Saving Max

by Antoinette van Heugten

  Sevillas looks at Danielle. “I’m sure Ms. Parkman will respect the position of prominence you hold with your sources and will make every effort to preserve your sterling reputation.”

  Doaks shoots him a look of pure evil. “I ain’t talkin’ to you, asshole. You want to know what’s goin’ on, you’re gonna have to ask your client.”

  Sevillas’s eyes become serious as he looks at the black box. “Let’s find out what they’ve got.”

  Danielle watches as Doaks pulls an old Swiss Army knife out of his pocket and slits through the brown tape on the box. Sevillas turns to Danielle. “Nothing in this box is going to be good. As a lawyer, you might expect that it won’t affect you as it would a layman. It just isn’t true.”

  She feels her throat tighten. She nods.

  Doaks pulls a sheaf of papers from the box. As he reviews them, he passes them to Sevillas who, in turn, hands them to Danielle. Doaks mutters as he scans the documents. “Not much here. The offense report is bare-bones. Got rough crime-scene diagrams, but no autopsy report; no lab report.”

  Danielle gets up and peers over Sevillas’s shoulder. What she sees is what she has tried so hard to erase from her memory—ruby flashes of blood spatters; black, dusted walls; assorted views of the bloody bed. She closes her eyes. When she opens them, Jonas’s vacant, dead eyes stare up at her like glazed marbles in a white bowl. Her stomach tightens. Danielle forces herself to study the series of close-ups. There are small but hideous stabs on both forearms. Different angles of the bloody corpse are shown: gaping holes on the tops of Jonas’s thighs; dark, bloody craters on both sides of his genitals; gory rents near the femoral artery.

  Doaks points at the last one. “Looks like this is where most of the arterial spray came from.” He shows them another photo of the spatters on the wall and the ceiling. He gives a low whistle.

  Danielle feels revolted. She returns to her chair on the opposite side of the table, away from the box. After a few deep breaths, she concentrates on the papers in front of her, placing them into neat stacks. This calms her enough so that when Sevillas hands her the stack of bloody crime-scene photos, she is almost able to view them dispassionately.

  She studies them one by one, wincing at the sight of the photographs of Max’s bloody T-shirt and the contents of her purse. Something bothers her. Her eyes fly open. She flips through each photograph again, quickly this time. “It isn’t there,” she whispers. “Oh my God, it isn’t there.”

  “What ain’t there?” asks Doaks.

  Sevillas walks around the conference table. “What is it, Danielle?”

  She thrusts the photographs into his hand. “The comb.”

  Sevillas scans them, this time with Doaks looking over his shoulder. “I’ll be damned.”

  “Holy shit,” says Doaks. “There shoulda been a million pictures of that comb before anybody bagged or marked it for evidence—and way before they carted it downtown.”

  Sevillas shakes his head. “It’s a fluke. Nobody could have missed that. We must not have all of the photographs.”

  “Yeah,” says Doaks. “The photographer must’ve had his head up his ass or some idjit down at the D.A.’s office forgot to stick ’em in the stack before they got shipped out.”

  “What if it’s not a mistake?” asks Danielle.

  Doaks chortles. “It’d mean we’d have a helluva lot easier time gettin’ proud of this defense. It’d mean that one of Barnes’s guys fucked up to a fare-thee-well.”

  Sevillas hands her back the photographs. “Don’t get your hopes up, Danielle. They’ve got the comb. Even if they forgot to photograph it, the cops will testify that they found it when they emptied your purse. Someone probably bagged it early on and ran it over to the evidence room.”

  “I think I’ll hike on over to Plano P.D. later just to make sure,” says Doaks. “You can’t even guess at the weird shit that goes on in that joint.”

  “Sure, what could it hurt?” Sevillas’s telephone rings. After a few quiet words, he looks at Danielle and then replaces the receiver.

  “Tony, what is it?”

  “The court clerk just called,” he says. “The judge denied our motion. You can’t see Max.”

  Her heart clutches. “For how long?”

  “Until after the hearing.”

  Danielle turns away as tears flow down her face. Sevillas makes a hurried motion toward Doaks. “Let’s move on.”

  Doaks picks up his ragged legal pad. “Right. We got Maitland’s computer logs showin’ Danielle’s comings and goings, including the day of the murder. We got Max’s unit logs—let’s see what they look like.” He rummages around and rattles off entries like a headmaster at roll call. “Patient increasingly agitated and hallucinatory… Patient violent 2:00 a.m./required restraints…”

  Danielle takes a deep breath and turns to him. “Who made those notes?”

  Doaks squints at the bottom of one of the pages. “Some nurse—Krang?”

  “Kreng.” She turns to Sevillas. “I can explain that.”

  Sevillas holds up his hand. “We’ll get to it later.”

  They spend the next few hours going through the contents of the black box. Danielle grits her teeth as Doaks reads other chart entries by Reyes-Moreno listing examples of Max’s psychotic behavior, describing a Max unrecognizable to her. The D.A. must have had a field day at Maitland.

  She stops short when she looks at a series of logs that describe various violent episodes between Max and Jonas. It isn’t possible to tell from the entries who instigated the events, although the clear implication is that it was Max, with Jonas on the defensive. She doesn’t believe it. Surely Marianne would have talked to her about it. She scans Max’s chart. There is an entry made by the duty nurse on the day of the murder. Patient in restraints. To remain in room during lunch hour. Danielle sighs with relief. She turns her attention back to Doaks and Sevillas, who are discussing the items the police found in Max’s room.

  “Here’s what I’m thinking,” says Sevillas. “We’ll draft a motion to suppress all of the evidence from Max’s room. They had plenty of time to station a police officer outside of Max’s room and obtain a warrant. They’ve claimed exigent circumstances, which we’ll argue the court should reject.” He shrugs. “It’s worth a shot.”

  Sevillas stands and stretches. The first smudges of fatigue have appeared under his eyes, along with a shadow of beard along his jaw. He seems to be the only one who hasn’t noticed that the orange sun is setting in the dusty Iowan sky. “Doaks, the M.E.’s report isn’t here.”

  “I’m plannin’ a trip to old Smythe first thing in the mornin’.”

  “Good,” says Sevillas. “Then I want you to check out the police station and see what you can find out, especially about that comb.”

  “I already said I was gonna do that,” he grumbles.

  “I also want to demand Max’s blood work,” says Danielle.

  “I’m suspicious that the medications they gave him directly contributed to his decompensation at Maitland and, perhaps, his…violent behavior.”

  Sevillas gives her a long, studied look. Danielle stares at the floor. Her admission of Max’s violent behavior—whatever the cause—implies that such violence could have led to murder. It is the first time she has even implicitly suggested that Max could have killed Jonas.

  “I don’t expect Maitland to cooperate,” says Sevillas quietly, “but I’ll include it in our subpoena. We probably won’t get permission until the judge rules on it at the hearing.”

  “I asked a friend of mine to try to get some information on Fastow, the psychopharmacologist who overdosed Max, but all she’s been able to find out is that his last post was in Vienna, where he was doing some kind of new research in psychotropics. I think we need to do a thorough investigation into his past.”

  Sevillas gives her a look. “You think the overdose was intentional?”

  “No. I can’t put my finger on it, but there is something very wrong with Fastow.”


  “What makes you think that?”

  “I told you before. Instinct.”

  “Anything more factual than that?”

  “No.”

  Sevillas nods at Doaks, who sighs and makes a note. “Under the ‘he’s too squirrelly not to be guilty of somethin’ theory,’ right?”

  Sevillas rubs his neck. “I also noticed that we only have excerpts of Max’s chart and none of the victim’s. If they’re try ing to create motive by introducing evidence of violence between Max and Jonas, we need both files in their entirety.”

  Danielle holds her tongue. If Sevillas gets Max’s records by subpoena, she avoids having to admit that she hacked into Maitland’s computer to support her claim that the hospital had to have something to do with Jonas’s death. Maybe when Tony sees the bizarre entries in Max’s chart and compares them with the boy he has now met, he’ll understand why she is so outraged by Maitland’s treatment of him.

  Doaks leans back in his chair. “I can think of a few things right off. If they have that comb, I want to see it for myself. I also want to pay a visit to that nurse—that Krang woman.”

  “Kreng,” says Danielle. “I’ll go with you. I have a lot of information you don’t.”

  Doaks shoots Sevillas a poisonous glance and then turns to Danielle. “Remember how we talked about those things I gotta do alone? This ain’t a good time for us to buddy up.”

  “Danielle, you obviously can’t go onto Maitland property,” says Sevillas. “I doubt the nurse will talk to Doaks, anyway. She certainly doesn’t have to.”

  “She’ll talk to me, all right.” Doaks’s smile splits his wrinkled face into a million pieces. “I got charm.”

  “But Danielle does have a point about prepping you,” says Sevillas.

  Doaks gazes skyward. “Why me, Lord?”

  Danielle crosses her arms and waits. Doaks groans. “All right, all right. I’ll pick you up at seven sharp and you can fill me in on Kreng. I’m gonna park a ways down from Maitland, but then you gotta promise to stay in my sled until I’m done, capish?”

  Danielle smiles. “Of course.”

  “I have some other bad news, I’m afraid.” Sevillas points to a stack of papers on his desk. “The State has moved to have your bond raised to no bond. They’ve requested that it be considered at the hearing on the temporary restraining order.”

  “On what grounds?”

  Sevillas shrugs. “Apparently they think they have information they didn’t have at the time of the bond hearing.”

  Danielle’s mind races. Could they have discovered her trespass and hacking? “How do we find out what they have?”

  “Try not to think about it now, Danielle. I need you to stay in lawyer mode so we can lay out our game plan.”

  Danielle nods, but a dark panic blooms in her heart. She has to stay out of jail. If she is behind bars, how can she direct the investigation and, if necessary, find another suspect for the jury?

  The icy truth of this last thought slices her soul. At some point, her absolute conviction of Max’s innocence has faltered. She feels forced to accept that Max, whether driven by medication or something else, may have killed Jonas. She has plunged into the Cimmerian underworld of murk and damnation—into the black marrow of hell.

  She will do anything to set him free.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Okay,” says Sevillas. “I think we’ve just about got it down.”

  “God, I hope so.” Danielle rubs her neck after another morning of grueling preparation. Somewhere along the line, Sevillas has decided to let her participate in the legal aspects of the case. She doesn’t ask why.

  “Here’s the game plan,” says Sevillas. “We’re going to find out everything we can before the hearing so we can go in swinging. We’ll have torn apart every document the State has and since the purpose of a proof-evident hearing is for the judge to decide whether the State has sufficient basis to revoke your bond. The D.A. will have to put on key witnesses and experts—to show what color their underwear is, as our good friend John Doaks would say.”

  She nods. “This way we can cut away at the State’s case before trial. The best part is that we’ll have a terrific shot at free discovery.”

  “Not to mention the fact that all this will take place before trial,” adds Sevillas. “The judge will hear it alone. There won’t be a jury to worry about while we nail down the State’s case and explore leads to exculpatory evidence.”

  “When do you think the judge will set the hearing?”

  Sevillas shrugs. “Not for a while, I’d guess, but it wouldn’t hurt to check the court’s docket to see what we’re looking at.” He turns and murmurs into the telephone receiver.

  The door opens, and Doaks marches in. He gives Danielle a cocky salute and tosses a white paper bag stained with heavy grease spots on top of Sevillas’s burled wood conference table. “Good afternoon, all.” He plops down into a plush, leather chair and lays out a napkin that looks as oily as the bag. With a loud smack, he pulls out a huge cheeseburger and squirts mustard from a plastic pouch onto his pants instead of the bun. Danielle hides a smile. She is beginning to see behind Doaks’s rough façade. Her bet is that he’s a soft touch who would rather take a bullet than admit it.

  Sevillas takes in the pedestrian buffet before him and looks at Danielle. “So, did you find anything at the police station?”

  “Hold your water, Sevillas. I’m eatin’ here.” Doaks munches a dill pickle and smears a blob of mustard onto his khakis. His hair looks zany, as if he just stepped out of a tsunami. When he finally speaks, his mouth is full of unmasticated burger. The last fry finally disappears. “You’re gonna kiss my feet for this one. They ain’t got no pictures of the comb because the brain-dead sons-a-bitches lost it.”

  Sevillas leans forward. “Are you sure?”

  Doaks grunts. “Hell, yes, I’m sure. Barnes is still reelin’ from the chewin’ out he caught from the chief this mornin’. Not to mention what the D.A.’s gonna do when he finds out.”

  Danielle feels a surge of excitement. “How did they lose it?”

  “Some greenhorn handled the transfer of the evidence bags to the station.” Doaks shrugs. “He lost it, plain and simple. My guess is that it fell outta his ride.”

  “But if it’s gone, they can’t meet their burden of proof, can they?”

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” says Sevillas. “They’ll find it. They always do.”

  “Yeah,” mutters Doaks. “Still, it’s great to march around shovin’ it up the D.A.’s ass for a while.” He walks over to the coffee pot and pours himself a cup of black coffee. “But however that plays out, I got some news that shows what a terrific dick I am.” He turns and grins.

  “Don’t torture us,” says Sevillas.

  He strolls back to his seat and settles in. “So I’m walkin’ down the hall at the P.D. mindin’ my own business, when who do I run into? You remember Floyd J., don’t you, Tony?” Sevillas shakes his head. “Sure you do—the janitor. The little guy with a gimped-out leg. Been there a thousand years.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Well, Floyd J. and I are catchin’ up and yakkin’ away when I tell him I’m workin’ the Maitland deal. All of a sudden he gets this funny look on his face. When I ask him what’s up, he grabs his broom and takes me by the arm—secretlike—and walks me over to the conference room. You know, the one that’s got the big window with the blinds on it.”

  “Right again.” Sevillas gives Danielle a look that tells her to be patient. She turns back to Doaks, who is obviously warming to his story.

  “So Floyd J. starts whisperin’ about how some things just ain’t right and how nobody wants to listen to him, his bein’ just a janitor and all,” he says. “The next thing I know he’s unlockin’ the door and lettin’ me in. Then he tells me he’ll stand guard until I see what’s goin’ on in there.” He pauses.

  “Come on, Doaks,” says Sevillas. “This isn’t the sequel to The Sopran
os, you know.”

  “That’s what you think. So the minute the door closes, I flip on the light. You’ll never guess what they’re usin’ that room for.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  Doaks gives him a big grin. “A dryin’ room, that’s what.” Sevillas’s eyes widen. “Yeah, now you’re startin’ to get it,” says Doaks. “Only you don’t know what all I found.”

  “A drying room?” asks Danielle.

  Doaks turns to her. “It’s podunk Plano, ma’am. It never changes. See, evidence needs to be handled real careful. You can’t just chuck it into a Ziploc and label it. You have to transport it from the crime scene quick—in paper bags so it won’t mold—and then find some place to dry it out.” He shrugs. “Hell, in big cities you got your official state-of-the art dryin’ room with exhaust fans and lots of high-tech shit to dry up blood, semen, urine, vomit—all of the ingredients that go into a really great crime scene. In dives like Plano, you hang crap up anywhere you can find a hook. Today it was the conference room. Tomorrow it’ll be the john.”

  Sevillas comes around his desk. His eyes are earnest. “What did you see, John?”

  “Now it’s ‘John,’ ain’t it?” he says. “Well, I’ll tell you what I saw. Bloody sheets, towels and other stuff that couldn’t have come from anywhere but the Maitland crime scene. It was layin’ over chairs and hangin’ from the walls.” He winks at Sevillas. “Now for the good part. I start pawin’ through the mess with my pencil and guess what’s layin’ around with all the bloody stuff?” He pauses dramatically. “The St. Christopher’s medal, Jonas’s bloody sheets, Max’s clothes and other stuff from his room—”

  “Jesus,” breathes Sevillas.

  “—Mary and Joseph, thank you very much,” says Doaks.

  “Cross-contamination to beat the band.”

  Danielle raises her hand. “Wait a minute. What does that mean legally?”

  “It means we can move to have all of that evidence excluded,” says Sevillas. “It’s a colossal blunder.”

  Doaks smirks. “Nah, just Plano dumbshits bein’ Plano dumbshits.”