Free Degree of Guilt by Richard North Patterson Page B

murmured. ‘So that’s why you’re here.’
    ‘That’s why I’m here.’
    Paget felt ashamed; he had expunged Brooks’s debt to him by cashing in his personal life, and that of his son, in the hope of a favor. ‘There are aspects of Carlo’s life which have been . . . difficult. But those things have been private. This won’t be. He’ll get to work through whatever his mother has done with the help of the media. It would help if he didn’t wake up tomorrow to find her still in jail.’
    Sharpe seemed to have removed herself. Brooks gazed at his hands. ‘What is it,’ he asked, ‘that you want us to do?’
    ‘Just listen. Give me every chance to show you this isn’t a case before you decide to bring it. And in the meanwhile let her go.’
    Brooks looked up. ‘Will she take a lie detector test?’
    ‘No. On my advice.’
    Brooks raised an eyebrow. ‘Of course,’ he finally said, ‘she could finish up with Monk.’
    ‘She could. But for the moment, I’d like to handle this.’
    ‘Because nothing you say to us can be used at trial.’
    ‘Because that’s the way any competent defense lawyer deals with your office.’
    ‘But you’re asking –’
    ‘And because,’ Paget finished evenly, ‘the prosecution has the burden of proof. I don’t think you have a case. If I’m right, then I’m doing you a favor, simply by pointing out why. Plus you get some notion of what I’m thinking.’
    Brooks looked to Sharpe, then to Paget again. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Full disclosure. We decide to bring a case, we’d have to lift our skirts anyhow.’
    ‘Better find another metaphor, Mac. At least for press conferences.’
    Brooks gave Paget a wintry smile. ‘I wish this case weren’t so unpleasant, Christopher. You and I would have such fun. . . .’ Abruptly, he picked up the telephone, dialed a number he already knew. ‘Are you about through with him?’ he asked into the telephone, and then said, ‘We’re with Ms Carelli’s lawyer – please come on up,’ and put down the phone.
    ‘The M.E.,’ he explained. ‘She’s finished making nice with Ransom.’
    A moment later, a slim blond woman came through the door and extended a cool hand. ‘I’m Elizabeth Shelton,’ she said. ‘The medical examiner.’
    ‘It seems,’ Paget said, ‘that you’ve been quite busy.’
    She gave him a quizzical smile. ‘It’s been a very long day,’ she responded, and she pulled up a chair between Paget and Sharpe.
    ‘We’ve been having a candid chat among friends.’ Brooks waved a hand at Paget. ‘Chris understands your problem with the gunshot wound. Maybe you can tell us what else you found.’
    ‘Very little. Almost nothing, in fact.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ Paget asked.
    She looked quickly at Brooks and, when he nodded, back to Paget. ‘One thing I mean is that there’s an absence of the physical evidence I’d like to have. Bullet angle, for one thing. If the bullet goes through, we can trace the path from the body to where the bullet lodges and tell you not only the angle but where he got shot within a couple of feet. But here, the bullet lodged in his spine.’
    She spoke with a cool precision, clinical but not unpleasant.
    ‘What else?’ Paget asked.
    Shelton considered him. ‘The other thing,’ she said finally, ‘is there is almost nothing about Ransom’s body that confirms what Miss Carelli told us.’
    ‘Well,’ Paget said mildly, ‘he did have his pants down. That’s not standard dress for interviews.’
    ‘No.’ Her eyes and voice were cautious. ‘So I swabbed his penis and tested for traces of seminal fluid. You’d expect fluid on a man who’d recently had an erection, even without ejaculation. Nothing.’
    ‘Is that test one hundred percent reliable?’
    ‘Almost no test is. But I’d expect results.’ Her look grew more intent. ‘As it happens, I’m no fan of Mark Ransom. But I can’t tell you he’s a rapist, or even an attempted rapist.’
    ‘All right.