William Lashner - Falls The Shadow

“That’s what I found, yes.”

“Scotchgarding just gets better and better, don’t you think?”

“Objection.”

“Sustained. Move on, Mr. Carl.”

“Sure, Your Honor, maybe we’ll move on to the boot. The victim’s blood was found on the sole of one of the defendant’s boots, is that right, Officer?”

“Yes.”

“And you were directed to the boot by the ever-vigilant Detective Torricelli, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you don’t know for certain how the blood got there, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“But let’s say that Ms. Dalton is correct in her supposition. Let’s say that the boot was worn at the time of the murder, that the wearer of the boot had accidentally stepped in the victim’s blood, and then the boot was worn back to the defendant’s apartment. Let’s say that.”

“Okay.”

“Then what would we expect to find?”

“Blood on the boot.”

“Yes, of course, which is precisely what you found. But what else would we expect to find, Officer?”

“I suppose you’re going to tell us.”

“Footprints. I’m talking about the murderer’s footprints, marked in blood. Did you find such footprints?”

“There were footwear impressions in blood found at the crime scene.”

“And how were they discovered?”

“Some were apparent. Others, more faint, were developed using a solution of leucocrystal violet. After being sprayed with the solution, even faint bloodstains become visible. Then photographs can be made.”

“You make it sound like there were a lot of footprints.”

“There were more than we would have liked. When the responding officer entered the scene, he immediately went to the victim to check out her condition. Others came in with him. There was a significant amount of traffic before the crime scene was secured.”

“And all these footprints showed up?”

“Many did.”

“Were you able to identify all the footprints you found?”

“Some of them we were. We compare the markings of the shoe soles much like we compare fingerprints. Imperfections in the treads, scuffs on the soles, holes and such often show up and allow us to make positive identifications. We could positively identify the shoe prints of the first responding police officer and the landlord. Others we were not able to identify.”

“You were not able to positively identify, for example, any of the footprints as matching the defendant’s boot?”

“Not to a reasonable certainty, no.”

“But there were bloody shoe prints you found that you were not able to positively identify, isn’t that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No idea whose shoe they could be?”

“No, sir.”

“The murderer, perhaps?”

“I couldn’t say, sir.”

“Of course you couldn’t. And in the defendant’s apartment, while executing the search warrant, did you search for any bloody footprints?”

“We made an examination.”

“With that fluid stuff, leuco something?”

“Leucocrystal violet, yes.”

“What did you find?”

“Nothing.”

“No bloody footprints.”

“No.”

“Even though there was blood on the boot.”

“That’s correct. Of course, the floor could have been cleaned before our tests.”

“Yes, it could have. It would have made perfect sense, wouldn’t it have, for the defendant, racked with a guilty conscience and fear of getting caught, to clean the floor of all evidence while leaving blood on the bottom of his boot, and to wipe the murder weapon clean of prints while leaving it wrapped inside a bloody shirt on the floor of his closet. One last question. The blood on the boot, was it a droplet of blood?”

“No.”

“A series of droplets?”

“No.”

“How did you describe it in your report?”

“Let me check. Yes, here. I said it was a smear on the arch of the sole.”

“A smear on the boot discovered by Detective Torricelli. A smear on the shirt discovered by Detective Torricelli.” I turned to face the good detective sitting red-faced at the prosecution table. “A smear in court.”

“Objection.”

“Mr. Carl,” said the judge with a bite of anger in his voice.

I spread my arms out wide, put on my most innocent expression. “What?” I said.

And then I raised an eyebrow.

Lucky me, I was back in the chair, my temporary crowns pried off, the permanent metal covers of my bridge being fitted and fixed by Dr. Bob. No Novocain for this procedure, just pressing and pulling, bending and scraping, the excruciating squeal of metal against raw nerve.

“So let me get this straight,” said Dr. Pfeffer as he adjusted the light and peered into my mouth, his expression hidden by his mask. “Daniel’s sister, Tanya, is missing. This Reverend Wilkerson knows where she is but won’t say. This Miss Elise also knows where she is, but Miss Elise is somehow hooked up with the reverend. And someone named Rex, who is as big as a house, guards the entrance to the Hotel Latimore, where all the answers are to be found.”

“Ahaouih,” I said.

“Interesting. This whole thing sounds faintly Tolkienish. Maybe what you need is a Hobbit. Open wider. It’s still not quite a perfect fit. A few more adjustments.”

He reached in, did something painful, nodded as if the way my eyes scrunched and hands balled was only to be expected.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“Iohwohw.”

“A difficult dilemma. But I think what you’re attempting is most valuable. This little girl could be in dire trouble, and you could be the only one looking out for her.”

“Ahihehahly,” I said.

“And, Victor, this I can tell you with utter certainty: You must never underestimate the effect of childhood trauma. You would think we can escape it, but we never do. It often explains everything. Open wider. Yes, another tweak is needed.”

He reached in again, the back of my neck constricted in pain.

“Let me tell you a story. Very instructive. There was a doctor who lived in New Jersey. A medical doctor.” Dr. Bob sniffed in disparagement. “For what that’s worth. A young man with the whole of the world in his grasp, a lovely wife, a beautiful daughter, an honorific of which, to be honest, we are all overly proud.”

Dr. Bob reached for another set of pliers. He adjusted the light, shook his head as if in pity for the young intern whose story he was relating, snapped the teeth of the pliers twice before reaching them into my mouth.

“One day our doctor was driving home after picking up his young daughter from school. Suddenly an orange Gremlin turned without stopping at a stop sign and forced the doctor out of his lane, spraying the doctor’s Pontiac with pebbles in the process. Remember the Gremlin, a beastly little car? If it had been a Cadillac, our doctor might have let it go, but a Gremlin? Doctors don’t get cut off by Gremlins. Hold still. Yes, looking much better. So our young doctor followed the Gremlin, angrily bleating his horn. He caught up to it at another stop sign, jabbed his finger at the other driver, ordered the car to the side of the road.”

Dr. Bob peered closely at my mouth for a moment, let out a perplexed “Hmm,” and readjusted the light. He took one of his pointy metal thingers and scraped at the gum line of my lower front teeth. “I’m not sure I like that?”

“Wha?”

“Do you floss?”

“Uhie.”

“Well, sometimes is apparently not enough. I don’t have the time this afternoon, but next visit you’ll need a full cleaning. Much would be made in the press about the driver of the Gremlin, about his suspended license, his prior drug convictions, and, as was the case in those days, his race. But if you read carefully the news reports, you can see that just then, in a strange neighborhood, on the side of the road, with this stranger coming at him, bellowing in that harsh, professional voice, the other driver was simply scared. Scared enough to pull a gun out of his waistband and fire into the good doctor’s chest.”