Dark Lady (41 page)

“Keep looking at him,” Caroline whispered to Brett, and stood. “Move to strike,” she snapped. “This witness’s opinions on what the mode of death must mean are the sheerest speculation, as in all the business regarding the mode of investigation. And, as I once pointed out to Mr. Watts, neither Charles Manson nor his friends knew the people they butchered.” Jackson faced Judge Towle. “Your Honor,” he said, “this is not a jury trial, and the court is fully capable of weighing any piece of testimony in assessing probable cause. Moreover, we are about to show that the nature of the killing seems consistent with the motive for the killing.”

“I’ll hear it,” Towle said promptly. “Overruled.” But when Caroline sat down, Brett was composed again. At once, Jackson turned to Summers. “You’ll recall, Sergeant Summers, that Ms. Allen told you James Case had asked her to go to California, and that—at least as far as she knew—the victim had no other romantic involvements. Did there come a time when another witness came forward to shed light on that statement?”

“There did.” Pausing, Summers seemed to draw the courtroom closer: as reporters paused, pencils over pads, Towle leaned forward. Next to Caroline, Brett seemed not to breathe. “A student at Chase College,” Summers went on, “who told us that she and the victim had a continuing

and intimate relationship, and that he had asked her to go with him to California. And that he had promised to break this to Ms. Allen on the night he was murdered.” There was a stirring in the courtroom. With a cold, channeled anger, Caroline resolved to make Jackson pay for this. “Were you able to confirm that such a relationship existed?” he asked. “Yes. Through neighbors.” Summers faced the judge again. “And according to our witness, Ms. Allen knew about it.” Amidst the sound of stirring, Jackson nodded. “Based on this new information, what—if anything—did you conclude.”?”

“Conclude.”? Nothing. But it was a motive, jealousy and anger, and it helped make sense of how Ms. Allen acted.” Summers gathered himself. “In my view, Ms. Allen used wine and marijuana to place James Case in a position of extreme vulnerability—sexual intercourse. And then cut his throat before he climaxed.” His voice was soft, uninflected. “Which may also explain why she took his wallet afterward. Because her imaginary drug dealer, the one that she invented, wanted back his money.”

Summers’ eyes were pale-blue chips, Caroline thought—opaque and unimpressed. “You placed considerable emphasis,” Caroline began, “on Bret’s taped statement. But her initial statement was made to Officer Mann, wasn’t it? When she suggested the police look at Heron Lake.” “Yes. That’s why Officer Mann called me.”

“Did he express concern that there had been an act of violence?”

“Yes.”

“After which you told him to take Ms. Allen to the hospital?”

“Yes.”

“So that the police could get a warrant to search her?”

“If it seemed justified.”

“And did you subsequently determine that a warrant to search her person was justified?”

“Yes.”

“Because you found Mr. Case’s body.”?”

“Yes.” Caroline paused. “Based on Ms. Allen’s prior statement?” A first stubbornness in the blue eyes, the instinct to resist. “We would have found him,” he said finally. “It might have helped us find him quicken” It was a good answer: Summers understood the trap—that much of the evidence against Brett was based on her initial statement—and was trying to avoid it. Caroline made herself look puzzled. “The location of the body is fairly inaccessible, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Making it unlikely you would have found it before daylight.” Slight hesitation. “Maybe.”

“By which time you were questioning Ms. Allen for the second time.”

“Yes.”

“After you’d already obtained a warrant from Judge Deane, at three a.m., and searched her body.” Once more, the minimal answer. “Yes.”

“And searched Mr. Case.”

“Yes.”

“And Brett Allen’s property.”

“As best we could, in the dark.”

“Searches based on a warrant application which cited Ms. Allen’s statement and the body, correct?” Summers frowned. “Yes.”

“And you understood that Brett Allen’s statement—the one to Officer Mann—was obtained without Miranda warnings?” Summers sat back. “When Officer Mann called, that was what he told me, yes.”

“During that conversation, did you and Officer Mann discuss whether he should interrogate Ms. Allen further?” Summers’ lids dropped slightly. “Yes,” he said at length. Caroline felt a moment’s relief: at least they were honest. “And did you,” she ventured, “advise Officer Mann not to question her?” Summers folded his hands. “At that time, yes.”

“For what reason?” Summers considered her. “It was a matter of experience.”

“And intoxication?”

“That too.”

“So that you were concerned not only that Ms. Allen

hadn’t been Mirandized but that she was too intoxicated to make sense.” Summers shrugged, a slow shifting of shoulders. “I wouldn’t say concerned. When in doubt, it’s better to test someone.”

“And, when tested, Ms. Allen proved to be intoxicated, correct?”

“As of roughly two o’clock.”

“And at six o’clock, when you interrogated Ms. Allen, what was that based on?” Summers gave her a level gaze. “Her request.” It was a splendid answer, and quite wounding. Caroline stood very still. “I meant the interrogation,” she said evenly. “It was based, was it not, on finding the body, searching Ms. Allen, and searching her property?” Summers hesitated. “In the main.”

“All of which was based on her initial statement to Officer Mann, telling him where to look?” A longer pause: Summers knew quite well that, if Caroline was lucky, she could suppress almost every piece of evidence obtained through the initial statement. “We would have questioned her,” he said, “as soon as she was sober—body or no body. Which we’d have found in daylight. But she came to us.” Another damaging answer. “Sober?” Caroline shot back. “Sober.”

“According to whom?”

“Dr. Pumphrey.”

“Who never saw her, correct?” For the first time, Caroline watched Summers fight himself: he wanted to argue with her but was too experienced to do so. Watts, he knew, would handle this. “Dr. Pumphrey saw her at the hospital,” Summers answered. “At six o’clock, I just described her to him.”

“So the people who did see Brett at six were you and Officer Mann?”

“Yes.”

“And you, like Officer Mann, cannot offer a medical opinion as to her sobriety?”

“No. Just an eyeball opinion …”

“On the effect of THC on memory?”

“NO.”

“Or personality?”

“No.” Caroline put her hands on her hips. “Do you also have no medical opinion on whether marijuana and alcohol can have the effect of inducing what is commonly known as paranoia?” Annoyance, she saw, expressed itself through a certain deadness in Summers’ eyes. “No,” he said tersely. Caroline paused a moment. “So based on your assumption that Ms. Allen was functioning normally, if she gave you any information you perceived to be misleading, you thought this was deliberate?”

“Not necessarily.” Summers’ voice rose slightly. “After all, she had been intoxicated …. “

“Precisely. But now she was a suspect, right? Had to be, or you wouldn’t have given her Miranda warnings.” Summers folded his hands again. “If someone is even potentially a suspect, we’ll warn them.” “Perhaps you,” Caroline retorted. “But not Officer Mann.”

“Objection,” Jackson said. “Asked and answered.”

“Sustained.” Towle glanced at Caroline. “Your point is taken, Counsel. Move on.” In the moment Caroline took to compose her thoughts, she was aware of everyone around her and everything at stake—for her and, most of all, for Brett. And then, as at other moments of her life, a blessed calm came over her. “Isn’t it true,” she asked, “that from the minute you first questioned her, Brett Allen was your prime suspect?” Summers shook his head. “Prime, no. An obvious possibility, sure. As I said, we looked for others—like this drug dealer.”

“But you dismissed that, right?”

“No evidence—no money in his apartment, no sign of a break-in.” Caroline looked bemused. “Does it seem logical to you that someone who wanted to hide stolen drug money would stick it in his apartment?” “Objection,” Jackson interjected. “Calls for speculation.”

“No more so than that drug dealers are too genteel to cut throats.” Caroline turned to Judge Towle. “I’m calling on Sergeant Summers’ extensive knowledge of the drug culture, Your Honor. As did Mr. Watts.” Towle smiled faintly. “Overruled,” he said, and looked to Summers. “It is speculation,” Summers answered finally. “But no, your own apartment might not be the best place to hide money.” Caroline paused a moment. “It is also true, is it not, that Mr. Case’s door lacks a dead bolt?” Summers gave her a long, hard look. “That’s right.”

“And based on your knowledge of the criminal element, one desiring to enter an apartment can take a mold and have a key designed, correct?”

“Yes.” Caroline could feel Jackson’s gaze now; her pulse was rapid. “Or even, with sufficient skill, enter by using a credit card?” Summers put a finger to his mouth, tapping it lightly, still appraising Caroline. “True,” he said at length. “After which, to the extent the apartment was disordered, James Case could simply have cleaned it up. If not the intruder himself.”

“I suppose so.” Motionless, Jackson stared at the table. “Now,” Caroline went on, “can you say whether or to what extent James Case was dealing drugs? Because, among other reasons, it’s something college kids don’t chat with cops about.”

“Sometimes,” Summers retorted quickly. “But there’s no evidence that this drug dealer ever existed, let alone found his way to an isolated spot in time to murder James Case

with a knife. The physical evidence all points to Ms. Allen.” It was the answer Caroline had hoped for. “Let’s take that evidence, then. You say, for example, that you found Bret’s fingerprint on the victim’s neck. Would you call that print important?” A small shrug. “It’s one among many pieces of evidence. I wouldn’t want to classify it.”

“Isn’t it true that, at least in the reported literature, no one has ever lifted a print off the body of a man?” Summers emitted a soundless sigh, as if reaching for calm. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Are you personally aware of any?”

“No.”

“Because, among other reasons, the hair and roughness of a man’s skin make lifting prints more difficult.”

“True. But in this case, Ms. Allen left a print on the skin surrounding the wound. Where there was blood to reflect a print.”

“That’s hardly surprising, is it—she says she touched him after his throat was cut. Tell me, didn’t you find other prints in the blood?” Summers considered her with chilly eyes. “One. It belonged to an EMT who was called to the scene.” Caroline raised an eyebrow. “Is he a suspect?”

“No.”

“And, in truth, there are no prints on the skin other than those found in the victim’s blood?”

“No. There are not.” Caroline nodded. “Brett’s prints on the knife are also found in a deposit of blood, are they not?”

“Yes.”

“As are Officer Mann’s?” Summers tapped his lips again and then, quite consciously, placed both hands in his lap. “Yes.”

“Who made them, just as Ms. Allen did, by touching the bloody knife?”

“Yes.”

Caroline tilted her head. “Are there any clean prints on the knife? Ones not imprinted in blood?”

“Not that we found, no …. “

“Nor,” Caroline pursued softly, “can you link that knife to Brett Allen.”

“Now “What about the wallet? Was Ms. Allen’s print there found on a deposit of blood?” Another pause. “Yes.”

“Any clean prints?”

“No.”

“Not even James Case’s? It was his wallet.”

“No.” Summers examined his hands. “Leather usually won’t take a print.”

“Then all this could have happened just the way Brett told you, correct? She found the body, tried to administer CPR, and got blood on her hands.” She paused. “And, therefore, left bloody prints on the victim’s neck, the knife, and the wallet. Just like the EMT and Officer Mann.”

“Whose prints we can explain.” Looking up, Summers finished in a chill voice. “There are no other prints, Ms. Masters.”

“And a thousand possible reasons why.” Jackson, Caroline saw, had remained quite still. “For example, might the killer have worn gloves?” Summers assumed a certain calm again. “Counselor,” he said patiently, “there’s not many ways to tell if someone was wearing gloves.”

“Precisely. But if Brett had her hands on the knife, about to slice Mr. Case’s windpipe, wouldn’t she have left at least one clean print on the handle of the knife?”

“The handle’s bone. Not an easy print, either.”

“But the sole print Brett Allen left on the hilt is a bloody one, correct? Clearly made sometime after Mr. Case’s throat was Cut.” Summers lowered his eyelids, studying her closely. “That’s true.”

“So it couldn’t be the prints that caused you to opine that Brett Allen must be a murderer.”

“Not in themselves, no.” Summers’ patience sounded strained. “You have to look at the totality of the evidence.”

“Let’s do that, Sergeant. Pick a piece—any piece.”

“Is that a questionT’ Jackson interjected. Caroline ignored him. “All right,” she said to Summers. “I believe you mentioned Mr. Case’s failure to ejaculate.” Summers nodded. “I did.”

“And what did the tests show regarding Mr. Case’s level of intoxication.”?”

“That he was intoxicated.” Caroline smiled slightly. “In your observation, does intoxication in the adult male sometimes lead to, shall we say, incomplete sexual performance? Or is impotence inevitably the result of death.”?” From the back of the courtroom, someone coughed, suppressing laughter. “Maybe,” Summers said mildly, “I should leave that one for the medical examiner.”

“But you don’t insist, do you, that violent death is the only explanation for Mr. Case’s failure to ejaculate.”?” A first grim glint of humor. “No.”

“And, in your pantheon of evidence, would you say that this failure is more or less important than your purported failure to find evidence of an escape path other than Brett Allen’s?” Summers hesitated. “Less.”