Defense attorneys don’t show up at crime scenes. They’re not welcome. Now that I’ve crossed the aisle, I’m not expected to appear at the site of Howard Davis’s murder. Police officers and prosecutors enjoy exclusive control over every newly discovered suspicious death. It’s one of the perks of working for the Commonwealth.
Old habits die hard, though.
During my years as an assistant district attorney, I attended dozens of crime scenes. Almost always, important facts can be gleaned from the physical details of the site-the position of the body or the location of the weapon. Sometimes, the significance of what’s there, or not there, isn’t apparent until months later, when the evidence is being pieced together for trial. Once the scene is dismantled and sanitized, much of that information is gone for good.
I figure it’s worth a shot. I leave Maggie Baker at the office with Harry and the Kydd and drive the short distance to Bayview Road. Sergeants Terry and Reid are on duty, stationed outside Sonia Baker’s modest cottage as if it houses the crown jewels. Even through the winter darkness, I see the two men exchange nervous glances when they recognize my pale blue Thunderbird.
Not all cops are the good guys they’re cracked up to be, but these two are. I’ve known them both for years, and I can feel their anxiety levels rising as I approach. They’re used to seeing me at crime scenes. But they know I wear a different hat now; they didn’t expect to see me at this one. And they’re not quite sure how to get rid of me.
Sergeant Terry must have drawn the short straw. He steps out to the small, snow-covered lawn as I slam the car door and cross the road.
“Counselor,” he calls, his breath leaving a single white cloud in the air, “how goes it?”
“Can’t complain,” I tell him, though it occurs to me I could do so at length, given the right opportunity.
“How’s the new job?” He ducks under the yellow tape that surrounds the perimeter of the small property.
Nicely done. Remind me at once that I have a new job; I don’t belong here.
“Not all that different from the old one.”
He chuckles and looks down at the grass, then gestures toward the moonlit sky, gloved palms up, and looks back at me. He’s about to tell me he’s sorry-he doesn’t make the rules, after all-but I can’t have access.
“Come in, Martha,” I hear instead.
Sergeant Terry is as startled as I am. Geraldine Schilling is standing on Sonia Baker’s miniature front porch, waving at us. “By all means, do come in.”
The sergeant turns his wide eyes back to me, shrugs his shoulders, and lifts the yellow tape so I can pass. “She’s the boss,” he says.
I smile at him.
“Guess I didn’t need to tell you that,” he adds.
Geraldine moves inside, still waving for me to follow, as if she just bought the place and is anxious to show me around. She’s here, I realize, covering for Stanley, a fact that hits me like a hammer. Stanley is busy doing what I should be doing-walking through Buck Hammond’s case one more time.
I hurry up the cottage steps and shut the front door tight against the winter wind, wondering what motivates Geraldine’s hospitality. There are two possible explanations. She may think my viewing the scene-particularly if it’s grisly-will make me reconsider my move to the defense bar. When I left the DA’s office, she predicted I’d be back, her tone that of a preacher telling a sinner he’ll eventually reconcile with his maker.
More likely, though, Geraldine plans to gloat.
She stops in the center of the tiny living room and gestures toward the couch like a Tupperware hostess unveiling the latest in snap-top containers. “You’re on for the lady of the house, I hear.”
She takes a drag on her cigarette and watches me digest the scene. It’s grisly all right.
“It was a girlfriend of hers who called,” she says. “Stopped by to see if your client was okay.”
Geraldine blows a stream of smoke from the side of her mouth when I look up. “Touching,” she adds.
The crime scene photographer was delayed-at his wife’s office Christmas party, he says-and he’s just getting started. Nothing has been moved. Howard Davis is sprawled on his back on the couch, bloody from the neck down. His eyes are closed, his expression that of someone in peaceful slumber.
The dead man’s arm hangs from the couch, his fingers resting on the threadbare carpet. Next to them is a bloodstained serrated knife, a tape measure already aligned with its blade for the photo shoot. Nine inches, it reads. On the other side of the knife is an empty bottle. Johnnie Walker Red.
A large maroon pool over Howard Davis’s left breast suggests that the single incision beneath would have done the job. It didn’t have to, though. It’s one of multiple stab wounds, too many to count through the patches of almost dried blood. His flannel shirt is sliced open in at least a half dozen places. His heavy work boots are stained red. Even the couch cushions are saturated.
There is little blood elsewhere. A few drops in the bathroom sink, Geraldine points out, and a smear on a hallway light switch, but the rest is confined to Howard Davis’s body and the living-room couch.
The cottage is not otherwise disturbed. We walk quickly through each of the small rooms, ending up in the kitchen. There’s no evidence of forced entry, no sign of a struggle.
“What have you got on Sonia Baker?” I ask.
She laughs. “What haven’t we got? Motive, opportunity, motive, fury, motive, the weapon. Did I mention motive?”
“For Christ’s sake, Geraldine, the man was a parole officer. He handled the most violent cretins the system spit out. He’s probably got as many enemies as you do.”
Geraldine rolls her green eyes to the ceiling, flicks her cigarette ashes in the sink, and shakes her head like a parent trying to reason with a misguided teenager. “Martha, Martha, what’s become of you? Surely you’re not serious.”
“You bet I’m serious. This guy’s been a parole officer most of his adult life. You’ve got to investigate the payback angle.” The confidence in my voice astounds me.
She takes a long drag and answers as she exhales. “Only if the evidence warrants it.”
She’s right, of course. They’ll dust the house and the weapon for prints, type and cross the bloodstains, take DNA samples. If the only matches are the people who live here, they won’t look any further.
It’s one of many prejudices built into our system. If a murder victim lived alone, the search for his killer begins with the analysis of evidence. If the deceased had a spouse or a live-in lover, that person is assumed to have crossed the narrow line between love and hate. The significant other is automatically identified as the prime suspect, before any analysis is conducted. This is not something I can fix-at least not tonight.
“When do you expect the reports, Geraldine?”
The Commonwealth is required to turn over the results of its fingerprint and blood analyses to the defense. If that evidence discloses the presence of an outsider in Sonia Baker’s cottage on the day of the murder, Geraldine is obligated to tell us so.
She looks up at the ceiling to calculate. “Monday night,” she says. “It’ll all go out in the morning. Should have blood work back late Wednesday. Prints sometime Thursday.”
“I’ll wait to hear from you then.”
“Oh, you’ll hear from me,” she says, blowing smoke through her half-smile.
I head for the door.
“But Martha…”
I turn back to face her.
“Don’t get your hopes up.”