MD05 - The Confession

by Sheldon Siegel

  I didn’t expect him to agree with me, but I want to cast a little doubt. “You also concluded that Ms. Concepcion was knocked unconscious before she was stripped, placed in the tub and had her wrists slashed.”

  “Correct.”

  “Yet your report contains no specific explanation as to how you concluded Father Aguirre did any of these things.”

  “We found an injury to her right shoulder. I therefore concluded that he inflicted a blow that rendered her unconscious. He then removed her clothing, placed her in the tub and inflicted the fatal wounds. We found his fingerprints on the back of her neck.”

  “Is it possible that Father Aguirre’s fingerprints could be explained in another manner? Perhaps he gave her a back rub.”

  McNulty pops up. “Objection. Speculative.”

  “Overruled.”

  Beckert’s tone turns condescending when he says, “Anything’s possible, Mr. Daley.”

  Yes, it is. “How do you account for the fact that there were no substantial bumps or bruises to Ms. Concepcion’s head or neck?”

  “There was a bruise on the back of her right shoulder that was not easily discernable to the naked eye. This suggests he hit her just hard enough to knock her out.”

  “He didn’t hit her at all,” I snap.

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Did you find any broken bones or bruises from weapons–perhaps a stun gun?”

  “I would have mentioned it in my report if I had.”

  “It sounds like you made the same mistake about five years ago.”

  McNulty gets up and says, “Objection, Your Honor. Argumentative.”

  “Sustained.”

  I’m just warming up. “Your report also indicates that much of Ms. Concepcion’s body was covered with a skin cream called Essential Elements.”

  He nods.

  “Did it occur to you that she may have been trying to make herself comfortable as she was taking her own life?”

  “I thought it might be possible, but I found the cream in certain sensitive areas where it would have caused her great pain. She simply wouldn’t have done it.”

  “Maybe she was careless.”

  “Maybe she was murdered.”

  “Did you find skin cream on her neck?”

  “No.”

  “If Father Aguirre was trying to cover his tracks by faking a suicide and he knew his fingerprints were on her neck, wouldn’t he have tried to cover them with skin cream?”

  “Perhaps the defendant wasn’t that careful or sophisticated.”

  “Yet you think he was sophisticated enough to try to fake a suicide?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  I return to the lectern, pick up my notes and say, “It’s your belief that Father Aguirre killed Ms. Concepcion when he returned to her apartment building at approximately eleven-forty-five on the night of Monday, December first, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “And it’s your theory that he entered her apartment, knocked her unconscious, removed her clothing, took her into her bathroom, placed her in her bathtub, slit her wrists, drew her bath water and covered her body with skin cream?”

  “We’ve covered this issue, Mr. Daley.”

  Okay. “How long do you think it took him to do it?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Ballpark guess.”

  McNulty is up. “Objection. Speculative.”

  “Your Honor,” I say, “I have stipulated to the fact that Dr. Beckert is an expert in his field. In determining the time of death, he must have factored in the length of time it would have taken a perpetrator to do all of the things I just mentioned.”

  “I’ll allow it.”

  I wasn’t sure he’d give me that one.

  Beckert tries evasion. “It would be difficult for me to hazard a guess,” he says.

  Not good enough. I ask the judge to instruct Beckert to answer, and he obliges.

  Beckert gives McNulty a helpless look and says, “He could have performed all of those tasks in just a few minutes.”

  I bore in. “How many minutes?”

  “It’s difficult to say.”

  “Two minutes? Five minutes? Ten minutes?”

  “Less than five minutes, but I don’t know for sure.”

  Good enough. “And you would acknowledge that if Father Aguirre never entered Ms. Concepcion’s apartment for the second time, or was there for a very short time, it is unlikely he could have done all of the things I just mentioned, right?”

  “Objection,” McNulty says. “Speculative.”

  I’m also trying to put words into the witness’ mouth.

  Judge Tsang gives me a look that says, “Nice try.” “The objection is sustained.”

  I’ve made my point. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  Chapter 45

  “Nice to See You Again, Your Honor”

  “It isn’t just the story–it’s how you tell it.”

  — Nick Hanson. San Francisco Chronicle.

  “That didn’t go very well,” Ramon observes.

  We’re sitting in the consultation room behind Judge Tsang’s courtroom during the morning break. His glass of water is untouched and his face is flush.

  I give him a reasonably honest appraisal. “We scored some points,” I say, “but the prosecutors always have the upper hand at the beginning.”

  In reality, things went downhill after my cross of Beckert. McNulty called a veteran crime scene expert named Kathleen Jacobsen, who deftly placed Ramon’s prints on the knife, Concepcion’s neck and the bathtub faucets, and handled my challenging questions about glue fuming with great dexterity. Concepcion’s neighbor then gave a compelling account of the tension between two former lovers when she testified that she heard them arguing. McNulty continued with a brief, but powerful presentation by Concepcion’s therapist, an articulate new-age guru named Pamela Swartz, who told us in no uncertain terms that pregnant women don’t commit suicide. This led to an outburst by Maria’s mother, who was gently escorted from the courtroom by a burly bailiff. That’s when Judge Tsang decided it was time for a break.

  Ramon pushes his glass of water aside and says, “I was hoping you would have persuaded Dr. Beckert to change his mind about suicide.”

  “He won’t.”

  “He reconsidered his conclusion on the time of death.”

  “Only after he was presented with Nick Hanson’s testimony.”

  “I trust you’ve saved some good stuff for our defense.”

  It’s still a work-in-progress. “We have.”

  “Have you reconsidered your decision not to let me testify?”

  “We haven’t.”

  # # #

  For courtroom aficionados, an appearance by Nick the Dick is as rare and as widely-anticipated as a Bruce Springsteen concert. The jaunty PI looks like a politician as he makes his way down the center aisle and pumps the hand of everybody within reach. An inveterate and equal-opportunity schmoozer, he greets Ward, McNulty, Rosie and then me.

  When the bailiff asks Nick if he swears to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, he responds with a wide smile and says, “Indeed I do.” He extends a hand to Judge Tsang and chirps, “Nice to see you again, Your Honor.”

  The judge ignores the outstretched palm and motions him toward the stand. “Please take your seat, Mr. Hanson.”

  The chuckles in the gallery are cut off by Judge Tsang’s gavel. Nick climbs up into the witness box, adjusts his boutonniere, runs a hand through his toupee and pours himself a glass of water. He flashes another grin at Judge Tsang, then nods toward McNulty, who is standing at the podium with an uncharacteristic expression that almost resembles a smile.

  McNulty asks, “Would you please state your name and occupation for the record?”

  “Nick Hanson. In the daytime I’m a PI, and at night I write mysteries. My next book is coming out after the first of the year.”

  He always manages to work in a plug for his favori
te author.

  McNulty asks him how long he’s been a PI.

  “Sixty-eight years.” Nick takes his own sweet time telling us his life story–and it’s a good one. He was born in North Beach and educated on the tough streets of the Barbary Coast. He became a PI out of necessity after his father was jailed for bootlegging. It would be suicidal for me to interrupt him. Our only saving grace is that McNulty is questioning him in the monotone that he uses for cops and forensic experts.

  McNulty turns to the business at hand. “Mr. Hanson,” he says, “you were conducting surveillance on the evening of Monday, December first, at the apartment building where the victim lived, weren’t you?”

  “Indeed I was.” He says the archdiocese hired him to obtain background information on Concepcion and to identify any potential witnesses.

  “How long were you employed by the archdiocese?”

  “For about six months. We were hired to keep Ms. Concepcion’s apartment under surveillance twenty-four hours a day.” He explains that he and his sons worked in ten hour shifts. “I was situated on the roof of a garage across the alley that runs behind Ms. Concepcion’s building.”

  “How did you happen to choose that vantage point?”

  “It gave us an unobstructed view of the back of Ms. Concepcion’s apartment and it allowed us to remain inconspicuous.”

  “Could you also see the back door to Ms. Concepcion’s apartment?”

  “No. Our view was obstructed by her garage. However, we could see the gate that led to the passageway, as well as the windows to her bedroom and kitchen.”

  “Was anyone assisting you in these surveillance activities that night?”

  “My son, Rick, was watching the front of the building from a parked car on Capp Street.”

  “Could anyone have gone in or out without having been seen by you or your son?”

  “We’re professionals, Mr. McNulty.” His story doesn’t change. He confirms that Ramon entered through the front door at eight o’clock and left via the rear door at ten. He saw Concepcion depart at ten-twenty and return at ten-forty. Ramon returned on foot at eleven-forty-five, went in the back gate and left a few minutes later. There is nothing new, except the story is being told by a master. Most importantly for McNulty, it places Ramon at the scene a second time that night.

  “Mr. Hanson,” McNulty says, “do you have any idea why the defendant returned to Ms. Concepcion’s apartment?”

  “Objection,” I say. “Speculative, and Mr. McNulty is mischaracterizing this witness’s earlier testimony. Mr. Hanson said he saw Father Aguirre enter the backyard to Ms. Concepcion’s building, but he did not–and could not–see him enter her apartment. In fact he testified that he could not see the back door from his vantage point.”

  “Sustained.”

  McNulty tries it another way. “Could you see into her apartment last Monday night?”

  “No.”

  McNulty freezes. “Why not?”

  “The blinds were closed.”

  McNulty acts as if this isn’t a significant issue, but it will give me a little ammunition, and he changes course. “Why did the defendant return to Ms. Concepcion’s building?” he asks.

  I’m up. “Objection. Speculative.”

  “Sustained.”

  McNulty presses forward. “Is it likely he may have gone inside?”

  “Objection. Still speculative.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Is it possible he may have gone inside?”

  “Objection. More speculation.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Mr. Hanson,” McNulty says. “Did you or your son see anybody else enter Ms. Concepcion’s apartment that night?” He can’t prove that Ramon went inside, but he can try to confirm that nobody else did, either.

  “No.”

  “How was the defendant’s demeanor when he left the second time?”

  “Objection,” I say. “Speculation as to the defendant’s state of mind.”

  “Your Honor,” McNulty says, “I’m asking him to describe the defendant’s appearance.”

  I’m going to lose this one.

  “Overruled.”

  Nick says, “He was in a hurry.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Objection. Speculative.”

  “Sustained.”

  “Mr. Hanson,” McNulty says, “is it possible the defendant was in a hurry because he had just murdered Ms. Concepcion and was trying to leave the scene as quickly as possible?”

  “Objection. Speculative.”

  “Sustained.”

  He’s placed Ramon at Concepcion’s building at eleven-forty-five and demonstrated a likelihood that he went inside, but he can’t go any farther. “No further questions, Your Honor.”

  Rosie leans over and whispers, “You have to go after him.”

  I button my jacket and remind myself to keep my tone unfailingly professional. I’ll lose points if I question his credentials or stamina, and I’ll go down hard if I start trading wisecracks with him. I nod respectfully from the lectern and look into the congenial eyes of the legendary PI. “Mr. Hanson,” I say, “you testified that you were keeping Ms. Concepcion’s apartment under surveillance last Monday night, right?” I’m trying to elicit yes-or-no answers.

  “Correct.”

  “Were you there all night?”

  “No.” McNulty and Ward exchange a glance, but they don’t say anything. Nick gives me a fatherly nod and says, “I had to leave for a short time around twelve-thirty.”

  “I thought you were hired to provide round-the-clock surveillance.”

  “I was, but I received a phone call from my other son, Nick, Jr., who was keeping Ms. Concepcion’s client under surveillance. He was concerned somebody was following her, but it turned out to be a false alarm.”

  “Did you leave your post at Ms. Concepcion’s apartment to assist him?”

  “Yes. I went to her client’s place of employment.”

  “That would have been the Mitchell Brothers Theater?”

  “Correct.”

  A few murmurs in the back of the courtroom.

  “That would be an adult theater, wouldn’t it?”

  “Objection,” McNulty says. “Relevance.”

  “Sustained.”

  No problem. I ask Nick if he returned to his post later that morning.

  “Around two A.M.”

  “By which time Ms. Concepcion was already dead.”

  “I don’t know.”

  Here goes. “Did you enter Ms. Concepcion’s apartment that night?”

  “No.”

  “Did you enter it on any occasion?”

  “No.”

  “Did you use electronic eavesdropping equipment or bug her phone?”

  “The archdiocese has a policy against such tactics.”

  Quinn will be pleased that he recited the party line. “Mr. Hanson,” I continue, “you testified earlier that you couldn’t see the rear door to her apartment.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “So,” I say, “you couldn’t see if anybody entered her building that night, could you?”

  He responds with a grudging, “True.”

  “And although you saw Father Aguirre enter her backyard at eleven forty-five, you have no direct personal knowledge as to whether he actually went inside her apartment, do you?”

  “The only logical reason was to go back to her apartment.”

  I can’t let him fudge. “Yes or no, Mr. Hanson–did you see Father Aguirre enter Ms. Concepcion’s apartment at eleven-forty five that night?”

  “No.”

  Good. “And it is therefore possible that he never did. In fact, he may have stayed in the gangway or left something outside her door without ever entering the building, right?”

  “Objection. Speculative.”

  “Overruled.”

  Nick shakes his head and says, “I couldn’t say, Mr. Daley.”

  I switch gears. “Mr. Hanson,” I say, “
you told the police that you saw Ms. Concepcion return to her apartment at approximately ten-forty that night.”