‘Such as a whiskey bottle?’
‘Objection. This is speculation, Your Honor.’
‘Overruled.’
‘Yes,’ Strout answered. ‘This would be consistent with the whiskey bottle at the scene.’
Soma kept at it, staccato style, barely taking time to draw breath between questions. ‘How about the injection site? How did that look?’
‘Well, there was trauma there too.’
‘What do you mean by trauma?’
‘In layperson’s terms the skin and muscles were slightly torn as the needle was coming out. Like a deep scratch.’
‘Not as the needle was going in?’
‘No. Definitely not.’ A small but important point, since a skilled shot-giver like Graham wouldn’t have botched the injection itself, whereas a jerk or a struggle after the needle was in could happen to anyone.
Soma thanked Strout and walked back to the prosecution table, where he glanced at some papers on the desk. Hardy was ready to pounce with objections should Soma, as he expected, try to wrap it up.
The picture, Hardy thought, was clear enough. Somebody loaded the victim up with alcohol, then hit him on the head, knocking him out long enough to get the shot in the vein, in the middle of which Sal jerked, either in spasm or waking up.
All of that would be speculation on Strout’s part, and not admissible.
But Hardy didn’t get his opportunity to object. Soma simply turned to him, amicable and professional for the jury’s benefit. ‘Your witness.’
Hardy took it right to him. ‘Dr Strout, did Sal Russo kill himself or did somebody kill him?’
Crossing his legs to get more comfortable, Strout settled in the witness chair. ‘Well, from the pure forensic evidence, it could have been either.’
‘Are you saying there is no way to tell, from a strictly medical standpoint, whether Sal Russo killed himself or someone else killed him?’
‘Yes, that’s what I’m saying.’ Strout waited. An experienced witness, he wasn’t about to lead an attorney so he could be interrupted and made to look unprofessional.
Hardy nodded, apparently intrigued with these unearthed truths. ‘Is there anything in the forensic evidence, Doctor, that would lead you to think one is more likely than the other?’
Strout thought this over briefly. ‘No.’
‘What about this bruise on the head we’ve heard about? Did that contribute to Sal Russo’s death in a medical sense?’
‘No.’
‘Not at all?’
‘No, not at all. It was possibly enough to knock out Mr Russo, but it had nothing to do with his death.’
Hardy feigned a small surprise, bringing in the jury. ‘Doctor, did you just say that this bruise was possibly enough to knock out Mr Russo?’
‘Yes. It could have.’
‘And are you saying it might not have?’
‘That’s right too.’ Strout was showing a hint of impatience. ‘I said it wasn’t very serious.’
‘Yes, you did, thank you, Doctor. Essentially it was just a bump on the head, isn’t that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Now, was the head trauma suffered before or after the injection?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘So Sal Russo might have injected himself, fallen over, and hit his head?’
‘Yes.’
‘And if the head injury happened before the injection, can you tell how long before could it have happened?’
Strout thought for a moment. ‘Only from the bruising, within a day or two.’
Hardy feigned shock and disbelief. ‘Doctor, do you mean you can’t even say that Sal Russo got the bump on his head on the same day as his death?’
‘Not for sure.’
‘Not for sure. Well, then, Doctor, is it correct to say you don’t know if this bump on the head has any connection at all to Sal Russo’s death?’
‘Yes, that would be correct.’
‘Good.’ Soma had wanted to use Strout’s testimony to prove that a murder had taken place, but Hardy didn’t think it was going to work. He started hammering at another nail. ‘You’ve also told us about a trauma at the injection site. You said it was consistent with someone injecting Sal with the morphine. Yes?’
‘Correct.’
‘But it’s also consistent with Sal Russo injecting himself, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, that’s true too.’
‘Sal Russo might have jerked as he was injecting himself, mightn’t he?’
‘Objection!’ Soma stood, which Hardy took as a good sign. The trial had barely begun, and already the younger attorney’s placid demeanor was showing signs of turbulence. ‘Speculation, Your Honor.’
This was overruled. Hardy tried to keep his face neutral. Strout said he was correct: Sal might have jerked as he was injecting himself.
Hardy nodded genially and pressed on. ‘Doctor, there’s one last point I’d like you to clarify. Didn’t you tell Mr Soma that Sal Russo had a blood alcohol level of point one oh, and that because of this, he might have become unconscious while the needle was still in his vein, and therefore not have been able to withdraw it?’
‘Yes, that’s what I said.’
‘You said this scenario was consistent with your finding, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘But consistent only means it could be true, not that it is true. You can’t rule out other scenarios, can you?’
‘No.’
‘So even with Sal Russo’s elevated blood alcohol, might this just as easily not have happened?’
‘Yes.’
‘In other words, Doctor, just to be perfectly clear about this, there is nothing in your findings or testimony that indicates that Sal Russo did not kill himself. Would that be an accurate statement?’
‘Yes.’
‘This could be a simple suicide, couldn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
Salter was frowning and Hardy liked the look of it. When you get a coroner saying you don’t necessarily even have a crime, an overworked judge might find himself wondering why he was presiding over a murder trial.
Hardy thanked the witness, but before he’d gotten back to his table, Soma was up on redirect. ‘Dr Strout,’ he said, ‘you’re not saying that this was a suicide, are you?’
‘No.’
‘And why was that?’
Strout shrugged, a drop of impatience finally leaking out. ‘There was just no way to tell, one way or the other.’
Hardy went home for dinner, stayed for most of two hours, kissed his little darlings good-night, then headed downtown again, first to the jail to keep Graham company and discuss the day’s events and their ongoing strategy, then back to his office for a more critical postmortem with David Freeman.
When he got back home at eleven-fifteen, he was ready to collapse and not altogether thrilled to find Sarah Evans at his dining-room table, talking with Frannie over coffee cups. ‘If that’s decaf,’ he said, ‘I’ll have some, though I’m philosophically opposed to the idea of it.’
His wife offered a cheek for a kiss.
In the past months Evans had become Sarah. The midnight phone calls gave way to the occasional meeting here at the house. She and Frannie, close to the same age, had interests in common. Sarah was talking about getting married, having babies; Frannie now about joining the police department. Both wanted all this to happen in the future sometime. They’d had some good discussions. Frannie said, ‘Sarah and I have decided that when the kids are gone, I should be a cop. Not a family counselor after all.’
Hardy pulled up a chair. ‘Good idea, I mean it. Fast times, great benefits. A really swell clientele. You’d enjoy it. But do you want to hear my idea about after the kids are gone?’