False Accusations by Alan Jacobson

told him that Hennessy, his boss, had called inquiring as to when he could expect his star forensic investigator to return. He had a murder case to report on, and he did not condone the taking of unauthorized vacations in the middle of a case workup. He, too, had a tolerance point for this type of behavior, star expert or not.
    Chandler sat down at the teak desk in the large, meticulously decorated room and jotted down some supplemental thoughts on what he had seen in the forensic reports. The room was so well appointed, with elegant bedspread, plush carpeting, and lacy drapes, that he felt like he was staying at a three-hundred-dollar-a-night bed-and-breakfast inn.
    As Chandler finished making his notes, Madison came home. He had been at the hospital late, consulting on a case as a favor to a friend.
    “Hey doc,” Chandler said as he descended the stairs from the third floor. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
    “Good. I just got a call from Jeffrey. He wants to meet us for dinner. He’s anxious to hear what you found out today.”
    They drove over to the Bohemian Quarter, a provincial French restaurant tucked into the hills of old Fair Oaks, fifteen minutes from the house. The dimly illuminated candlelit interior was a perfect backdrop for the sobering, crow-eating discussion they were about to have regarding the evidence. The fireplace behind their table roared and occasionally crackled as the logs burned vigorously.
    “How does it look?” Hellman was asking as the menus were handed to them by the hostess.
    “How does it look?” Chandler sucked on his bottom lip a moment, then said, “Let me put it this way. It looks like the good doctor is a cold-blooded drunken hit-and-run killer. Does that paint a clear enough picture for you?”
    “Shit,” Hellman said, reaching for his glass of water.
    “What have they got?” Madison asked.
    “A left ear print on the Mercedes’s windshield that matches the left ear of the female victim. They have no fingerprints in the car other than Phil’s. An empty six-pack of beer in the backseat. The blood spatter on the underside of the car matches the male victim’s blood type, and the tire mark found on the victim’s coat matches the tread on Phil’s car. There were clothing fibers on the grille, and guess what? They matched those on the victim’s coat. Other fibers matched the ones on the wiper blade.”
    “I’m quickly losing my appetite,” Madison said, closing his menu.
    “The good news is that your blood alcohol level was zero.”
    “All I had was a glass of wine with dinner.”
    “Yeah, but because of the beer cans they found in your car,” Hellman said, “they were probably thinking you’d consumed a lot more alcohol, like the entire six-pack. A solid positive reading and the fat lady would’ve been singing.”
    “But because it was zero,” Madison said, “it hurts their case.”
    Chandler was shaking his head. “Not really. It doesn’t hurt them but it doesn’t help them, either. It takes about an hour for one drink to clear your system. But if you’d drunk six cans of beer over a period of time, the alcohol would’ve been completely out of your system in about four to five hours.”
    “I was arrested, what, about five hours after those people were run down.”
    “Exactly,” Hellman said. “Even if they claim you drank the entire six-pack, they’d have absolutely no evidence to support it. After five hours, the reading would’ve been zero. So blood alcohol levels won’t have any bearing on your case one way or the other. I doubt they’ll even bring it up.”
    “Then all we have to worry about, “Madison said, “is the mountain of other incriminating evidence.”
    “We’re not giving up,” Chandler said. “There are some things that have piqued my interest.”
    “Oh?” Hellman asked as the server came over. The man was dressed in a tuxedo and was all smiles. No one at the table wore a face of cheer, and being the seasoned waiter