CHAPTER FOUR
JUNE 8, MORNING
Silly me. I thought that once the arraignment was over, things might die down in town. Unfortunately, it was a slow news week, and because of bail and an acute lack of funds precipitated by the fact that almost everything was in Houston’s name, Marla Kincaid was stuck in Telluride. I was amazed at how quickly the news-hounds multiplied in the twenty-four hours following the bail hearing. Both towns, venerable old Telluride in the valley, and Mountain Village, created to service the ski industry on the mountain, were choked with news vans sporting satellite dishes and reporters shoving microphones in the faces of passersby and the festivities showed no sign of dying down. I preferred to hide out in my office, and did so happily, avoiding the reporters seeking to score an interview with the pathologist who had cut Mitch Houston open and laid all his secrets bare. Six or seven of them camped out on the doorstep of the Western Slope Forensic Center, known in these parts as simply The Center, badgering my staff for access to me.
The Center is housed in a renovated brick warehouse I resurrected as the home for my pet project when I retreated to Telluride after John's death. Between the grocery and the bakery that are just across the street, the area is pretty well-traveled. The crowd was making a bottleneck in our quiet little town, right in front of my office, and because of the proximity of food, the reporters had no particular reason to disperse. Finally, Tina, the receptionist, came to my office in disgust.
“Will you just please go talk to them so they will leave us alone? I can’t even get across the street, and I want to go home. They keep pestering us, but it’s you they really want.”
I scowled at Tina, who was pushing her hair back from her forehead in frustration. I took a leaf from my old Granny’s book of stock answers.
“Wantin’ ain’t gettin’, Tina. I have absolutely no desire to talk to them.”
I was surprised at her acidic response. “Well, neither do I. Nobody around here cares about what you want, Dr. Wallace. You get paid the big bucks, and we’re getting the problems. Now you get down there and talk to them.”
She stood, hands on hips, clearly not willing to move until I rescued her from the hordes milling about. She had a point. My hiding wasn’t making the problem go away, and it was making life miserable for my staff. I stood up, dropping the file I had been working on—a printout of Houston’s autopsy findings and the lab results that Norman had just brought that confirmed my suspicions—onto my cluttered desk.
“Come on,” I said.
Tina stood fast.
“No way. You go clear the trail. I’ll stay here, thanks.”
She watched me with aggravated eyes as I passed her and stepped into the hallway. I heard her muttering under her breath as I passed.
She wasn’t kidding. The lobby was empty because Tina had had the sense to lock the glass doors; I could see the keys dangling from the lock. Outside, I counted three cameramen, seven reporters, four women, three men, in various states of costume from suits to jeans, clutching notebooks or dangling foam-topped microphones, their rectangular station flags upside down in anticipation of being pressed into service. When they saw me through the glass, they snapped to like a well-drilled platoon, pens at the ready and microphones at attention. I scowled, strode to the door, and turned the key. The unruly horde threatened to surge through the door as I swung it open. I was having none of that.
“Get back,” I barked in my best courtroom voice. “If you want to talk to me, it’s going to be outside, not in here.” I planted myself in the center of the doorway and dared anyone to defy me. I haven’t lost my touch. Either that, or they were so anxious for information that they were willing to curb their reportorial instincts for the greater journalistic good. I stepped out, let the door swing shut behind me and backed up against it for good measure to keep them from sneaking by me and foraging in the office on their own. I pulled out my cell—in my pocket for once—and called my office. Tina answered. “Get down here and lock these doors behind me.”
I heard a chuckle, and the line went dead. I stared down the reporters until I heard the lock click behind me. I turned to glimpse Tina giving me the thumbs-up and a cheeky grin.
Sensing that to be some sort of starting gun, the throng erupted into a barrage of questions. I caught the occasional word, but it was worse than being the token conservative on CNN, each one talking over the other and no chance for me to get a word in edgewise.
“Knock it off,” I finally shouted, then remembered with annoyance that the cameras were running and the mikes recording, and that I would undoubtedly be on the evening news with that resoundingly inane remark. Oh well, at least the soft, yellow, brick façade of the building would make a nice backdrop. I took a deep breath and tried again.
“I am happy to answer your questions,” I said. “But one at a time and that’s it. I am not here to be harassed and neither is my staff. Mind your manners — ” I cringed again, that wouldn’t play well either, “ —and let’s get on with it.”
A bearded man in a green polo shirt with the logo of a Denver station spoke first.
“What did you find at Houston’s autopsy?”
“He was shot.”
“Anything else important?” He eyed me, fishing for information.
“Depends on what you mean by important. Nothing much more important than the bullet that kills a man, at least in my book.” I hoped it was enough of a non-denial denial to throw him off track. It wasn’t, but another of his colleagues picked up the scent.
“What about the rumor that Houston had AIDS?”
“I don’t listen to rumors.”
“Did you test for it?”
“We took the usual post-mortem tests for infectious diseases and toxicology.”
“When do you expect the results?”
This from a petite blonde in the front row, probably the only person in Telluride history to walk the streets in broad daylight in an elegant, powder-blue St. John’s suit and Manolo Blaniks. Probably from one of the cable entertainment networks. They must pay well.
“They won’t be released until day after tomorrow.”
“Why so long?”
This bunch was as bad as a pack of jackals. No wonder Tina lost patience. I tried the honey-not-vinegar approach.
“I know it seems like a long time, but really, that’s pretty prompt. Big city offices would take a week or more.” I smiled, only baring my teeth a little. “I’ll issue a statement sometime that afternoon.” The fact of the matter was that the autopsy was already complete; I was just waiting on ballistics to sign, seal and deliver it.
The guy in the jeans circled back.
“Were there any physical findings that led you to suspect AIDS?”
“You’re going to have to wait for the press release for details. I don’t discuss autopsy findings on sidewalks in the hearing of every Tom, Dick, and Harry in town. It’s not respectful to the decedent, nor the family.”
“So let us inside. That way you can keep the family’s privacy.”
The fellow was persistent, I had to give him that. I gave the appearance of consideration before answering, although it was the original no-brainer.
“No, I don’t think so. My office has work to do and doesn’t need you folks cluttering up the place. I’ll release a statement in a day or two. Until then, I would request that you leave me and my staff alone.” I smiled again, more teeth. “I do hope I won’t have to call on Sheriff Patterson to maintain the operations of my office.”
“Is that a threat?” This from an indignant, middle-aged woman wearing a long skirt, a sleeveless tee-shirt and no foundation garments. She was busily scribbling on a notepad, and her expression was thunderous.
“It is not. It’s a request for you to conduct yourselves like professionals. And an assurance that, whether or not you do, I will.” I held up a hand as the crowd started to murmur again. “That’s it, gentlemen and ladies.” I knew this would annoy the woman in the t-shirt, and I watched with satis
faction as she bristled outwardly and scribbled again. I needed to make certain for whom she wrote; this would definitely be an article to add to my scrapbook of assorted hate-mail and other assorted defamatory clippings.
I hadn’t noticed Tom Patterson coming up the walk. His voice boomed out over the backs of the reporters.
“Nobody gets the report until we do, and we don’t have it yet. Break it up for today. My office will see you get any information as soon as we do. No need to bother Dr. Wallace. Besides, the more you push, the more she’ll drag her feet. Keep this up, and we’ll be lucky to get that report by next Christmas.” His homely, good-natured face and honest smile defused the situation and prompted the reporters to disperse.
I did hear a variety of uncomplimentary references to me and my lineage as they moved on.
“You sure do have a knack for annoying people,” Patterson said. “Didn’t they teach you to make nice?”
Patterson is a good lawman but he’s also an elected official, mindful of the need to calm waters, soothe ruffled feathers, and appear to be everyone’s friend. A few years ago, a celebrated Aspen politician declared to the owner of a vacation home in the area that he didn’t have to listen to anyone who could not even vote for him in the local elections. Unfortunately, an ever-vigilant member of the fourth estate was nearby, and the remark made headlines. He discovered to his dismay that the remark did not sit well with the 47% of the local populace that actually lived there and didn’t vote for him in the last election, and they—and a few assorted owners of those expensive vacation homes who were being ignored—were able to sway enough of his own constituents to make, as they say in the political trade “a difference.” The fact that that particular politician was no longer a mover-and-shaker in Aspen politics was not lost on Tom Patterson.
“Where? In law school, where they teach verbal kung fu from day one? Or in pathology training, where I spend my day with dead folks? No, Tom, they didn’t teach me to make nice.” Well, not exactly. John tried, and could usually cajole me out of a contentious mood, but that time was long past.
“Figures,” he replied. “Got a minute to talk?”
I motioned to Tina, who had by now reassumed her place at the desk. She opened the door for us.
“Thanks,” she said. “It was getting kind of tough.”
“Keep it locked,” I instructed. “I don’t trust that lot any farther than I can throw them.”
Tom Patterson added, “If there’s any trouble, call me. I know you’ve got the cell.”
In point of fact, I was pretty sure Tina had the sheriff on speed dial. I suspected his arrival hadn’t been entirely fortuitous. I knew I should thank Tina, but the phone interrupted me.
“It’s been like that since we opened the doors. And it isn’t even noon.” Tina looked apologetic. And tired.
“Put them on forward,” I said. “Send it through to my cell, and go home. It’s going to be a long day.”
I hoped that would suffice for gratitude. It seemed to. Tina sprinted to the desk, punched a few buttons, and the cell in my pocket began magically to jangle. Patterson grinned as I answered, listened to yet another reporter, and more or less politely told him to buzz off.
“It’s not going to let up until you release that report,” he said.
“No kidding. And then it will just be different questions. Want a cup of coffee?” I punched the elevator call button, deciding that I’d had enough exercise for now, and we rode up in silence and continued it for the few steps from the elevator to the kitchen that was down the hall from my office. I had long since drunk up my own personal pot of coffee, but knew that there was always some in the kitchen. Quick was addicted to the stuff and had a pot going day and night. Tom took his coffee black, which was a good thing, since I noticed the half-and-half carton in the trash by the fridge. The pot had been on since Quick came downstairs at six, so the coffee was thick and dark and more than a little bitter. Penitential coffee, John would have called it. Whenever he found such an overdone pot, he’d poured it out and made fresh. I just suffered through it.
Patterson shared my pedestrian tastes in caffeine and took a long draw on his cup as I was pouring my own. He leaned against the counter, crossing his legs at the ankles, the sole of one scuffed brown, metal-toed boot visible. A hole was developing in the middle of it. Tom would have to visit the town cobbler, a Guatemalan man who had set up a portable shop near the coffee trailer in a small park near the east edge of town. I sipped my own coffee. It was truly foul, worse than usual.
“What’s up?” I asked.
Patterson put his cup on the counter beside him and folded his arms across his chest. In any other man, it would have been aggressive, or threatening. In Tom Patterson, it was just a way of being comfortable.
“I’m not the press. What do you have on Houston?”
“He had AIDS, complete with opportunistic infections. No drugs on board, but looks like he shot up. A little booze. Otherwise, pretty good shape. Thin, muscular. Liver, heart and lungs okay. Brain, not so much.”
“Range on the shot?”
“More than a couple of feet. She could have been standing by that dresser, dropping him where he fell on the rug.”
“That piddly little pepper-pot kill him?”
I could never tell whether Patterson’s affinity for archaic firearms terms was an affectation or just part of his down-home folksy persona.
“Well, the slug was too deformed to match.” I took another sip of coffee. “Is there really any doubt?” I suppressed my own concerns that the lump of metal from Houston's brain was too big to be from that .22.
My mind returned to that “just-a-bit-too-big” wad of lead. I suddenly found myself concerned that the state’s attorney, well seasoned but with a bit of a reputation for grandstanding, had jumped the gun, charging Marla Kincaid right out of the box instead of waiting a bit for my report. I wondered why. Patterson drained the mug.
“Not in my mind, but she claims she didn’t kill him. Says she fired the gun earlier in the day, shooting at a squirrel from her porch.” Patterson frowned. “Just doesn’t make sense to me. No reason for her to do that, and we’ll never prove it one way or another. She says she just wanted to see if she could still shoot.”
I had my doubts, too. A gunshot in Mountain Village would have resulted in a dozen 911 calls. Not only were the wealthy residents a little nervous about security, they also opposed guns in any form.
“What’s her story?”
“Says she went into town to walk around, went to the library, did a little shopping. Problem is, she didn’t buy anything. And people in this town are either so starstruck they’d claim they saw her even if she was in Timbuktu at the time—or so indifferent that they wouldn’t notice her.” He uncrossed his legs and straightened up. “I’ve got my guys poking around, but I sure could use a match on that bullet. To punctuate my report.” That was Tom’s version of attending to detail. “Johanssen is keeping her wrapped up pretty tight, but she posted bail within an hour of the hearing. I want to be on solid ground when the time comes. Wonder if she’ll change her story and plead self-defense?”
I thought about the crime scene again. I had to admit that Patterson’s story hung together well; it sure looked like Houston had been shot by an angry woman. He’d not been armed, and there were no scratches or defense wounds that would indicate a struggle. If I had been asked my opinion—and someday I would be—I’d say he’d been caught off guard.
“I can’t see self-defense, Tom. Diminished capacity—who knows?”
Tommy Berton had tried that ploy, but the D.A. had been able to circumvent it, if only because I had bird-dogged him so long that he finally put together the whole story of Berton’s meticulous, diabolical planning. I had no way of knowing whether Marla Kincaid had plotted. My heart wanted it to be so, but my mind’s jury was not only out, it was hung. Such dichotomies of mind and spirit were becoming increasingly common. Sign of a soft mind, I thought. Or a hard heart.
I shook off the thought and returned my attention to Patterson again.
“I agree, but what do I know? I’m just a dumb cop. Johanssen’s been pretty civilized, but Houston’s own lawyer has been driving me nuts—mostly trying to get me to file charges against you, I might add, for abuse of a corpse.”
“Let me know how that works out. My job description is pretty much abuse of corpses. He’s harmless, just pissed and full of himself.”
“Yeah, I know. He’ll get tired and go away as soon as Johanssen files suit against the estate. I gather he’s just waiting for your report. Marla Kincaid’s other Hollywood lawyer, the one who handles the entertainment stuff, is due in town tomorrow. That’s when the fireworks will really start.” Patterson contemplated his empty cup for a moment. “When do you think you’ll have the autopsy report?”
“It’s on my desk.” I finished my own coffee and put my cup in the sink. “Come on, I’ll get it for you.”
Patterson set his cup next to mine and followed me to the office. I handed Tom the review I’d been reading when Tina called. His face brightened as he scanned it. “Looks pretty clear-cut to me.”
“I’d like to take credit for it, Tom, but it’s a pretty easy case. Shot and killed, dropped where he stood. The lawyers will argue about what went on in Marla Kincaid’s head, not about what happened in that room.”
“That’s good. Nobody will be coming after my crew on the stand, then.” Patterson snagged an empty folder from the corner of my desk and slipped the report into it. “That will be an interesting discussion,” he said. “I have to tell you, if some randy bastard gave my baby girl HIV, I’d be inclined to shoot him myself.”
I didn’t like thinking of my own girls in that context, and raised a quiet prayer that they remembered the values they’d been taught as children now that they were out in the vicious world. Still, I remembered John, and the parking lot, and the fruits of revenge. I pushed Zoe and Beth out of my mind.
“Houston was someone’s baby, too, Tom. She shot him in cold blood.” I remembered myself and the defamation laws and amended, “Allegedly.”
Dying For Revenge (The Lady Doc Murders Book 1) Page 6