It was him. He had been there.
After what seemed an eternity, the horrible laughter faded, replaced by a voice that was both threatening and merry.
“Sick heart,” the voice said over and over again. “Sick heart. Sick heart. Sick heart.”
Chapter 48
AFTER A LONG AND mostly sleepless night, Ben dragged himself back into the courtroom. The scene was much as it had been the day before. Reporters and sightseers crowded the aisles and offered their opinions to anyone who would listen. There were several familiar faces in the courtroom, and several city council members, including Whitman.
Despite her traumatic experience the day before, Cynthia Taylor was back, sitting silently in one of the front rows where the jury couldn’t miss her, where she had undoubtedly been strategically placed by the prosecution. There were several other people he couldn’t identify but recognized from the day before; the fact that they seemed to have reserved seats told Ben they must have some importance. Potential witnesses, perhaps, or maybe writers taking notes for their forthcoming best-sellers.
Wallace Barrett was already in his seat at the defendant’s table, with three men from the sheriff’s office standing discreetly in the background. Ben slid into the chair beside him.
“How’re you holding up?”
Barrett shrugged. “Doing the best I can. Under the circumstances.”
Ben nodded. If he thought he was having a bad time, imagine what it must be like for the man on trial.
Barrett coughed once, then spoke. “It’s … not going too well, is it?”
Ben hesitated before answering. He made it a policy to tell his clients the truth, no matter how grim it looked. But he knew Barrett needed some sort of boost if he was going to get through another day like the last. “It always looks dismal when the prosecution is putting on their case. Our prospects will improve once we get our turn at bat.” Ben smiled and tried to sound convincing. “You’ll see.”
Barrett gave Ben a quick nod. He probably didn’t believe it, but it was a nice thought, anyway.
Barrett’s eyes turned toward the jury box. The jury was filing in, taking their seats. As they did every day, they gazed across the courtroom and looked into the defendant’s eyes, trying to see what there was to see. Barrett met their eyes, giving them a practiced smile and a look of total confidence. Ben just hoped it was enough.
Ben pulled his notebook out of his briefcase and prepared for the day’s trial. Despite his wretched night, he felt much sounder than he had the day before. It always took at least a day before he found his footing in the courtroom. At least. Surely the worst of the prosecution’s case was over. It had been tough, but they’d survived. Now, Ben felt like he was ready for anything.
He was wrong.
“The State calls Lieutenant Michaelangelo Morelli to the stand.”
Ben’s eyes went wide as cantaloupes. Mike?
Sure enough, Mike pushed himself out of his seat in the back of the courtroom, shrugged off his trenchcoat, and pushed his way into the aisle. He was wearing a suit and tie, a phenomenon Ben didn’t think he’d observed since Mike’s wedding.
This had to be some last-minute decision. When he had last talked to Mike, he hadn’t said anything about testifying, and Ben felt certain he would have if he’d known. It must’ve been a recent decision by Bullock, probably made last night as the prosecution forces evaluated the first day’s trial. But why?
He watched as Mike trudged up to the witness stand and took the oath. He didn’t look at all pleased about being there. That, at least, gave Ben some small measure of comfort.
Mike introduced himself and briefly outlined his position, his duties, and his years of service leading to his current position as one of the chief homicide detectives on the Tulsa police force.
If anything, Bullock seemed even more confident than usual. Perhaps the delight of putting a close personal friend of the defense counsel on the witness stand was giving him an extra charge. “Lieutenant Morelli, did you have any connection with the investigation of the murder of Caroline Barrett and her two children?”
“Yes I did.”
“What exactly was your role?”
“I was the homicide officer assigned to the crime scene.”
“What are your duties as homicide officer at the crime scene?”
“Basically, to take charge and secure the area, protect the integrity of the evidence, and collect whatever clues or witnesses we could find.”
“And did you perform these duties?”
“I did. To the best of my ability.”
Wait a minute, Ben thought. Aren’t we leaving out a few steps here? He began scribbling notes furiously on the left side of his legal pad.
“What did you do when you arrived at the crime scene?”
“I cordoned off the area and posted a sentry to ensure that no unauthorized personnel were allowed inside the house. Entrance was restricted to those who had to be inside and could follow evidence purity procedures.”
“I see. Then what did you do?”
“We laid butcher paper down on the floor to cover the main walkways and to protect any evidence that might be there.”
“I see. And after that?”
“Then I allowed in members of the police staff who were trained to gather evidence. First, the photographers and videographers, so they could make a record of the scene of the crime exactly as it appeared when I arrived. Then we sent in representatives from the hair and fiber department. Then the blood specialists. And finally, the DNA experts.”
Ben stared deeply into his friend’s eyes. Granted, a general sense of unease was part of Mike’s makeup on a day-to-day basis. But this time there was something more. He simply did not want to be here. There had to be some reason.
“Please explain to the jury what the photographers do.”
“They make a visual record of the crime scene. Principally, the three corpses, although in this case I had every square inch of the house photographed.”
“Why did you do that?”
“Well, given the nature of the case and the … er …” Ben watched Mike squirm for the right word. “Well, since there were no eyewitnesses and the crime involved prominent members of the city, I thought it best to take every possible precaution.”
“I see. What does the hair and fiber team do?”
“They look for trace evidence. Hairs, obviously, bits of clothing, fabric. Anything that might help identify the perpetrator.”
“Were they successful in finding any such trace evidence?”
“Sure, lots of it.”
“Any fibers that matched clothes belonging to the defendant?”
“Of course. Lots. He did live there, after all.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Bullock’s thin smile could’ve cut glass. “Just answer the questions, if you would.”
Mike almost grinned. “Whatever you say.”
“Tell us about the blood team. What did they do?”
“They searched and scraped for traces of blood. All over the house, but particularly near the bodies.”
“Lieutenant, I won’t ask you about their results, because we’ll have a member of that team testify shortly. But let me ask you this. Had you allowed any disturbance of the crime scene before or during the blood team’s sampling?”
At last Ben saw the light. That was why Bullock had dragged Mike to the stand. He was laying the foundation for the credibility and purity of the forensic evidence yet to come. The lab experts wouldn’t be able to fend off Ben’s questions about chain of custody. So Bullock was using Mike to establish it in advance.
“No,” Mike answered. “I made sure all blood splatters, drops, and traces were undisturbed from the moment I arrived until well after the blood team had completed their work.”