“Guess so,” Sam said. “Waiting for the cops to finish up with the purser and then I’m headed down below.”
“What’s below?”
“Where they kept the money,” he said. “Stronghold. So they say it’s an inside job?”
“That’s what I heard.”
Sam nodded, still staring back at Daisy. He wanted to touch her face. She had a lovely cleft in her chin.
“They pulled me off the Arbuckle case.”
“This is a big job.”
“Wasn’t the job.”
“What was it?”
“Greed.”
“From who?”
“You ever feel like you’re no better than a prostitute?”
“Every day,” she said. “You got an alternative?”
THE THREE HUGE WOODEN DOORS were brought in during lunch and placed within the witness-box. Roscoe knew about them and the fingerprints, expected them, but didn’t think they were going to get into the whole mess today. When the jury was brought in, the men and women stared at the doors, as if they’d propped up a corpse for the viewing, something tangible, the first physical piece of the St. Francis they’d laid eyes on. Roscoe poured some water from the pitcher and leaned back into his seat. He took a swallow, and as U’Ren began Roscoe started to examine his cuticles, glancing up to the man sworn in by the judge.
E. O. Heinrich. A tall, gangly man in a rumpled black suit. He wore glasses but still needed to stare up at the judge and out at U’Ren. He was nervous and bookish and that all suited U’Ren well as the bastard continued to call the witness “Professor” on every occasion.
McNab waited a minute for the accolades and then pushed back his chair, standing and cutting off U’Ren’s reading of Heinrich’s résumé credentials.
“Your Honor, we challenge this witness as an expert.”
“On what grounds?” Louderback asked.
“We have no issue with Mr. McNab asking the witness a few questions before we proceed,” U’Ren said, a cracked smile showing. “In fact, we insist.”
McNab pursed his lips, nodding, moving toward the witness, wasting no time. “What cases have you testified for in this state?”
“In this state?” Heinrich asked.
“Yes.”
“None in this state.”
“So you have never testified in the state of California on fingerprints for any district attorney.”
“No, sir.”
“Where else have you testified in the Superior Court or a court of criminal jurisdiction?”
“In the state of Arizona and the state of Washington.”
“How often have you testified on fingerprints in the state of Washington?”
“Once.”
“How often in the state of Arizona?”
“Once.”
Brady and U’Ren stood in unison, Brady putting his mitt to U’Ren’s shoulder and seating the boy. He said, “Perhaps it would please Mr. McNab to have Professor Heinrich take the fingerprints of every jury member, have them secretly numbered, and then test his abilities.”
McNab stuck a thumb in his vest pocket and looked over the jury box and shook his head. “No,” he said. “No. That won’t be necessary.”
Louderback yawned and told U’Ren to please resume questioning the witness. And there were degrees and citations and awards and scientific papers, and as they continued McNab started to fidget and tighten his jaw, his rough, old-man breathing growing louder until he pushed back the heavy chair and stood. “I think we’re quite aware of Mr. Heinrich’s gold stars. May we continue?”
Louderback rolled his fingers for U’Ren to move on and U’Ren smiled with his ragged little teeth and asked for the assistance of Miss Salome Doyle, who worked in Heinrich’s lab.
She was a skinny redheaded woman, flat ass, no tits, and a nervous little grin, aware of everyone watching her and loving it, as she set up an artist’s easel. Roscoe half expected her to curtsy. On the easel was an enlarged photograph with what looked like fingerprints made of silver. Roscoe leaned in, nicked a rough cuticle off with his mouth, looked down at his hands and then back at the easel.
This skinny fella Heinrich was led by the nose through the setup: Three doors from the St. Francis. Two handprints on a panel. One belonged to Virginia, with an overlay of prints belonging to Roscoe.
Roscoe looked over to McNab, but McNab showed nothing. His hands crossed over his big chest, breathing, resting like an old fighter in the corner. Roscoe thought McNab might doze off in the heated courtroom.
“And what does this pattern say? How does it speak to you, Professor?”
“It says that at some point Mr. Arbuckle had his hands over Miss Rappe’s by the door.”
“In what manner?”
“It’s of a scientific opinion that there was a struggle,” Heinrich said.
“Objection,” McNab said, on his feet. “The witness is an expert in identifying fingerprints. No body of work exists that allows Professor Heinrich or Salome Doyle to read them like tea leaves.”
“What did scientific methods show?” U’Ren said, glad of the correction, smiling and pacing. Mouth closed, waiting for Heinrich to spill what he’d been coached to say.
“My methods conclude me to believe that Mr. Arbuckle was trying to prevent Miss Rappe from leaving the room. You can plainly see the patterns formed in the aluminum dust.”
“Objection,” McNab said.
“Sustained,” Judge Louderback said. “The jury will disregard the witness’s testimony as to the events precipitating the fingerprints.”
Several jurists scribbled into notebooks. Roscoe looked at them and then back at his hands. Big paddle fans wheeled above them all. Stray coughs and seat shuffles while U’Ren drove home his points.
When he finished, McNab took his place, pulling his watch out on its gold chain to check the time and buttoning back his black coat.
“Is it possible to have these doors reexamined?” McNab asked.
“No.”
“Because too many hands have touched them.”
“In the courtroom.”
“Perhaps even wiped down with a cloth.”
“Perhaps.”
“Calling up your methods and as an expert in such matters, could these surfaces show sufficient prints after being wiped down and scrubbed with a cloth?”
“I would say not.”
“Prints would be obliterated.”
“Yes.”
McNab nodded, thoroughly interested, digesting what Heinrich had to say, slowly looking over to skinny Salome Doyle and nodding at her.
“On what days were these doors removed from the St. Francis and taken to your laboratory in Berkeley?” he asked.
“I don’t recall.”
“Did you not make notes?”
“I most certainly did,” Heinrich said, opening a thick but small ledger.
“September sixteenth. It was Friday.”
McNab smiled.
“Eleven days after Miss Rappe took ill?”
“The room had been sealed.”
Brady was on his feet and the judge motioned him over and there was much squabbling, words that Roscoe couldn’t hear. And then Brady walked back to the prosecutor’s table and sat back down.
“Was the room encased in glass?”
“The doors were locked.”
“And not a single person touched these doors since Miss Rappe was moved into 1227.”
“Yes.”
“A record of the events frozen in time.”
“Most surely.”
“And you’re sure even the most gentle wiping of a dustcloth would remove such evidence?”
“The tests could only be conducted in my laboratory with Miss Doyle’s help.”
“Not to be repeated now.”
“Yes.”
“Because the doors are tainted.”
Brady stood and frowned. “Judge?”
Judge Louderback looked down at McNab. “Cover new ground.”
“Your Honor,” McNab said, “to ease the confusion of the court and the jury, I wish to call a rebuttal witness at this time.”
Louderback waited.
“A Miss Katherine Brennan.”
Louderback looked annoyed and bored. Roscoe poured some more water.
“And who is that?” the judge asked.