Silent Witness (4 page)

Chapter Six

Robin Joiner slept until almost noon. She had spent nearly two hours drinking coffee and eating a late night dinner of eggs, hash browns, and toast at the IHOP, several miles south and west of the University of Utah campus. The attempted kidnapping had frightened her beyond anything she had ever experienced.

After dinner, she walked several blocks on Main Street until she found a motel that looked clean enough to pass the smell test. Joiner debated about whether to use her remaining cash to register for the room using a false name but ultimately decided against it. It seemed prudent to hoard her cash for emergencies and use her debit card for the room, knowing that using the card would create a paper trail. After a restless hour in which she couldn't get to sleep, she got up and walked a block to a twenty-four hour convenience store where she purchased some Tylenol PM. The sleep medication had done its job, but it had also left her with a major hangover.

Joiner got up, showered, and wandered over to the motel's lobby. The dump had advertised a continental breakfast. She needed to sit down and figure out what to do. As she poured a cup of coffee, Joiner glanced down at the front page headlines of the
Salt Lake Tribune
. Something caught her attention, something familiar. And then it hit her like punch in the gut. There had been a murder in Salt Lake City last night. The victim was Arnold Ginsberg, the same Arnold Ginsberg whom she'd met at police headquarters the day of the armored car robbery. She collapsed in a chair and read the story with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

This changed everything. Over watered-down coffee, juice, and a stale Danish, Joiner carefully considered her options. In time a plan began to take shape in her head, a plan that gave her a glimmer of hope.

***

I was irritated as I sat outside the chambers of district court judge Homer Wilkinson. I was supposed to see him at noon. His secretary had left for lunch shortly after twelve having assured me that the judge would be out momentarily. It was now after twelve-thirty and he still hadn't made an appearance. Finally, the office door opened and an apologetic judge beckoned me inside.

I had testified in front of Wilkinson on a couple of old prison cases, but I could tell that he didn't remember me. I introduced myself, and we chatted briefly about nothing of significance. Finally, he asked, “So, Mr. Kincaid, what brings you to see me today?”

I asked him if he'd heard anything about the murder of Arnold Ginsberg. He had. What he didn't know, only because it hadn't yet come to the attention of the press, was Ginsberg's status as a witness in the Bradshaw case.

“Judge, the victim in this homicide was scheduled to appear in your courtroom tomorrow as a prosecution witness in the preliminary hearing of Walter Bradshaw. As you probably know, the rest of the Bradshaw gang remains at-large. Salt Lake City P.D. believes that Ginsberg's murder may not be random and may, in fact, be connected to his status as a witness in the case.” Now I had his complete attention.

“What kind of evidence do the police have that leads them to conclude that Mr. Ginsberg's murder is connected to this case?” A good question I thought, one I had anticipated.

“It just so happens that a second witness, a young woman named Robin Joiner, is also missing. When the police became concerned, they immediately went to Ms. Joiner's apartment to check on her welfare. When they arrived, they found her missing and the apartment ransacked.”

“Dear God,” muttered Wilkinson. He sat in silence for a moment then asked, “Is there something you want me to do about this, or are you merely providing information?”

“Actually, Judge, I do have a request, one that I think you should seriously consider.”

“Go on.”

“We're holding Mr. Bradshaw at the prison as a parole violator. We have a room on the prison grounds that the state parole board uses to conduct hearings. It's a room that could easily be adapted for you to conduct Bradshaw's preliminary hearing. The setting is more secure than the courthouse, and we don't have to risk transporting him.”

“If I understand you correctly, Mr. Kincaid, you'd like me to move the hearing from my courtroom down to the state prison. Is that it?”

“Yes, Judge. That's what I'm suggesting.”

“I'm sorry, but I can't do that. In the first place, the hearing is scheduled in less than twenty-four hours. I'm certain that the logistics necessary to move the hearing couldn't be completed in such a short time. Besides court employees, we've got lawyers involved, the victim's family, and even the press. Moreover, as a jurist, I'm philosophically opposed to the notion of moving judicial hearings out of the courthouse to the safe confines of the local jail or prison. It denies the public access and it just doesn't seem right.”

The judge had a good point, at least about the logistics associated with moving the hearing on such short notice. I thanked him and got up to leave. As I got to the door, he stopped me. “You know, Mr. Kincaid, in light of the current circumstances, I'm somewhat surprised that I haven't received a motion for a continuance from the district attorney's office. If I were to receive such a motion, I can tell you that I would likely grant it.”

***

I left the Scott Matheson courthouse and drove the short distance to police headquarters. I found McConnell cloistered in her office with materials from the Ginsberg file spread across her desk including some colored glossies from the crime scene that made me grimace. Looking over her shoulder, I said, “Hope you didn't have a large biscuits and gravy breakfast this morning.”

“You know, Kincaid, for a veteran cop who has seen some really nasty stuff at the state prison, you sure have a delicate stomach.” I couldn't deny it.

“How'd it go with Bradshaw this morning?”

“About like I thought it would—complete denial of any involvement in the killing. He kept his cool, didn't give much away—hard to get a read on the guy. He surprised me with one thing he said, and that was that the death of the ‘queer sinner,' referring to Mr. Ginsberg, was preferable to the loss of the beautiful, young woman.”

“Hmm. Interesting that he knew something about the witnesses.”

“Exactly what I thought. He explained it away by saying that his lawyer got the witness information from the DA through pretrial discovery.”

“Probably true.”

“I lied and told him that evidence discovered at the crime scene linked the members of his gang to the murder. That seemed to shock him a bit. Now we'll monitor his communication carefully and see who he talks to and exactly what he says.”

“Good idea. And by the way, you may not have lied to him about the evidence. A patrolman discovered a bloody knife and a tire iron tossed in a dumpster about a block from the scene. Those items are being processed now for prints and other trace evidence.”

“That's good. So what you've been up to?”

“I've been on the phone with the crime lab, and setting up interviews with people we need to talk to—friends, family, business associates.

“I did have an interesting interview with the victim's partner, a guy named Rodney Plow. He was very emotional, broke down several times and just sobbed. At the risk of seeming insensitive, it almost felt contrived, like I was witnessing a performance—theater if you will. I think Mr. Plow was a kept man.”

“Nothing particularly unusual about that.”

“Maybe.” She abruptly changed the subject. “I'm starving. Want to grab a quick sandwich?”

I looked at her. “I'll pass. In case you've forgotten, I've got a date with the M.E. in about twenty minutes for the vic's autopsy. I think I'll wait until after.”

She was smiling, making fun of me actually. “Queasy stomach, huh.”

I got up to leave. When I reached her office door, I turned. “Hey, you need any auto air fresheners?”

Chapter Seven

I arrived at the Utah State Medical Examiner's Office on Salt Lake City's east bench about ten minutes ahead of the scheduled autopsy. The office was located in University Park only a short distance south of the University of Utah campus.

When I entered the building, I was surprised, and slightly amused, to discover that the state had opened a small gift shop in the lobby. Maybe the state budget was in worse shape than I thought. Two black cotton tees were displayed on a rack near the store's entrance with lettering across the top that read, “Utah State Medical Examiner.” Additional print on one of the shirts said, “Any day above ground is a good day” and on the other, “Our day begins when yours ends.” That was enough for me.

I was ushered into the autopsy suite promptly at one-thirty. I was greeted by Dr. Francis Chandler-Soames, forensic pathologist and the Chief Medical Examiner for the State of Utah. “Well, well, if it isn't Sam Kincaid. Don't see you often at these parties.”

“A favor to Lt. McConnell,” I said. “We're assisting her office on this investigation.”

Chandler-Soames introduced me to her assistant, a young intern from the University of Utah medical school, training in forensic pathology. She offered me a mask laced with some kind of peppermint concoction. I declined. “Thanks, but I came prepared.” I smeared my upper lip with Vicks Vaporub and we went to work.

The guest of honor was zipped in a black, plastic body bag and had been placed on a metal table. The autopsy suite was outfitted with all the latest technological gadgets—a pair of overhead microphones dangled from the ceiling connected to a voice recorder activated by a foot pedal. A Sony camcorder mounted on a tripod sat next to the table to videotape the festivities.

Chandler-Soames and her assistant deftly removed the deceased from the body bag. A trickle of dried blood was visible from the nose and both ears. The assistant began snapping photographs while Chandler-Soames made her initial observations. The blunt force trauma to the back of Ginsberg's head was the most obvious injury. That changed as soon as the forensics team began removing the vic's clothing. I couldn't miss the elongated stab wound that began just under the sternum and continued its jagged path upward toward the heart.

Stab wounds were familiar to me, much more than firearms, since cutting instruments were the most common form of weapon available to prison inmates. Stab wounds were always difficult to analyze but it was a safe bet that the weapon used in this attack was a bit more substantial than a pocket knife.

Fingernail scrapings were taken as well as blood, urine, and hair samples. Mouth and rectal swabs were obtained for subsequent use in toxicological studies. Chandler-Soames used a laser light to examine the body carefully for trace evidence not easily seen by the naked eye. Next, the body was washed, measured, and weighed.

The internal examination began with a large and deep Y incision from shoulder-to-shoulder and down to the pubic bone. Skin, muscle, and soft tissue were then peeled back to expose the internal organs. The internal organs were systematically removed, weighed, and carefully examined. The stomach was also removed and the contents weighed and examined in order to determine what was eaten and when.

Mercifully, the entire procedure took just a little over three hours. I've attended autopsies that lasted double that. Chandler-Soames met me for a debriefing in a conference room near the autopsy suite.

“Sam, do you want us to turn Mr. Ginsberg's clothing and personal effects over to you?”

“I don't think so. That would put me square in the middle of the chain-of-custody. Kate's going to want to have a look at everything anyway. Just hold the evidence and let her assume custody of it.”

“That's fine. Let me begin by giving you a brief summary of our findings. Mr. Ginsberg died, and probably very quickly, as the direct result of severe blunt force trauma to the back of his skull sufficient to cause significant epidural intracranial bleeding. An epidural bleed like this one occurs in the space between the brain and the skull.”

I interrupted. “Doc, could you drop that down a decimal or two and put it into layman's language for me.”

“Sure. Mr. Ginsberg suffered a serious brain concussion probably sufficient to cause immediate unconsciousness. The force of the blow caused a severe skull fracture which tore epidural arteries producing internal bleeding around the brain. If you remember seeing the small amount of dried blood around both ears and the nose, that's often a symptom of a skull fracture. Arterial bleeding is usually brisk and will cause a coma and death quite rapidly.”

“And what about the knife wound?”

In this case either of the wounds was sufficient to cause death. With the combined wounds, he had little chance of survival. If my theory is correct, this is what probably happened to Mr. Ginsberg: He was struck from behind by a male using some type of pipe or tire iron about three inches in diameter. At about the same time, a second assailant inflicted the fatal stab wound to the chest area.”

“What makes you think the attacker was male?”

“Aside from the fact that women don't often kill by bludgeoning somebody to death, the amount of blunt trauma to the back of the victim's head was extreme. It would take an awfully strong woman to inflict that kind of damage—possible, yes, but not likely. Second, the angle of the head wound tells me that you are probably looking for a suspect who is two or three inches taller than your victim. We measured him at six-foot-two.”

“You mean the attacker swung the murder weapon in a downward arc across the back of the vic's head.”

“Exactly.”

“So, we're probably looking for a tall, male perp, maybe six-four or five.”

“I think so, yes.”

“And the stab wound. You don't think it could have been inflicted while the victim was lying prone?”

“I don't believe so,” said Chandler-Soames. “Whoever inflicted the stab wound went in deep and hard just under the sternum. The perp yanked the blade upward with a hell of a lot of force, inflicting a great deal of internal damage on the way to the heart. The victim would have suffered significant bleeding both internally and externally from the knife wound. Death would have come more slowly, and, of course, if it hadn't been for the head wound, he might have been able to call out for help.”

“What kind of knife?”

“I'll have to get back to you on that one after I've had time to do more analysis. I can tell you that you're looking for a large knife with approximately a seven to eight inch blade, serrated on at least one edge.” I remembered Kate telling me that somebody had found what she thought were the murder weapons in a dumpster near the crime scene. I couldn't recall the specifics on the type of knife.

“Fair enough. I'll pass this information along to Lt. McConnell, and I'm sure if she has questions, she'll be in touch. How long before we have a report?”

“Two days minimum, three at the outside. And I'll see if I can have the tox studies ready as well.”