First degree - By David Rosenfelt Page 0,61

a body that was smoldering.

"Did you immediately realize it was a body?" Dylan asks.

"Well, it was dark, and I wasn't really sure. I couldn't see a head ... a face." He seems shaken by the recollection, which most people would be. "When I shined a light on it, there was no doubt what it was."

"Other than the fact that there was a body, was there anything else unusual that you noticed about this fire?"

Spencer nods. "Yes. The fire seemed localized around the body, and there was a mostly empty gas can about ten feet away. It appeared to be arson, with the body the only target."

"If you know, did subsequent tests show that the same material that was in the can was involved in the fire?"

"Yes, it was. I saw the reports."

I could object to this as hearsay, but the facts are true, and Dylan could bring the same information in with other, more polished witnesses.

I rise to cross-examine. "Officer Spencer, that night at the warehouse must have been an upsetting experience for you."

He nods hesitantly. Dylan has told him to be wary of the evil defense counsel, but this seems harmless enough. "It was. I've never ..." He catches himself. "It was."

"You said, 'I've never.' Did you mean you've never seen anything like it before?"

He's caught, and he nods sheepishly. "I never have."

"But you weren't so upset that your recollections might be incorrect, were you?" I ask.

"No, sir. I remember everything very clearly."

I nod. "Good. Now, before you knew it was a body that was burning, what did you think it might be? Any ideas?"

He considers this. "Well, I thought it might be a mattress. Or maybe an old sofa. It sounds pretty awful to say that now, but ..." He lets his answer trail off.

"No, it's okay. I'm sure everybody understands." I look at the jury, and they are clearly joining me in sympathy for what this young man went through. "Now," I continue, "you say it seemed like a mattress, or a sofa ... so whatever was on fire seemed fairly large?"

"Yes. He was a big man."

"Right. Now, the gasoline can ... was that near the wheelbarrow?"

"I didn't see any wheelbarrow," he says.

"Really? Then where was the gurney?"

"There wasn't any gurney."

Now my surprise is showing through. "How about a cart or wagon of any kind?"

"No."

"Let me see if I understand this. Mr. Campbell said in his opening statement that the murder was committed behind Hinchcliffe Stadium, and then the body was brought to the warehouse. If that's true, are you saying that somebody carried it into the warehouse?"

"It's possible."

"How far was the body from the nearest door?"

"About forty feet," he says.

I back him further into the corner. "So the murderer is somebody strong enough to carry dead weight the size of an old couch more than forty feet?" I walk toward Laurie, to make it seem even more absurd that someone her size could have done this.

"I assume the murderer had a cart of some kind and then took it with him when he left. Or when she left."

"Then why would he leave the gas can?" I ask.

Dylan objects that the witness couldn't possibly know the murderer's internal reasoning, and Hatchet sustains.

"Did you see any wheel marks, or any tracks made by anything other than human feet?"

"No, but you should ask the forensic people that."

I smile, knowing that there were no such tracks. "Oh, I will. Believe me, I will."

Dylan has a couple of questions on redirect, trying to repair whatever damage I may have caused.

"Officer Spencer, do you know what kind of flooring there is in this particular warehouse?"

"I believe it is cement."

"So you wouldn't expect a gurney or a cart to leave tracks?"

"I wouldn't think so, no."

Dylan lets him off, and after Hatchet adjourns court for the day, I head home for what will become a nightly routine. Kevin, Laurie, and I have dinner, discussing the events of the day in court. Marcus will join us when he has something to add, which I hope will be soon. After dinner we move to the den, where we discuss our plans and strategies, and then they both leave me alone with my reading and preparations for the next day's witnesses. It's a grind, but experience has shown that it works for me.

It's eleven o'clock, and I'm sitting on the couch surrounded by paperwork, when Tara comes into the room. She walks over to me and stands a couple of feet away, as if waiting for me