Jackson considered her. “Her prints were on the knife. And on his throat. No one else’s?”
“You’ve finished the lab work, then?”
He paused. “Most of it.”
“Because I’ve never heard of anyone lifting prints off a man’s body.”
Jackson frowned. “For now, all that I can tell you, Caroline, is that they’ve done it.”
He was not, Caroline sensed, prepared to be pushed. In a muted voice, she asked, “Did the lab find anything else?”
“Yes. His blood was all over her, in a pattern consistent with arterial spurt. Traces of his skin were found beneath her fingernails. And her prints are on the wallet—again, no one else’s.” He paused. “By now you’ve met her, Caroline. She’s not a fool; even in the worst of circumstances, you can see her mind work. And she seems to have had the presence of mind to take the wallet, the knife, and her
clothes—perhaps to make it look like a robbery, or even that she was never there. Yet for hours, she was supposedly too stoned to even tell the police what happened.” He shook his head dismissively. “That’s a tough one to buy. You could argue pretty easily that she never expected a cop to pick her up and then spent the next several hours adapting. So that we didn’t get any real story, such as it was, until close to dawn.” His account was unnervingly like the one Caroline had given Brett. Rather than argue with it, she asked simply, “Do you have the search warrant papers?” Slowly, Jackson nodded, and drew a file from his drawer. She read the papers quickly. “According to the arresting officer,” she said, “Brett’s hair was wet.”
“So if she was wet, and yet had blood on her, it suggests that she went swimming. Just as she said.” She looked up at Jackson. “There’s no sign that James was swimming, right?” Jackson studied her. “Not as I understand it.”
“Because I recognize the curly hair he describes here as the family curse—I got it whenever we went swimming, remember? And if Brett went swimming alone, someone else would have had time to kill him. Just as she said.” She paused a moment. “Tell me, Jackson, what was her intoxication level?”
“Point one six.”
“Impressive.” Jackson tilted his head. “Are you saying that cuts against premeditation?”
“I’m saying that it cuts against your case.” Caroline sat straighter now. “You may not like her story, but it explains everything—the blood, the fingerprints, the skin under her nails, even his failure to ejaculate. And there’s not a hole in it. Everything that happened could have happened just the way she says it did.” Caroline paused for emphasis. “She’s either telling the truth or she’s an intuitive criminal genius, who not only can plan and carry out the grisly murder of
a young man half again her size and twice her strength but can invent the most complex account, covering physical evidence even a criminologist could only guess at, within hours of slashing her boyfriend’s throat. All while drunk and stoned. If it weren’t for the moral and legal circumstances, I’d be terribly proud of her.” Jackson’s eyes opened slightly. His look became wary, yet intent; something about it suggested more than professional pride, perhaps the desire that the woman sitting in front of him never humiliate him again. “Within eight hours.” His voice was clipped now. “More than time enough to sober up.” “I really doubt that.” How to say this, Caroline wondered, without being patronizing? “Sorry if I gave my jury argument.”
“No, it was interesting. And informative. So why do you doubt it?”
“Because drugs are a huge problem in San Francisco, and I was a public defender there. Which means that a lot of my clients were screwed up on drugs and alcohol. Of necessity, I began to take an amateur interest in pharmacology. For one thing, Jackson, the dope these kids smoke now isn’t like the pot we tried.” A raised eyebrow. “No?”
“No. Today’s pot has fifteen percent THC content, three to five times that of our wonder years. If Brett was an amateur doper—and I believe she was—one joint could do things to her that you and I wouldn’t even recognize. “Second, if she drank the wine first—which I also believe—the dope would have had an additive effect. The intoxication is seriously intensified: you get black holes in the memory, some of which never get filled, and there’s a kind of surreal dream state, where the images are more like a slide show than real life. So that you doubt your own experience.” Caroline paused, then added succinctly, “And an experience this terrible is one that you would very much wish to doubt.”
Jackson looked at her skeptically. “And a single joint would account for all that.”
“It could account for a lot of things. That she at first tried to administer CPR. That she later had trouble remembering—or believing—that this terrible thing had really happened. And the nausea and vomiting are a typical example of the additive effect, which—like the perceptual problems—are also intensified by orgasm. As you may also recall from your youth.” Suddenly, Jackson looked wary, as if unsure how to answer. What are you doing? his expression said. Then a shrug, the barest hint of a smile. “I didn’t know what it was. Maybe the earth moving.” What were the rules for this? Caroline wondered. She rushed ahead. “The point is, she wouldn’t get over it quickly. The effect lasts not for hours but for days. So that what Brett describes so well—semi-blackout, then flashing on his body, then enough recovery to tell her story—is utterly consistent with the chemistry of memory as affected by drugs. Please, trust me that this is not just defense lawyer’s bullshit.” She added softly, almost reluctantly, “Which does, however, bring me to Miranda.”
“Somehow I thought that it might.” His eyes were keen now. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”
“You already know, Jackson. In fact, I already know when you started calling the shots—when they held Brett at the hospital until they got the warrants to search her person and the property by the lake. That’s when they started doing things right. But by then it may have been too late.” Caroline kept her voice quiet, respectful. “When they called to tell you they’d picked up this naked, blood-speckled girl with a bloody knife, taken her to jail, and then gotten her to point them to the lake, what did they say about Miranda warnings?” Jackson’s watchful half smile was no smile at all. “You tell me.”
“There were none. Which means there’s a good chance that Brett’s lawyer—whoever that is—could suppress the
first statement about where to find James’s body and all the evidence based on that; perhaps the body itself and certainly the search of the lake, the search of Brett, and her later statement about the circumstances of James’s death.” Caroline snapped her fingers. “Gone, just like that. Leaving you with nothing.” Jackson’s smile had vanished. “Caroline,” he said in a voice of wonderment, “of all the conversations I ever imagined us having, this is not one.” His tone became crisper. “You’re also wrong. The bloody knife was in plain view, giving the police good reason to feel that someone else might have been hurt. But they didn’t know who or what or why, or even whether Brett and whoever else had been attacked by a third party. And no court is going to punish the police for asking if there’s a wounded person out there whose life can still be saved. It’s called the exigent circumstances doctrine.” He leaned forward. “Let me ask you this: Are you willing to advise her to take a lie detector test. Given by one of our people?” He was very clever, Caroline realized. In a quiet voice, she answered, “I don’t believe in them. And a clever police examiner can use a lie test to interrogate her.” You don’t believe in her, she saw him think. But it seemed to give him little pleasure. “Then, viewing this as a professional, I must tell you that Brett has real problems. For the reasons you already know, and some that I’m sure you don’t. “Your defense, if you even have one, is that someone followed them to the lake. But look what that requires of your imaginary killer: to start, knowing that she would leave James by himself after all, who could reasonably expect to hack two able-bodied college students to death? Also knowing that James would be too drunk and/or stoned to defend himself.”
He gazed at Caroline intently. “And knowing how he—or she—could then vanish in the woods without leaving a trace.” Caroline felt a jolt. “Is that what the crime lab people tell you?”
Jackson folded his hands. “When she fled the scene, Brett left a trail behind—trampled brush, broken branches, flecks of James’s blood on the leaves. If Brett’s story is right, there’s no way that the killer wouldn’t have left the same trail. So far we’ve found nothing …. ” “That just can’t be. The local police were there, and the EMTs. You can’t tell me that there aren’t footprints all around the lake, and all sorts of signs that the cops—or someone—were thrashing about in the woods. I doubt the crime lab people can tell who else might have been there.” Jackson leaned forward. “There seems to be no escape path except for the one Brett left. The killer would have had to have James Case all over him, just as Brett did. But we’ve got no trail of blood but hers—nothing else, and no one else. And who else are you going to offer me? Some bum, looking to lift the wallet of a college kid? That’s not credible.” Jackson’s voice rose. “This was personal, Caroline. The killer butchered this kid like an animal, with a very sharp knife. Name a case you know where someone did that to a stranger.” Caroline looked at him steadily. “Charles Manson, for one. And you’ve got no reason at all for Brett to kill him. Let alone like that.” Jackson paused, a tacit concession, then parried: “And you’ve got no one else.”
“You’re forgetting James’s supplier.” Jackson raised an eyebrow. “I may not be up on my THC, but I do know there’s nothing in this for a petty dealer.” He appeared to debate whether to say more. “We searched James’s apartment, Caroline. There was no sign of a breakin, let alone torn-up sheets. What Brett told us about someone tearing up his room never happened.” Caroline felt shaken again. “Maybe he lied to her. About the dealer …” Jackson’s half smile was melancholy. “So who does that leave us? Just a girl who may have been sufficiently drug-addled when she killed him for you to argue this down to murder two.”
Caroline studied him. Softly, she asked, “You haven’t tied her to the knife, have you?” A moment’s silence. No.”
“What kind of knife is it?”
“A fishing knife—a Cahill. Quite a fine one.” Pausing, Jackson examined her for a time. “As you say, Caroline, you’ve no rights here. But perhaps you’d like to see it.”
“I would, yes.” Reaching into a second drawer, Jackson withdrew a knife in a glassine bag and placed it on the desk. The knife was finely crafted. Bone handle, long blade, serrated edge. A knife for a fisherman who cared about such things. The blade was encrusted with blood. Caroline’s stomach felt empty. It was a time before she felt Jackson’s scrutiny, wondered how long she had gazed at the knife. Turning over the bag, she saw the serial numbers on the blade, just as she expected. The blood obscured them. Caroline had to squint; her reading glasses were in the briefcase. But she did not wish Jackson to know what she was doing. Since childhood, it had been her gift to memorize numbers. Slowly, she passed the bag to Jackson. “A fine one. Just as you said.” He placed the knife on the desk between them, looking into her face. “Is that all?” he asked. “Or is there something else you want to cover?”
“Not now.” She hesitated. “Thank you.” Caroline stood. Somehow she felt distant, a bit light-headed. Jackson rose from behind the desk, hands on hips. “Did I understand that you may not handle this?” It brought her back a little. She looked at him directly. “If there’s no prosecution, it shouldn’t really matter.” He did not answer but simply gazed at her, his eyes intent and curious. “I hear you’re going to be a federal judge.”
“So it seems.”
For another moment, he seemed to appraise her. “Well,” he said at length, “I’m sorry about this. For Brett, and for everyone involved.” He held out his hand. Caroline took it, clasped it quickly. “Thank you,” she said. “I’ll let myself out.” She turned and left him there. She hardly remembered her walk to the car, did not look up at the capitol, or anywhere except in front of her. Getting to the car, she sat there awhile. Her briefcase was on the seat beside her. She reached inside, found a pen and a piece of paper, and wrote down the serial numbers from the blade of the Cahill knife.
CHAPTER SIX
When Caroline returned, she saw no one. It was as she wished. But when she climbed the stairs to the room where her things were, hoping to be alone, there was a message taped to her door. She stared at Betty’s careful script. Bob Carrow had called. From the Manchester Patriot-Ledger. Caroline sat on the bed. She was not prepared. The one statewide newspaper, the Patriot-Ledger, had long dominated New Hampshire; its politics were harshly right-wing—bitterly antagonistic to Democrats, feminists, and judges such as Caroline promised to be—and its stock-in-trade since Caroline’s youth had been its crusade for more criminal convictions and longer sentences. There was nothing to gain from returning this call; certainly not for Caroline, whose potential involvement in a criminal matter involving her family—if publicized—would surely get back to the White House. Angry and exhausted, she started to crumple the message into a ball. Her hand froze. She opened her palm, staring at the crumpled paper. Who, she wondered, had done this to her? For there was Brett to consider. If there should be a trial, it would become a major story in such media as New Hampshire had, and never more so than in the Patriot-Ledger. For Caroline the defense lawyer, it was important to get her client fair coverage in the press—better than fair, if Caroline could help it. And one did not do that by ignoring the state’s largest newspaper.
For another half hour, she thought. About the reasons she had left here. About the twenty years spent trying to become a judge. About a girl she barely knew. She went to the kitchen to call.
“Bob Carrow.” A voice such as she had heard in countless newsrooms—edgy, eager, aggressive. Part of her despised him. She made her own tone polite, puzzled, faintly bored. “This is Caroline Masters.” “Oh, yes. Thank you for getting back to me. I hear your niece is Brett Allen.”
“Yes.” More arid now. “I hear that too.” A hesitation. “She may be charged with murder.”
“Really? Who did she kill?”
“Well, James Case …”
“Who told you that? Not, I think, the Attorney General’s Office.” Caroline’s tone was finn and even. “This is a young woman who has just lost someone she loved in the most shocking circumstances, including the hideous trauma of finding his body. And no one—no one at all—has any other reason to even think about her in connection with his death. Let alone find anything like a motive.” Caroline broke off. Tomorrow, she chastened herself, the police could find something. It was not like her to go too far. “So you believe she’s innocent,” Carrow said. “Of what? Brett might well have been killed herself. In that way—if only that way—she’s quite fortunate.”
“Then who do you think killed James Case?”
“Someone who wasn’t twenty-two and in love with him.” Caroline’s voice grew quieter. “I hope that Brett can look to you for fairness.” Their talk was over, Caroline’s tone suggested. “One more question,” Carrow said hastily. “The White House has just announced your nomination to the United States Court of Appeals. Do you feel it’s appropriate for a judicial nominee to be involved in a criminal matter?”
At once, Caroline was on edge—where, she wondered, was this coming from. “I think you may misapprehend my role. I’ve come here as a member of the family.”
“But you also visited the Assistant Attorney General this morning, Mr. Watts. What was the purpose of that meeting?”
“To express my family’s concern. Including that whoever did this be identified.” She permitted herself an edge of irritation. “Think about it, Mr. Carrow. Not only that someone killed my niece’s boyfriend but that someone is still out there. Imagine how frightening that is.” A long silence. “Will you be Ms. Allen’s lawyer’?”
“Lawyer? She doesn’t need one. All she needs is her family’s support.” Caroline
paused. “I expect shortly to return to San Francisco and get about the business this tragedy interrupted—preparing for the nomination hearings. About which, of course, I’m very honored. Is there anything else?” His tone combined politeness and a certain sanctimony. “I know this is a difficult thing. But I really think it would be helpful if Ms. Allen were to speak to us herself.” Caroline drew a long breath. “I think you can understand how little Brett feels like talking to anyone. So for the moment you’ll have to make do with me. But should she ever feel like discussing this—other than with those closest to her—we will surely let you know.”
“Okay.” He sounded mollified, then eager. “First, if possible—okay?”
“Yes. If possible.” She took a breath. “We in this family have great respect for the Patriot-Ledger.”
“Good.” In his own hesitancy, she heard the decision not to push. “Thank you, Ms. Masters.”
“Of course.” As he hung up, Caroline found herself listening, once more, for the sound of a second telephone. But there was nothing.
The stable was dim, airy, almost barnlike. The sun came from windows high above her, casting shadows in the corners. A white Jeep was parked to one side, dwarfed by the vastness of the space. The lawyer Caroline knew that she should turn around and leave. Yet she stayed where she was. At the back of the stable were her father’s workbench, his tools, his vise for sawing lumber. Channing Masters believed in self-sufficiency; how many times, his daughter wondered, had she sat with him as he built something, or fixed something, unwilling, she knew, to concede defeat. The standing clock in the foyer was made in the 1850s by a famous clockmaker, Tim Chandler; Caroline still remembered a day when she was seven or so, sitting by her father as he spent half a Sunday with the clock face turned, its complex inner workings exposed, making small adjustments with a jeweler’s tools until, suddenly, the heavy chain swayed again, the bell sounded, and she saw the smile of inward pleasure at the corners of her father’s eyes. Caroline walked past the workbench to his gun rack. Everything was where it had always been—shotguns, for hunting and trapshooting; a revolver; a crossbow; several fly rods. The guns were still cleaned and oiled, their stocks polished; the fly rods and reels were supplied with fishing line. Caroline seemed to recall most of them. Her father cared for his things; out of sentiment and practicality, he preserved what he had, threw little away. He had no taste for the new. Beside the fly rods was a wooden rack with pegs. The ten-year-old Caroline had helped him make it, applying lacquer to the wood. She could hardly wait for the lacquer to dry; then they could fix it to the wall and hang his knives there. Later, they had hung them one by one, in leather sheaths. At the end of the rack, Caroline saw an empty peg. All at once, the stable felt cold and drafty. Caroline turned, went to the house, and closed the door behind her.
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