Missing Pieces (11 page)

“I think that would be illegal,” she continued, “not giving someone their mail. I mean, I wrote him a letter, which I entrusted to them, and I would think that they’re under a legal obligation to make sure he gets it. Wouldn’t you?”

“I have no idea.” My voice vibrated impatience. I heard it. So did Jo Lynn.

“What’s the matter with you? Disappointed because your boyfriend didn’t show?”

My head snapped toward her, my eyes flashing anger, my cheeks flushing red. “Do you ever say anything that’s not ridiculous?”

“Hit a nerve, did I?”

The door at the front of the courtroom opened and the prisoner was let in. He looked around, eyes taking in the entire courtroom at a glance. Beside me, Jo Lynn waved, a small fluttering of her fingers, followed by a tiny kiss she blew toward him. The corners of Colin Friendly’s mouth creased into a smile as he reached out to grab the invisible kiss, his fingers tightening around it, as if around a young girl’s throat. He was wearing the same blue suit he’d been wearing the first time I saw him, although his shirt was white and his tie navy, and I wondered if he received a fresh shirt and tie every day, and if so, who supplied them. I thought of asking Jo Lynn, decided against it. She’d probably use it as an excuse to comment on my own clothes, the fact that I was wearing a delicately floral dress I normally reserved for more formal social occasions, undoubtedly something she would attribute to the fact I’d hoped to run into Robert.

Jo Lynn was wearing a plunging white sweater and black leather miniskirt. Her hair was freshly washed and draped across her shoulders in layers of blond curls, like a heavy brocade. More than once I caught sight of people craning their necks in her direction. Jo Lynn appeared
oblivious to it all, her total attention seemingly focused on the accused, but I knew she was aware of the scrutiny. And I could tell by the way she tossed her head and flicked her hair away from her face that she was enjoying it.

She was something of a celebrity here in Courtroom 11A. People talked to her. They asked her opinions of the previous day’s proceedings. They asked whether or not she thought Colin would testify in his own defense and whether or not she thought he should. I was amazed at how authoritative she sounded, at how much weight her answers were given. She’d always complained that I didn’t take her seriously enough, and maybe she was right.

The medical examiner resumed his seat on the witness stand. He was a compact little man, standing no more than five feet four inches tall, with dark hair and an oblong face that looked as if it had been caught between the doors of a bus. His features were squished into the center of his face, his round wire-rimmed glasses propped awkwardly on the bridge of his nose. His name was Dr. Ronald Loring and he was about forty-five years old. Younger than me, I thought.

“We don’t have too many more questions for you this morning, Dr. Loring,” the prosecutor began, fastening the top button of his brown pinstriped jacket while approaching the witness.

Dr. Loring nodded.

“You’ve stated that the victims had all been raped and sometimes sodomized, is that so?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“Was there semen found in any of the victims?”

“There was semen found in the bodies that were sufficiently preserved.” He listed the women’s names.

“And did that semen match the sample of semen taken from Colin Friendly?”

“It did in many significant respects.”

I glanced at Jo Lynn. She tossed her head, flicked her hair, pretended to be unaware I was looking at her.

There followed a lengthy discussion of the techniques used to analyze and identify sperm. It had something to do with bodily secretions and blood types and other variables I’ve forgotten. According to these variables, there was a seventy percent probability that Colin Friendly was the man who’d raped and sodomized these women.

“Seventy percent,” Jo Lynn repeated, dismissively.

The same was true of the teeth marks that had been etched into the flesh of several of the victims. A mold had been taken of Colin Friendly’s mouth. It closely—but not conclusively—matched the bite marks on the bodies. Traces of saliva left inside the wounds pointed to—but didn’t pinpoint—the accused. Despite this, there was no question in his mind, Dr. Ronald Loring pronounced, but that Colin Friendly had been responsible for the bites on the bodies of the dead girls.

What of the bodies that had decomposed beyond recognition, that were mere collections of bones by the time they were unearthed? the prosecutor asked. How could the doctor tell that these unfortunates had been murdered, let alone murdered by Colin Friendly?

Dr. Loring went into a lengthy discussion of the marvels of forensic medicine, how scientific techniques had become so sophisticated, they could often precisely pinpoint the exact time and cause of a person’s death. He went into considerable detail regarding the methods his department employed. His voice was steady, his delivery dry. I could tell he was losing some of the jury, who looked bleary-eyed, one man’s eyes threatening to close altogether.

“Mumbo jumbo,” Jo Lynn muttered.

Aside from this, there were patterns to the violence that linked the accused to each of his victims, Dr. Loring continued, as the jury and the rest of the courtroom perked up.
The women had all been severely beaten, their noses shattered. Multiple stab wounds circled the breasts of the victims, forming horizontal figure eights; the women’s stomachs had been sliced open; they’d been stabbed directly, and repeatedly, through the heart.

The thirteen women Colin Friendly stood accused of killing had been murdered by the same man, the medical examiner concluded. That man was Colin Friendly.

“What a crock,” Jo Lynn pronounced.

I couldn’t help it. Like a hungry fish, I snapped at the bait. “How can you say that? Didn’t you hear anything Dr. Loring said?”

“I heard him say ‘seventy percent,’ not ‘one hundred,’” she snapped back. “I heard ‘closely matched,’ not ‘perfectly matched.’ Just wait till Mr. Archibald gets through with him.”

Mercifully, the judge called a recess for lunch. I watched as Colin Friendly stood up, spoke briefly to his lawyers, then smiled over at Jo Lynn as he was led from the room.

“Hang in there, Colin,” Jo Lynn said, underlining her faith in him with a nod of her head.

“I think I’ve heard enough,” I told Jo Lynn. “Why don’t we call it a day.”

She looked indignant. “What’s the matter? Your boyfriend doesn’t show up, so you’re gonna pick up your marbles and go home?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“That’s the second time today you’ve called me ridiculous. I’m not ridiculous. You’re the one who’s ridiculous, mooning over some guy who dumped you thirty years ago.”

It took every ounce of self-control I had to keep from screaming. Instead, I took several very deep breaths, and grabbed my purse, signaling my intention to leave. Jo
Lynn stood back to let me pass, and I stepped into the aisle.

“Excuse me, Miss Baker.”

I turned to see the muscular, fair-haired attorney for the defense approach my sister. He leaned forward, whispered something in her ear, then walked away.

Immediately, we were surrounded by reporters, their cameras clicking wildly, like a gaggle of geese. I lowered my head, kept walking to the door. Jo Lynn followed after me, but slowly enough for the cameras to keep up.

“What did Jake Archibald say to you?” a reporter asked.

“It’s confidential, I’m afraid,” my sister replied, smiling sweetly, lips pursing, eyes slightly downcast. The eternal coquette.

“What exactly is your connection to Colin Friendly?”

“I’m just a friend who’s convinced of his innocence.”

“Even in light of this morning’s evidence?”

“I think evidence can be planted and lab samples can be tainted. The Palm Beach County medical examiner’s office is old and run-down,” she said, subverting what I’d told her to support her case. “Their equipment is hardly state-of-the-art.”

Serves me right, I thought, for confiding anything in her.

“Is Colin Friendly your boyfriend?”

“Really, that’s much too personal.”

“Tell us what Jake Archibald said to you.”

Jo Lynn stopped, smiled at each of the reporters gathered around her, wet her dark red lips for the camera. “Really, guys,” she said, as if these strangers were her best buddies, “you know I’d tell you if I could. Please, bear with me.”

With that, she grabbed hold of my arm and pushed me out into the corridor.

“For God’s sake,” I whispered under my breath, “what were you doing in there?”

“Being polite. Like Mama taught us.” She backed me into a corner, smiled teasingly. “Don’t you want to know what Jake Archibald said to me?”

“No,” I said.

“Liar,” she said. “Go on, ask me.”

I tried to keep silent, but my heart wasn’t in it. In truth, I was desperate to know, and we both knew it. “What did he say?”

Jo Lynn’s smile exploded across her face. “It’s happening,” she said as my body went numb. “Colin Friendly wants to see me.”

W
hy don’t you tell me what brought you here.”

The dark-haired, middle-aged woman looked nervously toward her husband, whose eyes were all but glued to his brown Gucci loafers, then back at me. “I’m not sure I know where to begin.” Again, she glanced anxiously at her husband.

“Don’t look at me,” he said without looking up. “I’m not the one who wanted to come here.”

“You didn’t want to come?” I repeated.

“This was her idea.” A dismissive thumb jerked in the direction of his wife.

Lois and Arthur McKay sat across from me, their chairs angling toward opposite walls. They were a handsome couple—tall, immaculately groomed, almost regal in bearing. Probably they’d been breathtaking in their youth, the campus football hero and his beautiful homecoming queen. They’d been married almost thirty years and had three grown children. This was their first visit.

“Why do you think your wife wanted to come here?”

He shrugged. “You’d have to ask her.”

I nodded. “Lois?”

She hesitated, looked around, eyes dropping to the floor. “I guess I’m tired of being ignored.”

“You’re complaining because I play golf and bridge a few times a week?”

“You play golf every day and bridge three times a week.”

“I’m retired. It’s why we moved to Florida.”

“I thought we moved here so we could spend more time together.” Lois McKay took a deep breath, reached for a tissue, said nothing for several seconds. “It’s not just the bridge,” she said finally. “It’s not just the golf.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“About a year ago,” Lois McKay began without further prompting, “I went for my routine yearly physical. The doctor discovered a lump in my right breast. She sent me for a mammogram. To make a long story short, the mammogram showed cancer. I had to have a mastectomy. Ask my husband what he was doing while I was in surgery.”

“This isn’t fair,” her husband protested. “You said you didn’t need me there, that there was nothing I could do at the hospital.”

“Did you want him at the hospital?” I asked.

Lois McKay closed her eyes. “Of course I did.”

“Did you or did you not tell me that I should go play golf?”

“Yes, that’s what I told you.”

“But you didn’t mean it,” I said gently.

“No.”

“What stopped you from telling your husband that you wanted him with you?”

She shook her head. Several tears fell onto her lap, staining the skirt of her light green suit. “I shouldn’t have to tell him.”

“I’m supposed to read your mind?”

“I wanted him to
want
to be there,” Lois McKay whispered.

“And you were hurt when he wasn’t.”

She nodded.

“I’m supposed to be a bloody mind reader,” her husband reiterated.

“You’re supposed to be there for me. You’re supposed to care about whether I live or die. You’re supposed to have the common decency to at least visit me in the hospital!”

“You didn’t visit your wife while she was in the hospital?” I asked.

“She knows how I feel about hospitals. I hate the damn things. They make my skin crawl.”

“Ask him the last time he touched me. Ask him the last time we made love.” She continued without pause. “We haven’t made love since before my operation. He hasn’t come near me, not once.”

“You were sick, for God’s sake. First the surgery, then the radiation. You were exhausted. The last thing on your mind was sex.”

“I’m not sick anymore. I’m not tired anymore. I’m just sick and tired of being ignored.” She broke down into sobs. “It’s like I don’t even exist, like when they took off my breast, the rest of me disappeared as well.”

For several seconds, the only movement in the room was the quiet shaking of her shoulders. I turned toward Arthur McKay. He sat absolutely rigid, the muscles in his face pulled tight against his scalp, like a death mask. “Were you scared when you found out your wife had cancer?” I asked.

He glared at me. “Why should I be scared?”

“Because cancer is a scary thing.”

“I know all about cancer. My mother died of cancer when I was a little boy.”

“Were you afraid your wife might die?” I asked.

His eyes flashed anger, his hands forming fists at his sides. He said nothing.

“Did you talk to your wife about how you were feeling?”

“She wasn’t interested in how I was feeling.”

“That’s not true. I tried to talk to you many times.”

“Look, what difference does any of this make?” he said. “It’s all water under the bridge. There’s nothing we can do to change it.”

“What about now?”

“Now?”

“Are you scared now?”

Arthur McKay opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it, said nothing.

“A mastectomy is a lot more complicated than most surgery. The loss of a breast has so many implications. For both partners. How did you feel about your wife’s surgery? How
do
you feel?” I immediately corrected.

“I don’t know,” Arthur McKay said impatiently.

“I do,” Lois McKay said, wiping at her tears with a fresh tissue. “He’s repulsed by it. By me.”