by Leanna Floyd
Then he glanced down at the computer screen and held his phone out in front of him: same number.
“Hello,” someone said a deep, masculine voice.
Jacob fumbled, “Uh, hey, I think I dialed the wrong number sorry.”
“Who were you calling?” the man said.
“A friend of mine—a woman. Sorry for the call,” Jacob said, eager to disconnect.
“Is this Jacob?” the man inquired.
“Uh, yeah—who’s this?” Jacob immediately thought the worst. Who is this guy? Alicia’s psycho ex-boyfriend? Had he managed to find Alicia? Had something happened to her? Jacob went on the defensive as his mind swarmed with more questions.
“This is Alicia’s friend, Hector,” the man said and chuckled in a playful way, as if he expected Jacob to know who he was. “I’m taking Charlie to school this morning. She’s in the kitchen—I’ll get her for you.”
“Oh, Hector. I am so sorry, man. I was expecting Alicia to answer the phone.”
Jacob looked at his watch and saw that it was barely 7 A.M.; Alicia must be a morning person—he’d have to remember that. Then he felt inspired that maybe he could learn even more about Alicia by talking with Hector.
“It’s really nice to talk to one of Alicia’s friends. I’m really excited about getting to know her,” he said, trying to keep it casual. “She seems like a great lady.”
“Yes, she is—I love her like my little sister. She’s had a really rough go of it.”
“Did you guys grow up together in San Juan?” he asked.
“No, that was her ex, Carlos—Charlie’s father, that she grew up with in PR,” Hector said. “I met Alicia at a party in South Beach right after she moved here. Must be about five or six years ago now. I was originally friends with her sister Jasmine, and Jazz introduced us. I must say that you are a very lucky dude to have Alicia as a friend—she’s the best!”
Jacob smiled. “She’s a special girl, and I can’t wait to meet her.”
“Oh, that’s right—you two haven’t met in person yet,” Hector said. “I’m sure it won’t be long, though—she’s really looking forward to it. When do you think you will be coming to Miami?”
“I hope soon,” Jacob meant really soon.
“That would be great—I look forward to meeting you,” Hector said. “Hey, here’s Alicia.”
Jacob’s pulse revved like a new sports car as he heard a beautiful feminine voice say, “Hello?”
“Hello, beautiful! Sorry—I couldn’t wait to call. If this is a bad time—”
“Jacob! How wonderful to hear your voice, at last. You sound exactly like I thought you would sound.”
“And so do you,” he said.
They talked for almost ten minutes, mostly repeating things they had exchanged online. Then Jacob said, “Hey, before I let you go, I was wondering what you’re doing next weekend… I know you’re tied up this weekend with Charlie, but I was thinking about driving down next week and hoping we could meet in person.”
“Oh, Jacob,” she purred, “I would love that! Let me see if my aunt can watch Charlie for me, and I’ll get back to you. It would be great to see your face in person!”
“Great—just let me know,” he said, thrilled that she was immediately receptive. “If you want to bring Charlie along, we could just meet for lunch or something, go to the beach.”
“You are so thoughtful,” she said. “We’ll see. Like I said, I’m pretty protective of Charlie—I hope you understand. I just don’t like him getting attached to guys I date then being upset if it doesn’t work out.”
“Of course,” Jacob said, “maybe another time. I totally understand. You’re a great mom, Alicia. I can tell.”
“I try,” she said with a sigh. “That’s all you can do. Hey, I gotta run, but thank you sooo much for calling. I’ll let you know about this weekend. Have an awesome day, babe!”
“You, too. Bye,” he said.
He looked at the time and knew that he’d probably be late to the courthouse after hitting all the traffic into downtown on 275, but he didn’t care. He loved the sound of Alicia’s voice and was going to get to meet her next weekend.
Yes, his life was looking up.
At least a couple of weeks went by before another migraine descended over my head like a spiked helmet. I think it was caused by the constant tension. The rest of my life felt flat and complacent, but somewhere in the back of my brain, I knew there was an itch that would eventually have to be scratched. Maybe it was the bitch of a boss I have because God knows I’d like to crush the life out of her. But that would get me in trouble, and I’m far too smart to get caught.
But once I felt that little tickle inside me, the one that longed to feel the thrill of another woman’s life slipping through my hands, I made preparations. My first and second times had been impulsive and a revelation. My third, the nice redhead at Horseshoe Beach, had been deliberate but opportunistic. If it hadn’t been sweet Wendy Jo, it would have been someone else from the beach bar down the road. But for this fourth time, I realized I better act like a boy scout and be prepared.
This involved a trip to Walmart and Home Depot for some basics like heavy-duty contractor trash bags, nylon rope, some cement blocks, and of course duct tape. My first three lovely ladies had all been discovered within 48 hours, and I was eager to see if wrapping up my lucky fourth, along with those blocks, might help her body disappear off the end of some deserted pier or empty boat launch. So far, there was nothing to link the first three women to me, but if this was going to become a regular thing, which apparently it was, then I needed to eliminate the evidence.
I needed to take control of my new hobby.
Unfortunately, after a six-pack of beer and almost as many shots of tequila, my good intentions went by the wayside. Her name was Sheila; she had brassy blonde hair, red lipstick, big hoop earrings, and an end-of-summer tan. She was my waitress at this dive bar a few miles south of Daytona Beach called The Last Lap. Like my other excursions, I’m not really sure how I ended up there, or where I got the little snail shell in my pocket, the one that looked like a miniature ice cream cone complete with a swirl on top.
Let me tell you, though, that Sheila was a firecracker. She sizzled so much that I got careless and almost left behind more DNA than I intended. But the look in her eyes as her last breath gasped from that tan throat I was squeezing was absolutely priceless. It was like she knew that’s what I was going to do. Or maybe that’s what she wanted me to do. Who knows?
I drove around for almost an hour before I found an old dirt road that led down to a private boat dock in this swampy area near a secluded beach. My supplies came in handy. And since I forgot to place that little cone-shaped shell in her palm before I taped up the trash bag, I just taped the shell to the bag right above her right hand.
I don’t think she minded.
Chapter 19
Brooke hated being late as she sneaked into the crowded courtroom. A few heads turned as she found an open seat in the last row, but almost all eyes were riveted on the handsome black man commanding the courtroom. Carver was indeed a flashy dresser but pulled it off with a playful elegance that seemed to reflect his unique charisma. Today’s ensemble included a steel blue and tan windowpane suit, pink shirt, and brown-and-mauve paisley tie and pocket-handkerchief. A bit trendy for her taste but impressive nonetheless.
Judge Ranier said, “You may call your next witness, Mr. Carver.”
Carver nodded solemnly and announced, “I would like to call Dr. Ann Choung to the stand.”
Brooke shifted to get a better look. Dr. Choung was a middle-aged, attractive Asian woman with jet-black hair cut into a classic bob. Dressed in a houndstooth Christian Dior baby pink skirt suit with a pearl necklace snuggled close to her neck, she marched to the stand with an air of confidence. The bailiff swore her in, and Carver planted himself about six feet away from where she was sitting.
“What is your job title?” Carver asked.
; “I am an associate medical examiner.” Dr. Choung had a slight accent. Carver said, “How long have you had this job?”
Dr. Choung said, “For eight years.”
“And what type of training did you have?”
Dr. Choung looked offended, as if she’d never been asked the question before, and said, “I went to Duke medical school for four years, then five years in general pathology at St. Mary’s in Houston, and over a year in forensic pathology here. I am licensed in the state of Florida.”
“Very impressive,” Carver said, quickly adding, “what are your duties?”
Brooke knew if Carver continued ‘editorializing’, one of the tricks trial lawyers often used to subtly influence a jury, DeMato would light into him. For the moment, she noted, she was remaining patient.
Dr. Choung said, “I perform autopsies to determine the cause of death on individuals brought in by county law enforcement officers. Occasionally, we help out the local hospitals if they need forensic analysis on deceased patients.”
Carver nodded. “And how many autopsies have you performed?”
“This year or in my life?” The doctor’s dark eyebrows shot up to emphasize the ambiguity of Carver’s question.
The D.A. smiled and nodded an unspoken apology. “In your career, please.”
Dr. Choung didn’t hesitate: “Over 2,000. To be exact, 2,137.”
“And have you ever testified before?”
“Yes, I have.”
Carver took a step toward the witness stand and placed his hands together with only his fingers touching. “And are you considered an expert in your area?”
Dr. Choung said, “Yes, I am.”
“How many times have you testified?” He took another step toward her.
“I have testified over thirty times.”
“Did you perform the autopsy on Abigail Winters on May 5th of this year?”
“Yes, I did. I was assisted by Dr. Dwayne Zimmer from the county coroner’s office.”
Carver took another step forward, placing him directly in front of Dr. Choung and the witness stand. He crossed his arms and asked, “Can you give the court a general overview of your findings?”
Dr. Choung took a sip of water before leaning into the microphone. “She was 25 years old, 5’7” and weighed 136 pounds."
“Were photos taken during the autopsy?”
“No, the autopsy was recorded digitally on video from three separate cameras. Still photos are then printed from those recordings as needed.”
“Would those photos assist you in describing your autopsy findings to the court?”
Dr. Choung was a poor actress. She paused as if considering the question for the first time and said, “Yes, they would.”
“Objection, Your Honor,” said Lisa DeMato, who had anticipated the opportunity. “Dr. Choung does not need to shock the jury with graphic photographs. These pictures are not essential testimony.”
Ranier tried to look as if she were also pondering her response before saying, “Overruled. They may be shown.” She pivoted toward the jurors seated at an angle to her right. “These photographs may be graphic, but I am trusting Dr. Choung—and D.A. Carver’s—judgment in using them to describe the victim’s cause of death.” They nodded, and Brooke thought they looked like a collection of bobblehead dolls all bobbing at once.
On the video monitor, just left of the witness stand, a close-up of a woman’s head in profile appeared. Brooke heard several gasps ripple across the room, and even she had to turn away for a moment at the grisly sight so garishly displayed on the screen.
The prosecution had definitely scored a point.
“Dr. Choung, will you tell the court what we are looking at here?” Carver adopted the tone and facial expression of a student, albeit one who was horrified by his subject matter.
The medical examiner nodded. “You are looking at the left side of victim’s head, her jawline and left ear. Here’s the fatal gunshot wound—it was a penetrating gunshot wound because I found a projectile object in the skull. We distinguish between penetrating versus perforating wounds. When the bullet goes into the body and stays, it’s called a penetrating wound. When the bullet exits, it’s perf. We can also see pinhole marks, called stippling, as a result of gunpowder residue at the entry point. There’s another photo that can show the stippling clearer.”
On the screen, Abby Winters’ head had been turned to face her right side. Just above her ear was a shaved area about two inches by two inches that showed a dark open hole with several tiny red dots perfectly surrounding the entry wound. In close up, the wound was clean and there was no blood; the hole looked like the mouth of a dark cave.
“And is there a distinction in terms of what causes these marks, these pinhole-like marks? What did you call them?”
“Stippling,” said Dr. Choung. “Yes, these kinds of marks are caused when a weapon is held only one to two inches away from the victim’s head. If it is held out any farther, then the powder is dispersed into the air and leaves no marks.”
“So, we know for sure the gun was fired at close range, Doctor?”
“Yes, extremely close range.”
“Uh huh,” said Carver. “And what about this next picture—what are we looking at here?”
“This is an extreme close up of the victim’s head from the back, favoring her left side to expose the second fatal gunshot wound. This picture shows how in this second head wound, the bullet went in and exited Ms. Winters’ skull. As a result of the bullet’s exit, her skull was fractured, which produced a cut in her scalp upon departure.”
Brooke craned a bit to see. This picture was more of what she had expected as it showed dark matter leaking from an open wound. Abby’s hair appeared dirty, but it was drenched in dried blood that had turned black.
“How many gunshot wounds were there in all?” Carver stepped away and moved back toward the jury box. A drawing of a body’s silhouette came up onscreen with dramatic red arrows pointing to each bullet wound.
Dr. Choung answered, “There were a total of four. Two were fatal to her head. One grazed her shoulder. The other, her lower abdomen.”
Carver let the red arrows dance on the illustration for several seconds before asking, “Dr. Choung, is there any reason to believe Abby Winters died of anything other than these gunshot wounds?”
“No,” she said. “Death was nearly instantaneous due to immediate cerebral hemorrhaging and neurological dysfunction. Abigail Winters died due to these two gunshots to her head.”
“Was Ms. Winters in good health before her young life was snuffed out by this rain of gunfire?”
“Ob-jection!” Lisa DeMato was on her feet, and although Brooke could only see the back of her head, the attorney’s tone of voice guaranteed she was rolling her eyes.
DeMato took a step forward and gestured at her antagonist. “Mr. Carver cannot inject his editorial opinions into his questions. This is at least the second time he’s done it, and I would humbly ask that Your Honor put a stop to it.”
Brooke thought Lisa DeMato looked every bit the strong, perfectly styled professional in a dark charcoal grey suit and teal blouse. As she returned to her seat, Brooke noticed her only piece of jewelry was a golden chain necklace with a diamond-studded cross dangling from it just below her throat. She would bet anything that DeMato never wore it unless she was in the courtroom, a subtle prop to convey to the jurors that she was a good Christian woman, someone who would never defend a spoiled young trust fund brat who had murdered his ex-girlfriend.
“Sustained,” said Judge Ranier. “Mr. Carver, please refrain from coloring your questions and remarks with your personal opinion. Ms. DeMato is right—you know better than that. Please rephrase your question to the witness.”
Carver shrugged with open palms and turned back to Dr. Choung. “In your expert opinion, what was the condition of Ms. Winters’ health immediately prior to her death?”
“She was in good general health. Her liver showed some min
or scarring, unusual for someone so young, but her heart, lungs, and other major organs were healthy and functional. Her baby also appeared to be healthy, well-developed and somewhere between 14 and 15 weeks.”
“Ms. Winters was pregnant?” Carver sounded like he was hearing the news for the first time. “Based on the development of her baby, when did conception take place?”
Dr. Choung thought for a moment. “I would estimate that her baby was conceived sometime in mid- to late-January. It could be earlier or it could be later, but that’s my best guess.”
“Thank you, Dr. Choung,” said Carver with a slight bow. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
“Very well,” said Ranier looking down her nose through gold-rimmed reading glasses on a chain around her neck. “Ms. DeMato, do you wish to cross-examine this witness?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” replied DeMato, already on her feet. “Dr. Choung, were there any other injuries of any kind on the body of the deceased?”
Dr. Choung raised her eyebrows again. “Well, yes, there was bruising on her right hip. There was an area of contusion—approximately four by four inches.”
“What was the cause of this contusion?” asked DeMato.
“Unknown. She might have fallen, bumped into furniture—any number of possibilities.”
“Was this injury sustained prior to her death? Or concurrent with the time of the gunshots?”
“The cause of the bruising occurred at least one or two days earlier. The discoloration had advanced beyond the initial phase.”
“Could another person have inflicted a blow on Ms. Winters to cause such an injury?”
“Hmm,” said Dr. Choung. “Yes, I suppose it’s possible.”
“Objection!” said Carver. “Relevance? Dr. Choung has said that such an injury could have occurred in any number of ways.”
“Overruled,” said Ranier, and then to DeMato, “get to the point, counselor.”