Guilt

'Yes.'

'Commonly? Wait, please. Before you answer that, how many blood tests did you do?'

'Well, we did I guess six or seven hundred blood tests every week or so.'

'A hundred a day?'

'Roughly. That's about right.'

'And how often did a sample of blood get mislabeled, or misplaced, or lost, on average, in the twelve years you worked at the hospital?'

'Objection, your honor. The defendant's doctor didn't work at this hospital.'

Glitsky had the impression that Farrell had been hoping that Jenkins would say this very thing. 'Well, your honor, that's exactly the point. We intend to show that the blood could have come from any one of a number of places.'

Thomasino's brows went up and down. 'Overruled. Proceed.'

The question clearly made Ms Mendoza uncomfortable. It wasn't a piece of information the public would feel very good about. In fact, while she'd been working at the hospital, she would not have answered any questions about lost blood – both because she would not have wanted to, and because she would have been ordered not to.

But Farrell's investigator had found her in August and convinced her that her expertise in this area could save the life of an innocent man. 'I'd say we'd lose one or two a week.'

'A week!' Farrell, who of course already knew the answer, feigned shock. 'One or two a week?'

'Sometimes more, sometimes less.'

'And this lost blood, where does it go?'

Mendoza allowed herself a small smile. 'If we knew that, Mr Farrell, it wouldn't be lost now, would it?'

All agreement, Farrell stepped closer to her. 'Now in your own personal experience, Ms Mendoza, did you ever have a lab technician drop a vial of blood and not report it?'

'Yes.'

'And why was that?'

'They didn't want to get in trouble, so they said they just never got the blood to do the tests on in the first place.'

'And are you personally familiar with a case like this?'

'Yes.'

'Could you explain it a little more fully?'

'One of my people did exactly what I just described, and I didn't report it, which was why I was let go.'

This wasn't a point to press, and Farrell moved along. 'Ms Mendoza, about how many blood labs are there in the city?'

'Big labs, there's about eight or nine. Smaller labs, doctors' offices, mobile units, blood banks… there are probably hundreds, I don't know exactly.'

'Certainly more than fifty?'

'Yes.'

'And in your experience, was there ever a problem with lost blood at any of these facilities? In transit, to and from doctors' offices, something like that?'

Ms Mendoza didn't like it, but she knew what she knew.'Most of the blood, there's never a problem,' she said.

'I realize that. But sometimes…?'

'Of course. Sure.'

The blood testimony continued to build relentlessly, doubly damning, Glitsky thought, because there really wasn't much Amanda Jenkins could do on cross-examination. Doctors and technicians from County General, St Luke's, the Masonic Blood Bank and several other locations all came to the stand and testified for ten minutes each, all essentially saying the same thing: blood got lost all the time. It was possible – maybe not probable, and perhaps difficult, but certainly possible – for a person to pick up a vial of blood and walk out of a facility with it.

The worst moment from Glitsky's perspective came at the very end of the day when Farrell called a Sergeant Eames from Park station. It was always unnerving when the defense called a law-enforcement person to testify. For the past six years, Eames had worked on cases involving voodoo, santeria, and Satanic worship, all of which used blood from a variety of sources in their rituals. Eames was of the opinion that any cop in the city who wanted to get his hands on samples of human blood would have to look no further than the evidence locker of any district station on a typical Saturday night.

CHAPTER FOURTY ONE

Jim Flaherty was alone in his Spartan bedroom. He sat at his desk, intending to put the finishing touches on his yearly Christmas sermon and then – on this blessedly unbooked Thursday evening – he was going to get to sleep before midnight.

But first he'd tune into the ten o'clock news, where he was heartened by the analysis of the events of the trial. Wes Farrell's parade of defense witnesses had demolished any lingering doubt about its outcome. Mark wasn't going to get convicted – the prosecution's case was in rags.

Flaherty told himself that he'd never really entertained the notion that Mark had killed Sheila, but the blood had come close to shaking his faith. Now, though, it looked as though Farrell had put his finger into that potential hole in the dike, and what Mark had contended all along was true. The blood could have come from anywhere and the missing blood from his own doctor's office had been a terrible coincidence.

It was critical that Flaherty be clear on this score. Farrell had asked him to be ready to testify about Mark's character beginning as early as tomorrow.

He opened his desk drawer and pulled out the sheaf of looseleaf papers.

And there was a knock on his door.

He loathed interruptions in his bedroom – it was the only truly private place he had, the only personal time he ever got. But everyone on the staff here at the rectory knew that and protected his privacy, so this must be important.

Father Herman, his major domo, stood in the hallway in the at-ease position, and behind him, hands clasped in front of him, was Eugene Gorman, pastor of St Emydius. Seeing him, Flaherty's stomach tightened, and he put his hand over it.

Herman was trying to explain that he had asked Father Gorman to wait downstairs and he'd send the Archbishop down to see him in the study, but…

'That's all right, Father. This is an old friend. You want to come in here, Gene? I don't have anything but hard chairs to sit on.'

When the door closed behind them, Flaherty walked across the room and sat on his desk. Gorman stood awkwardly and finally, looking behind him, sat down on the Archbishop's bed. 'I'm sorry to bother you. I wouldn't have if this weren't an emergency.'

'It's all right,' Flaherty began, 'we're-'

But Gorman cut him off. 'I have been examining my conscience now for months, and I don't know what else to do. I need for you to hear my Confession.'

Flaherty cocked his head at the man across from him. He seemed to have aged five years since they'd last spoken in May or June.

The light was dim. A crucifix, the only ornament in the room, hung over Flaherty's bed.

Gorman's eyes were tortured, pleading.

The Archbishop nodded once, boosted himself off the desk, and crossed to the bed. He put his hand behind Gorman's head and stood like that for a moment.

Then he went over to his dresser and picked up his stole – the sacramental cloth. Draping it over his shoulders, he returned to the bed, and sat down next to Gorman, making the sign of the cross.

Gorman began. 'Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I am living in a state of mortal sin, in despair.'

'God will give you grace, Gene. He won't abandon you.'

But Gorman didn't seem to hear. He continued. 'I am tormented by guilty knowledge and bound by the seal of the confessional. It's destroying me, Jim… I can't function.'

Flaherty began to offer his counsel to Gorman. This was one of the heaviest burdens of the priesthood – penitents had terrible secrets they needed to confess…

Gorman couldn't hold it in any longer. 'This was murder, Jim. Literal murder.'