Steven James - The Knight

She was twisting my research around, trying to make it sound ludicrous. And even though I couldn’t believe any jury would give credence to her line of questioning, by the way the jurors were staring at me, it looked like at least some of them did.

The room still hadn’t warmed up.

Still chilly.

The evidence.

Something about the evidence.

“Given the timing and location of the crimes,” I said, “Mr. Basque’s schedule would have allowed him to be present at the site of each of the murders.”

Ms. Eldridge-Gorman held up a file folder. “And so could at least six other employees of the acquisitions firm he worked for.” She slapped it down, loudly, onto the table. “I checked. And that’s just one company. Thousands of people could have committed those crimes.”

The recorded message in Colorado said, “I’ll see you in Chicago.”

Is Heather Fain’s and Chris Arlington’s killer in the courtroom? I let my eyes drift from the evidence table to the faces of the people in the room, but Priscilla Eldridge-Gorman paced in front of me, blocking my view. “Did you actually witness my client attack Sylvia Padilla?”

One of the men in the gallery made eye contact with me and then quickly looked away.

“No. Mr. Basque was leaning over her body when I arrived.”

The man was wearing a black armband, which meant he was a family member of a victim. But which one? Which victim?

“So you admit,” Ms. Eldridge-Gorman said, “that it’s possible my client heard Sylvia Padilla’s screams, went to offer his assistance-like any conscientious citizen would do-and was reaching down to help the poor woman when you ran toward him.” She looked at me sympathetically. “No doubt with the simple intention of fulfilling your duty as an officer of the law, and then when you aimed your gun at him, he understandably feared for his life and was forced to defend himself by firing his legally registered firearm. That’s possible, isn’t it?”

“He was holding the scalpel.”

The man with the armband was still avoiding eye contact.

“My client found it lying on the woman’s chest and was moving it so he could help stop her bleeding.”

I felt my patience slipping again. “He mocked her as she died.”

She held up a file folder. “According to the police report you filed, my client said, ‘Looks like we’ll be needing an ambulance, detective.’ And then, ‘Looks like we won’t be needing that ambulance after all.’ He was simply showing concern for her.”

This was ridiculous.

I mentally flipped through the faces of the family members of the victims. It’d been thirteen years, and the man I was watching was shielding his face, glancing at his watch.

If I could just get a clear look at his face…

“Dr. Bowers,” Priscilla said, once again interrupting my train of thought. “Is it possible you arrested the wrong man?”

“I’m confident we made the right-”

“But is it possible?”

“It’s possible,” I said impatiently. “Yes.”

The man with the armband finally looked my way.

Yes. I recognized him. He was the father of Celeste Sikora, the second-to-last known victim, one of the women I could have saved if only I’d pieced things together a little faster.

“But,” I said, elaborating on my answer, trying to quiet the growing frustration in my voice, “as I mentioned a few moments ago, all investigations deal in terms of probability rather than certainty. We don’t live in a perfect world. The jury isn’t asked to determine a person’s guilt with absolute certainty but rather beyond reasonable doubt-”

“I am well aware of the legal requirements of American jurisprudence, Dr. Bowers.”

Yes, Celeste’s father, Grant.

Ex-military. I remember because he’d reacted so violently when I notified him that his daughter’s wounds had been fatal that he’d needed to be sedated.

The trial, Pat. Focus on the trial.

“But as I was saying…” I continued speaking, but my attention was split. “The evidence strongly supports the conclusion that Richard Basque was-”

“Dr. Bowers.” Her voice had turned to ice. “Did you physically assault my client?”

The room spun around me. Dizzy. A swirl of colors. Then everything dialed into focus.

She closed the space between us. “Back in the slaughterhouse? After you handcuffed him?”

So, Basque told her. She knows.

Grant Sikora looked at the clock on the wall. A bead of sweat glistened on his forehead.

You swore to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

“Did you break Richard Basque’s jaw with your fist?” she asked. “Did you attack him after he was handcuffed?”

You can’t let Basque walk. You know that, Pat. You can’t admit that you hit him.

Time slowed.

Sweat? Why is Sikora sweating?

I looked from Grant Sikora to Priscilla. Beyond her I saw Basque smiling, as if the moment he’d been waiting for all these years had finally arrived. If I told the truth, he might walk, but if I lied I’d be committing perjury and going against everything I’d worked toward all these years.

Another bead of sweat formed on Sikora’s forehead.

It’s too cold in the courtroom to be sweating. Too cold.

Unless.

“Dr. Bowers!” Ms. Eldridge-Gorman had stepped in front of me and now planted her hands on her hips, her two elbows jutting out like bony wings. “Are you having trouble remembering that night at the slaughterhouse?”

Grant Sikora began to discreetly make his way toward the side aisle. It’s not unheard of for people to slip out of a courtroom while a trial is in session, so no one else seemed to take notice. Their eyes were riveted on me.

The evidence table.

The hatchet… the knife… the gun… a weapon… is he going for a weapon?

“I’ll ask you one last time.” Her words were cold stones dropping one by one into the still courtroom. “Did you or did you not physically assault Richard Devin Basque after he was in your custody in the slaughterhouse?”

Nothing but the truth.

Answer her, Pat. You have to answer the question.

My eyes flashed across the evidence table, scrutinizing, examining the positioning of the items. I noticed the Sigma’s witness hole, the small groove that allows the operator to observe the brass case of the bullets if there are any chambered rounds.

Ms. Eldridge-Gorman’s voice rang out, “Judge Craddock, please direct the witness to answer the question!”

Inside the witness hole I saw a brassy glint…

“Dr. Bowers, I advise you to answer the counselor’s question.”

That glint could only mean one thing.

Ms. Eldridge-Gorman threw her hands up.

That gun was loaded.

“Will you answer the counselor’s question?” the judge said.

Sikora’s going for the gun!

“No,” I whispered.

“No?” the judge shouted.

Grant Sikora reached the aisle and ran toward the evidence table.

You can’t let him get the gun.

Stop him, Pat. You have to stop him!

I grabbed the railing of the witness stand and launched myself over the edge.

My shoes slipped as I landed. I smacked onto the floor, and by the time I’d made it to my feet, Grant Sikora’s hand had found the gun.

The next three seconds seemed to take forever and happen all at once.

I sprinted toward him. Time collapsed, then expanded. A series of terrible thoughts raced through my mind. The gun’s loaded. He’s Celeste’s father. He’s going after Basque.

Sikora raised the gun, and the two officers stationed at the courtroom’s main doors drew their weapons.

I instinctively reached for my SIG. Found only an empty holster.