Red Mist (23 page)

“And these people who shouldn’t have been there touched the bodies?”

“Well, not that, thank God.
The cops know better than to let anyone near my bodies or they’ll have hell to pay from me.
But
more to the point, at the time it just wasn’t accepted as a possibility that someone other than Lola Daggette was involved.”

“Why?”

“She was in a halfway house to deal with anger management and her problems with drugs.
Within hours after the murders, she
was discovered washing clothing that was stained with the Jordans’ blood.
And she was local.
I remember there was some talk
at the time that she might have read or heard about Dr.
Jordan in the news and realized he had a lot of money, was a successful
doctor from an old
Savannah family that had made a fortune from cotton.
His mansion was an easy walk from the halfway house, where she’d been
for more than a month when the murders occurred.
She’d had plenty of time to gather intelligence, including figuring out that
the family didn’t always bother with the alarm system.”

“Because they’d had a number of false alarms.”

“Kids,” he says.
“A big problem with alarm systems is kids accidentally setting them off.”

“What seems to be nothing more than conjecture,” I point out.
“It’s also conjectured that burglary wasn’t the motive.”

“No evidence of it, but who knows?
An entire family dead.
If something was missing, who’s going to say?”

“Was the house ransacked?”

“It wasn’t.
But again, if everyone is dead, who’s to say if something was looked through or moved?”

“So the DNA results didn’t concern you at the time.
I don’t mean to keep pushing you on this.
But the results bother me.”

“Push all you want.
Just doing my job.
I’ve got no dog in the fight,” he says.
“The DNA was commingled.
As you well know,
it’s not always simple to decide what sample the result is from.
Was the unknown DNA from blood or skin cells or from something
else, and when was it left?
It could have been from a source that has nothing to do with the case.
A recent guest in the house.
Someone Brenda had been in contact with earlier in the day.
You know what they say.
Don’t put your case in a lab-coat pocket.
DNA doesn’t mean crap if you don’t know how it got there and when.
In fact, it’s my theory that the more sensitive the testing
gets, the less it’s going to mean.
Just because someone breathed in a room doesn’t mean that person
killed anyone.
Well, don’t get me started.
You didn’t come all this way to hear my philosophizing and sounding like a Luddite.”

“But no DNA profile at the crime scene or associated with the bodies was Lola Daggette’s.”

“That’s right.
And it’s not up to me to decide who’s guilty and who’s not, or even to care.
I just report my findings, and
the rest is up to the judge and jury,” he says.
“Why don’t you take a look at what I’ve left for you, and then we’ll chat.”

“I understand Jaime discussed Barrie Lou Rivers with you, too.
I’m wondering if I might take a look at her case while I’m
at it.”

“Jaime Berger’s got copies.
She put in her requests for records, I don’t know, at least two months ago.”

“If it’s not too much trouble, I always prefer originals when I can get them.”

“That record’s not paper because it’s more recent.
You know, GBI’s gone all paperless.
I can have it printed, or you can look
on a computer.”

“Electronic is fine.
Whatever’s easiest.”

“A strange one, I’ll give you that,” he says.
“But don’t ask me to be going down the road of cruel and unusual.
I know what
Berger’s spin on that one is, too, and how it’s all a nice neat puzzle she’s piecing together.
Not
nice,
what am I saying?
Meant to shock and repulse.
It’s like she’s already rehearsing for the press conference, thinking of the
inflammatory points she might make about how the condemned are tortured to death in Georgia.”

“It’s uncommon for someone awaiting execution to die suddenly in the holding cell outside the death chamber,” I remind him.
“Especially since the person is supposed to be under surveillance every second.”

“And let’s be honest, Kay, she probably wasn’t watched every second,” he says.
“I’m guessing she started feeling bad after
eating.
Maybe it was assumed to be indigestion at first, when in fact she was suffering the classic symptoms of a heart attack.
And by the time the guards were sufficiently alarmed to call for medical assistance, it was too late.”

“This occurred very close to the time when she was supposed to be brought into the death chamber and prepped,” I reply.
“Seems
there would have been medical personnel on hand, including the physician who was to assist in the execution.
One might expect
that a doctor or at least someone from the death squad trained in CPR would have been nearby and able to respond quickly.”

“That might very well have been the irony of the century.
A member of the death squad or the executioner himself resuscitates
her long enough to kill her.”
Colin gets up from his desk and hands me the box of lozenges.
“In case you want more.
I buy
them by the truckload.”

“I assume it’s all right if Marino looks.”

“He works with you and you trust him, I got no problem.
You’ll have one of my path techs with you at all times.”

Colin has to have someone in the room with me, not only for his protection but also for mine.
He must be able to swear under
oath that I couldn’t have planted a document in a file or taken something away with me.

“I’m also interested in clothing that you and the GBI might still
have,” I add, as he walks me back down the hall, past offices of other forensic pathologists, the forensic anthropology and
histology labs, past the break room, restrooms, and then the conference room is to our right.

“I assume you’re referring to the clothing Lola Daggette was washing in her bathroom at her halfway house?
Or what the victims
had on when they were murdered?”

“All of it,” I answer.

“Including what was submitted as evidence in the trial.”

“Everything.”

“I suppose I could take you to the house if you wanted.”

“I’ve seen it from the outside.”

“Possibly it could be arranged for you to go through it.
I don’t know who lives there, and I doubt they’d be thrilled.”

“Not necessary at the moment, but I’ll let you know after I go through the cases.”

“I can set up a scope if you want to look at the original slides.
Actually, Mandy can take care of that, Mandy O’Toole, who
will be in there with you.
Or we can do recuts, create a second set of slides, because, of course, I still have the tissue
sections.
If we do recuts, however, we’re creating new evidence.
But whatever answers any questions you have.”

“Let me see what they are first.”

“The clothing is stored in various places.
But most is in our labs.
I don’t let anything get very far from my sight.”

“I’m sure you don’t.”

“Don’t know if the two of you have met,” he says, as I notice a
woman in blue scrubs and a lab coat just inside the conference-room doorway.

Mandy O’Toole steps out and shakes my hand.
Around forty, I estimate, she’s tall and all legs like a colt and has long black
hair tied back.
She is attractive in an unusual way, her features asymmetrical, her eyes cobalt blue, giving her an appearance
that is off-putting but compelling.
Colin salutes me with his index finger and leaves me alone with her inside a modest-size
room with a cherry-finish table surrounded by eight black leather chairs with tufted cushions.
Abnormally thick windows set
in sturdy aluminum frames overlook a parking lot enclosed by a tall chain-link fence, and beyond, a dark green pine forest
stretches endlessly into the pale sky.

J
aime Berger’s not with you?”
Mandy O’Toole moves to the far end of the table and takes a chair where there are a Vitaminwater
and a BlackBerry with earphones.

“I believe she may be coming in later,” I reply.

“Now, that’s somebody with no off switch, and I guess that’s good if you do what she does.
You know, everybody’s fair game.”
Colin’s pathology technician begins talking about Jaime, as if I asked.
“I ran into her in the ladies’ room when she came
here a couple weeks ago and I’m washing my hands and she starts in about Barrie Lou Rivers’s adrenaline level.
Did I notice
anything histologically that might hint at a surge of adrenaline indicating stress and panic, like if she was being abused
the night of her execution.
And I said histology wouldn’t show something like that, because you
can’t see adrenaline microscopically.
That would require a special biochemical study.”

“Which was probably ordered, knowing Colin,” I comment.

“That’s him all right.
No stone unturned.
Blood, vitreous, cerebrospinal
fluid, and I think that was the lab result Ms.
Berger might have come across.
Barrie Lou Rivers did have a moderately elevated
level of adrenaline.
But people are way too quick to read something into findings like that, don’t you agree?”

“People often are quick to read all sorts of things into findings that don’t necessarily mean what they assume they do,” I
reply.

“Well, if someone’s suffering a catastrophic event like a heart attack or they’re choking on food, they certainly might panic
and dump a lot of adrenaline antemortem,” she says, her blue stare unwavering.
“I mean, if I was choking to death, I’m sure
I’d have a lot of adrenaline pumping.
Nothing to make a person more panic-stricken than not being able to breathe.
Gee, it’s
an awful thought.”

“Yes, it is.”

I wonder again what Jaime Berger has been circulating about me.
She told Colin I visited Kathleen Lawler at the GPFW yesterday.
What else has Jaime been saying?
Why is Mandy O’Toole looking so intently at me?

“I used to watch you when you had that show on CNN,” she then says, and I realize the possible explanation for her interest.
“I’m sorry you quit, because I thought it was really good.
At least you offered some common sense about forensics and not
all this screaming and sensationalism like some of the other shows.
It must be cool to have your own show.
If you ever have
another one and need someone to talk about histology …”

“That’s very kind, but what I’m doing these days isn’t necessarily compatible with having a TV show.”

“Well, I’d jump at it if I was asked.
But nobody wants to watch tissue processing.
I guess the coolest part is removing the
specimens from the body, you know what you get to do.
Although finding the perfect fixative and knowing which one to use with
what is kind of exciting.”

“How long have you worked with Colin?”

“Since 2003.
The same year the GBI started becoming paperless.
So you’re lucky or not with the Jordan cases, depending on
how you look at it.
Everything now is electronic, but it wasn’t back then in January 2002.
I don’t know about you, but I still
like paper.
There’s always that one thing someone decided not to scan, except when it’s Colin.
He’s crazy obsessive-compulsive.
He doesn’t care if it’s a paper napkin that got mixed in with the paperwork, it goes into the file.
He’s always saying the
devil’s in the details.”

“And he’s right,” I reply.

“I should have been an investigator.
I keep asking him to send me to a death-investigation school like the one at the New
York City OCME, where you used to be, but it’s all about money.
And there’s not any.”
She reaches for the BlackBerry and earphones
on the table.
“I should let you get to work.
Let me know if you need anything.”

I remove the top case file from the stack of four on the end of the table closest to the door, and a quick look affirms what
I might have hoped for but certainly didn’t expect.
Colin has offered me collegial respect and professional courtesy, and
quite a lot more than that.
By law he’s required to disclose only those records he directly generated, such as the medical
examiner’s report of initial investigation,
preliminary and final autopsy reports, autopsy photographs, and lab and special studies requests.

He could be stingy with his personal notes and call sheets if he’s of a mind to be, and conveniently overlook almost any documents
he chooses, forcing me to ask for them and possibly to butt heads with him.
Worse, he could treat me like a member of the
public or the media, compelling me to write an official letter of request that will have to be approved and responded to with
an invoice for the services and costs involved.
Payment would have to be received before the documents can be mailed, and
by the time all is said and done, I would be back in Cambridge and it would be the middle of July or later.

“Suze did the tox on Barrie Lou Rivers.”
Marino’s big voice precedes him as he enters the conference room and stares at Mandy
O’Toole sitting at the far end of the table.
“Didn’t know anybody else was in here,” he adds, and I can always tell when he
likes what he’s looking at.

She takes off her earphones and says to him, “Hi.
I’m Mandy.”

“Yeah?
What do you do?”

“Path tech and more.”

“I’m Marino.”
He takes a chair next to me.
“You can call me Pete.
I’m an investigator and more.
I guess you’re the watchdog.”

“Don’t mind me.
I’m listening to music and catching up on e-mail.”
She puts her earphones back on.
“You can say anything you
want.
I’m just the wallpaper.”

“Yeah, I know all about wallpaper,” Marino says.
“Can’t tell you how many cases get blown because of wallpaper leaking information.”

I barely listen to them as I take a survey of what Colin Dengate
has made available, and I’m appreciative and relieved.
I almost want to find him to thank him, and in part it might be a reaction
to my being deceived and mishandled by Jaime Berger, and how demeaning and upsetting that feels.
Colin easily could have resorted
to any number of maneuvers and ploys to make reviewing anything inconvenient if not impossible.
But he didn’t.

Regardless of any personal opinion he might have about Lola Daggette’s guilt, he’s not trying to force on others what he perceives
as justice.
Based on the girth of the files he’s left for me to peruse, he’s doing quite the opposite.
He hasn’t vetted much,
if anything, including records one might argue he shouldn’t disclose, and that thought leads to others.
He wouldn’t be this
generous without getting the approval of Chatham County District Attorney Tucker Ridley, and I wouldn’t have expected Ridley
to budge an inch beyond his legal obligations as mandated by the state’s open-records act.
I could have been offered nothing
more than the most basic medical examiner reports when what I’m most interested in is the rest of it.

Police, incident and arrest reports, even criminal or medical histories or witness statements—it could be absolutely anything
that might find its way into a decedent’s case record because the detective happened to hand over copies to the medical examiner,
and if the ME is like me, every scrap of paper, every electronic file, is preserved.
All such documents I assumed would be
excluded.
When Colin walked me to this conference room, I anticipated finding very little to review and within the hour wandering
back down the hall to his office so he could fill in the blanks if he was so inclined.

“Anything that goes on around here, I know about it anyway.”
Mandy has taken off her earphones again.

“That right?”
Marino blatantly flirts.
“What do you know about Barrie Lou Rivers?
Any rumors about her floating around?
You
involved in her case?”

“I did the histology, was in and out of the autopsy room collecting tissue sections while Colin was doing her post.”

“You must have come in after hours,” Marino says, as if he’s investigating Mandy O’Toole for something.
“And you weren’t listed
as an official witness.
Some prison guard named Macon and a couple other people.
I don’t remember seeing your name.”

“That’s because I wasn’t an official witness.”

I rearrange my chair to face a view of tall, spindly pines and buzzards floating high above them like black kites, and I decide
it could be argued that the Jordan case is no longer active and all direct litigation is final.
This might explain why the
district attorney made a calculated decision not to impede me in any way.
When an investigation is terminated, its documents
are subject to disclosure, and as I follow my reasoning a little further, it occurs to me that Tucker Ridley might very well
be done with Lola Daggette.
Despite Jaime’s retesting of evidence, in Tucker Ridley’s mind and maybe in Colin Dengate’s, the
investigation was terminated when Lola Daggette’s appeals were exhausted and the governor refused to commute her sentence
to life.

“He always this difficult?”
Mandy says, and I realize she’s talking to me about Marino.

“Only if he likes you,” I reply, as I think about public perception.

For the sake of it alone, the district attorney isn’t
going to get in the way of someone of my rank and reputation, so he’s opened up the country store and invited me to help myself.
Why?
Because it
doesn’t matter anymore.
As far as Tucker Ridley is concerned, Lola Daggette has an appointment with death on Halloween.
He
has no reason to believe she won’t show up.
Or maybe the opposite is true, I consider.

Maybe the new DNA results have been leaked and it doesn’t matter what I look at because Lola’s sentence will be vacated soon,
and maybe my other fear is legitimate, too.
Dawn Kincaid knows she’s about to face new murder charges in Georgia, where, unlike
Massachusetts, she could get the death penalty.
So she’s orchestrating something, possibly an escape from a Boston hospital
that can’t possibly offer the level of security a forensic facility like Butler has.

“I’m just trying to figure out who was around when her body came in,” Marino continues to badger Mandy O’Toole.
“Because the
case bugs me.
You ask me, there’s something not right about it.
It’s a little unusual for a histologist to be working at nine
o’clock at night, and that’s bugging me, too.”

“The night Barrie Lou Rivers died, I was working late in my lab, on deadline for a journal article about types of fixatives,”
she says.

“I thought that’s what old people use to keep their dentures glued in.”

“The advantages of glutaraldehyde for electron microscopy, and the problems of mercurials.”

“I don’t like mercurial people, either.
They’re a pain in the ass.”

“Disposing of the tissue is problematic, since mercury
is a heavy metal.”
She’s toying with him, too.
“You know, maybe better to use Bouin’s solution if what you’re after is nuclear
detail.
Course, when I work with Bouin’s I end up with yellow fingers for a while if I forget and touch something without
gloves.”

“Bet that’s hard to explain on a date.”

“When Colin got the call from the prison I was still here, right down the hall,” she gets back to that, “and I told him I’d
hang out and get his table set up, help in any way needed.
But I wasn’t a witness.”

“What about rumors,” Marino again says.
“What was the word about what happened to her?”

“Originally it was thought that Barrie Lou Rivers choked on her last meal.
But no evidence of that.
No rumors I’ve heard in
recent memory.
Nobody was talking about the case anymore until Jaime Berger started looking into it.
I would offer water,
coffee, but I can’t leave the room.
You want something, just tell me and I’ll make a call.”
She directs this at me.
“If you
want something,” she says, smiling at Marino as she puts her headphones back on, “get it yourself.”

“Suze mentioned one thing kind of interesting about Barrie Lou Rivers’s CO level,” Marino tells me, as his attention continues
drifting back to Mandy.
“It was like eight percent.
She says normal’s maybe six at most.”