Ridley Pearson - Chain of Evidence

“We haven’t divined the species,” the lab man reported, maintaining his attention on Dart. “But, as you can see, a similar vegetation was found both in the study rug and on the garage doormat.”

“So what? ” Kowalski complained irritably.

“On the very top of the garage doormat,” Bragg clarified. “Determining a person’s actions-what a person may or may not have done-is a responsibility we both share-you, from a wide variety of evidence and witnesses; me from the translation of the physical sciences. I can tell you a couple of interesting facts, Roman, and maybe you can make sense of them for me.”

Kowalski looked like a kid in the schoolyard who didn’t want to play; he pursed his lips and looked around nervously for somewhere to steal a smoke.

“That rug in the study had been vacuumed-it’s not something I can necessarily prove but it’s something I know to be a fact. Our examination of the machine used to vacuum that rug earlier in the day came up negative for any such organics. And yet our subsequent vacuuming of the same area produced this as-yet-unidentified organic matter, most likely some kind of conifer needle. We also picked up a trace amount of phosphorus and nitrogen compounds-common potting soil, Detective. Similar organic matter and soil was discovered atop the garage doormat, suggesting someone had wiped his or her feet on the way into the house. I questioned the wife; it was not she. A little tough to question the victim, but there was nothing on the soles of his slippers to suggest a similar organic matter. We returned to the home and inspected eleven pairs of boots and shoes: all negative.”

Kowalski said nervously, “So the wife was screwing the gardener in the old man’s study and they made a mess of things. They cleaned up, but not so good. Maybe the old man found out and put a bullet through his lid.”

Bragg nodded agreement as he said, “Might be, except that the gardener put the beds up for winter three weeks ago, and a search of the premises revealed no such potting soil. The beds were heavily mulched. Oat straw. We picked up no trace amounts in our vacuum filters.” He hesitated and said, “What we did come up with was this .” He produced a clear plastic container. There were small blue crystals inside. “It’s a salt and fertilizer compound sold as deicer. The blue is a dye they add for marketing purposes. The compound melts ice but doesn’t kill common plants, flowers, or grass.” He summarized: “Three items-the conifer needles, the potting soil, and the rock salt. It’s enough of a signature, Ivy, if you bring me a suspect.”

The unspoken message interested Dart more than the facts: Ted Bragg had invested an inordinate amount of time in this case that otherwise would have been considered a “grounder.” His poorly staffed forensic sciences division was a busy place; they put investigations to bed as quickly as possible. Bragg, or his assistant, Samantha Richardson, had returned to Payne’s, possibly more than once, in search of evidence. It revealed to Dart how unsettled the man was with his discoveries.

All that Bragg could do was present the evidence in hopes of interesting the lead detective. Ultimately, it was the lead detective’s call whether to pursue that evidence. He clearly saw Kowalski as the weak link.

“So what exactly are you saying?” Kowalski asked rhetorically, answering, “What you’re saying is that some Joe entered the house through a locked garage and did a little housecleaning before he left, after which , our friend Harry Payne blows his hat off with a nine millimeter. Am I missing something here?” He addressed Dart, “This sounds like a bunch of bullshit to me-no offense, Teddy. What do you think?” he asked Dart in a leading tone.

Dart hesitated.

Kowalski said, “Fuck the pine needles and the goddamned potting soil. There’s always crap at any crime scene that you can’t explain. Am I right, or am I right?”

“You’re probably right,” Dart confessed. “Where do we go with this?” he asked Bragg.

“Where you go with it is your business,” Bragg reminded, clearly upset. “I’m just telling you what I found.”

“Where would you go with it?” Dart restated.

Kowalski rocked uncomfortably onto his heels.

Bragg pondered the question, he searched Kowalski’s eyes and then Dart’s. “A botanist, probably. Identify the organic matter. That may or may not tell us something. And I think I would run a crew out to the Payne house once more to do some detail work between the garage entrance to the kitchen and the door to the study.”

“But the garage was locked ,” Kowalski protested.

“I can’t argue that,” Bragg agreed, “but Ivy asked me what I’d do, and that’s what I’d do.”

“Yeah, well,” Kowalski complained, “I say forget about it. This is not a fly ball, boys. It’s a grounder. The guy ate a nine-millimeter-case and casket closed. You want to beat it stupid, that’s your business. Me? I got other shit to do.” Kowalski flicked his thick black hair off his forehead with his meaty hand and said, “Later.”

Dart saw him reaching for a smoke before he was out of the lab.

Bragg said, “Something like this comes up, you know who I wish were still around?”

“Yeah, I know,” Dart acknowledged, his stomach burning. I know , he thought privately. And just maybe he’s closer to this than you think.

The small, two-acre patch of grass along the west bank of the Connecticut River was technically part of Riverside Park, though not directly connected to it. This particular section was beneath the Charter Oak Bridge, a relatively new structure linking Hartford and East Hartford. The river’s brown surface reflected the gray of the sky and the delicate etching of the dormant trees that lined its banks. A pair of ducks raced down the very center of the waterway, their wings singing. A brisk November chill raised Ginny’s collar and had brought out a winter wool sweater. She wore her green oil slicker, partially open, green rubber half-boots with leather laces, and a pair of small pink gloves. The winter river was quieter than that of spring or summer, void of sound, as if sleeping while awaiting its blanket of ice, which had already begun to creep in from the edges.

Dart took a deep breath. “You look worried. What’s wrong?” He felt he knew her well enough to ask this, although it implied an intimacy that she was clearly not comfortable with on that day.

“Nothing.”

“If it’s personal-”

“It’s not,” she snapped.

He felt too much a part of her to separate himself from her tension; it attached to him and slowly choked a ring around his upper throat, restricting his air and increasing his heart rate.

“The name of this woman that you gave me, Danielle Payne,” she said, referring to the late Harold Payne’s wife, “is in the system as a victim a domestic abuse.”

For Dart, this confirmed that at least one verifiable way existed for the killer to identify his victims-this could not be explained by coincidence. The second part of the victim list seemed to be associated with convicted offenders. He said, “You could have told me that over the phone.”

“It’s bigger than that. Bigger than we thought. More confusing,”

She didn’t appreciate nagging, and so he waited her out, but the anxiety swelled in his chest.

She said, “Your friends Stapleton and Lawrence had both recently purchased extensive health care policies. Two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar deductible. The kind of policies you would associate with the affluent. Both within three months prior to their suicides. These are both men with no prior coverage. What did me in was your friend Harold Payne-”