The Final Judgment by Richard North Patterson Page A

didn’t know who or what or why, or even whether Brett and whoever else had been attacked by a third party. And no court is going to punish the police for asking if there’s a wounded person out there whose life can still be saved. It’s called the exigent circumstances doctrine.” He leaned forward. “Let me ask you this: Are you willing to advise her to take a lie detector test. Given by one of our people?” He was very clever, Caroline realized. In a quiet voice, she answered, “I don’t believe in them. And a clever police examiner can use a lie test to interrogate her.” You don’t believe in her, she saw him think. But it seemed to give him little pleasure. “Then, viewing this as a professional, I must tell you that Brett has real problems. For the reasons you already know, and some that I’m sure you don’t. “Your defense, if you even have one, is that someone followed them to the lake. But look what that requires of your imaginary killer: to start, knowing that she would leave James by himself after all, who could reasonably expect to hack two able-bodied college students to death? Also knowing that James would be too drunk and/or stoned to defend himself.” He gazed at Caroline intently. “And knowing how he—or she—could then vanish in the woods without leaving a trace.” Caroline felt a jolt. “Is that what the crime lab people tell you?”
    Jackson folded his hands. “When she fled the scene, Brett left a trail behind—trampled brush, broken branches, flecks of James’s blood on the leaves. If Brett’s story is right, there’s no way that the killer wouldn’t have left the same trail. So far we’ve found nothing .... “ “That just can’t be. The local police were there, and the EMTs. You can’t tell me that there aren’t footprints all around the lake, and all sorts of signs that the cops—or someone—were thrashing about in the woods. I doubt the crime lab people can tell who else might have been there.” Jackson leaned forward. “There seems to be no escape path except for the one Brett left. The killer would have had to have James Case all over him, just as Brett did. But we’ve got no trail of blood but hers—nothing else, and no one else. And who else are you going to offer me? Some bum, looking to lift the wallet of a college kid? That’s not credible.” Jackson’s voice rose. “This was personal, Caroline. The killer butchered this kid like an animal, with a very sharp knife. Name a case you know where someone did that to a stranger.” Caroline looked at him steadily. “Charles Manson, for one. And you’ve got no reason at all for Brett to kill him. Let alone like that.” Jackson paused, a tacit concession, then parried: “And you’ve got no one else.”
    “You’re forgetting James’s supplier.” Jackson raised an eyebrow. “I may not be up on my THC, but I do know there’s nothing in this for a petty dealer.” He appeared to debate whether to say more. “We searched James’s apartment, Caroline. There was no sign of a break-in, let alone torn-up sheets. What Brett told us about someone tearing up his room never happened.” Caroline felt shaken again. “Maybe he lied to her. About the dealer ...” Jackson’s half smile was melancholy. “So who does that leave us? Just a girl who may have been sufficiently drug-addled when she killed him for you to argue this down to murder two.”
    Caroline studied him. Softly, she asked, “You haven’t tied her to the knife, have you?” A moment’s silence. ‘No.”
    “What kind of knife is it?”
    “A fishing knife—a Cahill. Quite a fine one.” Pausing, Jackson examined her for a time. “As you say, Caroline, you’ve no rights here. But perhaps you’d like to see it.”
    “I would, yes.” Reaching into a second drawer, Jackson withdrew a knife in a glassine bag and placed it on the desk. The knife was finely crafted. Bone handle, long blade, serrated edge. A knife for a fisherman who cared about such things. The blade was encrusted with blood. Caroline’s stomach