Diagnosis Murder 3 - The Shooting Script (3 page)

Lt. Steve Sloan didn't acknowledge his father at first, preferring to enjoy Mark's discomfort for a few minutes.

Steve sought out Officers Blake and Jackson, the first cops at the scene, and got their report. They said they showed up about six minutes after Mark's 911 call. When they arrived, the door was wide open and they found the suspect cutting one of the victims with a scalpel. The officers detained the suspect and read him his rights.

Steve glanced at Mark. Judging by the embarrassed expression on his father's face, Mark knew exactly what his son was hearing.

Officer Blake handed Steve his father's driver's license. "His name is Dr. Mark Sloan. Any relation?"

"I'm afraid so," Steve said.

The officers shared a worried look.

"Don't sweat it, guys," Steve said. "You did the right thing."

"Would you like us to uncuff him?" Officer Blake asked.

Steve shook his head. "There's no hurry. Tell me about the victims."

"The male is Cleve Kershaw," Officer Blake said, handing over the evidence baggies containing the victim's driver's licenses. "According to the registration, the SL out front belongs to him. We're on a private road and he's got a resident parking sticker on the windshield, so this is probably his place, too. The car is registered to a Mandeville Canyon address. The female is Amy Butler. She lives in Hollywood—at least according to her driver's license."

Steve knew who Kershaw was, but had never heard of the girl. She'd be famous now, though.

"She's got to be at least ten years younger than the guy," Officer Jackson said. "He sure knew how to live."

"When I go," Officer Blake said, "I hope it's in bed with some young naked hottie beside me."

"I'll be sure to tell that to your wife next time I see her." Steve handed the baggies back to Officer Blake. "Have you recovered a weapon?"

"Just this." Officer Jackson held up an evidence bag containing Mark's scalpel.

"We're looking for a gun." Steve took the Baggie from Officer Jackson. "Assemble two teams, one to canvas the street and the beach for the murder weapon. Get some divers out in the water, too. I want the other team going door-to- door, to see if anyone besides my father saw or heard any thing."

"Cool," Officer Blake said. "I hear Steven Spielberg lives around here."

"Isn't that Drew Barrymore's place at the end of the street?" Officer Jackson asked.

"No, it isn't, so you can keep your great, unproduced screenplay in your patrol car," Steve said. "And the first officer who asks anyone for an autograph is gonna get mine—on a suspension order. Is that clear?"

The officers nodded glumly and started to go, but Steve stopped them.

"One more thing. The press is going to mob us as soon as they figure out who this house belongs to. Corral them in the Trancas Market parking lot on the other side of PCH. This is a private road and I don't want to see any reporters on it."

The officers nodded again and headed off on their assignments.

Steve went straight to the bedroom, intentionally avoiding his father's imploring gaze. He wanted to see the crime scene for himself and develop his own interpretation of events before hearing his father's––something that usually wasn't possible if Mark was there, too.

There wasn't much to interpret. Steve could read the blood, too, and it told him a story of revenge by a jealous lover or spouse. He'd seen a thousand crime scenes just like it. What made this one different was Chive Kershaw and who he was married to.

This was no longer simply a murder. It was a media event.

Within hours, news of what happened in this bedroom would be broadcast all over the world. Every move Steve made from this moment on would be put under intense scrutiny, from the department and the media.

And the first question they'd all be asking was why his father was dissecting the bodies before they were even cold.

Steve took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His work had only just begun, but he already knew one thing with absolute certainty: This investigation was going to be a living hell.

The crime scene mice, as the techies in the department's Scientific Investigation Division were called, scurried into the room and, with a nod of permission from Steve, began taking pictures, lifting prints, and collecting forensic evidence.

Steve left them to their work, returning to the living room, where he finally approached his father. Mark got to his feet to greet him.

"Am I glad to see you," Mark said, turning his back to wards his son and lifting his cuffed wrists. "Could you get these off? They're very uncomfortable"

"Really? I didn't know that." Steve stuck his hands in his pockets. "I'll notify the department right away and see to it we get those padded or something."

Mark turned back to his son. "Having a rough day?"

"I wasn't until now," Steve said, glancing at one of the SID techs, who was using a camcorder to document the crime scene. "What are you doing here, Dad?"

"My civic duty," Mark said.

"Is that so?"

"I was out on the deck, painting a seascape, when I heard gunshots," Mark said. "Did I ever mention just how much I enjoy that wonderful birthday gift?"

Steve ignored the question. "Your civic duty ended when you called 911 and reported the shooting."

"But it was rush hour, and I knew how long it could take the paramedics to get here," Mark said. "What if those two in the bedroom were still alive? I might have been able to save them."

"What if the shooter was still in the house?" Steve said. "I might have been looking at three corpses now instead of two."

"There was no chance of that happening."

"How do you know?"

"Because the shooter was gone a half-hour before I got here," Mark said.

"You were here two minutes after you heard the shots."

"But the shots I heard weren't the shots that killed them."

"What?"

"I'd explain, but I can't think clearly with all the circulation cut off to my hands." Mark turned his back again to Steve and lifted his wrists again.

Steve just stood there, hands in his pockets. "What are you talking about?"

"Those fleshy things with five fingers at the ends of my arms," Mark said. "Some people use them to grasp keys and unlock stuff."

That's when Mark saw Dr. Amanda Bentley, the Community General staff pathologist, striding towards him in her blue MEDICAL EXAMINER windbreaker. Her path lab did double duty as an extension of the county morgue and so did she as the adjunct county medical examiner.

"I knew you'd be here as soon as I heard where the crime scene was," Amanda said, flashing a knowing smile. "I'm surprised you haven't already done the autopsy."

"He started to," Steve said.

Amanda glanced at Steve and saw from the expression on his face that he wasn't joking. She gave Mark an incredulous look.

"I didn't do much," Mark shrugged sheepishly. "I took a liver temp from one of the victims."

She raised an eyebrow. "You cut into one of the victims?"

"I wouldn't put it quite like that," Mark said. "I made a precise, surgical incision."

"Why did you do that?" she asked.

"Because I wanted to establish a definite time of death."

"That's what I'm here for," Amanda said.

"I couldn't wait," Mark said, turning his back to Amanda, showing her his cuffed wrists. "You think you could pick the lock on these for me?"

"Tampering with the evidence at a murder scene is a crime," Amanda said. "Especially when it's my evidence."

Mark glanced over his shoulder at her, then back at Steve, then sighed wearily. "Maybe I should explain."

"That would be nice," Steve said.

"I heard the gunshots at four thirty," Mark said. "I grabbed my medical bag and was here within five minutes. But when I discovered the bodies, the blood was completely clotted."

"That's not possible," Amanda said.

"Why not?" Steve asked.

"A gunshot victim will continue to bleed out for a few minutes as death actually occurs," Mark said. "It takes five minutes for the blood to even start clotting, another ten or twenty before it's completely clotted."

"There wasn't enough time between the sound of the gunshots and Mark's discovery of the bodies for that to happen," Amanda said.

"If they were killed when I heard the gunshots," Mark said. "That's why I checked the body temperature of the female victim. Her temperature was 97 degrees."

Amanda was puzzled, but not as much as Steve.

"What does that mean?" he asked her.

"The body loses roughly 1.5 degrees per hour after death," Amanda said, then turned to Mark. "They were killed at least thirty minutes before you heard the shots. If you hadn't shown up when you did, we never would have known."

"Why not?" Steve said.

"Look at your watch, Steve. l didn't get here until an hour and a half after the bodies were discovered," Amanda said. "I wouldn't have noticed anything unusual about the blood."

"But that doesn't change how long it takes for the bodies to lose heat," Steve said. "You're very good at what you do. You would have discovered the time of death didn't jibe with when the gunshots were reported."

"I'm good, but I'm not perfect," she said. "In the absence of irrefutable evidence, like a video or eyewitnesses, determining the time of death is, at best, an educated guess. A lot of factors go into it and one of the big ones would have been when the gunshots were reported to the police. Honestly, Steve, I probably would have been fooled if Mark hadn't caught it."

Amanda tipped her head towards Mark. "You should thank him."

Mark gave his son a big smile. Steve dug a key out of his pocket and unlocked the cuffs.

"So who fired the shots and why?" Steve asked.

"I can't tell you the who," Mark said, massaging his wrists. "But I can guess at the why. He wanted to fudge the time of death and, perhaps, use the extra half-hour to establish his alibi. The murderer was counting on rush-hour traffic to delay the arrival of the police and paramedics so the clotting of the blood wouldn't be noticed. I don't think the killer knew a doctor lived only a few doors down and would arrive immediately at the scene."

"Talk about bad luck," Amanda said.

"Even if the shooter did know," Steve said, "I doubt he expected anyone to start dissecting the bodies on the spot."

"If the killer didn't stick around to fire the shots that Mark heard," Amanda said, "that means he had an accomplice."

"Who did an amazing disappearing act," Mark added. "I didn't see anyone on the street or the sand. Of course, he could have been hiding and slipped away while I was examining the bodies."

"Speaking of which, that's what I'm supposed to be doing," Amanda said.

"When can you have an autopsy report for us?" Mark asked.

"Us?" Steve said. "What makes you think you're going to be involved in this investigation?"

"I'm already involved," Mark said.

"That doesn't mean you have to stay involved," Steve replied.

Amanda gave Steve a look. "And I hear two plus two equals five now, and that the laws of gravity have been suspended, too."

"Thanks for the support," Steve said.

"Stop by the path lab in the morning," Amanda said. "I'll have a report ready for you both."

She trudged into the bedroom to start her work. Mark rubbed his hands together, though Steve wasn't sure whether it was to get the blood flowing or signal that he was anxious to get to work.

"So," Mark said. "Where to now?"

CHAPTER THREE

Steve withstood the temptation to use his siren as he drove himself and his father south along the traffic-choked Pacific Coast Highway to Sunset Boulevard, which they followed east as it snaked around the Santa Monica Mountains towards Mandeville Canyon.

"Who are the victims?" Mark asked.

"Cleve Kershaw and Amy Butler, an actress."

"How do you know she's an actress?"

"She was a great-looking woman in her twenties who lived in LA," Steve said. "It would be unusual if she wasn't an actress. But she was also in bed with Cleve Kershaw, and if that wasn't enough, she had a Screen Actors Guild card in her wallet."

"All you had to say was that she had a SAG card," Mark replied.

"The explanation was more fun," Steve said. "And I wanted to see if you had any idea who Cleve Kershaw is, and you don't."

"Should I?"

"Only if you paid the slightest bit of attention to what's happening in popular culture."

"I have a basic working knowledge," Mark said, "as I do of many things."

"Okay, name the friends on
Friends
," Steve said.

"He was on
Friends
?" Mark replied.

"No," Steve said. "I'm making a point."

"Not very well," Mark replied.

Steve sighed with frustration. Mark turned to glance at the view so his son wouldn't see his smile.

"Cleve Kershaw is a movie producer," Steve replied wearily. "And he's married to Lacey McClure."

"The actress?"

"At least you've heard of her," Steve said.

"Actually, I haven't. I was just guessing."

"She's one of the top female action stars in the world," Steve said. "How could you not know that?"

"Do you know who Dr. Paul Quarrington is?"

"He's one of the most gifted heart transplant surgeons in the world," Mark said. "How could you not know that?"

Steve glared at his father. "She's been in the news a lot."

"So has Dr. Quarrington."

"Do you want to hear about who we're going to see or not?"

Ordinarily, Steve wouldn't have minded Mark's gentle teasing, especially considering that he'd kept his dad in handcuffs for so long at the crime scene. But the fact his father didn't realize just how big this case was, and what a media feeding frenzy it would create, taxed what little patience Steve had left.

"Of course," Mark said. "Please continue."

"They've done three movies together, Lacey starring, Cleve producing," Steve said. "They've all been modest hits, but not nearly as big as her home video was last year. That's why she's been in the news so much."