“I read to you from the textbook Preserving the Crime Scene: A Detective’s Primer, which you wrote twenty years ago and which you still use in your classes: ‘It is imperative that the detective not disturb the crime scene until backup can be brought in to corroborate charges effected by the detective to unearth evidence, lest those charges be misconstrued to be those of the perpetration. Gloves must be worn at all times at a crime scene.’ Did you write that, Sergeant Jamieson?”

“Yes, I did. Most certainly. Twenty years ago, as you said.”

“Still stand by it?” Halpern asked.

“Yes, of course. A lot of things have changed, but not that.”

“And you heard earlier testimony that Detective Cross wore gloves both inside Detective Hampton’s car and at the Cassady apartment?”

“Yes, I heard the testimony. I also read the grand-jury transcripts.”

Halpern turned on the overhead projector in the courtroom. “I direct your attention to prints number one-seventy-six and two-eleven provided by the D.A.’s office. You see the ones denominated?”

“Numbers one-seventy-six and two-eleven. I see them.”

“Now, the prints are denominated ‘Detective Hampton Belt Buckle: ID: Alex Cross/Right Thumb’ and ‘Left Side Dashboard: ID: Alex Cross/Left Forefinger.’ What does that mean? Can you explain the markings to us?”

“It means that Alex Cross’s prints were found on Detective Hampton’s belt as well as on the dashboard of her car.”

Jules Halpern paused for a full ten seconds before he went on. “And may we not therefore conclude, Sergeant Jamieson, that Detective Cross himself may be our murderer and rapist?”

“Objection!” Catherine Fitzgibbon stood up and shouted.

“Withdrawn,” said the defense attorney. “I’m finished here.”

Chapter 91

LAWYERS FOR BOTH the prosecution and the defense continued to appear regularly on Larry King and other TV shows, and to boast that their cases were “slam dunks.” If you listened to the lawyers, neither side could lose.

In the courtroom, Jules Halpern had the fierce look and body language of someone brimming with confidence and determination. He was riding the case hard. He looked like a jockey whipping his Thoroughbred to victory.

The bailiff stood and announced, “The defense calls Mr. William Payaz.”

I didn’t recognize the name. Now what? Now who?

There was no immediate response in the courtroom.

No one came forward.

Heads craned around the room. Still, no one responded. Who was the mystery witness?

The bailiff repeated, a little louder, “Mr. Payaz. Mr. William Payaz.”

The double doors in the back of the room suddenly opened, and a circus-style clown walked in. The gallery began to whisper loudly, and a few people laughed. What a world we lived in; what a circus, indeed.