“Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat” is the machine-gun sound he makes, a sentiment I fully agree with.
I steal a quick glance at Laurie as I walk toward Parsons. He works for her, and she will not be happy if I damage his credibility. But it’s something I have to do; it’s why they’re paying me the little bucks.
The only issue that holds any real promise for our defense is that Parsons failed to get a search warrant before checking out the truck and house. If it could be determined that he acted improperly, then all evidence discovered in those searches would be thrown out. It won’t happen, but it’s all we have to shoot for.
Lester has already had Parsons explain why he did not get a search warrant, but I plan to take him through it again. “Lieutenant, you testified that when you arrived at Mr. Davidson’s house, the truck parked in front attracted your attention.”
“Yes, it was parked at a strange angle, as if it had been left quickly.”
“I’m not from around here, but is ‘quick parking’ a felony in Wisconsin?”
Lester objects and Judge Morrison sustains, casting a warning stare in my direction.
“So you thought this was suspicious enough to look into the truck?”
He nods. “I did. Two young women were missing.”
“And had been missing for twenty-four hours.” I point this out in an effort to show that if Jeremy had indeed been worried about how he quickly parked, or about bloodstains on the seat, he would have had plenty of time to remedy the situation. The truth is, I questioned Jeremy on this, and he said he had not used the vehicle in those previous twenty-four hours.
Parsons has a ready answer. “That doesn’t mean the truck was there that long. For all I knew, it could have just gotten back to the house.”
“Which window did you look through?” I ask. “The driver’s side or passenger side?”
“Passenger side.”
I show him a picture of the car parked in front of the house. The driver’s side is toward the driveway entrance, and the passenger side is facing the house.
“So you pulled up, saw this suspiciously parked truck, but didn’t look in the window closest to you. Instead you walked around to the other side? Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“What were you looking for?”
“Anything relevant to my investigation,” he says.
“You mean like a clue or something? Do quickly parked trucks usually contain clues?”
“I was looking for anything relevant to my investigation,” he repeats.
“And you saw what looked like blood to you,” I say.
“It was blood,” he says with the confidence of twenty-twenty hindsight.
“Dr. Peters characterized the blood on the seat as ‘specks.’ Would you agree with that?”
He shrugs. “It was enough for me to know what it was.”
“You know blood when you see it?”
“I do. I unfortunately see a lot of it in my line of work.”
I nod and walk over to the defense table. Calvin hands me a sixteen-by-twenty-four-inch manila envelope. I ask if we can approach the bench, and when Lester and I are out of earshot of the witness and everyone else, I take out a small poster board and tell the judge what it represents. I further state that Dr. Peters prepared this for us yesterday and gave us a document swearing that it is as represented.
Lester objects to my using the exhibit, but the judge correctly overrules him and allows me to show it to the jury and then Parsons. “Lieutenant Parsons, as you can see, there are four red stains, identified as A through D, on this board. I’m sure you’ll agree that they are all larger than specks.”
Parsons doesn’t say anything, which is fine, since I haven’t asked a question. “As an expert in blood identification, perhaps you can tell us which of these are bloodstains.”
Lester objects again, but the judge again overrules him. Parsons seems disconcerted by the exercise and looks upward, complaining that “this isn’t the best lighting.”
I nod. “You mean compared to a dark driveway at ten o’clock at night, looking through a quickly parked car window? Those are better conditions?”
Finally, reluctantly, he points to C. “That appears to be a bloodstain.”
I nod and hand a document to Parsons. “You’ve chosen the stain labeled ‘C.’ Please read from Dr. Peters’s sworn statement and tell the jury what C actually is.”
Parsons looks at the document and says softly, “It’s melted red licorice scraped on the surface.” There are a few snickers in the gallery, and Judge Morrison gavels them away, but they heighten the effect.
I wasn’t worried that Parsons would correctly identify a bloodstain, because none of them were blood. To Parsons I say, “I take it you’re not also an expert on licorice identification? You haven’t unfortunately seen a lot of licorice in your line of work?”
Lester objects and Judge Morrison strongly admonishes me. He’s coming to the unhappy realization that Hatchet’s characterization of me as a wiseass was all too accurate.
I continue. “So you make the decision that because of these specks that looked like blood in the truck, and because the truck was ‘quickly’ parked at an angle, you couldn’t wait for a search warrant. You had to rush in.”
He nods. “Right. I thought someone inside could be bleeding or otherwise in danger.”
“Yes. You testified that a dangerous criminal could conceivably have been inside, holding the young women, or even Mr. Davidson, hostage.”
“That’s correct.”
“Doesn’t proper procedure call for you to wait for backup in such a situation? Unless there is obvious and imminent grave danger to someone?”
“Yes, but—”
I interrupt. “But you couldn’t wait. Not with all that blood or licorice in the car.”
Again Lester objects, and this time Judge Morrison issues what he says will be his final warning. Parsons is handling this ridicule pretty well, remaining calm and relatively impassive.
“It was a decision I made in the moment,” he says. “Under the same circumstances I would make it again.”
“And you would be violating the law again, Lieutenant. Because this was clearly a case in which you should have first obtained a search warrant. You knew this, and yet you chose not to do so.”
Lester stands. “Your Honor, counsel is making an argument under the guise of direct examination.”
He’s right about that, so I turn instead to the judge and move that all evidence found after the unlawful search of the truck be stricken. The judge says that we should continue this hearing and that a separate hearing will be necessary to decide the search warrant issue, which is an unpleasant surprise for Lester.
I let Parsons off the stand, having badly embarrassed him, and in the process I’ve made an impact on the media. But little has really been accomplished legally, and the search warrant hearing will go nowhere.
Lester wraps up his case, and Judge Morrison correctly rules that the prosecution has met its burden and that Jeremy will be held over for trial. A trial in which Lester will hold all the cards.
• • • • •
I
AM FINDING
it simply impossible to avoid bratwurst. It is everywhere, prepared in all different styles. Not only do I not want to eat it, I don’t want to see it or hear about it. But there it is… everywhere.
What marketing genius came up with the name “bratwurst”? Did they think they could make a food sound more appealing and appetizing by including “wurst” in the name? I’m sure there must have been a reason they did it; maybe “bratshit” was already taken.
And what exactly is a brat? Where are they found? All everybody talks about around here is hunting; maybe I could get in good with the local citizens by grabbing a gun and going out and shooting me a bagful of brats.
Calvin inhales a plate of it at the diner, while I have a tuna salad sandwich. We take the opportunity to discuss the best way to divvy up our responsibilities. Calvin suggests that he continue to interview classmates of Jeremy and Elizabeth at the university, a logical plan considering my performance in the dormitory. He will also do additional research into the Centurion religion, something he and everyone else in Findlay know amazingly little about, considering how close by it is.
My short-term efforts will be directed toward learning what I can about Elizabeth’s and Sheryl’s lives within Center City and what effect their religion had on events as they unfolded.
When I get back to the house, I start by placing a call to Elizabeth’s mother, Jane Barlow, and the phone is answered by a female who sounds like a teenager.
“Jane Barlow, please.”
“Who’s calling?”
“My name is Andy Carpenter.”
I hear some muffled whispering, as if the person has her hand over the receiver while she talks to someone. After a short while she comes back on the line. “What’s this about?”
“I’m the attorney representing Jeremy Davidson.”
“Hold on,” she says, after which there is another long pause, with muffled talking.
Finally, an adult woman’s voice comes on. “This is Jane Barlow.”
“Mrs. Barlow, my name is Andy Carpenter. I’d like to come out there and speak to you about your daughter, if I may.”
There is a pause of maybe fifteen seconds. If you don’t think that’s a long time, look at your watch and hold your breath. “Oh,” she finally says, a comment not necessarily worth waiting for.
“Would that be all right?” I ask.
Another pause, just as long. In the background I can hear the teenager urging, “Talk to him, Mom.” But when Jane finally speaks to me, she says, “I don’t think so.”
“I won’t take much of your time, and it might help us find out who killed Elizabeth and Sheryl Hendricks. I think that is something everyone wants.”
Another lengthy pause; if I were charging by the hour, Richard Davidson would be getting a mortgage right now. “I’m sorry, I have nothing to say to you, Mr. Carpenter.”
Click.
This isn’t going as well as I had hoped.
My next call is to the First Centurion Church, and the receptionist answers and wishes me a “fine and healthful day.” I ask for Keeper Clayton Wallace and tell her “Andy Carpenter” when she asks who is calling.
Within moments a man’s voice comes on the line. “Stephen Drummond.”
“I’d like to speak to Clayton Wallace, please.”
“I’m sure you would, Mr. Carpenter, but that’s not likely any time soon. So how can I help you?”
“That depends on who you are,” I say.
“I’m a resident of Center City, as well as legal counsel and vice president of the First Centurion Church. So, again, how can I help you?”
“Well, I’m representing Jeremy—”
He interrupts. “I’m aware of that.”
“Then I’m sure you’re also aware that I’m attempting to learn everything I can about the victims, including information about the town they lived in and the religion that was apparently so important to them.”
“Fair enough. I’m your guy.”
I’m pleasantly surprised by this open invitation, and we make arrangements to meet tomorrow in his office. Right now I feel like I should be doing something, but there’s nothing else I can think of to do, so I take Tara for a walk.
I’m starting to like these walks; I may even be starting to like Findlay. The air is crisp, fresh… for some reason every time I go outside I feel like tailgating and throwing a football around. I’d better be careful, or in a few weeks I’ll be wearing a plastic piece of cheese on my head and rooting for Brett Favre.
There seems to be more of a spring in Tara’s step as well. She’s been showing some signs of age, although that is not terribly significant, since Tara will live forever. But she seems more cheerful since she’s been here; it’s possible she might be a small-town dog at heart.
When we get back to the house, I am pleasantly surprised to find Laurie waiting for us in the living room. “You left the door open,” she says. “I figured you wouldn’t mind if I waited inside.”
“Make my home your home,” I say.
She looks at the pictures on the walls of various people doing various things, like having picnics, going to amusement parks, and mugging for the camera. “Who are these people?” she asks.
“I would guess they’re friends and relatives of the dead woman who used to live here,” I say.
She smiles. “I love how you’ve given the place your personal touch.”
“I even watered one of the plants the other day.”
“You missing home?” she asks.
I think about that for a moment and am surprised by what I come up with. “No… not really. Not yet. I’m becoming very involved with the case, so I haven’t had much time.”
“Everybody’s talking about how you beat up on Lester in court today.”
I shrug. “No big deal… I had the facts on my side. When I don’t, he’ll beat up on me.”
She shakes her head and smiles. “I’ve seen you in action, so I know better.”
I’m not real big on compliments; they’re the one thing that can effectively shut me up. So I don’t respond.
“You made Parsons look pretty bad up there,” she says. She can’t be happy about this; he works for her, and his performance reflects negatively on her department.
I nod. “He deserved it. He should have gotten a search warrant; he knew there was no reason to rush into that house.”
She doesn’t agree. “There were two dead young women at that house, Andy. They could have still been alive, and that would have been plenty reason to rush.”
I’m not about to back down on this one. “He did what he did, and then he made up reasons for doing it after the fact. That’s called lying, and he did it under oath. That’s called perjury. So I’m not going to feel bad that I embarrassed him.”
“He’s a good cop, Andy.”
“Look, I’m not saying he wasn’t trying to serve the cause of justice. I’m saying he didn’t follow the rules.”
This is not the first time that Laurie and I have disagreed in this manner. She is a law enforcement officer, and I’m a defense attorney. Not exactly two peas in a pod. “You want to go out to get a bite to eat?” I ask. It’s my version of being conciliatory.
“I can make dinner,” she says, a little tentatively.
Then it hits me. “You let yourself in here because you didn’t want people to see you waiting outside. And that’s why you don’t want to go out to eat. You’re worried about being seen as being on my side, because of our previous relationship.”
“This is a small town, Andy, and people depend on me… on my doing my job.”
“Hey, it’s okay, Laurie. You’re in a bad spot.”
“Worse than you think. Lester has gone to the mayor and told him about our relationship. He doesn’t trust me.”
“What did the mayor say?” I ask.
“That Lester should worry about his own job and let me do mine. But that could change, Andy. If I give him half a reason…”
“Laurie, you called me, I didn’t call you. I’m here because of you.” After I say it, I realize that she could take that last sentence one of two ways: that I’m here because she told me about the case, or that I’m here because I wanted to be near her. I don’t know which is true, so I don’t clarify it.
“I know,” she says, “and I’m glad you are, really I am. Jeremy will get the best defense possible, and I won’t have to miss you the way I have. I just don’t know how to behave, Andy.”
“You mean in your job?”
“In my job, but out of my job as well. If we want to go out to dinner, I don’t want to have to worry about how it will look. I want people to trust me enough to know that I’ll live up to my responsibilities as a police officer, no matter what is going on in my personal life.”
“Anybody who doesn’t trust you is an idiot.”
She’s not about to just accept that. “And it’s not just trust, Andy. I want people to respect me. I want my fellow officers to respect me. Some of them got passed over for a promotion because I was brought in. I want them to respect that decision. I need them to.”
I walk over to her and hug her. Hugging is not an act that comes naturally to me, but this time I do it without even thinking. She looks at me, and for a moment I’m afraid she is going to cry. “I don’t want to screw this up, Andy. Not any of it.”
I hold her tighter. “When you’re young and so alone as we, and bewildered by the world we see, how can we keep love alive, how can anything survive, what a town without pity can do.”
She looks at me strangely. “What?”
As further evidence that I am unable to control my mouth, I’ve just been inappropriately song-talking, a game that my friend Sam Willis and I play back home. The object is to work song lyrics smoothly into a conversation. “That’s ‘Town Without Pity.’ Gene Pitney.”
“My life is going up in flames, and you’re song-talking?” she asks incredulously.
I nod. “Not bad, huh?”
She laughs. “Not bad at all.” Then she kisses me, perhaps unaware that she is providing positive reinforcement to my childish behavior.
“You know, I’ve got an idea,” I say. “We behave professionally out there in the world, but we meet back here maybe ten or twelve times a day to have secret sex.”
She smiles. “You’re the boss. But you might want to be careful. At the pace you’re suggesting, you wouldn’t last until tomorrow.”
“We’ll see about that. You want to have a sleepover date tonight?”
“I think that can be arranged,” she says.
“Then arrange it,” I say, trying not to drool as I talk. It may not be the smartest thing to do, but the idea of spending the night lying next to Laurie, something I thought I’d never experience again, is just too good to pass up.