CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

 

The photographs were blowups of Rafael Santiago’s shaved pubic region. Beverly looked on with revulsion at the red, black, and green tattoo of a lizard that rested above Santiago’s penis.

“He’s got a lot more guts than I do,” joked Gail, glancing at one of the pictures. “Though I suppose it could’ve been worse, like having his penis tattooed.” She winced at the notion.

“I don’t think guts has anything to do with it.” Beverly studied the lizard. “My guess is that it’s some sort of Latin machismo thing. Probably a gang initiation rite or badge of honor in the hood.”

“So you’re saying that other members of his gang or hood also could have lizard tattoos in their pubic area?”

Beverly laughed weakly at the absurdity of it all. “Well, I wouldn’t know about that,” she took the Fifth. “But I wouldn’t be at all surprised if Santiago was more of a follower here rather than a leader.”

Gail wet her lips uneasily. “All evidence aside, you do believe we have the right man in custody, don’t you?”

“Absolutely!” Beverly made clear. “Even if other Latino men had their pubic areas tattooed identically, Maxine Crawford identified Rafael Santiago by both his face and his lower anatomy. There cannot be two of him walking around this city.”

Even though I saw with my very own eyes someone who was the spitting image of Rafael Santiago. At least from the waist up. Chances are he didn’t have the same lizard tattoo on his pubic area as Santiago had as his calling card.

She thought about Maxine Crawford and the not so veiled warning from Grant to lay off any investigation into her and Judge Crawford’s private lives. What did either of them have to hide that was so off limits? Could it have any bearing on this case?

Or the man they had charged with committing the crimes?

Beverly gazed across the table. “What’s the latest on the DNA evidence?” she asked.

Gail met her eyes. “The DNA tests on the semen and hair samples taken from Maxine and the bed where she was sexually assaulted indicate there is a match with both blood and hair samples taken from Sheldon Crawford and Rafael Santiago.”

“That’s good,” Beverly said. “Establishing that Santiago left his DNA calling card will make it difficult for his attorney to convince a jury he was elsewhere when the crime occurred.”

“But there could still be a potential issue with the DNA evidence,” Gail pointed out. “Santiago’s attorney will likely try to score some points with the jury by suggesting that the Crawfords engaged in rough sex, thereby somehow mitigating what Santiago did to Maxine.”

“Well, let him try.” Beverly could feel the hair rise on the back of her neck at the thought of what Maxine Crawford had been put through by that animal. “Juries are too sophisticated these days not to be able to separate consensual sex, whatever that may consist of, from forced sex acts. I think the evidence, along with circumstantial evidence and the victim’s direct testimony, is sufficient to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Santiago was there and did perpetrate the multiple sexual assaults, murder, and break in.”

“I agree.” Gail picked up a coffee mug. “Unfortunately we’ve come up short on any fiber evidence from clothes or fingerprints that ties Santiago directly to the crime scene. Even the shell casings found at the scene had no identifiable prints to link to the suspect and bolster our case against him.”

“That’s not too surprising,” Beverly said. “Santiago probably dumped the clothes he wore in the incinerator or the lake. As for fingerprints, considering that Maxine has stated the suspect wore gloves, it was unlikely that any would surface; and shell casings rarely turn up prints at that.” She wrinkled her brow, a bit concerned about the lack of a murder weapon. “If you believe in miracles, that gun will somehow fall into our laps and eliminate even the slightest doubt in the jurors’ minds about Rafael Santiago’s guilt—”

And my own mind, for that matter.

* * *

After she left the conference room, Beverly walked to her office. She passed Jean, who was busy on the phone while waving frantically to her, as if trying to flag down a cab. Out of the corner of her eye, Beverly spotted an attractive, well-dressed woman in her thirties. She was seated beside Jean’s desk, rising when she saw Beverly.

“Ms. Mendoza...” the woman said on a breath, short blonde hair bouncing against her shoulders.

Before Beverly could speak, Jean got off the phone and said, “This is Lydia Wesley. She’s writing a book on the Suzanne Landon murder case.”

“Ah, yes,” mumbled Beverly, recalling that a detective from the Wilameta County Sheriff’s Department had directed the woman to her.

“Ms. Wesley has been trying to see you for a couple of weeks now,” Jean said apologetically. “I told her that you might be able to spare her a few minutes this afternoon—”

Beverly had a feeling she was being ganged up on. Jean, who was usually efficient in re-routing unwanted visitors, was obviously sold on this one for some reason. If nothing else, Lydia Wesley was certainly persistent.

And I’ve got better things to do with my time than talk to a true crime writer.

“Yes, I think I can manage a few minutes to answer some questions,” Beverly told Lydia. She gave Jean a you-owe-me-one look. “Let’s go to my office.”

“Thank you,” Lydia said keenly.

“Have a seat, Ms. Wesley,” she offered, joining her in the visitors’ chairs across from the desk so as to keep this informal. “How can I help you?”

Lydia sat up straight, showing signs of nervousness. “I just want to get your feedback on a few things regarding the Suzanne Landon-James Wright love affair turned deadly—”

“All right,” Beverly nodded, noting that the clock was ticking.

Lydia removed a small tape recorder from her bag, setting it on the corner of the desk. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?”

“Fine. Just be sure to get my approval before quoting me in your book. Deal?”

“Deal.” Lydia smiled. “Did you believe that Suzanne Landon was guilty from the very start?”

“It was hard not to when she failed to notify authorities for nearly two weeks that her lover was missing,” Beverly remarked. “Only when what was left of James Wright’s corpse was discovered did Ms. Landon suddenly remember that he accidentally fell 320 feet to his death.”

“Do you think the fact that Suzanne had reported being abused several times by James Wright could have had anything to do with his death—you know, sort of a self-defense motive?”

“Oh, please!” Beverly sneered. She did not discount the legitimacy of the battered woman’s syndrome and some women resorting to murder to escape the abuse. But this was different. Very much so. “Those reports came within the two months leading up to his death, though they were living together for two years. I think it was more likely that Suzanne Landon wanted out of the relationship, but not until she knew she would be handsomely compensated to the tune of one million dollars in insurance payouts.”

Lydia ran her fingers through her hair. “Isn’t it unusual for women to be convicted of murdering their lovers?”

What planet are you living on, lady? “Maybe, when compared to men who kill their significant others,” Beverly stated somberly. “The truth is women can be just as violent and deadly as men, if the motivations and means are there. As a result, those who do commit such acts are just as likely to be convicted and sent to prison as their male counterparts.”

Lydia crossed her long legs and sighed. “Do you think the D.A.’s office made you the lead prosecutor on the case to keep it from appearing to be a sexist attack on a brave woman standing up for herself?”

Beverly couldn’t help but offer an amused smile while masking her indignation at the suggestion that she’d been given the case for any reasons other than her ability as a trial lawyer. “First of all, I was not the lead prosecutor,” she said snappishly. “Grant Nunez and I were co-counsel. Second, this trial was not about men versus women. It was about justice versus injustice. Suzanne Landon was not seen as a woman standing up for her rights, but rather a female who murdered her lover and tried to collect on it. It’s as simple as that.”

Lydia’s face reddened. “Is there any chance that I can get some crime scene photos from you?” she asked hesitantly. “These days publishers practically reject your proposal from the start unless you can produce vivid pictures for the book.”

“You’ll want to talk to the police about that,” Beverly passed the torch. Her own policy was never to allow photos from her cases to be handed over to the media or writers, out of respect to the victims.

Lydia’s brow creased. “I tried, but they aren’t willing to release any photos without approval from the victim’s family. And they won’t even talk to me—”

“Can you blame them?” Beverly narrowed her eyes. “Would you want to see the headless body of your family member in a true crime book for the whole world to gawk at?”

“No, but—”

“No buts!” argued Beverly, her point being made. She suddenly felt sorry for the author and decided to bend a little for her trouble. “I’ll authorize the release of a couple of benign crime scene photographs, but none of the body. Take it or leave it.”

“I’ll take it,” Lydia swallowed respectfully.

“Good.” Beverly stood, waiting for her to do the same. “Leave your number with Jean and I’ll be in touch. I’ll also expect a copy of the book when it’s published.”

Lydia smiled. “Count on it.”

Beverly saw her out and decided impromptu to take the rest of the day off. She’d earned it and would do something with Jaime.

Maybe she would invite Grant over for dinner afterwards and they could continue where he left off when he told her he’d fallen in love with her.

Did he really love her?

The idea excited Beverly. Perhaps as much as realizing that her growing sentiments towards Grant were exactly the same.