Play Dead

She goes on to say that Stacy was at the cabin many times. It was her favorite place; she liked it even more than the boat. She particularly loved cooking there, so any prints on the pots and pans would be hers.

I call Laurie and ask her to recommend somebody around here who would be competent to retrieve the fingerprints. She suggests George Feder, a forensics specialist recently retired from his position with the New Jersey State Police. She had heard that he was doing private work to supplement his retirement income.

I call Feder, but he says that he would be too busy to go up to Monticello for at least a week. I offer to double his fee, and his schedule experiences such a sudden clearing that I can’t help but wonder if it would also work on Kevin’s sinuses. Kevin, Karen, Willie, and Feder will go up to the cabin tomorrow morning, while I’m in court.

I call Pete Stanton, figuring I might as well take the abuse in advance. He tells me that he had been in a panic; I hadn’t called him for a favor in almost twenty-four hours, and his fear was that he had offended me.

“Don’t worry,” I say, “I am a man who believes in forgiveness.”

“The bigger they are, the nicer they are,” he says.

“And to show there are no hard feelings, I’m going to let you do me another favor. I need a fingerprint run through the national database.”

“Where’s the print?” he asks.

“I don’t have it yet.”

“Oh. Well, what I’ll do is put a stop to all fingerprint work around the country, and then the system will be ready for you when you get your hands on the print.”

“Works for me,” I say.

He asks if I’m going to Charlie’s tonight, and I say that I’m busy with the trial but that I’m thinking of stopping by for an hour or so.

“Make sure it’s the hour that we ask for the check,” he says.

I agree to the request; I could use the relaxation that comes with beer drinking and sports watching, and it will give me a chance to ask Pete for an update on the investigations into Karen’s shooting and Franklin’s death.

I head home to walk and feed Tara, and then go over some files I need to be familiar with for court tomorrow. Once I feel fully prepared, I drive over to Charlie’s, getting there at about eight thirty.

Vince and Pete have not exactly been waiting for me to start; the table is filled with empty beer bottles and plates. Once he sees me, Pete calls out to the waitress the request that she change the beers to more expensive, imported ones.

“Well,” I say, “if it isn’t my two favorite intellectuals. What have you two been discussing? Literature? Fine art?”

“Shit, yeah,” says Vince.

It takes mere minutes for me to stoop to their level, which is not far from my natural state. Actually, because of the need to stay alert for tomorrow’s court session, I don’t fully match their behavior. So while I eat, drink, watch TV, and leer at women, I don’t drool or spit up my food when I talk.

I’m also ready to leave before they are, so I attempt to turn the conversation to the Franklin investigation. “How close are you to making an arrest?” I ask Pete.

“How close are you to being an Olympic shot put champion?”

“I came in third in the nationals.”

Pete goes on to tell me what he has told me before, that this appears to have been a professional job and that no leads of any consequence have come to light.

“What about Franklin’s job at customs? Have they opened up their records about his work? Because I would guess that’s where the answer is.”

He says that in fact the records have been checked but that nothing seems to be amiss.

“What about since that night? Have you checked that?”

“What are you talking about?” he asks.

“Well, let’s say Franklin was doing something illegal, letting in material he should not have been. If it’s tied into the Evans case, then that’s been going on for a long time. If the pattern has changed significantly since Franklin died, then that would be important to know.”

Pete looks at me for a few moments. His mouth is preparing an insult, but his mind has other ideas, so they compromise. “You may not be as dumb as you look.”

“Stop, you’re going to make me blush,” I say.

Pete promises to get right on it the next morning, and I grab a final handful of french fries before heading home.

My work here is done.

* * * * *

I HATE COURTROOM surprises-unless I’m the one springing them.

The kind I hate most are witness list surprises, and that’s what I’m greeted with when I arrive in court for the morning session. Hawpe has come up with a new witness, and the first thing on the docket is a hearing in Judge Gordon’s office to decide whether he should be allowed to testify.

Hawpe informs Judge Gordon and me that a witness, Craig Langel, has just come forward with the revelation that he saw a golden retriever, apparently quite wet, on the night of the murder. The location was about a quarter mile from where Stacy’s body washed ashore three weeks later.