The Dead Hand

by Michael A. Kahn

  I frowned. “What do you mean?”

  He smiled. “Exactly what I just said. And that is all I shall say on that subject.”

  He checked his watch, raised his eyebrows, and got to his feet. “Unfortunately, Rachel, I have another engagement starting down the hall in just five minutes.”

  I stood. “Thank you, Irving.”

  He smiled as he lowered his sunglasses to his eyes. “I have thoroughly enjoyed our little tête-à-tête. I wish you good luck in your matter.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Benny finished his beer, set down the bottle, looked at Jacki, and then at me. “Really? You think Adam was shtupping Norma, too?”

  I shrugged. “What else could Irving have meant?”

  “What were his words again?” Jacki asked.

  “He said that he detected a personal element to her dismay. A very personal element.”

  Jacki frowned. “Maybe. But maybe instead she was Adam’s mentor at the firm. If so, maybe she took his ethical violation personally.”

  Benny snorted. “Norma Cross? Come on, Jacki. From what I understand, that fucking she-devil built her career on ethical violations.”

  “Maybe,” Jacki said, “but you’d be surprised how many sleazeballs view themselves as pillars of morality.” She turned to me. “Such as Slimeball.”

  The three of us were having a late dinner at my house. I’d invited Jacki and Benny to come by at seven-thirty so that I’d have enough time to put Sam to bed. I’d made a big salad, and Sam and I baked an apple galette for dessert. I gave him a slice as a bedtime snack. Jacki brought two deep-dish pizzas from Pi. Benny was supposed to bring the beer, which he did: one six-pack of Schlafly Pale Ale and one six-pack of Schlafly Oatmeal Stout. But Benny being Benny, he also stopped by Pappy’s Smokehouse and picked up what he described as a little farshpayz (Yiddish for appetizer), namely, a half-dozen spicy sausages, three of which he’d already consumed along with half of one of the pizzas. The man has capacity.

  Jacki turned to me. “So what do you think?

  I shook my head. “Crazy as it sounds, I think Adam Fox may have been Norma’s boyfriend.”

  “As in ‘serious’ boyfriend?” Benny asked.

  “I think so.”

  “So when Slimeball tells her about Adam,” Jacki said, “she’s dismayed for a genuinely personal reason.”

  I nodded. “That’s how I read it.”

  Benny said, “You think Sliman knew that Fox was her boyfriend?”

  I shrugged. “Hard to say. The way he described his meeting with her, he seemed surprised by her reaction.”

  “Man, oh man.” Benny leaned back in his chair and chuckled. “From what I’ve heard about Norma Cross, that is one woman you do not want cheat on.”

  Jacki turned to me. “Which raises another question…why would Slimeball tell you about that meeting?”

  “Good question,” I said.

  “Out of spite?” she said. “Because of what she did to his son in that court case?”

  “Maybe. He’s protective of his son.”

  “Remind me,” Benny said. “When did Fox die?”

  “About four weeks after that meeting,” Jacki said.

  As I put water on for tea, I mulled over the possible implications of that time line. I took out the teacups and put a slice of the galette on each dessert plate while Benny and Jacki rinsed the dishes and put them in the dishwasher.

  Benny virtually inhaled his first slice of the galette.

  “Whoa, girlfriend!” He gave me a thumbs-up. “Pie is awesome.”

  I smiled. “Thanks.”

  “How’s that other case?” Jacki asked, gesturing toward Benny. “The one Mr. Wonderful here is going to help you try next week.”

  “Cyndi and I are meeting at that DNA company tomorrow afternoon.”

  “They have the results?” Benny asked.

  “Apparently.”

  “And?”

  I shrugged. “We’ll find out tomorrow.”

  “Does Bert Mulligan’s son know about this DNA outfit?” Jacki asked.

  “No. We’ve kept it confidential. Just in case.”

  “Just in case the results suck,” Benny said.

  I nodded. “Just in case.”

  “Keep your fingers crossed,” Jacki said.

  I held up both hands, fingers crossed.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Mouse Aloni.

  What goes around comes around. In more ways than one. Here I was, nearly ten years later, a decade after the Stoddard Anderson affair, seated once again across the desk from Detective Mario “Mouse” Aloni.

  The last time we sat across from one another, Aloni was a detective with the Bridgeton Police Department and I was representing the widow of the managing partner of the St. Louis office of Abbott & Windsor. My client’s husband had apparently committed suicide in a motel room in Bridgeton. What began as a seemingly straightforward battle over life insurance proceeds escalated into a deadly international conspiracy involving a legendary archaeological treasure.

  This time, Aloni was a homicide detective with the St. Louis County Police Department, and I was representing Jerry Knight’s first wife, Marsha, whose divorce attorney had fallen to his death during a hike along the bluffs overlooking the Meramec River in Castlewood State Park. And, fortunately for me, Aloni was also on good terms with Bertie Tomaso, a homicide detective with the Metropolitan Police Department of the City of St. Louis and a dear friend of mine. Bertie had made the call to arrange this meeting.

  Mouse.

  The nickname had baffled me ten years ago. Stretch would have made more sense, since he was as tall as an NBA forward. Or Slim, since he was skinny. Or Curly or Fuzzy, one of those antonym nicknames for bald men. But Mouse? Perched behind his cheap metal desk, hunched forward as he studied the file, long face, hooked nose, dark brown eyes beneath bushy projecting eyebrows, he looked more like a winged predator, the type that swoops down and carries off a mouse in its talons.

  The nickname, I had learned back then, originated in his preference for cheese sandwiches, which he packed in a brown paper bag when he brought lunch from home and which he ordered, grilled, when he had lunch in a restaurant. Cheese every day, and always American.

  Mouse looked up at me with a frown. “This case has been closed for years, ma’am. It was ruled an accident.” He shook his head. “They happen. This isn’t the first death at Castlewood, ma’am. And this gentleman was not the first one to fall to his death from those bluffs.”

  “Were there any witnesses?”

  He leafed slowly through the file again and then shook his head. “None at the time of the fall.” He looked up. “Hardly surprising. The accident occurred on a Monday morning. That is a slow day at the park. Especially in the morning.”

  “You said none at the time of the fall. What about before or after the fall?”

  “Just his hiking companion.”

  “Norma Cross?”

  He looked up, bushy eyebrows raised. “Yes, that’s right. She was the person that made the 911 call.”

  “But she didn’t see him fall?”

  He looked down at the file, read something, and looked up. “No. She was ahead of him on the trail. She heard some noise and turned. The decedent was not behind her. She didn’t see him. She worked her way back along that trail, calling his name, peering over the edge of the bluffs.”

  He glanced down at the file for a moment and then back up. “She saw his body sprawled out on the rocks below. She didn’t have cell phone reception there, so she hurried back down the trail until she had reception, and that’s when she called 911. She was quite upset.” He glanced down at the file again. “The decedent was an employee of her law firm. A lawyer, in fact.”

  “Was there an autopsy?”

  He leafed t
hrough the file. “Yes, there was.”

  He lifted a stapled set of papers and frowned as he read them. “Let’s see.”

  He turned the page, read some, and looked up. “He was not intoxicated. His blood alcohol level was less than point-zero-one.” He looked up at me and shook his head. “Accidents happen, ma’am.”

  “Can I have a copy of the autopsy report?”

  Mouse frowned. “Why?”

  “I’m trying to tie up some loose ends for a client. The autopsy report may help me do that.”

  “The case is closed, ma’am.”

  “Good. Then there shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Mouse stared at me for a moment and then looked down. “I don’t know about that.”

  “I do, Detective. You said yourself the case is closed. Under the sunshine laws, once it’s closed, those records become public records. There is no reason to make me jump through any hoops. Just make a photocopy and I’m gone.”

  He rubbed his chin.

  “Well?” I said.

  “I’ll have to ask my captain. It’s his call. Just like last time.”

  “What do you mean—just like last time?”

  “On releasing a copy.”

  “Of that autopsy report?”

  “I believe so.”

  “So someone else has asked for a copy?”

  He stood, the folder in his hands. “I believe so, yes.”

  “Who?”

  He pursed his lips and tilted his head, as if thinking it over. “I’m not sure. It was a few years ago. Anyway, the captain is the one who needs to approve the release of a copy to you.”

  I sighed. “Then do it, Detective. Now. Please.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Thursday afternoon.

  Cyndi and I were seated in a small conference room at the offices of AssureDNA Company. As we waited, I went over the logistics of the hearing set for next Monday.

  “Judge Bauer is a no-nonsense judge,” I told her. “The hearing is scheduled for eleven a.m., and that means eleven a.m. sharp. If you’re late, he starts without you. When you are—”

  There was a rap on the door, and then a tall bearded man in his forties in a white lab coated entered carrying a manila folder.

  “I am so sorry for the delay,” he said. “I hope you have not been waiting long. I’m Dr. Bryant. Phil Bryant.”

  We introduced ourselves and shook hands. Bryant took a seat at the head of the table and set the manila folder down in front of him. After a few minutes of polite chitchat, he opened the folder and put on his reading glasses.

  “We received the DNA results this morning.” He turned to Cyndi. “As I explained to Ms. Gold at the outset, Mrs. Mulligan, the analysis is more challenging than your standard paternity test, which is where we compare the DNA of the child with that of his or her putative father. The dilution in that situation is just fifty percent, since half of the child’s DNA comes from the child’s biological father. In your typical paternity case, the test results lead to one of two conclusions: either a greater than nine-nine percent certainty of paternity or a one hundred percent certainty of non-paternity. Unfortunately, the identification challenge increases geometrically the farther away the DNA donor is from the potential father. Here we are comparing the child’s DNA to the DNA of the female daughter of a female sibling of the potential father.”

  “And?” I said.

  Bryant studied two of the pages as he scratched his beard. He looked up at me, his lips pursed in thought.

  “I have never testified as an expert in court,” he said.

  “You may not need to here.”

  “Even so, I want to choose my words carefully.” He paused. “Do these test results prove that Mr. Mulligan is the child’s father? No, they do not. Do these test results prove that Mr. Mulligan is not the father? No, they do not. Do the test results provide us with any probabilities regarding Mr. Mulligan and the child? Yes, they do. The test results provide at least a fifty percent probability of a familial connection between Mr. Mulligan and the child. Stated differently, it is slightly more likely than not that he is related to the child.”

  I stared at him, replaying his words in my head, my mind racing.

  “More likely than not,” I repeated.

  He nodded. “That is my opinion.”

  After a moment, I stood. “Thank you, Doctor. This has been extremely helpful. I will let you know tomorrow whether we will need you to testify on Monday.”

  Out in the parking lot I pulled Cyndi close. “I have an idea.”

  “Oh?” She said it without enthusiasm. “I was hoping we’d get something a heck of lot more conclusive.”

  “We might be able to get there on our own.”

  “How?”

  “You told me that Bert gave you the access code for his vials of sperm, right?”

  “He did, but it’s not something you could memorize. It was like fifteen random numbers and letters.”

  “So how did he actually give you the number?”

  “On a piece of paper.”

  “Why on a piece of paper?”

  “So I could give it to the doctor.”

  I smiled. “Exactly.”

  She gave me a puzzled look. “So?”

  “Cyndi, your doctor will still have that number. It should be in his records for you.”

  She frowned. “Okay.”

  “I want you to talk to him today. As soon as you get home. Tell him it’s important. Tell him you need that number. Tell him I’m your lawyer. Tell him I want to talk to him.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “Well, okay.”

  “It’s important, Cyndi. Call me as soon as you talk to him.”

  “Okay.”

  I smiled. “Hang in there.”

  “I’m trying, Rachel.” Her eyes watered. “It’s not easy.”

  “I know.” I gave her a hug. “But it’s almost over.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Professor of Pathology.

  It’s a grim title, made all the more incongruous by its holder, my elementary school classmate Izzy Feigelman. Little, chubby, brilliant, and sweet back then, and little, chubby, brilliant, and sweet today. But now bald, having finally given up on the comb-over.

  We’d become pals in fourth grade, remained friends in high school despite moving in very different circles by then. We were even lab partners in our biology class where, ironically, I had to dissect the frog because the future pathologist nearly fainted at the sight of blood. Izzy and I still get together for lunch once or twice a year. He married Naomi Burstein, who was a year behind us in high school, and they have three kids, ranging in age from six down to six months.

  Izzy is now Dr. Isadore Mendel Feigelman, M.D., Professor of Pathology, Washington University School of Medicine. I knew of no one better to read the Adam Fox autopsy report.

  We met that afternoon at Izzy’s office at Barnes Jewish Hospital, which was a three-block walk from my law office in the Central West End. I’d stopped at the Starbucks on the way over to pick up Izzy’s favorite, a caramel macchiato. He was sipping it as he studied the several pages of the autopsy report.

  He nodded approvingly. “Very thorough.”

  “He has an older sister,” I said. “According to the detective, she insisted on a full autopsy.”

  He scribbled a note on his legal pad, turned the page, took another sip of his drink, scribbled something else on his pad.

  Another page, another sip, another scribble.

  My cell phone buzzed. A text message from a client. I typed a response, pressed Send, and flipped through my e-mails as Izzy continued his methodical way through the report.

  “Well, well.” he said.

  I looked up. “What?”

  �
��This blood test report.”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s from a sample taken from the decedent’s heart.”

  “His heart? Is that typical?”

  “Not usually, but for a thorough autopsy, yes.”

  “And?”

  “There is an elevated level of GHB.”

  “What’s GHB?”

  “Gamma hydroxybutyric acid.”

  “Okay. And what is gamma-hy-whatever?”

  “It’s actually a naturally occurring substance found in the human central nervous system. Not just humans, either. GHB exists in small amounts in almost all animals. Indeed, you can even find GHB in citrus fruits and wine.”

  “You said the blood sample showed an elevated level.”

  “It did.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Here’s where it gets somewhat more complex, Rachel. There are natural elevated levels and artificially elevated levels.”

  “Explain.”

  “GHB is present in the blood and the urine of the general population as an endogenous compound, and that endogenous level actually increases postmortem.”

  “In English, Izzy, please.”

  He smiled and shrugged. “Sorry. Okay, so GHB is a naturally occurring compound. If we took a blood sample from someone and did a state-of-the-art blood test, we’d detect the presence of GHB. But here’s where it gets tricky. If we took another blood sample from that same person but after he’d been dead for several hours, the GHB level would be higher than when he was alive.”

  “Okay. And why does this matter?”

  “Because—” and here he paused to lean forward, eyebrows raised, face flushed with what I could only describe as geek excitement “—because a toxicologist needs to be able to discriminate between endogenous levels and a level resulting from exogenous exposure. Due to the wide distribution of endogenous concentrations of GHB in postmortem toxicology, the implementation of a cut-off concentration must be done cautiously.”

  “Come on, Izzy. I was an English major. Help me out here.”