of such a pristine resolution.
First, the physical evidence may well be inconclusive.
There may be no match because the person’s DNA and prints may not be on
file anywhere. Jack again remembered the look on Luther’s face that
night on the Mall. It was somebody important, somebody people knew. And
that was another obstacle. If you made accusations against a person like
that, you better make damn sure you could back it up or else your case
would never see the light of day.
Second, they were looking at a mammoth chain-of-custody problem. Could
they even prove the letter opener came from Sullivan’s home? Sullivan
was dead; the staff might not know for certain. Christine Sullivan had
presumably handled it. Perhaps her killer had possessed it for a short
period of time. Luther had kept it for a couple of months. Now Jack
had.it and would, hopefully, soon be passing it on to Seth Frank. It
finally struck Jack.
The letter opener’s evidentiary value was zilch. Even if they could find
a match, a competent defense counsel would shred its admissibility.
Hell, they probably wouldn’t even get an indictment based on it. Tainted
evidence was no evidence at all.
He stopped eating and lay back in the grimy vinyl seat.
But come on! They had tried to get it back! They had killed to get it
back. They were prepared to kill Jack to take possession of what he had.
It must be important to them, deadly important. So regardless of its
legal efficacy, it had value. And something valuable could be exploited.
Maybe he had a chance.
IT WAS TEN O’CLOCK WHEN JACK HIT THE ESCALATOR HEADING down into the
Farragut West Metro station. Part of the orange and blue lines on the
Washington Metrorail system, Farragut West was a very busy station
during the day due to its close proximity to the downtown business area
with its myriad law and accounting firms, trade associations and
corporate offices. At ten o’clock in the evening, however, it was pretty
much deserted.
Jack stepped off the escalator and surveyed the area. The underground
Metro stations of the system were really huge tunnels with vaulted
honeycombed ceilings and floors consisting of six-sided brick. A broad
corridor lined with cigarette advertisements on one side and automated
ticket machines on the other culminated in a kiosk that sat in the
center of the aisle with the turnstiles flanking it on either side. A
huge Metro map with its multicolored rail lines, and travel time and
pricing information, stood against one wall next to the dual phone
booths.
One bored Metro employee leaned back in his chair in the glass-enclosed
kiosk. Jack looked around and eyed the clock atop the kiosk. Then he
looked back toward the escalator and froze. Coming down the escalator
was a police officer. Jack willed himself to turn as casually as
possible and he passed along the wall until he reached the phone booth.
He flattened himself against the back of the booth, hidden behind its
barrier. He caught his breath and risked peering out. The officer
approached the ticket machines, nodded to the Metro guy in the kiosk and
looked around the perimeter of the station entrance. Jack drew back. He
would wait. The guy would move on shortly; he had to.
Time passed. A loud voice interrupted Jack’s thoughts. He looked out.
Coming down the escalator was a man, obviously homeless. His clothing
was in tatters, a thick bundled blanket slung over one shoulder. His
beard and hair were matted and unkempt. His face weather-beaten and
strained. It was cold outside. The warmth of the Metro stations was
always a welcome haven for the homeless until they got run out. The iron
gates at the top of the escalators were to keep just such people out.
Jack looked around. The police officer had disappeared.
Perhaps to check out the train platforms, shoot the breeze with the
kiosk guy. Jack looked in that direction. That man too had vanished.
Jack looked back at the homeless man, who was now crumpled in one
corner, inventorying his meager belongings, rubbing ungloved hands back
and forth, trying to work circulation into limbs stretched to their