Alan Jacobson - False accusations

“It was his car. And the driver could’ve been wearing gloves.”

“Right.” He had still not taken his eyes off the screen.

Chandler looked at the monitor, then swung his gaze back to Gray. “Have you finished your report?”

“It’s not my report. Saperstein, the other criminalist, has some kind of bleeding ulcer and he’s laid up in the hospital. The boss threw the file on my desk and told me to get the report out ASAP. So that’s what I’m doing. Or trying to do. If you’d leave me alone for a few minutes…”

Chandler frowned. “Fine. I’ll wait for Lou to get out of his meeting.”

“Then have a seat over there,” Gray said, nodding at a chair next to a desk in the comer of the room. “I can’t let you out of my sight.” He looked away from his computer screen for the first time and grinned. “Regulations.”

“No problem,” Chandler said, walking across the lab and sitting down on the chair. He picked up a newspaper as Gray turned his attention back to the report. The Sacramento Herald headline at the bottom of the front page was bold: “Police Commended for Quick Arrest in Doc Murders.” He read on. “Confirmed sources indicate that evidence continues to mount against Sacramento orthopedic surgeon Phillip Madison in the hit-and-run double murder of one week ago. The source stated that an announcement was expected within the next couple of days that could likely seal the coffin of the prominent orthopedist even before his trial begins…”

Chandler threw the paper down. He hated this “confirmed sources” garbage. If people had something to say, they should put their names to it. If they were not prepared to put their names to it, they should not say anything. Many a lie had been couched behind the veil of a “confirmed sources” quote. Sacramento was much better off when the Bee was the only paper in town. When the Herald burst on the scene a dozen years ago, it brought shoot-from-the-hip journalism to California’s capital.

Chandler rubbed the small of his low back. There has to be something that can clear Phil. But what?

Twenty minutes later, Palucci returned just as Gray was completing his report. Chandler took his friend aside, out of earshot of anyone in the lab, and asked if he could see the file.

“You can ask questions, but I can’t let you see it. I’m already sticking my neck out in letting you come in here.”

“Just let me take a quick look. I’m only out here for a few days, so anything that can help me be more productive during that time is important.”

Palucci sighed and looked at Chandler’s pleading eyes. “You sure this guy is clean?”

Chandler nodded. “Absolutely. You know who he is?”

“No, and I don’t want to know. We just do our jobs the best we can, no matter who-”

“Hey, you’re talking to me, Lou, not some idiot bureaucrat. You don’t need to bullshit me.”

Palucci picked the file up off the desk. “Why don’t we grab a bite in the cafeteria,” he said, leading the way out of the room.

Chandler bought lunch, a couple of cellophane-wrapped tuna sandwiches and Cokes. “Godawful food here,” Palucci grumbled as he chewed the first bite of his sandwich. “That’s why I bring something from home or go out.”

Chandler did not hear a word he had said; he was scanning the various forensic reports, growing more dismayed as the evidence against Madison mounted. He felt the knots tightening down in his intestines. The war had begun, and it was beginning to look like the worst enemy would be the physical evidence against his client.

“Chandler, eat your sandwich,” Palucci was saying.

“Huh?”

“Eat.”

“This food’s garbage.”

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?”

“No. Sorry.” He mumbled something to himself, then said, “This isn’t going to be easy.”

“I haven’t seen the file,” Palucci said. “But the forensics don’t usually lie.”

“In this case they have.” He shuffled the papers in the file. “Get the police report yet?”

“If it’s not in there, it hasn’t come through. Either that, or it’s sitting in a bin waiting to be filed.”

Chandler glared at his friend.

“No, I’m not gonna go hunting through the secretary’s desk for it.”

A moment later, Chandler closed the case folder. “Thanks for the sneak preview.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

They smiled and shook hands as Chandler rose from his seat, then threw his sandwich in the trash on the way out. He had no stomach for eating.

Chandler spent the last hour of the afternoon reviewing his notes, then unpacking his clothing and shoving it into the dresser in Madison’s guest room. He called Denise, talked to Noah, and apologized for not being there for his first soccer game. He was supposed to be coaching the team, a responsibility he had to bow out of at the last minute due to his unexpected trip to California.

Denise was still being tolerant of his need to be away, but Chandler knew there was a limit to her understanding. He figured he had another three, maybe four days before she began voicing her disapproval.

Denise told him that Hennessy, his boss, had called inquiring as to when he could expect his star forensic investigator to return. He had a murder case to report on, and he did not condone the taking of unauthorized vacations in the middle of a case workup. He, too, had a tolerance point for this type of behavior, star expert or not.

Chandler sat down at the teak desk in the large, meticulously decorated room and jotted down some supplemental thoughts on what he had seen in the forensic reports. The room was so well appointed, with elegant bedspread, plush carpeting, and lacy drapes, that he felt like he was staying at a three-hundred-dollar-a-night bed-and-breakfast inn.

As Chandler finished making his notes, Madison came home. He had been at the hospital late, consulting on a case as a favor to a friend.

“Hey doc,” Chandler said as he descended the stairs from the third floor. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”

“Good. I just got a call from Jeffrey. He wants to meet us for dinner. He’s anxious to hear what you found out today.”

They drove over to the Bohemian Quarter, a provincial French restaurant tucked into the hills of old Fair Oaks, fifteen minutes from the house. The dimly illuminated candlelit interior was a perfect backdrop for the sobering, crow-eating discussion they were about to have regarding the evidence. The fireplace behind their table roared and occasionally crackled as the logs burned vigorously.

“How does it look?” Hellman was asking as the menus were handed to them by the hostess.

“How does it look?” Chandler sucked on his bottom lip a moment, then said, “Let me put it this way. It looks like the good doctor is a cold-blooded drunken hit-and-run killer. Does that paint a clear enough picture for you?”

“Shit,” Hellman said, reaching for his glass of water.

“What have they got?” Madison asked.

“A left ear print on the Mercedes’s windshield that matches the left ear of the female victim. They have no fingerprints in the car other than Phil’s. An empty six-pack of beer in the backseat. The blood spatter on the underside of the car matches the male victim’s blood type, and the tire mark found on the victim’s coat matches the tread on Phil’s car. There were clothing fibers on the grille, and guess what? They matched those on the victim’s coat. Other fibers matched the ones on the wiper blade.”

“I’m quickly losing my appetite,” Madison said, closing his menu.

“The good news is that your blood alcohol level was zero.”

“All I had was a glass of wine with dinner.”