A Score to Settle Page 5
“Well?” Daniel said. Then his face softened. “Jamie, what’s wrong? You’re pale. Did he say something to upset you?”
Her lips felt suddenly cold, and she could barely form the words. “You said something about a s-serial killer?”
CHAPTER FOUR
“WHO WAS THAT ON THE PHONE?” Daniel asked sharply. Whoever it was, he’d sure said something to shake up Jamie.
“My evidence tech, the one reexamining Frank Sissom’s clothes. He found something no one else did—very fine metal shavings.”
Daniel could hardly believe what he was hearing. His long shot had paid off. “Jamie, this is huge. Do you realize what this means?” In his exuberance, he threw his arms around the lawyer and hugged her. Finally, someone had listened to him about those damn metal shavings.
“Um, do you always get this happy at the prospect of helping a client?”
Suddenly self-conscious, he released her and scooted back a few inches on the enormous bench seat. “Sorry.” Had he been out of the social scene so long, he’d forgotten how to behave appropriately with someone he barely knew?
Only, he felt as if he knew her. Over the past twenty-four hours, he had delved deeply into Jamie McNair’s background, and his admiration for her had only grown.
Her roots had come from anything but privilege. Her single mother had raised her in a one-bedroom apartment with a series of low-paying jobs. Her father was completely absent—Daniel hadn’t even been able to learn his identity.
Yet Jamie had gotten herself an education with a lot of hard work, scholarships and student loans. Still not rolling in dough, judging from her off-the-rack plum-colored suit and a pair of slightly scuffed black pumps—recently polished, but in need of new soles.
Not that she didn’t look stunning in that color. She would look stunning in just about anything.
Daniel forced himself to focus. “You don’t share my optimism, I take it.”
“Frankly, I’m too shocked to know what I feel. The black, powdery substance on Frank Sissom’s shirt was written off as copier or printer toner. No one ever questioned it or analyzed it until now. It didn’t seem relevant.”
“I’ve learned it’s those tiny, overlooked elements that can make or break a case. So, are we on the same page now? Same offender?”
“It warrants looking into,” she said with some degree of resignation. “One thing I can’t help but notice—Frank Sissom was murdered a scant two months after you were released from prison. If we have a serial offender, who’s to say it isn’t you?”
Daniel felt a prickling of fear. He’d never even considered that he could become a suspect. But he grabbed a bottled water and took a sip to relieve his suddenly dry mouth.
“Why would I push to exonerate Christopher and find the real murderer, if the real murderer was me?” he asked sensibly.
She shrugged. “I’ll put that possibility on the back burner. For now. But that leaves me with Gables as a two-time murderer.”
Daniel curbed his impatience. “Gables was a college kid at the time of the first crime.”
“College kids are adults, perfectly capable of homicide.”
One inch at a time. Daniel had more now than he did last time he’d met with Jamie. He just had to keep building.
“Back to the metal shavings. Was your guy able to distinguish the type of metal, or where it might have come from?”
“Well, it’s ferrous, which means iron or nickel, or an alloy of either. We haven’t gotten beyond that yet. The type of close analysis you’re talking about takes time…and money.”
“I’ll give you the name of a lab. They do photo-chemical spectography, which can give us the exact— What?”
Her expression was closed again, guarded. “It’s not just a question of time or money. My boss is going to throw a fit.”
“Does he have to know?”
“Of course he does! If you’re right, if Christopher Gables was involved in two murders—”
“Wait. Stop right there. You can’t seriously think Gables is a serial killer.”
“How can you know it’s not Gables? Look at it from my perspective, Daniel. I am as sure as I’ve ever been that Christopher Gables committed the murder of Frank Sissom. You can’t argue away those fingerprints. If trace evidence links this murder to another, then Christopher might well be involved in the previous murder, as well. It only makes sense.”
It made no sense at all.
“Would you like me to give you an explanation for the fingerprints?” Daniel asked.
“Oh, this I’ve got to hear.”
Daniel had given this a lot of thought. Because, unlike Jamie, he knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that he hadn’t killed anyone, yet his prints had been found on a murder weapon.
“Christopher used the knife for something else—hours, days, even months prior to the murder. So long as no one else touches the knife, the prints remain intact.
“The real murderer then uses an identical knife to commit the crime. Wearing gloves, he smears some blood on the knife bearing Christopher’s prints and places it near the body. Voilà, a perfect frame-up.”
“The medical examiner matched the knife to the wound,” she argued.
Daniel opened his briefcase, rifled through it until he came up with a page of the trial transcript with some testimony highlighted in yellow.
“‘The wound on Mr. Sissom’s neck is consistent with a Messermeister Meridian Elite eight-inch chef’s knife—the knife found near his body.’ Do you recognize that testimony, Jamie?”
She closed her eyes for a moment. “Yes.”
“‘…is consistent with…’ doesn’t mean the same as ‘exact match,’ does it?”
“Please, I’m not on trial here. You’ve made your point. The murder could have been committed with an identical knife.”
“You have no idea how many nights I lie awake, thinking about how my prints ended up on a murder weapon. I had no conscious memory of using the knife that killed my partner. I’m not a chef, and I spent little time in the kitchen.”
“So how do you explain it?”
“I tried to think of the things I might use a knife for. And here’s what I came up with. I might have used a knife to open a package. Not the day of the murder, but perhaps weeks earlier. I had a penknife I kept in my pocket for such things, because the restaurant received packages all the time. But I could have mislaid it and picked up whatever was handy.”
Daniel could almost see the gears turning in Jamie’s head as she mulled over his theory.
“Christopher wasn’t a chef, either,” she finally said. “Our theory was that Christopher confronted Frank in the kitchen, knowing ahead of time he would have his choice of murder weapons.”
“I’d like to talk to him,” Daniel said. “See if he has any memory of touching that knife for an innocent purpose.”
“I can answer that for you. He said he used it to cut up an apple for lunch that day. Which was an obvious lie, because he always ate something off the menu for his lunch, and at least three witnesses saw him eating fajitas.”
“It was a lie, I’ll grant you that. Probably concocted on the spur of the moment out of fear and desperation. Have you ever been interrogated, Jamie?”
“No, but I’ve witnessed many police interviews and watched loads of video.”
“That’s not the same. Until you’re locked in that room with a couple of mean-eyed cops, pointing fingers at you, shouting at you, playing head games with you—you have no idea what it’s like. You are tempted to say anything, no matter how untrue, just to get those guys to leave you alone.”
“Did you?” Jamie asked, not without compassion.
“I didn’t. But I was still secure in the belief that my father and his influence and money would straighten everything out. Christopher didn’t have that to fall back on.
“I submit that he told that lie because he was terrified. And his lawyer coached him to continue the lie rather than admit to it.”
Daniel gave her a few moments of silence before he pressed his argument. “Raleigh, our chief legal counsel, has put in the paperwork for a face-to-face interview with Christopher. I’d like you to go with her to the prison.”
“Raleigh? Why not you?”
“Prison officials have to grant an interview for a death-row inmate with his attorney of record. I’m not an attorney.”
“Daniel, I know how Project Justice operates. Your people conduct interviews with prisoners on death row all the time, often without an attorney present.”
“It wouldn’t work this time.”
“I submit,” she said, reflecting his own verbiage back to him, “that you are not the best person to argue on Christopher’s behalf. Not only are you seriously biased because of the similarities between the crimes, but your high profile—by your own admission—makes it difficult for you to move about comfortably in public situations.
“So why don’t you assign this case to one of your people. Full-time. It will be easier on everyone.”
“My ‘serious bias,’ as you put it, makes me uniquely qualified to fight passionately for Christopher’s freedom.”
“Then don’t you think you’re the best one to interview him?”
She was right. And yet…the thought of walking into that prison—the very same prison where Daniel had been incarcerated—was abhorrent to him.
“If I agree, will you go with me? Because, as the prosecutor of this case, you also are uniquely qualified to shoot down any half-baked theories. You know what will and won’t fly in a courtroom before a judge.”
“I’ll have to clear it with my boss.”
And she’d already told him: her boss hated the idea of reopening this case.
“I’ll set something up for next week. That should give you a chance to clear your schedule.”
“I’ll send the metal shavings for further analysis. What’s the name of your lab?”
“PrakTech Laboratories. They’re certified by the county, so that shouldn’t be a problem. Of course, Project Justice will pick up the bill.”
She shook her head, firmed her lips. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe I’ve let you talk me into this. In the end, I’ll probably trash my career, and for what? Christopher Gables isn’t going to walk unless another suspect turns himself in and confesses.”
He felt for her. He really did. “You’re doing this because a man’s life is at stake. You’re a good person, and you don’t like the thought of prosecuting an innocent man any more than I do.”
“Or maybe you’re just one persuasive man.”
“That, too.” He smiled at her for the first time since she’d gotten in the car, and she smiled back.
“I will be checking into Christopher Gables’s whereabouts at the time of the Andreas Musto murder.”
“You would be remiss in your duties if you didn’t. Jamie…I want you to know that I’m grateful.”
“Because you’ve backed me into a corner?”
“For doing the right thing. The man who prosecuted my case—Chet Dotie, as I’m sure you know—he stone-walled every effort I made to exonerate myself. He considered my effort a personal affront, and he threw every barrier into my path he could think of, ethical or not.”
“I’m sure it looked that way…” She trailed off and looked away, less composed, suddenly. “Prosecutors invest a lot of time and money into an important case. I mean, it’s not just about that. Most of them believe…they fight passionately…”
“Dotie didn’t believe in it, though,” Daniel informed her. “He looked me straight in the eye and told me he didn’t care if I’d done it or not, he wasn’t going to let some snot-nosed rich kid get out of jail just because his daddy had money.”
Jamie’s eyebrows shot up and her nostrils flared.
“I’m not telling you this simply to malign one of your own. It’s just that the contrast of your open mind is refreshing.”
She didn’t seem to appreciate the compliment. “We’ll see how refreshed you feel when this is all over.” Her phone rang, and she answered it without apology this time. “McNair…okay, on my way.”
“Verdict’s in?”
“I assume I’ll hear from you when you have new information.”
“And I assume the same.”
She shot out of his car like the hounds of hell were chasing her. A few enterprising reporters tried to thwart her progress, but she put her briefcase in front of her like a battering ram and they got out of her way.
He didn’t blame them. She seemed soft and sweet sometimes, but then she could turn around and breathe fire at him. The contrast was interesting.
She was interesting. The reporters eyeing his limo were just plain scary. Daniel opened the glass partition. “Let’s get out of here.”
“You got it.”
AS SHE PRACTICALLY SPRINTED UP the stairs toward the justice center, Jamie felt like she couldn’t get enough air. Those things he’d said about her father—were they true? Or had he just made up a story to manipulate her emotions?
Daniel might be manipulative, but she hadn’t caught him in a lie yet. What little she’d read about his arrest and trial indicated that his story had never changed. He hadn’t made up anything to explain away facts, as Christopher had.
Which left her wondering—was her father not the man she believed he’d been?
She and Chet Dotie had never enjoyed a warm relationship. Although she’d always known his name, her mother had forbid mention of it and had refused to allow her daughter any contact with the man who had sired her.
Apparently her father had sent money from time to time. Although he’d never made any concerted effort to see his daughter, he hadn’t completely forgotten her.
That knowledge had led her to seek him out when she was in college, when her mother couldn’t stop her. He’d been surprised, confused and not altogether welcoming of her intrusion into his life. But gradually he’d come around when he realized she wasn’t going to publicize their relationship and possibly taint his reputation.
He started taking a keen interest in her studies, even paying her tuition on occasion, provided she took the classes he specified. Though she’d been drawn to art and literature, he had pointed out to her that she couldn’t afford that indulgence. She needed a career that would provide a solid, regular income. Law school it was. Period.
She had bristled at his high-handedness at first, but she’d soon discovered she was well suited to the legal profession and had settled in to be the best law student she could be.
Chet took for granted her good grades and the prestigious internship she’d earned. She’d thought he was reserving his praise for when she graduated. But then he died suddenly, just before she got her juris doctorate.
She could have gone into private practice, but she’d wanted to follow in his footsteps. Prosecuting crimes had seemed noble. Her father had been well respected, and she thought it a worthy goal to emulate him.
Had it all been a lie? The thought of him telling a man on death row that he didn’t care about guilt or innocence turned her stomach.
She should have told Daniel that Chet was her father. But such an emotional bombshell would likely derail the tenuous alliance they’d formed. She needed to stay on friendly terms with him, she reasoned. If this “serial killer” thing panned out, she wanted some say in how the situation was handled.
If Christopher Gables had killed before, and she broke the news, it would be a feather in her cap that she’d been the one to send him to prison.
If, on the other hand, the killings were linked and someone other than Christopher was responsible… No, she didn’t want to think about that. It couldn’t be true. Daniel had spun a pretty story about the knife and the fingerprints, but it was improbable at best, like something out of an Agatha Christie novel.
She had to stop allowing him to get through her defenses!
Jamie op
erated on automatic pilot as the verdict for her drunk-driving case was announced. Guilty. Judge sentenced the defendant to five years. She considered that a victory.
Next stop: the D.A.’s office. Her heart thudded inside her chest as she contemplated how Winston Chubb would take the latest developments she and Daniel had just discussed. The first time she’d brought up the Gables case, he’d nearly blown a gasket.
Winston’s admin squeezed her in between appointments. When Jamie tapped on his door, he beckoned her inside with no welcoming smile.
Winston Chubb was tall, angular, almost emaciated, an image that didn’t jibe with his name at all. He had sparse black hair and deep-set, probing eyes. He scared the hell out of people in the courtroom.
“Please tell me you got a guilty verdict with the Mosely case,” he said.
“Yes. He got five years.”
“Okay, then. Good job. Why are you here?”
He didn’t waste words, this guy.
“It’s the Christopher Gables case.”
His face turned to thunder. “Thought I told you to leave that one alone.”
“I’d like to. But the witness I told you about was credible. And some evidence has been reanalyzed—”
“Who authorized that?”
He was trying to intimidate her, and she refused to let him. “I did,” she said boldly. “I was curious. It turns out the Gables case might be linked to another, earlier murder. The, um, Andreas Musto case.”
Winston’s bushy eyebrows flew up. “Are you joking?”
“I wouldn’t joke about something like this. The surface similarities are enough to intrigue me.”
“Please, Jamie, let it drop. When I sent you to talk to Logan, I assumed you would quietly talk him out of this nonsense. I can’t afford another scandal. I’m still taking crap from the Anthony Simonetti case. And you—your career is really taking off. You can’t afford it, either.” This last, he delivered as a warning.
“I feel we don’t have a choice. Daniel Logan has made it his personal mission to free Christopher Gables.”
“Free him? I thought you said Gables was a possible two-time offender, not that he might be innocent.”