False Accusations Jacobson, Alan (books successful people read .TXT) 📖

like to drop by and examine the evidence myself. And the bodies... I know, but it would still be wise for someone from our side to look it all over... Who’s in charge there now?” Chandler turned to Madison. “Jeffrey’s checking on a name for me.” He picked up his near empty can of Coke. “Man, it seems like Harding was really out there.”

Madison combed his hair back with his fingers. “You’ve got no idea. I haven’t even gotten to the good stuff yet. If you think she’s got problems based on what I’ve told you so far—”

Chandler held up a hand. “Yeah, Jeffrey, I’m here… Lou Palucci? That’s awesome. Lou and I go way back. Let me make a few calls and see what I can do...I’ll let you know.”

He hung up the phone, dialed information and asked for the number for the Division of Law Enforcement. He then called Lou Palucci, the director of the Bureau of Forensic Services.

Palucci explained that they would have to do a security background check on him, as the rules restricting access to the areas where evidence is stored and evaluated had become more stringent since Chandler left Sacramento. Chandler knew that he would pass it without difficulty, and told him he would meet him in half an hour.

“They have some results back on the car,” he told Madison. “I’m going to head over and see what they found.”

Madison called his office to inform his receptionist he would be in by noon. With his practice a ghost of what it once was, he could now afford such luxuries. The patients who did come in invariably asked him about his arrest. It made for a very uncomfortable doctor/patient relationship, but he always politely brushed the questions aside and tried to satisfy their curiosity with a direct denial of the charges and a promise to come through all of this unscathed.

He wished that Jeffrey Hellman could make him the same promise.

Chandler arrived at the Division of Law Enforcement exactly thirty minutes later. Located on Broadway near downtown Sacramento, the expansive two-story red brick structure that housed several agencies and employed 2,500 people was imposing. He drove into the large parking lot behind the building off 50th Street and proceeded to the security gate at the back entrance. He completed an information card on himself, and had Lou Palucci paged.

Chandler looked around the entryway while he waited. A large circular security desk was surrounded by a vast expanse of bulletproof glass; behind the Department of Justice guard were large black-and-white monitors that projected images of the parking lot, corridors, and strategic points of sensitive areas of the state crime lab.

Palucci was a man in his late forties, with graying temples and about thirty pounds of excess fat drooping over his belt. His dress shirt was pulled tight like the skin across a drum, the buttons fighting to contain the large belly.

“I still have my department ID if that helps,” Chandler said as he shook Palucci’s hand.

“Not a problem. I’ve already had you cleared.”

“It didn’t show my arrest for armed robbery last year?”

“You haven’t lost your sense of humor, Chandler.”

“Some claim I never had one,” he said with a grin. “So congrats on your promotion. When did you move into the director’s seat?”

“Been about three years now.”

“Looks like it suits you well.”

Palucci patted his stomach, risking that the vibration would force the buttons beyond their limits. “I sit on my ass all day. That, plus Jan’s cooking, and I had no chance. Crept up on me.”

Jan was a good cook, no doubt about that—but Chandler wondered how gaining thirty pounds and buying a new wardrobe could “creep up” on you. He took the red badge that the guard handed him as Palucci signed him in.

“Nice digs,” Chandler said as they walked past a couple of rooms with tan Formica table tops, Bunsen burners, Petri dishes, flasks, large computerized gas chromatographs, and comparison microscopes.

“All this equipment was written into the budget five years ago when the state’s coffers were full and the economy was exploding. Now we’re struggling to keep our current levels of funding. We’re severely understaffed. Only two percent of the physical evidence the identification officers collect actually makes it into the crime lab. That’s a pretty sorry statistic, huh?”

“Two percent’s not a whole lot better than New York City. We’re big, no doubt about that, but not necessarily better. Our lab’s so specialized and departmentalized that last month when our toilets were out of order I had to get special permission from the Ballistics Unit just to use their john.”

“New facilities notwithstanding,” Palucci said, “being smaller is nice in some ways, frustrating in others. I wish we had the manpower you guys have.”

“What’s the saying? Grass is always greener? Yeah, we’ve got the manpower, but we’ve also got more cases. We’re so behind in processing the physical evidence the DA goes to trial before the tests and reports are completed. The prosecutors hate us because of the delays, the defense hates us because we uncover evidence that fries their client, and the judges hate us because we clog up the court system with continuances.”

They arrived at the trace evidence lab. Spread across the table top were several photos of the hood and fender of Madison’s Mercedes. Close-ups of detail on the grille, showing clothing fibers and blood, and perspective shots that showed a broader range of location and relationships of one item to another, were cataloged and neatly arranged across the table.

A man was pecking away on the computer near the photos.

“Kurt Gray,” Palucci said, “this is Ryan Chandler. He’s a forensic investigator with NYPD. Used to be a cop with Sacramento PD.”

Gray pried his attention away from the monitor and swiveled his chair around to look at Chandler. A few pimples that decorated his forehead became noticeable as he brushed the hair off his face with his right hand. Moderately deep crow’s feet emanated from the corners of each of his eyes.

“Glad to