Move to Strike (23 page)

‘This going somewhere, Frank?' asked Joe, knowing exactly what Frank was doing – retrieving some ridiculously obscure fact from his ‘encyclopedia of trivia' mind so as to ease the anxiety and bide the time until the
autopsy notes from the ME's office and those all-important forensic and physical evidence reports from their own Crime Lab Unit finally came in.

Frank's ponderings drove Joe crazy, but he also knew that at the basis of every odd anecdote and sweeping generalisation there was always a message, an understanding, an ounce of wisdom that, more often than not, Joe found strangely comforting.

‘That twenty grand,' Joe went on. ‘Are you suggesting it is a bargain, or a rip-off or . . . ?'

‘Not sure, Chief,' said Frank, and Joe wondered if there
was
a point to this one after all. ‘But they showed a picture of the mask – which Cheevers refuses to sell, by the way, given it has pride of place on his grandson's bedroom wall – and by the time Cheevers retired it was covered in these stitches, see, like the puck had found every available place to smack one on his kisser.'

‘Then I guess he was lucky he wore that mask, Frank.'

‘Sure,' said Frank, who was now dropping the fourth satchel of sugar into his extra milky coffee. ‘And even luckier that as an NHL goalie, the mask did not look crazy out of place.'

Joe nodded, thinking that he finally knew where this one might be going.

‘The thing is, Chief,' Frank went on, ‘that unlike hockey goalies, for most people – people like Jeffrey Logan, say – the masks they wear cannot be so obvious. Oh, they're there all right, covering their real faces which are scheming and plotting underneath the façade, but the good news is, because their masks are invisible they leave themselves vulnerable to . . .'

‘A potential smack in the kisser,' finished Joe.

‘As long as someone is clever enough to find his mark.'

Joe nodded as they sat in silence for a while.

‘Think we can do that, Frank?' Joe asked after a time.

‘I think the bastard is so arrogant that there's a chance he won't see us coming.'

‘Then I have tabs on the slapshot that nails him, Frank.'

‘Unless I smack the punk first.'

Seconds later, Joe saw Dan Martinelli enter from the far end of the room.
Martinelli was the head of Boston PD's Crime Lab Unit and one of the most respected forensics experts in the city. Joe knew for a fact that head-hunters for the FBI's famous lab in Quantico had tried to poach him several times, but Martinelli was as loyal as he was talented, and for that, Joe was grateful.

‘Hey,' said Joe, rising from his desk to greet the short, stocky Italian–American.

‘Chief,' said Martinelli. ‘Frank,' he added, as he entered the office proper and shook Frank's hand. ‘Well, here it is,' he said, holding up the report and cutting straight to the chase. ‘The detail is in the paperwork but if you want a quick run-down I'd be happy to . . .'

‘Please,' said Joe, signalling for Martinelli to take a seat. ‘Tell us what you got?'

And the answer was – a lot. Martinelli started with the BPA or bloodstain pattern analysis.

‘All in all we studied three major types of bloodstains,' Martinelli began. ‘Passive – meaning the blood that had dripped on the floor underneath the victim, transferred – referring to the stains incurred when one bloody surface came in contact with a secondary surface, and projected – referring to the bloodstains created when the victim was subjected to the force of the rifle's ammunition.'

That was Martinelli
, thought Joe,
Mr Efficiency to a T
.

‘DNA tests on the passive stains confirmed them as blood belonging to the victim – type O negative with stain patterns consistent with drainage from the open gunshot wound. Basically Ms Tyler's entire blood volume – about four litres or so – exited the body via the nine-inch wide exit hole, which is not unusual given her mediastinum or central chest cavity, which carries all the major blood vessels, was virtually destroyed by the path of the bullet.

‘Transferred stains were minimal, but we did find some on Doctor Jeffrey Logan's shirt and upper trousers, indicating they were a result of contact with another item of fabric. The pattern suggests that some of the stains on the original fabric had not yet dried and as such were transferred onto the secondary fabric.'

‘The original fabric being J.T. Logan's T-shirt,' interrupted Frank.

‘Exactly,' confirmed Martinelli. ‘At some point the father must have
come in contact with the boy, perhaps grabbed him and pulled him from the room.'

Joe nodded, knowing Martinelli was confirming everything they originally assumed.

‘As for those projected stains . . .' Martinelli took a breath as if this part of the report was the most difficult to communicate. ‘Obviously, given the nature of the weapon used, our analysis shows they were HVIS or high velocity impact spatter.'

Joe and Frank knew that, contrary to what the name suggested, low, medium and high impact spatter do not refer to the velocity of the blood droplets as they flew through the air, but to the amount of energy transferred onto the blood to create the stains. In other words, Martinelli was confirming that the myriad of stains across the kitchen behind Stephanie Logan and the lesser degree of spatter in front of her – on J.T.'s shirt, the kitchen table, chairs and so forth – were the result of an extremely fast and powerful force impacting on the victim, in this case a bullet travelling at 2650 feet per second and generating nearly 8100 foot-pounds of energy.

‘The stains behind the victim were extensive, the result of the “explosive” nature of the weaponry which produced a one-inch wound on entry and a nine-inch exit wound at the rear.

‘The spatter patterns in front of the victim were much smaller – around a millimetre in diameter, giving them that mist-like appearance,' Martinelli went on. ‘They were mostly tear-shaped, which helped us determine the point of origin and angle of impact.'

Once again Joe and Frank referred to their knowledge of blood spatter flight characteristics. Most people didn't realise that even in flight, blood maintains a spherical shape – a result of surface tension which binds the molecules together. And so, the tear shapes created on impact helped forensic experts to calculate exactly the angle at which the force was released – in this case, the position, height and angle of the gun as it released the bullet that entered Stephanie Tyler in the middle of her chest.

‘Basically,' Martinelli went on, ‘we measured the length and width of the ellipse-shaped stains using viewing loops and BPA software. The point of convergence was already known considering the scrape marks made by
Ms Tyler's chair on the tiled kitchen floor, so that gave us a free ride on determining exactly where the weapon was placed and the angle at which it was directed.'

‘Which was?' asked Joe, knowing Martinelli would confirm it came from the area just inside the kitchen door where J.T. Logan had allegedly entered the room to shoot his mother from point-blank range.

‘A foot inside the kitchen door from a height of five feet three inches above floor level at a downward angle of thirty degrees.'

Joe nodded. ‘And the singe marks on the kid's T-shirt?' he asked.

‘Consistent with the marks that would be produced when firing a high-powered rifle loaded with .460 Weatherbies from the right shoulder.'

Joe stole a glance at Frank. There was no point in bringing up the lack of J.T.'s shoulder markings given Martinelli's job was purely to report what he had found – not analyse what he hadn't.

‘And the residue?' Joe continued.

‘Trace elements on the T-shirt, but not on the boy's hands. The residue on the shirt suggests the sleeves were in immediate contact with the gun, which isn't such a stretch considering the sleeves were way too long for the kid in the first place.'

Joe looked at Frank once again – this was all going exactly to play. ‘Anything else?' he asked.

‘That's pretty much it – all the data is in here,' Martinelli said, throwing Joe the report. ‘The house was full of prints but most of them belonged to the family. There was some blood spatter but no prints on the gun-bar the single pointer finger on the trigger – which means the kid probably wiped it after taking it from the cabinet and again after shooting his mom. The absence of excessive prints can be explained by the fact he was wearing that oversized T-shirt. He could have kept his hands inside the sleeves, which would also explain the residue findings on said shirt.

‘Ballistics confirmed the bullet in a tree in the rear of the victim's backyard was the same one fired from the rifle – which means it travelled a good fifty feet through human flesh and a double brick wall before it came to rest in a particularly sturdy oak.'

There was silence, as this fact alone gave them cause to pause.

‘Gus' report should take care of all the other stuff,' finished Martinelli,
referring to Boston Medical Examiner Gus Svenson's impending autopsy report. ‘He'll have results on the victim's toxicology, biopsies, blood tests and basically give confirmation of the cause of death.'

‘One of Gus' easier conundrums,' commented Frank.

‘If it walks like a duck, and talks like a duck . . .' said Martinelli as he stood to leave.

‘Thanks, Dan,' said Joe.

‘No need to thank me, Joe, it's you poor suckers I feel sorry for now. You get to distribute this info to the masses and watch them feed on it for the next three months.' And Martinelli shook his head as Joe walked him towards the door.

‘FYI, ADA Carmichael called about an hour ago,' Martinelli added. ‘Wants this info ASAP,' he said, pointing to the report in Joe's hand. ‘Told me to keep my day free – expects to get a grand jury hearing some time this afternoon.'

Amanda Carmichael – Joe was still seriously pissed at the grandstanding ADA for her performance at Monday's arraignment. Even if she was right about J.T. Logan being the shooter, the fact that she used Joe – and Frank – to score herself some early points in front of the judge had not gone down well with either detective. While the cops were there to help the DA's Office build cases again offenders, the DA's Office usually reciprocated by discussing the appropriate course of action. It was a matter of respect. But Amanda Carmichael had jumped the gun and held her own personal advancement party without giving Joe or Frank as much as a heads up – and it was not something Joe would forget.

And so, given Carmichael's obvious desire for speedy justice, it was no surprise she had gone directly to Martinelli for his help in securing a grand jury indictment. Truth be told, she probably would not need Joe's testimony in any case, considering the irrefutable evidence in the forensics analysis report. Today was a little earlier than Joe had expected, but once again, it did not surprise him. The woman was on the fast track to personal glory; she'd have her precious indictment before the day was out and with it the official go-ahead to take this case to trial – in an adult court, with a guaranteed audience of millions.

‘One thing's for sure, I'm gonna think twice before I rag on my teenage
kids again,' said Martinelli. Dan Martinelli, like Joe, was a father to four boys – three of whom were now in their teens.

‘Nine times outta ten it's the lack of raggin' that gets you into trouble, Dan,' said Joe, slapping Martinelli on the shoulder as they reached the door.

‘You're right,' said Martinelli. ‘But there's always that exception to the rule, isn't there? God save us all.'

‘W
hat's wrong, Mother?' asked the boy, his mouth slightly agape, his large brown eyes widening like two round orbs of innocence. ‘Who was that on the phone? You seem . . . upset?'

‘I . . .' his mother began. But the rage she had felt mere seconds before was already surrendering to the more powerful emotion of fear. Her thirteen-year-old son had her in the palm of his hand. He controlled her every emotion and response. And he knew it
.

‘It's your father. He's sick,' she said, unable to hold his gaze. And she knew he took this as a sign of her acquiescence, her inability to hold her ground
.

‘What's wrong with him?' the boy asked – his permanent accessory slung over his shoulder, the rifle sitting silent and ominous, immediately within his reach
.

‘He collapsed. They called an ambulance. He was rushed to the ER. They had to pump his stomach. They said it was something called “Warfarin”. Said it is an anti-cogalient . . .'

‘Anticoagulant,' corrected the boy, but the mother chose to ignore him
.

‘Said if they had not stopped him from ingesting it that his brain would have haemorrhaged and his blood wouldn't have been able to clot and . . .'

‘Warfarin . . . ?' said the boy, a look of pure curiosity on his face
.

‘Rat poison,' said the mother through gritted teeth
.

The boy lifted a finger as if to say, ‘
Well now, that's where I've read that chemical name before!
'

‘He collapsed in the middle of that job interview,' she said, her breath catching as she felt the anger rise once again. ‘The one he'd been counting on to help us pay the . . .'

‘The one he got all dressed up for this morning?' asked the boy, a look of mock pity on his perfectly formed face. ‘In that ugly old grey suit?'

‘Yes,' she said, and she could feel the sweat sting at her underarms, as her heart raced and her stomach knotted and her eyes began to swim with tears. ‘The man who was interviewing him called 911, told the paramedics he suspected he was on drugs.'