Body Farm 2 - Flesh And Bone (28 page)

“It won’t be easy,” I said, “but I think maybe you all can still be okay. I hope you’ll try.” I looked at Susan, who still seemed shell-shocked. “You two must love each other very much,” I added. “And you still need each other. And Joey still needs you both.”

We talked a few more minutes—lawyers and court proceedings; the nuts and bolts and cogs of the Rube Goldberg machine that was the legal system—and then Art and I left. As we reached the end of their sidewalk, I looked back. They were standing on the front porch, dark forms silhouetted in golden light, each with an arm around the other’s waist. Despite the hard row ahead of them, I envied them in that moment. They had one another.

Art and I did not speak on the drive back to KPD. He got out wordlessly and trudged to his car, looking ten years older and tireder than I’d ever seen him look. He might have thought the same about me if I’d been the one crossing the pavement beneath unforgiving sodium lights.

I grieved the whole way back to the cabin at Norris. For the first time since Jess’s death, I wasn’t grieving for her, or feeling sorry for myself. The horizon of my grief had broadened enough to take in others, and to allow me to recognize that my pain was far from unique, and far from the heaviest burden to be borne.

MY CELLPHONE RANG AT seven the next morning; it took some groping to find it in the early morning darkness of the cabin. “Bill, it’s Burt. Listen, I got Owen Thomas’s report last night, and it’s great. Besides writing up the video analysis and e-mailing a movie highlighting the differences between your truck and the mystery truck—that’s what we’re calling it from now on—he also did some additional voice analysis that’s very interesting.”

“Interesting how?”

“Well, after he confirmed that it was not your voice on Jess’s voice mail, he downloaded a couple of TV news stories covering the creationist protest. One of the creationists—the lawyer who’s really pulling the strings—used a few of the same words in his interview as the guy on Jess’s voice mail. So Thomas was able to do some comparisons.”

“Jennings Bryan used profanity and death threats in his TV interview?”

“No, no; words like ‘the’ and ‘we.’ A few paired words—‘will wish’ and ‘had never,’ I think. Anyhow, it’s not enough to be conclusive, but based on the waveforms and the spacing between words and so on, he says there’s a strong possibility that it was Bryan who left those messages for Jess. So we’ll turn that over to the DA and Detective Evers, and push them to interrogate that guy. See if they’ll haul him in and make him repeat the messages verbatim, just like Thomas made you do. If he doesn’t, I’ll beat him over the head with that omission at trial—make the jury think the cops ignored other suspects in order to railroad you. Meantime, I might just go have a chat with Mr. Bryan, friendly-like, and see if I can persuade him to drop that lawsuit against you.”

“You mean blackmail him?”

“Heaven forbid!” he said. “We attorneys call such negotiations ‘alternative dispute resolution.’ Sounds far more ethical.”

“Can you also build the voice analysis into your motion to dismiss?”

“No, because it’s not the same as the video evidence. The prosecution isn’t claiming that it’s your voice in those messages, but they are claiming it’s your truck on the video. Don’t worry, the motion is plenty strong. As I said, I don’t expect it to be granted, but we can get a lot of mileage out of it. If you’re willing to help.”

“Help, how?” I could hear alarm bells ringing in the back of my mind.

“I’d like to take this evidence to the court of public opinion. Start rehabilitating your image before the trial starts; start planting those seeds of doubt right away. I’d like to hold a news conference and share the motion and the surveillance video and Thomas’s findings with the media.”

I’d witnessed Burt’s press conferences in numerous other trials, and always before, his flamboyant theatrics had struck me as unseemly. They still did. “Is that really necessary?”

“Is it necessary? No,” he said. “Is it helpful? Absolutely. So far, everything that has come out in the media has been released by the prosecution or the police. And so far, everything makes you look guilty as sin.” He had a point there, I had to admit. “This surveillance video—together with Thomas’s written report and his DVD highlighting key differences between your truck and this mystery truck in the video—will make everyone realize that you’re the victim of an elaborate setup.”

It sounded good, but I knew not everyone would react as Burt was predicting; some would react as I invariably did, dismissing the entire performance as grandstanding. “I don’t know, Burt.”

“Bill, you’re paying me—and paying me a lot—for the benefit of my experience and legal skill, right?”

“Right…”

“Every bit of experience and skill I have tells me this is a crucial step toward building a strong defense for you. A courtroom trial doesn’t occur in a vacuum. The judge, the prosecution, and I will all bend over backward to pretend that it does; to pretend we’ve got a jury completely untainted by news coverage. Truth is, that’s bullshit, and we all know it. Our side is way behind so far, Bill. We have to start getting some good licks in.”

I still didn’t like it, but it made sense. Just as Burt’s other ploys had made sense, I supposed, to his other clients. I recalled the old saying about not judging another man until you’d walked a mile in his moccasins; at the moment, it felt like I was running a marathon in some mighty stinky footwear, with something unpleasant squishing up between my toes. “Damn,” I said. “Okay, go ahead.”

“I think we need to take a couple more quick steps in your rehabilitation, too,” he said.

“What steps?” The word underscored that squishy feeling between my toes.

“You need to be with me at the press conference. Then you need to move back home. Come out of seclusion.”

“Come on, Burt,” I said. “There were cameras all over the death scene, and my house, and the booking facility, and my house again. How can you ask me to live in that kind of fishbowl?”

“There’ll be a big flurry of interest when we file this motion and release the video analysis,” he said, “but it’ll die down in twenty-four hours and things will stay quiet until the trial. You need to start acting like an innocent man again. Take a cue from Bill Clinton, Ronald Reagan, Dick Cheney, and all those other Washington bigwigs. Even when they’re being accused of all manner of evil, they smile and wave for the cameras. And people think, ‘That nice man—he couldn’t have done those dreadful things!’”

“Would I have to answer questions at the press conference?”

“No, I’ll head that off at the start. Just hold up a hand, and look regretful that I’m not allowing you to comment. It’s all part of the game, Bill. If you can think of it as a game, maybe it won’t be so intolerable. And if you’ll play by the media’s rules even a little bit—give them some footage to help fill that gaping hole they have to fill every night—they’ll stop painting you as a villain. You’ll be surprised how the tone of the coverage will shift. I’ve seen it a hundred times.”

“Okay, counselor,” I said. “You win.”

“That’s good,” he said, “because Chloe’s already called all the news outlets to tell them the plan.”

I just shook my head. “Incredible. Where should I meet you, Machiavelli, and when?”

“My office. One forty-five. We’ll walk to the City County Building to deliver the motion at two, and hold the press conference outside right afterward. That gives the TV stations plenty of time to get the story on both newscasts to night.”

“And you really think this will help?”

“It has to,” he said. “This could be our one shot before the trial. Once the DA sees we’re fighting back, he might ask for a gag order. Or maybe the judge will decide to impose one on his own. In any case, we have to swing for the fence.”

At one-thirty, I pulled into the garage at Riverview Tower. Upstairs, Chloe greeted me warmly. “You ready for your close-up?” she said.

“Don’t rub it in,” I said. “I really hate doing this.”

“I know,” she said. “Not everybody basks in the limelight like Mr. DeVriess does. But this will help things, it really will. I have a friend who works at the News Sentinel, and she says this is the talk of the newsroom. They’re assigning three investigative reporters just to look for that truck and dig up other story angles they might have missed. Oh, and Larry King and 20/20 have already called.”

“Larry King? 20/20?! How the hell did they get wind of this already?”

“We’ve had high-profile cases a time or two before,” she said. “We don’t call people at the national level very often, but when we do, they know it’s a good story.”

“Lord, what have I done? I should never have let him talk me into this.”

“Yes you should. Can I tell you something, just between us?” I nodded warily. “If you tell Mr. DeVriess I said it, I’ll get fired.”

“My lips are sealed,” I said, holding up three fingers in the Boy Scout sign.

“I don’t always respect our clients, and I don’t always like what Mr. DeVriess does for them. But you’re different. And he knows it. What he’s doing might help save you.” She looked suddenly shy. “It might help save him, too. Does that make any sense?”

“You mean make up for some of his other cases? Redemption?” She nodded. “Stranger things have happened,” I said. “Especially lately.” I heard DeVriess’s office door open and his Italian shoes clicking down the hall. I held a finger to my lips and gave Chloe a conspiratorial wink. She winked back. I hoped the image of her wink, and the generous impulse behind it, could carry me through the surreal gamesmanship of the next hour.

“Keep up,” Burt said as the elevator reached the lobby. “Walk briskly, with purpose. Smile, but not too big, and nod occasionally to acknowledge the cameras. Hold up a deferential, apologetic hand every third or fourth question.” With those instructions, we pushed out the lobby door onto the sidewalk of Gay Street, into a waiting mob of reporters. I saw cameras from all the local TV stations, as well as CNN and Fox News. I counted a dozen or more still photographers, too, as well as what I estimated at close to a hundred spectators. Where had they all come from? And why?

I followed Burt’s instructions to the letter, partly in hopes of creating the desired effect, and partly to have something to do besides flee or hide my face like a minister arrested in a prostitution sting. Burt brushed off all questions on our way into the City County Building, pausing only to say, “As soon as we file this motion to dismiss, we’ll have a statement, and we’ll distribute copies of the exculpatory evidence we’re basing the motion on.”

It took a grand total of sixty seconds to file the motion in the court clerk’s office. The staff there gave Burt a look of weary forbearance—they had been through this routine with him countless times before—but I noticed several of them eyeing me closely. As we left the building, Burt led the media horde to a set of steps at one side of the plaza, where he—and I—could ascend and display ourselves to better advantage. The clamor of questions was almost incomprehensible. Burt held up both hands, signaling for silence, and as if on cue, a thicket of microphone booms swung into position above his head. “We have just filed a motion to dismiss all charges against Dr. Bill Brockton,” he said. “We have dramatic new evidence that proves conclusively—contrary to what the prosecution claims—that it was not Dr. Brockton’s truck that entered the Body Farm in the hours shortly before Dr. Carter’s body was found.” Another round of questions roared, but Burt ignored them and continued with his script. “That truck—the mystery truck—was driven by someone intent not only on killing Dr. Carter but also on destroying Dr. Brockton. When we solve the mystery of that truck, we’ll solve the mystery of Dr. Carter’s murder.” DeVriess glanced to one side, and Chloe emerged from the crowd. “We have some additional information in these briefing packets, including technical details of the video analysis and a broadcast-quality DVD that shows the surveillance footage and then highlights irrefutable differences between Dr. Brockton’s truck and the mystery truck.” He nodded at Chloe, and she began handing out glossy black folders which I noticed were imprinted with the name of Burt’s firm in raised gold lettering. They were the Bentley version of folders, I thought with a wry smile.

Burt wasn’t quite finished. “We call on the court to dismiss all charges,” he said in a voice worthy of the pulpit. “We call on the district attorney to stop using Dr. Brockton as a scapegoat. And we call on the Knoxville Police Department to find this mystery truck, and the real killer, and bring him to justice for this terrible crime.” With that ringing pronouncement, he grabbed my elbow and practically dragged me back to his office.

The event was simplistically scripted, it was cynically staged, and it was brilliantly effective. During the five-thirty newscast, which I watched in the living room of my own house, I flipped back and forth among all the Knoxville stations, and caught the phrases “mystery truck,” “mystery man,” and “mystery killer” more times than I could count.

We hadn’t won yet—not by a long shot—but DeVriess was right: it was time to start acting like an innocent man, and he had just made that possible for me.

IT WAS TEN O’CLOCK when my cellphone rang. I checked to see who was calling, and was puzzled to see a 423 area code. Chattanooga. “Hello,” I said warily.

“Dr. Bill? Hey, I see you on TV this evening.”

“Well, hello, Miss Georgia. I didn’t know I made the Chattanooga news, too.”

“Naw, baby, I see you on the Knoxville news. I be right here in the same town as you. My cellphone just think it’s still in Chattanooga. How you doin’, Dr. Bill?”

“How am I? Well, let’s see,” I said. “The woman I was falling in love with has been killed, I’ve been charged with murder, I’ve been barred from the university, and my grandkids scream when they see me now. On the bright side, my sleazy defense lawyer is the lead story on all the local TV stations to night, and a video expert can prove it wasn’t my truck that drove into the Body Farm the night Jess’s body was put there. So I suppose things could be worse.”

“We can’t bring Miss Jessamine back, Dr. Bill, but we gon’ clear up all this other mess. You wait and see.”

I wasn’t sure what part Miss Georgia saw herself playing in setting the record straight, but I appreciated her faith. “I hope you’re right, Georgia,” I said. “How about you?”

“Well, less see,” she mimicked. “My weenie and my ’nads done been chopped off, I got a hundred stitches in my bottom, and I done traded in my little silk thong for a big ol’ Depends. But I be a real woman now, Dr. Bill, so I be just fine. My ass hurt like a motherfucker, but iss a good hurt. I be going home in a couple days, doctor say.”

“Congratulations,” I said. “I’m glad you’ve finally got what you’ve been wanting for so long.”

Just then my landline rang. “You need to answer that, honey-lamb?”

“I’ll let the machine get it,” I said. “Probably a reporter, or somebody phoning to call me a murderer or an infidel.” When my greeting finished playing, though, I was startled to hear Garland Hamilton’s voice. “Bill? Are you there? It’s Garland. If you’re there, Bill, please pick up.”

“Georgia? Sorry, I need to take this.” I laid down the cell and grabbed for the receiver.

“Guess you’re not there. Listen, I’ve got something that sheds some new light on Jess Carter’s murder,” Garland was saying, “and I thought—”

I snatched up the receiver. “Garland? I’m here. What have you got? Tell me.”

“Oh, Bill, I’m so glad you’re there. Hey, congratulations, by the way—I saw the news about the surveillance video,” he said. “That will help your case enormously.”

“Thanks,” I said, “I hope you’re right. Now tell me what you’ve found out.”

“I don’t think I should over the phone,” he said. “Is it too late to come see you? Are you already in bed?”

“No,” I said. “I’m not sleeping much these days. Too many ghosts under the bed.”

“I understand,” he said. “Strictly speaking, I shouldn’t be talking to you at all, but I have a bombshell that could clear your name overnight.”

“Jesus, Garland, what is it?”

“I need to show it to you. You want me to come over now? Or would you rather wait till morning?”

“God, no. If you’ve got something new on Jess’s murder, please come now.”

“Okay. I’m calling from the car—I just left the morgue. I know you live somewhere in Sequoyah Hills, but that neighborhood is like a maze to me, especially at night. Can you stay on the line with me and talk me in?”

“Sure. Where are you now?”

“I’ve just gotten off Alcoa Highway, and I’m heading west on Kingston Pike. I’m almost to the light at Cherokee Boulevard.”

“Okay, turn left on Cherokee.” From there, I guided him through a series of turns past ivy-wrapped stone mansions and glassy contemporary boxes. I had to close my eyes to visualize the route; I’d driven it so many thousand times over the years, I’d long since ceased to pay attention to the street names or the landmarks. Finally I steered him onto my street. I looked out the front window and said, “Okay, I see your headlights. I’m hanging up now; I’ll flash the porch light for you.” I did, and a moment later I heard the thunk of his Tahoe’s door closing.

I met him at the door and pumped his hand. “Thank you for coming,” I said. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it. Come in, sit down, and for God’s sake tell me what you’ve got.”

“Hang on a second,” he said. “You know it would get me in a lot of trouble with the district attorney if he knew I was here?” I nodded. “You didn’t tell anybody I was coming, did you?”

“No, how could I? I was on the phone with you until thirty seconds ago.”

“What about that telephone message? You better erase that, just to be on the safe side. The police could come back with another search warrant.”

“Really? I would never have thought of that.” I walked to the answering machine and deleted the last message. “I’d make a lousy criminal.”

He laughed at that. “Yes, you would, Bill. Indeed you would.”

“So tell me. What is it? What have you got?”

“I think you’d better sit down,” he said. “This is going to blow you away.” I sat. “What would you say if I told you I had the gun that killed Jess?”

I was sitting perfectly still, but my mind was racing. “I would say…that’s amazing,” I said. “Where was it? Who found it? Have the police already done the ballistic tests? Were there fingerprints on it?”

“There are fingerprints,” he said.

“Have the police run them yet? Is there a match?”

“They haven’t had a chance. But I can promise you they’ll find a match in the system.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because the prints will be yours.”

I stared at him, trying to follow, but failing. “I don’t understand.”

“No. But you will.” He reached behind his back and produced a small handgun, which he pointed at my chest. “This is the murder weapon,” he said. “I shot Jess with it. Now I’m going to shoot you with it. Not quite the end I had in mind for you—I was so enjoying the thought of you spending time in prison with killers and rapists you helped send there. But your lawyer and his video expert have seriously lowered the odds of getting you convicted. So I think it’s safer to go with Plan B.”

Suddenly the puzzle pieces fell into place, and I felt stupid for not having suspected Garland Hamilton—tall, strong Garland Hamilton. The one person whose work and whose woes involved both Jess and me. He knew where the hospital surveillance cameras were placed, knew how to plant evidence on a corpse, knew my truck, knew my habits, knew my strengths well enough to turn them against me. Hell, he even knew where a spare key to the Body Farm was stashed at the Forensic Center. “You killed Jess and framed me for her murder? Why? Out of spite?”

“Oh, ‘spite’ doesn’t begin to do it justice,” he said. “Something like ‘implacable hatred’ or ‘blackhearted vengeance’ would be much closer to the mark. Was it Hamlet who said, ‘Revenge is a dish best served cold’? I’ve been letting this chill for months. You have no idea how humiliating I found it to be made a fool by you over the Ledbetter autopsy. Not once, but twice: first in court, and then before a board of medical examiners—my professional peers.”

“But they didn’t take your license,” I said. “What harm did that do you? You got your job back.”

“Only temporarily,” he said. “The board made that clear when they called to impose my punishment. The governor himself told the commissioner of health to ease me out. And I’ll never get my reputation back. It’s ruined. You ruined it.”

“I can see why you might hold a grudge against me,” I said slowly, “but why Jess?”

When he smiled, I felt icy fingers clutching my soul. “Why Jess? So many reasons why Jess.” He cocked his head. “Did you know she was about to be made state medical examiner?” I shook my head. “All the MEs in Tennessee are about to be rolled into a statewide organization, and the beautiful, brainy Dr. Carter had been tapped to head that organization. So six months from now, I would have been out, and Jess would be in. Farther in than I had ever been. I’m surprised you didn’t know.”

“It wasn’t my business,” I said. “She’d have had no reason to tell me.”

“Then she probably also didn’t tell you that she and I had a fleeting romance once.”

“You? When?” The thought of it turned my stomach.

“A year or so ago. Right after she and her husband separated. She made it clear afterward that I was just a revenge fuck. I never forgave her for that. But she did have a gorgeous body, didn’t she, our Jess?”

I made a lunge at him; he struck me with the pistol, then kneed me in the groin. I sank back into the chair.

“But you want to know the third reason, the main reason, why I killed Jess?”

“Yes. Why?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“You. You were falling in love with Jess; she was falling in love with you. That made her your Achilles’ heel, your most vulnerable spot. I followed you to her house that night in Chattanooga. Being out of a job at the moment, I had plenty of time to keep tabs on you. I saw you spring up the stairs to her house like a teenager going on a date; I saw her come to the door and welcome you in; Christ, I even heard the two of you moaning up there in her bedroom. It took every ounce of willpower I had not to walk in and shoot you both in her bed. But I kept my eyes on the prize.”

“And what prize was that, Garland?”

“Making you suffer.”

“Well, you’ve certainly done that,” I said. “But if you kill me, too, the police will match the bullet to the one that killed Jess. They’ll know that whoever murdered me also murdered Jess.”

He laughed and shook his head. “As you said, you’d make a lousy criminal, Bill. You’re not going to be murdered; you’re going to die by your own hand. Tragic, really: Bill Brockton, driven to suicide by his guilt over murdering Dr. Carter, his despair over losing his reputation, his fear of going to prison and getting manhandled by some of his old friends.”

“Go to hell,” I said. “I will never commit suicide.”

“Call it assisted suicide, then,” he said. “The criminalists will find your prints, and only your prints, on the gun. The autopsy—my autopsy—will find powder burns and even a nice, round contact impression from the muzzle, which you held tight against your skull as you pulled the trigger.” As he said it, he jammed the gun into my temple. “It’s a terrible thing, losing one’s hard-earned reputation, isn’t it, Bill? We have that experience in common now.” He smiled and added, “Just like we have Jess in common now.”

The sight of him disgusted me, and I looked away. And when I did, I saw a glimmer of hope. It was the tiny green diode on my cellphone, the one that blinked every few seconds during a call. Georgia, I realized. I had been talking to her on the cell when Hamilton called, and I never hung up. Was there a chance she was still on the line? Please, God, let her be listening; please let someone hear me die; please let someone know the truth.

It was a long shot, but it was the only shot I had. “So tell me more about how you killed Jess,” I said.

“With plea sure,” he said. “Pun intended. Where shall I begin?”

It was the same question I’d put to Burt DeVriess the night I’d hired him. “At the beginning of the end,” I said. “When you abducted her, or broke into her house, or what ever you did when you made your move.”

“Hmmmm,” he said, as if savoring a fond memory. “It was that night the two of you had dinner at By the Tracks. That row of shops facing the restaurant? I was on the sidewalk, behind one of the columns, right in front of her car. Jess came out of the restaurant alone. She hit the remote to unlock her car and got in. I stepped out from behind the column and got in with her. It was so easy.”

“Then what? Where did you take her? Your house?”

“I have a large wine cellar in my basement—a concrete room within a concrete basement. Very secure, and very quiet. No sound gets in; no sound gets out.”

I thought I should ask for more details about Jess’s death, but my courage failed me; I couldn’t bear to hear the details of her suffering. “The hair and fibers—my hair, my carpet, my bedspread—how did you get those onto her body before the autopsy?”

“I didn’t,” he said. “I wrote them into the autopsy report, but I didn’t collect them until the next day. That rock through the window of your front door?” I nodded; the note had an antievolution message on it, so I’d assumed it was thrown by one of the creationist protesters. “My little Trojan horse. The broken window let me reach in and unlock the door, put blood and some of Jess’s hair on your sheets, then collect some of your hair and tell the police I found it on Jess’s body. The police had no reason to doubt me.”

I was just about to ask where he’d found a truck so nearly like mine for transporting Jess to the Body Farm when a series of low beeps sounded from the bookshelf beside him. It was the low-battery warning on my cellphone, and I kicked myself for not having charged it in the car earlier in the day. Hamilton whirled in the direction of the sound, and his eyes spotted the blinking light on the cell. Keeping the gun pointed at me, he sidled over, picked up the phone, and held it to his ear. Then he flipped it closed. “You son of a bitch,” he said. “Time’s up.” He stepped toward me and raised the gun to my right temple.

Just then the front doorbell rang. Hamilton and I both jumped, and I was surprised his trigger finger had not reflexively tightened enough to fire the gun. “Now what?” I asked.

“Now nothing,” he said. “Stand still and don’t make a sound or I’ll shoot you.”

“You’re going to shoot me anyway,” I said. “Why shouldn’t I make you do it when there’s a witness within earshot?”

“You stupid son of a bitch,” he said. “No matter what, I walk away clean. You called me on the phone, distraught and suicidal. I raced over and tried to talk sense into you. Just as I was about to persuade you to hand over the gun, someone rang the doorbell, and you panicked and pulled the trigger. There is no scenario I cannot explain.”

There was a loud knock on the door. “Bill? You awake?” The voice was familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it. “Bill?” The volume was getting louder. “Hey, Bill—come on, let’s go!”

At the word “go,” the living room window closest to us shattered, and then the world seemed to explode. I seemed to be falling, but curiously—even as I felt myself hit the floor—the image that remained frozen in my gaze was of my front door, and of Garland Hamilton standing beside me, his hand and the stock of a pistol just visible in my peripheral vision. So this is what it’s like to die of a gunshot to the head, I thought.