Read Online Blind Justice by William Bernhardt - Free Book Online Page A

changed since morning—but at least now there was a receptionist on duty who could tell him whether he was hot or cold.
    “I thought you weren’t going to hang around,” Mike said, as Ben entered his cubicle.
    “Hey, I haven’t been here since this morning,” Ben replied. “I thought I was showing restraint.”
    Mike closed the book he was reading. “Your restraint will probably get me fired.”
    “Don’t be a grump. I won’t be long. I just wanted to learn if you had any forensic reports yet.”
    “Yeah, some. Remember, this is the feds’ case. They don’t share anything without a reason.”
    Ben noticed that the file folder on Mike’s desk labeled Lombardi was thicker than it had been this morning. He also noticed the book Mike had just closed. “You’re reading The Complete Plays of William Shakespeare ?”
    “Yeah. Merchant of Venice. What of it?”
    “Oh, I don’t know,” Ben said. “It’s just not what I expected from a hardboiled guy like you. Dashiell Hammett or Raymond Chandler, maybe. Sherlock Holmes, on the outside. But Shakespeare? What if someone found out? Your whole image could be destroyed.”
    “I try to keep it out of sight when I have company.” Mike scooted the book to the side of his desk. “I love that trial scene toward the end of the play when Portia disguises herself as the judge and twists the law around to cheat Shylock out of his pound of flesh, not to mention half his property.”
    “A disguised judge? Probably grounds for appeal.”
    “No doubt. So, do you want this file, or do you want to give me grief about my literary taste?”
    “Tough choice, but let’s have a gander at the file.”
    Mike and Ben sat down at the table in the corner of Mike’s cubicle. “This is the preliminary report from the hair and fiber boys. The most relevant discovery was the long curly red hairs they found all over the room. We’ve taken an exemplar from Christina. They match.”
    “So what? It’s not as if she’s claiming she wasn’t there.”
    “It doesn’t look good.”
    “What does? Anything else?”
    “Lots of fibers from Lombardi’s clothing. He seemed to favor tweeds and other sheddable fabrics. And a few other fibers we haven’t been able to identify,”
    “I assume you’re going to try.”
    “We’ll check the carpets and clothes closets of Christina and the three men who came to Lombardi’s place last night, if that’s what you mean. But frankly, even if we find something, so what? All it will prove is that they’ve been to Lombardi’s penthouse at one time or another, something they’re not likely to deny in the first place.”
    “You should still make the attempt.”
    “We will, Ben, we will.” He turned to another document in the folder. “There’s absolutely no sign of a struggle. Nothing broken or dented, scraped or scratched. No stray bullets. Slight residual indentation in the carpet where the body fell, but that’s to be expected.”
    “What about serology?”
    “We found no blood or other trace evidence that appears to have come from the murderer. Nothing on Lombardi’s skin or under his fingernails. Which is understandable, since there was apparently no struggle.”
    “There must be something in there that’s helpful. What else have you got?”
    “We’ve got the gun. A Bulldog .44 Special. The Son of Sam gun. Ballistics confirms that it’s the gun that put four bullets in Lombardi’s head.”
    “Trajectory?”
    “Lombardi had contact wounds, from the barrel of the gun being pressed against his head. That’s why the entry wound was star-shaped. Expanding gases from the exploding gunpowder tear the skin.”
    “Meaning?”
    “Meaning the murderer was very close to Lombardi, which of course suggests that he…or she…was someone Lombardi knew. And trusted.”
    “Which could have been any of a number of people.”
    “Don’t bother pleading your case to me, counselor. I won’t be on the jury.”
    Mike passed another page of the