David baldacci, p.43
David Baldacci, page 43
“That’s right.” Liz was nodding her head as she followed Sawyer’s reconstruction.
“Now, Brophy’s wound was of the contact variety, there’s little doubt of that. How far would you say that is?” Sawyer was pointing to the space between the front and rear seats of the passenger area.
“We don’t have to guess,” Liz said. She walked over to her desk, pulled out a tape measure and came back over. With Jackson’s assistance she measured the space. Liz looked at the result on the tape and then frowned as she now saw where Sawyer was headed with his analysis. “Six feet six inches from the middle of one seat to the other.”
“Okay, based on the absence of residue on the rear seats, Archer and Goldman were sitting there, their backs flush against the seats, you agree?” Liz nodded, as did Jackson. “All right, is it possible for Sidney Archer, if she was sitting with her back flush against the rear seat, to have perpetrated a contact wound on Brophy’s right temple?”
Liz answered first. “No, not unless her arms dragged the ground when she walked.”
Sawyer was eyeing Liz carefully. “How about Brophy was leaning toward Archer, very close, and she pulls the gun and fires. His body falls on her, let’s say, but she pushes him off and he lands on the floor. What’s wrong with that picture?”
Liz thought for a moment. “If he was leaning forward—and he really would have had to almost leave his seat—then given the distance, the shooter would still have to be doing about the same thing: They would sort of meet in the middle, so to speak, for the contact wound to be possible. But if the shooter is leaning forward, then the spray patterns would be different, more than likely. The shooter’s back is not flush with the seat. Even if her body caught most of the residue, it would be highly unlikely for some not to have ended up on the seat behind her. For her to remain flush against the seat when she fired, Brophy would most likely had to have been almost in her lap. That doesn’t seem too probable, does it?”
“Agreed,” Sawyer said. “Let’s talk about Goldman’s wound for a minute. She’s sitting next to Goldman on his left side, okay? Wouldn’t you think his entry wound would have been to the right temple and not in the middle of the forehead?”
“He could’ve turned to face her—” Liz started to say, and then stopped. “But then the blood spray patterns wouldn’t make sense. Goldman was definitely looking toward the front of the limo when the bullet hit him. But it could still be possible, Lee.”
“Really?” Sawyer pulled up a chair, sat down in it, held an imaginary gun in his right hand, coiled it around and pointed it backward as though he were about to shoot someone sitting on his left, in the forehead as that person stared directly ahead. He looked at Liz and Jackson. “Pretty awkward, isn’t it?”
“Very,” Jackson said, shaking his head.
“It gets even more awkward, guys. Sidney Archer is left-handed. Remember, Ray, her drinking coffee, handling the pistol? Left-handed.” Sawyer repeated his performance, this time holding the imaginary firearm in his left hand. The result was almost laughable as the bulky agent contorted his body.
“That would be impossible,” Jackson said. “She’d have to turn and face him to inflict a wound like that. Either that or she pops her arm out of the socket. Nobody would fire a pistol in that manner.”
“So, if Archer is the shooter, she somehow shoots the driver in the front seat, jumps across to the rear seat, blows away Brophy, which we’ve already shown she couldn’t have done, and then supposedly nails Goldman using a completely unnatural—in fact impossible—firing angle.” Sawyer got up from the chair and shook his head.
“You’ve made some good points, Lee, but there’s still a lot of indisputable trace tying Sidney Archer to the crime scene,” Liz rejoined.
“Being at a crime scene and being the perpetrator of said crime are two different things, Liz,” Sawyer said heatedly. Liz looked pained at the agent’s sharp rebuff.
As they were leaving the lab, Sawyer had a final question. “You get an answer on the gunshot residue test yet?”
“I hope you realize the bureau’s firearms section doesn’t really do the GSR tests anymore, since the findings weren’t typically turning up anything relevant. However, since it was you requesting the test, of course no one balked. Give me one minute, Agent Sawyer, and I’ll check.” Liz’s tone was plainly antiseptic now. Sawyer didn’t seem to notice as he moodily studied the floor.
Liz went back to her desk and picked up a phone. Sawyer was staring over at the limo, looking for the world like he wanted to make it disappear. Jackson watched his partner carefully, a trace of concern filtering through his eyes.
Liz walked back over. “Negative. None of the victims had either fired a gun or handled a recently fired weapon with their bare hands in the six hours before their death.”
“You’re sure? No mistake?” Sawyer asked, his brow laced with furrows.
Liz’s usually pleasant face quickly turned to a scowl. “My people know how to do their job, Lee. A GSR test is not that complicated, although, as I said, it’s not routinely done anymore because a positive finding may not always be that accurate; there are so many substances out there that could, in practice, give a false positive. However, that nine-millimeter would have thrown off a good deal of residue, and the test result was negative. I’d say the confidence level in that finding should be very high. However, just in case you didn’t catch it, I did add a disclaimer about their bare hands. They could have worn gloves, of course.”
“But none were found on the dead men,” Jackson pointed out.
“That’s right,” Liz said, looking at Sawyer triumphantly.
Sawyer ignored the look. “Were there any other prints found on the nine-millimeter?” he asked.
“One thumb print, partially obscured. It belonged to Parker, the chauffeur driver.”
“No one else’s?” Sawyer asked. “You’re sure.” Liz said nothing. Her expression plainly answered the question.
“Okay, you said Parker’s print was partially obscured. What about Archer’s prints? How clean were they?”
“From what I recall, fairly clean. Although there was some smudging. I’m talking about the grip, trigger and trigger guard. Her prints on the barrel were very clear.”
“The barrel?” Sawyer said this more to himself. He looked at Liz. “We have a report on the ballistics yet? I’m real interested in the trajectory patterns.”
“The autopsies are being performed as we speak. We’ll know soon enough. I’ve asked to be advised of the results. They’ll probably call you first, but in case they don’t, as soon as I hear, I’ll buzz you.” She added with a trace of sarcasm, “You’ll want to make sure they didn’t make any mistakes, of course.”
Sawyer looked at her for a moment. “Thanks, Liz. You’ve been a big help.” His sarcastic tone was not lost on either Liz or Jackson. Lost deep in thought, his massive shoulders sagging, Sawyer trudged away slowly.
Jackson stayed behind for a moment with Liz. She watched Sawyer leave and then looked over at Jackson. “What the hell’s eating him, Ray? He’s never treated me like that before.”
Jackson didn’t answer right away. He finally shrugged and turned to leave. “I’m not sure I can answer that right now, Liz. Not sure at all.” He quietly followed his partner out.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Jackson climbed in the car and looked over at his partner. Sawyer was sitting there, his hands on the wheel, staring off into the darkness. Jackson looked at his watch. “Hey, Lee, how about some grub?” When Sawyer didn’t reply, he added, “My treat? Don’t pass that offer up. It may not be repeated in your lifetime.” Jackson gripped Sawyer’s shoulder and gave it a friendly squeeze.
Sawyer finally looked over at him. For an instant a smile appeared on his lips and then was gone. “Springing for a meal, huh? You think I’m seriously screwed up over this case, don’t you, Raymond?”
“I just don’t want you to get too skinny,” said Jackson.
Sawyer laughed and put the car in gear.
Jackson attacked his meal with vigor while Sawyer merely played with a mug of coffee. The diner was in close proximity to the headquarters building and was thus a popular one for FBI personnel. The pair greeted a number of colleagues either grabbing a bite before heading home or fortifying themselves before going on duty.
Jackson eyed Sawyer. “That was a nice piece of work you did back at the lab. But you could’ve cut Liz some slack. She was just doing her job.”
Sawyer’s eyes suddenly burned into his partner. “You cut some slack when your kid misses curfew or puts a ding in your car. If somebody wants slack, then I would strongly suggest they don’t seek employment with the FBI.”
“You know what I mean. Liz is damned good at her job.”
Sawyer’s face softened. “I know, Ray. I’ll send her some flowers. Okay?” Sawyer looked away again.
Between bites Jackson said, “So what’s our next move?”
Sawyer looked over at him. “I’m not really sure. I’ve had cases change on me in midstream before, but not quite to this degree.”
“You don’t believe Sidney Archer killed those guys, do you?”
“Aside from the fact that the physical evidence says she couldn’t have, no, I don’t believe she did.”
“But she did lie to us, Lee. The tape? She was helping her husband. You can’t get around that.”
Sawyer felt the guilt seep in again. He had never withheld information from a partner before. He looked over at Jackson and then decided to tell him what Sidney had revealed. Five minutes later, Jackson sat back stunned. Sawyer glanced at him anxiously. “She was scared. Didn’t know what to do. I’m sure she wanted to tell us from the get-go. Damn, if we only knew where she was. She could be in real danger, Ray.” Sawyer smacked a fist into his palm. “If she would only come to us. Work together. We could bust this whole case, I know it.”
Jackson leaned forward, a determined expression on his face. “Look, Lee, we’ve done a lot of cases together. But, despite it all, you kept your distance. You saw things for what they were.”
“And you think this case is different?” Sawyer’s tone was steady.
“I know it’s different. You’ve been sticking up for this lady almost from the start. And you’ve damn sure been treating her differently than you ordinarily would a major suspect in a case like this. Now you tell me she spilled to you about the tape and her talking to her husband. And you kept that info to yourself. Jesus Christ, Lee, that’s grounds to get your butt kicked right out of the bureau.”
“If you feel you need to report it, Ray, I’m not stopping you.”
Jackson grunted and shook his head. “I’m not pissing away your career. You’re doing a good enough job of that.”
“This case isn’t any different.”
“Bullshit!” Jackson hunched forward even more. “You know it is and it’s messing you up. All the evidence points, at minimum, to Sidney Archer being involved in some serious crimes, and yet you go out of your way at every opportunity to put a positive spin on it. You did it with Frank Hardy, with Liz, and now you’re trying to do it with me. You’re not a politician, Lee, you’re a law enforcement officer. She may not be in on everything, but she’s no angel either. That’s for damned certain.”
“You disagree with my conclusions on the triple homicide?” Sawyer shot back.
Jackson shook his head. “No. I think you’re probably right. But if you expect me to believe that Archer is just an innocent babe caught up in some Kafkaesque nightmare, then you’re talking to the wrong FBI agent. Remember what you said about slack? Well, I’d have to cut you a ton of it to even begin to believe that Sidney Archer, beautiful and intelligent as she might be, shouldn’t spend a considerable part of her remaining years in prison.” Jackson sat back.
“So that’s what you think it’s all about? Beautiful, brainy babe turns veteran agent to mush?” Jackson didn’t respond, but the answer was clearly painted on his face. “Old, divorced fart wants to jump in her panties, Ray? And I can’t do that if she’s guilty. Is that what the hell you think?” Sawyer’s voice was rising.
“Why don’t you tell me, Lee?”
“Maybe I should throw your ass through that window over there instead.”
“Maybe you should goddamn try,” Jackson shot back.
“You sonofabitch.” Sawyer’s voice shook.
Jackson reached across and grabbed his shoulder. “I want you to get your head on right. You want to sleep with her, fine. Wait until after the case is over and she’s proved not guilty!” Jackson shouted at him.
“How dare you!” Sawyer shouted back, ripping Jackson’s hand away. Sawyer then jumped up and cocked a very large fist, a fist that stopped in midair as Sawyer realized what he was about to do. Several of the other restaurant patrons stared in shock at the scene. Sawyer’s and Jackson’s eyes remained locked until finally Sawyer, his chest heaving, his bottom lip trembling, lowered his fist and sat back down.
Neither of them spoke for several minutes. Finally Sawyer looked embarrassed and sighed. “Shit, I knew I was going to regret giving up the smokes one day.” He closed his eyes. When he reopened them, he was looking squarely at Jackson.
“Lee, I’m sorry. I’m just worried about—” Jackson abruptly stopped as Sawyer held up his hand.
Sawyer began speaking slowly and softly. “You know, Ray, I’ve been with the bureau half my life. When I first started out, it was easy to tell the good guys from the bad. Back then, kids didn’t go around killing people like they were yesterday’s lunch. And you didn’t have smooth-running drug empires worth hundreds of billions of dollars, enough money that just about anybody will do just about anything. They had revolvers, we had revolvers. Pretty soon they’ll be toting surface-to-air missiles as standard equipment.
“While I’m at the grocery trying to decide what lousy TV dinner to eat and looking for which beer’s on sale, about twenty new corpses are created for no better reason than somebody turning down the wrong street or a bunch of unemployed kids going at each other over a block-long piece of drug turf with more firepower than an Army battalion used to carry around. We play catch-up every day, but we never gain any ground.”
“Come on, Lee, the thin blue line is still around. As long as there are bad guys.”
“That thin blue line is a lot like the ozone layer, Ray. It’s got mountain-size holes punched all through it. I’ve been walking that line for a long time. What do I have to show for it? I’m divorced. My kids think I’m a lousy father because I was out running down a plane bomber, or hauling in some slick-smiling butcher who likes to line his trophy case with human specimens, instead of helping them blow out candles on their birthday cakes. You know what? They were right. I was a lousy dad. Especially to Meggie. I worked ungodly hours, never around, and when I was, I was either sleeping or so zoned out on a case I probably never heard half of what they were trying to tell me. Now I live all alone in a crummy apartment and most of my paycheck I don’t even see. My stomach feels like it’s got a bunch of meat cleavers stuck in it and while I’m sure that’s just my imagination, I do happen to have several pieces of real lead permanently embedded in me. On top of that, lately I find it real hard to go to sleep unless I’ve had a six-pack of beer.”
“Jesus, Lee, you’re always the rock at work. Everyone respects the hell out of you. You go into an investigation and see stuff I never do. Wrap the whole picture together while I’m still getting my notebook out. You’ve got the best instincts of anyone I’ve ever seen.”
“Good thing, Ray. Considering it’s really the only thing I have left. But don’t shortchange yourself. I’ve got twenty years on you. You know what instinct is? Seeing the same thing over and over again until you start to get a feel for things. A little extra step. You’re way ahead of where I was with just a half dozen years under my belt.”
“I appreciate that, Lee.”
“But don’t misinterpret this little episode of venting. I don’t feel sorry for myself and I’m sure as hell not looking for any pity from anybody. I had choices and I made them. Just me. If my life’s screwed up, it’s because I screwed it up, nobody else.”
Sawyer got up, walked over to the counter and exchanged a few words with a skinny, wrinkled waitress. In a moment he was striding back, cupping his hands together, a thin line of smoke floating up. He sat back down and held up the cigarette. “For old times’ sake.” Slowly grinding out the match in the ashtray, he sat back and took a long pull on the cigarette, a barely audible chuckle escaping his lips.
“I go into this case, Ray, thinking that I had it pretty much nailed from the get-go. Lieberman’s the target. We figure out how the plane went down. We got a lot of motives, but not so many we can’t follow up, sift through until we nail the sonofabitch responsible. Shit, we get the actual bomber gift-wrapped and delivered to us, even if he’s not breathing anymore. Things are looking pretty damn good. Then the floor falls out from under us. We find out Jason Archer pulled off this incredible heist and turns up in Seattle selling secrets instead of being in a hole in the ground in Virginia. Is that his plan? Seems pretty likely.
“Only the bomber turns out to be a guy who somehow slipped right through the Virginia State Police’s computer system. I get hoodwinked into going to New Orleans and something happens at Archer’s house that I’m still in the dark about. Then, when you least expect it, Lieberman gets thrown back into the picture chiefly because of Steven Page’s apparent suicide five years ago that doesn’t seem to fit into the puzzle except for the fact that his big brother, who can probably tell us a lot, gets his throat handed to him in a parking lot. I talk to Charles Tiedman and maybe, just maybe, Lieberman is being blackmailed. If true, how the hell does that tie into Jason Archer? Do we have two unconnected cases seemingly connected through a coincidence: namely, Lieberman gets on a plane Archer has paid someone to blow up? Or is it all one case? If it is, what the hell is the connection? Because if there is one, it sure as hell has escaped yours truly.”
