Chain of Evidence

CHAPTER 25

John Haite looked exhausted, rubbing his eyes to get the sleep out. He, Dart, and Kowalski sat in the second of the two CAPers interrogation rooms, Dart still dressed in black. On the room’s only table was the plastic bag containing the glass vials that Dart had seen on the toilet. Brandon’s fiber-optic video had recorded all of Kowalski’s movements once inside the bathroom. Ironically, by their efficiency, the ERT team had invalidated this evidence by showing that Kowalski had collected it, and Kowalski’s name was not listed on the warrant. It was a bugaboo that had both Haite and Dart in a lather.

“I want to hear that again,” Haite said angrily. Dart had to let Haite conduct the first round of questioning. Rank had its privileges.

Kowalski said, “A phone call. A tip. A snitch. I got the call. I responded. I was told if the key was outside, the place would be empty, but I wasn’t about to go inside calling hellos. What the fuck? Guy told me there was some shit hidden inside a fake brick in the toilet. I headed straight there. He was talking like I wouldn’t have much time-”

“All without a warrant,” Haite interrupted.

“I understand the problem here,” Kowalski answered.

“And we’re supposed to buy this?” Haite questioned.

“What the fuck do I care, Sergeant? That’s the way it is.”

“Watch it!” Haite warned.

“The key to the back door?” Dart asked.

“Hanging on the nail, right where the snitch told me I’d find it.”

“Jesus, what a pile of shit,” Haite said. “And what about this?” he said, pointing to the bag on the table.

“He told me where to find that too,” Kowalski said reluctantly. “I know it sounds bad-”

“It sounds god-awful,” Haite corrected. “Impossible is more like it.”

“It’s the way it went down,” the man said sheepishly.

“Bullshit,” Haite counted. “It’s fucking bullshit, Kowalski, and we all three know it. You had better shit or get off the pot, pal, because otherwise a load of trouble is coming your way.”

Dart, trying to calm things down, asked, “What did the snitch say about this stuff?” He pointed to the table.

“He said there was shit pertaining to the suicides that I’d be interested in. He said there was some kind of cover-up, some kind of cleanup man involved. He said there was evidence there that could bust the thing wide open, and that if I was interested I had better get my butt over to Hamilton Court. Shit, it sounded good to me,” he complained. To Haite he whined, “It sounded good, Sergeant. What the fuck do I know?”

“You know about warrants, for Chrissakes! Procedure. Jesus, you’re a fuck-up.” He hesitated, his voice rising as he went. “And that is if we believe any of this crap, because I, for one, don’t believe a goddamn bit of it, Detective. Not one goddamn bit. You’re a fucking embarrassment to this division, a fuck-up of a cop, and you’ll be waving traffic or doing time when I’m through with you! Now tell us what the fuck you’re up to, who the hell this Wallace Sparco is, and how the hell you fit in, or I’m sending your ass to booking and you’re getting a number, pal.”

Kowalski paled. In all his years of service, Dart had never seen the man lose his color. Despite that, he placed his spread hands onto the table and said calmly, “I got a call from a snitch.”

“A snitch you’d never heard of before,” Haite pressed.

“True. But he knew about the suicides. He seemed to know what he was talking about. He told me I’d be interested. Told me where the key was. Told me what I’d find. I followed up on it. Then you guys,” he said to Dart. “Honest-to-fucking God, it’s all I know.”

“Without a warrant!” Haite protested.

“I know, I know.”

“This stuff is useless to us!” Haite shouted, pointing at the table. “It’s probably key evidence to this fucking investigation, and it’s absolutely useless!”

It wasn’t until Haite put it so succinctly that Dart understood. He couldn’t mention it to the others-they would never believe it. It was Zeller. He had found a way to invalidate the evidence. Knowing Kowalski would sucker into anything easy, he had made a pawn out of the man and used him to cancel out this evidence.

Dart stood up.

“Where the fuck are you going?” Haite thundered.

“There’s something I’ve got to do.”

Tommy Templeton did not appreciate being awakened at four in the morning. He had lit a cigarette coming out of bed and opened the door with it dangling from his mouth. He was wearing a pair of blue boxer shorts. “Exactly what the fuck are you doing?” he asked Dart.

The detective handed him an envelope. “I need five, maybe ten minutes of your time.”

“You look like a fucking Ninja.”

“It’s been a long night. We’ve got Kowalski in lockup. It’s a mess.”

“Come in. Let me put some coffee on. I can’t think without coffee.”

“I’ll get the coffee. You take care of that.”

Templeton undid the clasp and opened the manila envelope. He slipped out a five-by-seven black-and-white photograph and turned it around. “Walter Zeller? What the hey?”

“You can do what you do in reverse, right?”

Templeton appeared puzzled. “I’m telling you, I need coffee. You got the advantage here.”

“This morphing stuff.”

Glancing at the photograph again, Templeton’s brow knitted. “Sure.”

“I have a driver’s license photo. I have the composite that you made with the girl.”

“Yeah, so?”

“I think they’re both Zeller,” Dart said. “And this is not for public consumption.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Templeton swore. “Skip the coffee. I’m awake now.”

Ten minutes later the two sat before Templeton’s monitor. The artist had carefully enlarged Sparco’s drivers license photo and superimposed this into the scanned image of Zeller’s police ID. Zeller’s face fit perfectly inside Sparco’s. “It’s the distance between the eyes and temples,” the artist explained. “Those are two givens that can’t be changed.” He worked with a small pen on a digitized pad and gently erased Sparco’s jowls, thinned the man’s swollen lips, and reduced the discolored bags under his eyes. A moment later, there was only Zeller’s face on the screen.

“Looks like you get a gold star, Dartelli.”

“What if I don’t want it?” Joe Dart asked.