The trial resumed at nine-thirty, Thursday morning. Sitting in court between Klaus and Stefan, Nina remained uncertain about how to approach the cross-examination, so followed Detective Banta’s testimony like any jury member hearing it for the first time.
Banta had added a pink sweater to peek coyly out from underneath her jacket today, and those high-heeled boots would never catch a fleeing suspect. Her laid-back delivery had the jury riding happily along with her.
By ten-thirty Jaime had led Banta to a discussion about the human remains in the duffel bag.
After a few introductory questions, Banta testified that before transporting the bones to the morgue early Sunday morning, she had taken advantage of having Constantin Zhukovsky’s son at the Monterey Police Station and had shown him the duffel. Alex Zhukovsky told her that the remains were those of his father, whom he recognized due to an item of clothing that was still identifiable, a yellow sash he had worn diagonally over his jacket, made of a tough synthetic fabric that had mostly survived its long burial.
“I got Mr. Zhukovsky a glass of water-and he asked me, ‘Where’s his medal? It was pinned to that sash.’ Remembering the metal object we had taken from the defendant, I showed it to Mr. Zhukovsky. He told me it was some sort of military medal from Russia. He told me his father was buried wearing it in 1978.”
“About what time was this?”
“Almost nine-thirty in the morning by then. I then explained about the other body found in the grave. We hadn’t identified it, and I thought it would be worth describing the victim. He became-I would describe him as extremely concerned-and pulled out a cell phone and tried to make a call, but couldn’t get an answer. He demanded to see the body, so I called Dr. Misumi and she said to bring him over to the morgue with the duffel and the remains. She met us and Mr. Zhukovsky at the door. The victim was lying on a gurney covered with a sheet. When he saw the victim uncovered, Mr. Zhukovsky became very agitated.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“He fell on the body and sort of lay across it, sobbing, yelling. Doc Misumi and I had to pull him off.”
“And did he identify the body at that time?”
“Yes, sir. He stated it was his sister, Christina Zhukovsky.” Giving everyone time to get that clear, she looked around, then continued. “I took a statement from him. Is that in evidence yet?”
Jaime took a moment to catch up and introduced Alex Zhukovsky’s statement into evidence, as well as a number of photographs and police reports. He handed the photos of Christina Zhukovsky’s body and the crime scene to Madeleine Frey, who passed them around. Frey seemed to be having trouble this morning. She kept rubbing her leg and shifting around in her seat.
A few of the male jurors stared hard at the photos but showed no visible reaction. One of them, a construction contractor named Larry Santa Ana, took his time. He couldn’t get enough of them and passed them along reluctantly. For good or ill, he was one to watch.
A set of the photos lay in front of Klaus on the table. He ignored them. Stefan took his lead and didn’t look, either, but Nina was drawn again to Christina’s face in one of the photos, a proud face even in vulnerable death, with a strong nose and broad forehead, bluish eyelids finally closed on the morgue gurney. Her neck showed obvious signs of strangulation. You didn’t need a pathologist to figure out what had happened to her.
Nina consulted Klaus’s notes. Jaime had one more subject to cover, the introduction of the blood evidence into the case. He shimmied step-by-step through the material exactly as though directed and choreographed by the notes Klaus had given her.
“Did Mr. Zhukovsky provide you with information relating to the residence of the victim?”
“He gave us her address, and he gave us his copy of her key. She lived on the top floor in a condo on Eighth Street in Monterey.”
“What happened then?”
“I took a statement from Mr. Zhukovsky. Then Officer Martinez and I proceeded to the victim’s apartment.”
“What time was this?”
Detective Banta didn’t need to consult her report. “Sunday morning at eleven-forty-five A.M. Her home was only a couple of miles from the station, near Monterey Peninsula College. It’s a four-unit complex. We went up to the third floor, which was entirely taken up by her unit. We knocked and received no answer, and there was no manager on the premises, so we went in.”
Nina scratched her chin and thought, Legal issue: illegal entry? Again, Klaus hadn’t raised this possibility. She scrolled through the details. The cops were investigating a fresh homicide; they had been given a key by the nearest relative; they needed to enter in case another victim was inside, or maybe a killer, or maybe fresh evidence.
Not a prayer on this one. Klaus had called it right. She kept her mouth shut.
Nothing broke open for her in the next few minutes of testimony. Jaime took Banta through the forensics report. She had supervised the fingerprinting and collection of samples.
Banta reported on the fingerprints without expressing the disappointment she no doubt felt. None matched Stefan’s; that was the point Nina would return to on cross-exam. Many could not be identified.
Photos of Christina’s apartment now being passed around the jury were snapshots from the life of a cultured woman who sometimes entertained lavishly. Her large, country-style kitchen gleamed with every kind of copper pot and pan. Her dining room table was-had been; the condo had been sold a month before-a long slab of pine ten feet long, incongruously covered with a white Battenburg lace tablecloth. Her taste in art had run to the Russian avant-garde: Liubov Popova, Tatlin, Malevich. The brightly hued blocks of color in the lithographs were precisely offset by the traditional black Bechstein piano that took up one side of the living room.
Christina had been an intense, intelligent person, Nina decided. A cautious person, with two sets of bolts on the door to keep herself safe. Yet this smart lady had let in-no doubt about it; the door had been unlocked from the inside-her killer.
She had kept a crowbar leaning against the wall by the headboard of her bed. She hadn’t had time to get it and use it. Nina knew about those bedside bats, golf clubs, rebar pieces, makeshift weapons kept just in case, in the homes of women living alone. Long before, her own father had given her a shillelagh, a knobbed club of Irish origin and real heft. She had brought it with her from Tahoe and currently kept it tucked within reach under her bed at Aunt Helen’s.
Maybe she should keep it by the front door.
Jaime moved on to the collection of glass and blood at Christina’s Eighth Street apartment.
Banta testified that, although an effort had been made to sweep up, preliminary tests showed the presence of blood in the kitchen. Several tiny broken pieces of glass had been found on the kitchen floor. They fell around a central point of impact-a bar stool pulled up to the central island. A few slivers were found on the broom, and one had also stuck to the dustpan found in the pantry with the broom, although that had probably been washed.
Pay dirt had been struck in the kitchen trash can: the rest of the glass pieces. Nina had a point to make about that, but she decided to save her questions for the forensic technician who would be coming after Banta.
Banta went on in her relaxed, matter-of-fact voice. The glass came from a set of small Czech tumblers found in the kitchen. Traces of cognac from the bottle of Courvoisier V.S.O.P. found on the kitchen counter could be identified on the broken glass in the trash. DNA testing had picked up Christina’s saliva.
And no one else’s.
Christina had been drinking, but her killer hadn’t. Had the killer turned down an offer? Or had she been drinking to buck herself up and not felt friendly enough to offer the same person she had just let into her place late at night a drink?