Chandler arrived at the Division of Law Enforcement exactly thirty minutes later. Located on Broadway near downtown Sacramento, the expansive two-story red brick structure that housed several agencies and employed 2,500 people was imposing. He drove into the large parking lot behind the building off 50th Street and proceeded to the security gate at the back entrance. He completed an information card on himself, and had Lou Palucci paged.
Chandler looked around the entryway while he waited. A large circular security desk was surrounded by a vast expanse of bulletproof glass; behind the Department of Justice guard were large black-and-white monitors that projected images of the parking lot, corridors, and strategic points of sensitive areas of the state crime lab.
Palucci was a man in his late forties, with graying temples and about thirty pounds of excess fat drooping over his belt. His dress shirt was pulled tight like the skin across a drum, the buttons fighting to contain the large belly.
“I still have my department ID if that helps,” Chandler said as he shook Palucci’s hand.
“Not a problem. I’ve already had you cleared.”
“It didn’t show my arrest for armed robbery last year?”
“You haven’t lost your sense of humor, Chandler.”
“Some claim I never had one,” he said with a grin. “So congrats on your promotion. When did you move into the director’s seat?”
“Been about three years now.”
“Looks like it suits you well.”
Palucci patted his stomach, risking that the vibration would force the buttons beyond their limits. “I sit on my ass all day. That, plus Jan’s cooking, and I had no chance. Crept up on me.”
Jan was a good cook, no doubt about that-but Chandler wondered how gaining thirty pounds and buying a new wardrobe could “creep up” on you. He took the red badge that the guard handed him as Palucci signed him in.
“Nice digs,” Chandler said as they walked past a couple of rooms with tan Formica table tops, Bunsen burners, Petri dishes, flasks, large computerized gas chromatographs, and comparison microscopes.
“All this equipment was written into the budget five years ago when the state’s coffers were full and the economy was exploding. Now we’re struggling to keep our current levels of funding. We’re severely understaffed. Only two percent of the physical evidence the identification officers collect actually makes it into the crime lab. That’s a pretty sorry statistic, huh?”
“Two percent’s not a whole lot better than New York City. We’re big, no doubt about that, but not necessarily better. Our lab’s so specialized and departmentalized that last month when our toilets were out of order I had to get special permission from the Ballistics Unit just to use their john.”
“New facilities notwithstanding,” Palucci said, “being smaller is nice in some ways, frustrating in others. I wish we had the manpower you guys have.”
“What’s the saying? Grass is always greener? Yeah, we’ve got the manpower, but we’ve also got more cases. We’re so behind in processing the physical evidence the DA goes to trial before the tests and reports are completed. The prosecutors hate us because of the delays, the defense hates us because we uncover evidence that fries their client, and the judges hate us because we clog up the court system with continuances.”
They arrived at the trace evidence lab. Spread across the table top were several photos of the hood and fender of Madison’s Mercedes. Close-ups of detail on the grille, showing clothing fibers and blood, and perspective shots that showed a broader range of location and relationships of one item to another, were cataloged and neatly arranged across the table.
A man was pecking away on the computer near the photos.
“Kurt Gray,” Palucci said, “this is Ryan Chandler. He’s a forensic investigator with NYPD. Used to be a cop with Sacramento PD.”
Gray pried his attention away from the monitor and swiveled his chair around to look at Chandler. A few pimples that decorated his forehead became noticeable as he brushed the hair off his face with his right hand. Moderately deep crow’s feet emanated from the corners of each of his eyes.
“Glad to meet you, Kurt,” Chandler said as he shook his hand.
“Chandler’s working with the defense on the Madison double murder case.”
Gray withdrew his hand. “Oh.”
“I just want to know what’s going on,” Chandler said. “I’m not gonna bust your chops. I happen to know Madison’s innocent, and it’s my job to find things that can help him prove it.”
Gray’s face was contorted with disgust.
“Chandler’s okay,” Palucci said. “You don’t have to worry about him. I’ve known him a long time. It’s okay to answer his questions.”
Gray turned back to his computer and talked toward the screen. “So what do you want to know, Mr. Chandler?”
“I’ve got a meeting to attend,” Palucci said to Chandler, backing away. “I’ll only be a half hour. You need to leave, Kurt’ll be your escort.”
“Thanks, Lou.”
“No problem.”
“You can drop the mister,” Chandler said to Gray. “My friends call me Chandler.”
“I don’t mean to state the obvious,” Gray said, “but I’m not your friend. What is it you want to know?”
“Have you completed an analysis of the clothing fibers?”
The criminalist continued working the keyboard. “Yes.”
Chandler waited for further information, but after a few seconds it was obvious that none was forthcoming. “What did your analysis show?”
“The fibers that we pulled off Madison’s car were an exact match to those in the clothing that the victims were wearing. An exact match. And there’s a report in the file that says the blood spatter under the chassis of your client’s Mercedes is consistent with the blood type that was found in the tire marks near the male victim. I guess your boy was in a hurry.”
Chandler could tell that Gray had already concluded that Madison was guilty based upon the physical evidence. “My boy is one of the most well-respected orthopedic surgeons in all of northern California. My boy also happens to be innocent.”
Gray did not reply. His eyes remained fixed on the monitor, his fingers working the keys.
“What else do you have?”
“The interior of the car was dusted for latents. Madison’s prints were the only ones found.”
“It was his car. And the driver could’ve been wearing gloves.”
“Right.” He had still not taken his eyes off the screen.
Chandler looked at the monitor, then swung his gaze back to Gray. “Have you finished your report?”
“It’s not my report. Saperstein, the other criminalist, has some kind of bleeding ulcer and he’s laid up in the hospital. The boss threw the file on my desk and told me to get the report out ASAP. So that’s what I’m doing. Or trying to do. If you’d leave me alone for a few minutes…”
Chandler frowned. “Fine. I’ll wait for Lou to get out of his meeting.”
“Then have a seat over there,” Gray said, nodding at a chair next to a desk in the comer of the room. “I can’t let you out of my sight.” He looked away from his computer screen for the first time and grinned. “Regulations.”
“No problem,” Chandler said, walking across the lab and sitting down on the chair. He picked up a newspaper as Gray turned his attention back to the report. The Sacramento Herald headline at the bottom of the front page was bold: “Police Commended for Quick Arrest in Doc Murders.” He read on. “Confirmed sources indicate that evidence continues to mount against Sacramento orthopedic surgeon Phillip Madison in the hit-and-run double murder of one week ago. The source stated that an announcement was expected within the next couple of days that could likely seal the coffin of the prominent orthopedist even before his trial begins…”
Chandler threw the paper down. He hated this “confirmed sources” garbage. If people had something to say, they should put their names to it. If they were not prepared to put their names to it, they should not say anything. Many a lie had been couched behind the veil of a “confirmed sources” quote. Sacramento was much better off when the Bee was the only paper in town. When the Herald burst on the scene a dozen years ago, it brought shoot-from-
