“What did you see inside?” Bullock continued.
“At first, nothing. Then I passed through the entryway into the dining room.”
“And what did you see there?”
Calley frowned. His respiration seemed to quicken.
“Officer Calley,” Bullock said sympathetically, “I know this is probably difficult for you. These are unpleasant details, to be sure. But I must ask you to describe for the jury what you saw.”
Calley spoke in measured, even tones. “In the living room, draped across a dining room chair, I found the body of Caroline Barrett. She was dead.”
“Could you tell how she had been killed?”
“Not specifically, but she was covered with blood. Some of it was already dried and caked. It covered her face and her hands and her clothes and—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “Everywhere.”
Bullock strolled over to the podium and reversed the first enlarged photo. It was every bit as hideous as every juror had imagined it might be. Red was the dominant color—bright, vivid, sickly red. It covered almost every inch of her face and hands, every inch of her clothing.
“Officer, can you identify this photograph?”
“Yes,” he said, only looking at it for the briefest of moments. “That’s Mrs. Barrett. That’s how she looked when I found her.”
Bullock asked a few more procedural questions to fulfill the authentication requirements. “Your honor, I move that this photograph be admitted into evidence.” Ben did not object. The photo was admitted. Bullock returned to his podium, leaving the photo exposed and facing the jury. “What did you do next?”
“After I confirmed that she was dead, I began searching the rest of the house. Obviously, at this point, I felt it was urgent that I determine whether there were any more victims in the house, anyone who might require emergency medical assistance. I toured the rest of the downstairs, but I didn’t find anyone. I then proceeded upstairs.”
“Did you find anything unusual there?”
“Yes.” His voice cracked. Ben looked up and saw, to his surprise, a tear creeping out the corner of Calley’s eye. Police officers were usually coached to remain stoic and nothing-but-the-facts when testifying. Ben had never seen anything like this before.
Bullock cleared his throat. “And … what did you find?”
“In one of the upstairs bedrooms, the one on the far left, I found the Barretts’ younger daughter. She was lying on her bed, her arms folded across her chest—” Calley choked—literally choked. He could not complete the sentence.
Bullock didn’t press him. “Was she alive?”
Calley shook his head. “No. I could tell at a glance, although I confirmed it by searching unsuccessfully for a pulse. Her face and body were an almost … unnatural white, a ghostly pale. I guess.” Once again, Calley did not manage to finish his sentence.
Bullock flipped over the next enlarged photo. If anything, this one was even worse than the one before. It had an unholy calm about it; it at first suggested that she was simply resting on her bed, a suggestion soon shattered upon closer inspection by the realization that she had been murdered.
“Officer Calley, is this the scene you witnessed in Annabelle Barrett’s bedroom?”
“Yes. That’s it.”
Bullock moved that the photo be admitted into evidence, and it was.
“Officer Calley, where did you go next?”
Calley seemed flushed and embarrassed, both sickened by the memory and upset that he wasn’t handling himself in a more professional manner. As if anyone could. “To tell you the truth, sir, I … uh … wasn’t feeling very good at that point. I had noticed that there was a bathroom near the bedroom so I ran in there thinking that, um …” He swept his hand across his face. “Well, I thought I was going to be sick.”
“And what happened?”
“I ran to the bathroom, pushed wide the door, and was instantly confronted with … the other daughter.”
Bullock paused to give Calley a few moments to gather himself. “Could you tell the jury precisely what you saw?”
“The older Barrett girl—Alysha—was lying in the bathtub. There was no water in it, and she was still in her clothes.”
“Was she dead?”
“Yes, of course she was dead.” Calley pressed his hand against his forehead. “She was very dead.”
Bullock flipped over the third of the grisly enlarged photos, revealing a bathtub streaked with blood and the lifeless body inside, one arm draped over the edge, like a pathetic parody of the famous painting of Marat. “Does this photo accurately represent what you saw?”
“Yes.”
Bullock had the third photo admitted into evidence. He allowed another respectful silence, then continued. “Did you do anything else in the Barrett home?”
“No,” Calley whispered. “I left the house. I called for an ambulance, although I knew they were all dead. And I called homicide.”
“Thank you, Officer Calley. I have nothing more.”
Chapter 46
BEN GLANCED OVER AT his client. He was not in good shape. The pain in his face was evident. Ben had to remind himself that Barrett had come home and seen these horrible images, too. His experience was much like Calley’s, only earlier. Reliving it in this manner, being reminded of the hideous demise of his entire family, had to be awful for him, and the strain was showing in his face.
With all the enthusiasm of a corpse, Ben strode to the podium. He decided to keep the cross short and sweet. After all, the man had simply testified to what he saw at the crime scene, and none of it was in dispute. The main point of his testimony had been to shock and horrify the jury, which he had certainly done. The sooner they moved on to someone else the better.
“Officer Calley, at the time of this incident, March 11, you were rather new on the force, weren’t you?”
“Uh … yes.” Ben noticed that as soon as the testimony shifted to cross-examination, he adopted the flat, unembroidered voice police officers are trained to use in court.
“How new?”
Calley thought for a moment. “I’m not sure I remember exactly.”
“Isn’t it true that this incident occurred on the Friday of your first week?”
“Uh … yes, I believe that’s correct.”
A few eyebrows in the jury box raised.
“Obviously, then, you hadn’t had much experience with domestic disturbances.”
“No. Only discussions while I was at the academy.”
“And you probably hadn’t had any experience with homicides.”
“No.”
“Well, I appreciate your honesty. This may help explain some of the … irregularities at the crime scene.”
Ben could see Calley’s eyes narrow. He was on his guard now.
“For instance,” Ben continued, “it isn’t really standard police procedure to enter a home uninvited just because they don’t answer the doorbell, is it?”
“I felt that there was a great potential—”
“Yes, yes, I’m familiar with your justifications. But that isn’t exactly what they taught you back at the academy, is it?”
“I suppose not.”
“And I’m curious—when you found the first body, why didn’t you immediately call for medical assistance?”
“Well, she was dead.”
“Officer Calley, are you a doctor?”
He frowned. “No.”
“Have you taken classes in emergency medicine?”
“No. Just the fundamentals at the academy.”
“You know, sometimes experienced doctors are fooled about whether a patient is dead when they have to make a field diagnosis without instruments. Is it possible you made a mistake?”
“She was dead. It was later confirmed—”
“Later, yes, but at the time you were there, is it possible she was alive?”