Absolute Instinct (Instinct thriller series)

by Robert W. Walker

  “Gone fishing? That's an awful alibi. I could cite you hundreds of foolish men who used it, including Scott Peterson.”

  “But in Towne's case, it's true. He's an avid fisherman and hunter.”

  “Who owns a deboning knife, a rib cutter, and a ball peen hammer, I'm sure,” said Sands with a shake of the head.

  “And a bow and arrow, and a collection of hunting rifles rivaling Sears Roebuck.” Reynolds dropped his head, nodding. “All of which was carted into the courtroom to prove him some sort of animal.”

  “Then why the hell did he confess?” asked Petersaul.

  “He was out of his mind at the time.”

  “What's the source of your information?” asked Jessica.

  “All right, there is a personal connection. An old friend of mine is on the defense team, and I can assure you Towne couldn't afford a Roy Black. They started an appeal but Towne, shown of sound mind at the time, refused any appeals made on his behalf.”

  “So you're saying that the Minnesota case, and now this awful butchery, that this constitutes new information for Towne's defense?”

  “I've always maintained he could not have done the Minnesota killing. I've already faxed the broad outlines to Oregon, but they've wired back that the governor's not buying it. The DA's somehow gotten the time of death changed by a day to counter claims that Towne was in Canada at the time.”

  “I see.”

  “So much for that. The governor can't be convinced of a stay of execution, citing the fact that Towne himself refuses any further appeal!”

  “Meanwhile, you uncovered all this coincidence surrounding the murders.” Jessica put a fiber slide together as she spoke. “Like the sketches left at the murder scenes in both Millbrook and Portland, and now here in Milwaukee.”

  “According to my experts, done by the same hand,” added Darwin. “And Towne has no history of artistic ability whatsoever.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Let's just say that I've seen what he can't do with the back of a napkin.”

  “So you're maintaining that he can't have created the charcoal sketches,” said Abrams, still playing devil's advocate, “and I gotta agree, not here with the Olsen woman and her dog since he's sitting on death row. But this could just be a copycat killing. Your boy Towne could've done the bird lady in Minnesota, and his wife.”

  This drew some laughter.

  Darwin dropped his head as if defeated. Jessica saw his frustration as he realized he could not change any of their minds. She jumped in, asking, “Agent Reynolds, when Towne was in his insanity phase, did the defense use schizophrenia as a mitigating circumstance?”

  “Afraid so, yes, but—”

  “And so, did he ever in any other personality show any artistic—”

  “None, I tell you.”

  “And you have the autopsy reports on the two other crimes?” she asked.

  “As a matter of fact...”

  “I'll be happy to look them over, but I must tell you, I am skeptical, at least as skeptical as Dr. Sands and Chief Abrams.”

  “Understood.”

  “But I am also equally skeptical anything can be done to save Towne from execution at this late date.”

  “Skeptical is fine, perfect actually. I want your skepticism, Dr. Coran. It's what makes a good M.E., correct? And when you are convinced, it will mean something to Oregon.”

  Skepticism is the hallmark of the medical examiner, she thought. “But for now I have, as Dr. Sands says, my hands full.”

  Reynolds held up his hands in the universal gesture of retreat, and he did just that.

  # # #

  “I'LL give you transport to the crime lab,” Darwin Reynolds offered Jessica when it became apparent that she and Dr. Sands could do no more at the scene. “I'm sure you can trust Ira and his people to maintain the chain of evidence, Dr. Coran.”

  She'd automatically begun to search the room to see what final steps needed to be taken before leaving the crime scene. “Once we let it go,” she said, her gaze sweeping over everyone and everything remaining, “it's gone. No longer ours. Any mistakes we make now. All that.”

  Even as she and Reynolds started toward the door, Jessica couldn't help but again regard the smoothed out dried blood running from the body to the door where it had been purposefully disturbed—mopped. She noticed the techs placing plastic bags over the mop ends and rubber-banding them. Another pair of men zipped up a body bag, having lifted Joyce Olsen's remains up and into it. Jessica's last glance met the woman's features, a mildly chiding reproach in the dead eyes. Now, in the hands of God, the eyes of the victim shone on Jessica like some sort of scolding preternatural light that insisted “find my killer.”

  Such had fallen to her countless times before, and the responsibility and burden only grew as more was learned of the victim. Joyce had been a librarian who walked to and from her job, kept a steady schedule of walking her dog, Shep, in the nearby park, and according to a diary entry, read by Darwin, as Jessica and Sands had worked over her corpse, she adored the roasted sweet corn at the West Allis Fairgrounds during the state fair, a place the librarians and their relatives went each year to celebrate and party. She had had to go alone for the past two years, and Joyce lamented about this in her private book.

  At the elevator doors in the hallway, Dr. Sands was already swamped, surrounded and captured by newspeople who'd finally gotten past the uniforms below. Sands appeared to revel in the attention. Reynolds snuck Jessica out via a back stairwell. Behind them, Jessica heard Sands saying, “Boys, whoever the devil is, he's pretty well destroyed any chance at blood spatter evidence of any sort.”

  “What kind of weapon'd he use on her, Doc?” came a question.

  “From the neatness of the incisions, I'd say our killer used a scalpel or a very good deboning knife.”

  “A deboning knife?” went up the cry.

  “Damned handy with it, too.”

  “Is it true that her entire spinal column from top to bottom was extracted, Dr. Sands?” asked a female reporter, her voice shivering with the words.

  Sands regarded her. “Scary as hell, isn't it? The very idea. The man used rib cutters or a bone saw to extricate the thoracic vertebrae. My guess is rib cutters.”

  “Why rib cutters?” another reporter came back.

  “No one in the building heard anything like a bone saw. Bone saw sends up a noise like a wailing woman. Whereas bone cutters just toss off these snap, crackle, pop sounds.”

  “Why? Why'd he do this? Why'd he take, of all things, the spine?” asked the lady reporter. “It's horrifying... maddeningly so.”

  “No one knows. If we knew, Briana, it might help lead us to him,” replied Sands.

  Jessica realized that Sands did love the attention. At his age, he had learned to play the press to his advantage, and it appeared he made no excuses to his superiors.

  Reynolds pulled Jessica away and guided her through the stairwell door. “I'm sure you don't want to be part of the circus.”

  “Absolutely right about that, and I'm not so sure I like Sands giving up so much of what we have. It's not wise.”

  “Hey, it's Ira, all right? What can I say. He runs his office the way he runs his office. He's ahhh... garrulous. Has lost a lot of jobs over the years over his outspoken style. Funny as hell.”

  As they made their way down the stairs, Jessica asked, “Funny good or funny bad?”

  “He tells the funniest stories about having been fired from hither, thither and yon, and he has a bag full of hilarious stories about on-the-job stuff as well.”

  “Does strike me as a character.”

  “That he is... that he is.”

  The ease of step here on the stairwell made Jessica recall how the carpet in Olsen's apartment had crackled underfoot like Rice Krispies, hardened as it had become with Olsen's dried blood. She wondered if she'd ever get that sound out of her ear, or the image of a river of blood out of her head. There were no Caine's eardro
ps, earplugs, or sleeping pills to help.

  She looked askance at Reynolds as they descended the two flights. She believed him ruggedly handsome in a Dick Tracy sort of way, and his stony onyx-black eyes showed a depth of intelligence that easily mesmerized others.

  “Time for Towne is slipping away like the proverbial sand through the hourglass,” he muttered.

  “Why've you taken such a personal interest in Towne?”

  “I hate the death penalty. We have to find another way. Too many on death row are innocent, there for the same reason as Towne—a confession beaten from them, if not literally so, then figuratively.”

  “But there's more to it than that. And you have to know from my record that I have sent a lot of men to their deaths on the row.”

  “Yes, I know your record and where you stand on the issue.”

  “The death penalty is too good for some of the scum we see. That aside, you've uncovered something else about these spine snatchings, haven't you?”

  He stopped midstep, turned and stared deeply into her eyes. “I went back to the case in Millbrook, Minnesota. Went over it with a fine-toothed comb, but not until I talked with the detectives who worked it, did I realize how identical our killings this side of the Mississippi are to Towne's 2003 case.”

  “I see. And just what did these detectives have to say?”

  “Come with me,” said Reynolds, going toward the back exit of the apartment building. His car had been brought around by another agent. They got in and he peeled away, the diminishing blue strobe lights of the squad cars on the street reflected in Jessica's side-view mirror, growing smaller. It felt like escape.

  She curled up in the leather seat. Fatigue claimed dominance, her eyes heavy with it, as if lavished on with a brush.

  “Picture the Olsen kitchen again. You were there, you saw it, right?”

  Jessica joined him there. “All neat and tidy.”

  “I had a look in the trash bin. Guess what I found inside?”

  “I haven't a clue.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing... hmmm... should I be impressed, Sherlock?”

  “Freshly cleaned out. Same as in Millbrook. Now look into the dishwasher,” he added as he “opened” an imaginary dishwasher between them in the cab of the car. “The killer is our neat freak. He even turned on the dishwasher and did the dishes.” He paused to let this sink in. “A check with her landlord, and I'm told Joyce Olsen was not obsessively neat about the place.”

  “Still, how do you know she didn't do her dishes?”

  “There are six dishes inside. No way is a woman going to wash four cups and two saucers. It's not economical, and from all accounts, Olsen was economical. Besides the noise of the washer would drown out the noise of his bone-saw activity.”

  Jessica found herself playing devil's advocate now. “She was expecting him, perhaps, so she put her dishes away when the doorbell rang... out of habit or nervousness.”

  “Look, the broom in Minnesota used to smear all the blood and any tracks and here... here it's a mop swept over the evidence.”

  “Done in Portland as well?”

  “Not to mention the size and depth of the wounds, and the M.E.s all agreeing that he used a scalpel-styled knife, and a bone cutter, for the removal of the spinal cords.”

  Darwin allowed all he'd said to settle in.

  Outside the car, the bustle of traffic in downtown Milwaukee moved like a herd of water buffalo going across a wide stream—slow going at best. Neon lights, electronic billboards and display windows vied for attention.

  “All right, I see the similarities,” Jessica conceded. “No great stretch.”

  “I tell you, Towne is innocent, and the real killer has surfaced again,” pushed Reynolds.

  “I can see that you believe this.”

  “You will, too, if you take the time to review the Portland and Minnesota cases. In Oregon, a moblike mentality prevailed in the community—a fucking witch-hunt engineered intentionally or not around the same kind of brainless thinking as... as went into the guilty verdict in To Kill a Mockingbird, or countless real-life cases I can give you chapter and verse on if—”

  She held up her hands in mock surrender. “So, you are saying that they railroaded a conviction based on his being black? Come on.”

  “Worse than that. They rammed it to him for being black and supposedly killing a white woman. The machine ran a single-minded track and steamrolled over an innocent man.”

  Her silence telegraphed the fact that her skepticism hadn't significantly diminished.

  “I'm telling you that's how it went down. They railroaded Robert onto death row. Oregon's still got that Wild West approach to law and order, an inherent vigilantism is at work there. Rob Towne didn't get a fair trial, and he'd never get a fair appeal, either, so he says why bother?”

  “What does the governor think?”

  “Hughes? Ahhh... He's persuaded—that is, moved by the political winds—and is persuaded that no way can he overturn a Court TV verdict. He's the consummate—”

  “—politician, I'm sure, and easily led by his political advisors.”

  “Exactly, but he's begun to listen somewhat. There is hope, Dr. Coran, and you're it.”

  “Me? Meaning?”

  “Meaning that I'm going to send Governor Hughes a copy of your report.”

  “You mean you're going to shove it down his throat, right?”

  “Perhaps, yes.”

  “Does Hughes know you're a cross between James Earl Jones and Michael Dorn?”

  “I've met with him. First time was the day after the trial verdict last year. Yeah, he knows I can hurt him, but I don't operate like that.”

  “Sorry... meant no offense. That was rude... thoughtless of me.”

  “I'll forgive your insensitive response, Doctor, if you'll seriously look over the evidence and report your findings to Hughes.”

  “So this has been a setup? Hughes is expecting a report?”

  “Yes, he is.” Darwin hesitated just a beat. “Hughes wants us, you in particular, to put the Millbrook and Milwaukee killings alongside what he has in Portland, kind of overlay each atop the other to see what comes of it, forensics-wise, I mean.”

  “Do you really expect me to believe that the governor of Oregon asked for all this to come his way? That he's anxiously awaiting my opinion?”

  “Evidence is evidence.”

  “And state's evidence is state's evidence. Hughes isn't likely to want to pick a fight with his own people, to reverse the process that arrested, tried and convicted Towne. Come on, Darwin. Out with the truth. I can't work with you if you're going to play fucking games.”

  “This is the truth! I've dogged the governor's office since Towne was convicted, and I've wired him about you, about the new findings. He's gotta listen to us. I'll make him listen to us.”

  “Whataya going to do? Corner him with a sucker punch? You know governors of state, you know they hate granting reprieves, even short ones. And look at what you've done with me. You've blown it with me.”

  “How have I blown it with you?” he sounded genuinely surprised.

  “Come on, Darwin. You've already prejudiced and compromised me, by—”

  “—by informing you? That's all I've done.”

  “You've told me your opinion and that you fully expect your opinion to be upheld by my findings. In forensics, that's putting the cart before the horse—conclusion made, now go prove it. Besides, you're lying about Hughes's level of interest in reviewing Towne's case.”

  He pulled the car into an underground police crime lab facility that looked like a bank, nondescript with no indication it was FBI. Once in the lot, as he located a space and pulled into it, Darwin leaned heavily into his steering wheel and sighed. “Ail right. I'm sorry. You're right, of course, but I simply want you to review the facts and keep an open mind.”

  “Who is Towne to you? Really?”

  Reynolds lifted his gaze to her, his jaw set. “
He's a black brother, and I'm a member of For Blacks Only. Look, Towne is just another in a long, long line of black men who've been shafted by the American judicial system.”

  “Are you saying this is some sort of crusade, a cause?”

  “It's as good a cause as any, Dr. Coran. An innocent life at stake.”

  “And you're not clouded by the passion of the crusade?”

  “Not in the least. All right... perhaps some... All the same, I'm right and Oregon is dead wrong.”

  “And this guy Towne couldn't possibly be guilty? Couldn't possibly have done this to his wife, not even a chance he'd read about what happened to the Childe woman in Minnesota and—”

  “I understand your skepticism, and I applaud it. Fact is, I want you to pit it all against the case files, and I am certain you'll see that Hughes and his state attorney's office are the guilty party here.”

  “Towne could as well be proven guilty by my scrutiny, by DNA testing, Darwin. Are you ready to accept that possibility?”

  “I am prepared for whatever verdict you decide, Dr. Coran. Will you review the material I've amassed?”

  She sighed heavily now. “Tonight, I'll go over everything you want to share on the cases. But for the moment, I have an autopsy to get to.”

  FOUR

  Fear is a disease that eats away at logic and makes man inhuman.

  — MARIAN ANDERSON, AMERICAN SINGER (1897-1993)

  THE modest, claustrophobic changing area for female doctors at the Milwaukee FBI crime lab run by Dr. Ira Sands left little shoulder room between the lockers. As a result, Jessica had donned her surgical garb as quickly as possible to join Ira Sands out in the larger arena of autopsy room #1. There Joyce Olsen's now cleaned and stark white body lay awaiting her attention, lying not on its back as in any normal autopsy, but on its front atop a gleaming metal slab, built-in suction tubes running down either side, to carry away any loose or falling matter.

  Overhead vents filled the room with a steady flow of humming air, clean and antiseptic, and another pair of vents worked equally hard to shoot air out in a constantly moving current.