Don't Believe It

by Charlie Donlea

  “This is what killed him,” Dr. Mundi said, pointing to the undressed cranium. “This fracture was the result of blunt-force trauma caused by an object swung at medium speed. Other fractures,” Dr. Mundi said, tracing the break lines in the bone, “were suffered during the fall, but this was the primary insult.”

  “How can you tell that?” Pierre asked, studying the jagged spiderweb of fractured bone, which looked to his untrained eyes like a mess of total destruction.

  “The secondary fractures produced during the fall approach this initial fissure, but do not, and cannot, cross it. They all stop at the outer edge of this principal fracture. From the nucleus of this break, I can map radiation lines through all the other fault lines. Once the bone is broken, a second fracture cannot bridge the original breach. This is why I’m still here so late, Inspector. Mapping the fracture took me hours. But it is with certainty that this injury is what killed him. It caused a large subdural hematoma that spread around the skull and likely concussed the brain to render him unconscious, or possibly semiconscious but not functionally alert. He was not dead when he fell from the bluff. Based on salt water in his lungs, he was still breathing when he hit the ocean.”

  Dr. Mundi pulled Julian Crist’s scalp back over his skull and began to sew shut the crowning incision.

  “And this.” Dr. Mundi pointed to the back of Julian’s skull, where he had shaved away the hair to leave a circular patch of bare skin that looked like a burnt-out spot on a grassy knoll. Within the clearing was a gaping wound. Devoid of blood this long after death, the gash reminded Pierre of a split in a leather sofa. “This scalp laceration is the source of the blood splattering you found on the bluff.”

  “How can we be sure he didn’t suffer this fracture and laceration when he fell? Perhaps he struck a rock on the side of the cliff.”

  Dr. Mundi shook his head. “Because of the location. Essentially on the top, back side of the head, it is impossible that this fracture was caused from the fall. For that to be the case, the victim would have had to land headfirst on a hard, blunt object. And for this to be true, from an estimated height of thirty meters, there would certainly be neck and spinal cord trauma, which there is not. And such a fall would certainly have caused a much more substantial fracture than this localized one. Finally my forensic team found no blood anywhere on the face of the Piton, or its base.”

  Pierre nodded at the explanation while he watched Dr. Mundi pierce the scalp with the suture and pull the thread.

  “I believe,” Dr. Mundi continued, “the patient was struck in the back of the head from a downward angle with a blunt object. The object caused a seven-centimeter stellate fracture, three centimeters deep.”

  “Any idea what this object was?” Pierre asked.

  “Impossible to tell from the examination. But it was likely something with some weight to it.”

  Dr. Mundi finished suturing Julian Crist’s scalp, clipped the excess, and snapped off his glove.

  “The blow to his head sent him off the bluff, where he sustained the right-sided injuries when he hit the water. Either the initial trauma to his head, or the impact from the landing, rendered him unconscious, but still breathing, which filled his lungs with water and asphyxiated him.”

  Pierre studied the body for a moment. “Someone struck him in the head, he fell into the water, and then he drowned. Do I have your hypothesis correct?”

  “That’s correct, Inspector. Cause of death—blunt-force trauma leading to asphyxiation. The manner of death will be listed as homicide. I suspect this is no surprise to you?”

  “It is not.”

  “Any idea who killed this young man?”

  “A good one, yes.”

  The morning after Julian Crist’s autopsy, Inspector Pierre entered the laboratory in Castries, where the crime scene technicians had worked late into the previous night. Because the victim was American, and Pierre’s lead suspect was from the States, too, time was short.

  “Anything?” Pierre asked.

  “Much,” the lead tech said as he peered into a microscope. He swiveled his chair and brought his computer to life by shaking the mouse. A split-screen photo came into view. On the left was the shoeprint impression taken from the dirt just off the bluff on Gros Piton. Next to it was the sole of Grace Sebold’s running shoe, which they had bagged the previous day during the sweep of her room.

  “It’s an exact match,” the technician said. “Visually it looks the same. Microscopically it’s identical. Database matched the tread in the impression to Nike Crosstrainers. TR 3 Flyknit. Women’s size seven. It’s the same shoe taken from the American’s room.”

  “So our girl was on the bluff?”

  “No doubt, sir. Also,” the tech said, swiveling his chair again. He grabbed a sheet of paper as it came off the printer and handed it to Pierre. “The analysis came back from the swabs collected in the American’s bathroom. What we smelled was correct. It’s positive for chlorine bleach. But she was sloppy. Must’ve been in a hurry, because there were traces of blood, too, mixed in with the bleach.”

  “And the drain?” Pierre asked.

  The tech nodded. “It was blood.”

  “No bleach in the drain?”

  “No, sir. She only bleached what she could see. The floor and the countertop. The rest of the blood went down the drain, and . . . what is the saying? Away from the eyes . . .”

  “Out of sight, out of mind. Does the blood match Mr. Crist?”

  “We’re testing it now. The lab is rushing the DNA analysis.”

  “Her clothes?”

  The technician shook his head. “No blood on her clothing. I tested them myself.”

  Pierre shook his head, thinking of all he needed to do in a short window. The local media were already, just two days into his investigation, a heavy presence at the resort. Their calls to headquarters demanding updates had been incessant. And the American media, Pierre was sure, were on the way. He needed to get ahead of the wave. The only thing more spectacular than a dead tourist was an American accused of killing him.

  “Good work. Let me know when the DNA comes back.” Pierre turned to leave.

  “One more thing, sir.”

  Pierre turned back and followed the technician over to the corner of the laboratory, where the evidence cabinets stood. All relevant materials were stored in secured lockers during the analysis portion of an investigation before police took formal custody. The technician opened one of the cabinets.

  “Dr. Mundi delivered the victim’s clothes to us yesterday. We didn’t get to them until late. The blood on the shirt collar belonged to Mr. Crist, no other blood found.”

  “Preserve the rest for DNA analysis.”

  “Yes, sir. We have already done so. We’ll just need a sample to compare it against eventually.”

  “I’m working on it,” Pierre said. He’d already spoken to the judge who rendered the search warrant. Fingerprints and mouth swabs would come only after an arrest. “Anything else?”

  “Yes, sir.” The technician removed a sealed plastic bag from the locker and handed it to the inspector. “In the victim’s pocket, we found this.”

  Pierre took the evidence bag and held it up. A small box was preserved inside. Gray felt covered the exterior.

  “What is it?” Pierre said, holding the evidence bag higher, as if this would make its contents more easily recognizable. “A box?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s in it?”

  “A ring.”

  “A ring?” Pierre asked. “What sort of ring?”

  “It appears to be an engagement ring, sir.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “YOU NEVER SAW IT, THOUGH, CORRECT?”

  “The ring? No,” Grace said. “Julian’s belongings were returned to his parents, who have not talked with me since then.”

  “Inspector Pierre’s theory was that the ring found on Julian’s body was meant for Allison Harbor, and that this discovery sent you into a jealous rage.
”

  “I’ve heard his arguments. He presented them to me during the many hours when he interrogated me, much of which was done without a lawyer present, despite me asking for one. I never knew about the ring, or Julian’s intention to propose to me. I had to put it together while everything was happening. Pierre taunted me with the ring, and all his theories about it. It’s nonsensical that Julian would bring a ring to St. Lucia for anyone but me.”

  “How do you know Julian’s intention was to propose on Gros Piton? He never told you this.”

  “He told my friend, Ellie. He wanted her help to make sure everything went smoothly.”

  Sidney consulted her notes again. “You mentioned your friend Ellie Reiser.”

  Grace smiled. “Yes. Dear friend.”

  “In the past ten years here at the Bordelais Correctional Facility, besides your family, two friends have made regular visits. Ellie Reiser and Daniel Greaves.”

  Grace nodded. “Prison is lonely, and being so far from home makes it difficult to visit. I understand this. But I’m grateful for Ellie and Daniel, who have come faithfully over the years. Their visits have helped me get through this.”

  “You and Ellie Reiser have been friends since childhood. Ellie, too, has sent me letters over the years asking me to look into your case.”

  “She’s a good friend.”

  “Tell me about Daniel Greaves.”

  “Daniel is a special person. He and I have a strong friendship. One that has changed a lot since we first met, but it’s a friendship that means a great deal to me.”

  “Daniel was a big part of your trial.”

  Grace nodded her head. “Yes.”

  “The prosecution suggested you two were in a relationship.”

  “They suggested a lot of things. It doesn’t mean any of it is true. Daniel and I had a relationship in the past. It ended. That’s the whole story in a few words. Anything else is false.”

  “The prosecution suggested that your relationship with Daniel was active, and that Julian discovered this.”

  “Yes. It’s all lies.”

  Sidney glanced down at her notes. “You were in St. Lucia to celebrate the wedding of Daniel and Charlotte.”

  “Correct.”

  “You said your relationship with Daniel has changed over the years. How so? You two used to date. How did you remain friends?”

  Grace smiled slightly. “Daniel and I dated briefly in college. It was a fling. We had both just gone through breakups and we were there for each other. That’s the end of the story.”

  “He had broken up with Charlotte?”

  “Briefly, yes,” Grace said. “We were together for about a month before we realized we were too good of friends to get involved romantically. And that was the end of it.”

  “Daniel has visited you eighteen times in ten years. Twice a year, essentially.”

  “Yes,” Grace said.

  “You can understand how someone might analyze your visitor log and get the impression that you and Daniel were more than friends?”

  “If you believe Pierre, and are looking for something nefarious. Otherwise, to me, it looks like one friend visiting another.”

  “Okay,” Sidney said. “But Daniel has visited you eighteen times over the years. Charlotte? Zero.”

  Grace stared at Sidney. She offered no reply.

  “Why would Daniel make such an effort to keep in touch with you, but his wife—a friend who asked you to be her maid of honor—hasn’t seen you in more than a decade?”

  “I guess you’d have to ask Charlotte that question.” Grace shook her head and ran a hand through the back of her hair. “This is not how I imagined our conversation would go.”

  “I’m just struggling with some of your history,” Sidney said, “because I’m learning things that you didn’t mention in your letters.”

  The Girl of Sugar Beach

  “Pilot” Episode

  *Based on the interview with Claude Pierre

  Through the winding roads of St. Lucia, Pierre drove back to Sugar Beach Resort. The journey provided time to think. A complicated issue had fallen into his lap: an American killing another American on his island. It would not be long, once he made his findings public and his accusations apparent, that the Sebold girl would seek help from the American embassy. Authorities from the United States would surely want to become involved and updated. Their Federal Bureau of Investigation would offer their assistance. Pierre knew he had to act quickly, and keep his cards close until it was time to show his hand. The expedited search warrant for the American’s room had surely put her on notice. Already he’d caught her in more than one lie—the cause of her argument with Julian had been the first, and now the shoeprint, which put her on the bluff despite her denial of this fact. And the discovery of the bleach cleanup and Mr. Crist’s blood in her room would be paramount during the immediate chaos after her arrest. Indeed he’d need to act swiftly when the time came, but calmly until then.

  The motorcade of four police vehicles pulled to the front entrance of the resort. Pierre stood from the backseat of the lead car and walked with his crew into the welcome atrium. The general manager hurried from behind the front desk to greet him.

  “Inspector, good morning.”

  “I’m going to need your office again,” Pierre said. “For another round of interviews. With my crew, I’d like you to contact the guests and organize the times.”

  A police officer handed the GM a list of names.

  “Very well, sir. Anything we can do. I must ask, though, some of our guests are quite upset that the beach is still under survey. It is the main attraction of the resort and it is still roped off.”

  “I’m afraid the needs of sunbathers have been overshadowed by the dead man found on the shores of your resort. If any guest has an issue, please add their names to the interview list and I’d be happy to speak with them. As far as the yellow tape securing the beach, it will remain in place for the foreseeable future.”

  Grace Sebold sat once more in the small office.

  It was two-on-one again, with Grace sitting across from Pierre and the man who scribbled in his notebook. Pierre pressed the recorder that sat in the middle of the table.

  “My parents told me to ask for an attorney,” Grace said.

  “Are you asking for one, Ms. Sebold?”

  “Am I in trouble?”

  “You would be best equipped to answer that question,” Pierre said. “Your boyfriend was found dead just over forty-eight hours ago. We are trying to figure out who killed him. If you would like to go to Castries for formal questioning, that can be arranged. We could offer local counsel once you are settled there. However, it will take some time to organize such an event, and we’d have to hold you in a jail cell while we made the arrangements. It would likely be late tomorrow or perhaps the following day before we could secure counsel for you. There is, of course, no problem with this method, but I’d just assume we keep things moving as quickly as possible and avoid the delay.”

  Grace shook her head. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

  “There is evidence to suggest that Mr. Crist was settled up on the bluff on Gros Piton for some time. Perhaps an hour or so. We suspect he was waiting for someone. I’d like to ask you again, did you see Mr. Crist on Wednesday night?”

  “I saw Julian on Wednesday, during the day. We all hung out at the pool. But not Wednesday night. I thought we went through this the other day.”

  “You were on vacation together, Ms. Sebold. Was it common for Mr. Crist to spend an evening by himself, apart from the woman he was traveling with?”

  Grace stared at the inspector. “I . . . No, it was unusual.”

  “Did he tell you where he was going? Did he tell you why he would hike up Gros Piton at evening time?”

  Grace shook her head. “He invited me to watch the sunset. Same thing I told you two days ago.”

  “But you did not go? Your younger brother fell ill?”

  “Th
at’s right.”

  “How long had you and Mr. Crist been dating?”

  “A year and a half.”

  “So you would categorize your relationship as serious?”

  Grace struggled again with the Caribbean inflection and the blending of words and oddly placed syllabic emphasis.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Were you in love?”

  Grace’s eyes teared over. “Is it really necessary to ask these questions?”

  “I’m afraid it is, Ms. Sebold.”

  Grace wiped her lower lid with the back of her finger. “Yes, we were in love.”

  “Was Mr. Crist in love with anyone else, besides yourself ?”

  “What?” Grace asked with a confused look.

  “Was there anyone else that Mr. Crist also loved?”

  Grace shook her head. “No.”

  “No?” Pierre asked while keeping his eyes focused on her.

  Pierre’s assistant slid papers across the table until they rested in front of Grace.

  “This is a list of calls made from Mr. Crist’s room phone. Three calls were made to New York. The phone number is listed to Ms. Allison Harbor, who we’ve learned was a friend of Mr. Crist.”

  Grace swallowed hard. “She’s his ex-girlfriend.”

  “Is that so? When I spoke with her, she suggested their relationship was still active.”

  “They go to school together, so I’m sure they still see each other on campus.”

  “Isn’t it true that they were still intimate, Ms. Sebold, and not merely acquaintances, as you suggest?”

  “No. That’s not true.”

  “And you were not concerned about this?”

  “No.”

  “But isn’t it true that you also called Allison Harbor during your stay at the resort? Why make such a call if there is no concern?”

  Grace looked down at the list of phone calls in front of her. She did not answer.

  “So let me organize my thoughts,” Pierre continued. “Mr. Crist, who was in love with you and only you, climbed up Gros Piton, spread a blanket out over a bluff, opened a bottle of champagne, poured two flutes, but never told you about this rendezvous?”