The Big Exit (27 page)

M
ADDEN COMES OUT OF THE INTERROGATION ROOM, LEAVING
P
AM
Yeagher with Burns, and is expectedly greeted by Pastorini, who asks, “How bad is it, Hank?”

“That’s depends on how you define bad.”

Her revelation had seemed deeply damaging at first, but the more he thinks it through, the more he convinces himself they’re
looking at a glancing blow rather than anything fatal. Yeah, Billings’s theory that Beth had killed her husband, then texted
Richie, encouraging him to come over and become implicated in the crime, is shot. But their core case against Forman is still
intact.

He explains to Pastorini that in many ways Yeagher’s admission helps simplify things. It goes like this: McGregor figures
out his wife and Forman have hooked up, he asks Yeagher to text Forman in hopes of luring him over to the house, where he
plans to get into it with Forman, maybe he even wants to kill him. But things go horribly awry. He hasn’t seen Forman in years
and underestimates him physically and the next thing he knows, Forman grabs the tomahawk off the wall in the garage and hacks
him to death. Simple as that.

“What about the word ‘Hack’ written in the guy’s blood?” Pastorini points out.

“He does it to throw us off.”

“Thinks it up right there on the spot?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“And then he makes sure everything’s nice and tidy except he drops his lighter, which Ms. Yeagher is now saying he didn’t
really drop because Beth Hill really dropped it. Did you miss that part? Because I didn’t. Come on, Hank. You’re in denial
here.”

He grimaces, realizes Pastorini is right.

“Are you sure she isn’t making this up to protect Hill? Are they really friends?”

He considers this, but his thoughts begin to stray. He can’t keep anything straight anymore.
I’m not going to make it
, he thinks.
I’m fucking losing it
.

“I’m not really sure of anything at this point, Pete,” he says. “Maybe you better take me off this thing.”

“I’m not taking you off shit. You’ve got to get it together, man. Did Richie Forman do this or not? If he didn’t, then who
did? What about this doctor?”

“Which doctor?”

“Yeagher. The husband. He’s got a motive now. Guy put spyware on his phone. So was he home or not?”

“She says he was in and out. Mostly out. But he works a half day on Friday. He’s a dermatologist. Got his own practice.”

“Fucking doctors, must be nice,” Pastorini says. “What’s on the surveillance footage?”

“We should have a record of all the cars that went in and out. I just gotta check it and the times. We weren’t focused on
him.”

He pauses a moment, takes a deep breath, trying to collect himself, but suddenly lashes out at the wall, banging his fist
against it.

“Goddammit. We spent so much time looking at the wife. Fucking Billings. That bastard leaked stuff to Bender that first night,
too. I know he was the one.”

“He didn’t leak shit, Hank. I investigated it myself. No one did. Yeah, a couple guys may have made a couple innocent remarks.
But Bender blew them up and twisted them. That’s what he does. Don’t blame anybody for this.”

“I’m not. I’m blaming myself.”

“Well, don’t do that either. What are you going to do with her?”

“Who?”

“The woman in there. Yeagher. Or did you already forget about her?”

“You want me to charge her with obstruction of justice? Providing false information? What?”

“Let’s get her husband in here.”

Just then Madden feels his cell phone vibrating on his belt. He unclips it, looks at the number. It’s Greg Lyons from the
coroner’s office.

“What fucking now?” he says. Then, putting the phone to his head: “Madden.”

“Hank, it’s Greg.”

“What’s up?”

“We have a little problem.”

Madden doesn’t like the sound of that, especially the “we” part.

“What kind of little problem?”

“I’ve got Marty Lowenstein standing here. He wants to see the body.”

“Well, he can’t see the fucking body. Tell him he can’t see it.”

“I think you need to get up here, Hank. He says he’s talked to the FBI.”

“About what?”

“The tattoo.”

R
ICHIE’S SITTING ON A BENCH IN FRONT OF THE
C
OUNTRY
S
UN
N
ATU
ral Foods store, wolfing down a sandwich, when a maroon BMW convertible makes a sharp left from the opposite side of the street
and pulls into a just-vacated parking spot in front of the store, screeching to a halt inches from the curb. In front of him
is Carolyn Dupuy, tanned and wearing sunglasses, her dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, looking more glamorous than he remembers.
Though he’s staring straight at her, she gives him two unnecessary short blasts with her car’s horn.

He tosses the remaining bit of sandwich in the garbage but keeps the brown bag with a drink and cookie in it and gets in the
car.

“Where are we going?” she asks.

He tells her to head to the freeway, 101. She shifts the car into reverse, steals a quick look behind her left and right,
and accelerates hard, going back the way she came—but in reverse. She then hits the brakes, shifts, and guns the car forward
all in one motion that’s at once smooth and jolting. She and Bender appear to have gone to the same driving school.

“You going to tell me what’s going on?” she asks.

He explains that Ashley had stopped by to see him over an hour ago and said she’d come up with an address for Anderson. She
was going to stop there on her way back up to the city. She was supposed to call him after she checked it out and maybe even
send a picture. She hadn’t. And he’d tried to reach her several times on her phone to no avail. It wasn’t like her not to
answer.

“Thanks for coming to get me,” he says.

“Where’d you tell Bender you were going?”

He didn’t. He just texted him and said he’d be back in an hour. “I didn’t want him involved,” he explains. “He can be rather
draining.”

“Funny. That’s what people say about me.”

She glances over at her side mirror, changes lanes, then picks up her iPhone and calls Marty Lowenstein’s mobile number. She
has the phone hooked up to her car’s speakers via Bluetooth. After several rings, they get Lowenstein’s voice mail.

“Marty,” she says, “It’s Carolyn Dupuy. Call me back. It’s urgent.”

Little does she know that at that exact moment Lowenstein is standing at the front desk of the San Mateo County Sheriff’s
Forensic Laboratory and Coroner’s Office, asking to speak with Greg Lyons, and that his cell phone is sitting in a cup holder
in his rental car attached to a cigarette-lighter cell-phone charger.

A few minutes later Richie sends Lowenstein a text from his phone—and another to Ashley. Now they’re racing up the freeway,
going north toward the city, the cooler air outside the car rhythmically pounding his head while a steady stream of hot air
from the car’s heater blasts his body just long enough to keep him warm.

He tells Carolyn about the deal Lowenstein made with Bender and about Lowenstein himself. She reveals that she met him the
other day at the scene of the accident—his accident.

“If there’s anybody who’s going to get you off, it’s him,” she says, talking over the wind. She’s dressed more warmly than
he is, in jeans and one of those thin North Face jackets in avocado green that looks like it’s made of down but it’s really
some synthetic material that’s supposed to be warmer than down. “I think he was sorry he couldn’t have been there for you
back then.”

Richie finds this statement weirdly off-putting. It’s as if she’s lamenting she didn’t have a more competent opponent.

“Yeah, well, it was my fault,” he says. “I let you beat me.”

“No, you didn’t. I beat you fair and square.”

“I wish you had. I beat myself. You hit one in the gap but it should have been caught. I lost it in the lights.”

She smiles, says, “Well, you shouldn’t hate me then.”

“I don’t.”

“I know you do. I’m not going to tell you how I know that but
you can probably guess. She wants to help you, Richie. She really does.”

He doesn’t respond right away. He looks down at his phone, which he has sitting in his hand in his lap. Nothing. Still.

“I may hate you,” he says, “but I respect your abilities.”

“How ’bout respecting me in general?”

“That’s pushing it.”

Another smile. Then, after a beat: “Bet you didn’t ever think you’d be riding in a car with me.”

“In a convertible no less.”

“You’re not too cold?”

“No, I’m all right.”

P
ULLING INTO A SPACE NEAR THE FRONT OF THE FORENSIC LAB
, Madden sees Lowenstein standing near the entrance, his hands in his pockets, a folder under his arm, talking to Lyons, who’s
smoking a cigarette.

“Wow, that was fast,” Lyons greets him. “That’s gotta be a record.”

He looks like he’s been having a grand old time shooting the shit with Lowenstein.

“You shouldn’t be here, Marty,” Madden says. “You should have called me first, gone through proper channels.”

“Sometimes I’m courteous, sometimes I’m not. This is one of those times I’m not.”

“Why are you here?”

“I thought I’d check in personally with Greg and let him know what he was up against. It’s a quick shot from the airport.”

Great
, Madden thinks,
they’re on a fucking first-name basis. How long have they been talking?

“Greg’s well aware what he’s up against,” he says. “He doesn’t need you to remind him. I’m pretty good at it.”

“Do you know what I do, Detective?”

“Yeah, I know. I think everybody knows. You’re the DNA Dude.”

“That’s great for marketing purposes. Succinct. Resonates with the media. But just a bit narrow in scope, don’t you think?
So, I ask again, do you know what I really do?”

Madden shrugs. He doesn’t know if it’s a trick question or not.

“My bailiwick is the use of expert evidence in the courtroom. That
includes forensic science in general and particularly forensic DNA tests. And while I’m known more for my work on a few highly
publicized cases and the Exoneration Foundation, I’ve also worked to help convict people with DNA evidence. I work both sides
of the DNA fence, so to speak. And I also evaluate statistical testimony because what a lot of people don’t understand is
how integral statistics are to DNA profiling and evaluating the significance of scientific data. I’m sure you’ve looked at
few electropherograms in your time? Compared the peaks and valleys of alleles at different loci?”

Madden doesn’t like the tone of Lowenstein’s voice. In his brief encounters with him, he hasn’t seemed like a guy who talks
down to people, but if Madden’s not mistaken, that’s what Lowenstein’s doing right now.

“I’ve had several cases where DNA evidence played a key role,” he tells Lowenstein. “Not to date myself or anything, but I
worked one of the first DNA cases in the country. However, I leave it to guys like Greg here to do the science part. I’m just
the evidence collector.”

“Well, speaking of that,” Lowenstein says, “have you ever heard of the Texas sharpshooter fallacy?”

“The what?”

“Why don’t you tell him what it is, Greg?”

Madden looks over at Lyons, who shifts uneasily from one leg to another, and flicks some ashes to the ground.

“What is it?” Madden asks.

“It’s a term epidemiologists use—”

“Who?”

“People who study health events. You know, outbreaks and stuff.”

“Okay.”

“Well, it’s a term they use to talk about the way people give too much significance to random data because they’re looking
at it after the fact from a narrow or biased context. Goes back to this parable of a Texas marksman who fired a bunch of random
shots at the side of a barn and afterwards painted targets around the shots. When the paint dried, he brought people over
to impress them with what a fantastic shot he was. When they saw he’d nailed each target dead center, they couldn’t help but
think just that.”

“It’s a pretty simple concept for jurors to understand,” Lowenstein
says, taking the baton back. “I use a whiteboard and a Nerf gun with suction-cup bullets. I first draw some targets on the
board and then I then ask for one of the detectives who worked on the case, let’s say you, to take a couple of cracks at the
targets on the white board. For a little extra dramatic flair, I’ll throw in a snide comment about how I’ve heard you’re a
pretty good shot, judging from your past accolades. Of course, by now your friend Mr. Crowley, the DA, is objecting up the
ying yang. He’s not having his detective—or anybody else—firing Nerf bullets at a white board. ‘What’s this got to do with
anything, judge?’ he asks. ‘It’s goddamn theater.’ Oh, but it does, I say. It has everything to do with everything. Watch.
And I hold up the Nerf gun by my shoulder and march off a few paces like I’m participating in a duel. I march right up to
the jurors’ box and then I turn around and start firing at the white board. As you can imagine, I’m not all that accurate.
But then I erase the board, fire some more shots, draw my targets around them, and present my little dissertation on the Texas
marksman fallacy. Length of performance: eight minutes. Damage done: priceless.”

Madden doesn’t know quite what to say but is embarrassed to realize his mouth is hanging open slightly.

“Look,” Lowenstein goes on in a flatter, more professorial tone, “everything is fine and dandy when you have a simple DNA
case where the alleles are identical at each loci and you get a clear match. But the thing about DNA, and the thing about
a lot of cases, is you often don’t get a conclusive match. You’ve got DNA that’s degraded or mixed with other DNA. Take, for
instance, Ms. Hill, who discovered her husband’s body. We now know she’d just spent time with the accused. That means that
there’s a good chance that some of his DNA transferred over to her. So yeah, while it’s possible his DNA may show up at the
crime scene, she could have brought it there. That’s the way DNA works. It travels. And just because it’s there doesn’t mean
what you might hope it means. You could say the same thing about Mr. Forman’s lighter. You presumed because it had his fingerprint
and presumably his DNA on it that he brought it there. But I learned recently that he gave it to Ms. Hill and that’s how it
hitched a ride there.”

Madden stares at Lowenstein, growing more irritated. “I’ve just
become aware of the situation with the lighter,” he says joylessly. “We’re in the process of investigating that further.”

“Well, that’s not the only thing you’re going to have to investigate further. My next stop is the DA’s office. I got on a
plane this morning to tell you and Crowley that I want the charges dropped on my client by end of day or I go nuclear, news-at-eleven
style. I’m giving you an opportunity to redeem yourselves before it’s too late. You guys painted the target around the arrow
after it was shot and it’s going to look really bad when people find out. No one likes a cheater, Detective.”

“We did no such thing,” Madden objects.

“You don’t think you did, but you did. But let’s get to the real reason I came by to see Greg.”

“I thought you already told us that.”

“That was just the opening salvo. Actually, the real reason is this.” He takes the folder out from under his arm. He opens
it to reveal an image Madden is very familiar with: the picture of the snake tattoo. Even though Lyons had previewed him about
it on the phone, his stomach drops a little when he sees it.

“Greg, do you want to tell him what the problem is or should I?”

“You go ahead,” Lyons says.

“As we’re all aware, this is a tattoo that has been photographed on Mr. McGregor’s left hip. Like you, when I saw it, I had
some curiosity as to what it was and what it meant, so I sent it over to a friend at the FBI and had him run it through their
database. Nothing.
Bupkis
. Okay. But then he says something interesting. He asks whether I knew when the guy got the tattoo and I say, well, according
to the wife, it was fairly recently, within the last year or so. And he says, oh, well, that’s strange because I gave the
picture to an analyst here who thinks it’s at least five years old and probably closer to ten.”

Madden looks at Lyons, who doesn’t have much of a reaction other than to look away sheepishly and take a drag on his cigarette.
Five to ten years?
he thinks.
Why would she lie about that?
He takes the folder from Lowenstein and examines the photo he’s already examined too many times. He feels his phone vibrating
on his hip but he ignores the call, continuing to stare at the photo.

“It’s in good shape because of where it is,” Lowenstein says. “It hasn’t gotten much sun. But there are still signs of weight
gain and loss. And—”

Madden: “He was sure on that? Five to ten?”

“Yeah, but I want to have a look myself. I want to see it up close.”

“You can’t see the body, Marty. You know you can’t see it, so cut the bravado. Answer me this, why would Ms. Hill lie about
when her husband got a tattoo?”

“I don’t know.”

Ha
, Madden thinks,
got you there
. However, his small triumph is short-lived.

“Like you, I did my homework on the Sedition Act,” Lowenstein goes on. “I thought there might be a clue there. But then on
the way over here, I considered the alternative.”

“Which is what?”

“That she isn’t lying.”

Madden takes a moment to mull that one over. “So, she just didn’t notice it until a year ago? I’ll check my notes, but I’m
pretty sure she actually spoke to her husband about it.”

“Maybe he was a never-nude,” Lyons jokes. “Had a roommate like that in college. No one ever saw him naked. Guy never even
took his shirt off.”

“Maybe it isn’t him,” Lowenstein says.

Madden: “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what I said. That guy you have in there on ice, maybe he isn’t Mark McGregor.”

“Impossible,” Lyons says.

“Why?”

“We got a match on his DMV thumbprint and dental.”

“What about DNA?”

“Later today or tomorrow,” Lyons says. “It’s been expedited. I mean, seriously, dude, come on. Who do you take me for? That’s
fucking insulting. And to think, I had a lot of respect for you.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Fuck you, man.”

Lowenstein smiles. “You know him at all?”

“Who?”

“McGregor.”

Silence.

“What do you mean?”

“You ever meet him?”

“Meet him?”

“Yeah, you ever spend any time in the same room with him?”

Lyons looks to Madden for help, but Madden’s not inclined to give him any. He’s curious to hear what Lyons has to say.

“Answer the man, Greg.”

“Yeah, I met him. How’d you know that?”

“You’ve got some pictures of him up on your Facebook page. He and a couple of other entrepreneurs from some panel you attended.
Some networking event.”

“That’s not a public photo.”

“You know that attractive, innocent-looking brunette whose friendship request you accepted the other day? Well, maybe you
should be more careful about who you friend. Not everyone’s who they seem.”

“You gotta be fucking kidding me.”

“So I’m going to ask you again, how well did you know McGregor? From what I gather, you were trying to start a little business
of your own. Apps, I believe. Just one dumb idea, right? That’s all it takes. Did you ask McGregor for an investment? What’d
he ask for in return?”

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”

“I thought so.”

“You’ve got some fucking nerve.”

Lyons takes a step toward Lowenstein. For a moment Madden thinks he may have to step between them, until he feels his phone
vibrating on his hip again and decides that now would be a good time to answer it.

“Madden,” he says, putting the phone to his ear.

“It’s Carlyle. Where are you? I’ve been trying to call.”

“Up at the coroner’s office. Why?”

“Richie Forman just broke off his ankle leash.”

Madden’s stunned.

“Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know why. But the alarm went off.”

“Where is he?”

“Not far from you. San Carlos.”

San Carlos. What the hell’s he doing in San Carlos
?

“I’ve got the sheriff’s guys on it,” Carlyle says.

Since the city of San Carlos has had so many fiscal problems, a few years ago it outsourced its police department to the San
Mateo County Sheriff’s Office.

“What’s going on?” Lowenstein says, moving closer, trying to listen in.

Ignoring him, Madden gets an address, repeats it back, and tells Carlyle he’s on his way, breaking for his car even before
he hangs up. Lowenstein follows him.

“What’s going on, Detective?”

“Apparently, your client removed his GPS bracelet,” Madden says. “The alarm went off.”

Lowenstein seems equally stunned. “Are you sure? He could have gotten it wet. They go off sometimes when they get wet.”

“I don’t think so, Marty. This one’s waterproof. Now get out of the way before I accidentally hit you with my truck, news-at-eleven
style.”