Blind Justice by William Bernhardt Read Free Book Online Page B

associated with a lifetime appointment to the federal judiciary had lured someone away from a lucrative practice.
    Ben pulled his Honda Accord into the parking lot. It had taken him ten minutes to get the car started, and once he had, it shuddered, sputtered, coughed, and emitted several other noises Ben knew weren’t described in the owner’s manual. He needed to take the car in for a checkup, but luxuries like that didn’t fit into his current budget. Maybe next month.
    He opened his car door and pushed himself out. Might as well stop stalling.
    Ben hated crime scenes. Maybe not worse than the prospect of being in court before Judge Derek, but certainly worse than anything else, including fingernails on chalkboard, teeth on aluminum foil, street mimes, and tax auditors. At least the corpse was gone—that provided some measure of relief—although a dark black stain on the carpet provided a grisly reminder of what had occurred earlier that morning.
    Ben had an aching, hollow feeling, as if someone had carved out his internal organs and left him an empty shell, a transparent voyeur at this place of horrible violence. He had hoped the crime scene would give him some insight as to what had happened. So far, no insight. Just revulsion.
    Ben didn’t have any illusions that he could disturb anything; he knew Mike’s men had already been over every inch of the place—the photographers with their cameras, the print boys with their dusters, the fiber boys with their tweezers. They would have tested and probed and sampled every stain, smudge, or tissue they could find. Mike undoubtedly had the room photographed and videotaped from every angle. Mike was always thorough. Ben had considered that an asset. Until now, anyway.
    Except for the ghastly bloodstain, the room seemed to be an ordinary living room in a spacious, but otherwise ordinary, apartment suite. Ben had expected something grander from a room billed as the penthouse—a sunken Jacuzzi perhaps, beside a well-stocked wet bar. Everything was in place; there was no sign of a struggle, no scrapes or scratches, nothing overturned. Ben saw the TV and, next to it, the overstuffed chair Christina must have fallen asleep in. On the table beside the chair, he saw the wine carafe from which she must have poured her drink. And on the floor, not four feet away, the telltale stain. How could he possibly have been killed so near without waking Christina? It seemed incredible, and yet, he saw no evidence that the body had been moved. There was very little splattering—just a sickening mound of congealed blood where Lombardi’s head would have been.
    There was an unpleasant odor in the room; Ben couldn’t quite identify it. Death, he supposed. He used to read about the smell of death and think, how banal, how melodramatic. But now he realized there was some indefinable odor that lingered at the site of a murder, even after all the technicians and forensic experts had scrubbed and tested and Lysoled the room from top to bottom.
    Ben suddenly realized he had to leave. He wasn’t accomplishing anything for Christina, and he certainly wasn’t doing himself any good. And Mike would probably be pretty grumpy if he vomited on the crime scene.
    Ben took a last look, then ducked back under the yellow tape. He signed out and searched for the men’s room. He needed to splash some cold water on his face, wash his hands. Try to get rid of the smell of death.
    Unlike most murder witnesses, the security guard actually seemed to enjoy being interrogated. Ben had expected another dazed testimonial from an unsuspecting innocent who suddenly found himself on the sidelines of murder, or perhaps a frightened paranoid who didn’t want to get involved. Instead, he found an amiable man in his early sixties named Holden Hatfield, eager to be of service.
    “Just call me Spud,” Spud said. “Everybody does.”
    “All right,” Ben said, “…Spud.” He refused to let himself get sidetracked into