“You forgot to mention him! Mr. Prouty, please, who are you kidding? You’ve known from the beginning what’s at stake. Miles Dane is on trial for murder. You sat down for a solid hour with a detective, you swore to tell the entirety of the truth about what you observed that night, and then you just kind of . . . forgot?”
“Well . . .” Leon rubbed his face in his hands, as though hoping the entire courtroom might just up and disappear.
“You didn’t see an old man there that night, did you?”
“I seen what I seen,” he muttered.
“You didn’t see this alleged man in the black Lincoln, either, did you?”
“Yeah, I did.”
The prosecuting attorney’s voice slashed the air like a fencer’s sword. “You lied then, you lied now, everything you’ve said was nothing but a pack of lies, wasn’t it?”
Leon shrugged, and he looked away from Stash’s cold blue eyes.
“There was no one there that night was there, Leon? No one at all.”
Leon Prouty didn’t say a word.
“I’m done with this fraud.” Stash stalked back to his chair.
I would gladly have strangled Leon, but he fled out of the courthouse the moment that recess was called.
Fifty-one
I had decided to lead off the forensic testimony with my autopsy expert. Ira Dimmock had good qualifications, but when I had finally met him in person, just days before trial, I immediately regretted my decision to retain him. There was something, I hate to say it, creepy-looking about him.
His testimony, as it turned out, was uneventful. He testified that, yes, it was possible that Diana Dane’s temporal artery had been burst by the first blow to her head and that it was possible her heart had shut down in less than a minute. While he was unwilling to argue that Dr. Rey’s failure to open Diana Dane’s cranium was out-and-out bad practice, the fact that Rey had neglected this aspect of the autopsy gave Dimmock the room he needed to cling to his it’s-possible-she-died-in-seconds line with a doglike ferocity, and Stash was unable to shake him from it.
After we were done with Dr. Dimmock, I turned to my tool mark expert.
Helen Raynes, Ph.D., was a member of Mensa, had scored the highest on the SAT of anybody in her high school class, and was Phi Beta Kappa and summa cum laude in college. I knew these things because she told me. Several times. When she wasn’t telling me how smart she was, and how well trained, and how well qualified and how insightful, she was telling me about all the men who had unsuccessfully made passes at her in various restaurants, bars, and hotels while she was on the road testifying. She not-so-subtly implied that a pass from me, however, would not be looked upon with disfavor.
There was, in fact, nothing about Helen Raynes that could be described as subtle. Her dresses were bright shades of red or green, with extravagant peplums, large lapels, and tiny waists—all of them so tightly fitted that her large bosom and ample hips threatened to pop right out into public view. Her fingernails were long and painted bright red, and her lips gleamed with opalescent lipstick. Her hair—a toxic-looking shade of auburn that could only have come out of a bottle—radiated out from her head in a mute testimony to the extraordinary powers of modern hairspray.
But she was a seasoned witness. A seasoned whore, you might say. In a weak moment—and lacking anybody else suitable—I had decided to use her supposed expertise in the field of tool mark identification.
Her rep in the legal community was that she would testify to pretty much anything—provided your check didn’t bounce. She had developed a theory of the case which bordered on outlandish, so I had originally decided not to use her. But since reasonable doubt was still a vague—if distant—possibility, and since the likelihood of Blair Dane showing up to testify seemed ever more remote, I decided I had no choice but to use her. Even outlandish theories have, on occasion, provided a jury with reasonable doubt.
So off I went: “Dr. Raynes, could you begin by telling us about the science of tool mark identification?”
“Certainly.” Helen Raynes looked me in the eye. She wore a red suit with a raw silk blouse cut so as to reveal just exactly enough cleavage to catch your attention, but not enough to look entirely unprofessional?
“Tool mark identification, Mr. Sloan, is the forensic science which deals with the identification of marks left by tools. This all might seem a bit obscure.” She smiled broadly at the jury, showing off some flawless cosmetic dental work. “But in fact, tool mark identification has proved extremely valuable in criminal investigation. When a firing pin of a pistol hits the casing of a bullet cartridge, it leaves a little dent. To the naked eye, it looks like nothing. But to the trained tool mark specialist, that little dent is as unique to that particular pistol as a fingerprint is to an individual person. Tool marks left in metal, wood, plastic, and other materials can be used to identify all manner of tools. Knives, screwdrivers, hammers, beer can tabs . . . Any metal tool leaves a unique imprint on anything it strikes or touches. You’d be amazed at how many cases have been solved this way.”
“Good,” I said. “Now just to get everything out on the table, you’re not testifying for free, are you?”
“No, I’m not. I’m being paid.”
“Fair enough. But let me ask you this: What’s to keep you from just making up some kind of complicated-sounding theory in return for a fat paycheck?”
Helen Raynes straightened in her chair and leaned forward, which served the dual function of making her look earnest and of revealing just a fraction more cleavage. She could have won an Academy Award for the look of sincerity on her face. “Mr. Sloan, my reputation is my livelihood.”
I nodded back, just as sincerely. “Very good. I’d like to show you what has been marked as State’s Exhibit 55. Could you identify this for me?”
She took the small plastic bag I gave to her, put on a pair of reading glasses, scrutinized it briefly. “That is a splinter of wood which was recovered from the head of Diana Dane during her autopsy.”
“And have you conducted any sort of examination of this splinter?”
“I have. I examined it with a scanning electron microscope at both one hundred and five hundred powers of magnification.”
I had several images marked as exhibits, then handed them to Dr. Raynes. “Could you identify these, Doctor?”
“Yes. These are images produced by the scanning electron microscope of the largest of the three fragments or splinters. That’s exhibit—what was it? State’s 55?”
“Fifty-five, yes. And did any of these images bear on your analysis?”
“Yes. This picture here, Defense Exhibit 9, is of particular interest.”
Lisa quickly placed a three-foot-high blowup of the same image onto an easel next to the stand. It looked like a grainy photograph of Mount Vesuvius, turned sideways.
“Is this the same image?”
“Yes.”
I scratched my head. “Okay. You’ve got me, Doctor. What is it?”
“In fancy technical language? It’s what we call the fat end of the splinter.” She smiled at the old farmer, Dahlgren, on the front row of the jury box. He smiled back. “You see, Mr. Sloan, when a splinter of wood is torn from a larger piece, we normally expect to see a ragged edge where the individual fibers bend and then finally break.”
“Well this looks fairly smooth,” I said. In fact, it didn’t look like much of anything to me, smooth or otherwise. I was just parroting what Raynes had told me.
“Exactly. Based upon my analysis, this surface is consistent with having been sliced with a very sharp object such as a knife.”
“Okay, next,” I said, “can you identify this?” I handed her the bokken.
“This is the bokken that the state has argued was used to beat Diana Dane to death with.”
“Did you examine it?”
“Yes. As with the splinter, I conducted a visual examination. Because of the way my electron microscope operates, I was unable to examine it under the ele
ctron microscope without cutting it apart. I did, however, examine it under a conventional optical microscope.”
I handed her several photographs. “And are these photographs that you made through that microscope?”
“Yes. What these photographs show is the place where this splinter was split off the bokken.” Lisa put another photograph on the easel. If the earlier image had looked like a mountain, this one looked like a fogbank in a swamp on a dim morning. “This photo is of higher magnification and shows the lip of the tear that matches with the splinter.”
“Anything noteworthy?”
“Two things. First, based on a comparative analysis of the fibers, this is definitely the exact location from which the splinter, State’s Exhibit 55, was torn.”
“And second?”
“You’ll note here, here, and here . . .” She used a laser pointer to outline three minute and indeterminate-looking lines that ran perpendicular to the scar on the surface of the dark wood. “Three small lines. These are tool marks.”
“What do they indicate to you?”
“A thin metal tool was inserted under the splinter and twisted in a counterclockwise direction.”
I played dumb again. “Okay, now it’s the contention of several very well-trained folks in this case that somebody whacked Mrs. Dane with this bokken, and that in so doing, this little piece of wood sort of chipped off the bokken and lodged in her flesh. But you seem to be saying something different happened.”
Dr. Raynes nodded. “You bet your sweet bippy, I am.” This got a laugh from a couple members of the jury.
“Spell it out,” I said. “Tell me what you’re saying.”
“Somebody pried this splinter off the bokken, then sliced the end off with a thin-bladed knife. A penknife, a scalpel, something of that nature. They then placed the splinter on or in the wound on Mrs. Dane’s skull, where it was found by Dr. Rey.”
I frowned. “Huh? Why would somebody do that?”
Stash Olesky stood. “Objection. I’m perfectly willing to listen to this witness’s wild speculations on technical matters, but she’s in no position to enter Mr. Dane’s mind. Or anyone else’s for that matter.”
“Your Honor,” I said. “Dr. Rey, Agent Pierce, Detective Denkerberg—all of these so-called experts were allowed to speculate ad nauseam about what they think Mr. Dane did and why they think Mr. Dane did it. Our witness is helping us provide a reconstruction of the crime based upon her expertise. She should—in fact, she must—be allowed to continue.”
Judge Evola sighed heavily. He didn’t want to give it to me, but he had to. The one advantage I had in this trial was that Evola didn’t want some armchair quarterback lawyer with a nice haircut spouting off on Court TV that afternoon about how the judge had just opened the door to an appeal. He gravely intoned: “Keep it close to the wind.”
Whatever that meant.
“I shall,” I said, with equal gravity. “Go on, Doctor. Why would somebody cut a splinter off this bokken and place it on Diana Dane’s body?”
“Pretty simple, Mr. Sloan. Miles Dane is being framed.”
There was a soft mutter from the audience.
“Do you really believe that?” I said.
“It’s quite clear, Mr. Sloan. Once you examine the evidence and see that this splinter was very purposefully cut from the bokken, you realize that somebody is monkeying with the evidence. Fudging the facts. Was it someone in law enforcement? Possibly. But I doubt it. So if it’s not somebody in law enforcement, who does that leave? It leaves the real murderer. And why would the real murderer plant evidence on the body? For one reason, and one reason only: to frame Miles Dane.”
“Explain,” I said.
“Look. The state’s case here presumes that Miles Dane used an old novel he wrote as a sort of script for murdering his own wife. The assumption is that because the character he created in the book got away with the crime, Mr. Dane thought he could get away with the real crime by doing everything exactly the same as it was done in the book. But come on! Only a ninny would be dumb enough to think that. Obviously somebody killed Diana Dane. With what, I don’t know. But it wasn’t this.” She brandished the bokken. “No, whoever did it, they set the whole scene so that it would look as though it could only have been Mr. Dane. Planted the fragment, wiped blood and hairs on the bokken and on Mr. Dane’s clothes, then placed the bokken and the incriminating clothes in the same sort of location as they had appeared in the book. But let’s not be children here. Simple logic says that if Mr. Dane wanted to kill his wife, the absolute last thing he’d want to do was plagiarize an idea from a book that the police could find in any library—a book, moreover, that had his own name printed in two-inch-high letters on the cover!”
“Thank you, Doctor,” I said. “That makes such good sense that I’m going to sit down and let Mr. Olesky try to prove you wrong.”
Stash Olesky stood, looking angry. He knew Helen Raynes’s reputation as well as I did. “Doctor, shattered bones are pretty sharp, aren’t they?”
“I suppose they can be.”
“Is bone harder than wood?”
“Ebony is a very hard wood.”
“That’s not what I asked. Is bone harder than wood?”
Helen Raynes looked a little sour. “Generally, yes. I suppose.”
“Thank you for that bold admission. Now, was Mrs. Dane’s skull fractured?”
“Yes.”
“So, given that by your own admission bone is harder than wood, what’s to stop a fragment of bone from shearing off this splinter just as cleanly as a knife?”
Helen Raynes smiled derisively. “It might seem that way to a layman. But when you’ve studied these things as long as I have, you realize it wouldn’t work that way. It couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“The three marks that I pointed out earlier? The direction of the grooves demonstrates that they were made by twisting, not by a lateral shearing force.”
Stash squinted at the large blowup of the gouge in the bokken. “You can tell all of that from this blurry little streak?” He pointed at a vague ridge in the wood.
“Yes, I can.”
Stash raised his eyebrows, then gave the significant look to the jury. “Earlier I believe you testified that the ridges were here, here, and here. The one I just pointed at?” He shrugged. “It’s just a random squiggle.”
I breathed out slowly. Why had I put this woman on the stand?
Dr. Raynes cleared her throat and stared at the chart for a moment. “I’m sorry I wasn’t really paying attention where you were pointing.” She squinted at the huge poster. “You’re right, I was mistaken.”
“You were mistaken. What else were you mistaken about?”
“Nothing,” she said firmly.
“Ah. Then perhaps you did it intentionally?”
“Did what?”
“Fudged the facts—as you so nicely put it just minutes ago.”
“I would never tamper with evidence.”
“Notwithstanding all the money you’re being paid to help the defense, you’d never fudge the facts.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You’ve never fudged the facts on anything in your life?”
Dr. Raynes blinked. It wasn’t much, but it scared me a little.
“I know, I know!” Stash moved along breezily. “You’ve got your reputation to think of. But what exactly is your reputation?”
The courtroom was silent.
“You were a tenured professor at the University of Montana, were you not?”
“Yes,” she said softly.
“For what reasons can a tenured professor be forced from her position?”
“A variety, I suppose.”
“Do you suppose that fudging the facts in your research might be one of those reasons?”
No answer. I knew something bad was coming, and I was powerless to stop it.
“Doctor? Hm? If a researcher falsifies data in their research in order to come t
o a predetermined conclusion, would that be grounds for dismissing a tenured faculty member?”
“Objection,” I said. “This is totally irrelevant and speculative.”
“Denied,” Evola said. “I’ll bet fifty cents Mr. Olesky is going somewhere with this.”
“And you’ll win that bet, Your Honor,” the prosecuting attorney said. “Doctor, I’ll ask you again: Is the falsification of research data considered to be sufficient grounds for the removal of a tenured professor at most universities?”
“Yes.”
“And were you fired from U of M because you falsified data in your research?”
“I was not fired.”
“Oh?”
“A jealous colleague made a variety of spurious accusations. They were never proven.”
“Come on. That’s a lie, isn’t it? Wasn’t a report submitted to the faculty senate recommending your dismissal as a result of your dishonesty?”
There was a long pause during which Helen Raynes’s face went slowly pale. “Who told you that?”
“I’m asking the questions here.” Stash’s voice cracked like a whip. “Was or was not a report made to the faculty senate recommending your dismissal?”
“It was a sealed report. A preliminary report, nonbinding.” Her voice had gone shrill. “The final recommendation of the committee was never made. I would most certainly have prevailed if . . . had all the . . . if the facts had been fully examined.”
“But instead you resigned, didn’t you?”
“My business was just taking off, so I decided it wasn’t worth the agony of fighting the thing for another year.”
“What about your precious reputation?”
“Excuse me?”
“In your earlier testimony you claimed that your reputation was the one thing that ensures your truthfulness on the stand.”
Stony silence.
“If your reputation is so important to you, Doctor, then why didn’t you stick around and beat the charges?”
Helen Raynes made an obvious effort to regain her composure, but her voice was still high and weak, and her skin was pale as death. Her career, her reputation, and her livelihood were going down the tubes right there on national TV. “As I said, my business was just taking off. I had just received a large contract. It seemed an opportune time to go.”
Proof of Intent Page 27
