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“Um, do you always get this happy at the prospect of helping a client?”
Suddenly self-conscious, he released her and scooted back a few inches on the enormous bench seat. “Sorry.” Had he been out of the social scene so long, he’d forgotten how to behave appropriately with someone he barely knew?
Only, he felt as if he knew her. Over the past twenty-four hours, he had delved deeply into Jamie McNair’s background, and his admiration for her had only grown.
Her roots had come from anything but privilege. Her single mother had raised her in a one-bedroom apartment with a series of low-paying jobs. Her father was completely absent—Daniel hadn’t even been able to learn his identity.
Yet Jamie had gotten herself an education with a lot of hard work, scholarships and student loans. Still not rolling in dough, judging from her off-the-rack plum-colored suit and a pair of slightly scuffed black pumps—recently polished, but in need of new soles.
Not that she didn’t look stunning in that color. She would look stunning in just about anything.
Daniel forced himself to focus. “You don’t share my optimism, I take it.”
“Frankly, I’m too shocked to know what I feel. The black, powdery substance on Frank Sissom’s shirt was written off as copier or printer toner. No one ever questioned it or analyzed it until now. It didn’t seem relevant.”
“I’ve learned it’s those tiny, overlooked elements that can make or break a case. So, are we on the same page now? Same offender?”
“It warrants looking into,” she said with some degree of resignation. “One thing I can’t help but notice—Frank Sissom was murdered a scant two months after you were released from prison. If we have a serial offender, who’s to say it isn’t you?”
Daniel felt a prickling of fear. He’d never even considered that he could become a suspect. But he grabbed a bottled water and took a sip to relieve his suddenly dry mouth.
“Why would I push to exonerate Christopher and find the real murderer, if the real murderer was me?” he asked sensibly.
She shrugged. “I’ll put that possibility on the back burner. For now. But that leaves me with Gables as a two-time murderer.”
Daniel curbed his impatience. “Gables was a college kid at the time of the first crime.”
“College kids are adults, perfectly capable of homicide.”
One inch at a time. Daniel had more now than he did last time he’d met with Jamie. He just had to keep building.
“Back to the metal shavings. Was your guy able to distinguish the type of metal, or where it might have come from?”
“Well, it’s ferrous, which means iron or nickel, or an alloy of either. We haven’t gotten beyond that yet. The type of close analysis you’re talking about takes time…and money.”
“I’ll give you the name of a lab. They do photo-chemical spectography, which can give us the exact— What?”
Her expression was closed again, guarded. “It’s not just a question of time or money. My boss is going to throw a fit.”
“Does he have to know?”
“Of course he does! If you’re right, if Christopher Gables was involved in two murders—”
“Wait. Stop right there. You can’t seriously think Gables is a serial killer.”
“How can you know it’s not Gables? Look at it from my perspective, Daniel. I am as sure as I’ve ever been that Christopher Gables committed the murder of Frank Sissom. You can’t argue away those fingerprints. If trace evidence links this murder to another, then Christopher might well be involved in the previous murder, as well. It only makes sense.”
It made no sense at all.
“Would you like me to give you an explanation for the fingerprints?” Daniel asked.
“Oh, this I’ve got to hear.”
Daniel had given this a lot of thought. Because, unlike Jamie, he knew beyond any shadow of a doubt that he hadn’t killed anyone, yet his prints had been found on a murder weapon.
“Christopher used the knife for something else—hours, days, even months prior to the murder. So long as no one else touches the knife, the prints remain intact.
“The real murderer then uses an identical knife to commit the crime. Wearing gloves, he smears some blood on the knife bearing Christopher’s prints and places it near the body. Voilà, a perfect frame-up.”
“The medical examiner matched the knife to the wound,” she argued.
Daniel opened his briefcase, rifled through it until he came up with a page of the trial transcript with some testimony highlighted in yellow.
“‘The wound on Mr. Sissom’s neck is consistent with a Messermeister Meridian Elite eight-inch chef’s knife—the knife found near his body.’ Do you recognize that testimony, Jamie?”
She closed her eyes for a moment. “Yes.”
“‘…is consistent with…’ doesn’t mean the same as ‘exact match,’ does it?”
“Please, I’m not on trial here. You’ve made your point. The murder could have been committed with an identical knife.”
“You have no idea how many nights I lie awake, thinking about how my prints ended up on a murder weapon. I had no conscious memory of using the knife that killed my partner. I’m not a chef, and I spent little time in the kitchen.”
“So how do you explain it?”
“I tried to think of the things I might use a knife for. And here’s what I came up with. I might have used a knife to open a package. Not the day of the murder, but perhaps weeks earlier. I had a penknife I kept in my pocket for such things, because the restaurant received packages all the time. But I could have mislaid it and picked up whatever was handy.”
Daniel could almost see the gears turning in Jamie’s head as she mulled over his theory.
“Christopher wasn’t a chef, either,” she finally said. “Our theory was that Christopher confronted Frank in the kitchen, knowing ahead of time he would have his choice of murder weapons.”
“I’d like to talk to him,” Daniel said. “See if he has any memory of touching that knife for an innocent purpose.”
“I can answer that for you. He said he used it to cut up an apple for lunch that day. Which was an obvious lie, because he always ate something off the menu for his lunch, and at least three witnesses saw him eating fajitas.”
“It was a lie, I’ll grant you that. Probably concocted on the spur of the moment out of fear and desperation. Have you ever been interrogated, Jamie?”
“No, but I’ve witnessed many police interviews and watched loads of video.”
“That’s not the same. Until you’re locked in that room with a couple of mean-eyed cops, pointing fingers at you, shouting at you, playing head games with you—you have no idea what it’s like. You are tempted to say anything, no matter how untrue, just to get those guys to leave you alone.”
“Did you?” Jamie asked, not without compassion.
“I didn’t. But I was still secure in the belief that my father and his influence and money would straighten everything out. Christopher didn’t have that to fall back on.
“I submit that he told that lie because he was terrified. And his lawyer coached him to continue the lie rather than admit to it.”
Jamie digested the story some more.
Daniel gave her a few moments of silence before he pressed his argument. “Raleigh, our chief legal counsel, has put in the paperwork for a face-to-face interview with Christopher. I’d like you to go with her to the prison.”
“Raleigh? Why not you?”
“Prison officials have to grant an interview for a death-row inmate with his attorney of record. I’m not an attorney.”
“Daniel, I know how Project Justice operates. Your people conduct interviews with prisoners on death row all the time, often without an attorney present.”
“It wouldn’t work this time.”
“I submit,” she said, reflecting his own verbiage back to him, “that you are not the best person to argue on Christopher’s behalf. Not only are you seriously biased because of the similarities between the crimes, but your high profile—by your own admission—makes it difficult for you to move about comfortably in public situations.
“So why don’t you assign this case to one of your people. Full-time. It will be easier on everyone.”
“My ‘serious bias,’ as you put it, makes me uniquely qualified to fight passionately for Christopher’s freedom.”
“Then don’t you think you’re the best one to interview him?”
She was right. And yet…the thought of walking into that prison—the very same prison where Daniel had been incarcerated—was abhorrent to him.
“If I agree, will you go with me? Because, as the prosecutor of this case, you also are uniquely qualified to shoot down any half-baked theories. You know what will and won’t fly in a courtroom before a judge.”
“I’ll have to clear it with my boss.”
And she’d already told him: her boss hated the idea of reopening this case.
“I’ll set something up for next week. That should give you a chance to clear your schedule.”
“I’ll send the metal shavings for further analysis. What’s the name of your lab?”
“PrakTech Laboratories. They’re certified by the county, so that shouldn’t be a problem. Of course, Project Justice will pick up the bill.”
She shook her head, firmed her lips. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe I’ve let you talk me into this. In the end, I’ll probably trash my career, and for what? Christopher Gables isn’t going to walk unless another suspect turns himself in and confesses.”
He felt for her. He really did. “You’re doing this because a man’s life is at stake. You’re a good person, and you don’t like the thought of prosecuting an innocent man any more than I do.”
“Or maybe you’re just one persuasive man.”
“That, too.” He smiled at her for the first time since she’d gotten in the car, and she smiled back.
“I will be checking into Christopher Gables’s whereabouts at the time of the Andreas Musto murder.”
“You would be remiss in your duties if you didn’t. Jamie…I want you to know that I’m grateful.”
“Because you’ve backed me into a corner?”
“For doing the right thing. The man who prosecuted my case—Chet Dotie, as I’m sure you know—he stone-walled every effort I made to exonerate myself. He considered my effort a personal affront, and he threw every barrier into my path he could think of, ethical or not.”
“I’m sure it looked that way…” She trailed off and looked away, less composed, suddenly. “Prosecutors invest a lot of time and money into an important case. I mean, it’s not just about that. Most of them believe…they fight passionately…”
“Dotie didn’t believe in it, though,” Daniel informed her. “He looked me straight in the eye and told me he didn’t care if I’d done it or not, he wasn’t going to let some snot-nosed rich kid get out of jail just because his daddy had money.”
Jamie’s eyebrows shot up and her nostrils flared.
“I’m not telling you this simply to malign one of your own. It’s just that the contrast of your open mind is refreshing.”
She didn’t seem to appreciate the compliment. “We’ll see how refreshed you feel when this is all over.” Her phone rang, and she answered it without apology this time. “McNair…okay, on my way.”
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