RK02 - Guilt By Degrees (14 page)

It wasn’t
quite noon by the time we left the Bayers, but I felt like it was past midnight. I always come away from a session with a victim’s family feeling a bone-weary exhaustion.

I buckled myself in and pulled my coat tight, knowing Bailey wouldn’t allow me to turn on the heater.

“You know what I could use?” I asked.

Bailey raised an eyebrow. “A stiff drink? I know I could.”

“I was thinking of a real distraction. As in some nice, intriguing, and—dare I say?—helpful evidence.”

“What’ll it be, DNA? Fingerprints? Just say the word, princess,” Bailey replied.

I looked at her stone-faced. “I say it’s time we go pound on the coroner,” I said.

“Oh, good idea.” Bailey steered onto the freeway. “I especially like the sound of that at lunchtime.”

I folded my arms around my body for warmth and looked out the window at the nearby cars. As usual, we were doing all the passing. Driving with a cop is fun. We got to the coroner’s and caught a double shot of lucky. Our pathologist, Dr. Sparks, was in, and he was free.

I could never look at Dr. Sparks without seeing Woody Allen: rail thin, no taller than me, with thick glasses, a beak of a nose, and a nasal, reedy voice. The first time I’d had him on a case, I’d been worried about his ability to connect with a jury. But his halting, careful manner on the stand had come across as thorough and precise. The jury loved him.

His tiny office was so cluttered we couldn’t even find the chairs that I knew were across from his desk. But Dr. Sparks immediately picked up two sizable stacks of books and files and lugged them over to an already groaning table. He then scurried around behind his desk, adjusted his glasses, and opened the file on Simon.

“So our John Doe—,” he began.

“Is now known to be Simon Bayer,” Bailey interjected.

Dr. Sparks nodded vaguely without looking up from the file.

“Homeless, but not for terribly long,” he said, scanning the paperwork. “Not that much to say about cause of death, other than it was sharp force injury. Not news to you, I know,” he continued, putting the autopsy photographs on the desk and turning them toward us. “See how tight and clean that is?” He pointed to a photograph of Simon’s upper abdomen that showed a neat, precise slit that looked more like an incision made by a surgeon in an OR than a knife wound inflicted on a city sidewalk. “That means he used a very sharp—”

“He?” I asked. “Couldn’t the killer have been a
she?
”

Dr. Sparks studied the photograph again and frowned, then pursed his lips. “Well, I suppose it could’ve been a she. Though this…well…this happened out on the street, didn’t it?” He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and peered at Bailey.

“Yes,” she replied. “And it happened fast.”

Dr. Sparks shook his head. “See, that’s…with this…well…” He sputtered to a stop, seemingly out of words.

I wanted to turn him upside down and shake him so a full sentence would fall out.

“You’re thinking a woman is unlikely?” I said, trying to sound more patient than I felt.

“Um-hmm.” Dr. Sparks paused again and pulled out more photographs. He stared at five photos in a row, holding each one within two inches of his face.

All the coroners seem to hold pictures that close. I don’t know what that’s about.

“See?” he said, tapping the photograph in his hand, which he held facing him, so we really couldn’t—see, that is. He continued, “It’s a quick, hard thrust straight into the aorta, right on target.”

“So the victim would’ve died fairly quickly?” I asked.

Dr. Sparks nodded. “He would’ve bled out within minutes. Whoever used this knife either knew what they were doing or got lucky. And, like I said, the knife was sharp. That made quick penetration much easier.”

He put the photograph down, and Bailey reached out and took it. I waited to see if she put it up to her nose. If she did, I was going to kick her.

“So,” Dr. Sparks continued, “it could be a female. I mean, a woman is capable of inflicting that wound—especially with a knife like that. It’s just, oddswise, less likely.”

“What can you tell us about the kind of knife that was used?” I asked.

“Other than being sharp,” he said, looking down at his report again, “the wound track was three inches deep, wound width…very narrow. Steven would know more, but…” Dr. Sparks turned through several pages in the file. “I see he did do the wound cast, but I don’t see his report. Give me a minute, it should be in here.”

I was happy to give him several minutes if it meant getting one of Steven Diamond’s reports. Steven was the criminalist for the L.A. County Coroner, and he was one of the best in the country. I call him the “everything man,” because he can literally do everything except the autopsy. Gunshot residue, drug overdose, poison—you name it, he knows how to test for it. Come to think of it, he could probably do autopsies too, but the man can only stretch twenty-four hours so far. Steven had compiled a database of blunt and sharp force injuries by taking impressions of wounds with red silicon material—kind of like the stuff a dentist uses. When there’s a known murder weapon in a case, he can use the wounds to tell him what kind of tool marks that weapon makes.

If we got lucky, he’d be able to match Simon’s wound to a particular kind of blade. Although he wouldn’t be able to say that it was made by one knife to the exclusion of all others, if our blade type was distinct enough, it’d be a nice piece of evidence.

“Oh, here you go,” Dr. Sparks said. He read from the report, “Double-edged blade, likely with a three-inch cutting edge, total length of blade likely three and five-eighths, one-eighth of an inch thick—”

“Pretty small,” I remarked.

“It is surprising, but we don’t mess with Steve.” He continued to read. “Fits specifications for a combat knife. Very concealable, lightweight, very lethal.”

“Could it be automatic? A switchblade?” I asked, picturing the surveillance footage of the stabbing.

“I…uh, wouldn’t be able to tell that because…it was obviously in the open position when it was used to inflict the wound,” he replied. He adjusted his glasses as he pulled out the autopsy photographs. “But they don’t usually sell those types of combat knives to the public—at least from what I know.”

“He could’ve gotten an automatic on the black market,” I suggested.

“Or a gun show,” Bailey added. “But they’re not cheap.”

“Well…I wouldn’t know about any of that,” Dr. Sparks said, frowning.

He was one of those rare experts who’d never stretch to offer an opinion that was even an inch to the left of his precise field of study. A maddening but credibility-grabbing trait.

“Did the victim’s clothing get sent to the crime lab yet?” I asked.

Before he could respond, Bailey jumped in. “Yes,” she said, looking at her notebook. “Stoner took the clothing over himself the day after the autopsy.” She snapped the notebook closed and pocketed it.

Dr. Sparks blinked rapidly a few times, then checked his own file. “Yes. That is correct.” He looked up at us. “Is there anything else you’d like to discuss?”

Bailey shook her head. We might come up with more questions later, but for now we were done. We thanked Dr. Sparks and took our leave.

“I take it we haven’t heard anything from the crime lab yet about Simon’s clothes,” I said.

“I would’ve told you about it already,” Bailey replied. “I’ve got it on my list.”

“A combat knife,” I said, thinking back to Steven Diamond’s conclusions about the murder weapon. “And if it was an automatic, which I bet it was, our stabber was not only well-trained but might be a vet or a former cop.”

“God forbid it’s a former cop,” Bailey said grimly. “We don’t need any more help in the bad-rap department. But what made you ask if it was an automatic-opening blade?”

“I was just thinking about how fast it happened. Even if someone’s really good, I couldn’t see how he—or she—could manage to pull a knife out of the sheath and make a direct hit on the aorta as fast as it looked on that surveillance footage. It’s possible the stabber was carrying an open knife, but it’d be hard to have it at the ready and avoid getting cut pretty badly with a blade that sharp. And there was nothing in the crime scene reports showing any stray blood drops. But if the knife was an automatic, it’d be easy for the killer to carry and stab someone without nicking himself too badly. All he’d have to do is press a button.”

We got into her car and belted up.

“Nice work, Sherlock,” Bailey said.

“Nice enough for you to buy me lunch?”

“I would,” Bailey said, “had I not already thought of the automatic myself. I was just waiting to see if you’d figured it out.”

“Truly pathetic, Keller,” I said.

But in all fairness, she probably had.

As it
turned out, no one was buying anyone lunch that day. By the time we got back to the courthouse, it was almost one thirty and there was not only a depressingly large stack of messages but also a full in-box that reminded me this wasn’t my only case. Ordinarily I might’ve taken lunch anyway and worked late, but I had to leave on time tonight. I had a date with Graden.

It’d been a busy and emotionally draining day, so I was more than ready for an escape. Graden had suggested we hit the Catalina Jazz Club. It’d moved several years ago from its old digs to a much bigger—and more comfortable—space on Sunset. All the bigs in the jazz world played there. I was up for something new, and listening to good jazz was one of the best antidotes I’d found for the sadness and misery that was an inevitable part of every case. By six o’clock, I’d whittled down enough of my stack to stave off panic and headed back to the Biltmore.

It wasn’t raining at the moment, but it was still cold, and there were clouds hanging around that might yet decide to douse us again, so I dressed warmly in black leggings, a long sweater, and black over-the-knee boots. And, just in case, I slung a raincoat over my shoulder, then headed downstairs.

As usual, Graden looked gorgeous. Tonight’s attire was a simple black crewneck sweater and jeans, but he made it look like an ad for
GQ.

“Hey, Rache,” he said warmly as I walked through the door.

“Hi,” I said.

“Don’t you look fantastic,” he said with a smile, leaning in for a quick kiss and a hug, which gave me the chance to notice that he not only looked great but smelled great too.

“It’s so helpful that you work with men all day,” I replied.

On the way to the club, I gave him the rundown on the events of the past few days. I’d told him during a brief phone call that Bailey and I had wound up with the Bayer case but not what we’d learned since then.

“I have a vague memory of Zack’s murder,” he remarked. “From what you’ve said, it sounds like the evidence was good enough for a conviction. I guess the jury just didn’t want to believe a woman—”

“Especially one who looked like that—,” I interjected.

“—could do something that heinous,” he finished. “My theory about why women get a pass from juries is that men don’t like the idea that women can be that cold-blooded. Wrecks our little fantasy about female helplessness.”

“Hard to believe that fantasy survived Lorena Bobbitt,” I said.

“We’re a stubborn species,” Graden said as he pulled into the parking lot at the back of the club and found a spot right outside the door.

“Yet, surprisingly, you’re not extinct,” I observed. “But I’d guess you’re at least partially right. I think that’s why Lizzie Borden got acquitted.”

“She did?” he asked incredulously as he opened the door for me.

“She walked, and no one else was ever charged.”

Graden shook his head as he followed me into the bar. “Juries.”

“I’ll drink to that,” I said.

We ordered Ketel One martinis and a basket of fries. A great quartet that featured a smoking tenor sax had already started the first set. When our drinks came, we toasted to a great night, and I felt my engine slow as the vodka did its work. I leaned back to enjoy the music. The band swung into a slow, moody rendition of “One for My Baby.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that Graden was looking at me. We exchanged a slow smile that made a warm glow start in my chest and spread out all over. Would tonight be the night we made love? I thought I might finally be ready to go there—that is, I thought with a rueful inward smile, if Graden was in the mood. It wasn’t something I felt comfortable taking for granted. I’d discovered during my relationship with Daniel that although teenage boys were ready even if they were in a coma, grown men occasionally had down days. Not often, but they did happen.

Then the band started to play “Jordu,” and I let all thoughts float away as I sank into the music. The evening passed, warm, relaxed, and intimate. But as Graden and I got into his car, he seemed a little distracted.

Our conversation was minimal, but he reached out to hold my hand on the console between us—an unfamiliar gesture. What was going on? I’d been seriously considering inviting him up to my room, but by the time he’d pulled off the freeway and headed down Temple Street, I wasn’t so sure.

“Rachel, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, but I’d like to talk to you without a crowd around,” Graden said seriously. “Would it be okay if we talked in your room?”

I would’ve made a joke about it being an obvious line, but his tone told me he wasn’t in the mood. What the hell was going on? A breakup? Had there been a death in the family? Did he have a fatal illness? An evil twin? My mind filled with questions, none of them good.

“Sure,” I said. “Of course.”

Naturally, since I was dying to get this over with, the elevator took forever. When the doors opened, he put a gentle hand on the middle of my back to guide me inside, and when they closed, he left it there and looked down at me with soft eyes. I briefly returned his gaze, then looked away, more confused than ever.

We walked toward my room at the end of the corridor in silence. Barely conscious of my movements, I let us in, picked up the remote, and turned on the radio, which was permanently tuned to Real Jazz. The strains of Stanley Turrentine playing “Little Sheri,” one of my favorites, softened the brittle silence. I put my purse on the chair near the window and unbuttoned my coat as I walked to the couch. Graden took my coat and laid it down, then held my hand as we sat on the couch. When he
finally
spoke, they were the last words I expected—or wanted—to hear.

“Rachel, I want to talk to you about Romy.”