Stebbins shook his head and exhaled. "Probably never if you don't get him proper medical care."
"And if we can do that?"
"It's impossible for me to say. I'm sorry."
"Two weeks? Two months? Two years?"
He looked at her. "If he develops no infection, and if the edema controlled by the steroids, he'll likely have recovered what memory he's going to recover within a year. But you have to understand that he's had tissue damage. Some of his memory has been lost. It's not retrievable. It's gone. The same can be said of the psychogenic amnesia—if the psychological trauma was severe enough, he may never recover certain memories."
"But they're in there," said Zamorra. "Those memories are inside him."
"Yes."
"How do you get them out?"
"Hypnosis."
Merci thought of Dr. Joan Cash and the terrific results she'd gotten from a witness using hypnosis. She wrote J. Cash?
"Understand," said Dr. Stebbins, "that using hypnosis on a subject like Mr. Wildcraft could be damaging to him. You would be bringing forth memories that he is not presently able to process, emotionally. You'd be overriding his mechanisms of self-defense and self-preservation. It would be tantamount to trying to remove that bullet from his brain surgically. It would be ill-advised, destructive, possibly catastrophic."
In the quiet that followed, Merci listened to the fan-blown air tapping at the surfaces of the room, heard the footsteps and the echoes of footsteps in the hall outside. She wondered how many tough decisions had been made by people sitting right here where she was. How many people had looked down at the same floor, heard the same sounds, prayed to their gods for guidance.
"We couldn't use him in court if he'd been hypnotized," she said. "California law."
"Well," said Stebbins, "as I've said, that's getting ahead of what's really feasible now."
"Can you get us exact measurements on the bullet fragments?"
"I can get you measurements accurate to one millimeter, which would be acceptably accurate if the bullet was in one perfectly shaped piece. But there are three fragments visible on the spiral CT, and there are probably more that are too small for us to see. So there's no way to tell which dimension we're measuring—diameter, length? A combination of the two? I can't get an accurate caliber for the bullet—I assume that's what you're after. After talking to Sheriff Abelera I did some measurements. All I can say with reasonable certainty is that the caliber of the bullet is probably between a twenty-two and a thirty-eight."
"You're not even sure of that?"
"No. It's possible that the bullet fragmented on entry and part of it never penetrated. It's even possible that a fragment left his skull and
came to rest somewhere else in his body. We only had time to take pictures of his head before he so foolishly checked himself out."
"If we got him back, could you try an MRI?"
"We can't do an MRI because of the metal in the bullet."
"What about positron emission tomography?" asked Zamorra.
"Wonderful for the biochemical activities in the brain, but not for space and volume measurements that precise. I'm sorry."
"I just exhausted my medical scan knowledge," said Rayborn.
"I did, too," said Zamorra.
"Believe me, I'd get you a caliber on the bullet if I could. An autopsy would be the only way. We'd literally have to put the pieces back together."
A moment of acknowledged possibility passed between them--- three blinks and a small stretch of silence.
"Thanks for your help on everything else," said Merci. "And for your honesty."
"I don't know any other way to practice medicine."
Dr. Stebbins met her stare for a moment and neither looked away. Then he swiveled his chair and looked again at the x ray of Archie Wildcraft. "The human brain weighs about three pounds. It's small. You can hold one in your hands. But it's hugely complex. The hard you look the bigger it gets. It's like looking at the night sky through a telescope. The more you see the more there is to see. The more you learn the more there is to learn. It goes on forever, and there's so much we don't know."
He turned back to Merci. "But, Sergeant Rayborn and Sergeant Zamorra, I do know that Archie belongs under medical care. Too much can go wrong. I strongly advise you to get him back into this hospital.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
They walked across the Sheriff's Headquarters parking lot. Heat waves shimmered up from the cars into a humid brown sky. Merci looked up at the building—large, concrete and impersonal—of little more architectural flair than a home-improvement center. She'd always liked it because it was a no-nonsense building. It promised nothing except an attempt to enforce the law, and it sheltered people who were willing to die for this idea.
Sheriff Vincent Abelera's office was on the fourth floor. It was large and sunny and had two adjacent walls of windows. The carpet was light blue and the wood was all dark walnut, which Merci thought was a superb combination of texture and color. Especially the way the brass of the plaques and trophies and awards shined in the beams of the recessed lights. Abelera had a big desk in the far corner. A computer monitor sat where the former sheriff used to have a blotter and a marble two-pen holder. There was a sink and counter, bookshelves, two sitting areas with couches and coffee tables, and a big TV on a wheeled stand.
Walking into this office, Merci thought of the several agonizing meetings she'd had here late last year with Chuck Brighton, the previous sheriff. He had held the position for almost four decades. She had liked Brighton and she'd come to see how he bore the ills of his department as if he'd somehow caused them all himself. But she'd brought his career down by solving a homicide that had been unsolved for thirty years, a murder that Brighton and his inside circle had never wanted solved for reasons that became obvious. It was the same case that had disgraced her father and some other deputies, both retired and active. Walking across the pale blue carpet now sent a familiar ripple of nerves down her back and brought her senses to a keen and heightened edge. And it made her swallow hard as she was reminded of the terrible price of loyalty.
They were two minutes early, and the last ones to arrive. They sat on a sofa along one windowed wall, facing District Attorney Clayton Brenkus and Assistant DA Ryan Dawes. The lawyers had claimed sofa of their own, as well as the view. Sheriff Abelera himself, as to establish independence and superiority, sat in a leather armchair at the head of and exactly midway between the two couches.
Abelera was in uniform today. Brenkus wore dark trousers and blue shirt. Dawes was his fashionable self, Merci noted: a soft olive colored suit with a crisp abstract tie. He looked tanned from the weekend. She looked down at her black pants and white blouse and gray sport coat and figured they'd do.
Marilyn, the sheriff's secretary, offered coffee all around but no one accepted. She was an elegant, older woman with gray-black hair she only wore one way: in a bun. "Too hot for coffee today," she noted. She said they had juice and soft drinks but nobody wanted those either.
"How about a beer after work?" asked Dawes.
Marilyn smiled and blushed a little, closing the door behind her.
Abelera, an arm on each rest, sat up straight and considered Brerkus. Then he looked at Merci.
"I've been working law enforcement for almost thirty years," he said. "And I've never seen the DA eager to file and the detectives not. It's always the other way around. So, here I am, not yet a year on the job, and you're making department history."
"It's our way of welcoming you," said Brenkus. "I feel very welcomed, then," said Abelera. His face was sharp angles and his smile looked easy and genuine. "Merci, Paul, I want to start with the prosecutors because I know they're ready to file. After that, I'll hear from you, okay? Clay, Ryan—tell me why we should arrest and charge my deputy."
The district attorney looked at his assistant and nodded.
"Because he murdered his wife and tried to murder himself," said Dawes, looking at Abelera.
"Why did he do that? Because he's a manipulator, and like most manipulators, when things didn't go his way he turned into a coward. A violent coward. First, the deputy and Gwen were under financial duress—they'd spent almost nine hundred grand in the last six months, and they were living on one income—a deputy's. Which is about fifty grand a year if he works overtime. And the deputy worked a lot of overtime in the last two years. He knew the whole financial burden was on him. New home, new cars, trips all over the place. This is easy enough to establish.
"Second, I'll prove that Archie Wildcraft was a jealous and manipulative husband. He had a temper. Gwen was beautiful and knew how to use it—her friends will attest to that part of her character. Archie was angry a lot. Gwen couldn't figure out why he was so angry all the time. It must have been kind of scary. But I can figure it. Any of us can. It's because he was going broke and he's losing his wife. Losing his wife. His prize. His trophy. They get in a fight and he throws a rock through a window. They yell at each other. The neighbors hear them. That night he's planned a big party for her, but she doesn't appreciate it. She flirts shamelessly. She drinks a little too much. At home he demands sex, she won't do it. He forces her. She gives in against her will because she can't fight him physically. He's six-three and weighs two hundred and five pounds. Besides, this has happened before. So she gives in to him, but that's not enough for this guy because nothing's ever been enough for this guy because he's a manipulator and a coward. He drinks, he broods, he wants sex again and she locks herself in the bathroom with a cell phone because she thinks he might be losing it and she's afraid. She's right but not right enough. The guy comes through the door with a lot more than sex in mind. He's got his nine, he pulls. She falls and he jams it against her head and pulls again. It's a mess in there. It smells like blood and gunpowder and his beautiful wife's dying on the floor. So he leaves her there, goes outside and kills himself too. That's what he wanted all along, was just to get out of this, end it, but he couldn't leave his wife alive for his friends to take care of, could he? Not when she's the cause most of this. Trouble is, the bullet takes a lucky turn inside his head and he doesn't die. He wakes up and realizes, hey, I'm alive and I've got another chance at things. He figures out that he can say anything he wants about that night and there's nobody to contradict him. So remembers certain things. But then again, he also forgets other thinks. Guess what—he can even make things up. This is what he's doing ladies and gentlemen of the jury: he's manipulating you just like he manipulated his wife."
Dawes turned to Merci. "But guess what? None of that really matters too much because this case will be decided on physical evidence. Here are some things that the deputy cannot deny, because they a proven facts. We have no evidence that there was another person on the property that night, let alone inside the deputy's house. We know the deputy was home that night. We know that the deputy owned the gun that killed her. We know the gun was in his possession that night. We know it was in his hand that night. We know he fired it that night. We know his fingerprints are not only on the gun that killed her but on the brass that contained the bullets that killed her. That means he loaded it as well as fired it. And again, who owned that nine millimeter? Whose gun was it? The deputy's. That, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is why you have to reach a verdict of guilty. That, Sheriff Abelera and District Attorney Brenkus, is why you need to file. That Sergeants Rayborn and Zamorra, is why you have to do your job and arrest him."
"Good," said Abelera. "The defense?"
"He can't prove all that," said Merci, ignoring the assistant DA. "He can't prove they were going broke, because they weren't. They' spent a lot of money in the last year because they'd made two million in a legitimate investment. It left the Wildcrafts about a million two after taxes. There are still almost two hundred grand in investment and accounts. Dawes can't prove that Archie was homicidally jealous--- we're not getting that picture from friends and family at all. We're also not getting that she was an outrageous flirt, or that he was angry or that he was losing her. It wasn't Archie and Gwen arguing that day at all, and neither one of them threw anything through a window. The whole rape scene is bullshit. There's not a shred of evidence that it wasn't consensual sex. Next thing he's coming through the bathroom door with a gun, ready to shoot her? Why? There's no motivation to do that, if you realize they weren't going broke and they were happy and in love with each other. We've got three separate witnesses to two men in a black Cadillac STS leaving the scene. We've got footprints—big, size sixteens—in exactly the place a shooter would hide if he was waiting to take out Archie. We've got Archie Wildcraft's prints on his own gun, but no proof that he was even conscious when his fingers touched that gun. Of course his prints are on the brass—he loaded his own gun, for cryin' out loud. We need more time, sir. We think we found the black Caddy. Huge footprints all around it, just like under the tree at the Wildcrafts'. We've got some indication that it could have been a contract hit by La Erne. Dr. Stebbins said the bullet in Wildcraft's head could be anything from a twenty-two to a thirty-eight, which means a second weapon is possible. Which, if true, would sink Dawes's theory all the way to the bottom of the ocean. And Archie is remembering more about that night and events that led up to it. We need to polygraph him—which he's agreed to—and we might want to consider hypnosis, when he's had a few more days to equalize emotionally. We need time to investigate further. We're not ready. It's a loser in court and I won't put my name on it. Pure and simple."
Dawes didn't wait before he commented, "Besides the potty mouth, you'd make a decent defense counsel."
"Decent enough to beat you."
"I can't wait."
"You'll have to wait," said Merci. "Because I'll make an arrest when I've got the facts. Not just to give an assistant DA a headline maker."
"Merci," said Abelera.
"Another headline maker," said Dawes.
"Cool it, Ryan," said Brenkus.
"Do you want the truth, Rayborn, or just hugs and kisses from your department?" asked Dawes.
"Shut up, Ryan," said Brenkus. "This won't take us anywhere we need to go. Vince—let me speak now. There's some truth in what Dawes said, some truth in what Rayborn said. But be aware that we're getting a lot of calls about this. I know you are, too. The public is angry about it and they want action. Fine, we can put them off until we're ready—a pissed-off public never made a case. But I'm getting pressure from the news media, too, and we don't want that. They're speculating already that your department is being slow to investigate because you're covering for the deputy. If that gets into the air—ii people start to believe that—you set up an adversarial mood in this county, and I'm not convinced we're ready for that. Your predecessor brought some genuine distrust onto your department and it hasn't just vanished. That was bad cops covering for bad cops. People are eager to give you a chance, Vince, but they're going to be just as quick to hang you if they smell more secrecy and dishonesty coming from this office. Even if they just think they smell it."
"Well said. Paul?"
"Nothing I've learned about Wildcraft yet puts him in an at-risk category for suicide. He's not fitting the profile. But I'll tell you what I told Merci, I don't trust him. I think he's trying to run something on us. More reason to keep on him. Keep on him, sir. That's all we can do. Don't go off with a half-cooked case. We need to polygraph him and hypnotize him, like Merci said. We also need to surveil him. I think it's worth the time and money, sir."
"Consider it approved. Clay?"
Brenkus stood. "We'll stay busy. We'll keep Al Madden busy. We'd like swift communication between your people and ours. Gilliam's been slow. Don't leave us out of the loop, Vince."
"I wouldn't consider it. Would you, Merci?"
"No, sir. Absolutely not."
The sheriff stood and shook hands with Brenkus. "Clay, thank you. We're working hard on this one. Give us a few more days."
"Absolutely, Vince."
"Mr. Dawes?" asked Abelera.
&nb
sp; Dawes stood straight and buttoned his suit coat. He looked at Merci. "We could grand jury it. Let them decide whether or not to indict. And if they want a longer investigation, then we're right back to where we are now."
"No," said Merci. "There's no way we're letting twenty-one people question a guy with a bullet in his head and no lawyer."
"Why not?" asked Dawes.
"Because his memory is coming back, that's why."
"Gwen Wildcraft was a human being," he said. "This isn't a game, Sergeant."
"Then don't turn it into—"
Merci was about to say "one" when the door flew open and Assistant Sheriff Dale Knox blasted in. "Boss, you better see CNB, right now. Unbelievable."
Abelera nodded, Knox slammed the door shut and hustled across the big room to the TV.
County News Bureau—the television wing of Gary Brice's Orange County Journal—came in loud and clear.
Wildcraft aimed the riot gun at the camera, said, You're trespassing.
Brice's off-camera voice: I wanted you to tell me what happened.
Merci couldn't believe Archie Wildcraft's face. His eyes were wide and shot with red. His stubble was black. A big vein rose under the skin of his forehead. His clothes were wrinkled and disheveled and there was a dirty pink-brown stain on the bandage wrapped around his head. He looked like a soldier at Antietam, or some malevolent genie just escaped from his bottle.
Get off my property, he said.
Brice backed away and the camera jiggled and Archie held the shotgun at an angle that threatened to blow away the CNB viewer.
"Where the hell are they?" asked Vince.
"His house," said Merci, putting together the pieces. "Brice found him. He's got snitches at the medical center."
The camera was in retreat now, jiggling and moving farther away.
Brice: Did you see who killed your wife?
Archie: Get out.
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