Until the Final Verdict (7 page)

“S
HIT.
”
Lieutenant James “Jazzbo” Miller dragged deep on his filtered Camel and picked up his desk phone. “Miller.”

“This is Deputy Rafael Cruz, Judge Tucker's bailiff. I need to talk to you.”

Miller ran his fingers through his thick red hair and blew a smoke ring at the No Smoking sign on his office wall, a relic from his boss Dave Granz' tenure as Sheriff's Chief of Detectives.

“What's on your mind, Cruz?”

“I'd rather not talk over the phone. I'm down in the Tombs.” It was an apt nickname for the impregnable bunker beneath the court building, where inmates were held, often for hours, while waiting for their cases to be called on the floor above.

Miller sucked in another lungful of smoke and checked his watch. “It's almost five o'clock. I was just on my way out. Can't it wait till tomorrow?”

“I don't think it should.”

“Be there in fifteen minutes.”

Jazzbo Miller was overweight, with a ruddy complexion, a full beard, and a tobacco-yellow smile. The nickname derived from his avocation as a trombonist in a jazz combo.

He punched his ID number into the electronic security panel and swung the door open. Except for a bench around the perimeter, poured as an integral part of the concrete wall's construction, the vast room was devoid of furnishings or conveniences. Steel rings set into the walls above the bench were used to shackle waiting in-custodies, and two wooden doors accessed tiny cells where violent inmates or those who posed special security risks were segregated. The floor sloped to the middle, and iron grates were bolted over drains every ten feet down the center of the room. A door at the far end, identical to the one through which he had entered, accessed a subterranean tunnel between the Tombs and both the jail and the women's detention facility across the street.

Rafael Cruz was twenty-six, short, stocky, and looked like he spent all his spare time at World Gym. Even with less than two years on the job, he projected an air of quiet competence. “I think Tucker was having an affair.”

“You
think?
Just tell me what you know, I'll sort it out.”

Suddenly, a heavy-duty electrical relay kicked in,
an electric motor whined, bogged down under load, then a loud sucking noise was followed by the sound of rushing water.

“What's that?” Miller asked.

“Sump pump,” Cruz explained. “When they excavated the Tombs, the floor was below groundwater level. Water seeps in and the pump dumps it back into the river through a series of pipes.”

He thought for a moment. “A few months back, Tucker's husband was calling two or three times a day and if court was in session, she'd call a recess to talk to him. A couple of times I knocked on her door and heard her crying. She seemed upset—you know, like someone having marital problems.”

“That made you think she was having an affair?”

Cruz shook his head. “A couple of months ago, the calls stopped. About the same time, I noticed Keefe spending a lot of time in Tucker's chambers.”

“Reginald Keefe?”

“Yeah.”

“It's not unusual for judges to meet in chambers to discuss a case. How long did their visits last?”

“Long enough, if you catch my drift. And they spent their coffee breaks together almost every day, sometimes in the cafeteria, usually in her chambers. Lunch hours, too.”

“Anything else?”

“The day before she was killed—last Thursday—I went for a run at noon, along the trail by the river. I was just approaching the base of the footbridge that crosses over to the theater when I spot Keefe and Tucker about halfway across, walking close together.
I guess they couldn't see me because of the trees. Anyway, Keefe looks around, probably to be sure nobody's watching, then puts his hand on Tucker's shoulder. She slips her arm around his waist and he leans over and kisses her. Just a quick peck on the lips, but then he looks around, kisses her again, then they keep walking like nothing happened.”

“You sure about this?”

“I know what I saw. Tucker and Keefe were having an affair.”

B
EFORE STEPPING OUT
of the elevator, Granz took several deep breaths, sucked the last one deep into his lungs, and held it while he hurried down the hall past the empty gurneys and swung open the office door.

Morgan Nelson removed his reading glasses, stood up, and held out his hand. “Congratulations, Dave. Katie called me last night.”

Granz shook the water off his raincoat and draped it over a stack of banker's boxes filled with old autopsy protocols. “I got lucky.”

Nelson sat back down and motioned Granz to do the same. “You both did.”

Granz studied Nelson's face, which was even more solemn than usual. “You don't seem that happy, Doc.”

“Just tired.”

Not much bigger than a walk-in closet, Nelson's office contained only a desk and chair, an old wooden visitor's chair, and a metal bookcase full of dog-eared medical references. Floor-to-ceiling shelves overflowed with diplomas, awards, newspaper clippings, forensic journals, medical paraphernalia, and specimen jars containing human brains and tissue samples preserved in formaldehyde.

“Sorry to ask you to come so early,” Nelson said.

“No problem. When you called at eight, I'd been at my office for over an hour, catching up on the paperwork that didn't get done while we were in Spain. Besides, it sounded important.”

“It is. Tucker's rape-kit results came back positive for semen on one of the vaginal swabs.”

“So, she
was
raped.”

Nelson shook his head. “There were no vaginal tears, lacerations, or abrasions.”

“She had consensual sex before she was killed?”

“Looks like.”

“How long before?”

“DNA tests can't tell us how old a biological sample is or when it was deposited, but sperm in the semen migrate up the ovarian tract or degrade quickly. If we recover sperm from the vagina, it's usually not more than twenty-four to forty-eight hours old—seventy-two hours at most.”

Nelson rubbed his bloodshot eyes, then ran a hand over the stubble on his chin, clasped his hands on his desk, and leaned forward.

“There's more. One of the anal swabs came back positive for semen, as well.”

“From the same sexual encounter?”

“Impossible to tell. There were no tears or abrasions but the swabs also revealed traces of a lubricant, so it was probably consensual anal sex. Until the DNA test results come back, we won't know if both deposits were left by the same man, two men, or several men. Even then it won't be much help unless you have someone to compare.”

Granz crossed his right leg over his left, then quickly brought Nelson up to speed on the suspicions Deputy Cruz had related to Miller.

“She had sex before she was killed,” Granz summed up, “probably with Keefe or Sanchez. I'll get a search warrant to seize their blood standards for comparison.”

“That won't tell you whether the man—or men—who deposited the semen murdered her. It's possible she had sex with Keefe
and
Sanchez within forty-eight hours of her death, but neither killed her.”

“True. How long before the DNA results come back?”

“Could be twenty-four hours or a couple of months. Depends on whether or not the lab puts it on the back burner.”

“Call Building Forty-six-A, hustle 'em up,” he told him, using cop jargon for the Department of Justice lab at 46A Research Drive.

“I'll try.”

Granz started to stand, but Nelson motioned him
to sit. “One more thing. I autopsied Simmons last night.”

“And?”

“No atherosclerosis.”

“Give it to me in language I understand.”

“No accumulation of plaque deposits in the lining of the arteries—no evidence of coronary heart disease, disorders of the heart valves, or diseases of the heart muscle or pericardium.”

“Doesn't make sense.”

“Judging from what Katie told me, I agree. Tell me exactly what happened on that plane.”

When Granz finished, he asked, “When you chased the drunk into the lavatory, where was Kate?”

“With Simmons.”

“The whole time?”

“Except when I had her bring a camera to take photographs. She went back to her seat while I secured the crime scene.”

“Then what?”

“She yelled for me to help resuscitate Simmons.”

“How long after Kate went back to her seat did Simmons collapse?”

“A few minutes.”

“Had Simmons been eating or drinking anything?”

“The flight attendant poured him a Diet Coke, but he never got it because the drunk crashed into her cart. What's up with all these questions?”

“Just trying to figure out what happened.”

“Simmons had a heart attack.”

“No, it wasn't a myocardial infarction.”

“If it wasn't a heart attack, what killed him?”

“I won't know for sure until I get the blood-toxicology report. But when I do, the question might not be
what
killed him.” Nelson cleared his throat. “Have you and Katie moved in together?”

“Not until after we tell Emma this weekend. Why?”

“I might need to talk to you before next week.”

D
AVE
G
RANZ OPENED ONE EYE
and squinted at the clock on the nightstand. “Hello.”

“Dave, Morgan Nelson. I'm glad I caught you at home instead of at Kate's.”

“We're going to tell Emma today, then we'll figure out where to live. What's up at seven o'clock on Saturday morning?”

“We need to talk.”

“Sure, when?”

“Fifteen minutes?”

“I can't get to my office that fast, make it an hour.”

“How about I come to your house, then?”

“I'll have coffee waiting.”

He slipped on a pair of faded Levi's and Fila thongs, then rummaged through a dresser and pulled
out a Harley-Davidson T-shirt with a bald eagle gripping lightning bolts in both talons. The front showed a biker with one leg over a candy-apple-red ElectraGlide. Arched over the biker's head, the logo said,
release your lightning, feel the thunder.

He slipped the worn shirt over his head, filled a water pot and set it on a burner, ground fresh Sumatran beans and dumped them into paper filters, then placed the cones over two clear-glass mugs that he had preheated with hot tap water.

After he brushed his teeth and made his bed, he tossed the remains of Friday night's dinner with Kathryn—four almost-empty Chinese take-out cartons, three empty Corona Light beer bottles, and an empty pint of Baskin-Robbins chocolate chip icecream—into the garbage.

The doorbell rang just as he finished pouring boiling water over the coffee grounds. When he opened the door, he found Nelson wearing a sweatshirt over wrinkled green surgical scrubs.

“You're a damn workaholic. Do you ever sleep?”

“When it's unavoidable. Can I come in?”

Granz led him to the kitchen and handed him a steaming cup of coffee, then pointed at the leather sofa. “Let's sit in the living room.

“I'm not complaining, but I can't recall the last time you came to my home. We'll do better when it's Kate, Emma, and me living together.”

“The last time was when I brought you home from Quick Doc Box after that fiasco with Julia Soto.”

Granz closed his eyes and reopened them slowly. “The morning after she accused me of raping her, and
they threatened to throw my ass in the slammer if I refused a suspect kit so they could gather evidence to hang me. Not one of my best days.”

“Mine, either, but I knew you didn't rape her.”

“What if Kate hadn't
proven
I didn't?”

“Wouldn't have mattered.”

“Besides Kate, you were the
only
person who believed me.”

“I know you.”

He studied his friend, who sipped silently at his coffee.

Nelson stroked his chin with his fingers, started to say something, but stopped.

“Something's on your mind, Doc—spit it out.”

“You and Katie being married makes it harder.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don't know how to say it, so why don't I let this do the talking for me.” Nelson slid a folded sheet of paper out from under his sweatshirt, hesitated, then held it out wordlessly.

Granz read it quickly, looked up, and reread it carefully. “This says Simmons died of a drug overdose.”

“Digitalis, to be exact.”

“Simmons murdered Hal Benton with digitalis to make it look like a routine heart attack.”

“And it did, if any heart attack can be called ‘routine.' Digitalis is one of the most potent heart medications ever developed, and one of the most lethal. It's a fine line between a therapeutic dose that restores a heart to normal functions, and a fatal dose that induces palpitations, arrhythmia, and tachycardia, then total cardiac arrest and death within minutes.”

“Heart attack symptoms.”

“Yes, symptoms a physician might misdiagnose, like I did with Benton—if someone he trusted intentionally misled him.”

“Someone like Simmons.”

“Simmons was a damn fine physician. When he said Benton died of a heart attack, like a fool I didn't question it.”

“You had no reason to question it.”

“Like hell! I didn't even run a tox screen on Benton's blood until I suspected that Simmons—someone I trusted—was lying to conceal his crime.”

“Why would you have thought he was concealing something?”

“Because it's my job to suspect everything and everybody. I didn't make the same mistake this time.”

“We searched Simmons before he boarded the plane. He had no drugs on him, much less a stash of digitalis.”

“That's my point, Dave. He didn't kill himself.”

“So, you're saying someone murdered him. But who? And how?”

“Figure out how, you'll know who.”

Granz paused. “I don't think I like where this conversation seems to be going, Doc.”

Nelson shook his head and sighed. “Me, neither. Let's go over the sequence of events again. You said the only time Simmons was alone was when Kate brought you the camera. How long did that take?”

“Maybe ten minutes. She was anxious to get back to Simmons.”

“How far was it from the first-class lavatory to your seats?”

“We were in row six at the front of the coach section. There's a partition between first class and coach . . . twelve or fifteen feet.”

“Where was Simmons seated?”

“The middle seat in our row.”

“Could you see him from the lavatory?”

“No.”

Nelson set his coffee on the table in front of the sofa and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

“Ingested digitalis is absorbed into the bloodstream quickly.” His voice was soft, like he was thinking aloud, not talking to Granz. “That's about right.”

“What's about right?”

“The only time you, Kate, and Simmons weren't together was when you were securing the lavatory. It takes about ten minutes for a massive digitalis overdose to induce symptoms that mimic a heart attack. Ten minutes after you leave Kate alone with Simmons, he collapses and dies from an apparent heart attack.”

Granz froze, coffee cup halfway to his mouth. “You're implying Kathryn murdered Robert Simmons. Jesus Christ, she's my wife!”

“I know, and except for you, the only friend I have in the world.”

“Then what the fuck are you doing?”

“Restating the facts, hoping one of us will come up with another explanation. Help me out.”

“Kathryn's not capable of murder.”

“Under the right circumstances, we're all capable of murder.”

“Bullshit!”

“You can't ignore the facts, and the facts say Kathryn may have murdered Robert Simmons.”

Granz leaned back on the sofa, silent.

“Dave?” Nelson prompted.

“What th' fuck do I do now, Doc?”

“Your job.”