Chain of Evidence

CHAPTER 35

Dart needed the support of the department if he was to convince Dr. Martinson to suspend her clinical trial, turn over all the names, and then for either Proctor or HPD to provide protection for these men until Zeller was apprehended. Greenwood’s murder confirmed for Dart that this was the only course of action.

Worse, he now needed to break the news of Zeller’s involvement to Haite, convincingly, and yet carefully, without mentioning Zeller’s name, never putting Haite in the position of being required to report Zeller to Internal Affairs and thereby losing control. Until Zeller’s actual arrest, it would be better if he were thought of as Wallace Sparco. That would keep both Internal Affairs and the upper brass out of the investigation. If the pursuit took on task force proportions, Zeller would never be caught. He was far too savvy.

Dart waited outside Christ Church Cathedral, not properly dressed for the cold weather, shifting back and forth on painful feet, nervous, cold, and tense. One of the first Gothic Revival churches built in the New World, the cathedral, with its tall spire shaped of brown stone, was said to have been created to bring the congregation to “heavenly thoughts.” Dart’s thoughts were on a baser level, though he looked skyward and asked for some help.

John Haite winced as he spotted Dart from afar. A man who liked to leave the office at Jennings Road and not bring it home with him, Haite motioned his wife and son inside the church. Coming over to Dart with a determined look, he said, “What’s the meaning of this?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“My son is in his first Thanksgiving pageant. I’m not on duty tonight. I traded with-”

“I know,” Dart interrupted, “but it has to be you. And it can’t wait until tomorrow’s shift. I’m sorry, Sergeant.”

“This is bullshit,” Haite said. “Impossible.”

“There’s been another suicide,” Dart informed him. “Another homicide,” he corrected. “Tomorrow’s Friday; we’re the night shift; that leaves the entire weekend; it’s never going to be the right time.”

Haite glanced around. He waved to a few of the other parents just arriving with their preschoolers. He seemed embarrassed. He whispered angrily, “Nice fucking timing.”

Vespers had just concluded in the chapel, and Dart spotted a priest at a side door. He approached the man, showed him his shield, and asked for a room in private for a few minutes. The priest quickly agreed. Dart waved Haite toward the door, and the sergeant approached reluctantly, apologizing and gesticulating deferentially to the priest, who showed them into a small choir room with rich, dark wood paneling and a lush red carpet. Dart found it interesting to see Haite’s more humble side; he was a more religious man than Dart would have guessed.

Haite was clearly uncomfortable here. A large dark table occupied the center, surrounded by four straight-back chairs. In the main hall, a pianist and guitarist could be heard practicing the program’s children’s songs, including “Old MacDonald’s Farm.” The setting felt surreal.

Dart placed an impatient Haite in one of the chairs and then leaned a shoulder against the paneling, alongside some choir robes on hangers. “We have a difficult situation,” he began.

“We have a psycho who’s killing sex offenders, is what we have,” Haite interjected.

“If it were only so simple,” Dart said, winning the man’s surprise and full attention.

“Go on.”

“I have to be careful how I put this.”

“You have seven minutes,” he said, checking his watch. “Otherwise, we do this little dance tomorrow night.”

“I have a list of names…. You don’t want to know how I came by it. Stapleton, Lawrence, Payne, and tonight’s victim, Greenwood, are all on this list. So are twenty others. I have reason to believe that a similar if not identical list is in the possession of a drug research company located out in Avon. All men. All test subjects for some kind of hormonal therapy-genetic therapy-that I believe is aimed at changing or eliminating their violent behavior toward women. Kind of a Prozac for sex offenders.”

Haite looked as if someone had slapped him across the face, except that both cheeks were bright red. He 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.