Archer Mayor - Fruits of the Poisonous Tree

He walked to the blackboard at the head of the room, picked up some chalk, and wrote, “Physical Evidence.” He then added, on separate lines: “Leaf; Pubic Hair; Red Fiber; Blood Traces; Tool Marks; Catalogue; Underwear; Photos; Red Shirt; Oil Pan.”

He then turned and addressed us in his bland, almost professorial voice. “These constituted the bulk of the case against Vogel. As the lieutenant’s been telling you, some of them don’t hold water anymore.”

He went back to the board and crossed out “Photos” and “Pubic Hair.” “The hair samples and photos you already know about. Of course, somebody took those pictures-it just didn’t happen to be Vogel. That doesn’t mean it wasn’t someone working with him.”

Ron Klesczewski, tense and defensive, feeling himself targeted for letting things get so fouled up, interrupted, his eyes locked to the tabletop. “Is it a given that rapists always leave hair samples behind?”

“No,” J.P. answered after a pause, “it’s just generally true.” And then he added in a strictly neutral tone, “But to be totally objective, if Vogel did rape her, leaving nothing behind, then the samples we found came from a third party-not Vogel, and not Joe.”

Willy let out a short laugh. Sammie, loyal and outraged, glared at him. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Up yours.”

I rose quickly to my feet, alarmed at the sudden spike in tension. “We’ve got to consider everything,” I said loudly and clearly, although I wasn’t sure my face was any less red than Sammie’s.

Unperturbed, J.P. returned to the blackboard, circled “Oil Pan,” and put a question mark next to it. “We have some additional problems the rest of you may not realize yet. The famous oil slick-and where it came from-has been thrown into doubt by now, but the oil pan from Vogel’s car is another story. According to him, the pan sprung a leak, which he then plugged with a screw. That’s exactly what we found. What sidetracked us was trying to figure out how he happened to have the right-sized screw and four quarts of oil in the middle of nowhere.”

“Willy took a closer look at the pan this afternoon, and what he discovered-again thanks to one of Joe’s suggestions-was a trace of wax around the hole. I’ve looked at it under the microscope. It’s a type of malleable molding wax that melts when heated. Its presence suggests that someone, having created the puncture, then sealed it with wax, knowing that once the engine heated up a few miles down the road, the wax would melt and the oil would leak out.”

“That doesn’t tell us why Vogel had all the right gear in his car to fix it,” Dennis DeFlorio said, receiving an encouraging nod from Ron.

I looked at them all as Tyler continued speaking, pondering their personalities. Despite a few feeble protests, no one could argue with the facts J.P. was detailing, and the impact they would have once they became public knowledge. Sammie, Willy, and J.P., I felt sure, would merely soldier on from here. Ron and Dennis would need temporary protection from the coming limelight-a little time to adjust.

For the next half hour, J.P. addressed each listed item in turn. The bottom line, however, remained as uninspiring as ever-the case was a shambles, and Dunn would soon have to fold his tent. And, never addressed but still lurking in most of our minds, was the bitter possibility that Vogel did rape Gail but had somehow been clever enough to use the system to cut himself loose.

By the time J.P. finally sat back down, I had before me as demoralized a group of people as I could ever remember trying to rally.

I dealt with DeFlorio and Klesczewski first. “Dennis, tomorrow morning I’d like you to hit all the hobby shops and art-supply houses within a fifty-mile radius. We’re looking for recent purchases of molding wax. But do it in person, not by phone-it makes it harder for them to brush you off. Also, find out what catalogue outfits handle the stuff and if any recent orders have been made from this area-if so, to whom. That may take some legal paperwork, so coordinate with the SA’s office on how to go about it.

“Ron, I want you to continue running the command center. We’re going to have to go back to square one on the potential suspects, and you know them better than any of us. One by one, they’ll have to be re-interviewed and their alibis re-checked. We may even have to sweat a few of them to see how they react. Make sure we don’t step on each other’s toes, and flag any discrepancies between new and old stories. It’s going to be tougher than before. You won’t have as many people helping you, and the press’ll probably make you feel you can’t even stick your nose out the door.”

He nodded without enthusiasm. I turned to Billy. “That’s where I’d like you to pitch in as much as you can. More than anything, I need patrol officers in plainclothes to conduct field interviews-people good at getting people to open up.”

“You got it.”

“One extra note,” I told them all. “Earlier, J.P. mentioned those pictures of Gail. Regardless of who took them, he had to have done so at a specific date and time, and from a specific place. Find out if your suspects have alibis for that time period. And J.P.? Maybe you can canvass the area around where they were taken and see if anyone remembers somebody with a camera.”

I turned to Tony. “How much interference do you think we’re going to be facing?”

Brandt shook his head slowly. “This is the biggest mess we’ve ever had, and everybody’ll have an opinion on how to sort it out. I’ll do my best, but to be honest, it’s going to be hard to control.”

I took J.P.’s spot in front of the blackboard. “That means you’re going to have reporters dogging your tracks, maybe getting in your way. They’ll want to talk to you, talk to the people you’re interviewing. And they won’t be alone. Other people are going to make it their business to find out what we’re up to. In most cases, they’ll be within their rights, just as you’ll be within yours by refusing to answer them. Keep that last point in mind. If somebody gets your back up, walk away and report the incident to the chief.”

I left my invisible podium and stepped up to the table, leaning on it for emphasis. “On a personal note, I want to thank you for all you’ve done. We did our jobs as we should have, and it’s a credit to the system that, even this late, we can catch a problem and correct it. We still have to find a rapist, and I’m confident we’ll do just that. Right now, though, I want you all to go home and get some sleep. We’ll reconvene at seven o’clock tomorrow morning to receive specific assignments.”

I straightened up and added, “One word of advice: In a town this small, people are bound to find out your phone numbers before long. If you’ve got ’em, use your answering machines to screen calls. Or unplug your phones and keep your portable radios on so we can reach you. And if the stress starts to get to you, talk to me or Billy or someone you trust. Don’t let this get to you.”

“Come to my office,” Tony said as we left the room, and led the way.

I followed, curiously buoyant. Despite the somber mood of the meeting, I couldn’t shake off a certain elation-the sense of having successfully hurdled some half-seen barrier. Bob Vogel was no longer our primary suspect, and the real rapist would soon be feeling the heat. I felt back in control, and that my instincts had served me well.

A small, slight, peaceful-looking woman with a benevolent expression and long gray hair tucked back in a neat ponytail was waiting patiently for us in Brandt’s office. Megan Goss was a criminal psychologist who’d spent years working with killers, sadists, rapists, and victims of abuse, sorting through the debris of their minds in an effort to understand them, or repair the damage they had suffered. I had known her for years, and the department had used her talents several times in the past. She always brought a thoughtful, measured tone to bear, often shedding light where confusion, politics, or tension had made for impenetrable shadow.