“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you see them holding hands? Hilda told me they’ve been married sixty-one years. And they’re still holding hands.”
I hadn’t seen them holding hands, but I don’t say that. The truth is, I see the possibility of turning this situation to my own sexual advantage. The trick is to appear sensitive. “I’ll hold your hand as long as you let me,” I say, and take her hand.
“You think you’re going to use Hilda and Eli’s love for each other to get me into bed?” she says.
“It was worth a shot,” I say.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” she says. “There’s a definite chance you’re going to get lucky tonight, but you need to understand that it has nothing whatsoever to do with the Mandlebaums. You got that?”
“Yes, ma’am. The Mandlebaums are a nonfactor.”
“Okay, let’s go,” she says, and starts leading me up the steps to the bedroom.
“I just hope that I don’t scream out Hilda’s name,” I say.
Today’s testimony is going to be both dry and terribly damaging.
The witness is Special Agent William Rouse, the assistant head of the FBI crime lab located in Baltimore. He supervised the bureau’s testing on the metal can found three blocks from the scene.
It’s a large can, standard make, capable of holding almost four gallons, and Dylan proudly holds it up before introducing it as evidence and showing it to the witness. I’ve seen pictures of it from the discovery, and learned that it’s available at Home Depot and pretty much everywhere else.
“Is this the can you were given to test?” Dylan asks.
Rouse nods. “It is.”
“What types of tests did you run?”
“Fingerprint analysis, blood typing, and DNA.”
“Were you able to get satisfactory results in all three areas?”
“We managed to retrieve DNA and blood type results. There were no fingerprints.”
“These tests that you conducted, were the same ones done by the local police at the time the can was found?”
“Yes, I was subsequently shown those reports after we conducted our tests.”
“Were your results consistent with theirs?” Dylan asks.
“Identical.”
Dylan takes him through the results, which are of course a match for Noah’s DNA and blood type. Rouse says that there is a one in four billion chance that the DNA results are inaccurate. Based on the media reports I read before coming to court this morning, that matches our chances of getting an acquittal.
Dylan then addresses the question that the jurors must certainly be wondering. “If the police had these DNA results six years ago, why wasn’t an arrest made back then?”
“Because Mr. Galloway’s DNA was not in the database at the time. Recently he attempted to gain clearance because of a federal job he was taking, and a DNA sample was required. That’s the reason we got a hit when we ran it this time, acting on Mr. Butler’s information.”
“Your witness,” Dylan says to me, in a tone that doesn’t seem to contain much worry.
I start by opening a package under the defense table, and I take out a can that is identical to the one that Rouse tested. “Is this the can you were given to test?” I ask, mimicking Dylan’s question.
Rouse looks confused, and points to the previously introduced can, now resting on a side table. “No, that one is.”
“How do you know that?” I ask. “Don’t they look identical?”
“I assumed Mr. Campbell was showing me the correct can.”
I nod as if this makes perfect sense. “So you said you were certain that was the can, even though it just looked like it, because you just believed whatever Mr. Campbell said?”
“I tested the can that he gave me,” Rouse says, finding apparent refuge in a non sequitur.
“Good for you. How long was Mr. Galloway’s DNA on that can?”
“At least six years,” he says.
“You can tell that from your tests?”
“No. But as I said, my results matched the police tests.”
“The results that Mr. Campbell showed you, and you accepted at face value.”
“Yes.” He manages to sound slightly indignant at my inference.
“Agent Rouse, you are here as a supposedly independent expert witness. The court members and I would appreciate it if you would limit your answers to what you know independent of what Mr. Campbell or the police told you. Can you do that?”
Dylan objects, but De Luca overrules him, and Rouse agrees to my request.
“Thank you,” I say, acting as if I have triumphed, when in fact I haven’t. Rouse’s test results are still staring me in the face, and the jury will believe them.
In situations like this, I feel it’s important that I do more than just attack the witness; I need to present an at least somewhat plausible theory of my own. It’s tough in this case, because I truly have no idea how Noah’s burned skin got on that can.
“So, based on your own tests, that DNA could have been left on that can three years ago?”
“It’s possible.”
“Three months ago?” I ask.
“Possibly.”
“Was he conscious when he touched the can?” I ask.
“I can’t say that from my testing.”
“Did he touch it willingly?” I ask.
“I don’t know. That is not within the scope of my work.”
“Was his skin on the other cans as well?”
“I only tested the one can. I was told that it was the only can recovered.”
I show Rouse a page of the report by the fire department, which estimated that seventeen gallons of the napalmlike substance was used. “This can couldn’t hold seventeen gallons, could it?”
“No.”
“It would take five such cans to hold that much, would it not?” I ask.
He nods. “It would.”
“So the theory is that Mr. Galloway fled the scene, but for some reason decided to leave one can to be found, while taking the others with him?”
“That is not part of my testing.” I knew that, but I don’t really care what he says. I’m doing the testifying now; I’m just using Rouse as a foil to get my words out.
“You’d have to ask someone else that.”
“Thank you, Agent Rouse. You can be sure I will.”
The birth certificate of Roger Briggs is on file in the Paterson Hall of Records.
It shows that he was born to Natasha Briggs at Paterson General Hospital. There is no father listed on the certificate, and no explanation for the omission.
Tragically, the death certificate for Roger Briggs is also on file, and it is dated slightly more than eight months after his birth. Cause of death is asphyxiation by fire; which is standard procedure in cases of these types, though an incinerated body can yield no such evidence. Even the bureaucracy can’t seem to stomach the concept of a human being, in this case a baby, being consumed by flames while alive.
There is good reason to doubt that Roger Briggs died in that fire, and it is not just that the coroner found no traces of a body that small. My doubt more strongly stems from the fact that a young officer named Kyle Holmes seems to have had the same doubt, and I believe he died because of it. And if he was in fact murdered by someone threatened by those doubts, then they move up a step toward certainty.
Our investigation outside of the trial is moving very slowly, and at this point is mostly dependent on Sam Willis and the “over the hill gang.” I’m also anxiously waiting for Pete and especially Cindy to come through with missing persons information, but that is pretty much a shot in the dark.
Our situation within the trial is considerably more dire, and unfortunately moving at a faster pace. Dylan has
