by Sydney Bauer
Joe nodded before reaching over to turn the document to page three. ‘The second sample of blood in the bedroom is confirmed as belonging to your client. The blood spatter pattern on the carpet confirmed Svenson's hypothesis that the baby was cradled while she bled to death.’ Joe flipped to page four. ‘Sienna Walker's prints are all over the scene except for on the light switch, and it is most likely that Martinelli's subsequent analysis on the nightshirt and Gus Svenson's autopsy will dot the I's and cross the T's on the DA's case against your client.’ Joe took a breath. ‘I'm sorry, David.’
David was grateful for his friend's sympathy, but it didn't make things any easier.
‘You've spoken to your client about all this?’ asked Joe, now nearing that line from the other side.
David looked at his friend. ‘You're gonna find this hard to believe, Joe, but a lot of this can be explained.’
Joe sat back in his seat and said nothing, perhaps sensing it was now time for David to decide how much they should share. But David trusted Joe implicitly, and so he began by telling him what Sienna Walker had put to them early yesterday morning about the gutter pipe and the timing on its dripping, her queries about the presence of the dog squad on the night of the murder, and the lack of any wounds on her unblemished skin. Next would come Sienna's theory on Daniel Hunt's involvement, but first things first, thought David. He understood the magnitude of what he'd be asking of his detective friend, and as such, out of respect, he sensed he would need to play things the way Joe would want to play them – one careful step at a time.
Joe listened intently, his face expressionless as he took it all in. He relaxed his shoulders, letting the information settle on him, not speaking for moments until, ‘The K9s were there the night of the murder,’ he said, perhaps chastising himself for not considering this anomaly earlier. ‘And it was raining all week, so she has a point about the dripping.’
David waited for a contemplative Joe to continue, which he eventually did. ‘Did you get hold of the examination reports done on your client at Mass General and then at County on the night of and two days after the murder?’ he asked. ‘And if so, was there any sign of her having suffered any injury?’
Joe was asking about a knife wound. ‘I did, and there's no record of any cuts, Joe.’
Joe's cheeks flushed. ‘Katz told me the report from County confirmed your client was cut – at least …’ Joe paused, trying to remember, ‘… he alluded to it, shut me down when I asked about it.’
David shook his head. ‘He was lying.’
‘It wasn't somewhere obscure, somewhere it could have been missed?’ asked Joe.
‘I saw her, Joe,’ he said. ‘There is no cut.’
Joe's brow furrowed again, but he did not question his friend further. Instead he sat forward again and turned to page five, needing to get through it. ‘Hair samples in the bedroom don't tell us anything given the only ones found belonged to the baby and the mother. The carpet was basically clean of any dirt or other trace minerals, except for some small amounts of soil matter which were matched with that found in the Walkers' courtyard – basically the stuff that the housekeeper's afternoon vacuuming did not pick up.’
More bad news. If someone – say, Daniel Hunt – had come in from outside after the housekeeper had cleaned then there should have been some foreign soil or grain particles tracked in later that night.
‘What about fibres?’ asked David, as Joe turned to page six.
Joe pointed at Martinelli's analysis. ‘The fibres in the room were consistent with those found in the rest of the house. They matched cotton fibres from towels found in the linen closet, wool fibres from the downstairs rug and so forth.’ He looked up at David. ‘Your client keeps a clean house, David, which isn't doing her any favours.’
David sighed, sensing he wasn't about to catch a break anytime soon. And just as he was about to ask his friend if he had made any preliminary enquiries into the ‘accident’ that cause Jim Walker's death, the phone rang and Joe got up from the sofa to take it.
‘Mannix,’ David heard his friend say, before Joe fell silent, obviously listening intently to the speaker on the other end of the line. ‘What does that mean?’ he asked. Another long silence. ‘An injury?’
David's ears pricked up.
‘Oh …’ Joe spoke again. ‘It's in your copy of the report. Pathology results on his testing. Can you ring the lab and confirm it and then text me?’
Another pause.
‘Okay, let me think on it.’ And then he hung up the phone.
‘What gives?’ asked David as Joe returned to the living room, this time taking a seat in the armchair directly across from his friend.
‘That was Martinelli,’ he said.
‘He's examining the nightshirt,’ said David.
‘Yes,’ replied Joe.
‘So what's up?’ asked an anxious David.
‘I'm not sure. Maybe nothing.’
David lifted his hands up in a gesture that said what the hell does that mean? He knew he was pushing, but he figured they were now beyond that point of no return.
Joe took a breath. ‘This is early stuff, David.’
‘I know, Joe, and I'm sorry but …’
Joe held up his hand, suggesting that David save it. ‘First up, has your client suffered any sporting injuries of late?’
‘I told you there were no cuts, Joe.’
Joe shook his head. ‘Not cuts – you know, strained muscles, inflammation, that sort of thing?’
David shook his head. ‘I'm not sure – why?’
‘Martinelli found traces of dimethyl sulfoxide in her blood.’
Dimethyl sulfoxide or DMSO – David was familiar with this particular drug. He had not only seen it on other autopsy reports but he had actually taken it himself. ‘It's an anti-inflammatory, right?’ he asked. ‘I used it once for a rugby injury – it came in a powder you could dissolve in water, or you could use it directly on the injured area as a cream.’
Joe nodded. ‘It cuts pain by blocking peripheral nerves and fibres. The relief is immediate because it penetrates the skin so quickly. They say you can taste it seconds after you rub it on your skin – it has a sort of bitter, garlic-like tinge.’
David considered the information Joe was giving him. He remembered now how the doctors had explained to him that the drug is absorbed so efficiently that it is metabolised in moments. ‘I can ask her if she injured herself, Joe,’ he began, ‘but I don't see –’
‘You start with that and get back to me, okay?’ Joe interrupted.
And despite his confusion David agreed. ‘You said “first up” – so what else did Martinelli come up with?’ he asked, now sensing it was time to move on.
Joe took a breath before continuing, his right leg now tapping on the worn living room carpet. He placed his cell on the coffee table, as if willing it to buzz. ‘Martinelli's blood analysis, both on the blood found at the scene and on the nightshirt, has followed, and is following the usual protocol – first comes the grouping, and then the more specific work on the DNA.’
David knew exactly what Joe was referring to. Forensics analysts used the standard ABO blood grouping system established by Dr Karl Landsteiner back in 1900. Landsteiner ascertained that every person's blood falls into one of four international blood groups classified by red blood cell function and the presence of a substance known as agglutinogen. A group contains A agglutinogen, B group has B agglutinogen, AB group contains both, and O group has neither. Martinelli would have performed tests involving the application of two solutions each containing antibodies to type-A and type-B antigens. The type-A antibodies when mixed with type-A blood will cause it to form clumps – and the type-B antibodies when mixed with type-B blood will have the same result. If blood clumps under contact with both A and B antibodies, then it is of the blood type AB, while O-type blood does not clump with any other blood type and is therefore identified because of its stand-alone significance.
‘The paediat
ric blood at the scene was AB positive,’ continued Joe. ‘It's rare, but can happen with certain parental blood combinations.’
David nodded.
‘Your client is an A, and according to the medical file we have just received from Dick Davenport, Jim Walker was type O.’
Joe had said O, not ‘Oh’.
David picked up the plastic sleeve Joe was pointing to and pulled out a pathology report which showed Jim Walker to be type O.
Then Joe's phone buzzed and Joe picked it up to read whatever was on the screen.
‘Okay,’ said David. ‘Sienna's an A, her husband was an O,’ he looked up at Joe to continue.
Joe nodded, holding up his cell. ‘Martinelli just confirmed Jim Walker's pathology report. It's legit. The husband was definitely an O.’
David frowned. ‘I still don't see the problem Joe.’
Joe took a breath. ‘The kid was AB, David, and an AB child comes from parents who are A and B, or A and AB, or B and AB, AB and AB but not …’
‘A and O,’ said David, his heat skipping a beat as he saw it. ‘Oh my god, Jim Walker wasn't Eliza's father.’
Joe nodded. ‘There's no way on earth he could have been. It is a medical impossibility.’
35
Two days later David was having another face-to-face with a different old friend – but once again the subject hung heavy between them.
‘My report is not yet ready,’ said ME Gus Svenson as he stretched back in his red vinyl chair. The chair squeaked in protest as if Svenson's lean but long frame was asking way too much of it. David's eyes were drawn to the deep crimson of its colour, an almost too-suitable backdrop to the coroner in the bright white coat.
‘I know, Gus,’ said David. ‘I just thought maybe you'd have some preliminary suppositions …?’
‘Not my job to suppose,’ said Svenson as he relaxed his stretch to lean toward his desk. ‘My conclusions are difficult, you see,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘The body is small and has deteriorated, all blood is gone and internal structures compromised by a lack of development and the positioning of the body in the drainpipe.’ He shook his head. ‘I do not believe I describe this.’
David understood what Gus was saying, the fact that a medical examiner had to utter such words was a crime in itself. ‘The evidence points directly at my client, Gus,’ said David, knowing he could trust the man before him. ‘But she is innocent, so to be brutally honest, I will take anything you've got.’
‘But then you will not want what I have. The baby's neck was cut right to left at a depth of approximately two inches – deep for an infant – which mean the incision severed both the jugular and the thorax.’
‘Her windpipe was severed.’
Gus nodded. ‘Yes.’ The ME took a breath. ‘And the lack of oxygen would have led to the cardiac arrest. There was also a second cut, small but deep at the base of the back of the neck.’
David frowned. ‘I don't understand,’ he said.
‘I suspect the cut at the back came first. Perhaps the killer picked up the child and moved the instrument from hand to hand as they placed her in the cradling position –’ Gus mimicked the hold, ‘– which we know she was in when she died.’
‘The killer juggled the knife.’
‘Yes, accidentally slicing the victim in the process. The only plus to this that the first cut severed part of the spinal cord which would have eliminated the pain experienced during the second. It reduced the trauma.’
‘A considerate killer,’ mocked David.
‘Accidentally considerate, yes.’
David nodded. ‘Will the blood spatter on the nightshirt support your findings?’
‘Not for me to say but … from my conversations with Dan Martinelli, I am certain this will be so.’
‘So the DA can argue the child was killed and cradled by someone wearing my client's nightshirt?’
‘Yes.’
David swallowed. ‘And the knife itself?’
Gus's brow tightened. ‘Hard to say. It was small, sharp, but once again impossible to classify given deterioration of the wound and surrounding tissue. Perhaps a paring knife? But a slim one, one that would fit in the palm of a hand.’
‘There was no such knife found at the scene.’
‘A plus for you.’
‘If there is such a thing,’ said David, before looking at Gus once again. ‘I'm drowning here, Gus.’
‘Like the child,’ replied Gus, who must have read the confusion on David's face. ‘She aspirated her own blood.’
David sighed before getting to his feet. ‘I have to go.’
Gus got up to walk David to the door. ‘I will give you report when I finish.’
‘Thanks, Gus.’ David shook his friend's hand. ‘When this is over, come for dinner – you look like you could use a good meal.’
‘A good meal, a good sleep,’ smiled the ME. ‘I will read your daughter the Swedish fairytale about the Swan Maiden of Blekinge.’
‘Does it have a happy ending?’ asked David.
Gus hesitated. ‘No,’ he said.
And David nodded, before moving out the door.
*
It was Monday morning. They were at L'Aroma on Newbury Street. The café had been Davenport's choice. L'Aroma was one of those trendy Back Bay locations where people queued out onto the street for coffees polluted by things like chocolate or syrup, but in the back there was a small alcove that was dark and discreet, where the clientele were affluent – just Davenport's sort of place.
‘What's this all about?’ he asked his doctor friend as he shifted his arm so that his crisp white shirt sleeve cuffs rose that fraction to reveal the face of his Rolex Explorer. ‘I believe I may have found some new clients, but I need to confirm their viability, so I don't have long.’
‘New clients?’ asked Davenport, his eyes jerking up. He lowered his voice. ‘I thought we'd decided to move on.’
‘We have. It's just that this opportunity could work for us on a number of levels so …’ he hesitated, knowing there was no need to reveal his plans to Davenport just yet. ‘Why did you want to see me?’
Davenport waited while the waiter placed a short black and a strong cappuccino on the table. ‘We have a problem,’ he said, his eyes dropping to his concoction of froth and bubble.
‘What sort of problem?’
‘It's the girl – Sophia.’
‘Is there something wrong with her?’
‘No.’ The shake of the head was exaggerated. ‘Her health is good. She is completely on track.’
‘All right. So what's the issue?’
‘Well, the girl underwent a routine ultrasound – which was not conclusive, I might add. So I took it upon myself to extract some foetal blood, to confirm what the original radiologist suspected, and … I am afraid the news is not good.’
Two café patrons squeezed around them, the scent of coffee and dark chocolate and sickly sweet caramel filling the air with a perfume so pungent that, teamed with his suspicions regarding Davenport's imminent revelation, it made the bile rise in his throat.
He calmed himself. ‘You're going to have to spell it out to me, Dick. I can do many things, but I can't read minds.’
Dick Davenport blinked. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I'm sorry. I don't know how this happened. You know how meticulous I am when it comes to the transfer.
‘I know what a huge problem this creates,’ Davenport continued. ‘The client will not be pleased. The original tests must have been wrong – two girls and no boy.’
He took a long slow breath as Davenport mopped at his brow with a logoed napkin. ‘Are you sure?’
‘I'm sure.’
‘On top of everything there's the question of Sophia and …’ continued Davenport, perhaps understanding that any attempts to absolve himself would be met with the contempt they deserved. ‘What do you want me to do about her?’
Silence as he tried to compartmentalise. There was too much to consider. Two of a kind? Unless …
The thought came to him like a road train. ‘The midwife,’ he said. ‘You are sure she went back to Dublin?’
Davenport hesitated, obviously unclear as to why he was being asked the question ‘Yes,’ he answered.
‘I want you to locate her.’
‘You're still angry. It was not my fault Sienna chose to go with the woman. It made no difference in any case. Eliza was born Eliza. She was who she was.’
‘I want you to locate her,’ he said again.
‘All right, but …’
‘There's something else.’ A new thought came to him.
‘What is it?’
‘I want you to ingratiate yourself with the District Attorney.’
‘I thought we were playing it low key, making it look like we supported Sienna.’
‘We were, and we still are, but that doesn't mean you can't get a crisis of conscience. You're a humanitarian, Dick, and what she did does not sit with you – do you understand?’
Davenport took a breath. ‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘Although this may result in my appearing somewhat schizophrenic given that when the police came to call, I made it clear that Sienna was a friend and –’
‘As for Sophia,’ he interrupted, in no mood to hear Davenport's whining, ‘I want you to do what is required.’ His voice was even despite the gravity of the news. ‘She is no longer of any use to us.’
Davenport swallowed, his face turning white. ‘Is that really necessary? I mean, perhaps the clients might be open to accepting …?’
‘No. Their request was specific and you need to act while the situation still offers us the discount of two for the price of one. You were the one who created this problem in the first place, a problem that is impossible to solve I might add, given our access to half of the resources is now restricted.’
A humbled Davenport nodded, his eyes settling on the table.
‘You're right when you say that this places us in an extremely difficult position,’ he added when Davenport failed to look up, ‘so I'll need you to follow through on my recommendations quickly. You knew what this was all about when you agreed to be part of the process, Dick – and when it comes down to it, it's not like you haven't done it before.’