his name. She described him, and the bartender told us that it sounded very much like the defendant.”
“So at that point he became your prime suspect?”
“Obviously, it was very early in the investigation, but he became someone we were interested in finding and questioning.”
“And where did you find him?” I ask.
“He was lying in a doorway about two blocks away from the scene.”
“Did he resist when you took him into custody?”
“No, he was incapacitated from alcohol.”
“So he stood up and walked to the car and you took him down to the station?”
“No, as I said, he was incapacitated from alcohol, so he was unable to walk. We called paramedics, and he was taken on a stretcher to the hospital.”
I'm puzzled. “So he ran away from the scene, but couldn't walk to the car?”
“An hour or so had gone by, so he had time to drink more alcohol during that period.”
“Did you find an empty bottle?”
“There were plenty of empty bottles in that area.”
“Any with Willie's saliva on them?”
“We didn't look for them or test them. The alcohol was obviously in his system; there was nothing to be gained by finding out which bottle he drank from.”
“Lieutenant, when you are assigned a case like this, you develop theories, do you not? You try and re-create, at least in your own mind, what happened?”
“I have theories, but first I go where the evidence takes me. My theories follow from the evidence.”
“Fine. So let's talk about that evidence. We'll start with the knife. Now, you testified that it was from a set of knives at the bar where the murder took place, and where Willie Miller worked as a busboy. Is that correct?”
“Yes, it is.”
“How, exactly, do you know that?”
Pete is becoming impatient. “It was identical to the ones used at the bar, and one was missing.”
I nod, as if that makes sense. Then I tell Hatchet that the bailiff has two packages that I gave him, and that I would like to use as evidence. Hatchet is suspicious, but allows it, and the bailiff gives me the packages.
I open one of the packages and take out a knife. I ask if I can hand it to the witness. Hatchet allows it.
“Detective, the knife you are holding is one of the knives currently used in the bar where the murder took place. Would you examine it, please?”
Pete looks at the knife, warily eyeing me the whole time. I then open the other package, and take out six additional knives, all apparently identical to the first, and show them to Pete as well.
“One of these six knives is from the same set as the first one, and was also used at the bar. Please tell the jury which one.”
Pete of course cannot, and he is forced to admit so.
“So,” I ask, “the fact that one knife seems identical to another doesn't mean they are from the same restaurant?”
“Not necessarily, but it certainly increases the chances, particularly when one is missing.”
I move on. “You testified that you found a knife, wherever it was originally from, three blocks from the bar, where it was sitting in a trash can.”
“That's correct.”
“So let me get this straight,” I say. “Since you just told this jury that your theories follow the evidence, is it your theory that Willie Miller took a knife from where he worked, used it to murder a woman, and then didn't wipe off either her blood, or his fingerprints?”
“Yes.”
“It's rare when murderers are that stupid, isn't it?”
“You don't have to be a college graduate to murder someone.”
“Thank you for making the jury aware of that, Lieutenant. I'm sure they had no idea.” Sorry, Pete, but it helps me if you look arrogant and uncooperative.
He glares at me, but I keep boring in. “Now, Lieutenant, you'll admit it would have to require both stupidity and a poorly developed self-preservation instinct to have done all this?”
Wallace intervenes. “Objection. The witness is not a psychologist.”
Hatchet says, “Overruled. You may answer the question.”
Pete has a ready answer. “When people are drunk they often have a tendency to be careless. And as I said, he was very, very drunk. There is no way he could have been thinking clearly.”
I nod as if he has just cleared everything up for me. “Right. He was smashed. So smashed that he could run from the scene, but not walk to the car. So smashed that he couldn't think clearly enough to wipe off his prints, but sober enough that he could make a