Ridley Pearson - Chain of Evidence

“They are murders. We’ve confirmed that,” Dart interrupted, silencing her. “Related directly to your trial. I need to stop the trials.”

“You can prove to me that they are related?” The fingers of her right hand ran up and down the stem of the wineglass nervously.

Dart said, “We need to offer these men protection-”

“Impossible.”

“They’re targets!”

She stared at him for a moment and then said, “Detective Dartelli, I can’t divulge to you the nature of any of our trials, but what you are suggesting would most certainly compromise the trial, most likely nullify any results, and thereby cost this company millions of dollars. I can promise you, Detective- promise -that we’ll fight any such attempt on your part. You and your department will bear huge legal costs if we have anything to say about it. I don’t think either of us wants that.”

“We need your cooperation,” he almost pleaded. I need to bring proof to my superiors, he thought. I need to shut you down.

“No. That’s not going to happen,” she said sternly.

“You have Proctor working on this, is that it? You think you can handle this without-”

Dart caught himself midsentence, recalling Zeller at the fire and the man’s intimation that Zeller was himself a target. He met eyes with Martinson. Hers were stone cold and her breathing had calmed to where her chest was not moving at all. Frighteningly confident. Proctor had been told to rid her of this problem called Walter Zeller. She knows about Zeller! Dart realized.

“You need me,” he told her.

Her gaze remained unflinching. She sipped the wine and rested the glass cradled in her hands in her lap, and her fingers toyed with the stem again.

“The suicides will eventually be linked to your clinical trial,” Dart warned, “to your drug-this Prozac for sex offenders.” She stiffened noticeably, a look of hate filling her face. “Unless a person is held responsible by the police, tried, and convicted, your drug will be blamed.” He didn’t want a gang of rent-a-cops hunting down Zeller and performing roadside justice. No matter what his crimes, the sergeant deserved better. Suddenly he felt his sentiments shifting toward Zeller, found himself believing that he owed it to Zeller to find him first. “Do you understand me?” Dart asked angrily. Her impassive front was getting to him. She had still not recovered from his calling her drug Prozac for sex offenders. He sensed that he knew something that she didn’t want him to know, and that in desperation, he might have played that card wrongly.

“I think we both understand each other,” she returned, her voice dry despite the wine.

“Unless these suicides become reclassified as homicides, your drug will be blamed. You said yourself that such a ruling would be devastating to your company. That reclassification is up to me, doctor.”

“No comment.” She lifted her chin and literally looked down her nose at him.

What was her game? he wondered. “You need me,” he repeated. If murder, it would appear that someone had attempted to sabotage her research; if suicide, that the drug had fatal side effects.

“I need to get back to my work,” she said stubbornly.

“You need me to do this,” he said again.

“Need you?” She smirked, and said, “Let’s assume, hypothetically, that you’re right-that someone may be testing what you’ve called a Prozac for sex offenders. Do you see the importance of such a thing? Can you begin to understand the social and economic implications of such a treatment? The benefits to society? Even were this company to be partly effective in its goal-let’s say that we could reduce physical and sexual abuse by ten, or fifteen, or twenty percent with no adverse side effects-can you argue effectively against such a treatment? But there are those who would stop such a thing if they could. Oh, yes. Believe me, there are. They would say a crime committed is a crime to be paid for. They would do anything to see such a treatment fail- anything -this hypothetical company’s competitors, certain rights organizations-it’s a long list. You say you may be able to reclassify these suicides as homicides, Detective. Let’s say, hypothetically of course, that this company had over ten years in such an effort-where would you put your faith?” She drank some of the wine and caught eyes with Dart. “What I’m telling you, Detective, if you’re listening, is that I’m not convinced that these men, these suicides of yours, were ever part of any Roxin trial.” Dart felt the words like a blow to his chest. “You seem like a perfectly nice man; I wouldn’t want to embarrass you.” She spun the wineglass in her fingers. “You may be made to look foolish if you pursue this any further,” she cautioned.

Can she get the names off the list? he suddenly wondered. He had no documentation from Martinson concerning the participation of Stapleton, Lawrence, and Payne in the trial, only a verbal comment made to him several days earlier. She could deny it all. If she could destroy the record of their participation then her only concern for their killer would be that he be taken care of-quickly and quietly, the less publicity the better. And that he, Dart, not make trouble.

“If someone has convinced you to go outside the law on this, Dr. Martinson, I strongly advise you to seek a second opinion-preferably a legal opinion. There’s no reason to further-”

“My impression,” she said sharply, interrupting him and coming to her feet, her chest heaving once again, “is that we are both wasting our time, Detective, and that we both have better things to do than to sit around speculating. I have, in fact, solicited just the legal opinion for which you seem to be strongly lobbying, and that has come back an unqualified ‘No comment.’ Unqualified, ” she repeated. “I’ll show you to the door now.”

“This is not the way to handle this,” Dart warned. “You’re making a big mistake.”

“And you, Detective, had better be careful, or you may need your own attorney, your own second opinion.” She paused by the front door. The threat came not from her words, but from her eyes. “Don’t meddle, Detective.” She turned the handle and opened the door. The cold air rushed in and stung Dart’s face.

“We can work together on this,” Dart offered one last time.

“I don’t think so. No thank you.” She opened the door. Dart stepped outside, suddenly chilled to the bone.

He was out on Farmington Avenue when his cellular rang, and the phone got hung up in his pocket trying to come out. He thought he had missed the call because it stopped ringing just before he answered. The line was in fact dead, but a moment later it rang again.

“Dartelli,” he answered.

“You’re finally thinking like a cop,” said Zeller’s voice. Dart immediately checked the rearview mirror and the cars in front of him, but it was a pitch black night, and besides, he thought, Zeller would never make it that easy.

“I can help you, Sarge. But you-”

“Save it, Ivy. Just do your fucking job. That’s help enough. There’s a science editor at the New York Times might be interested in what you know. His name is Rosenburg. Good writer.”

The line went dead.

Dart jerked the wheel, skidded off the shoulder, and came to an abrupt stop at the top of a hill. He jumped out of the car and searched for a vehicle executing a U-turn or parked conspicuously. Below him was an intersection with a gas station and a bookstore on opposing corners. He looked for someone standing at a pay phone, or an idle car.