Trial and Terror

by ADAM L PENENBERG

  Boyd threw up his hands like he was curling dumbbells. He took off for the parking lot.

  “While we’re waiting, can I ask you some questions?” Summer asked.

  Watching Boyd, Chantelle said, “It’s a free country.”

  “If the killer hadn’t smashed Gundy with the bottle, would he have died anyway from the fall?”

  “Oh, those kinds of questions. Hard to say. You want my opinion?”

  “Is anybody else around here qualified to answer?”

  “No one alive.” Chantelle’s expression soured as Boyd returned, dragging a tarp. “Boyd,” she yelled, “what the hell are you doing, man? I’ve got to run tests on the body. I don’t want to chance excess contamination.”

  Even from 50 feet away, Summer could hear Boyd sigh. “I’ve been digging graves and digging up bodies for twenty years, missy,” he yelled back. “The guy ain’t coming out of no coffin. It’s pine. Solid.”

  “He’d better not,” Chantelle mumbled.

  Boyd gathered up the tarp in his arms, made sure no ends trailed on the ground, and continued toward Strickland’s grave.

  “Would he have?” Summer asked. “And keep it sub-Ph.D.”

  “You don’t want to know all the science, right? Just the stuff that will either help or hurt your client,” Chantelle said, staring down Boyd.

  “Of course,” Summer said.

  “Typical lawyer.” Chantelle cupped her hands in a makeshift megaphone. “Boyd, already dirt has rolled onto the tarp. We can’t have old dirt mixing with new dirt.”

  Boyd muttered, audible but indecipherable. He shook off the tarp and lowered it into the hole; the tarp roll ended up kissing the coffin.

  “I’m not sure whether the victim died before being hit on the head or not. But he would have died from the fall no matter what, unless he’d received prompt medical care,” Chantelle said.

  Summer nodded. “In the ME report, it says the time of death was between ten and twelve. How do you know?”

  “Gundy was stiff from the waist down when he was found. Rigor mortis travels from head to foot and exits the same way.”

  “What else can you tell me?”

  “The lack level of swelling around his injuries, including several broken bones, indicates he died in perhaps as little as a few seconds, perhaps as much as a ten minutes, after suffering these injuries. As for the damage to his skull, I’m not sure when that happened yet.”

  Summer pictured Raines on his knees in front of the jury, starring in Gundy’s final role: an innocent victim pleading for mercy. “What else?”

  “The killer was right-handed.”

  “So are most people. Did you find my client’s fingerprints inside the condo?”

  “Ask the cops. I don’t do windows and I don’t do fingerprints—unless I’m ID-ing a body.”

  “What about hair fibers?”

  “From your client?”

  “Yes.”

  “Curiously, no.”

  Summer had read the report but was glad to hear it confirmed. “How about other hair fibers?”

  “Lots.” Chantelle giggled. “Apparently, our Mr. Gundy entertained frequently.”

  “Male, female?”

  “You know we cannot ascertain gender from hair fibers.”

  “What about dyes, shampoos? Can’t that be an indication?”

  “These days, boys act like girls, girls act like boys.”

  “What kind of hair are we talking about? Blond? Brunette? Redhead? Anyone dye their hair?”

  “All of the above.”

  “Really? He did entertain a lot. Clothing fibers?”

  “From your client? The police didn’t bring me any.”

  “How are you going to testify with regards to the murder?”

  “I’ll tell what I know. That judging from his internal injuries, Mr. Gundy was either kicked or thrown from the second floor and hit glass. He suffered massive hematoma, damaged kidneys, a broken spleen, and cracked ribs. He was also struck repeatedly on the back of his head with a blunt instrument: the bottle. When I complete the toxicology tests, I’ll have a better idea of what exactly killed him.”

  “Anything special about the lipstick?”

  “You can buy it at any cosmetics counter.”

  The crane cranked to life again, gears grinding, straps straining. As the coffin rose, Boyd spread the tarp underneath. It was brought to rest a few feet from Chantelle.

  “Should we take a peek?” Summer asked, half-serious.

  “Trust me,” Chantelle said. “Not a good idea after eating cream cheese.”

  After winding their way through tombstones, Chantelle and Summer waited by the truck while Boyd and his co-digger transported the coffin over.

  Chantelle glanced at Strickland’s autopsy report. “I don’t understand how you expect me to confirm Mr. Strickland’s death without something to compare him to. No fingerprints—hell, no fingers left. No head or teeth either, so forget about comparing the remains to his dental records, even if we could locate those.”

  “Check the DNA against this.” Summer handed Chantelle the letter Strickland had sent to Wib. It had taken a subpoena, and Mahakavi had been none too happy about it.

  “What’s this?” Chantelle asked after Summer showed her what was written. “You want me to look for fingerprints on the paper? Did he sign it in blood?”

  Summer pressed on. “He must have licked the stamp and the envelope closed. I want you to analyze his saliva. It must be there mixed in with the glue.”

  “That’s crazy.”

  “If archaeologists can use DNA analysis to identify 4000-year-old mummies, you should have no problem,” Summer said.

  “I’m no archaeologist—OK, OK,” Chantelle said, pre-empting Summer. “How do you know we’ll find anything?”

  “Strickland was no germ freak. He must have licked the stamp and the envelope to seal it. And why wouldn’t he? They didn’t have DNA analysis in his heyday.”

  The diggers, bearing the coffin, approached in the wasted light of morning. Summer watched as they stowed the coffin in the back of her truck.

  Boyd smirked as he handed Chantelle a clipboard. “I told you, Chan,” he said. “Maybe you got these university degrees, but I know coffins.”

  Chantelle checked her watch, filled in the time. “You win this time, Boyd. Tell you what: I’ll buy the first round at Kelly’s.”

  “After work?”

  Chantelle signed the paperwork with a flourish. “Sure.”

  After Boyd and his partner left, Chantelle double-checked the lock, and then told Summer, “I am officially intrigued. I look forward to seeing you in court.”

  Summer rolled her shoulders to get the kinks out. “Why shouldn’t you? Last time you clobbered me.”

  “Your client clobbered you,” Chantelle reminded her. “I merely handed him the club.”

  A felony assault case. Summer’s client had engaged a woman at a bar, led her outside, and almost killed her, crushing her clavicle, pelvis, and nose. No witnesses, but Chantelle discovered unique fibers on the victim’s clothes, which turned out to be station wagon carpeting. It had taken weeks, but she tracked them to a Ford manufactured three decades earlier; only five still ran in the whole state, including one belonging to Summer’s client.

  “Need a lift?” Chantelle asked.

  “Brought my bike,” Summer said.

  “I was wondering why you were wearing such tight shorts.” Chantelle ducked into the driver’s side. Shut the door and rolled down the window. “I’ll send over a report soon as I’ve got something.”

  Summer leaned into the window. “Can I ask you a question a little out of your area of expertise? Recently, I was checking on a death certificate. Even though I had the name and registration number, the Town Hall copy was missing.”

  “This related to Gundy?”

  Summer peered heavenward and whistled softly.

  “Message received,” Chantelle said. “If you already have a copy,
why do you need another?”

  “To see if it had been faked.”

  “How far back are we talking?”

  “Almost 25 years.”

  “Hah!” Chantelle hee-hawed. “Haze County bureaucracy is specially designed to lose paper. A clerk could have misfiled it.”

  “And I’d never find it. Any other possibilities?”

  “Someone could have bribed a clerk.”

  “Why?”

  “The county doesn’t have the manpower or technical savvy to cross-reference birth certificates and death certificates, and the records aren’t computerized. That would make too much sense. If someone wanted to assume a new identity, all he’d have to do is find someone around the same age who died. Anyone with access to newspaper archives—birth announcements, obituaries—could do this.”

  Summer cricked her neck. “Then what?”

  Chantelle checked her lipstick in the mirror. “You planning on assuming a new identity?”

  “I already have. You see, I’m really a man. Could some guy acquire a new birth certificate?”

  “And social security card, passport, driver’s license. Hell, not only could he inherit your credit history, he could actually take over your identity.” Chantelle gunned the engine. “Information can be a very scary thing.”

  The van shook. Summer’s elbows tingled. She backed up and waved.

  Chantelle drove away.

  Summer unlocked her bike. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a deep-blue van squeal into the parking lot. She thought it was a TV news crew, until it came straight at her. She was about to dive out of the way when, broadside, the van skidded to a stop.

  She grabbed her pump. Her heart jackhammered. She noticed that her knuckles were white under her bike gloves.

  The door slid open.

  Marsalis gestured inside to dazzling lights and sparkling high-tech—computer monitors, scanners, video screens, music mixer—and sang, “Fly me to the moon.”

  Chapter 16

  Marsalis completed his a cappella half-chorus and stepped out of the van.

  Summer brandished the pump.

  He stopped and held up his hands. “Please, sir, don’t hurt me,” he said in a little girl’s voice.

  Summer gripped the pump tighter. “What do you want?”

  “If you get in, I’ll take you to Sonia.”

  “I’m not getting into that car with you.”

  He shuffled closer. “Not even if I can show you proof of her whereabouts?”

  Summer backed away, putting her bike between her and him. “I’m warning you. Stay away from me.”

  Marsalis dismissed her with a wave of his hand and returned to the van. He opened the passenger-side door and grabbed a legal-sized envelope. Holding the corner with two fingers, he rocked it back and forth. “Come and get it.”

  “No.”

  Marsalis sighed. “You’re no fun.” He flicked the envelope to Summer and climbed inside the van.

  Keeping one eye on Marsalis, Summer slid the contents onto the asphalt: an article from the Haze County Register, from more than two decades before; yellowed paper held together with crinkly tape.

  When Summer read the news brief, her eyes saucered: A four-year-old girl drowned yesterday in—the name of the lake was blacked out—marking the first tourist-industry related death in the town’s history.

  Shortly after lunch, Summer Neuwirth was playing unattended by the edge of the lake. By the time Sonia Neuwirth noticed that her four-year-old daughter was missing, it was too late.

  It took divers several hours to locate the body. But police were confident that they had been searching the right place after they scooped the child’s doll out of the water.

  One police officer investigating the case, who insisted on anonymity, said Mrs. Neuwirth may have been inebriated when her child disappeared. “It’s a shame, really. The woman was celebrating her anniversary with her husband and this happens,” he said.

  A spokesman for the District Attorney’s office said it was doubtful that charges would be filed.

  Summer re-read the account twice. She was startled by a car horn.

  “Bummer, huh?” Marsalis called.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Picture this: Sonia, Wib, and their only child. Sonia and Wib are celebrating their anniversary, but they have an argument. Wib stalks off. You know how Sonia drove him mad.”

  “No.”

  “Sonia is upset. This is not what she had planned at all for her anniversary. So she drinks, like she always does when she’s depressed. Maybe she passes out. Her daughter wanders off, plays near the water. The police found the doll first, so I assume she’d lost it in the water. When she tried to liberate it, she fell in. Drowned. Can you imagine what it must have felt like when the water began to choke her, the delicious terror she must have experienced?”

  Summer’s stomach burned. “I’d know if I were adopted.”

  “Who said you were adopted?”

  “What’s all this about?”

  Marsalis coughed. “Why don’t you ask Sonia?”

  “I would if I could.”

  “Then get in. I’ll take you to her.”

  Summer looked at Marsalis, then the newspaper clipping, then at Marsalis again. “Why don’t you just tell me where she is?”

  “Either pay my price or the deal is off.”

  “How do I know this newspaper article is real? How do I know you didn’t doctor it?”

  “You don’t.”

  “I’m not getting into that van with you, Marsalis.”

  “Suit yourself.” He reached over and pulled the passenger-side door shut, then revved the engine.

  Summer watched him drive to the exit, put his turn signal on, and wait for traffic to thin. She skimmed the article one more time. She visualized Sonia and Wib and this little girl who shared her name at this lake. What if Marsalis hadn’t concocted this just to rattle her? The rims of her ears burned. Before she realized what she was doing, she began waving and shouting.

  Marsalis backed the van into the parking lot.

  Summer loaded her bike and climbed aboard. She sat with her fists clenched, waiting for Marsalis to make a move.

  “Buckle up,” he said.

  “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  They drove in silence for a while, Summer watching the countryside change from desert to lush, up into the mountains where they hit cloud cover. Outside, it began to rain, first reluctantly, then in sheets.

  When Summer bent down to pull up her socks, she noticed a gun lodged under Marsalis’s seat.

  She kept her tone conversational. “How did you know where to find me?”

  “I always know where to find you,” he said. “But I’m often disappointed. You expend a great deal of energy trying not to reveal yourself to me, Summer. When you are home, you find creative ways not to show me your beauty. You hide under fabrics and blankets.”

  “You hide behind a cloak of mystery and terror yourself. Why are you stalking me?”

  “Even before you met me, I knew you. Like a mother is always with her child, even when separated by years or events, I knew I would always be with you, until the day you die.”

  “That sounds ethereal for a man who earns his living in the rational world of computing.”

  “Some phenomena are hard to explain. Like the fact that I have never caught you masturbating at home. Did the rape scare you from having sex, even alone?”

  “Shut up, Marsalis.”

  He gave her a wheezy snicker. “Actually, judging by your behavior, you are more infomaniac than nymphomaniac. Does it bother you that Sonia ran away from you?”

  Summer tensed. “Maybe she had a good reason.”

  “Would you find any reason satisfactory?”

  Summer answered honestly. “No.”

  “Sonia was very disappointed in you.”

  “That’s not true. Sonia was sick. She didn’t have complete control of h
er faculties after Wib died.”

  “Did you provide her with the best care possible?”

  “I did my best.”

  “Your best?” Marsalis looked at her with incredulous eyes as he drove, his hands gripping the steering wheel. “Where were you when she underwent her first chemotherapy session and needed a ride from the hospital?”

  “I had a trial.”

  “When she returned home, she would call your name for hours, sobbing out of control. But no one was there to listen. Only after she disappeared did you miss her.”

  “Pull over. I’m getting out.”

  “Ever since Sonia disappeared, there’s been a hole in your life. But don’t you realize that you dug a hole for Sonia that was even deeper?”

  Summer struggled with the door, but only Marsalis could unlock it.

  “You drove her away,” he continued. “She couldn’t bear to live out her final days on earth with you. She preferred to spend them with someone else.”

  The seat belt dug into her shoulder when Summer leaned over. She had to strain to reach the gun under Marsalis’s seat. With a final lunge, she was able to snatch it. She poked him in the ear with the barrel.

  “Stop the car,” she ordered.

  Marsalis wiggled his tongue at her, and then floored it. The speedometer read 75, 90, 100. Marsalis slalomed through traffic. Over the groan of the engine he hissed, “Is the joy you would feel killing me worth dying for?”

  Summer tugged on the trigger. The chamber flicked forward one sixteenth of a turn.

  Marsalis added speed: 110, 120, 125. Two cars collided behind.

  Summer considered the weight of the gun in her hand. She pushed the gun harder into Marsalis’s temple. “I said, ‘Stop the car.’ ”

  “Shoot me.”

  “Stop the car!” Louder this time.

  “Fuck you!”

  Summer shouted, “Stop-the-car-you-misogynistic-cyber-geek-psychopath—”

  Marsalis joined in, merrily screeching while weaving through traffic.

  Summer pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  Marsalis sputtered. One part laugh, one part cough.