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None that were recovered by the police. “There are no recordings.”
“Good.” He straightens his tie and stands.
Only minutes into the trial, and the prosecution wastes no time getting to the shock and appall portion of this production. Enlarged images of victims are propped along a wall, displaying the crime scene photos. Victims, the prosecuting lawyer keeps stressing, beating it into the jurors’ heads.
Referring to the victims as deviants would be too ironic.
But that’s superfluous; they’ve already had their trial, and their consequence.
No one can take that away.
“Detective Foster, how was this new evidence discovered?” the lawyer asks the heavyset man on the stand.
The detective looks at the jury when he responds. “Technically, it was old evidence. We just had no basis for comparison. The defendant wasn’t in any database at the time.”
I admit, I was sloppy. My first attempt was delivered under anxious and taxing effort. I was near defeated by the time I gave in. Exhausted, tired of fighting the need. It was a compulsion that demanded to be answered—an action to be taken to make the desire end. I never imagined it would be so exhilarating, an addiction in the making, that I’d have to feed the craving again.
Once I killed the people who referred to themselves as my parents, I thought the dark thoughts would finally cease. I was their creation, and that part of me would die with them. Changing the scenery to an
American backdrop in my tender youth didn’t stop the cravings, either. Nothing did.
I fought it for too many years. Weary and empty.
The first happened too fast. It wasn’t until my second that I became cautious. I had to be in order to continue on. I knew that my first endeavor would always haunt me, and here I am, being tried for the careless act.
But oh, the rush.
You can never replicate your first. Like two lovers in the throes of passion, clumsily feeling their way through that awkward first encounter, it’s still just as erotic, just as carnal.
“The perpetrator left a palm print on the murder weapon.” The detective points to the blown-up picture of a pulley shaft. The evidence couldn’t be more damning. I remember the night I rigged the contraption, my gloves getting caught in the axel.
“After so many years, a case goes cold,” the lawyer prompts. “What made you decide to run the search again on the palm print?”
“The MO. That is, the method and distinct pattern of the Angel of Maine killings were similar to the murders here in New Castle. It was worth a try, to see if there was a match.”
“And was there, detective? A match?”
“Yes.” He turns his attention to a diagram of the palm print in question. Numbered points of comparison prove that it is in fact a match to my print.
“No further questions, Your Honor.”
My lawyer rises from the table. “Detective, there’s no dispute to whether or not this print is a match to the defendant, and therefore he can be placed at the scene. However, do you have any other evidence?”
The detective frowns. “How do you mean?”
“I’m sorry. Let me be clear. Was there any other evidence uncovered at the scenes that can tie Mr. Sullivan to the crimes he’s being tried for here today? Or is this the only evidence to link him to all four homicides based on similarities of the murders?”
“This is the main evidence, that’s correct.”
“You mean to say, your only evidence,” my lawyer counters.
“Objection,” the Attorney General interjects.
“Sustained. The jury will disregard that statement.”
“I apologize, Your Honor. But, Detective Foster, I’m having a hard time understanding this logic, this process, if you will. Let’s walk the jury through it, shall we?”
The detective nods. “All right.”
