Ridley Pearson - Chain of Evidence

Dart answered him with a nod, attempting to keep any emotion off his face.

Bragg said, “It looks like some guy comes in and taps someone. You have a body, I’m assuming?” Dart didn’t answer. Annoyed, Bragg said, “The blood splatter is telling me small weapons fire at close range. Drags the body, from yea to yea,” he said, pointing to the carpet marks that ran from the television to the window, “and, judging by the blood smear out there, tosses the stiff over the rail toward that Dumpster. The Dumpster is next, Ivy. I gotta get a look down there.” He smiled proudly. “You found the body in the Dumpster, am I right?”

Dart said, “You’ve never been to my place, have you, Teddy?” He rounded the corner into the kitchen and retrieved a beer from the refrigerator. He handed it to the forensics man.

“Your place? No. Why do you ask?” Bragg drank generously from the can.

“Did I tell you that Ginny took most of the furniture when she split?” Dart looked out into the empty living room. Bragg’s eyes followed his closely.

“Is that right?” Bragg asked uneasily. He shifted in the chair restlessly.

Dart drank a long gulp of beer. “Yup.”

“Left you three chairs, did she?” Bragg asked, counting the chair he was sitting in and two others by the breakfast table across the room.

“Three. That’s right.”

Bragg’s eyes filled with concern. “What the hell’s going on?” Agitated, he glanced at Dart sharply. “This is your place, huh?”

“Yup.”

“Oh, shit. Listen, we all lose our cool eventually, Ivy. It happens. If you called me because you want help getting rid of the evidence … I can’t do that for you. I can walk away from here. I can never mention this. But I can’t help you.”

Dart smiled. “It’s that convincing, isn’t it?” he asked.

“What?”

“The evidence.”

Bragg looked around. “What are you saying?”

“I had to make sure it was convincing.”

Bragg said, “You called me because we’re friends. I understand that-”

Interrupting, Dart said, “I called you because you’re the last line of defense. You’re the final arbiter. You’re the one who signs off on this stuff. You’re the guy, Teddy.” Dart reached down and sorted through Bragg’s evidence bags, all neatly marked and labeled. He found three of those he was after and dropped them into Bragg’s lap.

Bragg studied them. His forehead was shiny with perspiration. “I won’t destroy evidence for you, Ivy.”

Dart laughed. He met eyes with the man and said, “Those fibers are from the basement of 11 Hamilton Court. A fly-tying setup in the basement. Everything in little containers.”

“Fishing?”

“It has nothing to do with fishing.”

Bragg lifted one of the bags then and inspected its contents closely, confused and nervous.

“Animal hairs, metal shavings, synthetics, feathers-all there on that fly-tying table.” Dart explained, “The crime scenes-the suicides-were works of fiction. The hairs and fibers were props, Teddy. Planted by a very clever individual. They told a story that we were comfortable reading.” He pointed to the living room. “It took me a little over two hours to set this up-but then I’m new at this.”

Bragg’s eyes went wide as he began to comprehend. “You staged this?”

“I had to see if it could be done. I had to see if I could fool the best. You are the best, Teddy. It couldn’t be Richardson. I scripted this crime scene, and I used the necessary props to be convincing.”

“You woke me up for a staged crime scene?” Bragg checked his watch.

“We’re predictable, Teddy. You, me-all of us.” He added, “If you know us well enough.”

Bragg put down the beer and got out of the chair and walked a few feet to the edge of the living room and looked it over. “Staged?” he asked incredulously.

Dart gave the man time to think it over, to see the various ramifications of someone planting trace evidence at a crime scene. He finally announced, “They were all homicides, Teddy. Every last one of them.”

Bragg considered this for a long time. “Yeah? Think so? I tell ya-to be this good,” he declared strongly, “you gotta be better than smart. You gotta be one of us.”

“That’s right.”

Bragg paled. “You know who it is?”

Dart nodded. “Yeah,” he answered. “I know.”

Wallace Sparco was feeling out of form. He should have been feeling good; another worthless piece of shit was about to stop using up air. But Dart was getting too close; he was making a real pain in the ass out of himself.

Beneath Sparco’s forest green safari jacket, Zeller wore a hooded sweatshirt and a tan fishing vest, its pouches and pockets loaded with goodies. The bulk of it added the look of weight to him, which made him feel better. He thought of himself as a big man; it was difficult for him to feel this thin, this slight, this insignificant.

Zeller’s hands sweated lightly inside the black golf gloves that gripped the steering wheel. Dennis Greenwood lived just north of Colt Park, on Norwich Street in the south end, dictating that Zeller conduct himself with extreme self-confidence and work quickly. Norwich Street was immediately west of Dutch Point, an area so dangerous that city cabs stayed out. A white man-no matter how big-walking the streets in this area offered himself as a potential victim. To enter this area at night was so risky that Zeller-looking and behaving like Wallace Sparco-felt forced to make his move during dusk. He turned left onto Wyllys and parked, checked his sidearm, pulled the hood over his head, grabbed the small duffel bag, and made for the two-story tenement less than half a block away. Dennis Greenwood rented the upper floor, accessible only from the back. Sparco threaded his way over soggy litter, dog shit, and foul-smelling trash and found his way to the rickety wooden stairs, which he climbed in a hurry.

One thing nice about this neighborhood was that the cops would get nothing from any witness. No cooperation whatsoever. Zeller could have killed the man out in the street, and Dart and company would not get so much as a description.

Surveillance here had been difficult. Zeller had patrolled the area only three times and decided it was too tough a neighborhood to park his car and effect a stakeout. He did know that Greenwood had no phone, no credit cards, no current girlfriend. The black man had held a variety of jobs over the last six months, including a position at the Murphy Road Post Office. He had either quit or been fired, always because of drugs and alcohol. Four months earlier, his driver’s license had been reinstated after a six-week stint with a city-provided twelve-step rehabilitation program. There was no car registered in his name, although as of a week ago, he drove an eight-hour shift for Yellow Cab. The shift ended at four in the afternoon.

It was five-fifteen.

Sparco reached the scarred wooden door and knocked sharply. The drawn shade parted slightly and Sparco saw an eyeball peering back out at him.

“I’m working with the clinical trial,” Zeller said in his best Wallace Sparco voice-a little lower than his own. “We have a change in your medication. Open the door please, Mr. Greenwood.”

He waited through the metallic sound of four locks being disengaged, and the abrasive rubbing of the door on the jamb as it came open. His hands felt damp and uncomfortable inside the leather gloves, but he accepted their necessity.

“How are you doing?” Zeller asked, stepping inside, tapping the toe of his right shoe in an absentminded nervous gesture. It all had to go perfectly to pull off Greenwood the way Zeller wanted it.