Flesh and Bone

by Jefferson Bass

  “But won’t the DA say that I was just trying to look like I wasn’t me?”

  “Maybe,” Burt said, “but if you were smart enough to act dumb about this, wouldn’t you be smart enough not to drive your own damn vehicle?”

  “Wait a minute,” I laughed, “you’ve already got me confused.”

  He smiled and took a bow. “Confusion, my friend, is only a hop, skip, and a vote away from reasonable doubt.”

  The man walked back into the frame, again keeping his head down and turned slightly to the right, away from the camera. He swung the chain-link gate outward and the wooden gate inward, then walked back to the truck and idled through the gate. Then the wooden gate closed behind him. Burt pointed to the time code in the upper right corner of the screen; it read 5:03 A.M. “Pretty shrewd,” he said. “Early enough that nobody else is out and about yet.”

  “The hospital shift change isn’t till seven,” I agreed.

  “But it’s close enough to daybreak so the guy watching the camera feeds will figure that crazy Dr. Brockton is up really early today. Those guys all know what your truck looks like, right?”

  “Sure,” I said. “They’ve seen me drive in there hundreds of times. Hell, I’ve given every campus cop and hospital security guard a tour of the place.”

  “And this guy knows that somehow,” Burt said. “Knows they know your truck.”

  Owen scrolled forward in the clip until the man opened the wooden gate and pulled out. This time, he pulled far enough forward to clear the chain-link gate. As he closed both gates behind him, I studied the truck more closely. This time it was angled slightly down the parking lot, slightly downhill, so more of its roof was exposed. “I’ll be damned,” I said. “Stop.”

  “What?” Burt asked.

  “Look at the roof of the cab.”

  “What about it?”

  “What’s that dark patch?”

  Owen worked his mouse, cranking up the brightness and doubling the size of the image. “It’s a moonroof,” he said.

  I laughed. Wildly. Hysterically.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Burt.

  “My truck…doesn’t have…a roonmoof,” I gasped. “A moonroof.”

  “You’re sure?” said Burt.

  “Sure I’m sure. It was an option, but it cost an extra five hundred bucks, and I was too damn cheap.”

  Burt, Thomas, and I exchanged high fives.

  “Oh God, I feel better,” I said.

  “Me too,” said Burt. “I actually believe you now.”

  “You didn’t before? You acted like you did.”

  “It’s a courtesy thing,” he said. “My clients always claim they’re innocent. I aways pretend to believe them. It’s more convenient all the way around. Not many of them are telling the truth.” He looked me in the eye. “Doc, I’m really glad you’re one of the exceptions.”

  Owen cleared his throat. “Are we through bonding? Shall we look at the rest of this?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Let’s see what else we can see.” I could feel excitement stirring, the same excitement I often felt at death scenes whenever I began finding clues in decaying flesh and damaged bones.

  What we saw was another handful of details that would clearly refute the prosecution’s claim that this was my truck. The wheels had five spokes; mine, I knew—I had recently had to replace one—had six spokes. One headlight angled crazily down and toward the right. “That’s good,” said Thomas. “Headlight spray patterns are as distinctive as fingerprints. Unless yours are misaligned in that same way, that’s very persuasive. And if we can find a truck like this, with a headlight spray like this, we’ve nailed it.”

  “Even if we can’t,” said Burt, “we can get footage of the Doc’s truck in that same spot at night and show how his headlights differ, right? And show he’s got no moonroof?”

  “Right,” said Thomas. “This will blow the jurors away. Jurors love this shit. This is nearly as good as CSI.”

  I no longer begrudged Thomas his $3,000 a day. He had earned it just now, I figured, and then some. In fact, he’d earned every damn cent I had forked over to Burt DeVriess so far. “Will you tell all this to Evers and the DA, or wait and spring it at the trial?” I asked Burt.

  “Actually, I’ll file a motion to dismiss as soon as I get Owen’s report,” he said. “We’ll get some good press. But the judge won’t dismiss the case. Too much other evidence. No judge in his right mind would dismiss a case against a guy whose bed is drenched in his dead lover’s blood.” He shook his head. “A shame those sheets didn’t just disappear.”

  “I play by the rules,” I said. And then I thought of something else. “This guy knows that, too. He was counting on that. Counting on the fact that I’d call the cops when I found the sheets. Giving me the rope he knew I’d use to hang myself.”

  “Then that tells us even more about him,” Burt said. “Maybe a name will pop into your head in the wee small hours. Maybe Evers will have another, friendlier chat with us. Maybe he’ll start asking and thinking about who else might have done this. Start casting his net a little wider.”

  Burt clapped Thomas on the shoulder; Thomas flinched, either from the force of it or from the violation of his boundaries. “Okay, I think we’re done for now,” Burt said. “How soon can you send me that report?”

  “I’ll write it on the plane and e-mail it to you to night. That soon enough?”

  “Yeah, that’ll do; thanks. Chloe will be in touch once we have a trial date. I’m gonna go start drafting that motion.” As he left the conference room, Burt yanked up the blinds, flooding the room with light. It was that scrubbed version of sunlight that follows a hard spring storm. I took it as a good omen.

  CHAPTER 39

  AFTER I LEFT DEVRIESS’S office, I sat for several minutes in the cool darkness of the building’s parking garage, considering where to go next. I still had several hours to kill before my rendezvous with Art and our evening’s errand. Normally I would simply go to my office on campus, which was only a couple of miles away, or home, which was no more than five or six. But I’d been asked to stay away from the one, and I was anxious to avoid the reporters that I feared were at the other.

  I’d brought my briefcase, stuffed with the journal articles that would help me update my textbook’s discussion of long bones. But where to work? The downtown library felt too public, too exposed; so did the restaurant across the valley from Burt’s office, Riverside Tavern. The last thing I wanted was to be gawked at, pointed at, intruded on, even in the unlikely event someone simply wanted to wish me well. In the end, I drove back to Tyson Park, where I spread my papers on a slightly sticky picnic table under a shelter, in case another storm blew through.

  Not long after I settled in, a car drove through the park and stopped when it drew alongside the shelter. I glanced up just long enough to recognize the markings and light bar of a police car, then redoubled my focus on my papers. After idling beside the Taurus for an interminable ten minutes, the cruiser left. But it circled back at regular intervals over the next three hours. The vigil made me feel both vaguely guilty and unfairly persecuted. I wondered if this was what homeless people felt like—people whose days stretched out before them, with no comfortable, welcoming place to spend them. I had money in my pocket and a roof over my head, of course—two roofs, if I counted my house and the rented cabin at Norris—yet neither place felt like home.

  I willed myself to concentrate on the bones of the human arm and leg. In the two de cades since I had written the first edition of my textbook, Americans’ average stature had increased by a fraction of an inch. Consequently, the femur and other long bones had also grown ever so slightly; as a result, a femur whose dimensions would have identified it as unequivocally male twenty or thirty years ago might now be that of a tall woman instead. The changes were slight, but not insignificant. I thought of the creationists, and what they might make of the trend. If we were created in God’s image, would Jennings Bryan and his followers
take this to mean God was growing, too?

  The reading and revisions took me until dark. When I could no longer see to read or write, I gathered up my papers and drove out of the park and along the Strip, the stretch of Cumberland Avenue whose restaurants and bars bordered one edge of the UT campus. I went back to the same deli I had visited at lunchtime; the turkey sandwich had been good, and the drive-through window afforded me some privacy. This time, feeling daring and in need of variety, I ordered a corned beef. Then—undercutting the boldness of the impetuous sandwich choice—I pulled into the farthest, darkest corner of the lot to eat. The sandwich was fine, but I was preoccupied. I wasn’t looking forward to what I was about to do. My only consolation was that Art was doing it with me. Halfway through the sandwich, I lost interest and put it back in the bag. Then, with more than a little trepidation, I drove to KPD headquarters, where Art stood waiting for me under the floodlit flagpole. He got in without speaking—clearly he wasn’t looking forward to this any more than I was—and I headed toward Broadway and Old North Knoxville.

  I’d called Susan Scott earlier in the day to find out what time her son went to bed. “Joey’s bedtime is nine-thirty,” she had said. “We usually watch America’s Funniest Home Videos at eight-thirty, and I read a chapter out of Harry Potter to him. He’s nearly always asleep by nine forty-five.”

  “I know it would be late,” I’d responded, “but could my friend Art and I come by at ten? I’m sorry to ask, but I think it’s important. And I’d like to come when you and your husband can both be home.”

  She had hesitated, and I could almost hear her trying to decide whether to ask why. She didn’t ask, and I was grateful, as I hadn’t been able to come up with an explanation that sounded anything short of crazy or terrifying. “All right,” she had said. “Bobby’s working a lot of overtime, like I told you, but he’s usually home by eight or nine. I’ll turn on the porch light for you when Joey’s asleep.”

  It was nine-thirty when Art and I pulled up to the curb across the street from the Scotts’ house. The honey-colored lamplight shone from every window on the front of the house. It made the old Victorian look like something out of a Currier & Ives print—Home Sweet Home or Cozy Sanctuary or something equally sentimental; not the sort of place you’d ever imagine hearts had been shattered and young psyches scarred. We sat in silence. I was grappling with myself, wondering whether this was really necessary; I was pretty sure Art was, too. After a few minutes, the light in one of the second-floor windows winked out, and soon after, the front-porch bulb snapped on. Just enough of its light carried into the dimness of the car to illuminate Art’s face a bit. It looked sad and drawn. “We could just drive away,” I said. “Leave it alone.”

  He was silent for a long time. “We could,” he said. “Don’t think I wouldn’t love to. But if we look the other way this time, what happens next time? And the next? Once you cross a line, it gets easier the next time, and the next and the next. And pretty soon you don’t even remember where the line was. You and I have spent a lot of years playing by the rules. We believe in ’em, even though they don’t always seem fair. You know that. That’s why you called Evers instead of burning those sheets, or tying them around a cinder block and chucking ’em in the river.”

  “I know,” I said. “And isn’t that working out swell for me?”

  “It ain’t over yet,” he said. “Too soon to give up on the system. You’ve got a shrewd lawyer, and if anybody in this city can get a jury that’s inclined to give the benefit of the doubt, it’s you.”

  “Yeah,” I said with more than a trace of irony in my voice. “The greatest legal system in the world. And at its pinnacle there’s my lawyer, Grease DeVriess.”

  “Hey, I didn’t say it was perfect,” he said. “But in this case, maybe Grease can actually do a good deed. Bootstrap himself up from the lowest circle of hell to one of those mid-level circles.”

  “If clearing my name means making the afterlife easier for Grease, I’m not so sure I want to be acquitted,” I said, and Art laughed quietly. “You’re a good man, Bill,” he said. “You ready?”

  “No. But I guess we’d best go do this anyhow.”

  We got out of the truck, easing the doors shut quietly. Down the street, a dog barked once, then fell silent. We eased wordlessly up the walk and up the stairs, and I knocked softly on the front door. It opened in seconds, and Susan Scott faced us nervously. Behind her stood her husband Bobby. She had said he was a contractor, and judging by his build, he wasn’t just a foreman, he still did a lot of labor himself. He stood about six-three, with broad shoulders and bulging arms. He had a hint of a beer gut, but underneath it, he still had the body of an athlete. When he shook Art’s hand, I saw Art wince, and when he shook mine, I understood why.

  They led us to the sofa, where Art and I had sat when we delivered the news of Craig Willis’s death to Susan Scott the week before. They sat in closely spaced armchairs, holding hands between the chairs.

  “I’m not sure where to start,” I said. “You might have seen me in the news lately.” They both nodded, looking embarrassed. “Somebody’s working hard to make it look like I killed Dr. Carter, and they’re doing a pretty good job of it. We’re trying to figure out who, and why.”

  Susan looked confused, and I could hardly blame her. “When you called, you said you had some new information about Craig Willis.”

  “We do,” said Art. “And we’re thinking there might be some connection between that case and Dr. Carter’s murder.”

  “How on earth would those be related?” asked Bobby.

  “Not sure,” Art replied. “But Dr. Carter was murdered right after we identified Craig Willis’s body. Willis’s mother was very upset at the news stories about her son’s death. She felt like Dr. Carter had ruined his reputation.”

  “Christ, give me a break,” said Bobby Scott. “That guy was a piece of shit.”

  “Bobby!” his wife exclaimed.

  “I can’t help it, Sue. You know it’s true, and you feel the same way. I’m glad he’s dead, and I wish the papers had printed the rest of his story.”

  “A day before she was killed,” I said, “Dr. Carter was in my office at UT. Craig Willis’s mother came in and physically attacked Dr. Carter. We had to call the campus police.”

  Susan put a hand to her mouth. “You think maybe she killed Dr. Carter?”

  “Don’t know,” Art said, “but we’re concerned that Mrs. Willis might be unstable, and might pose a risk to anyone who’s connected to her son’s case.” He reached into his shirt pocket and took out a photograph. It was a print of one of the photos I’d shot earlier in the day, at Mrs. Willis’s house. “You haven’t seen her in the neighborhood, have you? Or anywhere near Joey’s school?” He handed the photo to Mr. Scott. He took it in his free hand, studied it a moment, and shook his head. Then he handed it to his wife. She looked at it much longer, then shook her head as well, and handed the photo back to Art. Art, too, looked at the photo. He held it under the floor lamp that was at his end of the sofa, and angled the picture back and forth to catch the light. His face took on a look of infinite sorrow, and when he looked up at Bobby Scott, I could see tears gathering in the corner of Art’s eyes. I could feel them welling up in mine, too. “Mr. Scott,” Art said, “how did you cut your thumb? And when?”

  Bobby Scott looked startled, and then nervous. “With a utility knife on a job,” he said. “Stripping electrical wire. About a week ago, I’d say.”

  “I’d say more like three or four weeks ago,” Art said. “Just before that night you spent away from home? It’s healed up pretty well—just a faint scar by now, I’d say, judging by this thumbprint.” Bobby Scott flushed. “Mind showing me your thumb?” said Art. Scott extricated his hand from his wife’s, but he did not show his thumb to Art; instead, he put both hands on the arms of his chair, leaning forward and looking ready to jump up. The fight-or-flight reflex had clearly kicked in like a turbocharger.

  His wife wa
s looking from Art to her husband to me. “What’s going on?” I could see confusion and panic rising in her. “Somebody please tell me what this is about,” she said. Her voice was taut as a guitar string on the verge of snapping.

  “When Craig Willis was killed,” I said, “his penis was cut off and shoved in his mouth. There was a bloody thumbprint on the penis. The thumb had a pretty big cut down the center.”

  She turned and stared at her husband. The looks that passed between them—her unspoken and frightened questions, his angry and apologetic answers—nearly broke my heart. She began to shake, and to weep. “Oh God, Bobby,” she said, “what have you done? How could you do this to us? Oh God. Every time I think it can’t possibly get any worse…” She clenched a fist and bit into the side of her index finger with enough force that I expected to see the skin tear open. “I can’t take it,” she sobbed. “I can’t. I can’t. I have tried so hard. So fucking hard. But I can’t take any more.”

  Bobby Scott dropped to his knees in front of her. Now he was crying, too. “Baby, I’m so sorry,” he said. “I did it for Joey. And I did it for all the other kids I knew would suffer the same thing he did. And I thought I was doing it for you and me, too. I thought it was the only way to get some justice, so I could quit being so furious all the time. I never thought…I never dreamed…Oh, baby, I’m sorry. So sorry.” And he buried his head in her lap and sobbed. She sat there, stunned and unmoving, and I thought, This is when this marriage lives or dies. And finally she laid her hands on his head, and stroked his hair, and leaned forward to cradle him in her arms and her bosom, and they grieved together.

  After they were cried out—and it took some time—Bobby raised his head and turned to Art. “So what happens now? Are you here to arrest me?”

  “No,” said Art. “I think it’s best if you turn yourself in and confess.” He grimaced, but then slowly nodded. “Things might not be as bad as they seem,” Art said to Susan. “With a good lawyer and a reasonably understanding DA, there’s a shot at a pretty decent plea bargain. Could be out in a year or two. Other possibility, if it goes to trial, is an acquittal. Sometimes juries ignore the letter of the law in favor of a higher form of justice. Even cops and prosecutors sometimes hope for that. No guarantees, but speaking as a cop, that’s what I’d hope for in this case. And speaking as a parent, I know how I’d vote if I were in the jury box.”