Guilt

'Yes, that's right.'

'Then there is no particular reason to believe that the blood in the second vial, the blood found at the crime scene, had ever been in your office, is there?'

'No.'

In his free time over the weekend, when he wasn't chatting with Dr Harris – and amid all different kinds of soul-searching regarding Diane Price – Farrell had tried intermittently to focus on Abe Glitsky. He wished he'd had better luck formulating a plan, because the Lieutenant was in the witness box now and Farrell was approaching him and didn't know what he was going to say. Glitsky's testimony, easily delivered over two hours with Amanda Jenkins leading him every step of the way, had done some damage. This was in large part due to Glitsky's air of authority on the stand – if he had come to suspect Mark Dooher, there had to be some reason. He was a professional cop with no particular ax to grind. In fact, he was the Head of Homicide. It looked to him as though the defendant was guilty. That's why he had delivered Dooher's case to the DA, and why the Grand Jury had indicted him.

'Lieutenant, you've given us Mark Dooher's version of the events of June 7th, and then your own interpretation of those events, which led you to arrest him for the murder of his wife. For the benefit of the jury, can you tell us a specific instance of an untruth you uncovered in Mr Dooher's statement to you on the night of the murder?'

'A great deal of it was untrue. That's what all these other witnesses are here to talk about.'

'Yes. But do you have any proof you can show us that Mr Dooher lied? Say a credit-card receipt that proves he was really buying clothes downtown when he said he went to Dellaroma's Deli? Anything like that?'

'I have statements of other witnesses,' Glitsky repeated.

'And the jury will get to decide who they believe among those witnesses, Lieutenant. But to get back to my question – now for the third time – do you, personally, have something you can show us, or describe for us, that proves anything about Mark Dooher's actions on the night of the murder?'

Glitsky kept his composure, wishing that Jenkins would object about something. The testimony of the other prosecution witnesses – taken together – would constitute proof, he hoped. But he didn't have a smoking gun, and Farrell was nailing him for it. 'I don't have a credit-card receipt, no.'

'Isn't it true, Lieutenant, that you don't have anything that proves Mark Dooher told even one small lie?'

'Not by itself, no.'

'Not by itself or not at all? Do you have something specific, or don't you?'

Farrell was going to squeeze it out of him. He glanced at Jenkins. Couldn't she call this speculation or leading the witness or something? Evidently not.

'No.'

But Farrell wasn't going to gloat over this minor victory. He simply nodded, satisfied, and took aim at his next target. 'Now, Lieutenant Glitsky, as the investigator in charge of this case, did you analyze the reports of the crime-scene investigator, Sergeant Crandall, and the lab reports on blood submitted by Mr Drumm?'

'Yes, I did.'

'And yet didn't you hear both of those gentlemen testify that they found no evidence tying Mark Dooher to the scene?'

'No.'

A look of surprise. There was some whispering in the gallery. A few of the jurors frowned and leaned forward in their seats. Farrell took a step towards him. 'You did not hear them say that?'

'No, sir. That was a conclusion you drew.'

This stopped Farrell cold. Glitsky had maneuvered him into a trap. Crandall's testimony – the knife, the fingerprints – did not preclude Dooher from being on the scene. Neither did Drumm's tainted blood.

But two could play this game. They were going to do a little dance. 'Your honor,' Farrell said, 'would you please instruct the witness to answer only the questions I ask him?'

The Judge did just that – a rebuke for the jury's benefit. See? Farrell was telling them, Lieutenant Glitsky doesn't play by the rules.

Farrell inclined his head an inch. 'Lieutenant, did you hear Dr Strout identify the kitchen knife, People's Three, as the murder weapon?'

'Yes.'

'And did you hear Sergeant Crandall testify that the only fingerprints on the knife belonged to Mr and Mrs Dooher, and were entirely consistent with normal household use?'

'Yes.'

'And did you also hear Sergeant Crandall's testimony about the surgical glove found at the scene?'

'Yes, I did.'

'Well, then, Lieutenant, I must ask you. In your professional opinion, why did Mr Dooher wear this surgical glove if he knew – as he must have known – that his fingerprints were already all over the murder weapon?'

'To point to a burglar.'

'To point to a burglar?'

As soon as he'd repeated Glitsky's answer, Farrell realized it was a critical mistake. Glitsky jumped on it before he could stop him. 'Without the glove there's no evidence of a burglar.'

Farrell kept his poker face on, but these, suddenly, were bad cards. He couldn't let it rest here. 'And yet, Lieutenant, didn't Sergeant Crandall testify there were no fingerprints on the glove?'

'Yes.'

'There was absolutely nothing connecting this glove to Mr Dooher?'

Glitsky had to concede it. 'That's right.'

Farrell decided that wisdom dictated a shift of emphasis. This was where, Farrell knew, it was going to get serious in a hurry, and he took in a breath, slowing down, coming to a stop in the center of the courtroom. In the jury's eyes, here was a man wrestling with a moral dilemma.

Finally, he turned back to Glitsky, having come to his difficult decision. 'Lieutenant, do you ever wear surgical gloves when you investigate a bloody crime scene?'

Jenkins stood and objected, but Thomasino overruled her.

The Lieutenant nodded. 'Yes.'

Farrell saw no need to say more. He had larger prey in his sights. 'In the early portion of this year, and especially in the latter half of April, did you have occasion to spend a great deal of time in St Mary's Hospital?'

Jenkins slammed a palm on the table and was up out of her chair. 'Your honor! I object. What does that question have to do with the death of Sheila Dooher?'

But this time, Farrell wasn't going to wait meekly for a ruling. 'I'm afraid it has everything to do with it, your honor. Its relevance will become clear during my case. Either I make the point now or I'd like permission to re-call Lieutenant Glitsky at that time.'

The Judge's eyes were invisible under his brows. He called a recess to see the attorneys in his chambers.

Glitsky stayed in the witness box. There was no place else he wanted to go, anyway. No one he wanted to talk to.

Across the courtroom, Dooher and Christina had their heads together, conferring in whispers, their body language so intimate it was embarrassing. He tried to imagine Dooher objectively in that moment – a middle-aged white male in the prime of his life. He kept himself fit. He looked good. And clearly, he could attract a beautiful younger woman.

Studying him, Glitsky tried to imagine the moments of rage. Or had it been calm deliberation? How was it possible that none of it showed? And yet there was no visible sign, no way to see what Dooher had done except in what he'd inadvertently left behind.

And yet Glitsky knew.

Dooher looked up, perhaps feeling the long gaze on him. His eyes came to Glitsky for a fraction of an instant – flat, completely without reaction, as though Glitsky didn't exist – and then he was back in his conversation with Christina Carrera.

In the gallery, the huge crowds from the pre-trial had slimmed somewhat with the judicial rulings on what issues were going to be allowed, but still, every seat appeared to be taken, although just at the moment a knot of reporters had congealed around the bar rail. They smelled a fresh kill coming, and Glitsky was afraid it was going to be him.

'All right, Lieutenant. Do you remember the question I asked you, if you'd had occasion to spend a lot of time in St Mary's Hospital in the spring of this year, around the time of Sheila Dooher's murder?'