Fallen Gods

Forty-Eight

For all that he was a politician rather than a policeman, Bob Skinner had learned to respect Bradford Dekker, the elected Sheriff of Erie County, the district of which Buffalo was the heart. He had no illusions that he was an investigator, and had never tried to represent himself as such to the Scot. He knew that his responsibility to the people was to maintain public order and safety by putting the right men and women in place to run an efficient force.

However, their earlier dealings, following the deaths of Sarah's parents, had never required him to take a view of that efficiency. He had met Eddie Brady, the chief of Erie detectives, but he had never before observed his department at work.

As the three men sat round a table in Dekker's office, Skinner looked at Brady, appraising him openly. He could sense hostility in the man, something that he had never encountered before. He felt impatience stir within him.

The sheriff read his mind. "I'd better tell you, Bob," he began, 'that Eddie is not completely on side with this meeting. He doesn't feel that it's appropriate for us to be sitting down with the husband of the only suspect in a big-profile homicide. Normally I'd be uncomfortable with it myself."

The visitor turned his eyes towards him. The sheriff was in his mid-forties, as was Brady. But where the detective had a creased, rumpled look about him, he was immaculate, in a suit made of a sheer material that undoubtedly looked great on television. "Sure, Brad,"

Skinner acknowledged, steadily. "I hear what you're saying. For my part, all I can tell you is that if I had Eddie's wife, or your wife for that matter, on remand in Edinburgh and I was about to charge her with nicking a pair of knickers from Marks and Spencer, never mind with an indictable offence, I'd invite you to meet with me as a sheer professional courtesy.

"But that apart, let's you and I get Eddie sorted on this. You've ordered him to meet me for the same reason you and the DA have gone to extraordinary lengths to keep Sarah's identity a secret up to now. You know that I still have access to her father's political friends, among whom, as you'd expect, I did some quick research before I came here.

Brad, your term of office, and the DA's, run out next year. He's standing for re-election but you're looking to take the next step up the ladder, to the New York State senate. So you do not want any more political flak than you will encounter in the normal course of events, and especially you do not want me making trouble for you within your own party. There is also the fact that Leo Grace got you your start, and even though he's dead, you owe him."

Bradford Dekker gave him a thin smile. "Everything you say is true, Bob."

Skinner turned to Brady. "So let's cut the shit, Eddie. I'd like you to run through the evidence against my wife. Forget the politics; that's what got me through the door. What I'm after now is professional courtesy."

The American frowned, then shrugged his shoulders. "Okay," he conceded, not quite amiably, but with no sign of any continuing grudge.

"You ain't going to like any of it, though." A ring-bound folder lay on the table in front of him. He pushed it across towards the Scot.

"Those are the scene-of-crime and autopsy photographs."

Skinner picked it up, and opened it, hoping that his distaste did not show. The first shot had been taken, he guessed, with the photographer on a chair. It looked down on the body from high above. Neidholm had been wearing a polo shirt when he died; it was yellow in colour apart from the dark stain across his chest. The foot baller was staring up at nothing through dull eyes, and his mouth hung open in the manner of death, a look that no movie could ever mimic. The policeman looked at the face; if it had any expression left it was pure surprise. As he studied it, he realised that he felt nothing at all; no pity, but no antipathy, no anger, either. He could just make out the handle of the knife against the stain. The blade had been thrust at an upwards angle, and had sunk entirely into the victim's chest.

"There must have been a lot of force behind the blow," he murmured, absently.

"The blade was razor-sharp," Brady said. "A woman, any woman, and not just a strong lady like your wife, could have shoved in it as far as that."

Skinner flipped over to the next photograph; it showed the same scene from a different angle, as did the next, and the next, and several after that, so that the change of location and subject took him by surprise. At first he wondered what it was, until he realised that he was looking at a sheet. The photo was an extreme close-up, focused on a hair; it would appear simply fair to the casual observer, but Bob knew exactly what colour it was. There were other shots of Neidholm's bed, some showing more hairs, others from a greater distance away, recording faint stains.

He turned from page to page rapidly, until he came to the first of the autopsy shots. They had been put together in sequence, he knew, for the victim was intact, naked on a slab, with the knife still embedded in him. In life, Skinner mused, he surely had been a massive man, in every respect. Without warning, he closed the folder and put it back on the table. "Autopsy report, please," he snapped.

Brady picked up a slim document and passed it over. Bob took it and read through it, slowly and carefully. When he was finished he laid it beside the photographs.

"Okay," he said dryly, 'so he's really dead. Talk me through it."

"There's not much to tell, Bob," Brady replied. "We took a call from the neighbour, Mr. Polanski, saying that he'd heard screaming from the

Neidholm house and that he'd seen a lady at the back door in a distressed state."

"Distressed?"

"Hysterical, even. There was a patrol car a block away; it was there literally in a minute. One officer went to the front door; the other went round the back and found your wife standing in the kitchen over the body, with a glass of water in her hand. Officer said she turned to him and asked, "What kept you?" He took the glass from her and cuffed her."

"Did she protest her innocence?"

"No, she became violent; she struggled and started to yell."

"What did she yell?"

"To be specific, she yelled, "What are you doing, you asshole?" That's what the officer said."

"Hah," Skinner barked. "Doesn't that sound to you like a protestation of innocence?"

"It sounds to me like abusive language."

"The DA will not challenge my interpretation, Eddie. Will he, Brad?"

The sheriff looked at him cautiously, but eventually shook his head. "I don't think so for a minute, Bob. Carry on, Eddie."

"Yes sir. The patrol officers called for detectives. Fortunately, the first man on the scene, Sergeant Dick Madigan, is a capable and experienced guy. He knew your wife, and the victim, from high school.

He called the sheriff directly and told him what had happened."

"And I told him to take Sarah straight away to the DA's office and hold her there," said Dekker. "She was off the scene long before the first media got there."

"Is Madigan a lieutenant yet?" Skinner asked, with the faintest of smiles.

"No, but he will be soon. Eddie."

Brady nodded. "After that, we put a forensic team in and gave the place a total going over. Here I get embarrassed," he said, 'because I gotta be blunt, Bob. Your wife was all over that house. We printed the knife while it was still in the body. The victim's prints were on it, because it was his, one of a set of kitchen knives. Absolutely the only other traces on the handle were your wife's. Some were mixed in with Neidholm's but we were able to separate enough. She had a full grip of the knife…" he made a motion with his hand '… in exactly the same way as you'd hold it to stab someone like the victim was stabbed."

"Has she given you an explanation for that?"

"She's made no statement yet, other than to declare her innocence. John Vranic reserved her position."

"Quite right. Go on."

"If you insist. Like I said we went over the whole place. We found forensic evidence of her presence in the house in several locations.

There were fingerprints in the living room, the den, the main bathroom and the en-suite bathroom attached to the victim's bedroom. We found hair from her head on a chair in the drawing room, in a brush on

Neidholm's dressing table and on the back of a pillow. We found her pubic hairs in the shower trap and in the victim's bed. We matched these against samples that she provided voluntarily. We also found

…" Brady stopped. "You want more?"

Skinner glared at him. "Go on," he hissed.

"We found stains on the bed-sheet; body fluids. Analysis so far shows two blood types; the victims and your wife's. We don't have full DNA test results yet, but…"

"But I know what they'll show," the Scot conceded, with a grimace.

"Okay, Eddie. You've proved that my wife had sex with Ron Neidholm.

You've proved that she found his body." He paused, and rapped his knuckles on the table. "But where have you proved that she killed him?

Was his blood on her?"

"We found traces on her shoes."

"From the kitchen floor; that means nothing. How about her clothes?

Her shirt, slacks, whatever she was wearing? Were there blood splashes on them?"

"No, but the pathologist said that death was almost instantaneous.

There didn't have to be any."

"Come on, man! We're talking about a massive knife wound that ripped straight up under the sternum and into the heart. Of course there were blood splashes. Have you ever seen a fatal stabbing where there weren't?"

"Our guy says there needn't have been any."

"And our guys, as many as we need to convince a jury, will say there must have been. Forget it. Can you prove that she was in the house for any longer than she says? Her story is that she let herself in with a key Neidholm had given her, went into the kitchen and found him there. Have you got a time of death?"

"He was still fresh when the scene-of-crime doc got there. He'd barely started to cool. But that's not an issue."

"The length of time she was in the house could be. The autopsy report found no signs of intercourse on the body, so you can't argue that she had sex with him then."

"No," Brady admitted. "Those stains were a couple of days old."

"Exactly, so you have no physical evidence of her being there other than at or immediately after the time of death, and you have no physical evidence of her killing him."

"Christ, Bob, we have her prints on the knife."

"You also have his. Plus, you've proved that she was in the house days before the killing. She must have handled the knife then. That's all the prints prove; that she handled it. Evidentially the knife will support the proposition that Neidholm killed himself."

"Why the hell would he do that!" the American protested. "The guy's rich, he's a sporting hero, plus he's just got back together with the love of his life."

"By that token, why the hell would Sarah want to kill him?" Skinner shot back. "Show me a scrap of evidence that says she might."

Chief Brady shifted in his chair. He glanced at Dekker, then back at Bob. Eventually he reached into a folder on the table and took out a sheet of paper, encased in a clear evidence envelope. Carefully, he passed it across. "That was in her purse," he said.

Skinner took Ron Neidholm's letter of proposal to his wife. His face was impassive as he read it, once, twice, three times. When he had finished studying the words, he held it closer and peered at the signature.

"It's his blood," Brady told him. "Remember, the autopsy report mentions a healing cut on his left thumb. The guy sliced himself open and signed it in blood. That's how serious he was about her."

The big Scot shook his head. "This might be evidence against me,

Eddie, but not Sarah, surely. If I'd been in Buffalo and had found that, it might have made me think about fucking killing him."

The chief of detectives drew himself up in his chair. "It's our contention that your wife went to confront him about this letter. We reckon she went to turn him down, he got heavy about it, things turned nasty and she panicked and stabbed him. The only reason we ain't charged her yet is because the DA wants to talk to Vranic about taking a guilty plea to second degree homicide."

"He'll also accept a plea to involuntary manslaughter, Bob," said Sheriff Dekker. The chief shot him an exasperated look. "She could get a pretty light sentence."

"No way," Skinner muttered.

"Think about it, please. Ron Neidholm was a local hero; if this case goes to a jury, any jury… Need I spell it out."

"You heard me, Brad. No way. My wife did not kill this bastard." He turned back to the detective. "So far, Eddie, you've told me about the crime scene; that's all. Tell me about the rest of your investigation."

"What investigation? We caught her in the act, or as good as."

"You did no such fucking thing, because she didn't do it. Your guys got there before she had time to get herself together and call them herself, that's all. Are you actually telling me you don't have any supporting witnesses, to the relationship or anything else?"

"No, I'm not. We have two witnesses, friends of your wife, who have testified that she and Ron were intimate during their college days.

They say that when he went off to play football Sarah dumped him, and went to New York, then Scotland, where she met you. He never married, or had any long-term relationships; when they met again recently, the witnesses say he was ecstatic'

"How did they meet again?"

"At the home of one of the witnesses."

"Babs bloody Walker!" Skinner exclaimed.

Brady looked alarmed. "I can't tell you that."

"You don't have to, man, I know her all too well. The little bitch put them together, and she did it with malice in her mind. Sarah never talked to me about Neidholm until Babs told me the whole story, embellished,

I dare say. You put her on the stand and, under oath, I will have Vranic crucify her.

"Who's your other witness?" he demanded.

"Again," the chief protested, "I can't give you her name. I will tell you that she drove past Neidholm's house last Saturday, and saw them Fallen Gods get out of his car. She says that they appeared very affectionate towards each other. Later she drove past in the other direction, on her way home. She saw Sarah through a bedroom window; she was naked."

"Did she tell anyone about this, apart from you?"

"She told the first witness."

"Then you might as well give me her name, for you can bet that Babs Walker will have told Sarah she was seen, and by whom."

Dekker nodded to his detective. "Might as well, Ed."

"If you say so. The woman's name is Alice Bierhoff."

"So who else did dear Alice tell about my wife and big Ron the football stud?"

Brady blinked. "I don't know."

"You mean you didn't ask her?" Bob exclaimed.

"Hell no. How would it have been relevant?"

"If you can't fucking see that…" he retorted. "It would introduce someone else who knew about the relationship. Another woman, say?

Another woman who had designs on Neidholm herself?"

Sheriff Dekker held up a hand. "Hold on, Bob. You're getting ahead of yourself."

"Maybe so, Brad, but you get my point. This case has not been properly investigated. Eddie," he snapped. "Did your forensic team search for the presence of anyone else in the house?"

"There were no prints, other than those of Neidholm and your wife."

"Killers often wipe them, man. But what they can't do is pick up every single body hair that might fall off them, or every single soil sample they might bring on to the scene on their shoes. Did you search for extraneous samples or did you simply settle for what was on the bed?"

"We saw no need to do more than we did."

"Do you see it now?" Skinner fixed his eyes on Brady, hard, unblinking, intimidating. The man tried to look away, but found that he was unable to do so.

"If it'll satisfy you," he replied, eventually. The words came out as a croak.

"Satisfy me? What sort of a fucking investigator are you? Eddie, every miscarriage of justice that I can think of came about because of coppers like you, people who went for the first obvious solution and, because the facts seemed to fit, didn't bother to look any further. A detective has a public duty to carry out a complete, exhaustive investigation of every case, whatever the circumstances. There is no such thing as enough evidence, especially when there is the slightest possibility that some of it might actually disprove the guilt of your obvious culprit." He stabbed the air with his index finger, aiming it straight at Brady.

"So yes, you get your forensic team back on the job, if they haven't contaminated the whole damn scene, and get them looking for traces of someone else, the person who actually killed Ron Neidholm. And as for the Bierhoff woman, if you won't interview her properly, then I will."

"Now wait a Goddamned minute," Brady squealed. "You cannot do that.

I'll arrest you if you try."

Skinner glared at him, until the man flinched, visibly. "Bring help," he murmured. "Lots of it."

"Now, gentlemen, please," Dekker exclaimed. "Let's cool our tempers here. Bob, you have made your point. There are things that need to be done in this investigation that haven't been. They will be, though, I'll see to that. However," he continued, "I have to say, as a lawyer as well as sheriff, that I still see a pretty good case against Sarah.

On the basis of what we have now, we have to proceed. You mentioned politics a while back. Given the victim, if we just let her walk on this, the flak would be unbelievable. We're going to need more than alternative theories to keep this away from a jury. I'll go as far with you as I can, but…"

"Give me twenty-four hours," Skinner asked, his voice calm once more, 'until you charge and arraign her, and keep her name secret till then.

Plus, I want to go with Eddie as an observer when he re-interviews the Bierhoff woman… I've never met her; he doesn't have to tell her who I am… and I want her and Babs Walker warned that there will be consequences if they leak Sarah's name to the media before any charges have been laid."

Dekker nodded. "You can have all of that. The last part's already been done. The DA himself laid down the law to the wits about talking to the press." He turned to the chief. "Eddie, when will you see Bierhoff?"

"What's wrong with now?" Skinner rumbled. "The clock's ticking already."