“What other doctors did you call?”
“The pediatrician for her daughter. Mrs. Cullen, the victim’s mother, had the pediatrician’s name. Again, there was nothing noted by the doctor which might have had an impact on the investigation.”
“None of the abuse invented by Mr. Gullicksen for the divorce pleadings?”
“Objection to the term invented,” said Mia Dalton.
“I’ll rephrase. Did the child’s doctor see any signs of abuse?”
“There was nothing noted by the pediatrician, no.”
I turned, smiled at François like an uncle who had just received comforting news. These are the things you resort to in a murder case. “Did you contact any other doctors in the course of your investigation, Detective?”
“Not that I recall.”
“What about the victim’s psychiatrist?”
“Objection,” said Dalton. “Assumes a fact not in evidence.”
“Sustained.”
“Were you aware, Detective, if the deceased was seeing a psychiatrist?”
“No.”
“A dermatologist?”
“No.”
“A chiropractor?”
“No.”
“A dentist?”
“No.”
“You weren’t aware whether or not the victim had a dentist?”
“I assume she did, but it wasn’t of much interest to us. There was no question as to identity, for which dental records might have been of use. There was no damage to the victim’s teeth in the attack. The M.E.’s report noted that the victim’s teeth were in excellent shape. There was no reason to talk to her dentist.”
“Except that Leesa Dubé’s dentist might have been one of the names in the missing book.”
“Is that a question, Counselor?” said Torricelli.
“Not really, but this is: There was quite a lot of Leesa Dubé’s blood spilled on the floor at the time of her murder, isn’t that correct?”
“Yeah. So?”
“Is it possible to determine if all of the blood that bled out of the deceased was accounted for on the floor, or if some was missing?”
“No.”
“So some might have been taken, collected for some purpose by the killer, isn’t that right?”
“Technically, yes.”
“Only technically?”
“Well, if such was the case, we would expect to see some indication of the collection process. Everything leaves a mark.”
“Let me show you this photograph of the crime scene, People’s Exhibit Ten, which shows the apartment floor covered in blood. I want you to look at the bottom-left corner of the photograph. Do you see a pattern there, Detective?”
“Not really.”
“You don’t see a swirl in the blood?”
“I don’t know, maybe.”
“Maybe a swirl, is that it? Maybe a swirl caused by a small towel, used to wipe up some blood, for some later purpose?”
“I can’t tell from this photograph.”
“Maybe to be stored in a plastic bag, to be used later to wipe some of the blood off on a shirt or on the sole of a boot?”
“Am I supposed to answer that?”
“Where was the photograph in Mrs. Dubé’s hand taken from?”
“I don’t know.”
“Your theory is that she was shot in the neck and in her death throes grabbed the photograph of her husband to show it was he who killed her, isn’t that right?”
“I’m just testifying as to what I found.”
“The woman was mortally wounded in the neck, was bleeding badly, and you believe she grabbed hold of a photograph. My questions is, examining the blood at the crime scene as you did, the position of her body, the layout of the room, could you tell us from where she took the photograph?”
“Not precisely.”
“Isn’t it just as likely that the photograph was put into her hand?”
“She was gripping it pretty tightly.”
“But right after her death, her muscles would have gone slack, that’s what the coroner testified to. Isn’t it possible that the photograph was put into her lifeless hand and then the fingers pressed over it to frame the husband?”
“It seems far-fetched.”
“And then the blood was taken, as that swirl shows, to be placed in the husband’s apartment.”
“You’re going off into the ozone there, Counselor.”
“And maybe this was all done by someone familiar with the victim’s personal situation, as well as familiar with the properties and consistencies of blood. Maybe by someone like a dentist?”
“What is it with you and dentists?” said Torricelli.
“It’s called dentophobia. Fear of men with hairy forearms wielding drills and picks in your mouth. I cheerfully admit to my own case of it. And based on your smile, you might have a touch of it yourself. Tell us, Detective, do you ever talk to the dentist while he’s cleaning your teeth?”
“Maybe.”
“Ever tell him how goes the family as he’s digging away into your gums?”
“Mostly I just scream.”
“So, Detective, let me ask you again. Do you have any idea of the name of Leesa Dubé’s dentist?”
“No.”
“Don’t you think you ought to find out?”
“Our investigation is complete.”
“Obviously not.”
Just then I heard a rustle from behind me, something I’d been expecting for a while.
Whitney Robinson III was standing up, trying to slide past the other spectators on his bench as he made his way to the exit. The expression on his face when he saw me catch him in his egress was horrifying, as if my few questions about blood and dentists had somehow rent the entire fabric of his life. Then, finally, he was out into the aisle, turning to the door, stalking out of the courtroom. At his first opportunity, he would make a call.
And I knew damn well whom he would be calling.
Torricelli waylaid us before Beth and I could leave the courtroom. The jury had been dismissed, the judge was off the bench, François had been taken away by the bailiff, and I wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there, too, but Torricelli had other ideas. He was not a man easily gotten around, especially when he stood in the aisle between you and the door.
“Detective,” I said. “I hope I wasn’t out of line with that crack about the sport coat.”
“My wife says worse.”
“And yet you persist.”
“Old habits. Nice bit of vaudeville today.”
“I do my best.”
“You want to give me the handle of the dentist?”
“Not yet.”
He snorted. “Figures. I thought I’d seen it all from you, Carl, but then you go and blame the murder of that woman on a noble professional.”
“I tried to pick a suspect the jury would despise even more than a lawyer.”
“Pretty low, even for you.”
“You think that was low,” I said, “hold on to your hat.”
“I was expecting you to mug me about planting the evidence I found. I was geared for a grilling.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“I know what my reputation is. I’m too fat to be smart, I’m too surly to be truthful, I’m a lifelong cop so I must be on the wrong side of the line.”
“You don’t have to convince me.”
“That’s right, I don’t. But no matter how slipshod you run your business, I give a damn about mine. I don’t like to get things wrong. It alters the balance of things, you understand?”
“You talking karma, Detective?”
“Call it what you want. But I go out of my way not to slap the right beef on the wrong tuna.”
“Why am I suddenly hungry for surf and turf?”
“You have the wrong man this time, Detective,” said Beth.
“I don’t believe we do,” said Torricelli. “But if you think so, tell me the skinny I need to get it straight. Give me a name.”
“That would spoil the surprise.”
Another snort. “Dalton told me to go out and earn my paycheck. I’ll have the name by morning.”
“You want to know something?” I said after Torricelli had headed out the door and we were left alone in the courtroom. “I might have underestimated that man.”