‘Can you please state your name and occupation for the benefit of the Court,?’ the lawyer asked.
The oak-paneled courtroom was still, all eyes on the woman sitting in the witness stand.
She sat upright, her piercing blue eyes fixed on the man who was questioning her. Patrick Masterton was a picture-perfect lawyer in his immaculate dark suit, crisp white shirt, and just enough gray in his hair to make him appear distinguished.
As Masterton referred to his notes, a court artist worked quickly to capture the scene. He had already finished drawing Masterton – he looked elegant, determined, powerful, even – and was now working on the witness.
With quick strokes he portrayed the shape of her head, the sheet of blond hair falling onto her shoulders, her high cheekbones and strong jaw line. Her eyes were an unusual shade of deep blue and her strongest feature. In just a few strokes he managed to capture the fierce light of intelligence – defiance almost - that shone through. She wore an elegant charcoal skirt and jacket, her shirt a complimentary pale pink. The only adornment was a small brooch in her lapel, shaped like a dragon.
‘Reilly Steel, GFU investigator,’ she replied, in a strong American accent.
‘GFU?’
‘Garda Forensic Unit,’ she clarified. ‘We collect and analyze evidence from crime scenes.’
‘And how long have you been in this profession, Ms Steel?’
‘I’ve been employed by the GFU for approximately thirteen months. Before that, I led an ERT – Evidence Response Team out of the FBI San Francisco field office for almost seven years. Throughout this time, my Office carried out extensive crime scene investigative work with contacts in local, state, federal and international law enforcement agencies.’
Her answers were clear. Absolutely no hesitation – just statements of fact.
‘And your qualifications?’
‘In 2003 I graduated in Crime Scene Investigation from the FBI National Academy in Quantico, Virginia.’
‘Impressive credentials, I’m sure the Court will agree,’ Masterson said.
He smoothed his tie, and looked from the jury back to Reilly. ‘Ms Steel, can you tell us about the evidence you found at Elizabeth Walker’s house on the night of the 15th of August last?’ the lawyer asked, pointing to a nearby projector screen, upon which two photographs were displayed side by side. The first photo showed the head of a bed, a heavy bloodstain on a pillow against the wooden slatted headboard. The second was a close-up of the same image, displaying a dark, frizzy hair wedged between the pillow and the headboard.
Reilly’s voice was even. ‘The hair was collected from the victim's bed.’
Masterton moved a step closer, once again focusing the jury’s attention on her. ‘What can you tell us about it, based on your forensic analysis?’
‘It’s male, Caucasian.’
‘You were able to extract DNA from it?’ Masterson had his notes behind his back, but he had no need to refer to them.
‘Yes. The follicle was attached, so we were able to extract primary DNA from the sample.’
‘And you compared this with a saliva sample obtained from the accused?’ He nodded towards a young man with dark curly hair, who sat slouched between two guards, his ill-fitting suit making him appear uncomfortable, out of place in these formal surroundings.
‘Correct.’
‘The hair was a match?’
‘It was.’
Masterton moved towards the jury, making sure he had their full attention before asking the key question. ‘Ms Steel, what would you estimate as the likelihood that the hair you found on the pillow belongs to the accused?’
Reilly sat up even straighter. This was her world – forensic evidence, scientific certainties. She could answer with complete confidence. ‘The likelihood that the hair we found on that pillow belongs to the accused is 99.97 percent.’
A small murmur went through the courtroom. One or two members of the jury gave slight involuntary nods. This type of evidence – precise, cold, scientific – always hit home hard, and helped sway wavering minds.
Masterton resumed his questions. ‘Ms Steel, could you now please tell the Court what you found beneath the victim's fingernails?’
‘Samples of blood and skin tissue.’
‘These are typically evidence of a struggle?’
‘That’s correct,’ Reilly replied.
A photo of the female victim's upturned hand appeared on the projector, the woman’s elegant fingernails darkened by the blood beneath them. The jury’s gaze turned towards the image – there was something brutal about those cold, lifeless hands, the blood-flecked nails mute testimony to just how hard Elizabeth Walker had fought for her life.
The artist glanced quickly at the jury – faces were hardening, decisions were being made, and cold glances flashed across the room at the accused, Danny Doyle.
Masterton continued, relentless now that he was closing in on his prey. ‘Ms Steel, you were able to extract DNA from these samples also?’
‘We were.’
‘And the DNA matched that of the accused, Daniel Doyle? Matched that of the hair sample, as well the saliva sample you obtained from the accused?’
‘Correct.’
The word hung heavily in the air, and rolled around the courtroom with a resounding air of finality. Whatever else the defense might say, whatever tricks or stratagems they might come up with, the science had spoken – clearly and incontrovertibly. Danny Doyle had been in Elizabeth Walker’s bed the night she died; his hair was on her pillow, his skin and blood beneath her battered, broken fingernails.
Masterton allowed himself a smile. ‘Thank you, Ms Steel.’ He turned to the defense. ‘Your witness.’
The defense lawyer wore a tired, defeated look. In his late fifties, with a thousand tough cases behind him, Michael Liston knew when to attack, or when to regroup and look for a weak point elsewhere.
Reilly Steel, GFU investigator, had revealed no chinks in her armor. She had a rock-solid chain of evidence, unimpeachable scientific credibility, unshakeable conclusions, and a manner that spoke of unquestionable competence. Experience told him there was no value in pursuing her – what he needed was to get her off the witness stand as quickly as possible. Liston shook his head. ‘No further questions, Your Honor.’
The judge nodded to Reilly. ‘Thank you, Ms Steel, that will be all.’
As the GFU investigator stood and walked quickly back to her seat, the artist noticed that all eyes were on her. She had delivered her evidence with such certainty, such an air of confidence, that it was hard not to feel admiration for her.
Even as the next witness was called to the stand, he began a second sketch of her, his quick strokes filling in the details that had been hidden while Steel sat in the witness stand – her slim figure, long legs, elegant way of walking ...
It was on days like this that he loved his job.
As she exited the courthouse, Reilly exhaled, finally able to release some of the tension, the strain of being the key witness. The entire trial hinged upon her evidence, and she had come through.
With Doyle’s denial of guilt blown out of the water, the case should proceed smoothly towards a conviction.
Did the system always convict the right person? Of course not – Reilly wasn’t naïve enough to believe that – but she did believe that most of the time, if there was sufficient incontrovertible evidence, the correct decision would be reached.
In this instance it had all come together. Doyle had pleaded not guilty, and had denied even knowing Elizabeth Walker, but Reilly’s evidence – the evidence so carefully collected and analyzed by her team at the GFU – had placed him at the scene of the murder, in Elizabeth Walker’s bed.
Justice was about to be served.
Making a mental note to thank her team for their Trojan work in preparing for the case, Reilly pulled out her iPhone to type a reminder to herself, and also to check her messages. There were a few, but one in particular caught her attention: a text message from Detective Chris Delaney. He rarely texted unless it was important. Reilly opened the message.
‘Hope the trial’s going well and you nail Doyle to the wall. Call when you’re finished? We’ve got a weird one.’
Reilly arched an eyebrow. A weird one?
Exactly how she liked them.