Sandrine's Case (9780802193520) by Thomas H. Cook Page A

expected.”
    I knew exactly what Morty was up to with this line of questioning, of course. He was going to show that had not Officer Hill gotten her “itch,” and subsequently reported it to Detective Alabrandi, then there would have been no reason for the wheels of justice to begin turning as rapidly as they had in my case. This speed had been the result of nothing but a few initial and very prejudicial observations, Morty was saying, and they were but the first of many that had, at last, made Samuel Joseph Madison, loving husband of Sandrine and loving father of Alexandria, the true victim in my case.
    â€œBut this mention of a suicide alone wouldn’t have been enough to make you call upon Mr. Madison the very next morning, would it, Mr. Forsythe?”
    â€œProbably not.”
    â€œIt was Detective Alabrandi’s phone call that gave you this sense of urgency, isn’t that correct?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd, as you’ve stated, you went to 237 Crescent Road, and after returning from there you ordered Dr. Benjamin Mortimer to conduct an autopsy on the body of Sandrine Madison, isn’t that true?”
    â€œYes, it is.”
    This time, Morty had brought his notes to the lectern. He glanced at them, then looked up. “Now, Mr. Forsythe, would you say that you’ve seen several suicides during your career?”
    â€œUnfortunately, yes.”
    â€œAll right, and from your experience, you’ve learned a few things about what a suicide looks like. It would be fair to say that, wouldn’t it?”
    â€œIt would.”
    â€œMr. Forsythe, did you see anything in Mrs. Madison’s bedroom that indicated to you that her death had been caused by anyone other than herself? By this I mean, did you see anything physical that might have given you that impression?”
    Mr. Forsythe hesitated slightly. He was obviously an old hand at giving testimony, and so he knew that this was a heavily loaded question. For a moment, I watched him closely, suspecting that he might find a way to slither out of answering with a flat no, perhaps give an evasive answer, or one more damaging to me. He was, after all, a prosecution witness.
    â€œNo,” he said.
    â€œNothing at all that indicated a murder?”
    â€œNo, nothing,” Mr. Forsythe answered firmly.
    It was an answer so completely honest and professional that I was quite surprised by it.
    And so I offered him a tiny smile, almost invisible, but one I hoped sufficient to express my appreciation for his simple honesty. Subtle though it was, the coroner appeared to see this smile, though he made no response to it that could be read by anyone but me.
    â€œThank you,” Morty said. “No more questions.”
    Mr. Forsythe didn’t look at me as he left the stand but stared straight ahead, and within seconds his “dirty salad” suit was just a swath of beige in my peripheral vision.
    I turned my attention toward the judge’s bench. Morty and Mr. Singleton were talking to Judge Rutledge. Then both turned and headed back to their respective tables.
    â€œThere’s going to be a short delay,” Morty said. “Singleton’s next witness is just now parking.” He smiled. “Well, the coroner didn’t hurt us.”
    I nodded in agreement though I had little doubt that Morty would have said the same even if the coroner had produced whatever in my case would be the smoking gun.
    He sat back casually. “So what’s the deal with that candle?”
    I shrugged. “We bought it in Albi, a little French town. It was when we were young, that first trip we took.”
    â€œThe page your wife turned down in that guide, right?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWhat’s so important about this town?”
    â€œI don’t know.” I thought a moment, then added, “Well, it’s what started the argument. Sandrine mentioned Albi, and somehow from there we got into that