“Which window did you look through?” I ask. “The driver’s side or passenger side?”
“Passenger side.”
I show him a picture of the car parked in front of the house. The driver’s side is toward the driveway entrance, and the passenger side is facing the house.
“So you pulled up, saw this suspiciously parked truck, but didn’t look in the window closest to you. Instead you walked around to the other side? Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“What were you looking for?”
“Anything relevant to my investigation,” he says.
“You mean like a clue or something? Do quickly parked trucks usually contain clues?”
“I was looking for anything relevant to my investigation,” he repeats.
“And you saw what looked like blood to you,” I say.
“It was blood,” he says with the confidence of twenty-twenty hindsight.
“Dr. Peters characterized the blood on the seat as ‘specks.’ Would you agree with that?”
He shrugs. “It was enough for me to know what it was.”
“You know blood when you see it?”
“I do. I unfortunately see a lot of it in my line of work.”
I nod and walk over to the defense table. Calvin hands me a sixteen-by-twenty-four-inch manila envelope. I ask if we can approach the bench, and when Lester and I are out of earshot of the witness and everyone else, I take out a small poster board and tell the judge what it represents. I further state that Dr. Peters prepared this for us yesterday and gave us a document swearing that it is as represented.
Lester objects to my using the exhibit, but the judge correctly overrules him and allows me to show it to the jury and then Parsons. “Lieutenant Parsons, as you can see, there are four red stains, identified as A through D, on this board. I’m sure you’ll agree that they are all larger than specks.”
Parsons doesn’t say anything, which is fine, since I haven’t asked a question. “As an expert in blood identification, perhaps you can tell us which of these are bloodstains.”
Lester objects again, but the judge again overrules him. Parsons seems disconcerted by the exercise and looks upward, complaining that “this isn’t the best lighting.”
I nod. “You mean compared to a dark driveway at ten o’clock at night, looking through a quickly parked car window? Those are better conditions?”
Finally, reluctantly, he points to C. “That appears to be a bloodstain.”
I nod and hand a document to Parsons. “You’ve chosen the stain labeled ‘C.’ Please read from Dr. Peters’s sworn statement and tell the jury what C actually is.”
Parsons looks at the document and says softly, “It’s melted red licorice scraped on the surface.” There are a few snickers in the gallery, and Judge Morrison gavels them away, but they heighten the effect.
I wasn’t worried that Parsons would correctly identify a bloodstain, because none of them were blood. To Parsons I say, “I take it you’re not also an expert on licorice identification? You haven’t unfortunately seen a lot of licorice in your line of work?”
Lester objects and Judge Morrison strongly admonishes me. He’s coming to the unhappy realization that Hatchet’s characterization of me as a wiseass was all too accurate.
I continue. “So you make the decision that because of these specks that looked like blood in the truck, and because the truck was ‘quickly’ parked at an angle, you couldn’t wait for a search warrant. You had to rush in.”
He nods. “Right. I thought someone inside could be bleeding or otherwise in danger.”
“Yes. You testified that a dangerous criminal could conceivably have been inside, holding the young women, or even Mr. Davidson, hostage.”
“That’s correct.”
“Doesn’t proper procedure call for you to wait for backup in such a situation? Unless there is obvious and imminent grave danger to someone?”
“Yes, but-”
I interrupt. “But you couldn’t wait. Not with all that blood or licorice in the car.”
Again Lester objects, and this time Judge Morrison issues what he says will be his final warning. Parsons is handling this ridicule pretty well, remaining calm and relatively impassive.
“It was a decision I made in the moment,” he says. “Under the same circumstances I would make it again.”
“And you would be violating the law again, Lieutenant. Because this was clearly a case in which you should have first obtained a search warrant. You knew this, and yet you chose not to do so.”
Lester stands. “Your Honor, counsel is making an argument under the guise of direct examination.”
He’s right about that, so I turn instead to the judge and move that all evidence found after the unlawful search of the truck be stricken. The judge says that we should continue this hearing and that a separate hearing will be necessary to decide the search warrant issue, which is an unpleasant surprise for Lester.
I let Parsons off the stand, having badly embarrassed him, and in the process I’ve made an impact on the media. But little has really been accomplished legally, and the search warrant hearing will go nowhere.
Lester wraps up his case, and Judge Morrison correctly rules that the prosecution has met its burden and that Jeremy will be held over for trial. A trial in which Lester will hold all the cards.
• • • • •
I AM FINDING it simply impossible to avoid bratwurst. It is everywhere, prepared in all different styles. Not only do I not want to eat it, I don’t want to see it or hear about it. But there it is… everywhere.
What marketing genius came up with the name “bratwurst”? Did they think they could make a food sound more appealing and appetizing by including “wurst” in the name? I’m sure there must have been a reason they did it; maybe “bratshit” was already taken.
And what exactly is a brat? Where are they found? All everybody talks about around here is hunting; maybe I could get in good with the local citizens by grabbing a gun and going out and shooting me a bagful of brats.
Calvin inhales a plate of it at the diner, while I have a tuna salad sandwich. We take the opportunity to discuss the best way to divvy up our responsibilities. Calvin suggests that he continue to interview classmates of Jeremy and Elizabeth at the university, a logical plan considering my performance in the dormitory. He will also do additional research into the Centurion religion, something he and everyone else in Findlay know amazingly little about, considering how close by it is.
My short-term efforts will be directed toward learning what I can about Elizabeth’s and Sheryl’s lives within Center City and what effect their religion had on events as they unfolded.
When I get back to the house, I start by placing a call to Elizabeth’s mother, Jane Barlow, and the phone is answered by a female who sounds like a teenager.
“Jane Barlow, please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“My name is Andy Carpenter.”
I hear some muffled whispering, as if the person has her hand over the receiver while she talks to someone. After a short while she comes back on the line. “What’s this about?”
“I’m the attorney representing Jeremy Davidson.”
“Hold on,” she says, after which there is another long pause, with muffled talking.
Finally, an adult woman’s voice comes on. “This is Jane Barlow.”
“Mrs. Barlow, my name is Andy Carpenter. I’d like to come out there and speak to you about your daughter, if I may.”
There is a pause of maybe fifteen seconds. If you don’t think that’s a long time, look at your watch and hold your breath. “Oh,” she finally says, a comment not necessarily worth waiting for.
“Would that be all right?” I ask.
Another pause, just as long. In the background I can hear the teenager urging, “Talk to him, Mom.” But when Jane finally speaks to me, she says, “I don’t think so.”