Jake Lassiter - 02 - Night Vision

by Paul Levine

  “Yes, yes. But they’re of little import. What is consequential is that these men are incapable of forming normal relationships. They do not see themselves as separate human beings or recognize the separate humanity of any other being, and we don’t know why. To a Hillside Strangler or a Yorkshire Ripper, a human being is no more animate than a block of wood. We’ll never make any progress until we understand what made them that way.”

  I nodded my agreement, hoping Charlie would bring me up to date, or at least introduce me. But the old billy goat was having too good a time to notice.

  “This is the classic distinction between our disciplines,” Charlie said, sipping a glass of Saint-Veran white burgundy, while I sat, parched, irked, and apparently invisible. “The medical examiner searches for the clues of who did the crime and how. The forensic psychiatrist yearns for the why.”

  “And the lawyer says the devil or his mother or irresistible impulse made the rascal do it,” I offered.

  Charlie noticed me then. “Oh, my manners! Dr. Maxson, this is Jacob Lassiter, a dear friend of mine. When I was the county ME, Jake was a young public defender, and how he made my life miserable. Now he’s a successful civil lawyer, eh, Jake?”

  “Some days. How do you do, Dr. Maxson?”

  She nodded and seemed to appraise me with green eyes spiked with flint. The eyes lingered, decided I was an interesting specimen but hardly worth an afternoon tea, and returned to Charlie. I gave Doc my pleading, hang-dog look, which he recognized as acute deprivation of female companionship.

  “Jake was quite creative when he was a PD,” Charlie said. His eyes twinkled behind thick glasses held together with a bent fishhook where they had lost a screw. “He’d be defending a Murder One and ask me on cross in very serious tones, ‘Isn’t the fact that the decedent fell from a tenth-floor balcony consistent with suicide?’”

  I laughed and said, “And Charlie would look at the jury, scratch his beard, and say, ‘Only if we omit the fact that a second before falling, the decedent was shot in the back by a gun covered with your client’s fingerprints.’”

  The English lady nearly smiled, and it didn’t seem to hurt.

  “Pamela’s on a book tour,” Charlie told me, “and my old friend Warwick at Broadmoor asked her to look me up.”

  “Warwick at Broadmoor?” I asked, with a blank face.

  “Dr. Warwick heads the forensic unit at Broadmoor. Hospital for the criminally insane,” Charlie added, as if any dolt should know. “In London. Dr. Maxson was instrumental in apprehending and then treating the Firebug Murderer.”

  I was silent, not willing to admit my ignorance quite so often.

  The lady psychiatrist rescued me. “Just a lad, really. The fellow would find lovers parked in their cars, snogging away—”

  “Snogging, were they?” I asked, eyebrows raised in mock disapproval.

  “Yes, what you would call…oh, Dr. Riggs, help me.”

  Charlie coughed and said, “Necking and what have you.”

  I nodded, knowingly.

  “In any event,” Dr. Maxson continued, “this poor wretch would seek out lovers, pour petrol over them, and set them alight.”

  “Indeed?” I said, in an unintended imitation of her accent.

  “Quite,” she replied, giving me a look that said she did not suffer fools, particularly of the American wise-guy variety.

  I signaled the waiter for a beer by elegantly pointing a finger down my throat. Then I turned to the lady psychiatrist with practiced sincerity. “Tell me about your work, Dr. Maxson. How do you treat these firebugs and murderers?”

  “I study the psychopath,” she said. “I want to know why he acts the way he does.”

  “Or she does,” I added, believing in equality of the sexes in all departments.

  “The subject is so complex,” Pamela Maxson said, ignoring me. “We study the childhood antecedents to murder—”

  “Environment,” Charlie Riggs said.

  “But we also know that there are neurological, genetic, and bio-physiological components, too.”

  “The extra Y chromosome in men.” Charlie nodded.

  “Yes, we know the XYY abnormality is four times more prevalent among murderers.”

  “So are killers made or born?” I asked.

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to determine ever since I became fascinated with the Cotswolds Killer.”

  I showed her my vague look. It comes naturally.

  “You know the section called the Cotswolds?” she asked.

  “The Catskills, I know…”

  “In Oxfordshire, wonderful hilly sheep country. I grew up there near Chipping Camden. I was still a student when someone began killing farm girls. One near Bourton-on-the-Water, one just outside Upper Slaughter.”

  “Upper Slaughter,” Charlie muttered.

  “Each of the girls had been strangled. Like so many of them nowadays, each had been sexually active at age fifteen or so, highly active, and their several boyfriends were initially suspected.”

  “Any of the boyfriends know both the girls?” Charlie asked, still trying to earn his detective’s shield.

  “No. And no strangers were implicated, either. The crimes were never solved, and…well, it just got me started.”

  I thought about pretty Miss Maxson scouring the sylvan English countryside for clues of murder. The thought didn’t last. The waiter brought my beer, and I ordered yellowtail snapper broiled, some fried sweet plantains, and black beans with rice. The pathologist and the psychiatrist were still carrying on, regaling each other with tales of death and derangement.

  “Dr. Riggs, I still can’t believe you’ve retired. I’ve so enjoyed your articles.”

  Charlie beamed. “Oh, I continue my research. Vita non est vivere sed valere vita est. ‘Life is more than merely staying alive.’”

  She reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. “For you, no taedium vitae.”

  They both laughed, and I managed a weak smile. Maybe when I’m pushing sixty-five, women will fall all over me, too. They kept trading war stories and Latin phrases, and I kept popping the porcelain stoppers on sixteen-ounce Grolsches. I was on my third bottle, letting a soft buzz take the edge off, when I decided to break into the party. Having just been whacked by a jury, scolded by a client, and ignored by a beautiful woman from another continent, I figured there was very little to lose.

  “Ah-chem,” I said.

  No one seemed to notice my brilliant opening line. Pamela Maxson was still focused on the old coroner who, until twenty minutes before, was my mentor and best friend.

  “I was fascinated by your article on the forensic aspects of strangulation,” Dr. Maxson gushed.

  “It had me all choked up,” I said, then took a hit on the Grolsch.

  Dr. Pamela Maxson’s emerald eyes shot me a pitying look, then returned their full concentration to the bearded wizard. “Your method for determining the time of death by assessing the degree of postmortem lividity in a hanging victim was quite helpful to homicide detectives.”

  “Yep,” I offered, “the cops were at the end of their rope.”

  Charlie Riggs furrowed his brow, and the air seeped further out of my ego. That peculiar macho known to all men ached to haul out the trophies and merit badges, maybe tell her about the days before I wore a blue suit and wingtip shoes. Hey, lady, I once came off the bench to sack Terry Bradshaw on an all-out blitz in a playoff game. Now playing at outside linebacker, from Penn State, number fifty-eight, Jake Lassiter! Maybe Charlie would ask me how the knees were doing, and I could ease right into—

  “Mr. Lassiter…Mr. Lassiter.”

  The waiter was tapping me on the shoulder. Now what? In fancy places they sometimes toss me out. But tonight I was wearing socks and long pants, and neither was required at Tugboat Willie’s.

  “A policeman on the phone, Mr. Lassiter. Says it’s urgent.”

  I followed the waiter to an open alcove near the kitchen. The air was pungent with fish and
garlic. From behind the swinging metal door, I heard the singsong of Creole mixed with the clatter of dishes. A black cat with yellow eyes was pawing through a garbage can, debating between grouper and dolphin for an entree.

  “Detective Alejandro Rodriguez here,” said the unfamiliar voice on the phone. “Hold for State Attorney Fox.”

  Ah, the accouterments of power. Using a policeman—a detective no less—for a secretary. Probably calling to rub it in. Nick Fox had been so busy dispensing victory statements to the press, he hadn’t even needled me after the verdict. I waited, listening to the faint traffic noises that told me Fox was calling from his state-owned Chrysler.

  “Jake, you did a helluva job for that fish wrapper they call a newspaper,” Nick Fox boomed.

  “Maybe you can tell that to Symington Foote. He thought I should have attacked when I played defense.”

  “He’s an asshole. Downtown power-clique country-club asshole. You low-keyed it, kept the damages down. A savvy lawyer knows when to do that.”

  I didn’t tell him I get my savvy from Marvin the Maven.

  Fox paused, and so did I. We were out of conversation, or so I thought.

  “Jake,” he said finally, “I’d like you to meet me at a homicide scene.”

  “Should I have my alibi ready?”

  He didn’t laugh. “Three seventy-five Ocean Drive, South Beach, second floor. I need independent counsel to head the investigation.”

  “Why me?”

  From somewhere at his end a police siren wailed. “Because you’re honest and not plugged into any of the political groups. I checked you out. Latin Builders, Save-Our-Guns, English Only…nobody’s heard of you since you used to sit on the bench for the Dolphins. I don’t even know if you’re a Democrat or Republican.”

  “Audubon Society.”

  “Huh?”

  “My only affiliation. Charlie Riggs and I like to stomp through the Glades and look at the birds. Blue herons, snowy egrets, roseate spoonbills. Makes you believe in a Creator or at least a damn fortuitous Big Bang.”

  “Charlie Riggs,” Fox said, almost wistfully. “Tell that old grave robber to stop in and see me sometime.”

  “Tell him yourself. He’s about ten yards yonder, putting away some key lime pie and amusing a British lady psychiatrist with murder and mayhem.”

  “Her name Maxson?”

  I looked around for a hidden camera. “You’re getting some pretty good intelligence these days.”

  “Lucky guess. I have a man waiting at her hotel. She was one of the last people to see the decedent alive.”

  “This decedent have a name?”

  “This line’s not secure. I’ll see you in twenty minutes. Bring Riggs and the lady.”

  When I returned to the table, Charlie was halfway through the story of the widow whose first two husbands died after eating kidney pie laced with paraquat. The third husband was smart enough to refuse her cooking, but deaf enough not to move when she rode the El Toro mower over the spot where he was sunbathing.

  Charlie looked up at me, a dab of whipped cream stuck to his beard.

  “Saddle up,” I said. “We been deputized.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Catch Me If You Can

  Retirees still sit on plastic rockers on the front porches of the art-deco hotels. Hookers, fences, dealers, transvestites, pimps, chicken hawks, and runaways still stroll Ocean Drive, hustling their wares. But the Yuppies have staked claims to South Beach, spiffing up the old buildings with turquoise and salmon paint, dressing themselves in bright, baggy cottons and silks, and hovering on the perimeter of perpetual trendiness. Over the whine of the window air conditioner is heard the agreeable hum of European engineering as the young lawyers, brokers, accountants, bankers, and journalists steer their Saabs, BMWs, and Volvos into oceanfront parking lots.

  Cafes and comedy clubs now occupy once-abandoned storefronts. Stylish restaurants abound, strands of pasta hanging on wooden rods like moss on forest trees. Saloons with etched-glass mirrors and polished brass rails offer exotic tropical drinks at outrageous prices. Fresh tuna is seared ever so slightly on open grills. And for reasons inexplicable, a sushi bar stands on every corner. Raw fish is fine for shipwreck victims, but with all the crud floating in our waters, I prefer my seafood well done.

  The apartment building was built in the 1930s, which in Miami Beach qualified as a historic site. The building had been empty for years, before the resurgence of South Beach brought fresh money and fresher hucksters to town. The newspapers coined the term “Tropical Deco” to describe the renovated hotels and apartment buildings. This one was called Flamingo Arms and consisted of a series of curved walls, glass blocks, and cantilevered sunshades that looked like stucco eyebrows. The paint was the color of a ripe avocado. Two metal flamingos formed a grillwork on the front door, and the same motif was picked up in the lobby with a mural of several of the pink birds high-stepping through a fountain.

  The three of us—the coroner, the shrink, and the mouthpiece— were let in by a uniformed cop who recognized Charlie Riggs. We climbed a winding staircase with a looping metal railing to the second floor. It was a corner apartment facing Ocean Drive with just a sliver of a view of the Fifth Street Beach. Nick Fox stood in a corner of the living room, his face drawn into a tight mask. Whispering in his ear was a cop in plainclothes. Nick Fox shook his head and didn’t move. The cop came over to us.

  “Alex Rodriguez,” he said, shaking my hand, and nodding to Charlie Riggs and Pamela Maxson. He looked just right for a detective, which is to say he looked like your average forty-two-year-old, middle-class man who sells power tools at Sears. His dark hair was beginning to thin at the crown. He was of average height, average weight, and average demeanor, except for his nose, which, he later told me, had been head-butted one direction by a drugged-out citizen and smashed the other way by his partner’s errant nightstick while quelling a domestic dispute.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Dr. Maxson,” Rodriguez said. “You too, Charlie. Lassiter. Give Nick a minute. Then he’ll talk to you. Now…”

  He left it hanging there, and we all turned toward a desk in a corner of the room where a young assistant medical examiner was still snapping his photos. The ME nodded toward Charlie but kept at his work. His pale hair was parted high on his head and clipped short on the sides, a style favored by the current crop of young professionals.

  In rebellion, I keep mine unfashionably long and shaggy, and when in the company of callow youth, I incessantly hum Joan Baez tunes. He wore a white lab coat with a name tag. He didn’t look old enough to be a doctor, but I figured, no matter what, he couldn’t kill the patient. His little kit was open, and he had lined up his sketch pads, gloves, sponges, plastic bags, thermometer, trowel, chalk, and tape recorder.

  Charlie walked straight to the body. She wore a black silk camisole and nothing else.

  She was sprawled—legs akimbo—in her chair at a desk.

  Her head was jammed through a computer monitor. The keyboard was pulled open.

  Maybe Charlie Riggs was used to homicide scenes. Maybe it was just another day at the office for him. But not for me. The aftermath of violence chilled me. I didn’t know this woman, didn’t even know her name. I had no sense of loss for a loved one. I would not miss a laugh I had never heard. But I knew someone—a mother, a lover, a friend—would cry out her name. And somewhere, I knew, was someone who didn’t cry for anyone or anything. Someone so foreign to me as to be unfathomable.

  My life has been circumscribed by rules. I tried not to hit after the whistle, and I never lied to a judge, though I’ve been tempted to take a poke at one or two. But there are games people play without rules. The hard-eyed cops know the players, stare them down every day. Could I do that? At the moment, filled with a mixture of anger and dread, I didn’t know.

  I looked at Pam Maxson, who seemed to be studying me. “Of course it’s dreadful,” she said, “but scientifically, Mr. Lassiter, it’s quite fascinating, too.”r />
  Charlie Riggs took control. He gently pulled the body back into the chair. “Lividity of the face and lips, engorgement and petechial hemorrhages in the conjunctivae.”

  He examined her neck. “No sign of a ligature. Crescentic abrasions on the skin, most likely fingernail marks. Probable cause of death, hypoxia due to throttling.”

  Charlie Riggs turned to the assistant ME. “Manual strangulation. Any evidence of sexual battery?”

  “Nothing…visible,” he stammered. “No contusions or lacerations other than the head and neck injuries. I swabbed the genitalia. No visible semen. However, vaginal secretions are consistent with…uh…sexual activity in close proximity to death.”

  “You’ll check the smear for spermatozoa, of course.”

  “Yes, sir. I thought I’d use methylene blue.”

  Charlie Riggs shook his head. “You’ll never distinguish sperm cells from artifacts with that stain. Try hematoxylin and eosin for better differentiation.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What else, what other tests?”

  “Well…I don’t know.”

  “What if the fellow’s had a vasectomy, or he’s an alcoholic with cirrhosis? Won’t find any wagging tails there, eh?”

  “In that event,” the young doctor recited, as if taking his oral exams, “acid phosphatase determination will reveal the presence of seminal fluid. If the man’s a secreter, we can identify A, B, or H blood types.”

  “Verus,” Charlie said, beaming, a professor whose student had finally caught on. “Be alert to every detail. Don’t believe that old saw Mortui non mordent—”

  “I never did,” I chimed in.

  “‘Dead men carry no tales.’ Hah! They can tell us stories horribile dictu, horrible to relate, but essential to our understanding of their deaths.”

  The young doctor was nodding his head vigorously.

  “Now, what about odor?” Charlie Riggs asked.

  “Beg your pardon?”

  “Vaginal odor? It’s okay to take your sweet time with the lab tests, but you’ve got one chance to work up the crime scene. Just don’t forget to use the old schnoz.”