Evidence of Murder

by Lisa Black

  “What?”

  She’d seen Halloween masks with less of a scowl.

  “That tiny sphere you gave me, the one you just had to have analyzed. I suppose you’re going to tell me, after I’ve done all this work, that it isn’t important and I can forget about it.”

  “Not at all. It’s very important. It’s solder wire, the stuff you melt to hold metal things together?”

  “Solder paste, actually. Tin, silver, a touch of bismuth. No lead. Water soluble.”

  He did not continue. She strove to look properly awed by his abilities in inorganic analyses. “What does that mean?”

  “Probably used in electronics.”

  Suspicious, but not conclusive. Jillian Perry had been surrounded by electronics. “Thanks, that’s very helpful. Regarding that same case, I need to know about Jillian Perry’s blood work. Did she have anything in her system?”

  “Normally we put such information into reports. You might have seen them, pieces of paper with words and multicolored graphs. These reports are given to the pathologist, who in this case is Christine Johnson, and since you two seem to be best friends, I’m sure she would share it with you if you asked nicely, or maybe took her some candy.”

  “You did, and she did. The problem is-”

  “Because otherwise I can’t release tox results, even to trace evidence staff, even though you passed biology, which I’m sure is an admirable achievement in some circles. Tox results are confidential. I’d have to kill you.”

  “I’m trying to solve a murder here, and it’s not my own. Christine said you found a small amount of barbiturate?”

  Oliver nodded. “I can confirm that, partly because you have already obtained the official results but mostly because I don’t give a shit about confidentiality. Diphenhydramine, forty nanograms.”

  “Not enough to kill her?”

  “Definitely not.”

  “Enough to knock her out?”

  “No.”

  Theresa leaned against a gas tank. It shifted, and she jumped away. Explosions were so not her favorite thing. “Are you sure? She wasn’t a big person.”

  “Doesn’t matter. She’d need at least thirty nanograms per milliliter to even feel drowsy.”

  “Is there any way to tell what medication it was?”

  “Other than clairvoyance? Unlikely. It could be anything that contains diphenhydramine hydrochloride-Sominex, NyQuil, a hundred other formulas. Did she have any such items in her medicine cabinet or nightstand? Prescription or over the counter?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Oliver raised one eyebrow. It gave her the distinct impression of a caterpillar trying to escape. “I beg your pardon, I thought you went to the scene.”

  “I did. Nothing in the medicine cabinet except Tums and aspirin P.M.”

  “Nightstand? Purse? Engraved wooden box on the coffee table?”

  Theresa occupied herself with scraping loose paint from the compressed gas tank with her thumbnail. “I didn’t look.”

  The overweight toxicologist gazed at her. Examining a victim’s home for drugs and medications would be done in all cases, from heart attack to homicide, by rote. The pathologist always needed the information, whether the drugs had caused the death or not. “You didn-”

  “No. You can beat me later, but right now I need to get this straight. She didn’t have enough narcotics in her to put her to sleep?”

  “Enough to make her sleepy, certainly, but not enough to make her sleep through her own killing.”

  “And/or abduction?”

  “And/or abduction.”

  “What about the powder in her back pockets? Was that cocaine?”

  “No, young woman, it was not cocaine. It wasn’t heroin or even aspirin. That powder you so thoughtfully threw on my pile of work to do contained various calciums-sulfate and hydroxide-and lime.”

  “Plaster?”

  “Got it in one. And with just a biology degree, no less.”

  She thought about this long enough to forget about her previous experience and lean on the gas tank again. She grabbed the top valve to keep it from tipping over. “Don’t drugs, like, metabolize?”

  “They’ve, like, been known to.” Oliver worked in sarcasm with the flair of a toddler in finger paints. All drugs metabolized, meaning they broke down into their components during the digestion process. In testing, some of those components might appear as normal by-products of the body and some might not. “And these did, to nordiphenhydramine, DM-never mind. I extrapolated from those to calculate the original dose.”

  “So she might have had more in her system originally? Maybe enough to make her unconscious, but then her body absorbed part of the dose before she actually died?”

  “Someone doped her, and then let her sleep most of it off before they killed her? Doesn’t sound very smart.”

  “No. And he’s pretty smart. But he did have to transport the body. How long would that take?”

  “Let me understand your question. You think Jillian Perry consumed enough narcotic to pass out, but then her killer left her alive long enough to metabolize some of the drug?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he didn’t want it to look like an overdose. Because he used the time to transport her. Because he was busy, I don’t know. How long would he have?”

  Oliver frowned, but she ignored it since he almost constantly frowned anyway. “I’m not some kind of idiot savant who can break Vegas, you know. Those kinds of numbers would have to be worked out carefully, depending on her weight, activity level…a lot of work to establish a-what, guess?”

  “Timeline. It’s important, Oliver. It might be the key to the whole case. Now, what about her gastrics?”

  “What about them? No drugs, no undigested capsules.”

  “So it had already passed out of her stomach? The narcotic?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “Did she have anything else in her stomach?”

  “How should I know?” He shuddered in distaste. “That’s your job.”

  Now Theresa shuddered. “I know. And I hate it.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Forensics involved getting up close and personal with a great deal of icky, smelly, completely gross substances, but Theresa’s least favorite, by far, was gastric contents. The examination of same also lacked any great scientific certainty. The trace evidence department did not use a gas chromatograph or a mass spectrometer to detect chemical compounds like toxicology did. The trace evidence department used a plastic kitchen strainer, some running water, and, occasionally, nose plugs.

  Jillian Perry had not had much in her stomach when she died, and the tox department had already consumed some of it. Theresa placed a cloth mask over her face, started the water running, and swirled the goop at the bottom of a quart-size Nalgene jar. She had to work quickly, to minimize the amount of time the contents were exposed to the air. Otherwise the whole lab would retain the sour odor for the rest of the afternoon.

  She poured half the contents of the jar into the strainer, and immediately rinsed the liquid with a gentle stream of tap water. When the strainer and the odds and ends caught in its mesh were clean, she turned off the water, placed a paper towel under the strainer, and layered an open petri dish under the towel.

  “Hey!” the secretary protested. The smell had traveled to her workstation.

  “Sorry. S’got to be done.” Theresa moved to the stereomicroscope and placed the strainer and its accompaniments under the lens. A stereomicroscope used incidental light-light shining on the object from above-instead of light transmitted through the item from below. It viewed larger, opaque items that could not be mounted on a tiny glass slide, essentially a powerful magnifying glass. Plus, it left her hands free to poke at the strainer’s contents with a thin metal prod.

  This was the other part she didn’t like about gastrics. The lab had scientific means for identifying bodily fluids and select inorganics, like gunshot residue an
d paint. Not food. To draw any conclusions from a gastric-contents examination they were reduced to poking at a bit of it and asking each other, “Do you think that could be a piece of tomato? It looks like a piece of tomato.”

  Theresa dutifully poked. Jillian’s stomach had contained, indeed, a piece of translucent red skin that could be tomato, surely an odd food considering that the last meal she consumed would have been breakfast. Unless she liked southwestern omelets. Or the skin could be from a dried cranberry or strawberry, common breakfast food additives for the health conscious. Or, Jillian had lived past lunch.

  Leo materialized at her elbow. “What did you stink up the lab for? Are you doing a gastric? Who do we have where time of death is in question?”

  While toxicology examined gastrics for undigested drugs or drug capsules, the trace evidence department usually looked at gastrics with only one purpose in mind-establishing time of death. Bodily processes more or less stopped when a person died.

  Leo got a look on his face that she guessed had nothing to do with the smell. “Tell me this isn’t Jillian Perry.”

  “I did Jacob Wheeler too,” she informed him, hoping to sound virtuous. “The fifteen-year-old?”

  He paused. Nothing brought pressure on the office like a child murder, and the press, when they hadn’t been expounding serial killer theories, had been demanding to know who had killed one of the city’s youth in his own backyard. “Find anything?”

  “Tortilla chips and pickles. Consistent with what his mother said he snacked on when he came home from school. He probably died shortly after leaving the house.”

  “And now you’re working on-?”

  “Uh-can you take a look at this red thing? What do you think it is?”

  Normally, asking Leo’s opinion stroked his ego enough to deflect any criticism. Not now. “We have to talk about Jillian Perry, Theresa.”

  “Okay. But can you take a look first? I always have a hard time with gastrics. Everything looks like it could be anything to me.”

  He couldn’t resist this, and she really did need the help. After a two-minute consultation they decided that the dark green flecks were pepper, the light green fleshy bits were apple, and one piece of brown matter could be hamburger. The red skin could be a number of things.

  “Okay,” Leo said after Theresa had washed the contents of the strainer down the sink and flushed the sink well to dispose of any remaining odorous substances. “Now let’s have a chat about Jillian Perry. Or actually, let’s not bother. The M.E. wants to see you.”

  “Stone?”

  “We have only one M.E., Theresa.”

  “When does he want-”

  “Now.”

  This was out of the ordinary, to say the least. Stone had long been an expert in delegation, and appeared in the trace evidence lab only once or twice a year. He had spoken to Theresa privately to tell her she had been hired, and that, ten years previously, had been their last one-on-one chat. Her heart began to thud against her rib cage, gently but persistently. “Why?”

  “You might as well ask him that since you’ll be in his office in thirty seconds. Won’t you?”

  “But-”

  “Now.”

  “Not even a hint?”

  “I told you. Jillian Perry. Now go.”

  She stopped in the ladies’ room to check her hair and the crevices between her teeth, and traveled the one flight of stairs down to the second floor. Carefully, as if any misstep could result in the breaking of bones.

  The M.E.’s secretary showed her in without the slightest trace of sympathy, but there had long been lingering resentments between the trace lab and the administrative staff. The secretaries had been instructed to treat the doctors like demigods, and chafed at the scientists’ easy familiarity with same. So this didn’t mean her head had been placed on the chopping block. But it didn’t mean it hadn’t.

  Elliot Stone waved her to a seat. He seemed much friendlier than his secretary, though this also meant nothing. The office upholstery smelled faintly of leather. The shelves around her held a few books and many pictures of the man behind the desk with other people, the memorabilia of rubbed elbows. Stone excelled at rubbing elbows.

  Like now. Evan Kovacic and a young man in a sharp suit occupied the two other chairs.

  Evan nodded at her. “Mrs. MacLean.”

  To his credit, Stone could be succinct when he wanted and apparently he wanted. “We have a problem. Mr. Kovacic is planning to file a lawsuit against this office for abuse of authority. He intends to name you as the agent.”

  Her lower jaw slackened. “What?”

  Evan’s attorney grinned like a lion upon spotting a legless gazelle. Evan didn’t grin, but he had the same sheen to his eyes.

  The M.E. held up a stack of legal-size papers. There must have been twenty sheets, stapled together. Why were attorneys always so long winded? “I have the complaint here. He says you advised another man to sue for custody of not only his wife’s body, but their baby daughter? Mrs. MacLean-Theresa-I hope you have a good explanation for this”

  “It’s completely untrue, Yo-” She almost said Your Honor from force of habit. “Dr. Stone. Drew Fleming came here and asked me about Jillian’s case. I never told him to sue for custody of the body, and frankly, it’s downstairs waiting to be picked up as we speak.”

  Stone continued the interrogation, and Evan’s attorney seemed content to let him. Why not? The job of decimating her career was getting done regardless. “Apparently this other man is not a family member or legal kin. And you discussed the victim’s case with him?”

  “No, of course not. I asked for information about the deceased. I didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know.”

  Stone did not appear convinced. He fixed her with a look so shrewd that for the first time she did not wonder how he had risen to the position in which he now found himself. She went on, “Drew is suing to be awarded guardianship of the man’s stepdaughter, but that has nothing to do with me. I certainly never advised him to do so.”

  Technically. She swallowed hard, ducking her head to keep the motion from the men present.

  “So you admit Drew Fleming would be a completely unfit parent?” the attorney asked.

  “I wouldn’t have any idea what kind of parent Drew Fleming would be. All I know is that it is not my decision.”

  “That hasn’t stopped you from interfering so far,” Evan said. He had not glanced away from her since the moment she’d entered the office.

  The best defense is a good offense. “I’m surprised you aren’t more curious about your wife’s death. I would think you’d want me to do my job.”

  “Trying to get the court to take my stepdaughter away? Questioning my friends and business associates about me? That’s your job?”

  “Yes.”

  That brought all three men up short, but only for a moment. Then the lawyer said, “Dr. Stone, I’m afraid we’ll have no choice but to go through with this lawsuit if Ms. MacLean persists in interfering in Mr. Kovacic’s domestic situation-”

  “There will be no further interference,” the M.E. assured the man.

  “I never interfered in the first place!” Theresa protested.

  “She thinks Mr. Kovacic is guilty of something. What that could be, I don’t know, since his wife clearly committed suicide.”

  Theresa said, “There’s nothing clear about it. And as a matter of fact, it’s a good thing her body was not immediately released, because we found more evidence this morning.”

  Evan’s attorney ignored her, continuing to pour out subtle and not-so-subtle threats to the medical examiner, but Evan himself lowered his head and his skin flushed, as if he were morphing into one of the undead soldiers of Polizei’s nether regions. “What evidence?”

  “Bruises on her arms.”

  The lawyer said, “So you think she was murdered by that serial killer?”

  She ignored him and spoke to Evan. “Do you have any idea how they might have gott
en there?”

  He responded with only a muscle flexing at the back of his jaw.

  “Did Jillian have any trouble sleeping?” she persisted.

  The lawyer switched tacks once again. “Apparently Mrs. MacLean makes a habit of this behavior. Aren’t you currently under investigation for harassing a defense witness?”

  “No.” A reprimand from a judge did not constitute an investigation. “What about Griffin Investments?”

  Evan turned away to stare out the window. But winter days in Cleveland often grew so dark that the window became a mirror, and she watched his nostrils flare with a sharp intake of breath.

  “Dr. Stone, do you tolerate unlawful acts from all your employees?”

  Stone, she figured, would happily toss her into the arena if it would get the lawyer out of his office, but not if the smear might extend to him. “Investigating a death is hardly unlawful. To the contrary, it is the very act we are compelled, by law, to do. Mrs. Kovacic’s case will be closed very soon and the body is ready for release right now. I don’t know what to say about your custody troubles, but they cannot be helped or hurt by anyone in this office. Good day, gentlemen.”

  The attorney left with the smug look his type used to make everything appear to be a victory, and Evan followed with a heavy tread. Stone had nothing to say to her, so Theresa left as well. Reaching the door at the end of Stone’s large office, however, Evan turned and lowered his head to hers, too far from either Stone or his lawyer to be overheard.

  “I don’t know where you’re going, but you’re not going to get there. Jillian killed herself and you can’t prove otherwise.”

  “How would you know?”

  If she had any remaining doubts about his guilt, he now dispelled them by the way he did not answer this question-couldn’t, without confessing that he knew every detail of Jillian’s death. That and the venom in his voice as he blotted out the crowded, busy office around them with his body and spat out, “I warned you-”