Body Farm 2 - Flesh And Bone (19 page)

Evers slammed his hand on the table for the third time, but this time I did not flinch. Then he snatched up the recorder and said, “This interrogation was terminated when suspect exercised his right to counsel.” He spat out the time and snapped off the machine with an angry click.

Evers stood up so abruptly his chair toppled backward, then spun and walked out of the room. Horace got to his feet more slowly.

“Are you finished with me?” I asked.

Horace snorted. “We have not even started with you,” he said. “But you can go, for now. Have your attorney contact us at his earliest convenience.” He said the last two words in a sarcastic sneer. He led me out of the room and to the elevator, and used his key to authorize the car to descend from the fourth floor down to the lobby. He pointed me to the front door. “We’ll be seeing you, Doc,” he said. “Real soon.”

As I walked out the door into the parking lot, I realized I had no vehicle. It had been seized as evidence, and it would be combed for anything they could use against me.

I COULD SEE BURT DeVriess’s office gleaming on the far side of the valley from the hilltop where KPD hunkered. Lacking another way to get there, I set out on foot. DeVriess’s office was near the top of Riverview Tower, a twenty-four-story ellipse sheathed in bands of green glass and silvery steel. Bands that were the colors of money.

The building soared above the river bluff at the south end of Gay Street, Knoxville’s main drag. I crossed the valley to Gay Street on the Hill Avenue bridge, whose parabolic concrete arches spanned a messy knot of lanes and ramps where the Hill Avenue interchange tangled with James White Parkway and Neyland Drive.

Riverview Tower was one of a pair of side-by-side office towers built by the Butcher brothers, bankers Jake and C. H. Butcher, in the early 1980s, just before their financial empires collapsed in a rubble heap of criminal fraud. Longtime Knoxvillians still referred to the angular black-glass tower as “Jake’s bank” and to the curving green and silver one as “C.H.’s place,” but the buildings retained no connection to the disgraced bankers except as a fading stain on their architectural pedigrees.

I entered the lobby by way of the revolving door off Gay Street and rode the elevator up in the company of people in power suits and spring dresses. I was pretty sure I was the only one aboard who was about to be charged with murder, but then again, perhaps none of my fellow passengers imagined me as a fledgling felon, either.

The entrance to DeVriess’s suite of offices spoke of money and sophistication befitting Knoxville’s most successful defense attorney. Most high-end law offices were lined in an excess of walnut or mahogany veneer, but Burt’s inclined more to chrome, frosted glass, and other touches of Art Deco. His receptionist, a correspondingly stylish woman somewhere in her thirties, looked up and greeted me with a smile. “Hello, may I help you?”

“Is…Mr. DeVriess in?”

“Do you have an appointment?” She took a quick glance at her computer screen.

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“I’m sorry, we don’t really take walk-ins,” she said, looking genuinely regretful. “Would you like to make an appointment for a consultation, Mr….?”

“Brockton,” I said. “Bill Brockton.”

Her face brightened. “Oh, Dr. Brockton, of course,” she said. “I knew your face looked familiar. I’m Chloe Matthews.” She held out her hand and gave mine a firm shake. “Mr. DeVriess has a meeting with a client in just a few minutes, but I’m sure he’ll want to say hello to you.” She disappeared around a corner, and a moment later she reappeared with Burt DeVriess—my nemesis, on whose mercy I had come to throw myself.

“Hello, Doc,” he said, giving me the simultaneous hearty-handshake-and-shoulder-pat combination that was supposed to underscore how very glad he was to see me. “What brings you clear up here?”

“Could I speak with you about…something?” I began awkwardly.

His eyes took on a startled expression, which he quickly masked. “Come with me,” he said, turning and heading back down the hallway. As I followed, I made one final survey of my options, considering whether there might be some other way to protect myself. I came up dry again, and again I cursed the circumstances that had brought me to this.

Asking Burt DeVriess to represent me in a murder investigation might just be the hardest request of my life. Although I had testified for him on one occasion—when Garland Hamilton’s botched autopsy had caused DeVriess’s client to be wrongly accused of murder—my feelings for Grease could best be described as variations on a theme of loathing. DeVriess tended to defend the lowest of the low: child molesters like Craig Willis; notorious drug dealers; even one admitted serial killer. Cops and judges unanimously despised Grease. Yet his powers of pretrial maneuvering, courtroom confrontation, and media manipulation were so prodigious he nearly always succeeded in getting his clients off scot-free, or with remarkably lenient sentences. The serial killer’s trial had ended in a hung jury, thanks largely to DeVriess’s success in having the man’s confession suppressed. As a result, the only thing keeping an admitted monster behind bars was a series of rape convictions.

It had run counter to every instinct I possessed to stop answering John Evers’s questions—I’d spent years talking with homicide detectives, answering every question they asked as completely and candidly as possible. I told them everything I knew about crime scenes, bodies, bones, time since death, and manner of death. Tell the truth, and let the chips fall where they may: as a forensic scientist, I had always lived by that creed. It had served me well, and it had served the criminal justice system well. Now, I had forced myself to say to a homicide detective, “I refuse to answer any more questions without an attorney present.” And now I had come to ask DeVriess to be that attorney.

Grease led me to an office walled in the same gleaming metal and frosted glass as the entryway and opened the door for me. Inside was a huge desk sculpted of similar materials. On its spotless glass top rested a sleek black phone, a sleek black laptop, a sleek black notebook, and a sleek black fountain pen. He ushered me in and closed the door, then motioned me toward a sleek chair of chrome and black leather.

We eyed each other warily, each knowing perhaps a bit too much about the other’s business and sentiments. DeVriess spoke first. “What’s on your mind?”

“I need an attorney,” I said. “A criminal defense attorney.” He waited. I thought I saw his eyes glitter. “The medical examiner from Chattanooga was killed sometime over the weekend. Her body was put at the Body Farm. The police seem to think I killed her.” Still he waited. He wasn’t making this easy for me. “I’d like to hire you to represent me.”

He smiled at that. “Bill Brockton, you are the last person on earth I would have expected to find myself representing in a murder case.”

“Well, I’m as surprised as you are,” I said. “Astonished to be suspected of murder; amazed to be hiring you. But you have a remarkable track record. Good as you are at getting guilty clients off, you should have a pretty easy time representing an innocent man.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them.

DeVriess looked away, then back at me. “Why, you smug, self-righteous son of a bitch,” he said. “You have the nerve to look down on me, to judge me, while you come to me for help in a murder case? I ought to throw you out right now.”

I felt a rush of shame, mixed with fear. “You’re right,” I said. “I apologize. That was rude.”

“You’re damn right it was rude,” he said. “I do my best for every client I have. When I was admitted to the Tennessee bar, I promised to represent my clients to the best of my skill and abilities. Whether they’re pure as virgins or guilty as sin, it’s my job, my duty, within the American legal system, to fight like hell for my clients. You know why? Because the prosecution will fight like hell to convict them, whether they’re guilty or not. You’ve seen that yourself—your DA friend Bob Roper tried to send Eddie Meacham to the chair for killing Billy Ray Ledbetter, even though that was an accidental death. If they decide they can convict you of this woman’s murder, he’ll try to do the same to you. After that Meacham case, you, of all people, ought to know better. Unless you’re one of the twelve people in the jury box, or unless you’re God the Father Almighty, you have no right to judge me or my clients.”

Now it was my turn to be mad. I had apologized, and sincerely, but instead of accepting it, he had rubbed my nose in it and gotten up on his lawyerly high horse. “You know, that all sounds really noble, Grease. But I sat across from Susan Scott a few days ago as she howled like some dying animal. You remember Susan Scott, don’t you? Mother of Joey Scott, little kid who was raped by your client Craig Willis? Joey Scott, who will spend years in therapy and still never completely recover? You’re telling me I have no right to judge Craig Willis, a child molester caught in the act? You’re saying I should feel a warm glow of civic pride that you cut him loose to prey on other kids? And you’ve got the nerve to call me smug and self-righteous?”

DeVriess’s eyes flashed and his jaw muscles clenched and unclenched as if he were attacking a piece of gristle. For a moment I thought he might actually come across the desk at me. Finally he said, “Shit, Doc. Goddamnit.” He looked away, and when he looked back at me, I could see pain in his eyes. “There’s half a dozen cases keep me awake at night. That’s number two on the list.”

“Let me take a guess at number one,” I said. “The case where the little girl was abducted, and then killed, while you delayed the search of the suspect’s car?”

“Yes, damn you, that’s number one. Are you satisfied?” He sighed wearily. “I like to believe that the good cases make up for the bad ones. Like clearing Meacham of a murder he didn’t commit.”

“Can’t hurt,” I said. “You just need some more like that.”

“And is this a case like that?”

“Yes. I didn’t kill Jess Carter.”

“You know I’d defend you just as vigorously if you did.”

“I know. I want to hire you in spite of that, not because of it.”

“Defense lawyers have a saying, Doc: ‘There is no client so dangerous as an innocent man.’ Know why?”

“No; why?”

He thought a moment, then shrugged. “You know, it beats the hell out of me.” He smiled ruefully. So did I. He picked up the phone and hit a button on the console. “Chloe, cancel the rest of my appointments for the afternoon,” he said. “Yes, even him. And draw me up a letter of engagement with Dr. Brockton. Yes, the standard retainer, twenty thousand.” I felt my sphincter muscles clench at the mention of the sum. “Thank you, Chloe.” He set the handset back in its cradle. “Okay, tell me about it,” he said, opening the leather notebook and uncapping the fountain pen. “Start at the beginning.”

“Which beginning?”

“The beginning of the end. When things began to go wrong.”

So I did. I started with the body Miranda and I had tied to a tree at the Body Farm for Jess, and I went on to tell about the creationist brouhaha, and Miss Georgia, and Craig Willis’s raging mother, and Susan Scott’s raging grief, and Jess’s sweetness when she finally invited me all the way in, and her suspicious ex-husband, and her obscenely posed corpse. By the time I reached the end of the end—or at least the present moment—two hours had passed, the sky was dark, and I felt exhaustion and grief seeping into my bones.

I TOOK A CAB from DeVriess’s office to McGhee Tyson Airport and had the driver drop me at the doors to the baggage claim area. The Hertz counter was near, and there was no line, so I opted for that one. “I need to rent a car,” I told the young woman behind the counter.

“Do you have a reservation?”

“No. Is that a problem?”

I thought I saw the corners of her mouth twitch. “Do we look swamped with business?”

I smiled. “This could be the first piece of good luck I’ve had all day,” I said.

She entered my driver’s license number and credit card into her computer, and five minutes later I was headed north on Alcoa Highway in a white Ford Taurus, which struck me as surely the most boring car to emerge from Detroit in de cades. But my feet were still sore from my trek to DeVriess’s office, so, boring or not, I appreciated the vehicle.

I passed the turnoff to UT Medical Center and the Body Farm—a place that would forever be haunted by Jess’s ghost for me now—and crossed the river, then took the Kingston Pike exit. The winding roads of Sequoyah Hills felt unfamiliar, probably because the Taurus handled differently from my truck. But maybe they felt unfamiliar also because the world had changed so completely in the past two days.

When the police impounded my truck, they impounded my garage door opener along with it, I realized, so I would have to leave the rental car in the driveway overnight unless I wanted to park, go inside, open the garage door, then drive it. The sequence of actions, which would have taken sixty seconds or less, loomed as overwhelming. The Taurus didn’t strike me as a particularly tempting vehicle for car thieves, who could take their pick of Audis, Mercedes, Jaguars, and other high-end vehicles in other driveways in this part of town. As a security compromise, though, I paused on the front porch and clicked the keyless remote, and the vehicle locked with a diminutive beep.

As I stepped inside my front door, I heard and felt the distinctive crunch of broken glass underfoot. Switching on the light in the entryway, I saw glass littering the slate floor—dozens of shards and chips of it—and a rock sitting atop some of the pieces, a note attached to it with duct tape. I removed the note and unfolded it. “Now it’s your turn to burn,” it read. Below the words was a crayon drawing of a monkey engulfed in red and orange flames. I ripped the note in half, and was about to tear it into shreds when I realized that might be a terrible mistake. I remembered the newscast the night of the creationist protest, and my surprise at seeing Jess interviewed at the scene. I also remembered the look of rage on the face of Jennings Bryan as he listened to Jess’s sarcastic comments about his movement, his philosophy. And I recalled what she had said about the obscene and threatening phone calls she had gotten that evening. Had whoever made those threats actually followed through on them? And was I the next target?

I pulled out my wallet and fished out the card John Evers had given me, and dialed his number. He answered on the second ring. “Detective Evers? This is Dr. Brockton. Listen, I just got home, and I found something I thought you might ought to know about.” I described the note, and how it had been delivered, and reminded him about the threats Jess had gotten.

“Okay,” he said, “if you’ve got a ziplock bag, seal the rock and the note in the bag. Try not to handle them any more. Bring it in when you and your attorney come see us tomorrow.”

I took a long, hot shower in hopes of unwinding. I leaned against the front wall of the bathtub enclosure, my head hung forward so the water beat down on my scalp and neck and shoulders. Fiber by fiber, the muscles let go, and I found myself slumping rather than leaning, then sliding down the tiles rather than slumping against them. The air had turned almost opaque with steam, almost solid, despite the exhaust fan I had switched on. When the effort to stand became too much, I switched off the water, wrapped my bright pink self in an oversize towel, and staggered into the bedroom. I fished a fresh pair of boxers from the top drawer of my dresser, sat heavily onto the bed, and laboriously threaded my feet through the waistband and leg openings. It took everything I had to stand back up and pull the shorts to my waist. As I bent to fold back the bedspread and top sheet, I could feel my eyelids drooping lower and lower.

And then I came wide awake, as heart-poundingly awake as I had ever been in my life. My white pillowcase was covered with blood. I stared at it, then yanked back the covers all the way to the foot of the bed. Both sheets were drenched in blood as well—mostly dried, but not entirely. And in the center of the bed was a pair of women’s pan ties.

Even before the thought coalesced into words, I knew they were Jess Carter’s pan ties. I also knew that I was about to be arrested for her murder.

I stumbled out to my living room and hit the REDIAL button on the phone there, which I had used to call Evers before my shower. “Evers,” he answered.

“This is Dr. Brockton again,” I said. My voice sounded distant and thready to me. “I think you need to send a forensic team out here to my house right now.”

“I hate to burst your bubble, Doc, but I’m not sure there’s any point,” he said. “If we’re really lucky, we might be able to lift a latent print from that rock or the note. But that’s a long shot. Beyond that, I doubt there’s anything for us to find.”

“This isn’t about the rock,” I said. “Or the note. There’s blood in my bed. A lot of blood. And a pair of women’s pan ties.”

There was a long silence on the other end. Then Evers said, “Where are you now? Are you still in the bedroom?” I told him I had come into the living room to call him. “You stay right where you are,” he said. “Sit down and don’t move.”

“Okay, I won’t,” I said, and he hung up.

I needed to think, but I didn’t feel capable of it on my own. Call Art, was all I could come up with. When he answered, I told him about the bloody sheets and the pan ties, and about the homicide detective and forensic team racing toward my house right now. He was silent.

Finally he said, “Somebody is setting you up big-time.” He paused again. “Did you talk to DeVriess?”

“Yes. I just left his office an hour or two ago.”

“Did he give you his cell number?”

“I think it’s on the card he gave me.”

“Call him. You should’ve called him first.”

“My instincts just took over. The police were my first instinct. You were my second. Art, will they arrest me to night?”

“Doubt it. Not to night. You’re going to be kinda hot for them to handle, being a forensic legend and all. They’ll take this to the DA, and the DA will take it to the grand jury. But the Knox County grand jury meets three times a week, so they could take it to the grand jury tomorrow, and there could be a warrant for your arrest within a couple days. You were in a relationship with her; you were the one who found her body—at your locked research facility, no less; and now, there’s blood and clothing at your house that suggest she was killed there.”

“That’s not all,” I said miserably. “Evers claims to have a surveillance videotape that shows my truck entering the facility three hours before I found the body and called the police.”

He was silent for an agonizingly long time. “This looks bad, Bill. The dumbest cop on the force could persuade a grand jury there’s probable cause at this point. And Evers ain’t the dumbest cop on the force. Hang up and call Grease right now.”

I did. He cursed when I told him the police were on their way. “Dammit, Doc, I wish you’d called me first. We could have figured out a better way to handle this. Okay, they’re going to ask for your consent to search your house. Do not consent. You probably need to allow them to enter and retrieve the sheets from your bedroom, but tell them that’s all they’re allowed to do without a warrant. They won’t have any trouble getting a warrant, but at least it holds them off for a few hours. They’re also gonna want to question you pretty hard. Tell them I’ll meet you downtown at KPD. Do not—do not, not, not—answer any questions without me by your side. Promise me you will not.”

“Okay. I promise.”

“See you there.” And then he hung up.

Moments later I heard the siren. It gave voice to something inside me—a rising wail of grief and rage and fear. The siren crescendoed as beacons of blue light began strobing through my windows, and then it died away. But the wail inside me did not.