Illegal Alien

*18*

The trial took its noon recess at the end of Dr. Flemingdon’s testimony.

When court resumed, Ziegler picked up her case-in-chief.

“Please state and spell your name,” said the clerk to the man now seated in the witness stand.

“Feinstein, Moshe.” He spelled them both.

“Thank you.”

Feinstein was forty-four, with a long, dour face and thick steel-gray hair. He wore horn-rim glasses and had a plastic pocket protector in the breast pocket of his short-sleeved blue shirt. Ziegler got up. “Mr. Feinstein, please tell the Court who you are.”

“I’m a supervising criminalist for the Los Angeles Police Department.”

“Your Honor, we have here Mr. Feinstein’s curriculum vitae, which runs to six pages. We would like to enter it into evidence.”

Judge Pringle looked at Dale, who nodded. “All right,” said Pringle.

“Briefly, Mr. Feinstein, can you summarize your chief credentials?”

Feinstein smiled. It was not a pretty sight. “I’ve been with the LAPD for sixteen years. I have a master-of-science degree in criminology, and a second M.S. in chemistry. I’m on the board of directors of the California Association of Criminalists and am a Fellow of the American Academy of Forensic Sciences—and I hold certifications of professional competency from both those organizations.”

“Thank you. Early on the morning of December twenty-third of last year, were you called to Valcour Hall, a residence on the campus of the University of Southern California?”

“I was.”

“Why were you called there?”

“To be principal criminalist at the scene of the murder of Cletus Calhoun, and to supervise the other criminalists working there.”

“Mr. Feinstein, did you find anything in Dr. Calhoun’s dorm room that could have served as the murder weapon?”

“Objection,” said Dale, rising to his feet. “Prejudicial. The term ‘murder weapon’ implies intent to kill. The People have not established that this was a first-degree crime.”

“Sustained.”

“Very well,” said Ziegler. “Did you find anything in Dr. Calhoun’s dorm room that could have been used to sever his right leg from his body?”

“I did not.”

“Did you find any implement there that could have been used to spread Dr. Calhoun’s ribs?”

“No, but I didn’t expect to.”

“Could you explain that?”

“Well, the incision down the center of Dr. Calhoun’s chest was clearly made by a mechanical device—it’s a perfectly straight line running from throat to groin. The cut split the breastbone, and dug into the heart and other soft tissues. But the actual spreading of the ribs was apparently done by brute force.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was apparently done by hand—by someone grabbing either side of Dr. Calhoun’s severed breastbone and pulling hard.” Feinstein pantomimed the action against his own chest.

“What makes you think it was done by hand, Mr. Feinstein?”

“Well, whenever there’s an open wound, we look at the edges of it, and—”

“Why do you do that?”

“Oh, you never know what you’ll find. Say we’re dealing with a naked corpse, killed by stabbing. We look to see if fabric fibers are embedded along the edges of the wound. If there are some, then the person was knifed while still clothed. If the knife is rusty, we’ll find iron-oxide flakes along the periphery. Stuff like that.”

“And did you find any iron-oxide flakes?”

“No.”

“Did you find any embedded fabric?”

“No—meaning, as seemed likely at first glance, that Dr. Calhoun’s shirt had been opened before the vertical cut was made.”

“Did you find anything unusual at all?”

“Yes.”

“What did you find?”

“Well, as I indicated, the breastbone had been split by an extraordinarily sharp cutting tool—and that meant the breastbone had sharp edges. On one of those edges we found pinkish crystals.”

“Crystals, Mr. Feinstein?”

“Yes.”

“Did you collect these for analysis?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you find?”

“The crystals were quite complex chemically. I was unable to identify them, so I sent them to the department of chemistry at UCLA; we have a contract arrangement with them to do forensics work for us.”

“Mr. Feinstein, let me pose a hypothetical: if a human being were to grab the sharp edges of a breastbone split as Dr. Calhoun’s was, and that human yanked hard in order to open up the chest, what would happen to the hands of the human?”

“As I said, the breastbone had very sharp edges. Unless the person was wearing protective gloves, he’d probably cut his fingers in trying to do so.”

“Presumably there was a lot of human blood on the edges of the breastbone.”

“Oh, yes, indeed.”

“Was all of it Dr. Calhoun’s?”

“As far as I could tell, yes. It matched his blood in ABO grouping, Rh factor, and all other categorizations.”

“Thank you. In addition to the pink crystals, what other evidence, if any, did you find at the crime scene?”

“I found certain objects.”

Ziegler picked a small Ziploc bag off the prosecution’s table. “Are these the objects?”

“Yes.”

“Enter as Defense twenty-seven,” said Ziegler.

“No objection,” said Dale.

“So entered,” said Judge Pringle.

“Mr. Feinstein, please describe the contents of that pouch.”

“Inside here are three flat diamond-shaped objects found in Dr. Calhoun’s room at USC.”

“Diamond-shaped objects? What do you think they are?”

“Objection,” said Dale. “Calls for speculation.”

“I’ll rephrase. Mr. Feinstein, have you ever seen anything resembling these objects in shape?”

“Yes, they remind me of something I’ve seen before.”

“What would that be?”

“To me they look like the scales covering the Tosoks’ bodies.”

“Your Honor, at this time, we would like to ask the defendant to stand so that we may directly compare the objects found at the crime scene to the scales on his body.”

“Your Honor,” said Dale, rising, “sidebar?”

“All right.”

Dale and Ziegler moved to stand next to Judge Pringle’s bench. “Your Honor,” said Dale, “I object to the comparison between my client’s skin and the scales found at the crime scene. There’s been no foundation to establish that the scales came from Hask, as opposed to some other Tosok. That they generally match in shape and size Hask’s scales will be prejudicial—they also generally match in shape and size the scales on all the Tosoks.”

Pringle nodded. “I’m inclined to agree. Ms. Ziegler?”

Ziegler sighed. “I don’t suppose you’d like to take judicial notice, Your Honor, of the fact that these are Tosok scales?”

“I’m in no position to do that,” said Pringle. “You’ll have to build the State’s house one brick at a time.”

“We have black-and-white blowups of photographs of Tosok skin that we could introduce for comparison purposes,” said Ziegler.

“Would that be acceptable?” asked Pringle, looking at Dale.

Dale considered. “All right,” he said at last—“as long as the photos are presented as generic Tosok skin, and not Hask’s in particular.”

“Stand back.”

Dale moved back to the defense table, and Ziegler moved to the lectern to resume her direct. She made a gesture at one of her assistants, and he held up the black-and-white photo, measuring about two feet by 1 foot and a half. “This is an enlargement of a picture of Tosok hide,” said Ziegler to Feinstein, who was still on the stand. She turned to Dale. “I’ll point out that this is a black-and-white photo so the gray color of the image is not to be taken as significant. Mr. Feinstein, you’ll note that a ruler has been drawn in on the bottom of the photo, marked off in with inches and centimeters—this should give you some idea of the scale of the scales, so to speak.” Feinstein made a toothy grin at the word play. “Can you tell the Court if there are any similarities in shape between those objects and the Tosok scales?”

“Yes indeed,” said Feinstein. “They’re very similar.”

“And, again, noting the ruler, can you tell the Court if there is any comparison to the size of the Tosok scales?”

“They in fact seem to be very similar in size to the Tosok scales.”

“Thank you, Mr. Feinstein. Now, in addition to the object resembling Tosok scales and the pink crystals on the sternum, what, if any, other evidence did you find at the crime scene?”

“We found what appears to be a mark made of blood.”

“Can you be more specific?”

“Yes. If I can rise, Your Honor? Thank you. It’s visible here in photo eleven, and again in photo fourteen. See? Here, and here?”

“Would you please describe what you’re seeing?” asked Ziegler.

“It’s a U-shaped or horseshoe-like mark, measuring about five inches across.”

“What could have made such a mark, Mr. Feinstein?”

“Well, I’d never seen anything like it myself, but Detective Schmitter—”

“Objection! Hearsay.”

“Goes to effect on the listener,” said Ziegler.

“Overruled,” said Pringle.

“Detective Schmitter’s comment’s led directly to me checking this matter out for myself,” said Feinstein, glaring at Dale and carefully measuring his words. “I have since with my own eyes seen a similar impression.”

“Where?” asked Ziegler.

“At the suggestion of Detective Burt Schmitter, I went to 6925 Hollywood Boulevard.”

“Which is what building?”

“Mann’s Chinese Theatre.”

“Go on.”

“Outside the theater, I saw a pair of similar impressions. They were Tosok footprints made in the cement.”

“Thank you. One final thing: the amount of blood spilled at the crime scene. Was it copious?”

“Objection. Leading.”

“The jury has already seen the crime-scene photos, Mr. Rice,” said Pringle. “No harm, no foul, in stating the obvious.”

“Yes,” said Feinstein. “ ‘Copious’ is a suitable word.”

“In your estimation, what would have likely happened to the cleanliness of the person or persons who performed this dissection?”

“Objection. Speculation.”

“Overruled.”

“Given the rough nature of the work—the rib cage was spread by hand, remember, and the heart had a deep vertical gash in it made as part of the initial slicing of the torso—the person or persons doing this would have likely ended up covered in Dr. Calhoun’s blood.”

“Thank you. Your witness, Mr. Rice.”

“Mr. Feinstein,” said Dale, rising slowly to his feet and moving over to the lectern, “you say the perpetrator would likely have ended up covered in blood?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know the previous witness, Dr. Anne Flemingdon?”

“Yes.”

“She’s chief medical examiner for the county, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“Have you ever had cause to visit her at work?”

“From time to time.”

“When she greets you at the door to her lab, is she covered with blood?”

Feinstein snorted. “No.”

“Not some monster-movie apparition, is she? Dripping crimson all over the carpet?”

“No.”

“So, in point of fact, it’s entirely possible to dissect a human body and not end up bloodstained from head to toe.”

“Under controlled, laboratory condi—”

“Just answer the question, Mr. Feinstein. It is possible in your experience to perform a dissection even as extensive as the one apparently performed on Dr. Calhoun without getting covered in blood.”

“It’s possible, I suppose.”

“Thank you. Turning now to the diamond-shaped objects—you think those might be Tosok scales?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“What do you base that on?”

“The fact that they’re the same shape and size as the Tosok scales in the photograph.”

“But you’ve never seen loose Tosok scales before, have you?”

“Well, no.”

“In fact, you don’t know for sure that Tosok skin is composed of scales, do you? The diamond pattern might simply be made of crisscrossing lines, mightn’t it?”

“I— I suppose.”

Dale picked up an object from his desk. “This is a cardboard chess-board. It looks like it’s made up of discrete red and black squares, doesn’t it?” He flexed it. “But it’s really all one piece, isn’t it? The squares can’t be separated, except by deliberate cutting with a saw, isn’t that right?”

“I suppose so.”

“And what was it you said? The putative scales are the same size as the objects shown in the photograph?”

“That’s right.”

“What do you mean by ‘the same size’?”

“The same size—you know, the same dimensions.”

“But the photograph only shows you the length and width of the diamond-shaped markings. This is real life, Mr. Feinstein, not a Saturday-morning cartoon. We live in a three-dimensional world. Yes, objects have length and width, but they also have thickness. How thick are the objects you recovered from the crime scene?”

“Approximately three one-hundredths of an inch.”

“And how thick are the diamond-shaped objects that compose the Tosok hide, as seen in the photograph?”

“I— I have no idea.”

“That’s right, Mr. Feinstein. You have no idea at all. Further, I draw your attention to photo number eight. Isn’t that one of the putative scales you recovered?”

“Yes,” said Feinstein.

“And—speaking again in terms of our three-dimensional universe”—Dale’s deep voice was rich with sarcasm—“the scale is covered with blood here, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“When you recovered the putative scale, was it bloodstained on both sides?”

“No.”

“Which surface was free of blood?”

“The one that was on the bottom.”

“In other words, fresh blood had flowed over the top of a scale that was already on the low-pile carpet, is that right?”

“That’s the way it appears, yes.”

“So the putative scale was already present before Dr. Calhoun started to bleed, correct?”

“That seems likely, yes.”

“In fact, the putative scale could have been dropped well in advance of Dr. Calhoun’s unfortunate demise, isn’t that right?”

“No, sir.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The USC janitorial staff clean the rooms once a week. Dr. Calhoun’s room was cleaned the morning of the day he died.”

“Still the scale could have been lying there for a full day.” Dale was flustered; he realized after a moment he’d forgotten to say “putative scale.” He’d assumed, stupidly, that dorm rooms got no cleaning service—which was doubtless true when they were being used as dorm rooms.

“Actually, sir,” said Feinstein, “Dr. Calhoun’s room was cleaned just ten hours or so before he died, so, no, the scale could not have been lying there for a full day.”

“I see. But it could have been there for one hour?”

“Possibly.”

“Two hours?”

“Yes, possibly.”

“Three hours? Four hours? Five hours?”

“Conceivably.”

“Six hours? Eight hours? Ten hours?”

“Possibly—but it’s a reasonably big object. Surely someone would have picked it up off the floor.”

“Did you know Dr. Calhoun?”

“No, sir. Not at all.”

“Would you like to be admitted as a character witness?”

“I— no, sir.”

“Would you like to testify to his personal habits? His approach to cleanliness? His fastidiousness?”

“No, sir.”

“Then please confine your testimony to areas you’re competent in. You do not know whether or not Dr. Calhoun would have bent over to pick up a small piece of litter on his bedroom floor, and not knowing that, you can only say that the scale was definitely on the ground before Dr. Calhoun started bleeding, and might have been on the ground since—ten hours, you said—since perhaps eleven a.m. on December twenty-second, isn’t that right?”

“I suppose.”

“Thank you. Now, speaking of matters about which you are supposedly competent to testify, Mr. Feinstein, you told us your credentials at the outset—no doctorate, but a couple of master’s degrees, correct?”

“Correct.”

“And certifications from two different forensics organizations, correct?”

“Correct.”

“You are obviously expert in chemistry—one of your master’s degrees is in that subject.”

“Yes.”

“Any other areas of expertise?”

“I’ve had extensive training in fingerprinting, in fiber analysis, and in glass-shard analysis.”

“What about footprints?”

“What about them?”

“Do you have expert qualifications in the area of footprint analysis?”

“Well, no.”

“So, when you tell this jury that the U-shaped bloody mark is a Tosok footprint, you’re not offering a considered, expert opinion. It’s just a layman’s observation—of no more value than my own, or anyone else’s, casual comparison.”

“I am a trained criminalist.”

“But not expert in this specialized area. There are experts in footprinting, are there not? Jacob Howley in Boston is this country’s top person in this field, isn’t he?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“And Karen Hunt-Podborski of the San Francisco PD, she’s probably this state’s top footprint expert, isn’t she?”

“Yes. Her or Bill Chong.”

“But you’re not in the league of Doctor—Doctor!—Howley, are you, in the area of footprints?”

“No.”

“Nor in the league of Ms. Hunt-Podborski, or Mr. Chong, are you?”

“No.”

“So that U-shaped bloody mark might be a Tosok footprint, but then it might be—well, we could have the court reporter read it back, but I believe you yourself likened it to a horseshoe?”

“Yes, I did, but—”

“Indeed, the mark is blurred and indistinct, isn’t it? And the blood that made it was still wet enough to flow a bit, wasn’t it? And so, really, you can’t to a scientific degree of certainty say what made that mark, can you?”

Feinstein let his breath out.

“Can you?”

“No. No, I suppose I can’t.”

“Thank you,” said Dale. “Thank you very much.”

It was pouring rain the next day. The courtroom was filled with the smell of moist clothing, and umbrellas were lined up against one of the wood-paneled walls.

“State and spell your name, please,” said the clerk.

“My name is Jesus Perez, J-E-S-U-S, P-E-R-E-Z, and I will ask the court reporter to note with phonetic spelling that Jesus is pronounced ‘Hay-soos,’ not ‘Jesus.’ ”

The Latino clerk winked at Perez.

Ziegler rose and moved over to the lectern, depositing a sheaf of notes on it. “Mr. Perez, what is your current job?”

“I’m a detective lieutenant with the homicide division of the Los Angeles Police Department.”

“In that capacity, did you have cause to visit the University of Southern California on December twenty-second of last year?”

“I actually arrived after midnight, so it was early on the morning of December twenty-third.”

“Why were you called there?”

“A police officer assigned to provide security for the Tosok delegation had found a badly mutilated body there.”

“Did you ascertain whose body this was?”

“Yes.”

“How did you do so?”

“Well, initially by the identification found on the body, and—”

“Excuse me, did you say identification?”

“Yes.”

“Where was this identification?”

“In the man’s wallet.”

“This body still had a wallet on it?”

“Yes.”

“Was there anything besides identification in the wallet?”

“Yes, there were four credit cards—Visa Gold, MasterCard, American Express, and Discover. There was also a phone card; an American Airlines frequent-flier card; a library card; a discount coupon for Bo-Jays, which is a pizzeria in Santa Monica; and the deceased man’s driver’s license.”

“Did the wallet contain anything else?”

“Yes. It contained two hundred and fifty-three dollars in cash, plus one British twenty-pound note.”

“Is it unusual to find cash on a murder victim?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because many homicides occur during robberies. Clearly, that was not the motive in this case, and—”

“Objection!” said Dale. “Speculative. Move to strike.”

“Sustained,” said Pringle. “The jury will disregard the detective’s comment as to motive.”

“Lieutenant Perez, you said the wallet was only part of the identification.”

“Yes, the body was also identified by two of Dr. Calhoun’s associates, Dr. Packwood Smathers of the University of Toronto—who was part of the international entourage accompanying the Tosoks—and Dr. Frank Nobilio, science advisor to the president.”

“And who did the dead man turn out to be?”

“One Cletus Robert Calhoun.”

“Detective, were you the person who arrested Hask?”

“Yes.”

“Was the arrest warrant sworn out in your name?”

“It was.”

“Your Honor, we introduce that warrant now, as People’s thirty-one.”

“Mr. Rice?”

“No objection.”

“Introduced and marked,” said Pringle.

“Detective, is it therefore safe to say that it was you who made the determination that Hask was the most likely suspect in this crime?”

Rice nudged Michiko Katayama. “Objection!” she said. “Prejudicial.”

“I’ll rephrase: you made the decision to arrest Hask, correct?”

“In consultation with District Attorney Montgomery Ajax, yes.”

“We’ve already heard compelling evidence that the crime was committed by a Tosok, and—”

Michiko was warming to this: “Objection! Counsel is arguing her case.”

“Your Honor, is Ms. Katayama now—”

“No sale, Ms. Ziegler,” said Pringle. “Sustained.”

“There are seven Tosoks on Earth, Detective. Why did you bring charges against Hask in particular?”

“Three reasons. First, Hask and Calhoun spent considerable time alone together. They interacted in different ways than did Calhoun and the other Tosoks, who never saw him alone.

“Second, the marking I believe to be a bloody footprint at the crime scene is smaller and shaped differently than the one made by Captain Kelkad at the Chinese Theatre—that eliminates Kelkad from suspicion, and we were also able to eliminate Dodnaskak, who at a glance anyone can see has much larger feet.”

“Objection. Facts not in evidence.”

“Sustained,” said Pringle. “The jury is advised that the bloody mark at the scene has not been proven to be a Tosok footprint.”

“You were saying, Lieutenant…?”

“Well, yes, then there’s the fact that Hask shed his skin. The murderer—”

Michiko again: “Objection—there’s no proof that a murder, as opposed to manslaughter, took place.”

“Sustained.”

Perez glowered at the Asian woman. “The perpetrator, then. The perp might very well have gotten covered in blood; shedding his entire outer skin would be a handy way to deal with that fact.”

“Did you make an effort to recover Hask’s shed skin?”

“I did, aided by my colleagues. Hask said he simply bagged it up and put it in the campus garbage.”

“And have you managed to recover the skin?”

“No.”

“Do you in fact believe Hask when he says he simply threw the skin out?”

“Objection!” shouted Michiko.

“Overruled.”

“No, I don’t. If it was blood-spattered, he’d have wanted to dispose of it more completely. It could have been chopped into small bits and flushed down a toilet; it could have been buried; it could have been eaten; it could have been burned—”

Dale’s turn: “Objection. Pure speculation. There’s no evidence that Tosok skin is flammable.”

“Sustained,” said Judge Pringle. “The jury will disregard Detective Perez’s speculation; he is not qualified as an expert on—on Tosok dermatology.”

“Besides the fact that they’d spent time alone together, Detective,” said Ziegler, “and besides the shed skin, did you have any other reason suspect Hask over the other Tosoks?”

“Yes. He had no alibi. Most of the others were in broad public view attending a guest lecture by Stephen Jay Gould at USC during the time that Dr. Calhoun was killed.”

“Thank you.” Ziegler gathered up her notes. “Your witness, Mr. Rice.”

Dale Rice squeezed out from behind the defense table and made his way to the lectern. “Detective Perez, is robbery the only human motive for committing murder?”

“No.”

“Isn’t it in fact true that robbery represents only a tiny fraction of the reasons why one human being might kill another?”

“It’s a significant reason, but—”

“But it’s a minority reason, isn’t it?” said Dale. “There are all kinds of motives for one human being to kill another, yes?”

“Well, yes.”

“You said Dr. Calhoun and Hask had spent considerable time alone together.”

“Yes.”

“Indeed, you testified that none of the other Tosoks were ever alone with Calhoun. Do you know that for a fact?”

“Well—”

“No, you don’t, do you? You don’t know that at all.”

“Hask and Calhoun had a special bond; they had traveled together to the mothership from the Kitty Hawk.”

“But you have no proof that over the last several months Calhoun didn’t spend a lot of time alone with other Tosoks, correct?”

“Well, yes. I suppose.”

“You suppose. I see. Now, about this bloody mark, which you referred to as a footprint. You said it didn’t match either of the ones Kelkad had left in cement outside Mann’s Chinese Theatre, correct?”

“Yes.”

“But those are the only known Tosok footprints you have to work with, and it’s your testimony that the mark at the crime scene didn’t match them in size or shape.”

“Well, they didn’t match exactly, but—”

“Not the same size, you said. Not the same shape.”

“Not precisely.”

“So, in fact, the bloody mark at the crime scene might not be a Tosok footprint at all.”

“Oh, come on, counselor—”

“It doesn’t match your one reference sample. The best you can say is that it’s somewhat similar to a Tosok footprint.”

“It’s very similar.”

“Just as, oh, say, Canada is very similar to the United States. Similar, sir, but not the same. Now, sir, still on the matter of the footprints at the Chinese Theatre: Harrison Ford’s footprints are there—did you compare the impressions in the cement to Mr. Ford’s actual footprints?”

“What? No.”

“Eddie Murphy’s are there, too. Did you track down Eddie Murphy and compare the shape and size of his actual feet to the footprints in the cement?”

“No.”

“Dick Van Dyke? Tom Cruise? George Lucas? Paul Newman? Did you check to see how closely their real footprints match the cement impressions?”

“No.”

“Cement expands in the heat and contracts in the cold, Mr. Perez; that’s why sidewalks sometimes buckle on hot days. Even if the mark at the crime scene is a footprint—which I doubt—the fact that it’s smaller than the marks you measured in the cement outside Mann’s Chinese Theatre doesn’t prove anything, does it?”

Ziegler’s second chair, Trina Diamond, decided that she, too, should get into the act: “Objection! Argumentative!”

“Withdrawn,” said Dale, with a courtly bow at Ms. Diamond. “Now, to the question of what happened to Hask’s shed skin. You testified he told you he threw it out.”

“That’s right.”

“In a garbage bag, put out with the campus trash.”

“That’s what he claimed.”

“Did you determine which dump the University of Southern California’s trash is taken to?”

“I did.”

“Did you visit that dump and try to find the bag containing the skin?”

“Yes.”

“But you say you did not find it.”

“I did not find it.”

“Let’s reflect on that a moment, Lieutenant. If you found the shed skin, and it was clean and free of bloodstains, your case pretty much evaporates, doesn’t it?”

“Not at all.”

“Indeed, the fact that Hask’s old skin is missing is the best thing that could have happened to you, isn’t it? You don’t have to see if the diamond-shaped objects found at the crime scene match any possible holes left by any missing scales in that old skin. And you don’t have to explain why it might be clean and free of bloodstains.”

“Objection,” said Ziegler. “Counsel is arguing his case.”

“Overruled,” said Pringle, “but tread softly, Mr. Rice.”

“On what day did you go to the dump, Detective?”

“I’d have to consult my notes.”

“During pretrial deposition, you said it was December twenty-fourth.”

“That sounds about right.”

“Do you remember what the weather was like that day?”

“Not offhand.”

“Your Honor, I would like to now enter into evidence this report from the LAX meteorological office, showing that last December twenty-fourth was exceptionally hot—seventy-five in the shade.”

“Ms. Ziegler?” asked Pringle.

“No objection.”

“So entered.”

“Seventy-five in the shade,” repeated Dale. “One can well imagine that you didn’t really feel like poking through garbage in that heat.”

“I do my job.”

“And the smell—let’s not forget about the smell. Even on a normal winter day, a garbage dump reeks, Detective. On that exceptionally hot day, the smell must have been overpowering.”

“Not as I recall.”

“Surely no one could blame you for not spending too much time rooting around, opening green garbage bag after green garbage bag, while the sun beat down upon you—especially since it was, after all, Christmas eve. No doubt you were in a hurry to get home to your family.”

“I did a thorough search.”

“You pretty much have to say that, don’t you?”

“Object—”

“Of course I have to say it. I’m under oath, and it’s the truth.”

Dale smiled. “Smooth, detective. Very smooth. No further questions.”