Читать книгу Gallagher Justice - Amanda Stevens - Страница 12

MEREDITH SWEENEY, the assistant ME, had Alicia Mercer’s X-rays waiting for Doggett a few hours later when he arrived at the Chicago Technical Park where the morgue was located.

He studied the skull X-rays. “Was I right about the bullet hole? A .45 caliber slug, right?”

Meredith shook her dark head. “No, but that’s what I thought, too, at first, so don’t feel bad. When I calibrated the hole, though, I found it somewhat smaller than .5 inches. The wound is more consistent with a .40 caliber or 10 mm bullet.”

Doggett glanced at her. “You sure about that?”

She shrugged. “You can measure it for yourself if you want.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” The information didn’t necessarily mean anything, but on the other hand, Doggett found it interesting. In recent years, .40 caliber weapons had come into wide use by law enforcement agencies all over the country, including the Chicago PD. Doggett’s own service weapon was a Glock 27, a piece favored by a lot of undercover cops.

“I wouldn’t get my hopes up for any kind of ballistics match,” Meredith told him. She pointed to the left side of the victim’s skull, in the area behind the eye socket where metallic density showed as white flecks on the X-ray.

“A lead snowstorm,” Doggett muttered.

“Exactly. You can actually see where the bullet disintegrated as it traveled through the body, which means it must have been partially jacketed.” She moved to another X-ray and indicated an anomalous object in the pelvis area. “I suspect this is where we’ll find the bullet, what’s left of it.”

Doggett nodded. “What about the bruises around her wrists?”

“Looks like he used a nylon cord, the kind you can buy in any hardware store.”

“And the mark on her shoulder?”

“We’ve sent a sample of the ink to the lab, but you can get stamp pads in any discount or office supply store, and those temporary tattoos are sold out of vending machines.”

“It’s the symbol that’s bugging me,” Doggett said. “Why a trident?”

“At least it’s not a swastika,” Meredith said dryly. “Or a pentagram. God knows we see our share of those.” She gave Doggett a moment longer to study the X-rays. “Are you staying for the autopsy?”

“Yeah.” It wasn’t just a matter of duty, but a matter of conscience. His way of paying respect to the victim. Doggett never walked out on an autopsy, no matter how gruesome.

Meredith nodded briskly. “Let’s get started then, shall we?”

Doggett followed her into the autopsy room where Alicia Mercer’s nude body waited for them on a cold, stainless-steel table.

* * *

THE AIR-CONDITIONING in the courtroom was operating in hyperdrive, and Fiona shivered as she glanced around the packed benches, picking out faces in the crowd that she recognized. She was seated at the prosecution table with Milo, who was busy going over his notes. Fiona knew that she should do the same, but her gaze kept straying back to the visitors’ block where a dozen or more cops from Area Three, both in uniforms and plainclothes, had turned out in a show of support for Vince DeMarco.

Fiona came from a long line of cops. The Gallaghers were almost legendary in the police department. Her grandfather, her father, her three brothers...all Chicago PD. So she knew cops. She knew how they walked, how they talked, how they thought. But the one thing she’d never been able to understand about them, no matter their rank, was the blind loyalty to the brotherhood.

Most of the police officers she knew were good, decent, hardworking guys who would never, in a million years, condone rape. They recognized the crime for what it was—an act of violence. In most cops’ estimation, a rapist ranked just slightly above a child molester, and yet here a dozen or so of Chicago’s finest—those good, decent, hardworking men—sat lending moral support to a creep like DeMarco. And all because he was a fellow police officer.

But that view was simplistic and more than a little unfair, Fiona knew. Most of the officers in the courtroom had undoubtedly managed to convince themselves, with Quinlan’s help, that DeMarco was the victim. He was a good cop being railroaded by a vindictive junkie and by an out-of-control prosecutor who had started to believe her own press. Fiona Gallagher, the Iron Maiden, was building herself quite the reputation by going after cops—first Quinlan and now DeMarco.

As for Fiona, she had no doubt whatsoever of DeMarco’s guilt. She didn’t care what his fellow cops thought. She didn’t care what Frank Quinlan had force-fed them into believing. All she had to do was look into DeMarco’s eyes, those cold, dark, soulless eyes, to know the truth.

“You raped that poor girl, didn’t you, Detective DeMarco? You saw her on the street that night, you accosted her, and you’re not the type to take no for an answer. When she wouldn’t go with you willingly, you forced her into that alley, tried to beat her into submission, and then, when that didn’t work, you put your gun to her head and threatened to blow her brains out if she screamed. Isn’t that what happened? Admit it, Detective. You raped that girl, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”

“No! I didn’t touch her! I swear! I wouldn’t do something like that. I’m a cop, for God’s sake. I took an oath to protect people like Kimbra Williams. I would never hurt anyone.”

So earnest, so sincere. The jury had hung on his every word.

But his eyes had told Fiona something very different. His eyes had taunted her, conveyed to her secretly that, yeah, he’d done it. He’d do it again, too, if the mood struck him, and there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it.

Maybe you’d like to be next, Counselor.

He hadn’t said it aloud, but the message was so clear in his eyes that for a moment, Fiona was the one who had been rattled by the cross-examination. And it hadn’t helped her poise to know that Frank Quinlan was sitting on the front row, his beady eyes tracking her every move as she walked back to the prosecution table.

He was there again today. Fiona had seen him when she first entered the courtroom. He’d been sitting front and center, in full-dress uniform, brass stars shimmering in the fluorescent lighting as he’d clapped a supportive hand on DeMarco’s shoulder.

Milo muttered something under his breath, then leaned toward Fiona. “Did you see all the brass from police headquarters walk in? What the hell are they doing here?”

“Are you kidding? Didn’t you see the TV cameras out front?” Fiona glanced over her shoulder, her gaze once again sweeping the crowded courtroom. Milo was right. The big guns were out in full force, including Deputy Chief of Detectives Clare Fox. She wore her dress uniform, too, and her stars seemed to shine just a little more brilliantly than Quinlan’s.

Milo tugged at his tie. “Hell, with all this attention, you’d think we had O.J. in here.”

“A cop accused of rape is pretty good copy,” Fiona said. “Especially a hero like DeMarco. But at least the reporting so far has been fair.”

“Fair?” Milo grinned. “Ever since you cooperated with that IAD investigation, you own the guy at the Trib.”

“Which I’m sure endears me even more to Frank Quinlan,” she said dryly.

Milo’s grin disappeared. “Quinlan’s got some heavy-duty connections, Fiona. Don’t underestimate him.”

She turned in surprise. “Gee, if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were starting to get paranoid on me, Milo. What’s with all these warnings? First Guy and now Quinlan?”

He frowned. “Those two have more in common than you might think.”

She lifted a brow. “Such as?”

Milo turned away, but not before she’d seen something dark flicker in his eyes. That secret again. “They can both be major-league assholes,” he muttered, but Fiona didn’t think that was what he’d meant to say at all.

More and more, she was starting to think that there was something on Milo’s mind, something he wanted to confide in her, but for some reason, felt he couldn’t. The vague warnings were starting to make her uneasy around him.

But at least his appearance was somewhat reassuring. He was dressed today like the Milo she was accustomed to—gray suit, neatly combed hair, dark-rimmed glasses that made him look boyish and earnest. A persona that might or might not be an asset if the jurors compared it to the dark, smoldering sex appeal of Vince DeMarco.

“Only one person missing from this circus,” he said, turning to scan the courtroom. “Where in the hell is Kimbra? Have you heard from her this morning?”

“I haven’t talked to her since court yesterday, but she promised me she’d be here.”

Milo’s lips thinned. “And if she doesn’t show?”

“Then we could be in some deep you-know-what here. But she still has a few more minutes. I’m not giving up on her just yet.”

But it wouldn’t be that much of a surprise if Kimbra didn’t show, even though Fiona had stressed over and over how important it was for the jury to see her in the courtroom today. But that was Kimbra’s MO. When the going got tough, she ran.

Not that Fiona could blame her. It couldn’t be easy sitting in court day in and day out with her attacker only a few feet away, his smoldering gaze mocking her at every turn. The jury saw only one side of Vincent DeMarco, the good-looking, sexy cop who wouldn’t need to resort to rape when he could have any woman he wanted, even one as young and exotically attractive as Kimbra.

But rape wasn’t about sex. It was about power. It was about domination and humiliation.

And humiliation was something Fiona could relate to.

You didn’t fall in love with a man who’d killed three women and not want to curl up and die at your own gullibility—at your own blind stupidity for not having seen through such evil, for not having been able to stop it.

Which was why Fiona had to stop it now.

Almost against her will, she glanced at the table across the aisle. Vincent DeMarco met her gaze and smiled, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking.

Then a commotion at the back of the courtroom drew his attention, and Fiona saw anger flash across his face. He turned and said something to Quinlan, and the older cop nodded in grim agreement.

Fiona shifted her gaze to see what had caused their agitation, and relief swept through her. Kimbra and Rachel Torres, the woman who ran the runaway shelter where Kimbra sometimes stayed, had just come into the courtroom. They paused at the back, and then Kimbra started forward with a little stumble, as if Rachel had had to nudge her to get her to move. The girl’s expression was frozen. She glanced neither to the right nor to the left as she stepped up to the prosecution table and took her seat.

Fiona turned and put her hand over Kimbra’s. “Thanks for coming.”

Kimbra shrugged. “I said I would, didn’t I?”

Fiona squeezed her fingers. “I know this isn’t easy for you, but you’ve done great so far. Just hang in there a little longer, okay? It’ll all be over soon.”

“Then he’s goin’ to prison, right?” Kimbra turned eyes that looked as old as time on Fiona. “Cuz if he don’t do no time for this, I’m a dead woman.”

A shiver crawled up Fiona’s spine at the certainty in the girl’s voice. “If he threatens you in any way—”

“What y’all gonna do ’bout it, Miss Lawyer? Huh? That man’s Five-O. They do what they want,” she said bitterly. “Who’s gonna stop ’em?”

“I’ll stop him. If he comes near you, we’ll get a restraining order—”

Kimbra all but laughed in her face. “You still don’t get it, do you? If he wants me dead, I’ll just disappear one day. Won’t nobody ever know what happened to me. That’s how he’ll do it.”

She paused for a moment, her gaze sliding past Fiona as a look of pure terror crept into her eyes. Then she blinked it away and the defiant mask slipped back into place. “Y’all keep messin’ with the wrong people, Miss Lawyer, they might just disappear you, too.”

* * *

FIONA WALKED OVER TO THE jury box and planted her hands on the railing. Milo had done a fantastic job sum-marizing the evidence and recounting witness testimony in his closing remarks, but the defense attorney, Dylan O’Roarke, had been masterful.

He’d wasted no time in getting to the heart of the case. “In spite of the prosecution’s attempts to muddy the waters at every turn, the case is a simple one, ladies and gentlemen. It boils down to one single question. Who do you believe? A troubled runaway with a long history of drug abuse and a willful disobedience of the law? One who openly bragged about her hatred of the police? One who, as you heard more than one witness testify, swore to get her revenge on Detective DeMarco for an old arrest?

“Or do you believe Vincent DeMarco, a decorated police officer, an ex-Army Ranger who distinguished himself on a desert battlefield as well as on the mean streets of Chicago?”

Dylan had gone on and on, hammering home the same point until Fiona had seen at least one juror nod very slightly in agreement.

And now it was her turn to offer a rebuttal. She surveyed the twelve members of the panel, noting their expressions as they stared up at her expectantly, and then she said, very quietly, “One out of every three women in this country will be sexually assaulted in her lifetime. One out of every three.”

She emphasized the last five words as her gaze slid to a well-dressed, middle-aged woman in the second row who had sat rigidly throughout the whole trial. Her expression rarely showed anything more than an intense concentration, as if she were determined to perform her civic duty to the best of her ability, but beyond that the trial couldn’t touch her. Rape couldn’t touch her.

Fiona stared at her for a long moment until the woman was forced to meet her gaze. “It could happen to any woman in this courtroom. It could happen to me. It could happen to you.”

Something flashed briefly in the woman’s eyes. Denial, Fiona thought. She often found the toughest jurors to sway in a rape case were upper-middle-class white women who had a hard time identifying with a victim like Kimbra.

“Think of three women in your own life. Your mother. Your sister.” Fiona paused, letting her gaze move to a male juror seated directly in front of her in the first row. “Your daughter.”

He flinched.

“One out of every three women in this country will be sexually assaulted in her lifetime.”

Fiona straightened and paced slowly back and forth in front of the jury box. “The defense would have you believe that a man like Vincent DeMarco, a decorated police officer, a war hero from Desert Storm, a man of impeachable honor and character, could not have perpetrated such a terrible crime. A man like Vincent DeMarco could not be guilty of rape. And yet...”

Fiona turned to Kimbra. “Someone did rape Kimbra Williams on the night of April 17. Someone forced her into that alley and beat her until she could barely move. And when she still fought back, her attacker held a gun to her head and threatened to blow her brains out if she screamed.”

Fiona paused again, letting the mental picture seep in. “You heard testimony from the doctor who examined Kimbra on that same night. You saw photographs of the severe bruises and swelling left by the beating. Kimbra Williams was brutally attacked and raped. Of that, there is no doubt.

“But the defense has also implied that Kimbra’s fear may have impaired her ability to correctly identify her assailant. After all, it was a dark, moonless night, and she was terrified beyond reason. How could she—how could anyone—be so certain, under the circumstances, of her assailant’s identity?”

Fiona’s expression hardened. “I’ll tell you how. Vincent DeMarco’s face was only inches from Kimbra’s as he held that gun to her head. It didn’t happen instantly. It took minutes. For Kimbra, it took an eternity. Not only was she able to correctly identify her attacker, but I can pretty much guarantee you that his is a face she will never forget.”

Fiona allowed a shudder to ripple through her.

“The crux of the defense’s case, though, rests on Kimbra’s alleged hatred of the police. Her loathing for authority, they want you to believe, is the real reason for the charges against Detective DeMarco. She held a grudge against him for hassling her on the street so what better way to get back at him than to accuse him of a brutal crime? It’s been known to happen, they warned you.”

Fiona let contempt creep into her voice. “Only one thing wrong with that theory, ladies and gentlemen. Kimbra Williams was raped and beaten on the night of April 17. She didn’t lie about those bruises. You saw the pictures.

“For all we know, she was left for dead in that alley, but even if her attacker never meant to kill her, you can be certain that a man like Vincent DeMarco would not expect her to press charges against him. After all, as a police officer, he would know that fifty percent of all rapes go unreported every year because the victim is either worried she won’t be believed or is afraid of retaliation by her assailant.

“Retaliation is what the defense wants you to believe motivated Kimbra Williams. But let’s examine that for a moment. A girl in Kimbra’s position, a runaway who spends most of her life on the street, falsely accuses a police officer, of all people, of rape. How easy would it be for him to retaliate against her? She’s vulnerable. She’s alone. No friends or family to come to her rescue. Do you really think she’d take that chance?”

Fiona walked back to the jury box and once again placed her hands on the rail, leaning forward. “Vincent DeMarco’s fate is in your hands today, ladies and gentlemen, but regardless of what you decide, Kimbra Williams’s life is never going to be the same. Thirty-one percent of all rape victims develop Rape-Related Post-traumatic Stress Disorder, and they are nine times more likely to attempt suicide. A pretty grim statistic, isn’t it?

“But the most frightening statistic of all isn’t about the victim. It’s about the assailant. Studies have shown that the recidivism rate among rate among rapists can be as high as 50 percent. That means if Vincent DeMarco is allowed to walk out of this courtroom a free man, there is an extremely high probability he will rape again.

“Who will his next victim be, I wonder? That one woman out of three who will be sexually assaulted in her lifetime?”

Fiona gazed at them for a moment longer, then turned and strode back to the prosecution table to await the judge’s final instructions to the jury.