Steve Martini - Prime Witness

“So you’re the acting DA,” he says. He eyes me up and down as if to pass a quick judgment. “You’re here on the Putah Creek things?” he says.

“Yes. I haven’t received a copy of the pathology report in the last two murders yet, Abbott and Karen Scofield.” I tell him that Sellig had advised me to come in and talk, that there was apparently some problem, questions before the report could be completed. I lift an eyebrow. “And some information that perhaps we have a different perpetrator here.”

He projects poise beyond his years, self-assured, more than a little arrogant.

“Some of our findings,” he says. “We were not sure whether you would want them reduced to writing in the pathology report, or kept verbal at this point. A question of discretion.”

What he’s talking about is the practice of finessing an expert report, in this case the autopsy, to keep certain critical information away from any adversary come trial. Normally such documents are disclosed during discovery.

“What are we talking about?” I say.

“Pretty clear medical evidence,” he says, “that these victims were not killed where they were found, but moved there later.” He’s talking about the Scofields.

“That the killer stabbed them with a knife first, and then tried to mask this with the metal stakes. It was well done,” he says. “But not that well done.” A point of pride, I think.

Jamison talks without notes, conversant with details. I suspect that perhaps he assisted Tolar in the autopsy.

I ask him to tell me more.

He says that they found a contusion on Abbott Scofield’s head and evidence that he was unconscious when stabbed. The wife was not. Both were stabbed with a sharp single-edged knife about nine inches long. The stakes were inserted later into these wounds, then driven through the bodies to make it look as if the same MO was used as in the earlier cases.

Sellig was right-this is dynamite stuff. “Can you gloss it in the report?” I say.

“We can keep the facts broad, leave out the conclusions.” He says this like they have done it before.

I weigh the risks. Once in the report there is no way to take it out.

“For now,” I say, “until we know who’s going to be looking at the report, that might be best.”

This morning I make a mental note to immerse Lenore Goya in the particulars of the Putah Creek case when I get to the office. I will need some competent help on the affidavits and other documentation required for extradition. Before I head for the office I drive past the university soccer field and performing arts building.

A mile down the road I turn onto a tree-lined lane where the branches of giant oaks meet in the center of the street a hundred feet overhead. It is like a public park, but there are stately homes here, white-columned Georgians and classic Colonials set back a mile on manicured lawns. This is Davenport’s version of faculty row, people with tenured job security, something unknown to the average citizen in this country. Here live professors on public salary, people who bought these mansions four decades ago for a song, and who now live in cloistered comfort.

I pull to a stop in front of a mammoth Dutch Colonial with dormers larger than some homes I have seen. An older woman answers the door, her hair pulled back in a tight gray bun.

“Is Mrs. Scofield in?” I say.

“Who may I say is calling?”

“Attorney Paul Madriani.” I give her a business card with the county seal printed on it and she disappears, leaving me outside on the doorstep for the moment, behind the security-chained door which she has taken care to lock.

Several seconds pass and she is back. “Please come in,” she says.

She leads me through a spacious entryway and into the living room. It is large and cluttered with the knickknacks of a lifetime of work. If there is a theme to this place it is birds: carved wooden birds, books on birds, lithographs of birds and an original oil framed over the fireplace. Bald eagles and ravens, owls and hummingbirds-if it exists and has feathers, I think it has probably found a place in this room.

The house has the signs of a grand structure, in its day. But it is dated, as if its owners have found other things to do with their time and money, besides remodeling and decorating.

“My daughter will be with you in a moment.” Before I can turn and look at her, the old lady is gone again.

I wander in the room, killing time, looking at the various mementos. On an end table by the couch is a framed photo, black and white, a dark-haired man in pants that resemble riding jodhpurs. I pick it up to look more closely. He is handsome and young, standing in a field high with grass. I would hardly recognize him from the grim autopsy shots back in my office; Abbott Scofield in more youthful and happier times.

“It was taken right after his marriage to Karen. .” I turn. It’s Jeanette Scofield standing in the doorway. “The first Mrs. Scofield. They were married in 1958,” she says.

“Sorry,” I say. “Curiosity gets the better of me at times.” I put the photo back on the table.

“It’s OK.” She waves a hand, like no big thing. “He was a good-looking man, don’t you think?”

“He was,” I say, “good-looking.”

“Everybody thought so.” She gives me a schoolgirl tilt of the head. “My mom didn’t want me to marry him. Said he was too old for me.” There’s a moment of awkward silence as if by these comments she is forced to reassess the true measure of her loss.

Then shifting gears quickly, she makes amends for her appearance. She is dressed in a loose-fitting sweatshirt. There is mud on the front of this and a little on her chin. The running shoes are old and tattered, and the towel draped around her shoulders has smudges of dirt and mud. Her hair is pinned back on the sides and gathered in a loose ponytail at the back. She mops a little perspiration from her forehead.

“Gardening,” she says. “One of my vices.” There’s a giddy smile. “Can I offer you something to drink?”

I beg off. She is tall, an inch taller than I, even in flat shoes.

“Mom,” she calls. The woman appears at the door as if she’s been beamed down. I think maybe the old lady has an ear to our conversation. “Would you mind getting me a glass of iced tea,” she says. “You’re sure I can’t offer you something?”

“No. Thanks.”

She smiles.

“Please, sit down.” She gestures toward the couch, and takes a seat herself in one of two overstuffed club chairs, set at an angle in front of the fireplace.

“How do I rate a visit from the prosecuting attorney?” she says. “I’ve already talked to the police, your Lieutenant Dusalt?” She’s questioning as if maybe she has the name wrong.

“That’s right. I’ve read his report,” I tell her. “Just a few loose ends,” I say.

“Isn’t that usually a detective’s job?”

“I was in the neighborhood.”

“Is that like efficient government at work?” She smiles.

“Something like that.”

The flush of the outdoors is leaving her cheeks. She drapes one thigh over the other, a baggy pair of oversized men’s pants with enough fabric for each pant-leg to wrap twice around each leg. She leans back in her chair. “What would you like to know?”

“Just some general background information,” I say. “I thought it might help us, as we move forward, if we know more about your husband’s work. Can you tell me a little about it? What exactly did he do?”

“Ah.” She nods at this, then tepees the fingers of both hands, long and slender, under her chin.

“Abbott was an ornithologist,” she says. She smiles like maybe she might offer to spell this for me, but I’m not taking notes. “His life-his passion-was the study of birds. As you can see,” she says. She sweeps one arm across the room as if to take it all in. “I sometimes wondered if he might have loved me more had I been born with feathers.”