Chain of Evidence

mumbled, “You need some time off.”

Dart continued, “It is also my belief-some of which I can prove-that a lone individual is staging murders to look like suicides to keep this drug company from bringing the product to market. To see that the drug fails in the clinical trials. To keep sex offenders behind bars, not wandering the streets under treatment.”

“I can support that attitude,” Haite said bluntly.

“They’re all homicides, Sergeant: Lawrence. Stapleton. Payne. Staged brilliantly. Teddy Bragg can prove it-or at least make a strong case. The technique is ingenious, the methodology impeccable.”

“Why suicide? Why not just kill the bastards?”

“To invalidate the clinical trials. To keep us off the investigation. To kill as many as possible before anyone catches on.”

Haite nodded. “Okay,” he said, “let’s say you’re right.”

“The individual in question is known to us as Wallace Sparco.”

“Of Eleven Hamilton Court. An ERT raid that blew up in our faces and had us arresting one of our own. Don’t lead with your failures, Dartelli.”

Dart tried hard to ignore him. “What’s of particular interest to us, Sergeant, is that this individual perpetrating these crimes”-and Dart paused here to collect himself-” is …”-he searched for a way to say this-“confidently familiar with police investigative procedure. Especially as regards the collection of hairs-and-fiber evidence, chain of custody, et cetera.”

“He’s a cop?” Haite was no dummy, he knew where Dart was going with this. He said, “You’re thinking Kowalski?”

Dart shook his head no and spoke extra slowly, “Someone with a personal grudge against sex offenders; someone, let’s say, whose wife may have been violently raped and murdered.” He paused, watching the color drain from Haite’s complexion. “Someone with a firm understanding of hairs-and-fibers evidence collection techniques, and a sharp enough mind to use that understanding against us.”

“God,” the sergeant said, his eyes wide.

Dart glanced at an oil painting of Jesus that hung above the handbells.

Haite said, “You think it’s-”

Dart quickly interrupted. “Better if this is kept speculative until such a time as the individual is apprehended, I think.”

Haite thought for two of his remaining five minutes in total silence, glancing intermittently at Dart with something like hatred in his eyes. He seemed to blame Dart for all this trouble, like a parent blaming a child.

Dart, letting the blame roll off him, felt that he had made his point well, and so far, Haite had kept a cool head. It was going better than he had hoped. Dart said, “I need the weight of this department behind me-the support that these were murders-if I’m to convince this company, Roxin Laboratories, to suspend their trials.”

“Forget it,” Haite said, shattering Dart’s brief flirtation with success.

“But, Sergeant-”

“One thing at a time, Detective! The investigation first. The suspect first. You are not putting this department into the position of defending a theory-one in which we’ve brought no charges against anyone and have nothing but some hairs-and-fibers evidence to go on. We have to involve the prosecutor’s office, we have to do this all aboveboard. You want to shut down this trial, you had better have a suspect in custody-”

“But, Sergeant-”

“For now, they are suicides,” Haite roared, his voice no doubt carrying into the main hall. “They’ve been cleared as suicides. You’re talking about reopening cleared cases.”

“He’ll go on killing,” Dart reminded in a hoarse whisper. He felt devastated, as if he’d had the wind knocked out of him.

“Some perverts? Some child molesters? You think that’s going to shake up a lot of people, do you? Get a clue, Dartelli.”

“He’ll kill them,” Dart repeated.

“That’s your problem, Detective. You are my problem. This is your theory, not mine. You prove it, or you lose it, but do not go making any accusations until you damn well know what you’re talking about-until you can prove it to me and the prosecuting attorney’s office. What you’re talking about here …” He rolled his eyes. They were filled with tears, his friendship with Zeller getting the better of him. “I, for one, hope to God you’re wrong.” He checked his watch, looked at Dart, and snapped, “Not one word of this to anyone. Anyone. Not until you hand me the smoking gun-with an arm attached to it. Do you understand?”

“Do you know what you’re saying?” Dart asked. “What you’re condoning?” He looked around the room. And in a church, no less, he felt like adding.

“Not one word,” the sergeant repeated.

“Please,” Dartelli said, speaking the one word he hoped might get through.

Haite kicked back the chair as he stood, and it nearly went over. “You really are a Boy Scout,” he said viciously, storming out of the room but stopping and turning to face Dart from the open doorway. “You didn’t learn anything from him, did you?”

Dart straightened the chair and followed Haite out into the cold.

CHAPTER 36

The house was a large Victorian on a one-acre fenced estate in West Hartford, just down the street from the governor’s mansion. Towering elms and oaks lined the street. The smell of woodsmoke tinged the air. One neighbor had already put up Christmas lights-a team of seven perfectly sculpted reindeer made of tiny white lights, arcing up toward the sky, drawing a sleigh parked on the grass. Hoping for snow. This was a Mercedes-Benz neighborhood. Dart felt conspicuous in his Taurus.

He checked himself twice in the rearview mirror, attempting to improve on the disheveled and unkempt appearance that seemed stuck on him. He jerked the mirror back into place, slipped a breath mint into his mouth, and climbed out of the car.

Dr. Arielle Martinson answered her own front door carrying a yellow legal pad and half-glasses. She wore stone-washed designer jeans, a man-tailored flannel shirt. Without makeup, she looked a few years older. He noticed a shock of gray on the right side of her head that he had missed during their first encounter. She had pulled back her hair just prior to answering the door, for she held a hair elastic wrapped around two fingers, and her hair still held that shape of someone standing in a strong wind. But it was down by the time she greeted Dart and she shook her head again, freeing her hair more, making sure to cover that scar.

She admitted him with hardly any small talk. He, the cop, taking note of the exquisite furnishings-oriental rugs, flowing drapes, and antiques; the security system-the motion detector winking high in the ceiling’s corner; and the hand-carved door to the library as she directed him through.

She had been working at one of two computers, one on a mahogany partner’s desk with a burgundy leather top. A reproduction Tiffany lamp. An original oil painting over the fireplace. A brown Lab lying between the leather couch and the leaded window. She offered him coffee, tea, or “something stronger.” He declined, mentioning that he was on duty. She found herself a glass of white wine in the kitchen and quickly returned.

“It’s a beautiful house,” he said.

Taking a chair with needlepoint upholstery, she said, “It’s late. Let’s get down to business, shall we? What brings you back so soon, Detective?”

“A man named Greenwood. A drug overdose suicide. Discovered late this afternoon. We think he’s part of your trial.”

She pursed her lips. “I have no comment.”

“I only wondered-”