“Regular patrol,” he says.
“So you weren’t looking for this specific car? This make and model?”
“No.”
“So it was the way it was left in the woods, the way it was abandoned, that attracted you to it?”
“Right,” he says. “It was unusual for a car to be partway into the woods like that.”
“Almost as if it were meant to attract attention in the way it was positioned?”
Dylan objects that Clayton could not possibly know the intent of the person who left the car there. Harrison sustains, but I’m starting to make my point.
“Would you say there was a significant amount of blood,” I ask, “or just some small specks?”
“I would say a decent amount, certainly not just specks.”
I nod. “And you testified you saw it immediately and that as soon as you saw it, you were positive what it was?”
“Yes.”
“Were there wipe marks? As if somebody had tried to clean it up?”
“I didn’t see any,” he says.
“Patrolman, let me ask you a hypothetical question. If that were your car, and you had murdered someone, would you have done a better job hiding it? Would you have cleaned up the blood?”
Dylan objects, but Harrison lets Clayton answer. “I guess I would have, sir. But I wouldn’t murder anyone.”
I accept that and move on. I get Clayton to describe where the car was on the highway, then ask, “And where was the taxi stand?”
“Taxi stand?”
“Right. Because if the defendant left his car there, he couldn’t walk home, could he?”
“Well…”
“Are you aware of any theory of an accomplice, someone who drove Mr. Schilling home after he carefully hid the car?”
Dylan objects that this is out of the witness’s area, and I don’t push it. Clayton responds to another question by saying that there is a rest area with a telephone a half mile away. I don’t ask if there is any record of that phone calling a taxi company, because Dylan would object again. I know from the discovery that two such calls were made during the days when the car might have been left, but they were both by women, so Kenny is in the clear on that.
I let Clayton off the stand, satisfied that I’ve done as much damage as I could, but I’m all too aware that Dylan’s big guns are still loaded and ready to fire.
Next up for Dylan is Dr. Janet Sheridan, the lab director who did the DNA tests on the blood in Kenny’s car. I know from the reports that the results are conclusive, that it is without question Preston’s blood.
Dylan takes three hours to get Janet to say this in as many ways as she knows how. Her conclusion is that the chance of its not being Preston’s blood is one in two point five quadrillion, or something like that.
My cross-examination is quick and to the point. “Dr. Sheridan, how did Mr. Preston’s blood get in the car?”
“I’m afraid I have no idea. That’s not within the scope of my work.”
I nod. “Sorry. Who was driving the car when it was left where it was found?”
Dylan objects, but Harrison lets her say she doesn’t know this either.
“So if I were to say that someone other than Mr. Schilling took his car, murdered Mr. Preston, and then left the car with the blood in it, is there anything in your test results that would prove me wrong?”
“Not in these results, no.”
“Thank you.”
Kevin and I go back to the office. Adam is there working, and I realize that he wasn’t in court today, though he had said he would be. Maybe the studio is pressing him for what he calls a first draft, but that’s the furthest thing from my mind at the moment.
Adam stops what he’s doing to listen to Kevin and me dissect the day in court. Kevin is a very good barometer of the trends in a trial, and he thinks we did okay, but not great. He’s quick to say that there was no way we could have done great, but it’s not necessary because I wasn’t insulted. He’s absolutely right: Dylan had the upper hand.
After about a half hour of this, Adam rather tentatively asks a question. “Let me ask you guys something. Forgetting people you’ve met while practicing criminal law… I’m talking about in your personal lives… how many people your age… friends… do you know that have died in the last ten years?”
“One” is my answer, thinking of Susan Goodman, a girl I went to high school with who was hit by a car about two years ago.
“Two,” says Kevin. “Why?”
“I’ve checked out maybe a hundred and twenty people identified as friends or acquaintances of Kenny’s. Eight-all males-have died in the last seven years. None were over twenty-five years old.”
* * * * *
I DON’T BELIEVE in coincidences. Never have, never will. It’s not that I don’t think they can happen, and it’s certainly not that I think everything that happens is by a grand design. I’ve just found that it’s always best to assume apparently related events have a logical reason for being, and there is nothing logical about coincidence.
Eight friends of Kenny’s dying before the age of twenty-five: I don’t know what the actuarial tables would say, but the odds against that must be off the charts. And these are young people, mostly athletes, in the prime of their lives. This is very scary stuff.
We have got to get into this in detail right away. Adam does not yet know the particulars of the deaths, nor does he have any indication there was foul play. Who knows, there could have been a leukemia cluster, in which case it will turn out to be a false alarm for our case. He also does not know the specifics of the connections between Kenny and the deceased, or the connections, if any, between the unfortunate young men themselves.
If these deaths are suspicious, related, or in any way tied to Kenny, we’re in deep trouble, and our Quintana theory is most likely out the window. But we’re a long way from determining any of that, and my hope and expectation is that when we find out what we need to know, the problem will go away.
In any event, we have a lot to learn, and we damn well better learn it before Dylan does. Kevin and I are not going to be of much help, and Laurie’s busy on a million other things, so I decide to let Adam do much of the legwork, since he seems good at it and that legwork can be done on a computer and telephone.
Adam is eager to dig into it, and I’m confident he can get it done. The truth is, he showed a really good instinct in picking up on this situation in the first place; someone else could easily have missed it or not thought it represented a problem.
“Let Sam Willis help you on this,” I say. “He can find out things on a computer in ten minutes that could take you ten weeks to track down.”
“Great,” says Adam.
“And from now on you’re really going on the payroll, with an investigator’s pay. You’re not just hanging around anymore.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “The top actors and directors are going to be fighting over this one. Besides, this is really cool. I’m glad I can help, and I’m enjoying myself.”
That makes one of us.
I go home, take Tara for a walk, and then call Laurie. Tonight’s not one of our sleepover nights, but I want to talk to her about Adam’s discovery. I would do so even if she were not involved in the case, even if she were a pharmacist, ballet dancer, or software designer. When something important happens, good, bad, or confusing, it’s comforting to talk to her. And I’ve got nobody to back her up in this area, no real bench strength, so if she bails out, I’ll be talking to myself. That would be another hell of a loss.
Laurie’s reaction to the news mirrors my own, viewing this as a potentially ominous development and unwilling to chalk it up to coincidence. “Do you need to share this with the judge and Dylan?” she asks.