by Harvey, JM
“Lemuel!” Lamar bellowed and charged down the last few steps. He tossed the axe down and dropped to his knees beside his younger brother, flapping his hands over the dying man like a distraught hen with a wounded chick. “Lemuel!”
Val managed to shove himself up into a seated position, his shoulder pulsing red sheet lightning across his brain. The blood flowed hot down his left arm. He tried to raise the 9mm and aim it at Lamar, but his undamaged right arm was slow to respond, it drooped back toward the floor. Shock was setting in. He almost fainted, but he fought through it. He didn’t want to die. Not yet. He had a job to finish. He lifted the pistol again and cocked the hammer.
Lamar’s head whipped around at the sound. His eyes found Valentine aiming a pistol at him, but the gun didn’t frighten Lamar - he didn’t even seem to notice it. He lunged to his feet, roaring a wordless howl, a sound torn between grief and rage, snatched up the axe and charged.
Val’s vision had gone screwy, his aim still unsteady. He squeezed the trigger and Lamar’s right thigh bloomed blood. Lamar didn’t even flinch, he kept coming, the axe cocked over his right shoulder, and Val kept firing, squeezing the trigger again and again. A hole opened in Lamar’s hip, another round grazed his right cheek, carving a trough through his tangled beard, but the big man’s step never faltered. He was almost atop Valentine when the axe came racing down.
Val fell back on his shoulders and aimed straight up, firing as fast as he could, the muzzle flashes blinding him. He jerked the trigger over and over until the 9mm’s slide locked open on an empty clip.
The axe struck the ground beside Val’s head, burying itself in the packed earth.
Val, still blinded by the flash of his own pistol, had no idea if he had killed Lamar. And he wasn’t going to lie there and wait to find out. He rolled left fast and came up hard against the stairwell with his bloody shoulder. The pain made his vision shiver and flicker with dark flames. Unconsciousness sucked at his brain stem. Only his fear of the axe kept him from sliding over the edge into the black void. He shoved off the step and rolled flat on his back. Desperately, he pawed for a fresh clip for the 9mm with his almost useless left hand, expecting the axe to come arcing down again at any minute.
But Lamar was done fighting. As Val’s vision cleared, he saw the bearded killer seated on the floor five feet away, slumped against the wall, his shirtfront riddled with holes that revealed the Kevlar vest beneath it. Dark, oily-looking blood leaked from under the vest. Somehow one of Val’s 9mm rounds had found a chink in the armor. Judging by the color of the blood, Lamar had been hit in the liver.
For a long moment the two men stared at each other, neither blinking, both of them badly wounded. Then Lamar tried to speak. Blood bubbled past his lips, a frothing foam, but no words emerged. He swallowed hard and tried again, but Val wasn’t listening.
Val’s brain sputtered and sparked like a charred circuit board, his left side was numb, his left hand almost useless, and his pistol was still empty. To a cop the empty weapon was top priority. It was a struggle to load the weapon, but he managed it as Lamar silently looked on. Val racked a round into the chamber, using his armpit as a vice, lifted the pistol and aimed it at Lamar. Weak and shaky from blood loss, it was hard for him to keep the pistol level.
Lamar seemed to find that amusing. He gave a choking laugh and blood spilled over his chin. Sluggishly, he dipped his index finger into the crimson fluid then touched his fingertip to his forehead. He made a circular motion, painting a sloppy red target, then laughed again, coughing up even more blood. At the rate he was bleeding, Lamar was going to be dead soon.
Not soon enough for Valentine.
Val didn’t stop to consider what he was about to do. The line he was about to cross. He lined the sights up on the red circle and shot Lamar from point-blank range, hitting the target dead center, cutting off the laughter forever.
Lamar’s head thumped against the stone wall and he slid sideways, ending up on his side in the dirt, his eyes still open, still bright with laughter.
Val slumped back to the floor. For almost five minutes, he lay there, bleeding into the dirt and breathing raggedly. It took him that long to gather the strength to finally sit upright. From there it only got harder, but he managed to rise to his feet, using the stairs for support. He clung to them, his mind clouded by a red fog. He wondered if he could make it up the stairs. He was about to try when a voice stopped him.
“I need an ambulance,” Lemuel said feebly, choking on the blood coursing up from his chainsawed lungs. He looked up and over at Val, his eyes pleading. He was lying on his side, his legs drawn tight to his chest, his entrails spooling out past his knees like a garden hose. “Get me a doctor!” he yelled with surprising force. “I need a doctor!” Val was amazed the man was even alive.
Val pushed off the stairs and walked unsteadily toward the wounded killer.
“I’ll get you a body bag,” he said hoarsely then shot Lemuel in the side of the head.
44
The Dallas County Medical Examiner’s office is located just off Stemmons Freeway in a new glass and brick building called the Southwest Institute of Forensic Sciences. The building is a high-tech complex of labs and modern equipment, a world removed from the previous location in a moldering old building across the street from Parkland Hospital that had held only a handful of autopsy rooms and small labs that were hopelessly cramped, damp, and cluttered with archaic equipment.
Victoria parked in the almost empty parking lot under the scant shade of a curbside oak that was wilting under a sun so hot that the building ahead shimmered like a mirage. Her brow was slick by the time she crossed the parking lot to the relative cool of the building’s foyer and showed her ID to the Sheriff’s Deputy standing sentry just inside the locked glass doors. The building was officially closed on Saturday, but there were always techs, scientists and pathologists working overtime. The Medical Examiner’s office was as understaffed as every other department in the County; long hours and weekends were part of the program.
“I’m here to see Eustace Cantor,” she told him.
The deputy nodded. He was young; she’d never seen him before. He looked ex-military with his close cropped hair, rigid posture and immaculate uniform. He was polite but stiffly officious, his lips a straight line, chin thrust forward squarely, eyes aimed down his nose. He looked at her ID, then at the bruise on her forehead and the scrape on her cheek.
“Don’t ask,” Victoria said, “It’s been a tough week at the office.”
He looked at her ID again then back at her. Recognition gave his face the first hint of animation, a narrow smile that was little more than a crack in the spit and polish veneer.
“You’re the lady lawyer, right? From the shootout two days ago?”
Victoria didn’t want to offend the deputy, but she didn’t want to talk about it either. “Like I said, it’s been a tough week.”
He got the point. “Gotcha,” he said, his face forming hard lines again, smile gone. “I was in the Marines. Afghanistan.” He held the door open for her, but kept her ID card. “Let’s get you signed in.” He led her across the lobby to the reception desk, then circled behind it and picked up the phone. He pushed a clipboard across the counter at her. She signed a quick scrawl.
“She’s got a cop back with her right now,” he told Victoria as he dialed an extension. “She might be in one of the autopsy suites or her office.” He shook his head. “The Doc never slows down.”
Victoria nodded. Eustace Cantor only left the Institute to bathe, sleep and eat. She had no children, no husband and no close family, just a job she cared deeply about. Far too deeply, in Victoria’s opinion. Victoria was no stranger to long hours herself, but Eustace took it to extremes that weren’t healthy physically or psychologically. A fifteen-year long string of murder victims, from infants to the elderly, had left her once pretty face lined and gray.
The young deputy’s eyes dropped away as he turned his attention to the phone. �
�Hey, Doc, there’s a lady from the District Attorney’s office here to see you,” he held up Victoria’s ID card and read from it. “Victoria Justice, Felony Trial Division Chief.” He listened, nodding along, said “Okay” then hung up. He handed Victoria’s ID across the counter.
“She’s in the Trace Evidence lab. You know the way back?”
Victoria nodded as she tucked her ID into her wallet. “Sure thing,” she said. “Thanks.” She had made the trip before, many times.
The sterile corridors were quiet on a Saturday in August. All of the working parents were either at home with the kids or on vacation somewhere cooler, which was just about anywhere in the continental US. But Victoria still passed a half dozen people in lab coats as she walked back to the lab. She pushed through the door without knocking, but stopped dead on the threshold.
Eustace Canton was sitting on a wheeled stool in front of a bulky digital microscope connected to a computer terminal, her eyes pressed to the viewer. There was a pistol on the counter beside her, lying next to a brown evidence bag that’s red seal had been ripped away. Leaning against the counter beside Eustace was Deputy Henry Erath, his squared-off face aimed at Victoria, his expression as grim and inscrutable as an Aztec idol.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Justice,” he said, his voice as gruff as gravel tossed down a drain pipe.
“Deputy Erath,” Victoria replied as she stepped into the room, letting the door swing closed behind her. “Am I interrupting something?”
Erath grunted. “You could say that.”
“I’m so sorry, Victoria,” Eustace said as she turned from the microscope. Eustace looked even more haggard than usual. Her blonde hair hung limp and dark circles ringed her eyes. Eyes that refused to meet Victoria’s. “So sorry.” She dropped her hands in her lap and her shoulders slumped.
All of those ‘sorries’ made Victoria’s heart stammer in her chest. The last few days had geared her up to expect the worst at every turn, but she didn’t think she could take much more. Her gaze flicked over to Erath. He gave her a slash of a smile. The asshole.
“What’s going on, deputy?” she demanded as she strode into the room, putting purpose into her step, bracing herself for whatever was to come. Involuntarily, her eyes dropped to the pistol.
“Police work,” Erath said. “Catching a killer.” He flicked a glance at Eustace. “I’ll let the Doc tell you.”
“I’m so sorry, Victoria,” Eustace said again. She took a long, shuddering breath. “But there’s no doubt. Valentine’s prints are on this weapon.”
“And the bullets match the ones the ME pulled out of Abby Sutton,” Erath added, his eyes boring into Victoria’s like a poker player looking for an opponent’s tell. “Your husband killed that girl.”
Victoria flinched and her eyes leapt back to the gun. With an effort, she tore her eyes off it and looked at Eustace. “What the hell is he saying?” she demanded angrily, conscious of the pain in her friend’s face, but at that moment Victoria didn’t care about Eustace. Her world had just been firebombed, her husband irrefutably linked to a homicide. She wanted an explanation.
“Deputy Erath brought this weapon in this morning,” Eustace said. “The prints are Val’s and the test-rounds I fired are a ballistic match for the three slugs I collected from Abby Sutton’s corpse. “I’m no fingerprint expert, it’s not my field, but there’s obviously a match. I’m so sorry, Victoria.”
Victoria’s mouth opened but no words came out. From the corner of her eyes she could see Erath smiling. That smile infuriated her. Jammed a steel rod up her spine and made her eyes throw sparks.
“Fingerprint evidence can be manufactured,” she snapped, knowing that she sounded like a low-rent defense attorney, but it couldn’t be true! Val would never have stabbed Abby twenty-seven times. He might have shot her, but—
Victoria’s thoughts stopped right there. Had it reached the point where even she doubted Val’s word? God, had she ever really believed that he hadn’t crippled Abby? At that moment she wasn’t sure. And she had no time for soul searching. Erath was staring at her, waiting for her to continue. She got herself back on track, injecting her words with far more certainty than she felt.
“Prints can be transferred from one surface to another. Manipulated.”
Eustace shook her head and dropped her eyes again. “There are more than a half dozen legible, undistorted partial prints on surfaces of varying depths and textures. There’s no way they were all transferred from somewhere else.”
Victoria started to speak, but Erath wasn’t sticking around to listen. He plucked the gun up by the evidence tag looped through the trigger guard and placed it back in the brown bag. Victoria watched as the deputy took a fresh red evidence sticker and sealed the top of the bag closed then put the bag in front of Eustace. The ME signed and dated it.
“Where did you get that gun?” Victoria demanded.
Erath snorted. “You’ll find that out when your husband’s attorney submits the pretrial discovery motion. You know the rules, counselor. You ain’t getting special treatment, there’s been more than enough of that already.” Erath started to walk past her then paused and looked intently into her face for a protracted moment, his eyes searching hers.
“You didn’t know,” he finally said. He sighed and shook his head. “I was sure you were in on it.”
Victoria didn’t reply. She didn’t have the words. For four years she had defended Valentine at every turn, but all of her defenses were gone now, battered to ruins.
“I’m sorry about this,” Erath continued as he stepped past her, heading for the door.
Victoria almost believed him, but that changed nothing. Erath pushed through the door and was gone, carrying the gun off on its journey through the system.
Victoria stood there, glaring at Eustace but not seeing her, struggling for a way to explain away the evidence in that paper bag, but the prints couldn’t be argued with. Could Val have? Would he have—
“No!” she said, bellowing the word, startling Eustace so badly that the ME almost came off her stool. “Val wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t.”
“I don’t believe it either,” Eustace said, though Victoria could hear the lie in her voice. But Victoria didn’t care what Eustace thought. She was thinking about Erath, a cop who had already beaten her husband bloody. The deputy was probably on his way to a County judge at that very moment. With the evidence he had, he’d have a warrant for Val’s arrest within the hour.
“Oh, God,” Victoria said as she dumped her purse on the counter and dug for her cell phone. She punched up Val’s number. She knew that what she was about to do, warning a murder suspect that the cops were coming, would end her career and probably cost her her license to practice law, but that didn’t matter.
Val’s phone rang three times before it went to voicemail. She left a terse message.
“Deputy Erath brought the Abby Sutton murder weapon to the ME this afternoon. Your prints are all over it,” just saying the words chilled her. “He’s getting a warrant right now. Call me.” She almost closed with her standard, “I love you,” but the words got stuck in her windpipe. Instead she said, “Don’t kill anyone.”
She didn’t put the phone away after she hung up; she pulled up Jack’s number.
“Counselor,” he said when he answered.
“Do you still have a job?” she asked. “I heard you were meeting with Deputy Chief Ballast.”
“For the moment,” he replied but offered nothing more.
“We’ve got problems,” she began, understating the facts by a thousand percent. She quickly related the last two hours of her life, beginning with Foster and Logan, blazing through the details, and ending with Val’s fingerprints being found on the Abby Sutton murder weapon.
“Where’s Valentine now?” was all Jack said when she had finished.
Victoria’s shoulders slumped. Her eyes stung. “Out chasing Garland Sutton and Jasper Smith,” she said. “Trying to get himself killed.”
“That sounds like Valentine,” Jack agreed, deadpan.
A long moment went by with neither of them saying anything, and then a sudden thought hit Victoria.
“I’ve got to go, Jack,” she said abruptly. She briefly considered telling Jack where she was going, but rejected the idea. He’d only try to talk her out of it, and she wasn’t in a talking mood. “Find Valentine before he kills anyone,” she added and hung up. She just hoped Jack wouldn’t be too late.
Victoria snatched up her purse, turned and headed for the exit.
“Where are you going?” Eustace called after her.
“To see a lawyer,” Victoria replied as she pushed through the door. “And if I don’t get some straight answers, you’ll have another body to deal with.”
45
The next ten minutes of Valentine’s life had passed in a fog of pain. His eyes had stuttered across the women’s bodies, refusing to focus, but he couldn’t look away. His stomach lurched then lunged up his throat. He turned away and vomited onto the basement’s dirt floor until his stomach was empty, then dry-heaved until his brain was so oxygen-deprived that black and gold spots filled his vision. It took him several minutes to get himself under control. When he did, he turned back to the women.
He had to do something for them. He couldn’t leave them like that. He crossed the room on uncertain legs and dropped to his knees beside them.
Weak from loss of blood, he felt almost disembodied. In stutters and flashes he saw himself try to put the girls back together, rearranging their limbs and torsos, getting it wrong the first time and starting over, moaning through clenched teeth, working one handed, his left arm hanging dead at his side. When he was done, he covered them with a musty tarp then turned dizzily to the stairs. He climbed toward the light, his gait a drunken shamble, each step dragging his brain further down toward the liquid darkness of unconsciousness. It took him five minutes to reach the top and stagger out into the relative brightness of the hallway. The light almost blinded him.