“We’ll withdraw the testimony, sir. For the purpose of this hearing only, of course.”
Why not? Having heard the testimony, the magistrate would remember it, withdrawn or not. He might not decide the case based upon it, but he couldn’t possibly put it out of his mind.
Round one was a draw.
There was nothing duller than forensic testimony. Autopsies, fabrics, fibers, blood types. All sure-fire yawn inducers. Gould had been tapping his pen for ten minutes, a certain sign that this testimony had gone too long.
The investigating officer droned on. “We then proceeded to examine the room for dactylograms.”
“I beg your pardon?” Moltke said.
“Fingerprints.”
“Ah. And you didn’t find the defendant’s fingerprints on Lombardi’s body, did you?”
“No, I did not.”
“And you didn’t find her fingerprints in the bloodstains?”
“No, I did not.”
“Well, I guess that looks pretty good for the defendant.”
Ben’s head jerked up. Cheap theatrics were almost certainly a prelude to something Moltke thought was important.
“It seems like I’m forgetting something,” Moltke said. He snapped his fingers. “Oh, yes. I know what it was. I wanted to ask you, Officer—did you find any fingerprints on the gun?”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“And whose fingerprints were they?”
“They were the defendant’s.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely positive. We discovered two crystal clear latents. Thumb and forefinger.”
Ben cupped his hand over Christina’s ear. “Did you pick up the gun?”
“ ’Fraid so, pal.”
This was bad news. Although still circumstantial, eventually even circumstantial evidence could suggest only one reasonable conclusion.
Ben suddenly realized the magistrate was trying to get his attention. “I asked, will there be any cross-examination?”
“No, sir,” Ben said. He glanced at Christina and shrugged. There was no point.
Round two went to the prosecution.
Ben hoped that was the end of it. The gun evidence wasn’t helpful, but it was far from conclusive. There was still a chance he could get the charges dismissed.
“Any further witnesses?” Gould asked.
“No, sir. The prosecution—”
Moltke stopped mid-sentence. One of his junior assistants jabbed his arm, then pointed to the rear of the room, where a man in uniform stood.
“Magistrate,” Moltke said, “may I have a brief recess to confer with a possible witness?”
“I’ll give you two minutes,” Gould said.
Moltke walked to the back and talked with the officer. Ben tried to read lips or pick up some hint of what they were discussing, but it was impossible.
Just before his time elapsed, Moltke returned to the podium. He seemed energized. Even worse, he was smiling.
“Magistrate Gould, the government wishes to call one more witness.”
“Very well. Get on with it.”
“The United States calls Officer John Tompkins.”
Officer Tompkins, a ruddy, well-scrubbed officer in middle age and middle paunch, took the stand. Moltke made a cursory run through his credentials, principally his years on the Tulsa police force. Moltke appeared eager to move on.
“What was your first assignment when you reported to work this morning, Officer?”
“I was dispatched to an apartment on Southwest Boulevard to assist a follow-up investigation of a reported B and E.” He looked up at the magistrate. “That’s a breaking and entering, sir.”
“Ah,” Gould said. “Thank you for removing the scales from my eyes.”
“And who is the tenant of the apartment in question?”
“That would be the defendant.” He nodded in Christina’s direction.
Ben leaped to his feet. “Objection. Magistrate, I fail to see the relevance of this line of questioning.”
Gould squinted at Moltke. “I’m afraid I share defense counsel’s mystification, Mr. Prosecutor. Care to elucidate?”
“I’ll cut straight to the point, sir.” Moltke addressed his witness. “Did you discover anything during your investigation of the breaking and entering that pertains to this case?”
“Yes, I did.”
“And what would that be?”
“Well…” He leaned forward, as if preparing to tell a ripsnorting story. “The defendant has a number of stuffed animals.”
The magistrate blinked. “Stuffed animals?”
“Yes, sir. Well, animals, dolls, teddy bears—that sort of thing. Most of them had been torn apart and had their stuffings ripped out.”
“The court is undoubtedly grieved to learn of their disembowelment,” Moltke said. “Did you search the dolls?”
“Well, I picked up this one, a Betty Boop doll—”
The magistrate peered down at the witness. “Excuse me? A what?”
“A Betty Boop doll. You know, the cartoon character.”
Gould took up his pen. “Is that B-e-t-t-y B-o-o-p?”
Oh, give me a break, Ben thought. You can be dignified without acting as if you came from another planet.
“Yes, sir,” Tompkins said. “I believe that’s correct.”
Gould made a few more squiggles on his notepad. “I see. You may proceed.”
“And inside the Betty Boop doll, I found several clear glassy packets containing a white powdery substance. A tongue test confirmed my initial suspicion. It was about six hundred grams of cocaine.”
The buzz from the gallery was instantaneous. The reporters’ pencils flew into action.
“And were there any identifying markings on these glassy packages?”
“Yes.” Tompkins allowed a pregnant pause, then said, “Stapled to the first package was a small scrap of paper bearing the word Monster. That is what drug dealers refer to as a brand name, a mark identifying a particular dealer’s product and distinguishing it from those of competitors. And beneath the brand name, someone had written the word Lombardi. We believe this is part of the drug shipment that was delivered to Tony Lombardi the night he was killed. She must have taken it after she killed him.”
Ben screamed out an objection, but it was no use. The dull buzz in the courtroom became a full-fledged roar. Reporters began running toward the back door. They didn’t heed to hear any more. They could confidently predict the outcome now.
The magistrate pounded his gavel to little effect. The world seemed to be swirling around Ben, everything happening at once, everything happening much too quickly. He was conscious of mumbling that he had no questions, and then of a continuous, indistinct chatter, till he picked up the phrase held to answer in the district court before a jury of her peers.
“Held to answer,” Ben echoed.
Gould pounded his gavel again. “Trial is set for May fifteenth.”
“May fifteenth! That’s too soon!”
“Too soon?” Gould tossed down his gavel in disgust. “Given what we’ve heard today, I wonder if it’s soon enough.”
“Your honor, I move for a continuance.”
“Premature. Make your motion to the district court judge.”
“We’ll waive the Speedy Trial Act.”
“I won’t.”
“Sir, I have potential witnesses to interview.”
“Then you had better get started, counsel.” Gould rose to his feet. “This hearing is adjourned.”
Gould slipped away into chambers; those few still remaining in the gallery raced toward the door. Moltke waltzed past Ben, a smug expression plastered on his face.
Ben felt as if his veins were filled with poison. His vision blurred until he could see nothing at all, nothing but Christina, sitting at defendant’s table by herself.
Christina, all alone. And soon to be on trial for her life.
PART TWO
Bloind and Deef and Doom
THE FULL MOON SHONE down on the forest, casting shadows between the trees, glistening against the moist grass. Despite the moonlight, the forest was dark, and almost unbearably quiet. The occasional fluttering of birds or chirping of insects was all that relieved the damnable tranquility.
Ben and Christina crept from one tree to the next, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. The fragrance of pine needles and damp leaves was sweet and strong, but it gave Ben no comfort. The forest was immaculate, seemingly untouched by human hand. Under other circumstances, Ben might’ve enjoyed this. Under any other circumstances.
Their flashlights offered precious little illumination; it was too dark and the forest was too large. With each step, each crackle of twigs and brush, a cold shudder crept up Ben’s spine. He hated risky activities and yet he always seemed to be doing them. And he always seemed to be doing them with Christina.
“Can’t you be any quieter?” Ben asked.
“I don’t see how,” Christina said. “Unless you want me to swing from tree to tree like Tarzan.”
“Just be more careful where you step. We don’t want to attract any attention.”
“Ben, we’ve been out here for over three hours, and we haven’t seen any evidence that human beings have ever come here, much less that they’re here now.”
“Nonetheless, Burris told me this is where Lombardi sent his hired hoods on Monday nights. Combined with the information from Langdell, I get the definite impression they were here to receive contraband.”
“Fine. I’ll keep my eyes peeled for vicious parrot smugglers, mon capitaine.”
Despite her attempt at levity, Ben knew Christina had a severe case of the willies herself. They were both creeping along in dark shirts, blue jeans, and sneakers. Comfortable, lightweight, inconspicuous, but not ostentatiously incriminating. Actually, Ben thought Christina looked stunning; of course, any deviation from her usual wardrobe was an improvement.
“Did you hear something?” Ben asked.
Christina stopped and listened. “No. Why?”
“I thought I heard something.”
“Ben, you’re becoming paranoid. You think you’re being followed every place you go.”
“Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean we’re not being followed.”
“The possibility of someone else being out here gives me the creeps.”
“Me, too.”
They both fell silent. The natural, intolerable stillness flooded their ears.
“Look at all these oak leaves on the ground,” Christina whispered. “They’re just like the piece you found in the mud in my apartment. I think that proves the guy who ransacked my apartment had been but here. Recently.”
“Let’s hope I don’t have to go before the jury with evidence like that,” Ben said. “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this escapade.”
“If you’re such a fraidy cat, why didn’t you just give your information to the police? Let Mike investigate.”
A shadow passed across Ben’s face. “After what happened at the preliminary hearing? I never thought I’d say it…but we can’t trust Mike. Not this time.”
“Then why didn’t you hire an investigator?”
“With what? I can’t afford to hire an investigator, and you didn’t exactly give me a munificent retainer when I took this case.”
“True enough. Money’s been tight, especially since I was fired. But I have a friend who might be able to get you some more chickens.”
“Very funny.”
She adopted a thick French accent. “The lee-tle poulet, they are magnifique—”
Ben froze and clenched her arm. “What was that?”
“Ben, will you give it a rest already?”
“Ssshh! I heard something behind us.”
They listened. They heard the hooting of an owl. They heard the leaves rustling as they skittered across the ground. Nothing more.
“Ben,” Christina whispered, “you’re scaring me.”
“I’m sorry. Let’s move on.”
Christina followed his lead, but with noticeably less enthusiasm than before.
The beam of Ben’s flashlight shone upon something solid. “What’s that?”
Ben and Christina moved forward cautiously. It seemed to be a small wooden building, a shack. Many of the wooden planks were warped and knotted, leaving gaping holes in the walls.
“Look at this.” On the door, Christina found a notice bearing the emblem of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms.
Ben read the notice. “The feds again,” he said. “The FBI often uses the BATF when they want agents from outside their own club.”
“They wouldn’t have an outpost here for no reason, Ben. We must be close to something.”
“Agreed. Can we get in?”
Christina scanned the door with her flashlight. She found the handle and, just beneath it, a chain. “Ben,” she said, “this is a bicycle lock.”
“What?” The wire chain was covered with a thin yellow plastic. The lock itself consisted of three metal tumblers, each bearing numbers zero through six. “The BATF uses bicycle locks for security?”
“Must be experiencing serious cutbacks.” She began turning the tumblers.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m picking the lock, of course. Didn’t you ever do this when you were a kid?”
“I should say not.”
“Of course. I expect they didn’t have bicycle locks in Nichols Hills. The local kids probably just posted security guards.”
She drew Ben’s attention to the lock. “It’s very simple. You try each number on the first tumbler, tugging the chain as you go. There are only seven choices. When you get the right number in place, you’ll feel a slight give in the lock—the inner key has been released from the first third of the lock. You then move to the second tumbler. When you dial the right number, the chain will give even more. And when you’ve got the third number, you’re home free.”
“As usual, I’m amazed at your vast range of expertise.”
A few moments later, the chain was unlocked. Ben gave the door a solid push; it swung open.
The interior was pitch black, even as Ben shone his flashlight around. He could hear something, though—an eerie brushing and scraping. He took a deep breath and stepped inside.
It took him a moment to identify the sounds: the beating of wings, the scraping of claws against metal. The beam of his flashlight lit on a long bench holding various birds, each in makeshift cages made from wire and cardboard.
“Look at these poor creatures,” Christina said. “What kind of bastard would keep them locked up in cages?”
“I don’t know,” Ben said, “but I bet it wasn’t the BATF.”
“I don’t care if it was. I’m setting them free.”
“Freeze!”
Ben and Christina whirled. The voice came from behind them, somewhere in the darkness.
“I have a gun,” the voice said. “Don’t try anything. Move toward the door. Slowly.”
Cautiously, Ben shone his flashlight in the general direction of the voice. The figure was so small…was this a dwarf? Someone on his knees? No—
“It’s a boy.”
“A very little boy,” Christina confirmed.
“With a very big gun,” the boy said.
“Yeaaaa!” Ben howled. “Be careful with that! It could go off!”
“That’s right,” the boy said evenly. He thrust the gun forward menacingly. “It could.”
“Don’t shoot!” Ben covered his head with his arms.
“What poise,” Christina said. “What steely composure.” She advanced toward the weapon.
The boy stepped back, waving his gun in the air. “Don’t come any closer. I’ll shoot!”
Christina stifled a yawn. “So shoot. I’ve been hit with rubber bands before. Stings a little, but it passes.” She snatched the gun away from him, then handed the wooden weapon to Ben. “Now don’t you feel
just a little silly, cowering in the face of a rubber-band gun?” Ben wiped his brow. “You’d be more sympathetic if a crazed madman had held you at gunpoint a few days ago.”
“From what I hear, that gun was even less dangerous than this one.” She addressed the boy. “So what exactly is your problem, kid? Why the muscle tactics?”
The boy’s face was fixed and determined. “I can’t let you release my birds.”
“And why not? It’s cruel to keep these birds locked up.”
The boy placed one hand against the hawk cage on the far left. The bird pressed his head gently against his hand. “They’re all hurt,” he said. “Shot up or worse. I clean ’em up and try to nurse them back to health. Then I set them free.”
“Hunters?” Ben asked.
The boy nodded. “Or trappers. Lucky for you I combed the forest and collected all the traps today. The way you two were stumbling around, you’d have stepped in a dozen of them.”
“Why don’t you take them to an animal doctor?” Ben asked.
“Because animal doctors want money. Like everybody else.”
Ben examined the birds more carefully. Clean dressed bandages, gauze patches—even splints. He realized their snap judgment had been mistaken. This boy was obviously dedicated to his birds.
“What’s your name, kid?”
The boy hesitated. “I go by Wolf.”
“Wolf?” Ben scrutinized his ruddy skin and his long, inky black hair. “You’re a Native American.”
“So?”
“Creek Nation?”
“Maybe. What’s it to you?”
“What’s your real name, Wolf?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Because if you don’t, I’ll tell your parents you held us at rubber-band-point.”
“Names are personal.”
Christina stepped forward. “Mine’s Christina. He’s Ben. Now what’s yours?”
He looked away. “Lemuel.”
“Lemuel?” It was worse than Ben had imagined. “Not exactly an Indian name, huh?”
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