He was watching her, her face a shifting kaleidoscope of emotions and reactions. 'I just want to say one last thing.'

He nodded. 'All right.'

'I am so sorry about your wife. I never had a chance to tell you that.'

Then she was gone.

Glitsky remained in his chair, legs stretched out, arms crossed. He had a couple of minutes before the lunch recess was over and he had to be back in court.

Reaching under the table for the second tape recorder that was hidden there, he pulled it out, stopped the tape, and rewound to the last seconds.

'I am so sorry about your wife. I never had a chance to tell you that.'

He played it back again. A third time. It had struck him as genuine when she said it. Now it sounded sincere on the tape.

Paul Thieu poked his head in through the door. 'How'd it go?' he asked.

'She looked rattled. She had to stop at the door and take a few deep breaths, then… what's the matter?'

'Nothing. She didn't have anything to do with it. Dooher did it alone.'

'How do you know?' Thieu asked.

Glitsky sat still another minute. 'I just know,' he said.

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

Farrell's plans might have included sleeping all weekend, but the weekend was a long afternoon away.

Jenkins called John Strout, the coroner, as her first witness. The lanky Southern gentleman was at home on the witness stand, and gave a dispassionate and complete account of the medical issues surrounding Sheila's death.

Most, if not all, of these, could have been stipulated by both parties – that is, they could have had the Judge read to the jury the undisputed facts about the details of Sheila's death – but prosecutors always wanted to have the coroner make a murder seem real to the jury, and in this case, Farrell had a small but, he thought, important point to make himself.

'Dr Strout.' Farrell's fatigue had dissipated. He was standing in the center of the courtroom, listing slightly toward the jury. 'In your testimony, you often referred to the drug overdose that was the cause of Sheila Dooher's death. Did you list this on the coroner's report, People's One?'

'I sure did.'

'Could we look at that page of People's One a minute, your honor? Let the jury pass it around?'

Thomasino hated this kind of theatrics. Of course the jury could review People's One, although there was all kinds of information in the coroner's report that had little or nothing to do with anything the jury needed to know. But Farrell wanted to keep them involved. As they were passing it back and forth, he said, 'Paying particular attention to the cause of death, which, you will notice, does list drug overdose along with a significant amount of medical jargon,' he moved over directly in front of Strout.

'Now, Doctor, we had a talk – you and I – a couple of days ago, and you gave me several other coroner's reports from different cases that you've handled over the past months, isn't that correct?'

'Yes.'

Jenkins was on her feet. 'Irrelevant. Your honor, what's the possible relevancy of the causes of death in unrelated cases?'

Thomasino leaned toward agreement. 'Mr Farrell, I'll give you about one minute to make your point.'

Farrell had the other coroner's reports entered as Defense Exhibits A through D, and then came back to the witness. 'Let's start with manner of death here in Defense A, Dr Strout. What does it say here, for the jury's benefit, please, under "cause of death"?'

'It says "drug overdose".'

Farrell did his imitation of Thomasino raising his eyebrows. 'In fact, Doctor, in each of Defense A through D, the cause of death is listed as "drug overdose", isn't that true?'

'It is.'

Satisfied, Farrell nodded and moved a step closer to the witness. 'All right.' He'd primed the pump, and now Farrell was ready to strike oil. 'Dr Strout, do a lot of people die of drug overdose every year?'

'Yes, hundreds.'

Thomasino leaned forward over the bench. 'Your minute's about up, counsellor.'

'My next question brings in Sheila Dooher, your honor.'

The Judge nodded impatiently. 'All right, go ahead.'

'And what about the overdoses that these hundreds of people die of every year? Except for the specific drugs involved, are these drug overdoses particularly different from that suffered by Sheila Dooher?'

Farrell darted a quick glance at Thomasino. At least he'd brought his questioning back to people involved in this case.

But Strout was frowning. 'I don't understand the question. Every case is different, though there are similarities if the same drugs cause the death.' He waited for Farrell to clarify what he wanted.

'In the hundreds of drug overdose deaths every year, is there a common feature that might point to a murder rather than, say, an accident or a suicide?'

Strout considered a minute. 'Generally, I'd say no.'

'And in Mrs Dooher's case, specifically, was there any medical indication that she'd been murdered?'

'No.'

'So, Doctor, correct me if I'm wrong, but based on your autopsy, it sounds to me as if you don't know whether Sheila Dooher was murdered or not, do you?'

'Well, the introduction of so many different drugs within such a limited time just shut down the respiratory apparatus. It's likely she had a malignant hypertensive response, potential cardiac arrhythmias, and then subsequently, severe hypotension.'

'Excuse me, Doctor, but in your opinion, was this a crime or an article in the New England Journal of Medicine?

'Objection!' Jenkins, he knew, was out of her seat. He didn't have to turn around.

Thomasino grunted. 'Sustained.'

Farrell shot a glance at the jury. He knew it never hurt to put in a dig when things got pedantic. Farrell was just a regular guy, a lay person, like these long-suffering jurors. There were traces of smiles on a few faces. He turned back to Strout. 'I'll repeat the question, Doctor. You don't know whether Sheila Dooher was murdered or not, do you?'

'It's somewhat unusual to see so many different drugs…'

'Excuse me again, Doctor, but it's a yes or no question. You don't know whether Sheila Dooher was murdered or not, do you?'

Strout had to admit it. 'I don't know.'

'You don't know whether Sheila Dooher was murdered? Is that your testimony?'

'Yes.'

Thank you.'

It didn't take Amanda Jenkins long to realize that Wes Farrell wasn't the modest intellect, low-rung attorney he pretended to be. He'd hurt her on his opening statement and then again with Strout. She thought it was time she put some of her own points on the board, and she stood and told the court that the people would call Sergeant George Crandall.

Crandall had been a marine and – though today he wore a business suit -still looked and acted like a marine. He stood up in the gallery and walked, a ramrod, up to the witness stand, where he pre-empted the clerk, raising his hand and swearing to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth so help him God without any prompting. Obviously, Crandall had been here before.

Controlling his own show, he sat down and nodded at Jenkins.

Crandall sat up straight, but completely at home in the witness box. Knowing it was going to be a while, he unbuttoned his suit jacket, though he did not lean back in the chair, nor did he cross his legs.

Jenkins spent a moment or two establishing that Crandall was an expert homicide investigator with fifteen years of experience and was now, in fact, Head of the police department's Crime Scene Investigation Unit. He had arrived at the murder scene within an hour of the 911 call.

'Were you the first policeman on the scene?'

'No. Sergeants Glitsky and Thieu of Homicide were already there, as well as the Lieutenant and Sergeant from Taraval station and some patrolmen.'