the missing jewelry, the blood. He then described the lividity that had been on Mrs Dooher's shoulder.

  'Based on your training and experience, Sergeant, does this lividity help you reconstruct the crime scene?'

  'Yes, it does.' Glitsky had known Crandall for a long time, and knew he could be personable and even funny in a cop sort of way. But here on the stand, the man was a machine. 'As the coroner has said, when a person dies, the blood settles into the down side of the skin due to gravity.'

  'But didn't you just say that this lividity was on Mrs Dooher's upper shoulder?'

  'Yes, I did.'

  'And what does that mean?'

  'It means that she was moved after she was dead. Rolled half-over.'

  'And why was that?'

 

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