Joan Pickart - Body of Evidence

“But we’re missing the last piece to the puzzle,” Evan said wearily. “The evidence that would make it possible for me to feel confident I can get a guilty verdict from the jury. We’re not giving up. Waters and Wilson are putting in grueling days trying to find what we need, and I’m going over every shred of evidence we do have, time and again.”

“You all must be exhausted.”

“We are, but there’s no getting around the fact that all the defense has to do is establish reasonable doubt, while I have to prove without a doubt that he did it. If I can’t do that, he walks. Lyle Gardner will stroll out of that courtroom a free man and he’s guilty as sin. I know it. I feel it. I’m just not certain that I can prove it.”

T hat evening Jennifer sat curled up in the corner of the sofa in her apartment with a mug of hot tea. Her hair was still damp from a long, soothing shower and she was wearing her favorite old chenille robe that had once been a bright blue but was now a rather faded, dingy gray.

Her notebook was propped on the arm of the sofa and she was transferring her notes onto the legal pad on her lap, adding more details and impressions.

No wonder Evan was concerned about the outcome of the trial that was rapidly approaching, she thought, staring into space. The case was complex with a myriad of players in the drama.

And no wonder the press was everywhere, hoping for any details they could add to their daily reports to the public. The Gardner family, one of the icons of Chicago, had been toppled in a wave of scandalous disgrace to the delight of the sensation-seeking citizens of the windy city.

The murdered man, Franklin Gardner, had been a highly visible member of the socially prominent and civic-minded family. Franklin, along with his brother Lyle and mother Cecelia, were continually lauded for their generous donations of time and money as they supported fund-raising events for a multitude of charities.

“The mighty have fallen,” Jennifer said aloud.

And in disgrace, she mentally tacked on. The investigation of Franklin ’s murder had revealed a dark side to the man. He’d been involved in a horrendous operation that kidnapped pretty young girls and sold them to an overseas prostitution ring.

“Unbelievable,” Jennifer whispered, then flipped to the next page in the notebook.

How diabolically slick the whole thing had been, she mused. Gardner money helped support halfway houses and shelters in the city that Franklin often and understandably visited on behalf of his family.

It was there that he selected his victims, then arranged for Desmond Reicher, a business associate, to proposition the girls and bring them to the buyer. Franklin made certain that he selected only runaways, which resulted in the belief that the girls had once again decided to disappear.

Reicher had been arrested, was considered a flight risk and was in jail with no bail granted as he awaited trial. He adamantly denied any guilt in the murder of Franklin Gardner, and the detectives on the case believed him. Why would Reicher kill the golden goose in the form of Franklin Gardner? Without Franklin, Reicher’s steady stream of money would be cut off. No, Desmond Reicher had not killed Franklin Gardner.

The detectives had shifted their attention to Lyle, Franklin ’s older brother. His alibi at the time of the murder was flimsy…he was home alone watching television. Also, the medical examiner had determined that Franklin had been murdered by someone who was left-handed. Lyle was left-handed. Reicher was right-handed.

The detectives were also going on their gut instincts, feeling the smiling, albeit haughty facade that Lyle presented was phony, covering up the truth he refused to reveal.

They didn’t believe for one second that Lyle was surprised and devastated by the brutal death of his brother and the truth of what Franklin had been involved in.

The autopsy of Franklin ’s body had shown that in addition to stab wounds, apparently from an ice pick, Franklin had also received blows to his face. The bruises there indicated that he had been struck by a fist where a heavy signet ring was worn. His actual death had been caused by a blow to the back of his head when he’d fallen and struck it on the edge of a table.

It had come to light that Lyle Gardner wore such a signet ring. He claimed he must have lost it somewhere because he couldn’t find it. Nor had a police search of his home and office turned up the ring.

The detectives believed that Lyle learned of his brother’s activities, confronted him, and the pair came to blows. The wounds from the ice pick had been administered after Franklin was dead to give the impression that a botched burglary had taken place. Lyle had taken a few valuable items from the apartment to further that theory and had disposed of the incriminating ring.

“Oh, dear,” Jennifer said to herself, shaking her head. “It really is very circumstantial evidence. No wonder Evan is so worried about proving that Lyle killed his brother.”

Evan had a rough road to go, Jennifer thought as she set aside her work and sipped her tea. He looked so tired, thoroughly exhausted, and Belinda had told Jennifer that Evan was putting in very long days at the office as he prepared to go to trial.

Jennifer glanced at the cuckoo clock on the wall and saw that it was nearly ten o’clock.

Was Evan still in his office at the courthouse? she wondered, poring over every scrap of evidence he had. What a lonely picture that painted in her mind. Evan would be in a small circle of light with total darkness and heavy silence beyond it. All alone. Thinking of nothing but the case he was determined to win. How stark, narrow and empty that was as it flitted across her mind’s eye.

But that was her reaction to the scenario she was creating. It might seem bleak and lonely to her, but to Evan? His career was his world, the focus of his existence. If he was still at the office he was probably relieved that everyone else had gone home so he could work in peace with no chance of being interrupted.

The telephone on the end table shrilled, causing Jennifer to nearly jump off the sofa from the sudden noise.

Who on earth would be calling at this hour? she thought, staring at the phone that continued to ring. She snatched up the receiver.

“Hello?”

“Jennifer? Evan.”

Jennifer’s eyes widened. He’d read her mind. From wherever he was he’d peered into her brain, knew she’d been thinking about him. He… Oh, for Pete’s sake, Jennifer, you’re totally losing it.

“Jennifer?”

“What? Oh, yes, I’m here, Evan.”

“I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No, no, I was working on my notes and…Where are you?”

“At the office.”

Of course he was, she thought. That was his favorite place to be. His home away from home, or some such depressing thing.

“And you called me because?”

“I’m going to stop off at Franklin Gardner’s apartment tomorrow morning before I come in here to the office. Your cameraman…what’s his name? Slates?”

“Sticks. He’s very tall and thin and has long legs, and he goes by the name of Sticks.”

“Whatever. Sticks can film the building from the outside, but the apartment itself is still considered a crime scene and he can’t go in there. I’ll take you inside with me, but no footage is to be filmed.”

“All right. Sticks can go by there whenever and get what he needs from in front or across the street.” She paused. “Why are you…we…going to the scene of the crime now?”

“I don’t know,” Evan said, sounding very weary. “I was called the night it happened because of the fact that a high-profile Gardner had been murdered, but I would have been in the way if I’d gone over then.