Dylan objects again and this time Hatchet overrules him.
"No, it does not."
"But putting Alex Dorsey's distinctive ring on his otherwise impossible-to-identify body would be a good way to make you believe it was him, isn't that right?"
"There is no evidence that happened. And we have the DNA results."
It's my turn to be annoyed. "That's twice that you've mentioned DNA, just like Mr. Campbell asked you. Did he promise you a lollipop if you did what you were told?"
I can see a flash of anger from Sabonis, which makes the question worthwhile, even though Hatchet sustains Dylan's immediate objection.
I change the tempo and throw some questions at him in rapid-fire fashion. "Did you run the DNA test, Lieutenant?"
"No."
"Are you an expert on DNA?"
"No."
"Would you know a piece of DNA if it walked into this room, stood on the prosecution table, and sang, 'What kind of strand am I?'"
Dylan objects again, and I move on. I like to jump around, moving from subject to subject, to keep the witness off balance. "You said that Ms. Collins didn't like Oscar Garcia, that she had a grudge against him. Do you know why?"
"I was told it was because Garcia got the daughter of a friend of hers hooked on drugs."
"When?"
"I'm not sure. I think about two years ago."
"Has Mr. Garcia ever filed a complaint that Ms. Collins attacked him? Tried to kill him?"
"No."
"So she carried this terrible grudge for two years, yet never cut off his head? Never set him on fire?"
"No."
I press on. "Was Oscar Garcia protected during those two years? Any police unit assigned to make sure Ms. Collins couldn't get to him?"
"He wasn't under police protection."
"Do you know if Ms. Collins is licensed to carry a gun?"
He nods. "She is."
A quick change in attack. "How did you happen to be there when Ms. Collins showed up in the area behind Hinchcliffe Stadium?"
"We received some information linking her to the Dorsey murder. We initiated surveillance, and she led us to the stadium," he says.
I react as if surprised by his response, though of course I'm not. "Information from who?"
"It was a phone call from an anonymous informant."
I nod. "You testified earlier that you received information from an anonymous informant initially linking Oscar Garcia to the murder. Is there an 'anonymous informant fairy' looking down on this case?"
Dylan objects and Hatchet sustains; it's getting to be a pattern.
I rephrase. "Was the extent of your investigative efforts in this case to sit by the phone and wait for someone to anonymously call you?"
"It is not uncommon to get such information. People often know things, but don't want their identities to be known."
"And sometimes the information is right, and sometimes it's wrong?"
"Yes."
"Lieutenant Sabonis, did I ask you to go over Ms. Collins's internal police records before you testified today?"
"Yes. I did so."
"Thank you. Would you please tell the jury how many times the then-
Detective
Collins was found to have committed any form of police brutality?"
"None that I could see."
"Any times that she was accused but not found guilty?"
"No."
"Is there anything in her record that could in any way have predicted she could be capable of a brutal act like this murder?"
Sabonis looks at me evenly. He's pissed and he could waffle, but he doesn't. "No, there isn't."
I end the cross there, and Dylan tries to patch up the holes I punched. Afterward, we break for lunch, and Laurie, Kevin, and I are all feeling pretty good about the Sabonis testimony. We cast some significant doubt in an area where there should automatically already be doubt: the question of whether someone like Laurie could have committed such a horrendous act.
Kevin and I do some quick preparation for Dylan's next witness. It's the head of the police lab, Phyllis Daniels, who will be testifying to the DNA typing. She is our key to establishing doubt that the DNA evidence is reliable, and I think we've got a shot to do just that. Marcus, with some off-the-record help from Pete Stanton, has come up with some good information on lab practices to help me in that effort.
Twenty years ago, Phyllis Daniels was a police lab technician, not particularly accomplished, who had the foresight to recognize the incredible implications the infant science of DNA would have in forensics. She successfully set out to make herself an expert, thereby putting herself on the fast track, or at least the fastest track a scientist in the Paterson Police Department can be on.
I have come up against Phyllis on cases before. She can be long-winded and proud to show off her expertise, but her basic knowledge and honesty come through. In Dylan's hands she is an outstanding witness, leaving no doubt in anyone's mind that the DNA from the body absolutely matched the blood labeled as Dorsey's in the police lab. This testimony comes as no surprise, nor do I have any intention of challenging it.
"Ms. Daniels, you testified that Lieutenant Dorsey's blood sample was in room 21 of the police lab. How is that room guarded?"
"There is always a person sitting at a reception desk at the entrance to the room. Twenty-four hours a day."
"Is that person armed?"
"No, it is a civilian job. But everyone entering must sign in."
"If you know, is the evidence room entrance handled the same way?"
"No," she says. "The evidence room has an armed officer assigned to it."
"So an armed officer is considered more effective than a civilian sign-in monitor?"
"I would say so, yes."
"Who is allowed to enter room 21, after signing in?"
"Police officers who need to access material in the room."
"Thank you," I say. "Now, you testified that the DNA in the blood listed as Lieutenant Dorsey's matched that of the body in this case. Correct?"
"Yes."
"Allow me to present a hypothetical. If the blood in the lab had been changed or incorrectly marked--and in fact wasn't Lieutenant Dorsey's?--then the body also could not be his. Correct?"
"That's certainly correct. But I saw the vial myself when I ran the test."
I introduce a sign-in list from the lab into evidence and ask her to read a specific part of it. It shows that Alex Dorsey had entered the lab twice in the three weeks before his disappearance.
"It is not unusual for him to have been there," she says. "Officers enter all the time."
"If he entered for the purpose of substituting a different vial of blood for the one in his file, could he have done so?"
"I guess it's possible" is her grudging response.
"
Reasonable
to assume he could have?" I ask. It's a loaded word, since if I can establish reasonable doubt that the blood was Dorsey's, we're home free. How can Dylan prove Laurie murdered Dorsey if he can't even prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Dorsey's dead?
"I'm not sure I know the answer to that" is the closest she will come to a concession.
"What if you were to hear Lieutenant Dorsey's wife testify that he planned to fake his own death? Would that make it reasonable to believe he could have changed the blood?"
"I suppose that it would."
"Thank you. And just so we're clear: If that blood were changed, if it were not Dorsey's blood, then that would mean that the body was not Dorsey? Correct?" I'm repeating myself for effect.
"Yes."
I let her off the stand while barely stifling my desire to yell out "Game, set, and match." We have had a hugely successful day, and the evidence of that is etched on Dylan's face.
I stop outside long enough to conduct a mini-press conference, during which I allow myself some gloating. The questions demonstrate just how successful a day we have had, as the reporters want to know if I believe Hatchet will dismiss the charges once the prosecution rests. I don't believe that he will, but I certainly do nothing to discourage the speculation.
We have our evening meeting as usual, and I try my best to temper the group enthusiasm. Laurie and Kevin completely understand intellectually that we won a battle today but that victory in the war can only be declared by the jury. Nevertheless, we have become so used to depressing news that it is only natural we overreact on the positive side.
Laurie proposes a toast at dinner to her "wonderful attorneys," and since it is bad luck to refuse to toast an obvious truth, I join in. I throw in a toast to Barry Leiter, partially as a sobering device. Kevin is as happy as I've ever seen him, and it takes me a while to get them both to calm down so we can start planning for tomorrow's witnesses.
Just when I think I have them sufficiently wary and depressed over what lies ahead, Willie Miller shows up. He explains that he was going to call to find out if there's been any counteroffer on his case yet (there hasn't), but when he heard today's good news on the radio about the trial, he decided to come over. And with him is Cash, the Wonder Dog.
Cash goes everywhere with Willie, and Willie has determined that Cash is the smartest, most amazing dog in the history of the universe. Since it is a known fact that Tara is the smartest, most amazing dog in the history of the universe, I am aware that his claims are overblown, but I let him continue in his blissful ignorance. Besides, Cash is a pretty cool dog, and Tara seems to like him.
Unfortunately, Willie also brings along his infectious enthusiasm. Without the benefit of any knowledge at all, he confidently tells Laurie that she is just days from vindication. In the process, he pretty much eradicates my efforts to get the group back to thinking cautiously. Just when Laurie is about to bring out the party hats, I convince Willie to take Cash and Tara outside in the yard to play, so that we can get back to work inside.
Willie obliges, grabbing a couple of tennis balls and a Frisbee and leading the dogs out to the yard. Kevin and I get started on the files, but after a few minutes I see Laurie looking out the window and shaking her head in disapproval.
"Look what they're doing to my vegetables."
I sigh and go to the window. Cash is out near the back of the yard, digging furiously in Laurie's vegetable garden. I don't think it's such a big deal. "Looks like we're back to buying basil like the city folk," I say.
"Come on, Andy. I put a lot of work into that garden," Laurie complains.
I'm annoyed at the interruption, but I've got little choice but to deal with this vegetable crisis. I tell Kevin that I'll be right back, and go out to the yard.
As I exit the house, I'm surprised to see Willie coming toward me, looking uncharacteristically upset. He's holding on to Cash by the collar, and I can still see the dirt on Cash's nose from his digging.
"Andy," Willie says, "you'd better get your ass over here."
My initial instinct--make that panic--is that something has happened to Tara. But Willie turns and runs back to the garden, and Tara is standing there, looking none the worse for wear.
Willie points down to where Cash was digging, and I see why he is so upset. Something is buried there, in clear plastic and well preserved.
Alex Dorsey's head.
AS LONG AS
I LIVE, I WILL NEVER SEE AS DISGUSTING
a sight as that severed head in that plastic bag. I only look at it once, but it will forever be etched in my memory.
I turn and walk back to the house, asking Willie to stay by the garden and secure the area. I go in and tell Laurie and Kevin what I've seen, and we basically sit there speechless, waiting for Pete to show up.
Within five minutes, it is as if a police convention has convened on my lawn. Pete is there, as well as Nick Sabonis and just about every other cop of every rank in the department. Dylan shows up as well, acting as if he is in charge. His look is somber and serious, in an attempt to conceal his total glee at this turn of events.
I tell Nick what happened, truthfully disavowing any knowledge of how the head got there. I remember that Tara had barked out the window facing the garden a few nights before, and that might be when the head was buried. They don't believe me, and they don't even attempt to question Laurie, no doubt fully aware that I would not allow it.
The forensics people spend a couple of hours out there, and the detectives fan out to interview my neighbors. The head is actually taken away in an ambulance, though I think it's too late to save it. I can't speak for the EMS people, but I'm certainly not about to give it mouth-to-mouth.
Just before Nick leaves, he tells us that the coroner is going to be examining the severed head tonight, and Kevin goes down to the morgue to get the results of that examination. Once everyone is gone, Laurie and I stay up to wait for his call.
The call from Kevin comes in less than an hour. "We've got a problem," he says. "The official determination is that the head was from the body in the warehouse, and that obviously means the time of death is the same. He also says that the cut was made from the back, so the murderer probably snuck up on him."
That is all the information he has, and I ask very few questions. We are both aware that our case is in shambles. All our success so far has centered on creating a reasonable possibility that Dorsey's death was faked, that the body in the warehouse may not have been his. We staked our credibility with the jury on this, and the resulting loss of that credibility is devastating, and most likely impossible to recover from.
Just as bad is Laurie's claim that Dorsey called her, at a time long after he was dead, as has now been shown. The jury can logically conclude that she lied about this and can thus doubt anything else she or her lawyer has to say.
It is a disaster.
I tell Laurie what we've learned, and she receives the news quietly, almost with a sense of resignation. She's smart enough to know what it means to our case and to know what Dylan will do with the revelation.
It's only as we get into bed that she reveals what she's been thinking about. "Andy, why don't you ask me if I did it?"
"Laurie--," I begin, but she cuts me off.
"You say that everything in the case fits perfectly into our claim that I was framed. Wouldn't it fit even more perfectly if I actually did it?"
"Laurie, this is not a conversation worth having. We need to focus on what's important. I know that you didn't do it."
"How?" Her eyes are boring in on me like a laser beam.
I sigh, a tactic that turns out to be pitifully ineffective against laser beams.
"Andy," she presses, "how do you know I'm not guilty?"
"Because I know you."
She shakes her head. "Not good enough," she says. "I want to hear facts--facts that prove my innocence to you."
I'm not going to put her off, so I might as well play this out. "Okay. Did you send Stynes to hire me?"
I keep going before she can answer; the questions come out in a barrage, and there's no prosecutor to object. "Did you send yourself to find your own bloodstained clothes? Did you ask me to represent Garcia? Did you murder Barry Leiter? The damned facts are on your side, Laurie. I'm just the only one who knows them."
She's quiet for a moment, then says, "Thank you for that. We're going to be okay." She kisses me, rolls over, and goes to sleep.
Women.
I'm not as good at getting to sleep these days as I used to be, and this is a tougher night than most. Instead of counting sheep, I count evidence, and I apply my "nothing is coincidence theory" to the latest developments.
I had always wondered why someone would decapitate a victim and then bother to set the body on fire. In light of today's events, I can now make the assumption that it was done so that we would have reason to doubt that the body was Dorsey at all.
That might not have been accomplished by the decapitation alone, since there may well have been marks on the body capable of identifying Dorsey. Perhaps scars, perhaps a distinctive tattoo--
I jump out of bed, rush down to the office, and then rummage through the case files until I get to the Stynes file. I find what I'm looking for--the autopsy records. And, more important, the autopsy photographs.
The coroner had made reference to a tattoo on Stynes's body, and I look to see if I can find it on the photographs. Sure enough, there it is, on the upper right forearm, where the coroner said it was. Even with my magnifying glass, though, it's too small for me to make out details.
At a key moment in the Willie Miller case, I called upon Vince Sanders to utilize the sophisticated machinery at his newspaper to blow up a photograph so that I could read a license plate. He was a pain in the ass about it, and that was at six o'clock in the evening. This is two in the morning. I'm going to call him, but if he has the technology to murder me over the phone, he'll do it.
I call Vince at home, and he answers on the third ring. "What the hell do you want?" are the first words out of his mouth.
"How did you know it was me?" I say, though I realize he must have caller ID.
"Next question," he says dismissively.
"Would you meet me at the paper? I know it's late, but I need your help."
"Not as much help as you'd need if I met you at the paper," he snarls.
I play my only trump card. "Vince, it could be crucial to Laurie's defense."
"Twenty minutes," he says. "Take Market Street."
"Why?"
"When you get to the corner of Market and Madison, you'll know," he says, and then hangs up.
I quickly get dressed, leave a note for Laurie in case she should get up, and head for Vince's office. Since my life is important to me, I stop at the Dunkin' Donuts at the corner of Market and Madison. And since it should only be a twenty-minute meeting, I pick up six jelly and six glazed.
The fact that Vince is meeting me at this hour reflects his feelings about Laurie. Vince Sanders, Pete Stanton, Kevin Randall, Marcus Clark, Andy Carpenter ... we know who Laurie is and what she's about. And if we have any power at all, she's not about to spend a goddamn day in prison.
Vince stuffs a donut in his mouth, takes the picture, and brings it into a room filled with large machines and people to run them. Within a few minutes the job is apparently accomplished, and he brings the enlarged photograph over to me, laying it out on a table.
The tattoo on Stynes's arm is now at least three times the size of the entire original photograph. I'm not sure what I was hoping for, probably a name or something that could become a clue to his identity. It's still hard to make out, but it doesn't seem as if my hopes are realized.
"What the hell is that?" I ask.
Vince shakes his head in disgust. "What are you, one of those hippie, draft-dodging, limousine liberal, pinko, defeatist, chickenshit, pacifist bastards?"
I nod. "Pretty much ..."
"Those are crossed arrows. Your boy was Special Forces. Green Beret time."
This, if true, could be helpful. "Are you sure?"
Vince snorts and points to his right knee. "Of course, I'm sure. If I didn't have this trick knee, I would have been fighting commies right alongside him."
I point to his other knee. "I thought your left knee was the trick one."
He nods without embarrassment. "That's part of the trick."
I thank Vince, and in an uncharacteristically gracious gesture, he offers me a jelly donut on my way out. The bigger they are, the nicer they are.
I go home, grab three hours' sleep, and get up at six to call Kevin. I tell him that we need to find a way to track Stynes, or whatever his real name was, back through his army record.
"No problem," he says. "I'll call my brother-in-law."
It turns out that Kevin's brother-in-law is Lieutenant Colonel Franklin Prentice, stationed at Fort Jackson, South Carolina. Not only does Kevin get along great with him, but he has done him some legal favors in the past, which Lieutenant Colonel Prentice would love to reciprocate. It is a stroke of luck, the first that we have had on this case.
We agree that Kevin will spend the day following this lead and leaving the courtroom action in my so-far-incapable hands. And if there is a trial day to miss, this is as good as they come.
Dylan is emboldened by last night's news and loaded for bear. Before the jury comes in, he informs Hatchet of the developments and requests permission to revise both the witness list and the order in which they are called. He wants to make sure that the jury is immediately informed of the defense's disaster. I object, but I don't have a prayer of success, and Hatchet blows me away.
Dylan calls the first officer to arrive at my house last night, who describes what took place. The jury doesn't look terribly surprised, which is evidence that they have been ignoring Hatchet's repeated admonitions to avoid media coverage of the case. The discovery of Dorsey's head on my property was the lead story this morning.
Next up on Dylan's list is a neighbor of mine, Ron Shelby, who semireluctantly testifies that he had seen Laurie digging in the garden. I start off on cross by getting him to admit that he's only seen Laurie planting seeds, not heads.
Moving on, I ask, "Do you remember when you saw the defendant digging in the garden?"
He thinks for a moment. "I can't be sure. Maybe a couple of months ago. It's hard to remember. I mean, at the time it didn't seem unusual."
"Was it daytime?" I ask.
"Yes, absolutely. And I work during the week, so it had to be on a weekend." He's trying to be helpful.
"Was Ms. Collins acting secretive? Like she was hiding something?"
He shakes his head. "No, she waved to me, and then we talked a little."
"Was she behaving at all strangely? Did you sense anything was wrong?"
Shelby is picking up on where we're going. "No, sir. She was as nice as can be. She's a really nice person."
Dylan objects and Hatchet overrules. I conclude with a hypothetical. "Mr. Shelby, if you were trying to hide something very important, do you think you would do it in broad daylight on a weekend when everyone in the neighborhood could see you?"
Shelby allows as how that is not how he would behave at all, and I let him go. I made a little progress, which Dylan doesn't seem too concerned about, mainly because his next witness is the coroner, Dr. Tyler Lansing.
Dr. Lansing is approaching retirement age, which will conclude what can only be described as a thoroughly distinguished career. He has no doubt spent more time in courtrooms than I have, and if there is such a thing as a truly unflappable witness, he's the one.
Dylan takes him through his findings concerning the time of death and the likelihood that the severed head and the burned body are a match. He also brings out the fact that the murderer struck from behind, making it more credible to the jury that Laurie could have done it without having to overpower Dorsey in the first place.
Anybody in the courtroom with a brain knows that what he is testifying to is accurate and correct, and the jury would no doubt frown on anyone trying to get them to believe otherwise. Which is okay, because I'm not dumb enough to attempt it.
"Dr. Lansing," I begin, "you've testified that the head that was dug up last night was severed from its body almost three months ago."
He nods. "That is correct."
"Was the face recognizable as Alex Dorsey?"
"Yes, it was."
"Why had there been so little decomposition?"
"It was buried in an airtight plastic wrapping," he says.
"A plastic bag?"
"No, there was considerably more effort taken here. It was a thick plastic that was stapled and sealed at the edges."
"So the purpose of that effort would have been to prevent decomposition? To preserve the head?"
Dylan objects. "Your Honor, the witness cannot possibly be expected to know the murderer's purpose in doing this."
"Sustained," says Hatchet.
I try again. "Are you aware of any effect the plastic wrapping would have other than preservation?"
He shrugs. "It would keep it clean."
"Would all of this keep it recognizable?"
"Yes. Certainly."
"So let me sum up, and tell me if you agree. The murderer decapitated, and burned the body, which had the effect of leaving the identity in some question. Then the murderer wrapped the head in airtight plastic, thereby preserving the identity. Is that fair?"
"Yes."
"And the body was left in a place that could not be tied to the defendant, but the head was left in a place that could directly be tied to her?"
Dylan objects, saying that this is beyond the scope of the coroner's expertise. Hatchet sustains, but my point has been made. Even so, I try to drive it home.
"Dr. Lansing, how well did you know Ms. Collins when she was with the police force?"
"Reasonably well, I would say."
"Seem like a good cop? An intelligent cop?"
He nods. "In my dealings with her, yes."
"Assuming she has a normal amount of common sense and a good knowledge of police procedures, wouldn't you say that the prosecution's theory as to her actions would make her self-destructive and stupid?"
Dylan objects, but Hatchet lets him answer. "It would seem so. On the other hand, though this is not my area of expertise, I would say that some people who commit terrible crimes want to be caught and punished."