"I don't know what to say. Why on earth?"
He shrugs and pushes his glasses down onto his nose and continues reading.
"Fine font," he smiles as he reads. "Oh yes, here we are. Our biology team studied and categorized the little guy. Yes, here is the taxonomy report. Seems your man's choice was a common house mouse. This guy belongs to the Kingdom: Animalia, Phylum: Chordata, Class: Mammalia, Order: Rodentia, Family: Muridae, Subfamily: Murinae, Genus: Mus, Species: musculus. Its Binomial name is Mus musculus."
"I could never write all that down on my notepad. I have no clue what you just read me."
He taps his computer screen.
"Not to worry. It's all right in the autopsy report, footnote four. I'll print a copy for you before you leave, Michael."
"So her mouth contained a common house mouse. Why would anyone carry around a house mouse?"
"That's the sixty-four-dollar question. Maybe it was caught live around the house? When the cold weather came this winter maybe someone was trapping an influx of mice coming into his house to escape the cold? Maybe someone keeps a snake and feeds it mice? Who knows? We'll probably never know."
Unless someone confesses, I'm thinking. "Wait. Back up. You said snake?"
"Yes. According to my own quick research, this brand of mouse is typically bred by people who keep snakes. They call them pinkies."
I realize I've had this conversation before, something about a pinky. But where? Then it comes to me and I know the identity of the person who did this. In fact, he's living in my guest bedroom, him and his snake--with a cache of mice Danny and I probably don't know about. Oh my God!
I am shaken. The rest of what Dr. Tsung tells me about the autopsy and his report falls on deaf ears. My mind is racing and it comes to me in a sudden crashing of mental walls caving in: I have to remove him from our lives. He cannot be trusted. He's at school, right? The perfect time to evict him from my house, get him away from Danny, from Dania and Priss as well.
Ten minutes later, Dr. Tsung is finished with his presentation. He stops to print me a copy of the full autopsy report. As he hands it to me, he seems to notice how my hands are shaking.
"Are you all right, Michael? Do you need a bottle of water? We keep it in our incoming coolers."
"No, no, thanks. I'm fine. Maybe a touch of the flu, but I'm all right. I cannot thank you enough for taking time out to meet with me, Sammy."
"Hey," he says with a wide smile, "I'd rather give it all up to you in here than in some courtroom down the road. You're a much more agreeable person when you're sitting across from me at my desk."
He laughs and I join him, allies--at least for the moment.
I tuck the report inside my shoulder bag and we shake hands.
Walking out to my car the world is a blur. My heart jumps in my chest, reminding me of the exigency I'm facing. I climb into the driver's seat, turn the key, and mechanically drive home. When I arrive, I realize I remember nothing of the journey. It's like my mind has shut down and I am focused on three words that won't leave me alone: GET HIM OUT!
I rush inside my house.
Dania is just one-year-old and spends half of her life asleep. Her nanny, Priscilla, is a young student who attends Northwestern at night. She is pretty and friendly and working on a degree in childhood education. Her approach with Dania is motivated by a desire to apply what she's learning in school to the sandbox world our little girl offers. A chance to put book learning into practice. Priscilla is medium height, dresses in comfortable slacks and Tees and sweatshirts, and is quite wide in the hips, probably a testament to her German heritage, though I don't make that remark to Danny, who is one hundred percent pure German. And who also has very slim hips. In fact, I have been known to call her snake hips; the memory of that tag, snake hips, jolts me back to reality of snakes and their mice as I come into the living room, where I find Priscilla reading a rather thick book. Dania, I can only assume, is in her room sleeping.
"How's the baby?" I breathlessly ask.
Priscilla's puzzled look reminds me to slow down. No need to alarm anyone.
"She's--I checked her not five minutes ago. She's sleeping peacefully. If you listen hard you can even make out a little snore. I call it her snorelet."
I smile. But I still walk down the hallway to the baby's room and peek inside. She is lying on her back, eyes shut, her chest unmoving to my eye. I rush to her and put my ear to her mouth. Warm breath and a sigh alleviate my terror. I steady myself. There's nothing wrong with Dania, I tell myself. Settle the hell down right now before you scare Priscilla off.
While the State’s Attorney's office and police detectives continue to work up the case against Jana, he has remained in school at Wendover High. I had to have a talk with the principal there but, in the end, the school's lawyers had to agree: the boy remained in school, attending classes as he normally would. The social ramifications of that have been extremely difficult for Jana as he has been ostracized, made a pariah by all but a few of his peers. Along with that, or because of it, I suppose, he has become very distant around the house, very morose, and very withdrawn. Danny and I have discussed the possibility of professional counseling for him, but we haven't actually sprung that on him yet.
Silently, without Priscilla knowing what I'm up to, I creep further down the hallway, past my and Danny's bedroom, past the second bathroom, and come to Jana's closed door. There is a picture of Bob Marley on the door. It came with Jana when he moved in and the music--heard sometimes through the walls of our house--of steel drums and reggae guitar, came along as well. Which led us to suspect that--with no disrespect to the musician or his music--Jana might still be smoking pot, as he had been in Santa Monica. Still, we have seen no evidence of any such thing, either by odor or physical appearance or the munchies—signs we know that would indicate otherwise.
I try his doorknob. Locked. We had a lock installed when he moved in. The idea was to give him a sense of privacy. Well, we have succeeded, I'm now sorry to say. So I do the next best thing: I find a nearby locksmith on my smartphone and make the call. Thirty-minute service guaranteed. Rather than pass the day with Priscilla, who is studying and who I would be disturbing, I go back to my bedroom and decide I'm done for the day--meaning I get to change out of this suit and into something comfortable. The suit has been worn twice--one of my standby navy pinstripes--so into the dry cleaner's bag it goes. Slipping on jeans, a Bulls sweatshirt, and moccasins with wool socks, I steal back into my office. Here it's quiet and I won't be disturbed, plus I can access my office network and file server from my laptop. First, though, I call Mrs. Lingscheit and tell her I won't be coming back today.
"That's too bad. Danny was looking for you."
"Put her on, please."
Waiting.
"Michael, I just wanted to hear what you learned from the M.E."
"Typical autopsy. Strangled, probably with some kind of wire. Sharp enough to sever the carotids."
"Like a guitar string?"
She has me there. Why a guitar string?
"Possibly. What makes you come up with a guitar string?"
"Just thinking about Jana's guitar. No reason, I guess."
We'll let that ride a minute or two.
"But here's the real catch. The doctor found a dead mouse in Amy's mouth."
"Jesus Christ!"
"I know. Her mouth was Superglued shut. The mouse had tried to gnaw its way out."
"Oh, my God. That is gross! Whoever in the hell--"
"Why a mouse?" I ask. "A guitar string I can work with. But whoever would put a mouse in the mouth of a victim?"
"Sounds really twisted, Michael."
"Agree. So, that's about it. Right now I'm waiting for the locksmith."
"What?"
"I'm breaking into Jana's room while he's in school."
"Whatever for?"
"He keeps that snake, right?"
"Right."
"Well, what do snakes eat?"
"I don't
know."
"Think."
"Mice?"
"Bingo!"
"I'm on my way home. Don't touch anything until I get there. And don't give him any idea what we're up to until I get Dania in my arms. Promise me?"
"Promise. Have Marcel bring you."
"I'm on it. Goodbye."
We hang up and I'm immediately guilted with the notion that we might be grossly overreacting. We've got this seventeen-year-old boy who has had a tough life, maybe smokes a little pot, but who doesn't at his age? And some Metallica. Big deal. But he was seen in the area of Amy Tanenbaum the night she was killed. And he keeps mice (I'm guessing, I'm not in there, yet). Plus--and this is the killer part--he has a guitar. We bought him a used Fender Strat when he told us about the guitar his mom had pawned in Santa Monica. It was only a few hundred bucks and came with a practice amp and headphones, so we've all but forgotten about it. Until now. I need to check the strings. If it's missing even one string, Jana and the Greshams are done. He'll be back at Uncle Tim's before nightfall.
Twenty minutes later, Guido's Keys rolls into the drive. The brakes on the van squeak and minutes later the bell rings. I hurry down the hall. The guy has a toolbox and a good smile.
"Is this confidential?" I ask.
"Are you the property owner?"
"Yes. Michael Gresham. I called you."
"Then only you know about it. You and your credit card company. One hundred for the call, sixty-five an hour."
"Come on in. Let's get to it."
He has the lock out five minutes later and takes it out to the van to make me a key.
Silently, I step inside Jana's room and I am struck with how clean and neat it is. Against the far wall, on a bookshelf, is where he first had the snake container when he moved in. Now, it's gone. I take a careful look around, closet, shelves, under the bed--everywhere--and the snake is gone. I shiver: at least its container is gone. Brush that off, I tell myself. There's no snake. Again looking high and low, even in the drawers of his chest and desk, I find no mice. I find no sign of mice ever having been in here. His guitar is leaning against the wall, the amp in between. The amp's little red light is glowing. Wasting electricity, but that's sure as hell not the point right now.
"Sir?"
I almost jump through the window.
"Sir? Here's the key. I just need a credit card and I'm outta here."
I hand him a card and turn my attention back to the guitar.
Six, I slowly count them, strings. I locate the guitar case underneath his bed and slide it out. I unlock four clasps and lift the top. There's a small door with a little box in the center of the case. There's a tab to be pulled to open the door. I pull it open.
A complete set of guitar strings. Quickly I riffle though them in their individual paper packages.
I count them again.
According to the box the packages came in, there should be six strings, from high E to low E. It's high E that is missing. I peer inside the packages. High E would be the thinnest string. It would be a silver, unwound string, consisting of razor sharp wire, if its neighbor is any indication.
A sudden chill races up my spine. I feel like I'm being watched from behind. I spin around.
He's holding out the credit card and giving me a dumbfounded look: Jana.
"What the hell, Michael?" he says. "I thought this was off-limits, dude."
"Where's the high E string from this package, Jana? It's missing."
"It's on the guitar. I broke my E and replaced it."
He's good. He didn't miss a beat. That, or he's telling the truth and it came easy. Facile or truthful, what's your pick? I don't know. Discovering him behind me and his easy explanation for the errant string have me on the ropes, so to speak.
"So what the fuck, Michael? You changed my lock, man?"
"What are you doing home so early?"
"No gym class today. They're resurfacing the floor for basketball season. No gym for a week."
"So they sent you home?"
"Yeah. It's only an hour early. No big deal, man. But let me ask again. What the fuck?"
"We'll talk, Jana. As soon as Danny gets home. For now, I'm going to ask you to wait in your room until she gets here and we can sort this out."
"Sort what out, man? Are you investigating me?"
I blanch. He's got me.
"Yes. I was looking for mice."
"What the hell for? I don't have any mice. Leonard went back to Uncle Tim's. He buys a mouse from Petco every three days. No other mice besides that."
"Why did Leonard go back to Uncle Tim's?"
"He's gonna be a mother. He is actually a she. I knew you wouldn't put up with a nest of baby snakes, so Uncle Tim came by and we moved Leonard back to Uncle Tim's. He actually likes snakes. He's going to sell the babies to Petco."
I inwardly groan. Perfectly good, plausible explanations. And again, he's either facile or truthful. How do you ever know? How do you know if someone is simply hip, slick, and cool, or whether they're actually telling the truth? Simple. I'm a trial lawyer of thirty years. I know when witnesses are lying to me. Usually. This time, while I'm uneasy with the flow of answers, they are also perfectly innocent responses in their substance. Face it, Michael, the kid is telling you the truth. And you just let yourself down a full floor of trust by breaking into his room. I'm kicking myself when I hear the locksmith's brakes squeak as he's pulling out of my driveway.
"Let's get coffee," I tell Jana. "I owe you an apology."
"Don't bust a nut over it, dude. You don't know me yet. You've gotta be sure of stuff."
* * *
DANNY PULLS in thirty minutes later. She comes inside with a worried look plastered on her face and rushes in to check on Dania. Jana and I are sitting at the kitchen table, working on our second cups of coffee, as Danny flashes past. She returns moments later, holding our daughter and patting her on the back.
"She was sitting up in her crib, singing. Didn't Priscilla check on her before she left for class?"
Priscilla headed out to a late afternoon class thirty minutes ago.
"She did. She said Dania was sleeping."
"I wish you'd pay closer attention, Michael. This is our baby we're talking about."
I'm chastised and rightly so. I just got lost in talking to Jana. He's a pretty remarkable young man, I'm learning, with high hopes for a career in video journalism after college. He's talking podcasts, which I know very little about, and online video reportage for one of the networks like CNN. The technology escapes me but his enthusiasm is infectious and I'm happily hearing him out.
"So what happened with the mouse and the dead girl?"
Danny never beats around the bush. Plus, she's much more confrontational than I am.
Jana looks at me.
"Jana, I talked to the medical examiner who autopsied Amy Tanenbaum. He told me about a really disconcerting discovery."
"Okay, I'm listening," says our guest.
"Amy's mouth was glued shut. And there was a dead mouse inside her oral cavity. The mouse had evidently been alive when Amy's killer put it inside her mouth. That's why I was looking for your snake."
"Like I said, Leonard's been over at my Uncle Tim's. He hasn't lived here in weeks."
"How many weeks?" Danny asks. She pulls out a chair and sits on the other side of Jana. Now he's got one of us on either side.
"I was here about a week. Then Leonard went back when I figured out she was pregnant."
"Out of curiosity," I say, "how did you know she was pregnant?"
"She stopped eating. Someone told me female snakes stop eating when they're pregnant."
"That doesn't sound right to me," Danny says sharply. "She would need nourishment to feed her babies, like any other pregnant animal."
Jana nods his head. "I thought it was weird when I heard it. It was some guy at school who told me that."
"All right. Amy was found murdered three weeks ago, give or take," Danny remarks. "So your timing is goo
d."
"What's that mean?" asks Jana. "My timing is good?"
"We're ruling you out as someone who had a mouse that might have wound up in Amy's mouth. Unless you bought one at Petco, but I’m going to give you that point."
"Well, that's nice to know. I'm ruled out. Holy shit! You people are making me very uncomfortable here. I'm thinking it might be better if I move back to my uncle's."
"Not possible," I remind him. "The judge released you into our custody. You're stuck with us."
"And vice-versa," Danny says. Her eyes are sad and her voice barely audible as she says this. It's unclear whether she means for Jana to hear her negative comment or not, but he does.
"You really hate me, don't you?" Jana says to Danny.
"I don't know. Sometimes yes, most of the time no. I'm just trying to understand why you were arrested for killing Amy and why you're living with us. There are moments--lots of moments--when I feel like we've made a huge mistake bringing you into our home. There are lots of times when I think you're guilty--more times when I think you are than when I think you're innocent. Sorry, but that's just how I feel."
"Can you go back and ask the judge to let me stay with Uncle Tim?"
I shrug. "I don't know. Probably. But I don't know that he'd allow it."
"Why not?"
"Because you were living with Uncle Tim when you were arrested. Judges are usually careful about putting minors--or adults, even--back into questionable situations."
"So I'm stuck here with two people who think I'm probably a killer. That's a good way to live. Shit!"
"We're all stuck," Danny says. "It's not all about you, Jana. We're stuck, too."
The talk fades away. I get up and make another cup of coffee. Danny declines my offer to make her one. So does Jana.
"If it's okay, if we're finished, I'm going back to my room. Don't call me for supper. I'm not hungry."
"All right, if that's the way you feel," Danny says. "But if you change your mind, I'll make up a plate and leave it in the refrigerator for you."
"Don't bother."
Then he is gone and we are left staring at each other. She hands the baby to me.
Legal Thriller: Michael Gresham: Secrets Girls Keep: A Courtroom Drama (Michael Gresham Legal Thriller Series Book 2) Page 12