True Blue (7 page)

Mace slowly inserted her half-smoke in her mouth before chewing it up and tonguing her lips. She slid a handful of chili-cheese fries into a pool of ketchup and stuffed them all in her mouth.

The deeply contented look on her face made Roy grin. “You want a cigarette?”

“Maybe.”

“Prison food really does suck, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, it does.”

“I still can’t figure who’d want to hurt Diane.”

“Did you really know her all that well?”

“Worked with her for about two years.”

“That doesn’t mean you know her. Ever been to her home?”

“Twice. Once for an office party about three months ago and another time before I joined the firm. She was in charge of associate recruitment.”

“Was it a tough pitch?”

“Not really. Lot more money than I’m worth.”

“But you’re on the billable hours treadmill.”

“It’s not like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t get me wrong, I work full days. But at Shilling we don’t have to keep track of billable hours.”

“I thought that’s how lawyers made their money. Like in the Grisham novels.”

Roy shook his head. “We work off retainers. Deep-pocketed, sophisticated clients prefer it that way. We know what the workload looks like and they know what their nut is and they pay it. The firm divvies up the spoils and rewards people for the work they do and the business they bring in. No surprises. And a lot more efficient than sucking clients dry.”

“But what if something unusual came up off the retainer radar?”

“We write the agreements to take that into account. Then we get paid more.”

“Litigation or deals?”

“Deals. Litigation we hand off to other firms, but retain oversight responsibility.”

“So how much do you make?”

“That’s private.”

“Well, if it were public I wouldn’t have to ask you.”

“Like I said, more than I’m worth.”

“My father said that the law was a noble profession.”

“It can be, just not for everyone.”

“Yeah, I didn’t believe him either.”

She finished the rest of her half-smoke in one bite.

Later, as they walked out, he said, “So what are you going to do now?”

“Tonight, I’ve actually got an appointment about a job.”

“Doing what?”

“Research assistant.”

“I don’t see you in a lab wearing a white coat with eyeglasses on a chain.”

“Not that kind. The professor is doing research on urban issues. Apparently in parts of the city I know, or at least knew pretty thoroughly.”

“The crime-ridden ones?”

“Bingo.”

“Who’s the professor?”

“Abraham Altman.”

“Bill Altman’s dad?”

“Who’s Bill Altman?”

“He worked at PD when I was a CJA. He’s older than me, about forty-five. Good lawyer. He’s one of the noble profession guys.”

“I don’t know if they’re related.”

“Abe’s a professor at Georgetown and is out-the-butt wealthy.”

“Then it is the same guy. My sister told me he was like billionaire rich, but hadn’t worked for it.”

“That’s right. So you know him?”

“I helped him out once.”

“But you didn’t know he was rich?”

“That didn’t factor into what I was helping him with. So how did he get his money?”

“Abe’s parents lived in Omaha across the street from a young guy who was starting up his own investment firm. They put all their money with the man.”

“Omaha? You don’t mean?”

“Yep. The Oracle of Omaha, Warren Buffett. Apparently Abe’s parents kept investing with him and the earnings compounded until they were one of the largest shareholders of Berkshire Hathaway. When they died decades later I think it totaled well over a billion dollars even after the tax bite. And it all went to Abe; he was an only child.”

“And here I was wondering how a college professor could afford me.”

“Just tell him you want six figures, full health, paid vacation, and a 401(k) with an employer match. He probably won’t blink an eye.”

“How about you tell him for me?”

“What?”

“You can be my negotiator.”

“You want me to come with you to see Altman?”

“Yeah, I’ll pick you up at six-thirty from your office.”

“I wasn’t going back to my office.”

“Then I’ll pick you up at your house.”

“Condo. And do you always work this fast?”

“I have ever since I lost two years of my life.”

The body of Diane Tolliver lay on a metal table in front of them. Beth and the detectives were here to get at least two answers: cause and time of death. The ME took off his glasses, wiped his eyes, and put the spectacles back on. “Fast-tracked the postmortem as you requested.”

“Thanks, Doc. What do you have for me?”

“When I saw the bruising on the neck base I felt sure I’d find ligature marks on the neck or evidence of smothering, with homicidal asphyxia being the cause of death.”

“But it wasn’t?”

“No, the lady basically had her neck broken.”

“Basically? Without full ligature marks?”

“Well, there’s more. A lot more, actually. Pretty severe injury.”

“Atlanto-occipital disarticulation and not simply a dislocation?” Cassell smiled. “I forgot how well versed you are in forensic matters. Yes, a
disarticulation
clearly.”

With one of the detectives’ assistance he turned Tolliver’s body on its side and pointed to the base of her neck. “Cranio-cervical junction injury.” Cassell pressed his fingers against points along the base of the skull and the upper spine. “Brain stem and upper to midcervical spinal cord, above C4.”

“Full disruption of the cardio-respiratory regulation centers. Immediately fatal.”

“Are you angling for my job, Beth?” he said jokingly.

“No, Doc, do you want mine?”

“Good God no!”

“So someone crushed her neck. What else?”

“Hemorrhages in the soft tissues of the back of the neck and injuries to basilar blood vessels. She also had considerable facial bruising and a cut on her right chin, all pre-death. All fairly straightforward until we get to this.”

He opened a laptop and pulled up some images of the inside of Diane Tolliver’s head. “The X-rays showed separation of the atlas from the base of the skull. You can see the atlas in the foramen magnum—”

“But the spinal canal isn’t visible. Okay, that’s classic disarticulation.”

“Yes, but the brain stem was also
transected
.”

She glanced up sharply from the laptop screen. “Brain stem transection?”

“It’s most often seen in car crashes where you have massive deceleration. A basilar skull fracture is what killed Dale Earnhardt at Daytona. Or when there’s some sort of lengthy fall involved. The brain stem pops and death is instantaneous.”

Beth pointed to Diane’s body. “This lady was found wedged inside a refrigerator at her law firm about two hours after she walked in the door of her office. She wasn’t driving in the Daytona 500 and she didn’t fall off a building.”

The ME again pointed to the base of the neck where there was considerable discoloration. “A blow right here did the trick. Her being placed in a refrigerator certainly did me no favors, but there are definite signs of bruising before death at this location.”

“A blow? With what, Doc?”

“Now that’s the strange part. I found no trace evidence, no hairs, fibers, plastics, metals, or anything else relating to the injured area.”

“So what was used to kill her, then?”

“My guess is a blow from a foot.”

“A foot?”

Cassell pointed to the abrasions on Tolliver’s face. “It could have happened this way. She’s held down on the floor, facedown with her chin pressed against the linoleum, which accounts for the cut and bruising there when the killing blow was struck. Then someone, a large, powerful man probably, stomps on the back of her neck with all his weight. Now, if a board or pipe or hammer or bat had been used, they might well have left a patterned injury mark on the skin. But as you can see, there was nothing like that here. However, a human foot is flexible and could well have left no discernible marks. Even a fist would have left some sort of pattern, knuckles or even the shape of a palm, for instance. Plus, of course, you can generate much more force with a leg stomp than an arm strike because you can deploy most of your weight in a downward motion.”

“So a foot. But wouldn’t a shoe have left a mark?”

“Possibly, although human skin is not as revealing as a nice wet patch of grass or dirt. I may be able to discern an image at the wound area provided you find me a shoe, a patterned sock, or a foot to compare it with.”

“Okay, but when have you ever seen a brain stem transection from a weaponless assault?”

“Only once, but it was a nonhuman assault.”

She looked at him curiously. “Nonhuman?”

“Years ago I was on vacation at Yellowstone National Park. There unfortunately was a fatality with a camper and I was recruited to perform the autopsy.”

“What killed the person?”

“A grizzly bear. Probably the most dangerous predator on land.” He smiled at Beth. “Other than man, of course, as we both know so well. Anyway, this unfortunate camper had surprised a full-grown male bear while it was scavenging a carcass.”

“But there are no grizzlies in Georgetown, Doc.”

“No, but there is at least one person with abnormal strength and skill. That bruise is in the exact spot necessary to transect the brain stem. I doubt the location of the blow was a coincidence.”

“So was she already unconscious? Or was someone holding her down? If it was just one bandit you’d think she would have fought back and we’d have defensive trace under her fingers.”

“Her cuticles were clean.”

“Drugged?”

“Tox reports aren’t back yet.”

Beth studied the body. “Bandit could’ve had a gun, ordered Tolliver to lie facedown. Then he kills her. That would only take one assailant.”

“Quite right.”

“Okay, what else?”

“We took an inventory of her clothes. We found a couple of fibers that were not from her garments.”

“Her attacker?”

“Possibly. There was also some soiling on her jacket that seemed odd.”

“What kind of soiling?”

“Like grease or dirt, we’re analyzing it now.”

“Not residue from anything in the fridge that might have spilled on her.”

“We inventoried that too. No, it didn’t come from that source.”

“It’s the start of the day, she goes from parking garage to office, and she’s got dirt on her clothes. Bandit leave-behind?”

“Probably.” Cassell shook his head. “It’s still confusing. I spent ten years at the Bronx ME’s office.”

Beth nodded in understanding. “I know, NYPD says perp, MPD says bandit. Can you give me a window on
when
she died?”

“Extremely problematic, Beth. She was found in a refrigerator set at thirty-eight degrees Fahrenheit and then her body was at room temp for several hours. When I arrived at the crime scene she was very cold to the touch. And then she was parked in one of our morgue freezer beds on arrival here. Now fully freed of those icy conditions, the body is decomposing quite on schedule. She’s still in rigor, as you can see.” He lifted one of the stiff arms. “But the initial refrigeration forestalled the normal post-death chemical process.”

“Stomach contents?”

Cassell clicked some computer keys and then scanned the screen. “At most ME shops unless there’s suspicion of a drug overdose or poisoning we don’t typically do a detailed gastric content analysis. But I knew if I didn’t run it, you’d just tell me to do it.”

“Working relationships just get better with age, don’t they?”

“She had no breakfast, but apparently she had some dinner last night. About six hundred cc’s worth of gastric contents including partially digested red proteins.”

“In other words, bits of steak?”

“Most probably, yes. Peas and corn and what looks to be red-skinned potatoes. Spinach too. The stomach and duodenal mucosal lining were a bright green.”

“Broccoli will do that as well.”

“But broccoli along with corn does not digest readily in the stomach. I would have found parts of it in the gastric content. The corn was there as noted, but no broccoli.”

“Anything else?”

Cassell made a face. “This lady liked her garlic. The smell was overpowering.”

“Remind me to buy you a pair of clothespins. So time of death? Any thoughts?”

He took off his glasses. “If you’ve got reliable witnesses on both ends substantiating a two-hour window of when she was killed, I can’t do any better than that even with all my fancy equipment and tests.”

“I’m not sure yet how
reliable
my witnesses are. What else?”

“When I said we did an inventory of her clothing I forgot to mention that one item was missing.”

“Her panties.”

“Of course I am assuming that the lady typically wore underwear.”

“She was forty-seven years old, a partner in a law firm, lived in a million-dollar town house on the water in Alexandria, and was wearing a Chanel suit when she was
stomped
. I think we can safely assume she was the sort of woman who wears underwear. What did the sex assault workup find? Was she raped?”

“Bruising around her genitalia clearly evidenced a sexual assault.”

“Please tell me what I want to hear, Doc.”

“The fellow left a few pieces of himself behind.”

Cassell led her over to a microscope. She examined the slide under magnification and her smile was immediate. “The holy grail of forensic detection.”

“Sperm,” Cassell added, with a note of triumph. “High up in the vaginal vault and some deposited on the cervix.”

“You said the fellow left
pieces
?”

“Two pubic hairs with root balls that do not belong to the deceased.”

“Let’s hope we get a database hit. Anything else I should know?”

Cassell hesitated. “Not on the case, no, but I hear that Mace is out. Please tell her I said hello.”

“I will.”

“How is she?”

“You know Mace. Everything slides right off her back.”

“Tell her that there is indeed a heaven and that Mona will never make it there.”

Beth smiled. “Will do.”