by Elaine Viets
“So that’s why you called me.” Now Angela was embarrassed by her tearful outburst. What the hell was wrong with her, carrying on like that? Angela stayed by Eecie, petting her soft nose and feeding her more peppermints. The racehorse’s quiet strength calmed her, and she was amused by the powerful animal’s childish greed for sweets. “Which experts, and when are they coming?”
“Carol Berman, the big-deal pathologist, is first. She’ll be here tomorrow. She’s doing the second autopsy on Luther. Evarts ordered me to be there.”
“That’s good.”
“I guess. But you know what he’s like. I’m walking a tightrope. Evarts is mad as hell that Monty questioned his judgment. He thinks Judge Boareman betrayed him when he ruled that the defense could have an independent autopsy. I thought he’d bust an artery when the judge said Evarts could attend the second autopsy. Chauncey meant it as a courtesy, but that’s not how Evarts saw it. He’s sending me in his place. I’m supposed to report on Carol’s findings. I have no freakin’ idea how I’m going to tell Evarts he screwed up Luther’s autopsy.”
“Maybe he got it right.”
“And maybe I’m Beyoncé in disguise. There’s a two percent chance he got it right—and I’m being generous.”
“He’s not that incompetent?”
Katie shrugged. “He does a decent job. But we both know he hates posting burn victims. It’s a good thing we don’t get many. The man lives on red meat and doesn’t want any reminders that we’re all roast on the hoof. Greiman told him what he and the fire investigator had found before Evarts even looked at Luther. He did a quick post, then wrote his report. By his lights, he did everything right: he consulted the experts and came to the conclusion he was supposed to. He made the blue bloods happy. Now this upstart lawyer is questioning him. When Carol Berman says he’s wrong, I’ll be the messenger, and you know what happens to the ones who bring bad news.”
“Is Carol Berman doing the autopsy at SOS?”
“No. That’s one break I get. Luther will be transported to the East Missouri State Medical Center in Franklin County. I won’t have Evarts stalking the hall, waiting for the news. It will give me time to prepare something to soften the blow. Luther’s family is furious that he’s going to be posted a second time. They say it’s disrespectful.”
“And cremating a man who burned to death isn’t?”
“I’m just saying. The day after Carol Berman gets here, the other two experts arrive—Mo Heedles and Laurie Hartig. They’re looking at the fire evidence. That will be at an independent lab here in the Forest. The next day, we’re all meeting at Lin Kalomeris’s law office in Saint Louis—Monty, Mo, Laurie, Carol Berman, and you, if you want to come.”
“Wouldn’t miss it. I’m guessing this meeting is also secret.”
“Top secret if we want to keep our jobs. That’s why it’s at six a.m.”
Angela winced at the early hour. She’d have to get up at four thirty to make it.
“Sorry about the time. Lin’s arranged for a breakfast buffet. All you need is enough coffee to get you to downtown Saint Louis. After the meeting, Monty will drive all three experts straight to the Saint Louis airport. I can be back in time for work. Are you working?”
“I’m off, unless there’s some kind of disaster.”
“Good. If for some reason you can’t make the meeting, leave me a message that breakfast is off. I’ll know what you mean.”
“Are you going to show Carol around the Forest?” Angela asked.
“Can’t risk it. I can’t show her any of the usual courtesies.”
“Too bad.”
Katie shrugged. “At least we got her for this job. Monty doesn’t say much, but he’s scared to death for Kendra. Luther’s family is doing their best to spread the poison. You wouldn’t recognize the old lech from their stories. Priscilla and Eve are carrying on like he was the sweetest, kindest, most generous husband and father until that Mexican she-devil led him astray.”
“But Kendra isn’t—”
“Mexican,” Katie finished. “I know that and so do you. But as far as the Forest is concerned, she just crossed the Rio Grande clinging to a tire. And her enterprising parents are taking good American jobs. Talk is, Jose helped her kill Luther. He could be arrested any day now.”
“No wonder Monty’s worried.”
“He’s a good guy. He’s fighting for her, but he’s worried.”
“For good reason. At least Kendra has enough money for her defense. As soon as you know what Carol concluded, will you call me?”
“Better wait until the meeting. What are you doing for the next two days?”
“Sitting in doctors’ offices. I have an MRI scheduled for tomorrow. If it shows the veins in my neck are open, I can get off Coumadin, and Doc Bartlett will quit sticking me with needles. Did you autopsy Zander yet?”
“This morning. It made me sick. I’m still waiting for the tox results. It looks like he died of a heroin overdose, but he didn’t shoot up. He snorted it. I found a powdery residue in his nasal passages. Someone stuck that needle in his arm in a clumsy attempt to make it look like he used a spike.”
“So he died during the party, and his rich friends abandoned him.”
“Looks that way. You were right about the livor mortis. The blood pooled on his right side and leg. He was lying on his side when he died, and he stayed in that position for several hours after his death. Then he was moved.”
“They left him lying dead at the party? I’ve seen it before, especially if everyone else was too stoned to do anything. But that’s so cold-blooded. No one tried to resuscitate him or call 911?”
“There’s no record of any call for help,” Katie said. “Whatever killed Zander, his friends were more interested in saving their own asses. I’m guessing after he died, they carried him to his car and dropped him in the trunk. The tech report says traces of feces were found in Zander’s BMW, along with some hair. Tests show those were his hairs and body fluids. It wouldn’t be unusual for Zander’s hair to be in his own car trunk, but I doubt that he would take a dump in his beloved Beemer. Butch thinks Zander’s body was hidden in his trunk, and then his car was moved a couple of hours later to Du Pont Close, and someone staged him so it looked like he’d OD’d with the needle. There’s unknown DNA on the syringe. The techs found an unknown print in the car trunk.”
“Which makes that person the last one who drove Zander’s car.”
“Looks like it. We have to find him, though.”
“Or her,” Angela said. “Zander’s death will be big news in the Forest.”
“Evarts is doing his best to make it bigger. He called a press conference at three this afternoon.”
“So it will be splashed all over the evening news tonight.”
“He didn’t have to wait till tonight, Angela. It’s already a ‘special report’ on two stations. Take a look at my iPad.”
On the small screen, Dr. Evarts Evans looked like one of the kindly, white-haired “nine out of ten doctors” who made TV recommendations. Camera-ready in a blue shirt, red tie, and starched lab coat, he delivered sound bites that were crisp and easy to edit.
“Heroin abuse is a growing concern in our country,” he said. “More young people are dying from this drug than ever before. Yesterday, a teenager died of a heroin overdose here in Chouteau County. Out of respect for his family, I will not release his name, but he was disadvantaged.”
“Disadvantaged?” Angela said.
“Poor white trash,” Katie said. “Zander was a Toonerville kid.”
Evarts cleared his throat. “This young person was also a dealer. Police found a felony quantity of heroin in his vehicle as well as drug paraphernalia. These included the so-called love roses, which are used as pipes to smoke heroin and crack.”
Video of a love-rose pipe with a chunk of copper scrubber appeared on the screen.
“Earlier this week, we had another death in the area that could be attributed to possible heroin use�
�a sixteen-year-old male who had a high level of opiates in his blood when he collided with a truck on Bodman Road in southwest Chouteau County. The driver of the truck was not charged. The victim lived in Jefferson County.”
Angela said, “Evarts is using all the code words to let the locals know the two dead heroin users weren’t Forest blue bloods.”
“He can’t say the flower of the Forest aristocracy is using smack.”
Evarts looked straight into the camera. “Since 2007, heroin overdose deaths have shot up.”
“That was a poor choice of words,” Angela said.
Evarts erupted with a flow of statistics. “Heroin is one of the most addictive drugs in the world. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention counted nearly ten thousand six hundred heroin overdose deaths in 2014. That’s five times the heroin death rate in the twelve years from 2002 to 2014. Five times.
“Prescription painkillers are a major factor in heroin use. They are the gateway drugs. Young people get them from their family or friends or use their own prescriptions. But prescription painkillers are expensive, and the supply is drying up since authorities have cracked down on the so-called pain centers that dispensed them with little or no medical supervision. People have turned to heroin, which is cheaper and more available.
“Authorities believe that the deceased drug dealer got his heroin in Saint Louis. That city has a significant drug problem. The Mexican cartels are bringing cheap heroin into Saint Louis. Sometimes the Mexicans give it away free to hook their customers.”
“There’s your Mexican connection,” Angela said.
“Easy drug money is a temptation to our poorer youth,” Evarts said. “I’m asking parents to check their children for signs of drug use. Children as young as ten years old have been known to use heroin. Common signs of drug abuse include poor personal hygiene, reckless behavior, and withdrawal from friends, family, and activities.”
“He’s just described your average teenager,” Angela said.
Evarts continued, “Additional signs of heroin abuse include a runny nose or constant sniffing, needle marks on arms or even legs, slurred speech, poor motivation, hostility, and possession of drug paraphernalia. Some of these may sound like normal adolescent behavior, but if you see three or more of these signs, it’s time to find out what the problem is. Even if your child isn’t abusing heroin, it could be some other important issue that needs to be addressed.”
“Nice save,” Katie said.
“I keep thinking about poor Zander’s mother,” Angela said. “She saw the signs and couldn’t do anything to save her boy.”
“That bastard Evarts. Not only is that boy dead, he’s labeled a dealer and ‘disadvantaged.’ That’s fuckin’ heartless. At least he didn’t use Zander’s name.”
“Did you notice anything odd about that press conference?”
“It was all odd,” Katie said. “And self-serving.”
“But there was no mention of the burns on Zander’s hands or the homemade fire starters in his car. Is Evarts covering up the fact that Zander may be the Forest arsonist?”
“Evarts does whatever will advance his career. We both know that. Clearing Kendra would upset a lot of powerful people.”
CHAPTER 28
Days ten, eleven
KEEP OUR CHILDREN SAFE AT HOME, screamed the headline in the Chouteau Forest Chronicle. The self-anointed “Voice of the Forest” shouted its disapproval of Saint Louis in the editorial, spouting statistics on the city’s “drug problem” and trotting out the murder rate. The editorial said:
Saint Louis is one of the ten most dangerous cities in the nation. Mexican cartels are selling cheap heroin at prices as low as five dollars for each button, which is about one-tenth of a gram of powdered heroin. Officials say the Mexican gangs give away free samples to hook our unsuspecting young people.
The editorial said that as if the Forest had gates and moats to keep outsiders away.
We must keep them away from the Mexican menace. Saint Louis is a bad influence on our young people. There is no reason to leave the Forest for that dirty, dangerous city. We have everything here at home in Chouteau County.
Right, Angela thought. Including our own homegrown arsonists and drug dealers. That editorial was a prime example of Forest thinking: Crime didn’t happen in the enchanted enclave of Chouteau County, which was filled with decent, upstanding rich people. Except when it was committed by “Mexican” outsiders like Kendra Salvato and “disadvantaged” teens like Zander Soran—and they didn’t belong.
Angela was disgusted with the rag’s insular view. Free and worth every penny, she thought. That’s what I get for not bringing a book to Doc Bartlett’s office. She flung the paper on the empty plastic chair next to her. The liver-spotted old man leaning on his cane raised his bushy eyebrows in surprise. Angela tried to give him a reassuring smile.
She was tired of waiting in yet another doctor’s office. Yesterday, she’d had her MRI at eight in the morning, then she’d been poked, picked at, and probed by a neurologist, a hematologist, and a cardiologist. This morning, she’d cleaned house. Now it was two thirty, and she’d been waiting half an hour for her two o’clock appointment. Dr. Bartlett was going to give her the test results and the final verdict. Angela had been taking Coumadin—the main ingredient in rat poison—for more than a year after the strokes, and the ugly gray pills had to be monitored carefully. So did her food. Even a spinach salad could throw off the delicate balance she’d worked to achieve. Her arms were covered with bruises, old and new, from as many as four blood draws a week.
If this MRI showed that her carotid arteries were open, she could switch to another, simpler medication. That would give her an additional two to six hours a week free. Since she’d started her stroke recovery, she’d pushed hard to get off Coumadin.
At two forty-five, a grumpy Angela was finally called into Doc Bartlett’s office, then left to brood in an examination room for another fifteen minutes. At least she didn’t have to change into a paper gown. After the nurse took her blood pressure, Angela studied a photo of orange-and-red autumn leaves on the wall. The doctor was a better-than-average nature photographer and decorated her office with photos of sunsets, leaves, trees, and even leaping trout.
Finally, the short, sturdy doctor breezed in, all smiles, holding Angela’s thick chart. “Good news! Your test results were excellent. Your carotids are open. No more Coumadin.”
“Wonderful!” Angela’s pique was forgotten.
“You’ll have to take an aspirin every day, but that’s it.”
Angela nearly floated out of the doctor’s office, she was so happy. She was sure she could abandon the cane soon. The day was a perfect match to her mood—sunny and warm with a light breeze. She’d settled herself into her car when her cell phone rang, and she checked the display: J. Salvato.
Why was Kendra’s father calling her?
Jose sounded rushed and frightened. “Miss Richman, it’s Jose. I’m in trouble. I can’t find Mr. Bryant, the lawyer. He doesn’t answer his cell phone, and his office line is busy.”
“Monty’s at Luther’s autopsy. His phone is probably turned off. What’s wrong?”
“I’ve done something terrible. I hit a police officer.”
“Who? What happened?”
“That Detective Greiman.”
I’ve wanted to hit him myself, Angela thought, then remembered that was the old Ray Greiman. She was supposed to be working with the new, improved Greiman.
“He said something terrible about Kendra. No father would stand for it. I have a temper, and I hit him. Then I ran.”
“You slugged a cop and fled the scene? Where are you?”
“In the storage shed behind the gas station on McKenzie Road. Next to the machine to fill your tires with air.”
“That’s about two blocks from where I am. Hang on and I’ll get you. You can tell me what’s wrong after I pick you up.”
“Hurry, Miss Richman. The police are eve
rywhere.”
Angela peeled out of the doctor’s parking lot, then slowed down. She couldn’t risk getting stopped now. If she was caught with a fugitive, she’d lose her job. At the gas station, she parked around the back by the storage shed. The door was partly open, and Jose was crouched behind a stack of cardboard boxes, sweat running down his face. He was grass-stained and stank of sweat and fear.
“Jose, get in the back of my car and keep your head down. I’ll be right back.”
She caned her way into the gas station, bought a bottle of water so her stop wouldn’t look suspicious, then opened her car trunk and pulled out a white cotton sheet, the kind used for a body actualization.
Jose was crouching in the foot well behind the passenger seat. She handed him the water. “I’m covering you with this sheet, just to be safe, and taking you to Monty’s office. Tell me what happened on the way over. It will only take a few minutes.”
Jose took a long, thirsty drink as the sheet settled over him. “Will Mr. Bryant still represent me after what I did?”
“If he represents accused murderers, I’m sure he’ll take on a cop slugger. But he’ll answer that question. Tell me what happened.”
Jose’s voice was steady and only slightly muffled by the sheet. At first, his accent was thicker than usual, and he stumbled over his words, but as he grew confident, those issues disappeared.
“My crew and I were working at the Stockton Apartments. Detective Greiman called my office and asked my receptionist where I was. She told him, and he stopped by the apartments. He said he had a few questions for me. I told the crew to finish mowing the lawn while I talked to him. He asked me lots of questions—many of them the same one, over and over. I didn’t like their tone.
“He asked if the Porter Gravois estate still owed me money. I said they owed me two thousand dollars, but I’d written that off as a bad debt. Dr. Gravois is dead, and his widow has no money. There was no point in pursuing any action against her or the estate.
“He didn’t believe me. He said two thousand dollars was a lot of money. I agreed, but if someone doesn’t have it, then you have to let it go. He kept repeating that it was a lot of money, over and over. I couldn’t convince him that I wasn’t pursuing the money.