Christina poked her head through the door. "I saw your star witness leave. Everything okay?"

  "Definitely not," Ben grumbled. "Strike his name from the list. With indelible ink."

  "That bad, huh?"

  "Worse."

  She walked behind him and began massaging his shoulders. "Don't worry. You'll think of something."

  Ben wished he shared her confidence, but he didn't. But he hoped she was right. Because if she wasn't, Father Beale would have to go forth and testify, a Christian soldier marching as to war. And Canelli would tear him apart. Manly Trussell returned to his apartment, his fists covered with blood.

  His friend was waiting for him. "Have a good time?"

  Manly glanced at his hands, then walked to the sink. "You could say that."

  "I do admire a man who loves his work. Success?"

  Manly let the water stream over his hands, watching the thin red streaks swirl around the basin. "I think it's fair to say there's one more babykiller who won't be gabbing much in the near future. Not till his jaw reattaches, anyway."

  "And he didn't identify you?"

  "Nope. Learned my lesson last time. I wore the mask."

  "Good. Very good." The slowed articulation and slight pursing of the lips suggested what the speaker didn't wish to say. "So… you just hurt him?"

  "Yeah, I hurt him. Bad. Whaddaya mean, just?"

  "I wonder if maybe it's time to… elevate the initiative. Take it to the next level."

  Manly shut off the water and grabbed a towel. "What's that s'posed to mean?"

  "I think you know."

  "No, I don't. What?"

  "Well… they're never really going to take you seriously. Not while you're just wounding them."

  "I think that creep tonight is going to take his wounding very seriously." Manly slung his towel back against the rack. "Are you saying you want me to kill these people?"

  "Death does have a way of driving a point home. As you well know."

  "Yeah, but I-"

  "I don't want to pressure you, Manly. You do what you think is right. Not everyone has the courage to… go the distance."

  "Now, wait just a goddamn minute. I got plenty of courage. But you're talking about murder."

  "Four thousand aborted babies are murdered in this country every year, Manly. Is that right?"

  "That's different."

  "It isn't different. It's the whole point. More murders happen every day. The question is what you're going to do about it."

  Manly ran his fingers through his sandy hair. "I guess. But still…" He exhaled slowly. "Jesus. I don't know what to think."

  "Then don't, Manly." His friend laid a hand on Manly's shoulder. "It isn't exactly your strong suit. Just leave the thinking to me. I'll take care of you. I'll take care of everything."

  "You sure?"

  "Absolutely. Cross my heart. In fact… I already have a good idea what we should do next. Something so… impressive, they'll have to listen to you. Something this town will never forget."

  Chapter

  32

  Ben knew it had to happen-eventually Canelli was bound to put on a good witness. And he knew that the evidence was compelling and that fingerprints, alas, could not be dismissed as junk science. Thus, it stood to reason that the fingerprint expert would be the low part of the trial-or one of them, at any rate. As a result, Ben prepared for it, prepared Father Beale for it, worried about it, anticipated it.

  But somehow, the anticipation is never as bad as the real thing. Ben listened as Canelli led Dr. Emilio Fisher through his description of the painstaking methodology he had followed during his examination. They were treated to a detailed discourse on the thirty-seven primary characteristics of fingerprints, the difference between dusting powders, how fingerprints were lifted, how they were preserved, and how points of similarity are used to match prints. Canelli took him step-by-step through the chain of custody followed to preserve and protect the evidence, leaving absolutely no opportunity for tampering.

  "There are three basic types of fingerprints," Fisher explained. "Visible, plastic, and latent. Visible prints are left when the fingers, palms, or feet of the suspect come into contact with any clean, smooth surface. Some type of substrate is required to capture the friction ridge detail. Dust is the most common, but we've also successfully taken prints from blood, ink, grease, paint and other similar substances."

  "What about plastic prints?"

  "Those occur when contact is made with a pliable surface or substance-wax, putty, gum, that sort of thing. You get a negative impression of the print, since the ridges of the skin are reproduced as indentations in the capturing substance."

  "And latent prints?"

  "Those occur when natural skin secretions-perspiration and body oil, principally-are mixed with dust or dirt and left on a surface suitable for recovery of the print, paper, glass or, as in this case, a smooth polished acrylic. Many forms of development are possible-light sources, sprays, chemicals-but here we used a simple dusting powder to create a color contrast between the print and its background. Once the print is found, photography and mechanical lifting methods are employed to record the image and preserve it for future analysis."

  "What, if anything, did you find at the scene of the crime?" Canelli asked.

  "Latents. On the smooth acrylic desk object-the St. Crispin's Award. The prints were clear and unmistakable. Of all the different types of prints, latents are the most hardy. They can last for years."

  "Is there any way to date a print?"

  "Not reliably. There are some who claim to have discovered techniques for judging the age of a fingerprint, but in my professional opinion, they are not reliable."

  What? Ben wondered. Some junk science to which the jury will not be subjected? Wonders never cease.

  "Were you able to lift the prints found on the award?"

  "Yes. Very reliably. And we matched them against the fingerprint exemplar taken from the defendant upon his arrest."

  "And your conclusion, if any?"

  "They matched. The prints were left by Daniel Beale."

  "You're certain about this?"

  "I'm certain. Everyone who has ever seen the prints is certain. Even an amateur viewing the prints would realize that they match. The points of similarity are overwhelming. There is simply no question about it. Those prints were made by the defendant. And no one else."

  When it was Ben's turn to cross, he felt like Don Quixote riding in to tilt at the windmills. This was a mission impossible and then some. The science of fingerprints was beyond reproach; worse, it was, unlike DNA, a matter of common knowledge to all, easily understood even by the densest of jurors.

  Moreover, Dr. Fisher was a good witness. He had looked rather ordinary, in his cotton J.C. Penney's jacket and polyester slacks, but he sounded convincing on the stand, knowledgeable and confident, without seeming like a prosecution pawn willing to take any position or ram anything down the jurors' collective throats.

  Ben wondered about the attire, though; it was almost as if all police experts took their outfits from the same very bad costume closet. Was it symptomatic of the fact that police salaries were so poor, or was it a matter of taste (also poor)? Or could it be the prosecutors thought if a police witness looked too good he might lose credibility? It was an imponderable Ben promised to give some serious thought. Another time.

  "Now, Doctor," Ben said evenly, "when you say there were no fingerprints on the weapon other than Father Beale's, what you're actually saying is that you didn't find any fingerprints other than Father Beale's, right?"

  "In part." Fisher was taking the cross in stride, neither disturbed nor obnoxiously unruffled. "But the reason I didn't find any others is because they weren't there."

  "As far as you could detect."

  "And if they had been there, I would have detected them."

  Ben rubbed his forehead. This was going to be a tough nut. "Now Doctor, be honest with the jury. Is it possible to touch an object without leaving a fingerprint?"

  "It's possible to brush your finger against an object and not leave a print. Possibly to sustain a more prolonged touching on a surface that is not particularly conducive to prints. But in this case, we're dealing with a clear acrylic-a substance highly conducive to leaving prints. And we know the killer didn't just lightly touch the object, either. In order to muster the force necessary to deliver the blow, he or she would've had to grip the award firmly, for an extended period of time. Given those parameters, it is in my opinion absolutely impossible that the assailant would not leave a print behind."

  "Maybe the print was smeared by the force or impact."

  "In which case I would've detected the smear. But I didn't. Some of Father Beale's prints were smeared, but there was nothing that could be attributed to a third party."

  "What about unresolved latents?"

  "There weren't any."

  "Maybe the killer wiped it clean after the murder."

  "He would've eliminated Beale's prints, as well as his own. Unless Daniel Beale picked it up afterward. And didn't mention it to the police. That doesn't seem likely to me."

  Ben tried a new approach. "Isn't it true that some people leave prints more easily than others?"

  "Yes." Fisher fingered his glasses absently. "Print residues do vary, depending principally upon the oiliness of the skin. But everyone on earth has ridges on their fingertips. And there is no way anyone could've held that award with the strength necessary to deliver that blow to the victim's head without leaving a print. It is simply impossible."

  Ben glanced back at Christina. A quick look from her was all he needed to tell him he was doing just as badly as he thought he was doing. If this didn't improve quickly, the trial was going to take a major turnaround. For the worse.

  "Perhaps the assailant was wearing gloves," Ben suggested.

  "Admittedly, that would've explained the absence of fingerprints."

  Ben smiled, glad to see the doctor was a reasonable man.

  "But the police searched the church and the people present for hours and hours, literally leaving no stone or pocket unturned. They found no gloves, much less gloves splattered with blood."

  "There must be other ways the killer could hold that award without leaving a print. Perhaps the killer wrapped a towel or cloth around his hand. Maybe a handkerchief."

  "But if so, where is it? Again, the police searched the premises and all possible suspects with uncommon thoroughness almost immediately after the body was discovered. Any such cloth or towel would be covered with blood. It should've been easy to find, therefore-after all, there was no time to run down to the local dry cleaners. If your hypothesis were true, the implement would've been discovered-quickly and easily. But it wasn't." He turned toward the jury. "And from that, as a man of science, I can make only one logical inference. That it wasn't found because it didn't exist."

  Ben knew he was getting nowhere; worse, by rehashing the evidence and giving Fisher countless opportunities to restate his conclusions, he was drilling it ever more firmly into the jurors' consciousnesses.

  He glanced back at counsel table. Father Beale was losing the poker face they had crafted during all those pretrial prep sessions. The impact of this evidence was hitting him hard.

  Well, better to make some point, however unhelpful, than to make no point at all, he supposed. "Granted, we don't know all the ins and outs of how it was done in this case. Nonetheless, it is possible to hold an object without leaving a print, right?"

  Dr. Fisher wasn't having any. "In general, or in this case?"

  "In general."

  "In general, yes. But in this-"

  "And if it can be done, then it is possible that it was done here, and we just haven't figured out how, right?"

  "Objection," Canelli said. "Your honor, it's not relevant what's possible-only what happened."

  "I'm allowed to explore alternative theories," Ben rejoined.

  "But this is not a serious theory. This is pure speculation!"

  Judge Pitcock pondered a moment. "I'll allow you to go a bit further, Mr. Kincaid, but I'm more interested in facts than guesswork, and I think the jury will be, too."

  Ben continued. "Dr. Fisher, isn't it true that it is possible that the assailant held that award without leaving a print and we just haven't figured out how?"

  "No, I'm sorry, but I can't agree with that. If that were done, I would've figured out how. You would probably be spouting a dozen different ways it could've been done-if you could think of any. But you can't. No one can. And as a man of science, I must conclude that if there are no viable explanations of how another person could've held that weapon-then there was no other person."

  "But even if you can't explain it, it's possible-"

  "If you want to take that position, Mr. Kincaid, I suppose it's possible that a ghost floated into the church and clubbed the poor victim on the head, and that's why there were no prints. But I don't believe in ghosts. Do you?"

  Ben didn't answer. What was there to say?

  "And I don't believe football-size awards hurl themselves into people's heads. And I don't believe that blow could've been caused by anyone on earth-except Daniel Beale." As Ben sat down, he tried not to let his feelings show. It was important that it seem to the jury-and to his client-as if nothing major had happened. But he knew better. He knew he had just come up against the first witness he couldn't crack, not in the least, on cross. The first witness to really make the jury suspect Father Beale might be guilty.

  Juries were unpredictable, but before, Ben sensed that they were winning, at least a little bit. That the trial was, for the most part, going their way. But he didn't have that sense any longer. Now he knew better.

  What he didn't know was that it was only going to get worse.

  Chapter

  33

  During the break, Christina flipped her trial notebook to the witness list and showed Ben the score.

  "By my count, we've run through all the prosecution's technical or expert types, all the cop witnesses, and all the actual eyewitnesses. All that's left are a few St. Benedict's members. So the worst should be over."

  Ben shook his head. "It doesn't figure. Canelli's a savvy prosecutor, and he has a great flair for the dramatic. He'll want to go out with a bang. He must be saving something."

  "But what? More disgruntled vestry members? Who cares? We've heard that tune to death."

  "Which is what worries me." Ben drummed a finger against his lips. "Could it be one of them is singing a song we haven't heard yet?"

  "How could there be anything we haven't heard?"

  "I'd put my money on Ernestine Rupert," Father Beale said, joining the discussion. "I don't think she'll be able to resist the opportunity to trash me in public."

  "Let her do her worst," Ben murmured. "She'll go down in flames as soon as I reveal she's been blackmailing half the church."

  "Maybe it's this other St. Benedict's member, Carol Mason," Christina suggested. "The Sunday school teacher. Maybe she has a complaint we didn't hear about in our pretrial interview."

  The discussion continued for a good ten minutes, until Judge Pitcock returned and the trial resumed. But despite all the analysis and contemplation, none of them were prepared for what happened next. "The State calls Marco Ellison to the stand," Canelli announced.

  Ben rose out of his chair, gaping as if he'd witnessed a train wreck. What the-?

  "Bench conference," Ben said, but by that time, he was already halfway there. Canelli fell into place behind him.

  "Your honor," Ben began, "this witness is not on the prosecution's list."

  "He's on their list," Canelli rejoined. "He's the one they went to all the trouble to add a few days ago, remember? Then they tried to have him yanked. They know all about him. They can hardly claim unfair surprise."

  "It is unfair surprise, your honor. We had no idea the prosecution intended to call him. What's more, the man is a terminal liar."

  "Which I suppose explains what he was doing on your list in the first place," Canelli replied.

  "No," Ben said, "it explains why we decided we couldn't call him. He offered me testimony that would help my client, but I turned it down because I knew it wasn't true."

  "That's funny. I don't think his testimony is going to help you at all."

  "Because he's changed it! When I wouldn't put him on the stand, he must've changed his story around so that you would!" Ben appealed to the judge. "Your honor, this witness didn't see anything. He just wants a piece of the action. He wants to be on television. I think he has some crazy idea that being in this highly publicized trial will jump-start his acting career."

  Canelli turned to the judge. "Obviously, your honor, in the course of preparing the witness they realized he had information that would damage their client's case, so they decided not to put him on the stand. But because Mr. Ellison is a civic-minded gentleman who only wants to see justice done, he came to the prosecution with his information."

  "Civic-minded gentleman? We're talking about a punk with a pierced tongue!"

  "Gentlemen, please!" Judge Pitcock looked at them sternly, his left hand covering the microphone. "I appreciate your concerns, Mr. Kincaid, but what do you want me to do? Given the circumstances, you can't claim unfair surprise, and I can't preclude the prosecution from calling a witness who could have relevant information."

  "But he doesn't, sir. He's a liar. He's making it up as he goes along. He told me one story one day, then wanted to change it all around the next."

  "You'll have an opportunity to demonstrate that on cross."

  "How? There were no witnesses to our conversations other than myself."

  Pitcock shook his head. "I can't tell you how to try your case, Mr. Kincaid."

  "Fine. Then I'll testify."

 

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