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“Do we know who took that photo and collected the sample?” Jo asked.
Marzillo cleared her throat. “The photograph was supposedly taken by Zach Lavendera, who also supposedly collected the sample and sent it out for analysis.”
Jo tensed. “Supposedly?”
Lopez jumped in. “I figured it would be a good idea to double-check the signatures, so I just got back from The Dungeon. I dumpster-dived not only these records, but several other sets of analyses Lavendera ordered around the same time. I took pics of the signatures and overlaid them, and while I’m far from a handwriting expert, I can safely say his signature was forged. There’s a high degree of consistency between the signatures from the other cases, but the two from the Ossokov case are very different—and match each other.”
A chill settled over Jo. “And that’s why it was sent to an outside lab. To make it less likely the strange signature would catch someone’s eye. Someone did tamper with the evidence.”
“Correct,” Marzillo said. “The only problem is we have no way of knowing who.”
Jo glanced over at Arnett, who nodded. “We may have an answer to that.”
CHAPTERTHIRTY-FIVE
The Wooden Leg was the sort of old-school tavern made up of stained wood, brick walls, and sports ephemera. The tang of hops smacked Jo as she entered, making up for the low-light sensory deprivation that forced her to stop short inside the entrance until her pupils adjusted. Patsy Cline belted out heartbreak from the jukebox, serenading the smattering of established regulars resignedly hunched over their alcohol of choice. The throw-back-dive-bar vibe was so strong it called up the taste of cigarettes in the back of Jo’s throat despite the decades-old ban—but then, the smoke residue was probably still seeping out of the ancient fixtures.
Murphy sat at a table in the back, directly under a framed Tom Brady jersey, with a half-full pint of Guinness cradled in one hand. He spotted them before they spotted him—probably one reason the bar kept the light level low—and greeted them with a broad smirk.
Jo studied him as he stood and gave Arnett a forearm-clench-fist-pat-on-the-back hug. In the five years since he’d retired, he’d aged more than ten; his hair had gone completely white, and the wrinkles in his pale skin had shifted from creases to folds. His nose and cheeks were shot with broken capillaries. He looked at least an inch shorter than she remembered, hovering just under six foot, and his starter paunch had evolved into a full-on beer belly.
He turned to shake Jo’s hand. “Good to see you again, even if the circumstances are shit.”
“Thanks for talking with us. I’m sure the last thing you want during retirement is to revisit issues like this.” Jo slid into the chair diagonal to Murphy while Arnett dropped into the one opposite him.
“What are you gonna do? Ossokov is a poster boy for the type of asshole that never goes away. He was trouble from the day he was born, and he’ll be trouble ’til the day he dies.” He raised his hand to signal the bartender. “You on duty?”
Arnett nodded and turned to the bartender. “Coffees’ll do.”
The bartender wiped his hands on a towel, then turned to grab mugs.
“You said your lawyer talked to you already, so you don’t need me to go over it all?” Arnett asked.
Murphy’s expression tightened. “He’s suing the commonwealth because we’re all indemnified, but the reality is he’s going after you, me, and Sandra. Hard for her to defend her reputation when she’s dead.” He raised his glass to her. “She’ll be missed.”
Since they had no glasses to raise, Jo and Arnett nodded their agreement.
The bartender appeared and slid two black coffees across to Jo and Arnett, along with another pint of Guinness for Murphy. Which he hadn’t ordered—he must have had a standing keep-’em-coming order in place.
“What it boils down to,” Arnett said, “is Ossokov makes the interesting point that since he wasn’t the killer, there’s no way Zara Richards’ blood was in his car.”
“I don’t believe for a second he wasn’t the killer,” Murphy said, expression still tight.
“The girlfriend came forward to recant her testimony and confirm his alibi, and Dale Kranst is adamant he had no accomplice,” Arnett said.
Murphy held his gaze. “They’re all liars. That’s what they do.”
Arnett’s tone softened a notch. “Why would the girlfriend suddenly come out of the woodwork and recant?”
Murphy raised his palm. “Maybe he threatened her from prison.”
“After so many years? That doesn’t fit, but there’s plenty of evidence she went through rehab and is now a born-again Christian intent on repenting for her past.” He paused as Murphy rolled his eyes. “And why wouldn’t Dale Kranst tell the truth about a partner? It would only benefit him to assist the ADA. He never used an accomplice for his other kills. It’s just too many stretches to make fit.”
Murphy waved him off. “So there was a lab mix-up. Not the first time, won’t be the last.”
“He spent fifteen years of his life behind bars because of that mix-up.” Jo sipped her coffee.
Murphy’s laugh was bitter. “Exactly where he fucking deserves to be.” He wagged his index finger between Arnett and Jo. “You tell her about his background? He was already going down for raping multiple women. Fits the profile for every psychopath ever. Loved starting fires, wet the bed, never had many friends. Yeah, I know the shrinks are saying now that doesn’t always hold up, but the local uniforms spent more time with him than with their own kids when he was growing up. He’s a menace. The only tragedy here is that he’s out on the street again.” He drained the remainder of his beer, then pulled over the new one, eyes now glassy.
