Plain Truth (42 page)

“I don't know.”

“Or in the manure pile, where it wouldn't have been found for some time?”

“I don't know.”

“There are a lot of places on an Amish farm where the body of a baby could be disposed of that are far more clever than under a pile of blankets.”

Shrugging, Lizzie replied, “No one said the defendant was clever. Just that she committed murder.”

“Murder? We're talking basic common sense here. Why cut the cord, get the baby breathing, swaddle it, kill it—and then leave it where it's sure to be discovered?”

Lizzie sighed. “Maybe she wasn't thinking clearly.”

Ellie rounded on her. “And yet by the very terms of a charge of murder, you allege that she was cognizant of this act, that she premeditated this act, that she committed it with intent? Can you be deliberate and confused all at the same time?”

“I'm not a psychiatrist, Ms. Hathaway. I don't know.”

“No,” Ellie said meaningfully. “You don't.”

When Katie and Jacob had been small, they'd played together in the fields, zigzagging through the summer cornfields as if they were a maze. Incredible, how thick and green those walls could grow, so that she could be a foot away from her brother just on the other side, and never know it.

Once, when she was about eight, she got lost. She'd been playing follow-the-leader, but Jacob got ahead of her and disappeared. Katie had called out for him, but he was teasing her that day and wouldn't come. She walked in circles, she grew tired and thirsty, and finally she lay down on her back on the ground. She squinted up between the slats of stalks and took comfort from the fact that this was the same old sun, the same old sky, the same familiar world she'd awakened in that morning. And eventually, feeling guilty, Jacob came and found her.

At the defense table, with a flurry of words hailing around her like a storm, Katie remembered that day in the corn.

Things had a way of working out for the best, when you let them run their course.

“The patient was brought into the ER with vaginal bleeding, and a urine pregnancy test was positive. She had a boggy uterus about twenty-four weeks' size, and an open cervical os,” said Dr. Seaborn Blair. “We started her on a drip of pitocin to stop the bleeding. A BSU confirmed that the patient was pregnant.”

“Was the defendant cooperative about treatment?” George asked.

“Not as I recall,” Dr. Blair answered. “She was very upset about having a pelvic done—although we do see that from time to time in young women from remote areas.”

“After you treated the defendant, did you have a chance to speak to her?”

“Yes. Naturally, my first question was about the baby. It was clear that Ms. Fisher had recently delivered, yet she wasn't brought in with a neonate.”

“What was the defendant's explanation?”

Dr. Blair looked at Katie. “That she hadn't had a baby.”

“Ah,” George said. “Which you knew to be medically inaccurate.”

“That's right.”

“Did you question her further?”

“Yes, but she wouldn't admit to the pregnancy. At that point, I suggested a psychiatric consult.”

“Did a psychiatrist ever examine the defendant at the hospital?”

“Not as far as I know,” the doctor said. “The patient wouldn't permit it.”

“Thank you,” George finished. “Your witness.”

Ellie drummed her fingers on the defense table for a moment, then stood. “The boggy uterus, the positive BSU, the bleeding, the pelvic exam. Did these observations lead you to believe that Katie had had a baby?”

“Yes.”

“Did these observations lead you to believe that Katie had killed that baby?”

Dr. Blair glanced, again, at Katie. “No,” he said.

Dr. Carl Edgerton had been the medical examiner in Lancaster County for over fifteen years and easily fit the role, with his tufted eyebrows and white hair waving back from a central part. He'd participated in hundreds of trials, and approached every one with the same slightly irritated look on his face, one that said he'd rather be back in his lab. “Doctor,” the prosecutor said, “can you tell us the results of the autopsy on Baby Fisher?”

“Yes. He was a premature liveborn male infant with no congenital abnormalities. There was evidence of acute chorio-amnionitis, as well as some meconium aspiration and early pneumonia. There were various indications of perinatal asphyxia. Additionally, there were perioral ecchymoses and intraoral cotton fibers that matched the shirt the infant was found in.”

“Let's break that down a bit for those of us who didn't go to med school,” George said, smiling at the jury. “When you say it was premature and liveborn, what does that mean?”

“The baby wasn't carried to term. Its skeletal age was consistent with a gestational age of thirty-two weeks.”

“And liveborn?”

“As opposed to stillborn. The lungs of the infant were pink and aerated. Representative samples of each lower lobe, with a control sample of liver, were suspended in water. The lung tissue floated, while the liver sank—which indicates that the infant was born and breathed air.”

“How about a lack of congenital abnormalities—why is that important?”

“The baby would have been born viable. There were also no chromosomal defects and no evidence of substance abuse—all significant negative findings.”

“And the chorioamnionitis?”

“Basically, it's an infection in the mother that led to premature delivery. Additional examination of the placenta ruled out the usual other common causes for premature labor. The cause of the chorioamnionitis was not identified because the fetal tissues and placenta were contaminated.”

“How did you know that?”

“Microbiological studies revealed diphtheroids—common contaminants—in the fetal tissues. The placenta is rarely sterile after vaginal birth, but this one had been sitting in a stable for some time before being retrieved, as well.”

George nodded. “And what is asphyxia?”

“A lack of oxygen, which eventually led to death. Petechiae—small hemorrhages—were visible on the surface of the lungs, thymus, and pericardium. A small subarachnoid hemorrhage was found on the brain. In the liver were patchy zones of necrosis of hepatocytes. These findings sound very exotic, but are seen with asphyxia.”

“What about the ecchymoses and cotton fibers?”

“Ecchymoses are small bruises, in layman's terms. These were all approximately one to one-point-five centimeters in diameter, all surrounding the mouth. Scrapings of the oral cavity revealed fibers that matched the shirt.”

“What did these two observations lead you to believe?”

“That someone had stuffed the shirt in the infant's mouth and attempted to cut off his air supply.”

George let that sink in for a moment. “Was the umbilical cord examined?”

“The attached portion of the umbilical cord was twenty centimeters in length, with no tie or clamp present on the cord, although the end was crushed as if a ligature had been present at some time. Fibers present on the cord stump were submitted to Trace Evidence for analysis and matched baling twine found in the barn. The cut surface of the cord was jagged, had bits of fiber on it, and indicated a small demarcation in the center.”

“Is that important?”

The doctor shrugged. “It means that whatever was used to cut the cord, most likely scissors, had a notch in one of its blades and had been used to cut baling twine.”

“Doctor, based on all this, did you determine a cause of death for Baby Fisher?”

“Yes,” Edgerton said. “Asphyxia, due to smothering.”

“Did you determine a manner of death?”

The medical examiner nodded. “Murder.”

Ellie took a deep breath, stood, and approached the medical examiner. “Dr. Edgerton, are the ecchymoses around the mouth conclusive proof of smothering?”

“The proof of smothering is in the many organs that show signs of asphyxia.”

Ellie nodded. “You mean, for example, the petechiae in the lungs. But isn't it true that you cannot tell from an autopsy exactly when that asphyxia occurred? For example, if there was a problem with placental blood flow before or during birth, couldn't it cause a loss of oxygen in the fetus, which would show up in the autopsy?”

“Yes.”

“What if there was a problem with placental blood flow just after birth? Might that result in signs of asphyxia?”

“Yes.”

“How about if the mother were bleeding or having trouble breathing herself during the delivery?”

The medical examiner cleared his throat. “That too.”

“What if the baby's lungs were immature, or if it were suffering from poor circulation or pneumonia—would that lead to evidence of asphyxia?”

“Yes, it would.”

“And if the baby choked on its own mucus?”

“Yes.”

“So asphyxia may be caused by many things other than homicidal smothering?”

“That's correct, Ms. Hathaway,” the medical examiner said. “It was the asphyxia, in conjunction with the bruises around the oral cavity and the fibers found within it, that led to my specific diagnosis.”

Ellie smiled. “Let's talk about that. Does the evidence of a bruise prove that someone held a hand over the baby's mouth?”

“The bruise indicates that there was local pressure applied,” Dr. Edgerton said. “Make of it what you will.”

“Well, let's do just that. What if the baby was delivered precipitously, and landed on his face on the barn floor—might that have led to bruises?”

“It's possible.”

“How about if the mother grabbed for the infant as it was falling after that delivery?”

“Perhaps,” the doctor conceded.

“And the fibers in the oral cavity,” Ellie continued. “Might they have come from the mother wiping mucus from the baby's air passages, to help it breathe?”

Edgerton inclined his head. “Could be.”

“In any of those alternative scenarios, is the mother of the infant causing it harm?”

“No, she is not.”

Ellie crossed to the jury box. “You mentioned that the cultures were contaminated?”

“Yes. The lapse of time between the birth and the recovery of the placental tissue made it a culture plate, picking up bacteria.”

“The fetal tissue was also contaminated?”

“That's correct,” Dr. Edgerton said. “By diphtheroids.”

“On what did you base your identification of these … diphtheroids?” Ellie asked.

“Colony and Gram's stain morphology of the placental and fetal cultures.”

“Did you do any biochemical studies to make sure they were diphtheroids?”

“No need to.” The doctor shrugged. “Do you reread your textbooks before every case, Ms. Hathaway? I've been doing this for fifteen years. Believe me, I know what diphtheroids look like.”

“You're a hundred percent sure these were diphtheroids?” Ellie pressed.

“Yes, I am.”

Ellie smiled slightly. “You also mentioned that the placenta showed signs of acute chorioamnionitis. Isn't it true that chorioamnionitis can lead a fetus to aspirate infected amniotic fluid, and thus develop intra-uterine pneumonia—which in turn leads to septicemia and death?”

“Very, very rarely.”

“But it does happen?”

The medical examiner sighed. “Yes, but it's a real stretch. It's far more realistic to point to the chorioamnionitis for premature delivery, rather than cause of death.”

“Yet by your own admission,” Ellie said, “the autopsy revealed evidence of early pneumonia.”

“That's true, but not severe enough to lead to mortality.”

“According to the autopsy report, meconium was found in the air spaces in the lungs. Isn't that a sign of fetal distress?”

“Yes, in that the fetal stool—the meconium—was passed into the amniotic fluid and breathed into the lungs. It's very irritating and can compromise respiration.”

Ellie crossed toward the witness. “You've just given us two additional reasons that this infant might have suffered from respiratory distress: early pneumonia, as well as aspirating fetal stool.”

“Yes.”

“By your own testimony, asphyxia was the cause of death for this infant.”

“Yes.”

“Isn't it true that pneumonia and meconium aspiration— both of which are due to natural causes—would have led to asphyxia?”

Dr. Edgerton seemed amused, as if he knew exactly what Ellie was trying to do. “Maybe, Ms. Hathaway. If the smothering didn't do the job all by itself.”

Ellie had always found the concept of a vending machine that sold hot soup and coffee a little upsetting—how long did all that liquid sit around in its insides? How did it know to give you decaf, instead of chicken broth? She stood before one in the basement of the court, hands on hips, waiting for the small Styrofoam cup to shoot out, for the steam to curl and rise.

Nothing.

“Come on,” she muttered, kicking the bottom of the vending machine. She raised a fist and thumped it on the Plexiglas for good measure. “That was fifty cents,” she said, more loudly.

A voice behind her stopped her in mid-tirade. “Remind me to never owe you money,” Coop said, his hands cupping her shoulders, his lips falling on the violin curve of her neck.

“You'd think someone would keep these maintained,” Ellie huffed, turning her back on the machine. As if that was all it took, it began to splash out hot coffee without a cup, spraying her shoes and her ankles.

“Goddamn!”
she yelped, jumping out of the way, then surveying the brown stains on her light hose. “Oh, great.”

Coop sat down on a metal bridge chair. “When I was a kid my grandma used to try to make accidents happen. Knock over bottles of milk on purpose, trip over her own feet, splash her blouse with water.”

Blotting at her ankles, Ellie said, “No wonder you went into mental health.”