Quentin lets the tape run. This time, he isn't watching it-he's watching the reactions of the detectives.
He doesn't know Chao or Ducharme from a hole in the wall, but he can tell you this-they've worked with Nina Frost for seven years; they've worked with Quentin for twenty-four hours. As the camera tilts wildly, coming to rest on the scuffle between Nina and the bailiffs, Chao looks into his lap. Ducharme stares resolutely at the screen, but there is no emotion on his face.
With one click, Quentin shuts off the TV. "I've read the witness statements, all 124 of them. And, naturally, it doesn't hurt to have the entire fiasco in living color." He leans forward, his elbows on Nina's desk. "The evidence is solid here. The only question is whether she is or isn't guilty by reason of insanity. She'll either run with that, or extreme anger." Turning to Chao, he asks, "Did you go to the autopsy?"
"Yeah, I did."
"And?"
"They already released the body to the funeral home, but they won't give me a report until the victim's medical records arrive."
Quentin rolls his eyes. "Like there's a question here about the cause of death?"
"It's not that," Ducharme interrupts. "They like to have all the medical records attached. It's the office protocol."
"Well, tell them to hurry up," Quentin says. "I don't care if Szyszynski had full-blown AIDS . . . that isn't what he died of." He opens a file on his desk and waves a paper at Patrick Ducharme. "What the hell was this?"
He lets the detective read his own report about the interrogation of Caleb Frost, under suspicion for molesting his own son. "The boy was mute," Patrick explains. "He was taught basic sign language, and when we pressed him to ID the perp, he kept making the sign for father." Patrick hands back the paper.
"We went to Caleb Frost first."
"What did she do?" Quentin asks. There is no need to spell out to whom he's referring.
Patrick rubs a hand over his face, muttering into his hand.
"I didn't quite catch that, Detective," Quentin says.
"She got a restraining order against her husband."
"Here?"
"In Biddeford."
"I want a copy of that."
Patrick shrugs. "It was vacated."
"I don't care. Nina Frost shot the man she was convinced molested her son. But just four days earlier, she was convinced it was a different man. Her lawyer's going to tell a jury that she killed the priest because he was the one who hurt her child . . . but how sure was she?"
"There was semen," Patrick says. "On her son's underwear."
"Yes." Quentin rifles through some more pages. "Where's the DNA on that?"
"At the lab. It should be back this week."
Quentin's head comes up slowly. "She didn't even see the DNA results on the underwear before she shot the guy?"
A muscle jumps along Patrick's jaw. "Nathaniel told me. Her son. He made a verbal ID."
"My five-year-old nephew tells me the tooth fairy's the one who brought him a buck, but that doesn't mean I believe him, Lieutenant."
Before he has even finished his sentence, Patrick is out of his chair, leaning across the desk toward Quentin. "You don't know Nathaniel Frost," he bites out. "And you have no right to question my professional judgment."
Quentin stands, towering over the detective. "I have every right. Because reading your file on the investigation, it sure looks to me like you fucked up simply because you were giving a DA who jumped to conclusions special treatment. And I'll be damned if I'm going to let you do that again while we prosecute her."
"She didn't jump to conclusions," Patrick argues. "She knew exactly what she was doing. Christ, if it were my kid, I would have done the same thing."
"Both of you listen to me. Nina Frost is a murder suspect. She made the choice to commit a criminal act. She killed a man in cold blood in front of a courtroom of people. Your job is to uphold laws, and no one- no one-gets to bend those to their own advantage, not even a district attorney." Quentin turns to the first policeman. "Is that clear, Detective Chao?"
