Dark Justice (37 page)

Ben frowned. “Yes?”

“Since you aren’t into the really tough stuff yet, I wondered if I could have your permission—”

“I’m not Christina’s mother,” Ben snapped.

“No, but—”

“She’s a grown-up. She can do whatever she wants.”

“Well, sure. I just—” Allen shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot. “You know, I never actually asked you about this business.”

“What business?”

“Me and Christina. Going out and all.”

“I told you before. We’re just friends and coworkers.”

“Well, yeah. I know that’s what you said. But sometimes, what a man says, and what he feels …” He took a deep breath. “This is damned awkward. But look, if I’m stepping on your toes—”

“It’s a free country. You do whatever you like. If you want to take her to dinner, take her to dinner.”

“Well … good. That’s fine. But I was hoping that maybe after dinner …”

Ben stopped short. “
After
dinner?”

Allen almost blushed. “Well, you know. We have been seeing each other for a good while now. I thought maybe she’d like to come back to my place and—”

“Christina has work to do.”

“Oh. Well, sure … But I thought you said—”

“If you don’t mind, I’m very busy.”

Sheriff Allen frowned, then shuffled off toward the door to talk to one of his deputies.

Ben closed his eyes. What was with him, anyway? He was behaving like a fool and he knew it. It was Christina’s life and Christina’s business. The smartest thing he could do was just butt out.

But somehow he didn’t want to butt out.

So what did he want? That was the $64,000 question, the question that so far he didn’t seem able to answer.

But it was becoming abundantly clear that if he didn’t answer it soon, it might be too late.

The television sparked to life. An eerie blue glow bathed the darkened room. And the VCR began to play.

After the tape was over, Sasquatch had to laugh. So much worry, so much concern. Desperation, even. And when it was all over, the tape didn’t show a damn thing. It was too dark, too blurry. The image was herky-jerky and then it was gone altogether, when that damn reporter started running. After that, all you could see was dirt and grass.

It couldn’t possibly be used to identify the person in the Sasquatch suit. Even Sasquatch’s mother couldn’t tell who was on that tape.

All that anguish had been for nothing.

Well, at least the worry had been eliminated. This tape couldn’t be used by anyone. Sasquatch was safe again.

Too bad about the woman. But the error had been made, and that woman understood its significance. Now there was nothing left to worry about. Except …

The early word from the courthouse was that the defense lawyer was doing a damn sight better than anyone expected. Worse, that he was investigating, trying to figure out what
really
happened.

Sasquatch turned off the television set. That lawyer couldn’t be permitted to ruin everything, just when it was starting to come together, just when it was beginning to look as though the worries had ended.

And if Sasquatch had to intervene to make sure that lawyer didn’t screw up the works, then so be it. Sledgehammers and spikes were in abundant supply, and there was a tree in the forest just his size.

I
T SEEMED AS IF
Granny was in no hurry at all. Like a seasoned veteran, she had enough confidence in her case to wade methodically through the critical elements of a prima facie case, systematically including both the monumental and the minutiae, without worrying about losing the jury’s interest. And Ben knew her confidence in the jury was not misplaced. She had baited them more than adequately during her opening statement. They would wait patiently until she had something exciting for them.

So she matter-of-factly dedicated the next morning of trial to forensic evidence. She called two more deputies from the sheriff’s office, principally to talk about the procedures and cautions taken at the crime scene. Then she called two forensic technicians to discuss how the evidence at the crime scene was collected, how it was handled, how it was preserved. She was careful at all points to establish the chain of custody for each bit of evidence, trying to leave Ben no opening for questioning the purity of the evidence on cross.

The only remotely interesting bit of testimony came late in the morning, when Granny called Deputy Goldsmith to the stand. Goldsmith had first reported to the crime scene, then was instructed by Sheriff Allen to join him on an expedition to the Green Rage camp.

“First I went back to town and woke up the judge,” Goldsmith said, glancing up at Pickens. “Then I got a search warrant. Then me and Sheriff Allen and two of the boys drove out to the Green Rage camp. Luckily, we’d had a report from some campers that gave us a good idea where the camp was that night. Even so, it took us a good half hour of driving around before we found it. When we finally did, we woke everybody up and started asking questions.”

“Did you learn anything of interest?” Granny asked.

“Not from them. They didn’t know anything about it. Or so they said.”

“Did you conduct a search?”

“Definitely. We went through all their tents, all their papers and equipment.”

“Did you find anything?”

“Yes, ma’am. The Bigfoot suit.”

Granny brought out the costume, wrapped in clear polyethylene, and went through the rigmarole necessary to have it admitted into evidence.

“Deputy Goldsmith,” Granny continued, “why was this Halloween costume of interest to you?”

“We’d been having a large number of Bigfoot sightings in the last few months prior to the murder. We always get some of that, but this was way above average. So we knew that either there really was a Bigfoot or someone was running around in a costume. And the latter seemed more likely.”

“Does this have anything to do with the murder of Dwayne Gardiner?” Granny asked innocently.

Ben frowned. As if she didn’t know.

“We thought so. See, the tough thing about that murder was trying to figure out who would be running around in the forest at that time of night. But we had three reports of Bigfoot sightings in the area that night, ranging from about a quarter after twelve until about one-thirty. Campers think they see things, then call us on their cellular phones. Anyway, those calls suggested that someone in the Bigfoot getup was awake and in the area—at exactly the time the murder took place.”

“So you thought whoever was wearing the costume would be a murder suspect.”

“Yeah. Particularly since the last report said that Bigfoot was running at full speed. Like maybe he was chasing someone.”

Chasing someone? Ben thought. He couldn’t chase Gardiner, not after the explosion. Was there a third person at the crime scene?

Come to think of it, Deputy Wagner had said the anonymous call about the murder had come from a woman.

Could it have been Tess? Could she have been there, at the crime scene? That would explain a great deal.

“I think we can all understand now why you were so interested in the suit, Deputy Goldsmith. Would you now please tell the jury where you found it?”

“Certainly. The suit was in the tent belonging to the defendant. George Zakin.”

There was an audible gasp in the courtroom. Ben didn’t know why—did they really think Granny would be bringing this up if the suit had been in someone else’s tent? Nonetheless, the jurors’ eyes all moved, if only briefly, toward Zak. And the expressions on their faces were not kind ones.

“Did he share the tent with anyone else?”

“Nope. It was his and his alone.”

“Thank you, deputy. No more questions.”

Ben didn’t even bother cross-examining. There was nothing to be gained. He didn’t believe Goldsmith was lying, and like it or not, the suit had been in Zak’s tent. That was just an unfortunate bit of evidence they were going to have to live with.

Next up, Granny called a fingerprint expert to the stand, a Michael Hightower. Hightower had found a latent thumbprint on a piece of metal plating, possibly part of the bomb casing. Evidently the metal had been thrown clear in the explosion and thus remained largely intact, preserving the print.

Which matched Zak’s right thumbprint. Perfectly. Unquestionably.

Granny finished the morning by calling her next forensic expert to the stand. Mark Austin specialized in footprints, and as the jury soon learned, he had taken several from the crime scene, particularly from the area surrounding the corpse. Many, he explained, could be dismissed as having come from members of the sheriff’s office or other investigators. But one set of prints could not. He had made plaster casts, which Granny had admitted into evidence and displayed to the jury.

Those prints were size elevens—the same size that George Zakin wore.

This time around, Ben definitely saw a reason to cross-examine.

“Mr. Austin, did you conduct an analysis of the tread left by these footprints?”

Austin, a short, prim man wearing a suit coat and bow tie, straightened. “Unfortunately, the ground was relatively dry the night of the murder. The print left did not have sufficient depth or distinction to identify the tread. So trying to trace the prints to a particular shoe was out of the question. What we could see was the broad outline of the print—that is, what size it was.”

“Mr. Austin, before this thing gets too far out of control, let’s be clear on just what exactly you’re saying. You’re not saying that George Zakin left those footprints, are you?”

“Well …”

“What you’re saying is that someone—you don’t know who—left those footprints.”

“And whoever it was wore a size eleven. As does George Zakin.”

“That’s correct. And there are a whole heck of a lot of people who wear a size eleven, aren’t there?”

“No doubt.” Austin adjusted his bow tie. “But only one of them is on trial for murder.”

“Mr. Austin, aren’t the police supposed to use evidence to find the culprit, instead of picking a culprit and then finding evidence that fits?”

“Objection,” Granny said. “Mr. Kincaid is way out of line. Again.”

Judge Pickens made an unhappy grunting noise. “Kincaid, you almost got to spend last night in jail. Let’s not go down that road again, all right?”

“Yes, your honor,” Ben said placidly.

“And you may consider that your absolutely last warning.”

Right, right. Bully. “Let me ask you a different question, Mr. Austin. How many people were at that crime scene?”

Austin shook his head. “Quite a few. Twenty or so, I would guess.”

“And every one of them left footprints, right?”

“No doubt.”

“Some of them, like Deputy Wagner, probably left a lot of footprints.”

“Yes.” Austin grinned. This was obviously a topic he had been prepared for. “But none of them wears a size eleven.”

“Oh? And how do you know that?”

“Because I checked every single one of them.”

Oh. Damn. “And none of them wore a size eleven?”

“None of them.”

“You checked everyone who was at the crime scene?”

“Every single one.”

His smug smile was almost more than Ben could bear. “And you’re sure no one wore a size eleven.”

“Right.”

“Not a single person at the crime scene.”

“Not a one.”

“And you’re sure of this?”

Austin drummed his fingers on the witness chair. “Absolutely sure.”

All at once, Ben lurched forward, grabbed Austin’s right shoe, and yanked it off his foot.

Austin rose. “What in the name of …!”

Judge Pickens pounded his gavel. “Kincaid! Have you totally taken leave of your senses?”

“Not totally,” Ben answered. He turned the shoe around so Judge Pickens could see inside the opening. “Size eleven.”

Austin froze.

“Permission to publish this shoe to the jury, your honor?”

Pickens responded with a grumpy wave of the hand.

Ben tossed the shoe to the female juror on the end of the first row and turned back to the witness. “Mr. Austin, it seems there was someone at the crime scene wearing size elevens after all.”

Austin’s mouth began to work, but not much sound was coming out. “I … never thought …”

“About yourself, right? You thought to check everyone but yourself.”

“I guess.”

“And of course you left footprints at the crime scene, didn’t you? You didn’t fly in?”

Austin frowned. “No. I walked from the car to the crime scene.”

“So you must have left footprints.”

His head fell. “So I must have left footprints.”

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate your honesty.” He started back to defendant’s table.

“My pleasure,” Austin said, as if acid were dripping from his tongue. “May I have my shoe back now?”

B
EN STAYED IN THE COURTROOM
during the lunch hour and reviewed his notes. Maybe it was overkill, but he had never cross-exed anyone like this next witness before and he didn’t know what to expect. Best to be as prepared as possible.

At one-thirty, the bailiff escorted the jury back into the courtroom and Judge Pickens reconvened the trial. Granny called her next witness.

“The State calls Dr. Richard A. Grayson to the stand.”

The bailiff stepped out of the courtroom and called for Grayson, who was standing just outside the door. He was a middle-aged man, probably thirty or forty pounds overweight. He was bald, but compensated for it with an exceptionally bushy beard. He walked like a man altogether at ease with himself, one hundred percent confident, not a worry in the world.

Granny took him through the painstaking process of establishing his background and expertise. Dr. Grayson was a dentist who had an office in the suburbs of San Francisco, was a graduate of UCLA, and was a member of several medical and dental professional associations. But part of his office was devoted not to private practice but to research.

“What is the nature of your research?” Granny asked.

“I’ve spent the last eighteen years investigating ways to make trace injuries more apparent.”

“Can you tell us what you mean by trace injuries?”