Murder One

Prologue

“SERGEANT CALLERY, WOULD YOU please describe the condition of the body when you found it?”

Callery swallowed hard before answering. “Are you sure you want me to?”

This would be the focal point, Ben Kincaid realized, for the entire trial—all that came before and all that followed. Every murder trial had one—an indelible moment in which sympathies were polarized and the full gravity of the crime struck the jury like a ball peen hammer to the head. Even though he knew there was not a soul in the courtroom who did not already know the answer to this question in gruesome and graphic detail, this would be the moment when everything changed, and not for the better.

“I’m sure,” Assistant District Attorney Nick Dexter said. He obviously didn’t mind the delay. A little suspense preceding the big moment could only increase the jury’s attention level. “Please tell us what you saw.”

Sergeant Callery licked his lips. His eyes drifted toward the floor. His hesitation was not just for dramatic effect. He was not anxious to proceed.

And Ben didn’t blame him. Describing a crime scene was always difficult. But when it was a cop talking about the murder of another cop—one he knew personally and had worked with on many occasions—it bordered on the unbearable.

“When I arrived, I discovered that Sergeant McNaughton’s body had been stripped of clothing. He was chained naked to the base of the main fountain in Bartlett Square—right in the center of the downtown plaza. He’d been hog-tied; his arms and legs were pulled back to such an extent that some of his bones were actually broken. He’d been stabbed repeatedly, twenty or thirty times. A word had been smeared across his chest—written in his own blood.”

“And what was the word?”

“It was hard to tell at first, given the condition of the body. But when we finally got him down and put him on a stretcher, it looked to me like it said ‘faithless.’ ”

“Was there anything else … noteworthy about the body?”

The witness nodded. The spectators in the courtroom gallery collectively held their breath. They knew what was coming.

“His penis had been severed. Cut off—and stuck in his mouth.”

To Ben, it was an almost surreal moment, as if they were all actors in a play. After all, everyone knew what questions would be asked, as well as what answers would be given. There were no surprises; they were just going through their prescribed motions. And yet, the singular horror of the crime had an impact that left no one in the courtroom unmoved.

This case had been high drama from the outset. Everyone knew about this ghastly crime. How could they not? The body had been on display for almost an hour before the police managed to get it down. Workers going downtown that cold Thursday morning couldn’t help but see the macabre, almost sacrificial tableau.

The location had been well chosen. Downtown Tulsa was a place where people worked, but almost no one went there for any other reason. From the time the workday ended until sunup, it was virtually deserted. Even the police rarely patrolled; the inner downtown streets were inaccessible by car and there was simply no justification for mounted patrols at that time of night, when no one was present. And so the killer was able to create a grisly spectacle that had been etched into the city’s collective consciousness during the seven months since the crime occurred.

“Why are they spending so much time describing the body?” a voice beside Ben whispered. “How is that relevant to who committed the crime?”

The question came from the defendant—Ben’s client, Keri Dalcanton. She was a petite woman, barely five foot two. She had rich platinum blond hair and skin the color of milk. She was wearing no makeup today—on Ben’s advice. She was a natural beauty, with perhaps the most perfectly proportioned body Ben had observed in his entire life. And he’d had a lot of time to observe it, during the months they’d spent preparing for this trial.

Even in the courtroom, Ben was struck by how Keri exuded youth and energy. But that was not surprising. She was only nineteen.

“It isn’t relevant,” Ben whispered back. “But Dexter knows the gory details will appall most jurors and make them more inclined to convict. That’s why we’re spending so much time here.”

“But it isn’t fair,” Keri said, her eyes wide and troubled. “I didn’t do those things. I couldn’t—”

“I know.” Ben patted her hand sympathetically. He wanted to take care of his client, but at the moment it was more important that he pay attention to the testimony. If Dexter thought Ben wasn’t listening, all kinds of objectionable questions would follow.

Dexter continued. “Did you check the body for vital signs?”

“Of course. When I first arrived. But it wasn’t necessary. He was dead. As anyone could see at a glance.” A tremor passed through Callery’s shoulders. “No one could have lived in that condition.”

“Why did it take so long to free the body?”

“We weren’t allowed to alter the position of the body until the forensic teams had been out to make a video record and to search for trace evidence. Even after that was done—Sergeant McNaughton’s body had been double-chained to the fountain and the lock was buried. We couldn’t get him loose. We eventually had to bring out a team of welders. Even then, progress was slow.”

“And during this entire time, the decedent’s naked mutilated body was on public display?”

“There wasn’t much we could do. We couldn’t cover the body and work at the same time. And there’s no way to block off Bartlett Square.”

“Were you and your men finally able to get the body free?”

“Eventually. Even then, though”—his head fell—“nothing happened the way it should. His right arm had been pulled back to such an extreme degree that when we released the chains—it snapped off. And the second we moved McNaughton’s body, his—member—spilled out onto the ground.” The man’s jaw was tight, even as he spoke. “It would’ve been horrible, even if I hadn’t known Sergeant McNaughton so well and trained under him. I’ve been on the force six years, but this was the worst, most horrible … goddamnedest thing I’ve seen in my career. Or ever will see.”

Ben knew Judge Hart didn’t like swearing in her courtroom, but he had a hunch she would excuse it this time.

The media representatives in the gallery—and there were a lot of them—were furiously taking notes. The McNaughton murder had dominated the papers and the airwaves for at least a month after the crime occurred, and the onset of the trial had refueled the obsessive coverage. Ben had never had so many microphones shoved in his face against his will; he’d never seen so many people insist that he had some sort of constitutional duty to give them an interview. His office manager, Jones, had even found a reporter hiding in the office broom closet, just hoping he might overhear some tasty tidbit of information. His legal assistant, Christina McCall, had the office swept for listening devices. A blockade of reporters awaited them every time they left the office; another greeted them as soon as they arrived at the courthouse. It was like living under siege.

Dexter was asking routine predicate questions to get his exhibits admitted. It was an obvious preliminary to passing the witness.

“Psst. Planning to cross?”

Ben glanced over his shoulder. It was Christina. For years, she’d been indispensable to him as a legal assistant. And now she was on the verge of graduating from law school.

“I don’t see much point,” he whispered back to her. “Nothing he said was in dispute.”

Christina nodded. “But I’m not sure this business with the body was handled properly. I think the police bungled it six ways to Sunday.”

“Granted. But why? Because they were so traumatized by the hideous death of their colleague, a fact we don’t particularly want to emphasize. And what difference does it make? None of the evidence found at the crime scene directly incriminates Keri.”

“You may be right. But I still think any cross is better than none. Whether he actually says it or not, Dexter is implying that Keri is responsible for these atrocities. We shouldn’t take that lying down.”

Ben frowned. He didn’t want to cross, but he had learned to trust Christina’s instincts. “Got any suggestions?”

She considered a moment. “I’d go with physical strength.”

“It’s a plan.”

Dexter had returned to his table. Judge Sarah Hart, a sturdy woman in her midfifties, was addressing defense counsel.

“Mr. Kincaid, do you wish to cross?”

“Of course.” Ben rose and strode to the podium. “Sergeant Callery, it sounds as if you and your men had a fair amount of trouble cutting that body free. Right?”

The change in Callery’s demeanor and body language when Ben became his inquisitor was unmistakable. He drew back in his chair, receding from the microphone. “It took a while, yeah.”

“Sounds to me like it was hard and required a great deal of strength.”

“I suppose.”

“And if it was hard to get the body down, it must’ve been even more difficult to get the body up.” He paused, letting the wheels turn in the jurors’ minds. “The individual who chained Sergeant McNaughton up there must’ve been one seriously strong person, wouldn’t you agree?”

Callery had obviously been expecting this. “Not necessarily, no. The killer could’ve—”

Ben didn’t give him a chance to recite whatever explanation he and Dexter had cooked up ahead of time. “How much did Sergeant McNaughton’s body weigh?”

“I couldn’t say exactly.”

“You must have some idea.”

“It would just be a guess.”

“You were there, weren’t you, officer?”

“Ye-ess …”

“You were, I assume, paying some degree of attention when your men were cutting the body loose?”

Callery tucked in his chin. “Yes—”

“So how much did McNaughton’s body weigh?”

Callery frowned. “I’d guess about two ten, two twenty pounds.”

“Two hundred and twenty pounds. And of course, he was dead, right?”

“I think everyone in the courtroom is aware of that fact, counsel.”

Just like a game of cat and mouse, Ben marveled, not for the first time. Two diametrically opposed archenemies pretending to be civil. “Would it be fair to say that it’s harder to move a dead body than a live one? “

Callery nodded. “Much.”

“So we’re talking about two hundred and twenty pounds of pure deadweight, right?”

“About that, yeah.”

“But someone somehow managed to carry the body to Bartlett Square—without the use of a car—to elevate it, hog-tie it, and wrap it around the central fountain.”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“Sergeant Callery, you were pretty good at estimating your deceased colleague’s weight. Would you care to guess what my client, Ms. Dalcanton, weighs?”

He grinned faintly. “I would never be so indelicate.”

“Then I’ll tell you. A hundred and three pounds. Wearing shoes.” He paused. “So you’re saying that these feats of tremendous strength, which frankly I doubt you and I could manage working together, were accomplished by this tiny woman? How?”

A bad question, as it turned out. “We believe she drove the body there. We found faint traces of tire tracks on Fifth, parallel to the fountain. Someone drove onto the pedestrian walkway beside Bartlett Square. We believe she wrapped the chains around the body’s hands and feet while it was still in the car, then dragged him to the fountain. As the coroner can confirm, the body had any number of scrapes and abrasions that could be the result of being dragged over the pavement in this manner. Once she had the chain around the fountain, we believe she was able to improvise a rudimentary pulley system to haul the body up.”

Ben silently cursed himself. This was a classic case of asking one question too many. “It still sounds to me as if it would require a good deal of strength.”

“Maybe. But if I’ve learned anything in my years on the force, it’s that size is no indicator of strength. Sometimes the most potent medicine comes in small bottles.”

“That’s quaint, officer, but are you seriously suggesting—”

“Besides,” Callery said, rushing his words in edgewise, “whoever said Keri Dalcanton wasn’t strong?” A small smile played on his lips. “I hear she gets lots of exercise. All that high-octane dancing must build up some stamina.”

There was an audible response from the gallery. Callery was referring to the fact that Ben’s client worked—at least until she became a permanent resident of the Tulsa County Jail seven months ago—at a “gentleman’s club” at Thirty-first and Lewis. In other words, she was a stripper. Another dramatic—and damning—fact that everyone in the courtroom already knew all too well. The press wouldn’t let them forget. No article overlooked the salacious side of the story. The headlines began STRIPPER SUSPECTED and continued with SEX CLUB SIREN SEIZED.

“Sergeant Callery, it took three men to lower McNaughton’s body to the ground. Are you seriously suggesting—”

“Hey, I saw that picture in the paper. You know, the one with her in nothing but a bright red G-string thingie? Looked to me like she had lots of muscles.”

“Your honor, I object!” Ben knew what Callery was talking about, though. The day Keri Dalcanton was arrested, a morning paper, in an unaccountable lapse of taste, had run a picture of her taken on the job. Something a reporter swiped from a backstage bulletin board, apparently. Tasseled pasties on her ample breasts; bright red G-string on her rock-’n’-roll hips. The paper apologized the next day, explaining that it was the only photo of Ms. Dalcanton they could locate, as she had covered her face when arrested. One of the lamest excuses for tabloid coverage by purportedly “legitimate” journalists Ben had heard yet.

Ben approached the bench. “Your honor, I object to any discussion or sly references to my client’s former occupation.”

Judge Hart lowered her eyeglasses and gave Ben the no-nonsense look he knew all too well. “On what grounds?”

“It will work extreme prejudice against Ms. Dalcanton.”

“Probably. But she should have thought of that before she took the job. Overruled.”

“But your honor—”

“I’ve ruled, Mr. Kincaid.”

“Then I’ll object on a different basis.”

She arched an eyebrow. “And that would be …?”

“I object because … because the photo in question has not been admitted into evidence.”

“Do you want it to be?”

“Hmm. Good point.”

Ben returned to the defense table knowing that his cross had been a bust. He hadn’t put a dent in the prosecution’s case, and given what few arrows he had in his quiver, he was unlikely to do so at any time in the future. He could see the determination in the eyes of the prosecution and police officers, and he could see the revulsion in the eyes of the jury. Even Judge Hart, normally a sympathetic, fair judge, was cutting him no slack. This time, the stakes were too high. The crime was too appalling, and too well known.

He had to face facts. Barring some kind of miracle, Keri Dalcanton was going to be convicted.

The media mob was no less aggressive when Ben and Christina returned after the lunch break. Even though Keri was not with them, the press pushed, shoved, and thrust themselves into Ben’s path, trying to bait him into delivering a tasty sound bite for the evening news.

“Assistant D.A. Dexter says the prosecution has a slam-dunk case. Care to comment?”

Ben refused to play. “Sorry, I won’t talk about an ongoing trial. The judge doesn’t like it—and neither do I.”

After that, the questions flew past in an unrestrained flurry.

“How can you possibly refute the mountain of evidence the prosecution has against your client?”

“Is it true Keri Dalcanton’s diaphragm was found in the victim’s mouth?”

“Can you confirm the rumor that McNaughton’s widow has hired a hitman to take out your client?”

A woman Ben recognized as one of the evening newscasters grabbed his arm. “Are you aware that polls show over eighty percent of all Tulsa citizens believe your client is guilty? How can you continue to defend her under these circumstances?”

Ben stopped. This was one he couldn’t let pass. “You know,” he said, trying not to look into the minicams, “there’s a reason why our founding fathers instituted the jury system. It’s so the accused could be tried based on evidence, rather than based on public opinion. Because public opinion can be so easily manipulated—especially by people like you.” He gazed out into the throng. “But you can’t respect the way the system is supposed to work. You want to convict people before the trial has started. You want to hang them based on rumors and polls and the suspicions of a populace that gets its information from your slanted ratings-hungry broadcasts. Everything you do disrupts what should be a simple process and makes it more complicated. Can’t you see what a gigantic disservice you’re doing?”

Ben’s lecture did not appear to have much impact. “What can you tell us about your client’s alleged sexual perversities?” someone shouted. “Is it true the chains were a regular part of their satanic lovemaking rituals?”

Ben shook his head. It was hopeless.

“When you look in the mirror, do you see a monster staring back at you?”

Ben stopped again. This was a question he hadn’t heard before. “Only when I’ve been up all night watching Xena reruns.”

“How amusing. I guess this is all one big joke to you. A fun way to bring home a big bucket of cash. You sicken me.”

Ben turned toward the raven-haired woman positioned before the courtroom doors. She was in her midforties, although she looked younger. She was tall and still quite attractive, her beauty marred somewhat at present by her red puffy face. She had been crying—judging by appearances, for days.

Ben knew who she was, although he wished he didn’t. She was Andrea McNaughton. The victim’s wife. Widow, now.

“Mrs. McNaughton,” Ben started, “I know this must be hard for you—”

“Don’t patronize me.” She raised her hand and slapped him hard across the face. “I don’t have to take that from you.”

Ben pressed his hand against his stinging cheek. Behind her, he saw the news cameramen jockeying for position. It seemed they were going to get something special for the six o’clock news after all. “Mrs. McNaughton, I understand your feelings. But please try to understand that I have a duty—a duty to provide a zealous defense for my client.”

“Don’t try to justify your poisonous existence to me!”

Ben sighed. “Mrs. McNaughton, perhaps it would be best if you didn’t attend the trial—”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like me to give your conscience a break. Well, I’m not going to do it, do you hear me? I won’t let up for a moment. I’ll be in that courtroom every day. Every time you try to humiliate a witness, I’ll be looking over your shoulder. Every time you pull one of your flashy courtroom tricks, I’ll be watching. I’ll be in your dreams—and your nightmares. I’ll never let you rest.”

And a good day to you, too, Ben thought. He stepped around her and walked quietly into the courtroom.

It got easier with time, in a way. And in a way, not. Certainly he was used to the media’s efforts to encapsulate the truth in tidy melodramatic snippets, their inclination to focus on the most exploitative details. Certainly he was used to the popular denigration of defense lawyers and the all-too-easy right-wing refusal to acknowledge the importance of their work. And certainly he was used to the tumult and outrage of those close to the deceased, who inevitably assuage their grief, and possibly their guilt, by latching their hatred onto whoever the police first suspect.

It did get easier to handle. But it didn’t make him like it.

The prosecution’s first witness that afternoon was Detective Sergeant Arlen Matthews, the Tulsa P.D. detective who led the team that conducted the initial search of Keri Dalcanton’s apartment.

“After I got the warrant from Judge Bolen,” Matthews explained, “I took two uniformed officers and drove to Ms. Dalcanton’s apartment just off Seventy-first Street.”

“Was the suspect at home?” Assistant D.A. Dexter asked.

“Yes, she was.”

“Did she admit you into her apartment?”

“She didn’t want to. But I had a warrant. She didn’t have any choice.”

“So what did you do, once you were inside the apartment?”

“We split up.” Matthews was a short, compact man with a direct, no-frills demeanor. His hair was close-cropped and he had a square, slightly protruding jaw. “It was a small apartment—just a central living area, a kitchenette, and a bedroom. We each took a room.”

“What was Ms. Dalcanton doing while you and your men conducted the search?”

Matthews drew in his breath. “Throwing a hissy fit, if you know what I mean.”

Ben made a note on his legal pad. Hissy fit—was that a Tulsa P.D. term of art?

“She was screaming, calling us names, getting in the way. She scratched one of my men with her fingernails.”

“That was an accident,” Keri muttered under her breath.

“She was wild-eyed and red-faced—she’d lost it,” Matthews continued. “She was crazy-actin’. I thought she must have some kind of mental problem—either that or she was very worried about what we might find.”

Ben jumped to his feet. “Objection.”

Judge Hart nodded. “Sustained. The witness will restrict his testimony to what he saw and heard—without speculating.”

“She was like a banshee,” Matthews continued, utterly unrepentant. “She jumped on me, piggyback style, trying to pull me back. She pounded me with her fists, on my chest, and the sides of my head. If that isn’t crazy, I don’t know what is.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Keri murmured quietly. “They were tearing my home apart. Breaking everything in sight. They knew about me and Joe and they hated me. They were intentionally trying to humiliate me.”

Ben nodded. He understood her side of the story. But he also understood the impact this testimony was having on the jurors—every one of whom was currently staring at Keri.

“Were you able to proceed with your search?” Dexter asked, continuing the examination.

“With some difficulty, yeah. At one point, she threw herself in front of me, trying to stop me from looking under her bed.”

“Were you able to look under the bed?”

“Oh yeah. That’s where we found the proof.”

“The proof?” Dexter took a step closer to the witness stand. “What was that?”

“The suit. This black leather bondage getup. Dog collar and everything. Soaked in blood. We believe it’s what the victim was wearing when he was killed.”

“And this was found under Ms. Dalcanton’s bed?”

“You got it.”

“Did you find anything else noteworthy in the apartment?”

“Yeah. We found chains that matched those used to strap the victim to the fountain in Bartlett Square.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. We found Joe McNaughton’s badge and wallet, also under her bed.”

“I see.” Dexter turned toward the jury. Ben knew this was going to be one of those improper—and unstoppable—summations in the form of a question. “So you found bloodstained clothes, the victim’s wallet, his badge, and matching chains—all in Ms. Dalcanton’s possession.”

“We did, yes.”

“Did Ms. Dalcanton have any explanation for these discoveries?”

“Eventually. At first, she claimed she didn’t know anything, didn’t know who Joe McNaughton was, he’d never been to her place. So forth. But after we showed her everything we’d found, she began to crack. Started to confess. We read her rights, and she waived counsel. In writing. She started crying, wailing. Kind of fell apart at the seams. Then we began to hear some truth.”

“Objection,” Ben said again.

Judge Hart nodded. “Again I will remind the witness that he is to give an account of what he saw and heard, without attempting to characterize it.”

“Sure,” Matthews grunted.

“The jury is instructed to disregard the witness’s last remark.” Hart peered sternly toward the witness box. “I do not want to have to give you this reminder again, Detective.”

“Got it.”

Dexter resumed his questioning. “How long did you interrogate Ms. Dalcanton?”

“At that time? About an hour.”

“Did you make a record of the conversation?”

“Yeah, we taped it. And I took notes.”

“Do you have those notes here with you today?”

“I do.”

“Feel free to consult them as necessary to refresh your recollection.”

“Sure.” Matthews reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small notepad. “Thanks.”

“Please tell the jury what Ms. Dalcanton told you on this occasion.”

He nodded. “Like I said, after we showed her everything we had, she changed her story. Admitted that she’d been having an affair with Joe McNaughton. Apparently she met him at this strip joint on Thirty-first where she works. He’d gone in with some of the boys after work one night and … one thing led to another. He was married, of course, but as you can see, Ms. Dalcanton is a seriously attractive kid, and being a stripper, she knew how to do things that … well, I don’t think she left Joe much of a chance.”

This time, Judge Hart didn’t wait for an objection. “Is that what she said, Sergeant?”

Matthews peered up. “Not in so many words, but I—”

“Seen and heard, Sergeant. That’s all we want to hear about. What you’ve seen and heard.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Judge Hart raised her gavel and pointed. “I mean it. One more slip and I will excuse you from the courtroom.”

“All right. I’ll be careful. Uh, sorry, ma’am.”

Ben was less than overwhelmed by Matthews’s display of repentance. But before he could blink twice, the prosecution had marched ahead.

“Did Ms. Dalcanton have any explanation for the presence of the victim’s badge and wallet?”

“Not really. She said that after they first met, he started coming over to her apartment a lot. To hear her tell it, she became like some kind of sex addict. She just couldn’t get enough of him, and of course, he didn’t mind too much. Toward the end, he was coming over two, sometimes three times a day.”

“And would they have sexual intercourse during these visits?”

“Oh yeah. That was pretty much all they’d do. Lots and lots of sex.”

“Did she provide any explanation for the chains and the blood-soaked garments?”

“Sort of. Said they used that stuff in their … um, sexual activities.”

“Excuse me?”

“They liked kinky sex. Kinky and rough.”

The buzz in the gallery was discernible—part dismay, part tittering.

Dexter frowned. “Very rough indeed. Judging from the quantity of blood on the leather suit. Did she provide any details regarding their … activities?”

“Your honor!” Ben said, jumping to his feet. “Relevance?”

Judge Hart nodded. “I think we’ve all got the general idea, Mr. Dexter. Let’s move on.”

“As you wish.” He glanced down at his notes. “I suppose she claimed he left the badge and wallet during one of their trysts?”

“She did. But there’s a problem with that.”

“Oh?” Dexter said, cocking an eyebrow. Ben loved the way he could appear surprised during testimony that had no doubt been rehearsed repeatedly. “What’s the problem?”

“She claimed he wasn’t at her apartment that night—the night of the murder. But several officers—including me—saw Joe at work earlier that day. And he had his badge. He couldn’t have lost it until that night after he left work. And just before he was killed.”

Dexter nodded thoughtfully. “Had there been any … alteration in the relationship? Prior to Sergeant McNaughton’s death?”

“Yeah. Joe McNaughton broke up with her just before he was killed.”

Ben knew this would be the time when the prosecution would try to establish motive. The next few minutes were not likely to be pleasant ones for the defense. Especially since the prosecution’s ultimate source was Keri’s own admissions.

“What happened?”

“According to the defendant, Joe’s wife got wind of what was going on and she read him the riot act. Told him in no uncertain terms she would divorce him and clean him out if he didn’t break it off.”

“Despite the fact that Joe McNaughton worked as a police officer, it was well known that he was quite wealthy, wasn’t he?”

“Very wealthy. Trust fund from his grandparents.”

“So McNaughton tried to break off his relationship with Keri Dalcanton.”

“That’s what she told us. He didn’t want to. He was stuck on her but good. But under the circumstances, he felt he had no choice.”

“How did Ms. Dalcanton take this news?”

Matthews thought before answering. Ben had a pretty good idea why. If he said what he wanted to say, the judge would shut him down—and possibly strike his entire testimony. He had to be more subtle.

Matthews leaned back in his chair, a grim expression set on his face. “I think the subsequent events speak for themselves.”

Dexter nodded. “Indeed. So do I.” He glanced up at the judge. “No more questions.”

Ben jumped to his feet, not waiting for an invitation from the judge. He wanted to appear eager and ready to go, as if he had many important points to make that would leave the prosecution’s case in tatters.

The truth was rather less promising. He’d listened to the audiotape of Keri talking to Matthews. He had twisted and stretched it a bit, but on all the critical points, he had accurately characterized what she said.

“Sergeant Matthews,” Ben began, “you told the jury about the clothes and the chains and the wallet. Where did you find the murder weapon?”

Matthews was nonplussed. “We didn’t find the murder weapon.”

It was Ben’s turn to feign surprise. “Excuse me? You didn’t find the murder weapon?”

“You know perfectly well we didn’t.”

“Why?”

Matthews shrugged. “Knives are small and light and fungible. They can’t be tracked or traced or registered. They’re easy to hide. Or to dispose of.”

“So she got rid of the knife but kept the bloodstained suit?”

“I dunno. Maybe she hid it somewhere.”

“Sergeant Matthews, you’ve been on the force eighteen years. Wouldn’t you say the murder weapon is a critical piece of evidence in any murder prosecution?”

“I’d say it would be nice to have. But it isn’t required. We’ve got an airtight case against your client. The evidence is overwhelming.”

Not really proper testimony, but Ben supposed he had asked for it. “Another thing I didn’t hear you mention was Keri Dalcanton’s confession, although you used the word ‘confession’ repeatedly. When did she admit she killed McNaughton?”

Matthews did his best to appear bored and unfazed by the defense tactics. “She never confessed to the killing. As you know.”

“Never confessed? But according to you, she had broken down completely and was finally telling the truth. You called it a confession. How could she possibly omit that one detail?”

“She’d broken down, but she hadn’t totally lost her mind. She wasn’t suicidal, if you know what I mean. Don’t be fooled by the stripper thing—she’s a very smart lady.”

“Did it ever occur to you, Detective, that the reason she didn’t confess might be that she didn’t do it?”

“To be honest, yes. But how do you explain the clothes, the blood, the chains? No, she’s the one. It couldn’t possibly be anyone else.”

Ben heard an anguished sobbing behind him in the gallery. Even though he knew he shouldn’t look, he couldn’t resist.

It was Andrea McNaughton, the widow. Apparently this testimony had been too much for her. She was bent forward, her head pressed against her hands.

Ben returned his attention to the witness. “But she never admitted committing the murder, did she?”

“No.”

“ In fact, she denied it.”

“That’s what she said, yes.”

“But you arrested her anyway.”

Matthews allowed himself a smile. “If we never arrested people who denied committing the crime, we’d never arrest anyone.”

Good point, Ben thought. Just wish he hadn’t made it during my cross-ex. “How did you establish probable cause for the warrant?”

“Same way I always do. I told Judge Bolen everything we knew. About the relationship between Joe and the defendant. The fact that they’d been seen together and were believed to be intimate. That there was believed to have been a breakup that could give rise to a motive for murder. That we thought her car had been used to transport the body.”

“What was the scope of the warrant?”

Matthews sighed wearily. “The first warrant only gave us the right to search the defendant’s car. I realized that wasn’t good enough, so I went back and got a second warrant that allowed us to enter and search her apartment. I presented both warrants to the defendant at the appropriate time. We did everything strictly by the book. I’m telling you, counsel—you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

Wouldn’t be the first time, either. “Was Judge Bolen satisfied that you had established probable cause?”

“Evidently. He issued the warrants.”

“Then why didn’t he give you the right to search her apartment the first time?”

“It was just an oversight. What does it matter? Like I said, he issued the second warrant in due time.”

For some reason, Ben wasn’t ready to let this go. “It still seems odd—two warrants for one search.”

“There’s nothing odd about it.” Matthews was beginning to get testy. He grabbed the evidence notebook from the rail before him. “The first time, Judge Bolen gave us a warrant to search her car. See?” He held the warrant up and waved it before Ben’s face. “I didn’t even realize when I got it that it was limited to the car, but as soon as I noticed, I went back and got another warrant. See?” He held up the second one. “We had both warrants at Ms. Dalcanton’s apartment before we discovered any of the evidence. Got it?”

Yeah, he got it. Ben took both warrants and held them in his hands. He had seen them many times before. He had read and reread every line, looking for any possible omission or transgression, any failing he could use to suppress the warrants and thus invalidate the search and exclude all evidence collected pursuant thereto. Unfortunately, there was nothing there. They complied with proper form in every respect. They had a clear description, the name of the defendant, a basis for investigation, the judge’s signature …

Wait a minute. Ben peered at the signature at the bottom of each form. Although he had stared at these warrants a million times during the past few months, he didn’t know that he had ever held both of them side by side before. And only by holding them side by side could he notice that not only were both warrants signed …

The signatures were identical.

Ben placed one warrant over the other and held them up to the light. Those signatures weren’t just similar. They were identical.

Judge Hart peered at Ben strangely. “Is there a problem, counsel?”

“No, ma’am. Or—actually, yes. Yes, there is.” He laid the two warrants on the bench before the judge. “These warrants haven’t been signed.”

Matthews leaned out of the witness chair. “What are you talking about? The signatures are right there in the corner.”

“A signature is there, yes. But it wasn’t signed. It’s been stamped. Either stamped or photocopied.” Ben showed the judge that the signatures were identical, then he shifted his gaze to the witness. “What do you do, Matthews? Carry a big stack of these around in the patrol car with you?”

Matthews rose to his feet. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Ben pushed the warrants closer to the judge. “I’ll bet Matthews got presigned—or prestamped—forms and filled them out himself.”

Assistant D.A. Dexter rushed to the bench. “Your honor! I must object—”

Ben cut him off. “Judge, I request permission to voir dire the witness about these warrants.”

Judge Hart nodded. “Under the circumstances, I’ll have to grant that.”

Ben walked right up into Matthews’s face. “What really happened when you saw Judge Bolen? Or did you even bother to go?”

Matthews’s face flushed with anger. “I’ve told you already, I went to the judge’s chambers.”

“And what did you do?”

“I established probable cause! Like I’m supposed to!”

Ben’s voice bit top volume. “Then why didn’t the judge sign the warrants?”

Matthews took several quick short breaths, puffing his ruddy cheeks. “If you must know, I went to see the judge, according to procedure. But the judge was busy with his misdemeanor docket and couldn’t see me right away. He’s the only judge in the courthouse that time of night. I thought if we waited your client would have time to dispose of the evidence. So I asked the judge’s clerk for an emergency warrant. Two of them, eventually. And he gave them to me.”

“By emergency warrant, you mean a presigned warrant.”

“I didn’t have time to wait for anything else!” Sweat was trickling down the sides of Matthews’s face. “But the point is, I saw the judge. I got a warrant. I did everything I’m supposed to do.”

“Wrong,” Ben shot back. “You’re required by the Constitution of the United States to appear before a judge or magistrate and to establish probable cause for a warrant. It’s the process that’s important, not the product. If every judge handed out warrants without hearing the facts, the constitutional prohibitions against unlawful search and seizure would become meaningless.” Ben whirled around to face the judge. “Your honor, I move that these warrants be suppressed. And I move that all the evidence collected pursuant to these warrants, including my client’s verbal testimony, be excluded!”

Dexter leaned forward, horrified. “But your honor! That would wipe out our entire case!”

“Fine,” Ben said. “Then I additionally move that the charges against my client be dismissed.”

The response from the gallery was audible. It was like a tremendous sucking of air, a suspended moment of collective disbelief. Ben could hear Andrea McNaughton’s sob-wracked voice carrying through the courtroom. “No,” she was saying, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Please, God, no.”

Ben tried to focus everyone’s attention on the issue at hand. “Your honor, you know the Fourth Amendment did not contemplate that warrants would be distributed in this cavalier manner.”

Judge Hart didn’t bother disagreeing. “I won’t for one moment condone what the police department—and one of my colleagues on the bench—have done here. But I’m not willing to eviscerate the prosecution’s case on a capital crime—”

“There’s case law!” Ben turned in time to see Christina running forward, carrying a laptop computer she kept in the courtroom with a Pacific Reporter CD-ROM. “I remembered reading it in class. It’s directly on point.”

“I can’t believe it,” Dexter said. “I’ve never heard of any such case.”

“Well, there it is,” Christina said. “Read it and weep.”

Dexter’s face became tight and tense. “Who is she, anyway?”

“My legal assistant,” Ben answered.

“A legal assistant?” He turned toward the bench. “Your honor! She can’t be heard by the court! She isn’t even a lawyer!”

“And she knows the case law better than you do. Rather embarrassing, isn’t it?” Judge Hart peered at the flickering blue screen. “State versus Gabardino, 1985. Yes.” Her eyes quickly scanned the report. “I remember it, too. And it is directly on point. Bottom line, if the police don’t properly establish probable cause, then any warrant issued isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on. Damn.” She readjusted her glasses. “I’m sorry, Mr. Prosecutor. I hate this. But I have no choice. If there was any way I could cure the violation without invalidating the evidence, I would. But it just isn’t possible. The warrants are hereby suppressed. Any evidence obtained pursuant to them is inadmissible.”

The buzz in the gallery intensified. Even though the lawyers were at the bench, everyone could hear what was happening—and no one could believe it.

“No!” Dexter shouted. “That puts my whole case in the toilet!”

“I’m afraid I must agree with that evaluation,” the judge said. “What you’ve got left wouldn’t’ve gotten you past the preliminary hearing. You’re dismissed, Mr. Dexter.” She pounded her gavel. “The defendant is free to go.”

“Nooo!” The cry rose from the back of the courtroom, a long keening wail. “Please, no!” Ben didn’t bother looking to see who it was. He already knew.

“And let me say one thing more,” Judge Hart added, glaring down harshly at Sergeant Matthews. “I don’t want to get home and hear or read about how police do their best but those crazy liberal judges put criminals back on the street. I didn’t want to do this. But you left me absolutely no choice. When you give your press conference this afternoon, make one thing perfectly clear. You have no one to blame for this result but yourself!” Hart grabbed her gavel and slammed it down. “This court is in recess. Good-bye and good riddance!” She rose abruptly and hurried to the back door leading to her private chambers.

The courtroom dissolved into pandemonium. Everyone was talking at once, except those few still so shocked they couldn’t speak. Several reporters dashed toward the back door, eager to be the first to phone in this titanic surprise turn of events.

“Goddamn you, Kincaid,” Dexter said, grabbing him by the arm. “How can you live with yourself?”

“Get your filthy paws off me,” Ben said, shaking him loose. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, you knew exactly how those warrants were obtained. For all I know this ‘emergency warrant’ crap has been going on for years. But did you come clean about it? No. You kept your mouth shut so you could hang onto your illegally obtained evidence. You’re just as much to blame as Matthews.”

Dexter tried to reply, but Ben didn’t hang around to listen. He returned to the defense table—where his client was waiting.

Her expression was dazed and barely comprehending. “She said … the case is dismissed?”

“She did.”

“Does that mean it’s over?”

“It does.” Ben smiled. “You’re free, Keri. Free to go.”

“But—can they try me again? Drum up some new evidence?”

Ben shook his head. “Not after a dismissal for cause at trial by the judge. Double jeopardy attaches.” He laid his hand on her shoulder. “It’s over, Keri. For good.”

Wordlessly, Keri flung her arms around Ben’s neck. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe it.” She hugged him tightly. A moment later, Ben felt a drop of moisture that told him she was crying. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Over her shoulder, Ben saw the television reporters going into action through the open courtroom doors. The female anchorwoman was apparently delivering a live bulletin. “And so, in this stunning turn of events that some are already calling the greatest miscarriage of justice in the history of the state of Oklahoma …”

Ben winced. It was starting. And it would only get worse.

“Mr. Kincaid!” another reporter shouted. “You’ve always had a reputation for high morals and integrity—until now. Care to comment?”

No, he did not. Ben steered Keri toward the back door. Given the circumstances, he felt certain Judge Hart would permit them to escape through her chambers.

He stepped around the defense table—and saw Andrea McNaughton making her way toward them. Her arms were outstretched; her fingers were curled like claws.

Ben held up his hands. “Mrs. McNaughton, please. I know you must be terribly—”

He didn’t get a chance to finish. She pivoted suddenly and hurled herself, not at him, but at Keri. She knocked Keri to the floor, making her head thud harshly against the tile, then sat astride her, pounding her head and chest with her fists. “You bitch!” Andrea cried. “You filthy murderous bitch!”

“Bailiff!” Ben shouted. He ran behind Andrea and tried to pull her off Keri. No use. Andrea’s blows continued to rain down on Keri, pummeling her chest with one hand, while she tried to pull Keri’s hair out with the other. A fist landed square in the center of Keri’s face. Keri screamed in pain; blood spurted everywhere. Only when the bailiff arrived were they finally able to pry Andrea away.

The bailiff pulled Andrea’s arms behind her back and snapped cuffs over her wrists. “Consider yourself in custody.”

Ben held up his hands. “Brent, she’s upset, for obvious reasons. I don’t think we want to press charges—”

“Like hell we don’t!” Keri pushed herself up off the floor, her face smeared with blood. “I want her to pay for what she did!”

“Filthy whoring bitch!” Andrea shouted, spitting in Keri’s face.

Keri wiped it away, furious. “Don’t blame me for what happened. If you’d been giving Joe what he needed, he wouldn’t’ve had to come to me!”

Andrea strained against the cuffs, craning her neck forward. “I’ll get you! I will get you!”

“Get her out of here!” Ben urged. The bailiff dutifully hauled Andrea toward the back. “Keri—!”

Too late. She was gone. But she couldn’t have gone far. Ben knew there would be a fleet of reporters wanting to interview her, and now, for the first time in months, she would be free to talk. Which she probably would. No matter how carefully lawyers counseled their clients, few were able to resist the siren call of fifteen seconds on TV. And after all she had been through, Keri probably had a lot she wanted to say.

And at this point, Ben didn’t much care. He didn’t want to worry about this case; he didn’t even want to think about it. All he wanted was to get home, get a shower, feed his cat, play the piano, and think about anything—anything at all—other than this miserable affair. He knew this case would never win him any praise or benefit. The only thing he could be grateful for was that it was over. That’s how he tried to comfort himself, as he snuck out of the courtroom. It was finally over.

He couldn’t know, then, how wrong he was. It wasn’t over. The nightmare was only beginning. And it would get far worse than Ben had ever dreamed possible.