William Bernhardt - Criminal intent

"As far as you could detect."

"And if they had been there, I would have detected them."

Ben rubbed his forehead. This was going to be a tough nut. "Now Doctor, be honest with the jury. Is it possible to touch an object without leaving a fingerprint?"

"It's possible to brush your finger against an object and not leave a print. Possibly to sustain a more prolonged touching on a surface that is not particularly conducive to prints. But in this case, we're dealing with a clear acrylic-a substance highly conducive to leaving prints. And we know the killer didn't just lightly touch the object, either. In order to muster the force necessary to deliver the blow, he or she would've had to grip the award firmly, for an extended period of time. Given those parameters, it is in my opinion absolutely impossible that the assailant would not leave a print behind."

"Maybe the print was smeared by the force or impact."

"In which case I would've detected the smear. But I didn't. Some of Father Beale's prints were smeared, but there was nothing that could be attributed to a third party."

"What about unresolved latents?"

"There weren't any."

"Maybe the killer wiped it clean after the murder."

"He would've eliminated Beale's prints, as well as his own. Unless Daniel Beale picked it up afterward. And didn't mention it to the police. That doesn't seem likely to me."

Ben tried a new approach. "Isn't it true that some people leave prints more easily than others?"

"Yes." Fisher fingered his glasses absently. "Print residues do vary, depending principally upon the oiliness of the skin. But everyone on earth has ridges on their fingertips. And there is no way anyone could've held that award with the strength necessary to deliver that blow to the victim's head without leaving a print. It is simply impossible."

Ben glanced back at Christina. A quick look from her was all he needed to tell him he was doing just as badly as he thought he was doing. If this didn't improve quickly, the trial was going to take a major turnaround. For the worse.

"Perhaps the assailant was wearing gloves," Ben suggested.

"Admittedly, that would've explained the absence of fingerprints."

Ben smiled, glad to see the doctor was a reasonable man.

"But the police searched the church and the people present for hours and hours, literally leaving no stone or pocket unturned. They found no gloves, much less gloves splattered with blood."

"There must be other ways the killer could hold that award without leaving a print. Perhaps the killer wrapped a towel or cloth around his hand. Maybe a handkerchief."

"But if so, where is it? Again, the police searched the premises and all possible suspects with uncommon thoroughness almost immediately after the body was discovered. Any such cloth or towel would be covered with blood. It should've been easy to find, therefore-after all, there was no time to run down to the local dry cleaners. If your hypothesis were true, the implement would've been discovered-quickly and easily. But it wasn't." He turned toward the jury. "And from that, as a man of science, I can make only one logical inference. That it wasn't found because it didn't exist."

Ben knew he was getting nowhere; worse, by rehashing the evidence and giving Fisher countless opportunities to restate his conclusions, he was drilling it ever more firmly into the jurors' consciousnesses.

He glanced back at counsel table. Father Beale was losing the poker face they had crafted during all those pretrial prep sessions. The impact of this evidence was hitting him hard.

Well, better to make some point, however unhelpful, than to make no point at all, he supposed. "Granted, we don't know all the ins and outs of how it was done in this case. Nonetheless, it is possible to hold an object without leaving a print, right?"

Dr. Fisher wasn't having any. "In general, or in this case?"

"In general."

"In general, yes. But in this-"

"And if it can be done, then it is possible that it was done here, and we just haven't figured out how, right?"

"Objection," Canelli said. "Your honor, it's not relevant what's possible-only what happened."

"I'm allowed to explore alternative theories," Ben rejoined.

"But this is not a serious theory. This is pure speculation!"

Judge Pitcock pondered a moment. "I'll allow you to go a bit further, Mr. Kincaid, but I'm more interested in facts than guesswork, and I think the jury will be, too."

Ben continued. "Dr. Fisher, isn't it true that it is possible that the assailant held that award without leaving a print and we just haven't figured out how?"

"No, I'm sorry, but I can't agree with that. If that were done, I would've figured out how. You would probably be spouting a dozen different ways it could've been done-if you could think of any. But you can't. No one can. And as a man of science, I must conclude that if there are no viable explanations of how another person could've held that weapon-then there was no other person."

"But even if you can't explain it, it's possible-"

"If you want to take that position, Mr. Kincaid, I suppose it's possible that a ghost floated into the church and clubbed the poor victim on the head, and that's why there were no prints. But I don't believe in ghosts. Do you?"

Ben didn't answer. What was there to say?

"And I don't believe football-size awards hurl themselves into people's heads. And I don't believe that blow could've been caused by anyone on earth-except Daniel Beale." As Ben sat down, he tried not to let his feelings show. It was important that it seem to the jury-and to his client-as if nothing major had happened. But he knew better. He knew he had just come up against the first witness he couldn't crack, not in the least, on cross. The first witness to really make the jury suspect Father Beale might be guilty.

Juries were unpredictable, but before, Ben sensed that they were winning, at least a little bit. That the trial was, for the most part, going their way. But he didn't have that sense any longer. Now he knew better.

What he didn't know was that it was only going to get worse.

During the break, Christina flipped her trial notebook to the witness list and showed Ben the score.

"By my count, we've run through all the prosecution's technical or expert types, all the cop witnesses, and all the actual eyewitnesses. All that's left are a few St. Benedict's members. So the worst should be over."

Ben shook his head. "It doesn't figure. Canelli's a savvy prosecutor, and he has a great flair for the dramatic. He'll want to go out with a bang. He must be saving something."

"But what? More disgruntled vestry members? Who cares? We've heard that tune to death."

"Which is what worries me." Ben drummed a finger against his lips. "Could it be one of them is singing a song we haven't heard yet?"

"How could there be anything we haven't heard?"

"I'd put my money on Ernestine Rupert," Father Beale said, joining the discussion. "I don't think she'll be able to resist the opportunity to trash me in public."

"Let her do her worst," Ben murmured. "She'll go down in flames as soon as I reveal she's been blackmailing half the church."

"Maybe it's this other St. Benedict's member, Carol Mason," Christina suggested. "The Sunday school teacher. Maybe she has a complaint we didn't hear about in our pretrial interview."

The discussion continued for a good ten minutes, until Judge Pitcock returned and the trial resumed. But despite all the analysis and contemplation, none of them were prepared for what happened next. "The State calls Marco Ellison to the stand," Canelli announced.

Ben rose out of his chair, gaping as if he'd witnessed a train wreck. What the-?