Haviland looked at the judge. “Permission to approach the witness, Your Honor?”
“Granted.”
Haviland handed McBride a paper-clipped sheaf of papers. “This document is presented to the record as Exhibit A1. Officer, can you identify the document for the court?”
“This is the evidence register for December third.”
“Is this the same record you reviewed in preparation for the trial?”
“Yes.”
“Could you please summarize the entry for the court?”
“It says that a Glock 46 nine millimeter with black polymer grips and a scratched barrel was confiscated from the Kelley residence at three PM.” McBride flipped through the pages. “There are photographs of both sides of the weapon.”
“Do you receive many weapons?”
“Quite a few,” McBride said.
“How could you be sure that a particular weapon was the one received from the Kelley residence?”
“The weapon is tagged with the evidence ID number and stored in a secure compartment. Anyone removing or returning it must sign in and out under the supervision of an evidence clerk, who also signs his or her name.”
“Is that record part of the documentation in front of you?” Haviland asked.
“It is.”
“Did anyone sign this weapon in or out on December third or fourth?”
“I signed the weapon in for the first time on December third, once I received it from Officer Carter, then I signed it out again on December fourth.”
“And why did you sign it out?”
“Our office received a bulletin that the New Jersey State Police wanted Jacob Kelley in relation to a gunshot murder.”
“And when you signed it out, what did you do?”
“I called Jersey to let them know, and then I personally walked the weapon over to ballistics to get it test-fired.”
“Why did you do that?”
McBride smiled ruefully. “Well, I walked it over myself because I wanted to get some credit for making the connection. They can compare the bullet they test-fire to the slug they retrieve from the crime scene, see, and they can tell if it was fired by the same weapon.”
Haviland lifted a plastic-wrapped handgun, and I recognized the Glock. “The prosecution would like to enter Exhibit A2 into evidence. Permission to approach?”
The judge nodded.
“Officer McBride,” Haviland continued, “is this the firearm you brought to ballistics?”
McBride examined it carefully. “Yes, it is.”
“And did you establish that it was the murder weapon?”
“Yes, sir. We test-fired it in our forensics lab, and we were able to match the rifling marks under a comparison microscope.” He turned toward the jury. “Rifling marks on a bullet are left by the barrel of the firearm. Each one is unique, like a fingerprint. Two bullets fired from the same firearm will leave the same marks.”
“So the gun that the police found in Jacob Kelley’s possession on December third at Mr. Kelley’s house was the same gun that was used to kill Brian Vanderhall?”
“Absolutely.”
“Could there have been a mistake? Could this gun have gotten mixed up with a different one?”
McBride looked affronted. “This is my job,” he said. “This is what I do every day. The chain of evidence is properly documented, and the firearm was under the proper security from the moment it was received. There is no doubt whatsoever.”
Haviland produced another plastic bag, entered it into the record, and showed it to McBride. “Can you tell us what this is, Officer?”
“Those are Mr. Kelley’s shoes, recovered by Officer Carter when he arrested Mr. Kelley and submitted to me at the same time as the firearm.”
“Can you tell us what you found on the shoes?” Haviland asked.
“The soles of the shoes were covered in human blood,” McBride said.
“And did you work with the New Jersey State Police in relation to this evidence as well?”
“Yes. They sent us images of the footprints they found at the murder scene, which we were able to match with these shoes. Also, DNA analysis of the blood confirmed that it was Brian Vanderhall’s.”
“Was there any other analysis performed on evidence taken when Mr. Kelley was arrested?” Haviland asked.
“Yes, we did a GSR test on Mr. Kelley’s hands,” McBride said. He turned toward the jury again, and it was clear that he had explained this to juries many times in thirty-seven years. “GSR stands for gunshot residue, the small, burnt particulates which fly out of a firearm when it’s discharged and stick to surrounding objects within three to five feet away. The closer an object is to the firearm, the greater the residue. A shooter will have a high concentration on his hand and sleeve, as well as smaller amounts on his face and clothing.
“When a suspected shooter is arrested, the arresting officer uses a kit with small adhesive-coated metal discs. He presses one of the discs to each of the suspect’s hands and seals the discs in a labeled plastic tube that comes in the kit. Back at the lab, we remove the discs and examine the particulates under a scanning electron microscope.”
“And when you examined the discs collected from Mr. Kelley?” Haviland asked.
“We discovered large concentrations of lead, barium, and antimony on both hands, consistent with firearm discharge,” McBride said.
“Could those particulates have gotten on his hands just by standing in the room when the gun was fired?”
“No. The concentrations were too large. Mr. Kelley held and discharged a firearm, probably several times.”
Haviland bowed his head slightly. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
CHAPTER 13
We tore across the bridge into Pennsylvania. I blew a dozen street lights getting to Media, with one hand on the wheel and the other calling Elena’s number over and over again, but getting no answer. I swerved into my driveway, hardly slowing down. The front door was standing open. Heart hammering, I tumbled out of the car and raced inside, knowing before I got there that we were too late.
I saw Elena immediately. She lay crumpled just inside the door, eyes staring at the ceiling. She wore her brown suede coat, as if she had been about to leave the house. Her purse was still over her shoulder, and her keys lay on the floor not far from her outstretched hand.
I bellowed and threw myself on her and clutched at her hair. She had beautiful hair, full and black and slightly curled. A scream was sounding in my head, a long, drawn-out, high-pitched noise like boiling water, that drove away thought and reason. I started to shake her. I had to wake her up. I had her by the shoulders, and I realized that the high-pitched noise was actually coming out of my mouth while I yanked her up and down.
Strong hands closed around my wrists. I tried to fight, but Marek pulled me up away from her, and I let him do it.
“She was coming to see me,” I said. “She was coming to New Jersey to be with me.” The realization that Elena was not the only person who lived here suddenly penetrated the fog of my brain. Where were my children?
We searched the house, the choking dread thick in my throat. I thought I might throw up. It felt wrong to just leave Elena lying in the entryway. My brain started manufacturing reasons why I needed to stay downstairs, or even leave the house, rather than search from room to room for my kids.
I found Claire in our bedroom, sitting up against a pile of pillows. The stream was still projecting, a show about the real-life exploits of a famous actress, but I barely noticed it. Her face was a twisted into an expression of terror, as if she had seen her death coming just before it arrived.
I heard Marek call my name and followed his voice into Sean’s room. There was Sean, on the floor next to a half-finished Lego spaceship, his longer arm bent awkwardly under him. Hundreds of Lego blocks surrounded him, like a shroud draped across the carpet, and I had a quick memory flash of helping him build a miniature Lego version of the NJSC.