Mad Honey: A Novel (23 page)

Suddenly I understand why
this
is what I’ve chosen to write.

When Jordan rises and steps away from Asher, it feels like a void in space, a black hole into which Asher might be sucked. I find myself leaning a little closer, as if I could keep him safe.

“Asher told you in his statement that the door was cracked open, didn’t he?” Jordan begins.

The detective nods. “Yes.”

“Did you bother to process the doorknob for fingerprints, or DNA?”

“No, we did not.”

“Which in fact corroborates the statement that Asher gave you, doesn’t it?”

“Not necessarily,” Mike says. “Doorknobs are tough surfaces for prints. So many people use them during the course of a day that it’s hard to get valid results.”

“So because it’s hard for you to get results, you didn’t even try? Is that correct?”

Mike narrows his eyes. “We have historically found it to not be as practical a site for fingerprint testing compared to other spots at crime scenes, so we direct our resources elsewhere.”

“But the fact remains that the doorknob wasn’t analyzed for prints…so someone else could have shown up at the house before Asher arrived?”

“It’s possible.”

“Did you check to see who that might have been?” Jordan asks.

“Officer Tubbs canvassed the neighborhood, and no one had heard any disturbances. There was no one else of interest. Plus,” Mike adds, “no one else’s DNA or fingerprints were found in the bedroom.”

“Isn’t it true that you cannot tell when, exactly, a fingerprint or a piece of DNA evidence was left behind?”

“We do not have that technology, no,” Mike replies.

“So Asher might have gone to his girlfriend’s bedroom like any other normal teenage boy to hook up with her days or even weeks prior to that afternoon…and maybe left behind a hair or a fingerprint then?”

The detective shifts in his chair. “Yes.”

“And he told you that he and Lily had been dating since September?”

“Yes.”

“So these fingerprints and the DNA that you’re building an entire case around in actuality might have been left behind at any time between September and December seventh…not as a result of a fight, but as a result of consensual lovemaking?”

“It’s possible,” Mike says.

Jordan lets this sit for a moment. “When you arrived at the scene, was Lily there?”

“No. She had already been taken to the hospital.”

“At some point did you have the chance to examine her clothing?”

“Yes,” Mike says.

“Were there any rips or tears?”

“There was
blood,
” Mike says pointedly.

“Again, I ask you, Detective—in other cases with struggles and physical altercations, have you seen articles of clothing that are torn or ripped?”

“Yes.”

“But again, that was
not
the case here, right?”

“That is correct.”

“Excellent,” Jordan says. “Let’s talk about Asher’s clothing. When you brought him to the station for his first interview, did you see any rips or tears in his clothing?”

“No,” Mike answers drily. “Just his girlfriend’s blood.”

“As a detective, you’ve investigated other fights and disturbances, I assume?”

“I have.”

“Isn’t it true that people in fights and disturbances often have scratches or wounds consistent with a struggle?”

“Yes.”

“Did you notice any scratches or wounds on Asher?” Jordan asks.

“No.”

“Did Asher display
any
physical signs of being in a struggle?”

“No.”

“You didn’t even take the time to photograph his hands that day, did you?”

“No,” Mike replies. “At the time, Mr. Fields was not a suspect.”

“Ah, right!” A smile breaks across Jordan’s face. “He only
became
one when you couldn’t come up with anything else.”

The prosecutor rises. “Objection!”

“Sustained,” the judge orders.

Jordan turns and finds me, lifting his eyebrow the tiniest bit. “Nothing further,” he says.

A YEAR AFTER
my father died, when I was still taking care of his hives—a commuter beekeeper—I’d drive more than five hours in a single day so that I could be home when Braden got back from the hospital. But one Saturday each month, with Braden’s blessing, I went to the Adams farmers’ market to sell honey and beeswax products.

It was October, the best month for farmers’ markets. Children ran in dizzy circles around the bluegrass musicians in the little gazebo, booths overflowed with bushel baskets of kale and Gem lettuce and squash, there were samplings of yogurt and locally roasted coffee and goat cheese with lavender. I stood behind my table under a portable white awning, doing a brisk business.

It felt like I had been selling nonstop, so when I realized that my line was down to one customer, I sighed with relief. The sun was in my eyes, and I didn’t realize until the man spoke that he was wearing a police uniform, and that I knew him.

“Olivia,” Mike said, grinning. “Wow, it’s been a while. I didn’t know you moved home.”

He leaned forward, like he expected me to lean over the table and embrace him, but I didn’t, so he covered his gaffe by picking up a jar of honey body butter.

“I haven’t. I’m down in Boston. I just come up to help my mom with the hives.”

He turned the jar in his hand. “I heard about your dad passing. I’m sorry.”

“Me, too.” I felt breathless, nervous. With the exception of my mother, who was still battling her own grief demons, I tended to distance myself from people who knew me before Braden. “You in the market for something in particular?”

Mike looked down as if he was surprised to find himself holding a jar. “I don’t know,” he said, laughing. “I’m not much of a tea drinker.”

“I wouldn’t suggest drinking that anyway,” I offered. “It’s body butter.”

“With honey?”

“Yeah, it’s an old recipe.
Really
old. An ancient Egyptian papyrus from 1550
b.c.e.
said honey, alabaster, natron, and salt can beautify the body.” I shrugged. “This is a modified version, but maybe Nadya would like it.” I remembered his wife, a cheerleader, leaning over a mirror in the girls’ bathroom with her Bonne Bell lip gloss.

“Ah,” Mike said, flushing deeply. “Nadya. Yeah, she ran off with her personal trainer.”

Without missing a beat I lifted a different jar. “The ancient Egyptians also mixed honey with crocodile shit to make a contraceptive paste,” I said. “You could send her some with a good riddance note.”

His eyes widened. “For real?”

“Yes, about the contraceptive paste,” I replied. “But this? This is just lip balm.”

He laughed out loud. “And you? You got married to a doctor, right?”

“Yup,” I said, instinctively cupping a bandage on the back of my other hand. “Braden. It’s great.
He’s
great. We live outside Boston.”

“So you said,” Mike murmured, his eyes narrowing on the gauze. “What happened to you?”

“I burned myself rendering beeswax. You’d think I’d be better at it, after all this time.”

It
was
a second-degree burn. But I’d gotten it when I forgot to put sugar in Braden’s coffee, and he threw the mug at me.

My hands were suddenly shaky. “Anyway,” I said. “It’s nice to see you again.”

It was, of course, an invitation for him to leave. Quickly.

I knew people saw what they wanted to see, and in my case, that was usually a surgeon’s wife. Mike, though, expected me to be the Olivia he used to know, and I wasn’t even sure if I remembered her anymore.

Mike picked up the jar of body butter. “Might as well try it. I’m not getting any younger.” He reached into his wallet and pulled out a twenty. “Keep the change.” His fingers brushed mine as I took the money. “You know,” he said gently, “you always have options.”

He disappeared into the busy center of the farmers’ market. I opened my cashbox and unfolded the bill. In the center was a card for a battered women’s shelter.

DURING A FIFTEEN-MINUTE
recess, Jordan hustles us into a private conference room. Asher slumps into a chair and loosens his tie. “Are you all right?” I ask. I fight the urge to hold my hand to his forehead, the way I used to check him for a fever. He is not a little boy, and this is not a common cold.

“It’s like being in a zoo,” he says, and he looks at Jordan. “You didn’t tell me that part.”

“It gets worse,” Jordan says flatly. “You’re doing a good job, Asher. You’re not letting anyone see you sweat.”

Asher snorts at that, lifting the side of his suit jacket. “I’m drenched.”

“
They
don’t know that.” Jordan pats his pocket, looking for his wallet. “I’m going to get a drink. You want anything?”

“Sure,” I say.

The door opens into a slice of noise and bustle, and then Jordan is gone.

I sit down in the chair beside my son. “Hey,” I say softly.

He flicks his eyes toward me. “Hey.”

“Do you want to talk,” I ask, “or do you just want to sit?”

I know how hard it must be for him to remain stoic in front of the jury, while he’s dying inside. I know, because I am doing it myself.

“I tried to imagine the worst,” Asher murmurs. “But I didn’t even come close.”

“I know—”

“The way they keep calling her a
victim,
” he blurts, his face twisting.

My breath catches in my throat. Asher is not even hearing what they say about him. He’s still thinking of Lily.

I reach for his hand and squeeze it. “Do you remember the first time you jumped off a diving board?”

He turns to me, his head tilted.

“We were at the Y in Framingham—the outdoor pool. You were four. You had a friend from school who just ran down the diving board, totally fearless, and you wanted to do it, too. But you froze on the end, and you were too afraid to go forward or to go backward, and other kids were yelling at you for holding up their turn and you started to cry.”

“Listen, I get the metaphor, but I think being on trial for murder might be—”

“I swam into the deep end,” I interrupt.

He rolls his eyes. “And you said you’d catch me?”

“No. I told you the
truth
. I couldn’t catch you, because I couldn’t stand in the deep end. If you jumped in, everything was going to go dark and weird for a second, and you might get water up your nose, and not know which way was up. But I would grab you if that happened.”

“Did I jump?”

“No.” I laugh. “You chickened out entirely. But the
next
time we came to the pool, you did.”

He smiles wryly. “Is this where I’m supposed to tell you that everything’s dark and weird in the courtroom?”

“I don’t know, Asher, but I’m still going to tell you the truth. You’re brave, and you’re strong, and if you don’t believe it today, maybe you’ll believe it tomorrow.”

Asher closes his eyes, but not before I see the tears beaded in the corners. “Thanks, Mom,” he says softly.

Jordan opens the door. “Ginger ale or Coke?” he asks.

I KNOW THAT
both Jordan and Selena have tried multiple times to pin down Rooney McBride, the medical examiner, and that multiple times, they have failed. Appointments were made and canceled as one emergency or another arose. Selena made it as far as his lab in Manchester, only to find out that his wife had gone into labor and he’d left for the day. He’s proven so slippery in fact that he’s assumed
almost superheroic stature in my imagination, so when he takes the witness stand and is only a middle-aged man with thinning hair, I feel like I’ve been deceived.

“I’m a hospital pathologist at Manchester Medical Center,” he says, his voice reedy. “I’ve practiced in New Hampshire for eleven years and I’m licensed in New Hampshire, Massachusetts, and Vermont. I’m board certified in anatomic and clinical pathology and cytopathology, and I rotated through the chief medical examiner’s office in Concord for training in forensic pathology.”

“What does a forensic pathologist do, Dr. McBride?” asks the prosecutor.

“We conduct autopsies in situations where there is a death that resulted from accidents, suicides, homicides, or is not clearly the result of natural causes,” he states.

“Did you perform a forensic autopsy on Lily Campanello?”

“I did.”

“Dr. McBride,” Gina says, approaching him with a handful of paper, “I’m showing you an autopsy report dated December eleventh with your signature, purported to be the autopsy you performed on Lily Campanello. This has also been stipulated to by the defense. Is this the autopsy report you filed with the findings on Lily Campanello?”

“Yes, it is.”

The judge admits the report into evidence as Gina gives a copy to the pathologist. “Can you explain, Doctor, what happens at an autopsy?”

“The first step is to review the circumstances surrounding the death of the person—including the police report and medical records, if available. We examine the body to try to figure out the cause of death—not just from the outside, but from the inside—looking at things like the central nervous system and all the organs in the chest and abdominal cavities. Samples of organs and tissue are taken for microscopic examination. The extremities might be dissected and sampled, too. Tissue, blood, and other fluids can be taken for
chemical analysis or microbiological cultures. And we do an MRI, a CT scan, and X-rays, if warranted.”

“What about toxicology screens?” Gina asks. “Are those run as a matter of course?”

“Yes, to identify alcohol and drugs and if they might be a factor in the death.”

“Was a tox screen run on Lily Campanello?”

“Yes,” Dr. McBride says. “It was negative for alcohol and drugs.”

“Doctor, I’m going to ask you to detail the injuries you found on Lily, starting at the top of her head. What, if anything, did you find?”

“On her scalp was a laceration two-point-five centimeters in length—”

“Let me stop you right there,” the prosecutor says. “A laceration, for those of us who aren’t medical professionals, is what?”

“A cut or tear to the skin. Her hair was matted with blood. Underneath the skin of the scalp was a palpable smooth mass approximately nine by four by two centimeters. In layman’s terms, that’s a large bruise. It was on her temple.”