The Liar

by Steve Cavanagh

  “As you can see – the blast was localized to one corner of the basement. The rest of the walls still had some smoke on the surface, but they remained intact. The force of the blast was directed upwards into the remainder of the house. The white paint on the bricks of the basement wall is still clear and relatively bright.”

  A second click of the remote brought up a new photograph. This time the basement was not lit up with bright lights for the camera. It was in semi-darkness. Apart from the wall to the left of the photograph. A strange, blue smear was visible.

  “And this photograph, Doctor Birch. What does it show?”

  “The crime scene investigators used a bioluminescent product, such as luminol or some other substance, to search for latent bloodstains that have been cleaned up, and are no longer visible to the naked eye. The blue pattern you can see on the wall is in fact blood.”

  “And when you attended the scene, and you saw this blood, what exactly did you do?”

  “I went through my investigation and evaluation procedures first. So I took some relevant information from the officers on scene, and I examined the spray pattern on the wall. Perhaps if I could see photograph five it would help?”

  “Of course,” said King, bringing up the photo on screen which was a close-up of the blue blood pattern.

  “As you can see, this is a classic pattern. I examined the individual droplets within the pattern, measured them and determined their direction of travel …”

  “Sorry, can I just stop you there? How did you determine the direction of travel of the blood on the wall?”

  “It’s quite simple. When a droplet of blood is travelling fast enough and at an angle when it hits a surface, it will create an instant droplet stain. A circle stain, if you will. A drop of blood that falls perfectly vertically will create a circular shape, with a soft serrated edge and a drop that falls at an angle will create more of a balloon shape, with the fat end of the balloon being the first point of contact between the blood and the surface area.”

  “I see, so you can tell, by the shape of the droplets, what direction they came from?”

  “Yes, I used the stringing method to calculate the likely point of origin. Basically, I attach a string to the wall, tracing through the axes of travel to the stain. This allows me to determine angle and point of origin. In this case, the bloodshed event occurred six feet from this wall, and the blood source came from a height of five feet two inches above floor height.”

  In the short pause, I heard Howell’s knuckles cracking beneath the table. His fists were clenched tightly, blanching the skin on his hands and fingers. I placed a hand on his arm, gently, trying to calm him without drawing attention.

  King had paused to let the jury take this in. It was technical data that didn’t really mean anything. Not until her next question, anyways.

  “Doctor, do you know the height of the victim?”

  “Yes, Caroline was tall for her age. She was five foot ten inches.”

  “Was …” murmured Howell, under his breath. To Howell, every word spoken in the trial brought her murder into the present, right into every breath he took.

  “Tell us, Doctor, your analysis of this scene based on your scientific investigation, please.”

  I leaned forward, me and the jury and most of the folks in the courtroom. This was how all the blue patterns, strings and calculations added up.

  “The pattern on the wall looked to be classic medium velocity impact spatter. The bloody knife, found in the basement with the deceased’s blood on it, gives us a piece of corroborating evidence. In my view, the pattern is consistent with a knife or sharp-edged instrument striking and severing the carotid artery. At first, the opening of the vein, with the blood under full pressure from the heart, forces the blood to shoot out in a high velocity arc, which then falls as the hole in the vein widens and blood pressure drops. The sweeping pattern of the stain is highly indicative of this type of injury. The victim’s height, and my calculations of the point of origin of the bloodshed event match precisely with a fatal blow to the throat.”

  “How can you be sure of your theory?”

  “I was able to reproduce the same spatter pattern in test conditions, using a syringe to simulate the bloodshed.”

  The screen beside Birch flicked to an image of a white room. The same pattern was on the wall only this time it was red. I’d seen this photo before, but only now did I see that there were a few spots of blood on the floor of the test area. I flicked through my file and found the photos of the bloodstains found with luminol. They were a match. Spray on the wall, but only a few drops on the floor.

  “Are you aware, from your subsequent briefing, of the DNA profile of the blood found on the wall?” said King.

  “Yes, I was informed that the blood matched the DNA control profile of Caroline Howell,” said Birch.

  “Earlier, you described the wound to the victim’s throat as a fatal wound. How can you be certain this was an injury which resulted in a fatality?”

  “The blood pattern is in the classic scythe shape and formation, from arterial spray. If someone opens your carotid artery you will bleed out in seconds unless there is a surgeon and full crash team standing by. Even then, it’s likely you will die.”

  “No!” screamed Howell. He stood up, a wild look on his face.

  I got to my feet and took hold of him, and I felt him grab my jacket. Our eyes met, and I thought that Howell looked like a man who was drowning. There was a desperate, primal aspect to his face.

  His hands tightened, gripping my shirt.

  “Get me out, get me out, I can’t listen to this, get me out, Eddie …” he begged.

  I was about to ask for a recess when Judge Schultz beat me to the punchline.

  “That’s your third strike, Mr Howell. I warned you. Security, please take Mr Howell to the cells. You’ll remain there for one hour. When you return, if there are any further outbursts I’ll hold you in a permanent state of contempt and you will not be in this court for the remainder of your trial. Take him.”

  He whispered an apology. He let go of my jacket, smoothed it down. My shirt too. He wept as he was led away. I didn’t hear it, I was too busy arguing with the judge. She wouldn’t listen, and the jury watched the scene in silence. The rumble of conversation that erupted in the crowd drowned out my voice. The door to the left of me that led to the cells slammed shut.

  I took a moment to calm down, and wiped my lip. Doctor Birch smiled at me. He knew we were about to go at it, and he was feeling pretty confident. I had no blood pattern analysis defense expert, and now I didn’t even have a client.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The court calmed down after the ruckus created by Howell. King was done with Doctor Birch. She thanked him and sat down.

  Like a tennis match, the ball was hurtling toward me and everyone in the courtroom thought I had no chance of reaching it, never mind batting it back across the net.

  My hands felt hot and wet. From the corner of my eye, I saw a juror lean back and fold his arms like, “What the hell are you going to argue with here, pal?”

  Doctor Birch had proven to be a convincing witness. His testimony was clear and the jury seemed to understand its importance and accept it. In reality there was very little that I could argue with.

  But reality didn’t matter. Neither did the truth. We were in a courtroom, after all.

  I had my tactics all planned out, ahead of time. Even so, I could fall flat at any moment. Just because you know what punches you’re going to throw doesn’t mean any of them are going to land.

  I got to my feet, moved out from the defense table and stood in the well of the court, right in the center of the space surrounded by the judge, jury, witness stand and prosecution. I didn’t have a single note in front of me. Doctor Birch coughed, took a sip of water and fixed his gaze straight ahead. It was a basic tactic that some expert witnesses employed from time to time. The last thing any witness wants is to become angry under cross-
examination. It’s usually a sign that they’ve lost their credibility. Easiest way to avoid an argument is to avoid eye contact and focus on listening to the question and taking a second before answering. That way, you can’t get drawn into an immediate answer and a combative approach. Even if Birch hadn’t gotten a lot of real time on the witness stand during his career – he would’ve been prepped for testimony a bunch of times by a handful of prosecutors and most of them would pass on this tip. It’s real simple, but highly effective.

  “Doctor Birch, everything you’ve just told this court is total garbage, isn’t that right?”

  A beat. No eye contact from Birch. No objection from King – she didn’t want to appear overprotective of this witness.

  My gaze zeroed on him, but in my peripheral vision I saw a couple of jurors sit bolt upright. The judge dropped her pen and I could feel her hard stare. It didn’t feel too friendly.

  “No. That’s incorrect,” he said. His delivery had slowed; more measured, and his tone was lower to help instill his answers with greater authority. I’d seen some of these techniques displayed by witnesses before, but never all at once. It made me think Doc Birch had learned a hard lesson in the witness stand, and no way was he going to lose his temper again. Not if he listened to the prosecutor’s tips on surviving cross-examination.

  “You said, in your earlier testimony, that blood spatter analysis was your ‘calling’, is that right?”

  A beat. Eyes on the floor.

  “Yes. I am passionate about my work.”

  “You were a police officer before you opened your forensic consultancy practice, correct?”

  The delay between question and answer shortened by half a second.

  “Yes, and I left the force to pursue my calling.”

  “And you followed that calling to the FBI, where you trained in this discipline. That’s what you told the court, right?”

  Back to a full second delay. Thinking through his answer before he opened his mouth.

  “That’s right.”

  “Were your training and qualifications obtained from the Forensic Science and Research Center in the FBI National Academy in Quantico, Virginia?”

  We waited, and he said, “The very same.”

  Now it was my turn to slow it down. I took one step toward the jury, faced them, stopped, and said, “Doctor Birch, at the FBI National Academy, what does the sign say above the entrance to the dining hall?”

  His customary delay began. Two seconds passed. Five seconds. I didn’t look at Birch. I watched the jury and the jury were watching him. At the ten-second mark the faces of the jury members began to change. What at first was benign interest became intense scrutiny on the fifteenth second of silence. There’s nothing quite like that silence. It has a personality all of its own – a weight, a dense quality that fills everyone who swims in it with an increasing sense of unease. Two female jurors shielded their eyes with their hands, cringing at the silence, and looked away. The juror I pegged as the asshole leaned forward and put his elbows on his thighs, and the rest of the jury had moved beyond embarrassment. They were now curious: some were resting their chins on their fingers, the young lady in the glasses clicked the top of her pen and held her notebook ready for the answer, other jurors just stared at Birch. The creaking of King’s chair broke the quiet. She had leaned forward, almost willing Birch to open his damn mouth and say something – anything.

  “I don’t think I can remember,” he said, finally.

  It was a bullshit answer and I turned on him, closing the gap between us as I said, “Are you saying that you don’t remember what the sign says?”

  His fingers were locked over his belly, but his thumbs tumbled over one another in a frantic circular pattern – like the wheels spinning in his head.

  “I don’t know what the sign says,” he admitted.

  “You don’t know what the sign says because the truth is you have never been to the FBI National Academy at Quantico, isn’t that right?”

  His jaw worked silently – the muscle bulging at the side of his head.

  “That’s correct.”

  “So when you stated that you didn’t think you could remember what the sign said, that was a lie, wasn’t it?”

  “No.”

  “If you have never set foot in the National Academy you would agree that you have never seen the sign, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you couldn’t have forgotten what the sign said because you’ve never laid eyes on it?”

  “Yes.”

  “So when you said you had a problem with your memory of the sign – that was a lie, Mr Birch?”

  “No. It wasn’t a lie. I simply misstated. And by the way, it’s Doctor Birch.”

  His answers had become instantaneous, his volume increased and his pitch went up along with his blood pressure. I turned away from him and went back to the defense table. I grabbed a single page, held it in front of me so Birch couldn’t see it, and said, “When you testified that you gained your Blood Spatter Analysis certification from the FBI, you really meant to say that you had completed an online correspondence course in Blood Pattern Analysis, BPA, which was developed, supposedly, with the FBI’s assistance?”

  “They did assist with course preparation materials,” he said.

  “Your actual qualification in BPA comes from which university?”

  His answer was muffled and mumbled at first. I couldn’t make it out.

  “Say that again, Mr Birch, if you will?”

  “Deboro University,” he said.

  “And where is Deboro University?” I said.

  “I’m not sure,” he said.

  I was a lot closer to King than the jury. I could’ve sworn I heard her whisper “Jesus” under her breath. This was turning into a car wreck right before her eyes and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. Dallas Birch, part of the courtroom furniture. He’d been around so long that the DA’s office no longer remembered, or cared, how he’d gotten to be there. I’d done my research. Blood Spatter Analysis was one of those grey areas of forensics, where opinion sat uneasily with science. And the longer the analyst had been in the field, the more likely it was that they’d never undertaken the more formal qualifications that existed now. His qualifications sounded great – but they unraveled as soon as I started to investigate them.

  “I can help your memory, Mr Birch. Deboro University has its registered address as a Post Office Box number in Cleveland. That ring any bells?”

  “You may be right,” he said. This time I heard the arms of his chair creak and twist as he grabbed them. Although maybe the sound came from his gritted teeth. I didn’t care which.

  “That’s where you got your doctorate from too?”

  The “yes” came out in a short exhalation.

  “The training you’ve received comes from a university without a campus, or a lecture hall or even a small tutorial room. You do a course online, and then you get emailed a diploma. That sound about right?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “And if you want a doctorate, that costs an extra two hundred dollars, but doesn’t actually require any additional work, does it?”

  “I don’t remember,” he said.

  “For two hundred bucks you can get a doctorate in Blood Spatter Analysis, or Physiotherapy, or Nutrition, or Hair Styling?”

  “I don’t know. I only did the blood pattern module,” he said.

  It was time to move on, while the jury were still shaking their heads.

  “The information you received before you began your analysis included the victim’s height and the fact that a knife was found with her blood on it?”

  “Yes, that’s correct.”

  “That was as far as your analysis went, wasn’t it? You simply based your report on that information. Caroline Howell’s height would give you an approximate starting point for the bloodstain emanating from the victim’s throat – correct?”

  “I carried out a full and de
tailed analysis and based my findings on those results,” he said.

  “During your analysis of the blood pattern, what allowances did you make for the variance in blood viscosity caused by red and white blood cells?”

  A beat.

  “None.”

  “You accept that it is widely held by all leading blood spatter experts that the viscosity of the blood can alter the pattern?”

  “Yes.”

  “During your analysis of the blood pattern, what allowances did you make for Newton’s law?”

  A crack from Birch’s chair startled two of the jury members. He’d almost broken the arm of the chair. He hissed, “I’m not sure what Newton’s law is or what it has to do with my analysis?”

  “I’m sorry, Newton’s law is more commonly known as the law of gravity. I guess they didn’t teach that in the PO Box in Cleveland. In any event, if a liquid is propelled through the air do you accept that gravity has some bearing on its travel?”

  “I accept that.”

  “But you didn’t account for it in your analysis. I could go on, but let me short circuit this. Mr Birch, you do not have any training of any kind in the areas of wound pathology, fluid dynamics, or physics?”

  “No. I don’t need to,” he said.

  “Then perhaps you’ve failed to grasp the gravity of the situation?”

  He stood up, fast, his teeth bared and the arm rests and back of the witness chair came with him as they separated from the seat. He was still holding the arm rests. His face was almost completely red and he was about to launch into a verbal attack on me when King stood and said, “Objection”. It was enough to close Birch’s mouth. He dropped the remnants of the chair, looked around, and decided to remain standing.

  “Your Honor,” I said. “I wish to bring a motion to strike out the entirety of this witness’s testimony. He is not an expert in this field—”

  King cut me off before I could go further and we talked over each other for a good half a minute until King saw the jury glaring at her. She’d made a mistake by hiring a spatter expert who always delivered the results that fit the prosecution. Her hired gun had just shot a huge hole right through his own foot and into her case.