"It's on the house."
He took a long drink and replied, "I thank you. And to what do I owe this much appreciated boon?"
"You were part of the case that got justice for Sarah Jean."
His smile was long and sad. It contained the seeds of whatever was at the bottom of his drinking problem.
"Those were bad days."
"How's that?" I put a shot of well bourbon beside the beer.
"Even though it was better than ten years out from Katrina, we were still finding remains in the swamps and ruined houses. It seemed like a month never went by without being called to recover what was left of some poor soul. In the first few weeks, between here, Biloxi, and Gulfport, we tended to more than a hundred people killed in the storm. Along with the crime and disease, I reckon that number more than doubled over the years. New Orleans got all the press, but nothing happened there that didn't happen here. It was on a smaller scale, but the smaller scale also means smaller dollars. The loss of property value and the tax base destroyed our budget and I lost my staff, so I had to do it all alone. The night I got called out to tend Miss Sarah, I'd already sent two unknown bodies to be cremated. I couldn't even do DNA tests. There was no way to pay for it. I took the swabs even though I know no one will ever claim them. I only hope they're missed. Even a bayou rat deserves to be missed."
My experience with Katrina was bailing out contractors accused of FEMA fraud. This man lived it first hand in the most intimate way possible. It wasn't out of self-interest that I lined up the next round. He'd earned his vices.
"He beat her to a pulp. Every internal organ was bruised or ruptured. Busted jaw, broken bones, lost teeth, flattened nose, he didn't miss anything. Her pretty face was scarcely recognizable. I asked the sheriff and prosecutor for more money to conduct all the tests they'd normally do in a murder, but they said no because the husband had confessed. I couldn't tell you exactly if she died from a cerebral hemorrhage or abdominal bleeding, any of those wounds could have been fatal. I can tell you that she died at his hands. I retired not too long after that. I'd made my pension and was tired of being Dr. Death."
Again with the sheriff.
"Thank you for telling me that story. I'm sorry if I brought back unhappy memories."
"It's okay. They're old friends. Thank you for the drinks."
I felt bad for him. He wouldn't know it was me, but it was going to be revealed that he'd helped convict an innocent man.
I was sure of it.
CHAPTER 22
The introductions were tense. Out of her outlandish waitress get-up, Ethan didn't immediately recognize Maddie. He bridled and tried to get back into character.
"It's okay. She knows."
That deepened his scowl.
"Remember, she was in the club that first night. It turns out that she heard a lot more than she let on. It also turns out she wasn't who she said she was either. Allow me to introduce Madeline Hyatt, attorney-at-law. Your secret is safe with her. In fact, we're all on the same side."
"And what side would that be?"
"Figuring out the truth about what is going on here. Her firm is working on the appeal for Billy Ray Simpson's execution. The one that's the focus of the party in a few weeks."
"I know about it. The MC is invited."
"By who? That's interesting in its own right."
"I don't know for sure. The Colonel said that anybody that wasn't on a Shine run could plan on three days of eating, drinking, and fucking for free, courtesy of a dead cop."
I rubbed my forehead. "Well, I guess I should put that on the posters. What that tells me is there is a connection between all of this. Also, there's one nexus—Sheriff Harry Sheldon. His name is all over everything I've seen about the Simpson case, and I had a strange conversation with him the other night."
I filled them in on Sheldon's response to the appearance of the Colonel and his hesitation when I asked him how long the MC would be sticking around.
"He knew or suspected something he wasn't saying."
"Baby, you might be on to something. A couple of his deputies came out to the farm yesterday. I figured it was to roust us. They met with Duke and the Colonel, and it looked pretty tense. I didn't hear it, but they left in a hurry. Max, can you run down the details on Sheldon and his force?"
Max put down his coffee and said, "I'll get right on it. What's tonight about?"
I stood. "It's some legal theater. I don't think Simpson killed his wife. I think the whole scene was staged, and I need you all to help me prove my theory."
I led them into my combined bedroom and living area. Maddie blanched at the site of the red-stained towel on my bed.
"Yeah, this was the closest approximation of the crime scene I could get. You've met Billy Ray, is he closer in size and stature to Ethan or to Max? Guys, stand up."
"Neither of them. Both are taller and Billy Ray is a lot stockier. I'd say that Agent Price is the closest to how he looked four years ago when it happened."
"You can call me Ethan."
"I have to say, I never expected the FBI to be helping me with this appeal."
"Consider this an off-label favor." He turned toward me, "What's next?"
"You're going to pretend to beat me to death."
The stunned awkward silence made me laugh.
"We're going to play the home edition of crime scene reenactment. Don't you ever do that, or is it a defense thing?'
"Not this defender," said Maddie.
"Roll with me. I've pieced together the narrative from the confession and the police reports. I don't believe it can be done."
"Confession?" Max's tone broadcast his skepticism better than any words could.
"A minor detail. I'll fill you in more as we go along. Ethan, are you ready?"
"Sure."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence. Let's start over here by the couch. Pretend this section of the wall is the front door."
"Check."
"You get home and sit down looking for some loving, but I'm not having any of it."
"So, it's Saturday night?"
"Shut the hell up and get over here. When I refuse, you call me a whore, accuse me of sleeping with men from the club, and punch me in the face."
I could tell he didn't like this part, but he complied. He had one arm around my neck and his fist tight against my jaw.
"I twist out of your grip and fall to the floor trying to get away from you."
I moved as I spoke, surprising him. When I was on my back, I said, "You kick me in the ribs and stomp my face, breaking my jaw and splitting my lip."
He nudged me in the side and held his foot above me.
"Maddie, get a photo of this."
I focused on the sole of his motorcycle boot until I heard the click.
"I roll over, make it to my hands and knees, and crawl down the hall toward the kitchen. You are kicking, punching, and screaming at me all the way. At one point, you grab my hair and smash my head into the wall. That's where I get a big cut in my scalp."
I crawled diagonally across the floor until I got to the small table where Max and Maddie sat transfixed.
"This was all in the confession?" asked Max.
"Amazing how someone in such a red mist rage could remember all of it in perfect sequence and crisp detail after eighteen hours of interrogation, isn't it?"
I looked around and saw realization dawning.
"We're in the kitchen now where I collapse. You kick me onto my back and slam me into the floor. I know you don't want to do this. I need you to grab the front of my shirt, lift, and give me a good shake, like a dog with a bone. Hold the pose until I tell you to move."
Even though I braced for it, the violent motion disconcerted me. The snap in my neck and whipsaw of my hair was sickening.
"More photos, Maddie."
She didn't hesitate as long this time.
"We're almost done. Pull me to my feet and march me toward the bed. Stop a few steps from the side. Also, imagine
that you're bouncing my head and face off the hallway walls as you drag me along."
Everyone was silent as we lurched across the room and stopped. I gave the final command.
"Ethan, I mean what I'm about to say. I need you to push me as hard as you can. Step into it and do not pull any punches. I need you to knock me right off my feet."
"No way."
"You have to. Trust me. I already know what's going to happen."
"Oh, my god, you're right. I didn't see it before." Maddie had her hand over her mouth.
"I see where this is going. Do it, Price." The authority in Max's voice carried.
He stood still until I picked up his hands and put them flat against my shoulders.
"Please. It's the only way I'll know for sure."
It wasn't like tripping or slipping on ice. The force pushed the air out of me and I pinwheeled my arms as I flew backward. My butt hit the side of my raised bed. I bounced off and landed with a crunch on the floor. The carpet cushioned my fall somewhat, but I let out a grunt as I stood up.
"Once more, except this time, push from my ribs and give it some lift. I swear I'm okay."
I closed my eyes in anticipation of the breath-ripping compression and was momentarily airborne until the back of my thighs hit the corded mattress edge. I did my best to go limp and fall backward, but the springiness of the mattress caused me to slide into a heap on the floor.
"I've proved my point. We're done now. Help a girl up, will you?" My voice was strained as I pulled myself back together after the two falls. Ethan was at my side in an instant, gathering me in his arms and sitting me firmly and safely on the bed. I downed a glass of water before continuing.
"Billy Ray's confession said that after beating her from one end of the house to the other, he pushed Sarah Jean backward onto the bed, pulled off her clothes, and had sex with her. When he was done, he saw the blood around her head and realized she was dead. On a regular bed, he might have been able to push her to where she was found," I scooted backward and arranged myself into the death pose, the smell of dried ketchup making me cough, "however, their bed is one of those fancy elevated four-posters with a huge pillow-top mattress. By this time, she was semi-conscious at best. Unless he picked her up and threw her, there's no way she ended up in this position. We can also assume that the Simpsons had slept and made love there, and he knew that you have to use the foot rail as a step to get into bed. Why would someone with intimate knowledge of the scene and a supposedly eidetic memory of the incident get that detail wrong?"
"Because it never happened." Maddie and Max answered almost in unison.
"But wait, there's more." After stepping down from my bed, I dragged the training room rolling whiteboard around for everyone to see. On it, I had the crime scene photos arranged in the rough order of the layout of the house and path of the fight. I also had the autopsy photo of Sarah's face, showing all of the cuts, bruises, splits, and scrapes.
"You all saw the course of what they claim happened. Now, look at these photos. Sarah was severely injured and suffered gory lacerations in at least three different locations as well as all the way up and down the hall. The question I pose to you the jury is this, where the hell is all the blood?"
When no one spoke, I quipped, "the defense rests."
Max was the first one to get up and scrutinize the photos. He traced his finger from the sofa down the hall, into the kitchen, and finally to the bedroom.
"I've seen a wound or two. That one on her scalp would have bled like a mofo. You're right. There should be contact prints on the walls as well as cast-off and spatter."
"There was some spatter on the kitchen walls, but it's completely inconsistent with what the reports claim happened. There also should have been brush marks on the floor and cast-off all over the place."
Maddie scrolled through the photos she'd taken of Ethan and me.
"You're right. She had long hair like you. If her bleeding face hit the floor, her hair would have spread it around when he shook her. Did someone clean it up?"
I poured myself more coffee before I said responded.
"I don't think it ever happened, and I'm sure I can prove it. Look at the living room rug in the photos."
Ethan spoke first. "Okay, I'll bite, what're we looking at?"
"It's the color. It's brown."
I could see it wasn't registering.
"Look at the rest of the photos. The house is nothing but pale and powdery pastels accented with ruffles and bows. There is no way a woman like Sarah Jean Simpson would have put a plain brown throw rug in the living room. The answer to this is in that room."
Max broke the silence. "That's awfully thin counselor. You're basing all this on an ugly rug?"
"An ugly rug and an ugly smell. The living room reeks of old blood. However, according to the confession and the photos, not much happened there. I disagree. In my opinion, most of it happened there. Maddie, do you have access to a crime scene tech?"
"I do. Sasha is certified on all the latest equipment and techniques."
"When can you get her here?"
"I'll call first thing in the morning."
Max drained his cup and said, "It's time to call it a night. I've got the Mustang parked in the trees at the edge of the property. I'd like to be gone before it gets light. Mrs. Hyatt, may I see you home?"
She batted her eyes and turned her drawl up to ten. "Why sir, it's Miss Hyatt."
He put out his arm to her. "Even better. I know we can't all meet like this often. This was well worth it. I'll text when I know something about Sheldon and his crew. You two stay safe."
Ethan waved over his head as they left. He was standing next to my bed, staring at the stained towel. I put my arms around his waist and pressed my face into his shoulder.
"I'm sorry I asked you to do that to me. I know it hurts."
"It was necessary, but, yeah, it brought a lot of it back. Fuck Austin. I'm the one who's sorry. Are you okay?"
"I am. I had the luxury of studying it ahead of time and getting my head into lawyer space. I could keep it in perspective. I sprang it on you."
I was mostly telling the truth. A couple of times during the exercise, Ethan's rough hands grabbing me triggered the not-long-enough buried sickening panic. I'd kept it together by compartmentalizing and focusing on the case.
I said, "I'm going to grab a quick shower. Help yourself to a drink."
"Sounds like a plan. C'mon Simon. Let's go see what's on the top shelf."
"I totally heard that."
After working out the kinks in my muscles in the tiny shower, I gulped down a couple of aspirin and went into my bedroom. I'm not sure what I expected. It was obvious something was wrong. The whiteboard photos were turned to the wall, and the stained towel was nowhere to be seen in the dim light of the single lamp. Instead of his usual spot, Ethan was closest to the wall with his back toward me. He flinched at my touch and said nothing as I spooned myself against him and brushed his cheek. The wetness on my fingers told me what I needed to know.
Ethan was crying.
He pushed my hand away and said, "Don't ever ask me to hurt you again, even if it's pretending. I won't do it."
I didn't have an answer to that.
CHAPTER 23
After working with Maddie, I wasn't sure what I expected of her firm's tech, but Sasha Grimes wasn't it. Multi-color hair and facial piercing made her look more like a street kid than an IT and CSI professional. I could see the hacker chic in her full sleeve biomech tattoos. Even my gallery-quality body art paled in comparison to the dense Giger-style designs. Long, lean, and androgynous in her snug black jeans and tactical boots; she cut a striking figure in this dumpy neighborhood.
"I had to cover up a lot of old street shit. It got out of hand." She'd picked up on my staring.
"I can understand that. Mine started with a spring break tramp stamp."
"Mine started with stick and poke. My first real tattoo was to celebrate a year of being clean. I
covered up the track scars. The rest, as they say, is history."
Her tone contained a challenge. I was a child of privilege and automatically suspect. I understood there was nothing to be gained by trying to deny it. Instead, I unlocked the door and said, "Let's figure out what happened here."
We kept all the doors closed this time and the air was thick and dusty. Maddie and I taped black trash bags over the windows while Sasha set up her camera and equipment.
She gave the chemical solution a final shake. "Now, let me get this straight. You don't expect me to find anything on the rug?"
"There might be faint transfer around the footprints, but no, I don't expect to find anything. I believe the rug was added later, either to cover something up or because the original rug was stained."
"Got it. You and Maddie stand in the hallway. This so-called crime scene is totally gorked, still, let's pretend we're professionals."
We watched in the gloom as she sprayed the carpet in broad sweeping strokes about twenty inches above the surface. There was no reaction until the spray reached the muddy path near the front door. A few twinkling footprints appeared, but overall nothing.
"Okay counselor, you're right. Let me get a few photos and journal the results."
I didn't realize I was holding my breath.
"My god, you're right. There should have been blood where he broke her nose." Maddie's breathy response showed she was as tense as me.
"Can we roll up the rug now?"
"Not yet. I want to hit it with an alternate light source. I think the UV will be negative as well. It'll only take a minute," said Sasha as she dug around in her bag.
"Professionals?"
"I did stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night."
I stifled a laugh. "Your law firm must be quite a place."
Maddie said, "You have no idea. Consider this a standing invitation to cocktail hour."
The UV light produced the expected results. Around the contaminated footprints, there was a trace of darkening as the blood absorbed the light, but nothing else.
Sasha tossed me a box. "Grab some rubber gloves and help me expose the floor."
Dust erupted as we rolled up the cheap area rug. My sneeze was immediate.
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