Trial and Terror (12 page)

Rosie was caught off guard, but quickly righted herself. “Besides that he’s half-Japanese and so fine he could be modeling underwear? Only that the cops hate him. The story goes some of the boys were skimming crack from the drug lab and then reselling it. When Sanborn got wind, he bled it to internal affairs. They reassigned him to another division, but not for long. He was chasing this perp into a crack house when his partner ran out of there like a candy-assed baboon. The perp winged him.”

“Where was he hit?”

“His gun hand.”

“So that spelled the end of his cop days?”

“You can’t be a cop if you can’t shoot straight.”

“How do you know all this?”

Rosie blew on her fingernails and brushed them against her chest. “Who do you think defended the perp?”

Rosie returned to her office. Seconds later, Summer’s phone rang. She picked up.

“Just so you know,” Rosie said, “I got him a real good deal, too.” Click.

Smiling, Summer hung up and tore open the letter from Ignacio. The handwriting was flowery and adolescent, a bubble dot over the ‘i.’

I saw who killed Gundy.

Chapter 15

The sun peered over
knobby mountains, casting oblique shadows around the parched tombstones. Two burly men in windbreakers, the faded logo of the Haze County Medical Examiner’s office on their backs, were thigh-deep in the earth, shoveling dirt. There was a numb clank when metal struck coffin.

Summer was sitting on a headstone flipped sideways. Between dangling legs, she could read part of the epitaph:
Sean Alvin Strickland. March 1, 1949 - May 24, 19—
. Spray-painted profanity covered the rest, but she knew when he was supposed to have died. It was amazing, Summer reflected, how few people could spell “Satan.”

One of the diggers scrambled out of the ground and up to a crane while the other donned gloves and swept dirt from the top of the coffin. Summer wondered what Strickland’s victims would say to his unburying. If she tried hard enough, could she hear their diphthongs of grief and rage?

“Hey,” Chantelle N’Dour, the medical examiner, said, handing Summer coffee in Styrofoam. “I’m just in time for the tricky part.”

West African by birth, American by choice, Chantelle was a wet-dream witness for the D.A.: intelligent, well-prepared, and her science was beyond reproach. White jurors, always the majority in Haze County, convinced themselves they weren’t racist by giving Chantelle’s testimony extra weight. Summer had cross-examined her many times, knew that Chantelle was as beautiful and brilliant as she was statuesque—6’2”, all bone and moonless-night complexion.

Summer sipped coffee. “What’s tricky about lifting a coffin out of the ground?”

“You mean raising the dead? He’s been in the ground a long time—” She shouted at the gloved digger, who was fumbling with cable. “Make sure you triple the straps, Boyd. We don’t want Mr. Strickland’s remains to tumble out.”

Summer detected a hodgepodge of accents: African, French, British, and New Jersey, where Chantelle had studied for her doctorate.

Boyd yelled back. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll make you a deal, Chan. The guy falls out, treat me like your ancestors would.”

“How’s that?”

“Throw me in a pot of boiling water and serve me as soup.”

Chantelle laughed. “You can eat me, too, Boyd.”

Summer envied how easily she got along with men.

Chantelle plucked at her blouse, fanning her chest with the material. “I can’t believe how fucking hot it is, and it’s only dawn.”

“Isn’t West Africa hot?” Summer asked.

“Not this hot,” Chantelle said. “How did you keep the press away?”

“The last thing Raines wants is a media shower. Did you bring breakfast?”

“Like I promised.” Chantelle reached into a paper bag and handed Summer a bagel. “What does this exhumation have to do with the demise of Mr. Gundy?”

Summer unwrapped the bagel, licked the cream cheese oozing out of the side, and took a bite. Chewing, she said, “Everything, nothing. I’ll let you know after you tell me what you find out. For now, I just want to know if the guy in that coffin really is Sean Strickland.”

“You think it’s possible it’s not?”

“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here on my day off.”

Boyd finished wrapping up the coffin and grunted his way out of the pit.

Chantelle edged off the tombstone. “Come on.”

Summer joined Chantelle, their toes brushing the grave’s edge. The other digger cranked up the crane.

“Wait!” Chantelle skimmed the side of her hand against her throat. When the crane stopped, she said, “Boyd? Where’s the tarp? If this coffin breaks apart, I want to make sure that we catch all of whatever is left of the dearly departed.”

Boyd threw up his hands like he was curling dumbbells. He took off for the parking lot.

“While we’re waiting, can I ask you some questions?” Summer asked.

Watching Boyd, Chantelle said, “It’s a free country.”

“If the killer hadn’t smashed Gundy with the bottle, would he have died anyway from the fall?”

“Oh, those kinds of questions. Hard to say. You want my opinion?”

“Is anybody else around here qualified to answer?”

“No one alive.” Chantelle’s expression soured as Boyd returned, dragging a tarp. “Boyd,” she yelled, “what the hell are you doing, man? I’ve got to run tests on the body. I don’t want to chance excess contamination.”

Even from 50 feet away, Summer could hear Boyd sigh. “I’ve been digging graves and digging up bodies for twenty years, missy,” he yelled back. “The guy ain’t coming out of no coffin. It’s pine. Solid.”

“He’d better not,” Chantelle mumbled.

Boyd gathered up the tarp in his arms, made sure no ends trailed on the ground, and continued toward Strickland’s grave.

“Would he have?” Summer asked. “And keep it sub-Ph.D.”

“You don’t want to know all the science, right? Just the stuff that will either help or hurt your client,” Chantelle said, staring down Boyd.

“Of course,” Summer said.

“Typical lawyer.” Chantelle cupped her hands in a makeshift megaphone. “Boyd, already dirt has rolled onto the tarp. We can’t have old dirt mixing with new dirt.”

Boyd muttered, audible but indecipherable. He shook off the tarp and lowered it into the hole; the tarp roll ended up kissing the coffin.

“I’m not sure whether the victim died before being hit on the head or not. But he would have died from the fall no matter what, unless he’d received prompt medical care,” Chantelle said.

Summer nodded. “In the ME report, it says the time of death was between ten and twelve. How do you know?”

“Gundy was stiff from the waist down when he was found. Rigor mortis travels from head to foot and exits the same way.”

“What else can you tell me?”

“The lack level of swelling around his injuries, including several broken bones, indicates he died in perhaps as little as a few seconds, perhaps as much as a ten minutes, after suffering these injuries. As for the damage to his skull, I’m not sure when that happened yet.”

Summer pictured Raines on his knees in front of the jury, starring in Gundy’s final role: an innocent victim pleading for mercy. “What else?”

“The killer was right-handed.”

“So are most people. Did you find my client’s fingerprints inside the condo?”

“Ask the cops. I don’t do windows and I don’t do fingerprints—unless I’m ID-ing a body.”

“What about hair fibers?”

“From your client?”

“Yes.”

“Curiously, no.”

Summer had read the report but was glad to hear it confirmed. “How about other hair fibers?”

“Lots.” Chantelle giggled. “Apparently, our Mr. Gundy entertained frequently.”

“Male, female?”

“You know we cannot ascertain gender from hair fibers.”

“What about dyes, shampoos? Can’t that be an indication?”

“These days, boys act like girls, girls act like boys.”

“What kind of hair are we talking about? Blond? Brunette? Redhead? Anyone dye their hair?”

“All of the above.”

“Really? He did entertain a lot. Clothing fibers?”

“From your client? The police didn’t bring me any.”

“How are you going to testify with regards to the murder?”

“I’ll tell what I know. That judging from his internal injuries, Mr. Gundy was either kicked or thrown from the second floor and hit glass. He suffered massive hematoma, damaged kidneys, a broken spleen, and cracked ribs. He was also struck repeatedly on the back of his head with a blunt instrument: the bottle. When I complete the toxicology tests, I’ll have a better idea of what exactly killed him.”

“Anything special about the lipstick?”

“You can buy it at any cosmetics counter.”

The crane cranked to life again, gears grinding, straps straining. As the coffin rose, Boyd spread the tarp underneath. It was brought to rest a few feet from Chantelle.

“Should we take a peek?” Summer asked, half-serious.

“Trust me,” Chantelle said. “Not a good idea after eating cream cheese.”

After winding their way through tombstones, Chantelle and Summer waited by the truck while Boyd and his co-digger transported the coffin over.

Chantelle glanced at Strickland’s autopsy report. “I don’t understand how you expect me to confirm Mr. Strickland’s death without something to compare him to. No fingerprints—hell, no
fingers
left. No head or teeth either, so forget about comparing the remains to his dental records, even if we could locate those.”

“Check the DNA against this.” Summer handed Chantelle the letter Strickland had sent to Wib. It had taken a subpoena, and Mahakavi had been none too happy about it.

“What’s this?” Chantelle asked after Summer showed her what was written. “You want me to look for fingerprints on the paper? Did he sign it in blood?”

Summer pressed on. “He must have licked the stamp and the envelope closed. I want you to analyze his saliva. It must be there mixed in with the glue.”

“That’s crazy.”

“If archaeologists can use DNA analysis to identify 4000-year-old mummies, you should have no problem,” Summer said.

“I’m no archaeologist—OK, OK,” Chantelle said, pre-empting Summer. “How do you know we’ll find anything?”

“Strickland was no germ freak. He must have licked the stamp and the envelope to seal it. And why wouldn’t he? They didn’t have DNA analysis in his heyday.”

The diggers, bearing the coffin, approached in the wasted light of morning. Summer watched as they stowed the coffin in the back of her truck.

Boyd smirked as he handed Chantelle a clipboard. “I told you, Chan,” he said. “Maybe you got these university degrees, but I know coffins.”

Chantelle checked her watch, filled in the time. “You win this time, Boyd. Tell you what: I’ll buy the first round at Kelly’s.”

“After work?”

Chantelle signed the paperwork with a flourish. “Sure.”

After Boyd and his partner left, Chantelle double-checked the lock, and then told Summer, “I am officially intrigued. I look forward to seeing you in court.”

Summer rolled her shoulders to get the kinks out. “Why shouldn’t you? Last time you clobbered me.”

“Your client clobbered you,” Chantelle reminded her. “I merely handed him the club.”

A felony assault case. Summer’s client had engaged a woman at a bar, led her outside, and almost killed her, crushing her clavicle, pelvis, and nose. No witnesses, but Chantelle discovered unique fibers on the victim’s clothes, which turned out to be station wagon carpeting. It had taken weeks, but she tracked them to a Ford manufactured three decades earlier; only five still ran in the whole state, including one belonging to Summer’s client.

“Need a lift?” Chantelle asked.

“Brought my bike,” Summer said.

“I was wondering why you were wearing such tight shorts.” Chantelle ducked into the driver’s side. Shut the door and rolled down the window. “I’ll send over a report soon as I’ve got something.”

Summer leaned into the window. “Can I ask you a question a little out of your area of expertise? Recently, I was checking on a death certificate. Even though I had the name and registration number, the Town Hall copy was missing.”

“This related to Gundy?”

Summer peered heavenward and whistled softly.

“Message received,” Chantelle said. “If you already have a copy, why do you need another?”

“To see if it had been faked.”

“How far back are we talking?”

“Almost 25 years.”

“Hah!” Chantelle hee-hawed. “Haze County bureaucracy is specially designed to lose paper. A clerk could have misfiled it.”

“And I’d never find it. Any other possibilities?”

“Someone could have bribed a clerk.”