Without A Hitch

“Did anyone hire a blood splatter expert to look at the scene?”

“Naw, like I said, it was obvious he did it.” Forte coughed again. “But I got training in that and what I saw fit what happened. Sorry, counselor,” Forte laughed, “your client’s story was bullshit.”

Beckett removed a folder from his bag. From the folder, he pulled a handful of enlarged photographs. “I’m not an expert when it comes to blood or crime scenes. Can you show me what you’re talking about on these photos?”

Forte set down his cigarette and stuck out his hand. “What you got?”

“The crime scene photos,” Beckett said, shuffling the photos. “This one,” he handed one of the photos to Forte, “looks to me like somebody was sitting on the couch, when somebody else got shot in the middle of the room.”

Forte looked at the photo. “Yeah, that’s the girlfriend. She was sittin’ on the couch when he shot the other one. The blood covered the walls to her left and traces of it covered her and the couch. You can see from the clear spot in the middle of the couch somebody was sitting there when the blood splattered.”

“How do you know that wasn’t Beaumont on the couch?”

“’Cause he was busy shooting the other woman.” Forte laughed.

Beckett handed Forte another photo. “This looks like somebody got shot in the middle of the room.”

“Right. That’s where he shot the first girl.”

It was obvious from the spray pattern the shot had been upwards, but Beckett didn’t want Forte anticipating where Beckett was headed with the questioning, so he pretended to believe the shot had been downwards.

“No,” Forte interrupted Beckett impatiently. “Look at the spray pattern. See how there’s more higher up? He shot upwards.”

“Upwards? He’s fairly tall isn’t he? If she was on her knees-”

“He was on his knees too,” Forte concluded.

“How do you know?”

“When you shoot somebody, you get blow back in your direction. See how there’s blood to the left and right but not in the center? That means somebody was blocking that patch of rug. You can’t block a patch like that by standing there cause your legs ain’t thick enough to block all that blood and make such a big clear patch. That means he had to be kneeling or sitting in that spot. So he was on his knees when he shot her.” Forte took another photo from Beckett’s hand. “See here, see how the blood forms a kind of ‘V’ shape on the ceiling? That means he shot upwards.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah, I ain’t stupid. It’s obvious. Your client was on his knees or his ass. He put the gun in her face, pointed up, and pulled the trigger. If you check my report, you’ll see that. I put it all in my report. Do you got my report?”

“We do, yes,” Beckett responded.

“Let me see it, I’ll show you.”

“I didn’t bring it,” Beckett lied.

“Oh well.” Forte picked up his cigarette and put it out in the tray. He smiled. “Sorry I couldn’t help you counselor, but your client did it.”

“I guess you’re right,” Beckett said dejectedly. “I can’t see us calling you at trial, but we may need to subpoena you anyway just to make sure we’ve covered all our bases.”

“You go right ahead, counselor,” Forte laughed. “I ain’t changing my story.”

After thanking Forte, Corbin and Beckett returned to the car.

“Why didn’t you show him the report?” Corbin asked.

“No reason to clue him in yet,” Beckett said, pulling the report from the folder. “I don’t want to give him time to rethink his story. ‘Spray pattern on victim one indicates suspect Beaumont stood above victim one and shot her as she kneeled before him.’,” Beckett read from Forte’s report. “‘He then dragged victim two from the couch, shooting her in the face, before dumping the body of victim two on top of victim one.’” Beckett returned the report to the folder. “Do you know what this means?”

“What?”

“It means Beaumont’s telling the truth. He was sitting on the couch as his girlfriend shot Letricia, before she turned the gun on herself.”

“Maybe,” Corbin stressed the word.

“What do you mean ‘maybe’? Forte just laid out the blood spray pattern. What he said fits Beaumont’s version and completely contradicts the story put together by the police at the time.”

“There could be other explanations,” Corbin cautioned Beckett.

“I don’t see how.”

They drove in silence for a few blocks, before Corbin broached the topic that always lay just beneath the surface with them these days. “Listen, now that they’re talking about seventy-five years-”

“It doesn’t make any difference,” Beckett said, cutting him off.

Corbin shook his head. “It makes a huge difference.”

“It doesn’t. It means we have a bigger obligation to confess, that’s all.”

“How the hell do you figure that?”

“That should be obvious,” Beckett replied condescendingly.

“Evan, they aren’t punishing him because of what we did. They’re punishing him because of what he did. They’re punishing him because he killed three people.”

“There’s no proof of that.”

“Yes, there is!”

“No, there isn’t. Their proof is falling apart everywhere we look. It doesn’t matter anyway.”

“It does matter, Evan!” Corbin shouted. He pulled the car over to the side of the road. “You’re playing this damn game with our lives. You want to be a Goddamn martyr, but you’ve made a mistake: the man you’re trying to save is a monster who needs to be killed, not saved. You’re going to drag everyone else down if you keep this up — me, my friend, yourself, your wife, everyone.”

“I’m not going to drag anyone else down with me. If I have to confess, I won’t attempt to absolve him of his sins. If I need to confess, I’ll confess to my own crimes, nothing more.”

“You’re risking seventy-five years, Evan! Seventy-five years!”

“I know that.”

“But you’re not hearing me. This crime isn’t worth seventy-five years. This crime is a slap on the wrist crime. The only reason seventy-five years is on the table is Beaumont’s a damn monster.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter. When this was two years tops, I could maybe see your point. I couldn’t agree with it, but I could see it. But now you’re talking about seventy-five years, and that’s all because Beaumont is a murdering rapist. Those extra seventy-three years end any obligation you ever had.”

“You’re wrong. They only enhance our need to do the right thing.”

“Bullshit! Seventy-five years has nothing to do with our crime. It’s not our crime anymore!”

“You’re wrong, Alex. They’re using what we did to get to him. We have an obligation to set that right, whatever the consequences,” Beckett replied angrily.

“That’s bull! If this guy wasn’t a criminal, they never would have come after him. And don’t forget he stole our documents from the mailbox. He committed his own crime. Sure, so did we, but he committed the same damn crime on top of ours. He’s the thief who stole from thieves. We’re not responsible for him. Let him do the time for his own crimes. If they catch us too, then so be it, but there’s no reason for us to put our necks into a noose to protect him from crimes he committed.”

“Without our crimes, he couldn’t have committed these crimes.”

“That’s not true! He would have just used different accounts.”

“But he didn’t.”

Corbin took a deep breath. His voice became deep and threatening. “I’m not sticking my neck into a noose he created, and I won’t let you stick my neck in there either.”

“You’re free to leave at any time.”

Each could hear the other breathing heavily. Behind Corbin’s left side, where Beckett couldn’t see, the fingers