by Lee Goldberg
Mark bolted from his seat and rushed into the house, snatching up his medical bag and cell phone on the move, dialing 911 as he hurried out the front door.
He identified himself to the operator, reported the shooting, then told her he was a doctor and that he was going to see if anybody was hurt. Mark hung up on her before she could object.
The right thing to do, Mark knew, was to wait for the police to arrive and secure the scene. But it was rush hour on the Pacific Coast Highway and if there were gunshot victims in the house, they might die before paramedics could arrive to treat them.
Mark wasn't going to let that happen.
The houses were aligned along a narrow, private road just below the highway and led to a dead end. No cars were speeding past him. Nobody was running away. No one was screaming. Either the shooter was still in the house or had fled onto the beach.
The front door was ajar at a house midway down the street. He'd walked past the place many times before over the years, but he'd never met whoever lived there. Unlike Mark, most of the residents along this exclusive stretch of beach were notoriously private people, many of them celebrities or high-powered executives. They kept to themselves and never left their front doors open.
Mark knocked on the door, pushing it wide open as he did so and examining it carefully. There were no obvious signs of forced entry. The lock and the door seemed intact. He supposed the lock could have been picked, but if the door had been pried open, there would have been some splintered wood.
"Hello?" Mark shouted. "Anybody home?"
There was no reply. He could see clear across the living room to the back deck and the ocean beyond. The sliding doors were open. The breeze off the water wafted through the room. Except for the rhythmic Sound of the crashing surf outside, it was eerily quiet.
"I'm Dr. Mark Sloan, your neighbor. I heard the shots." Mark put on a pair of rubber gloves and took a tentative step into the house. "I just stopped by to make sure nobody was hurt."
When no one immediately responded, he marched right in, making sure he was loud and obvious about it.
"I'm alone, but the police and paramedics are on their way," Mark said.
He didn't see any signs of a struggle, but plenty of evidence of a romantic interlude. There was an empty champagne bottle in a bucket full of melted ice. Two empty glasses, one smudged with lipstick, were on the coffee table. The entertainment center was on, but whatever CD had been playing was long over. A woman's high-heeled shoes were flung on the floor. A man's tie was shed on the arm of the couch like a snake's skin.
There had been lovers here. But where were they now?
"There's no reason to hide," Mark said. "I only want to help you."
He glanced out the French doors that opened onto the deck. it was late on a weekday afternoon on a beach lined with private homes. The nearest public access was two miles away. If the shooter had run onto the beach, Mark would have seen him. But there was no one on the sand in either direction for at least a hundred yards.
Was the shooter still in the house?
If he was, Mark would find out soon enough.
He followed a short hallway to what he assumed was the master bedroom, listening intently for any sounds of life and peering into each room he passed. His entire body was tense. It was exactly the way he felt watching a horror movie, his muscles coiled in anticipation of a scare at any moment.
Only this time, the horror was all too real.
Mark pushed open the bedroom door and found the lovers. They were lying naked on the blood-splattered bed. The man appeared to be in his early forties, the woman in her late twenties. They had both been shot once in the head and once in the chest. They were beyond his help now, but he knelt beside them and checked their pulses anyway.
Neither one of the victims was holding a weapon, which ruled out a murder-suicide.
This was an execution.
There was nothing more Mark could do here.
He started back towards the hallway when he felt that familiar tingle in his neck, a shiver from his subconscious telling him there was something wrong with what he'd
seen—some telling detail he saw but didn't consciously register.
It was a feeling he'd learned to respect and never ignore, so he reluctantly turned and surveyed the crime scene again. He studied the bodies and the blood spatter that covered the clock radio, bottled water, and lip balm on the nightstand.
What happened here was clear.
The victims had been in bed, making love, when the killer came in. The shooter stopped at the corner of the bed closest to the door and fired four shots. It was over in less than a minute, neither victim having any chance to react. Their killer was cold and remorseless, strengthened by the resolve that comes either from experience, certainty of purpose, or blind rage.
Mark was sure of all those things.
The story was written in the blood and he'd learned long ago that blood never lied.
The blood.
He knelt beside the bodies and studied the pools of blood, which were thick and mottled with clots that looked like dark red slugs.
Now he knew what he'd seen that bothered him. It wasn't one little, obscure detail. it was everywhere and unavoidable.
The blood.
Mark glanced at his watch, then back at the bodies again. It was 4:36 P.M. Only five minutes at most had passed since he heard the gunshots. What he saw didn't make any sense; not if he believed his own eyes and ears. So how was it possible? The bodies in front of him held the answer, and he knew if he acted quickly, he could find it.
Mark took a scalpel and a thermometer from his bag and made an incision in the upper-right portion of the woman's abdomen, just beneath the ribs, exposing the liver. He made a small cut in the liver and inserted the thermometer into the organ. After a moment, he pulled the thermometer out and examined the reading, solving one riddle and opening up an other, just as two police officers burst into the room, guns drawn and leveled at him.
"Don't move," one of the young officers said. "Or we will shoot."
"It's okay," Mark said. "I'm Dr. Mark Sloan, I'm the one who called this in. I'm also a consultant with the LAPD."
The officer didn't blink, pinning him with a deadly gaze. "Drop the knife now."
That's when Mark realized how bad things must look to them. They saw a man in surgical gloves kneeling over two dead bodies with a thermometer and a bloody scalpel in his hands.
Mark dropped the blade on the bed and flashed his most avuncular smile. "Perhaps you know my son, Lt. Steve Sloan? He's a homicide detective."
If the officer heard him, he didn't acknowledge it. "Step back slowly from the bed, lock your hands behind your head and face the wall."
Mark did as he was told.
The officer shoved him flat against the wall, expertly patted him down for weapons, then pulled his arms behind his back and handcuffed him.
"You're under arrest," the officer said and began to read Mark his rights.
CHAPTER TWO
Mark sat handcuffed on the floor in a corner of the living room, watched warily by one of the cops, as more uniformed officers arrived, followed by the paramedics and then, finally, by a homicide detective.
Lt. Steve Sloan didn't acknowledge his father at first, preferring to enjoy Mark's discomfort for a few minutes.
Steve sought out Officers Blake and Jackson, the first cops at the scene, and got their report. They said they showed up about six minutes after Mark's 911 call. When they arrived, the door was wide open and they found the suspect cutting one of the victims with a scalpel. The officers detained the suspect and read him his rights.
Steve glanced at Mark. Judging by the embarrassed expression on his father's face, Mark knew exactly what his son was hearing.
Officer Blake handed Steve his father's driver's license. "His name is Dr. Mark Sloan. Any relation?"
"I'm afraid so," Steve said.
The officers shared a worried look.
&n
bsp; "Don't sweat it, guys," Steve said. "You did the right thing."
"Would you like us to uncuff him?" Officer Blake asked.
Steve shook his head. "There's no hurry. Tell me about the victims."
"The male is Cleve Kershaw," Officer Blake said, handing over the evidence baggies containing the victim's driver's licenses. "According to the registration, the SL out front belongs to him. We're on a private road and he's got a resident parking sticker on the windshield, so this is probably his place, too. The car is registered to a Mandeville Canyon address. The female is Amy Butler. She lives in Hollywood—at least according to her driver's license."
Steve knew who Kershaw was, but had never heard of the girl. She'd be famous now, though.
"She's got to be at least ten years younger than the guy," Officer Jackson said. "He sure knew how to live."
"When I go," Officer Blake said, "I hope it's in bed with some young naked hottie beside me."
"I'll be sure to tell that to your wife next time I see her." Steve handed the baggies back to Officer Blake. "Have you recovered a weapon?"
"Just this." Officer Jackson held up an evidence bag containing Mark's scalpel.
"We're looking for a gun." Steve took the Baggie from Officer Jackson. "Assemble two teams, one to canvas the street and the beach for the murder weapon. Get some divers out in the water, too. I want the other team going door-to- door, to see if anyone besides my father saw or heard any thing."
"Cool," Officer Blake said. "I hear Steven Spielberg lives around here."
"Isn't that Drew Barrymore's place at the end of the street?" Officer Jackson asked.
"No, it isn't, so you can keep your great, unproduced screenplay in your patrol car," Steve said. "And the first officer who asks anyone for an autograph is gonna get mine—on a suspension order. Is that clear?"
The officers nodded glumly and started to go, but Steve stopped them.
"One more thing. The press is going to mob us as soon as they figure out who this house belongs to. Corral them in the Trancas Market parking lot on the other side of PCH. This is a private road and I don't want to see any reporters on it."
The officers nodded again and headed off on their assignments.
Steve went straight to the bedroom, intentionally avoiding his father's imploring gaze. He wanted to see the crime scene for himself and develop his own interpretation of events before hearing his father's––something that usually wasn't possible if Mark was there, too.
There wasn't much to interpret. Steve could read the blood, too, and it told him a story of revenge by a jealous lover or spouse. He'd seen a thousand crime scenes just like it. What made this one different was Chive Kershaw and who he was married to.
This was no longer simply a murder. It was a media event.
Within hours, news of what happened in this bedroom would be broadcast all over the world. Every move Steve made from this moment on would be put under intense scrutiny, from the department and the media.
And the first question they'd all be asking was why his father was dissecting the bodies before they were even cold.
Steve took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His work had only just begun, but he already knew one thing with absolute certainty: This investigation was going to be a living hell.
The crime scene mice, as the techies in the department's Scientific Investigation Division were called, scurried into the room and, with a nod of permission from Steve, began taking pictures, lifting prints, and collecting forensic evidence.
Steve left them to their work, returning to the living room, where he finally approached his father. Mark got to his feet to greet him.
"Am I glad to see you," Mark said, turning his back to wards his son and lifting his cuffed wrists. "Could you get these off? They're very uncomfortable"
"Really? I didn't know that." Steve stuck his hands in his pockets. "I'll notify the department right away and see to it we get those padded or something."
Mark turned back to his son. "Having a rough day?"
"I wasn't until now," Steve said, glancing at one of the SID techs, who was using a camcorder to document the crime scene. "What are you doing here, Dad?"
"My civic duty," Mark said.
"Is that so?"
"I was out on the deck, painting a seascape, when I heard gunshots," Mark said. "Did I ever mention just how much I enjoy that wonderful birthday gift?"
Steve ignored the question. "Your civic duty ended when you called 911 and reported the shooting."
"But it was rush hour, and I knew how long it could take the paramedics to get here," Mark said. "What if those two in the bedroom were still alive? I might have been able to save them."
"What if the shooter was still in the house?" Steve said. "I might have been looking at three corpses now instead of two."
"There was no chance of that happening."
"How do you know?"
"Because the shooter was gone a half-hour before I got here," Mark said.
"You were here two minutes after you heard the shots."
"But the shots I heard weren't the shots that killed them."
"What?"
"I'd explain, but I can't think clearly with all the circulation cut off to my hands." Mark turned his back again to Steve and lifted his wrists again.
Steve just stood there, hands in his pockets. "What are you talking about?"
"Those fleshy things with five fingers at the ends of my arms," Mark said. "Some people use them to grasp keys and unlock stuff."
That's when Mark saw Dr. Amanda Bentley, the Community General staff pathologist, striding towards him in her blue MEDICAL EXAMINER windbreaker. Her path lab did double duty as an extension of the county morgue and so did she as the adjunct county medical examiner.
"I knew you'd be here as soon as I heard where the crime scene was," Amanda said, flashing a knowing smile. "I'm surprised you haven't already done the autopsy."
"He started to," Steve said.
Amanda glanced at Steve and saw from the expression on his face that he wasn't joking. She gave Mark an incredulous look.
"I didn't do much," Mark shrugged sheepishly. "I took a liver temp from one of the victims."
She raised an eyebrow. "You cut into one of the victims?"
"I wouldn't put it quite like that," Mark said. "I made a precise, surgical incision."
"Why did you do that?" she asked.
"Because I wanted to establish a definite time of death."
"That's what I'm here for," Amanda said.
"I couldn't wait," Mark said, turning his back to Amanda, showing her his cuffed wrists. "You think you could pick the lock on these for me?"
"Tampering with the evidence at a murder scene is a crime," Amanda said. "Especially when it's my evidence."
Mark glanced over his shoulder at her, then back at Steve, then sighed wearily. "Maybe I should explain."
"That would be nice," Steve said.
"I heard the gunshots at four thirty," Mark said. "I grabbed my medical bag and was here within five minutes. But when I discovered the bodies, the blood was completely clotted."
"That's not possible," Amanda said.
"Why not?" Steve asked.
"A gunshot victim will continue to bleed out for a few minutes as death actually occurs," Mark said. "It takes five minutes for the blood to even start clotting, another ten or twenty before it's completely clotted."
"There wasn't enough time between the sound of the gunshots and Mark's discovery of the bodies for that to happen," Amanda said.
"If they were killed when I heard the gunshots," Mark said. "That's why I checked the body temperature of the female victim. Her temperature was 97 degrees."
Amanda was puzzled, but not as much as Steve.
"What does that mean?" he asked her.
"The body loses roughly 1.5 degrees per hour after death," Amanda said, then turned to Mark. "They were killed at least thirty minutes before you heard the shots. If you hadn't shown up whe
n you did, we never would have known."
"Why not?" Steve said.
"Look at your watch, Steve. l didn't get here until an hour and a half after the bodies were discovered," Amanda said. "I wouldn't have noticed anything unusual about the blood."
"But that doesn't change how long it takes for the bodies to lose heat," Steve said. "You're very good at what you do. You would have discovered the time of death didn't jibe with when the gunshots were reported."
"I'm good, but I'm not perfect," she said. "In the absence of irrefutable evidence, like a video or eyewitnesses, determining the time of death is, at best, an educated guess. A lot of factors go into it and one of the big ones would have been when the gunshots were reported to the police. Honestly, Steve, I probably would have been fooled if Mark hadn't caught it."
Amanda tipped her head towards Mark. "You should thank him."
Mark gave his son a big smile. Steve dug a key out of his pocket and unlocked the cuffs.
"So who fired the shots and why?" Steve asked.
"I can't tell you the who," Mark said, massaging his wrists. "But I can guess at the why. He wanted to fudge the time of death and, perhaps, use the extra half-hour to establish his alibi. The murderer was counting on rush-hour traffic to delay the arrival of the police and paramedics so the clotting of the blood wouldn't be noticed. I don't think the killer knew a doctor lived only a few doors down and would arrive immediately at the scene."
"Talk about bad luck," Amanda said.
"Even if the shooter did know," Steve said, "I doubt he expected anyone to start dissecting the bodies on the spot."
"If the killer didn't stick around to fire the shots that Mark heard," Amanda said, "that means he had an accomplice."
"Who did an amazing disappearing act," Mark added. "I didn't see anyone on the street or the sand. Of course, he could have been hiding and slipped away while I was examining the bodies."
"Speaking of which, that's what I'm supposed to be doing," Amanda said.
"When can you have an autopsy report for us?" Mark asked.
"Us?" Steve said. "What makes you think you're going to be involved in this investigation?"
"I'm already involved," Mark said.
"That doesn't mean you have to stay involved," Steve replied.