Second Glance

by Jodi Picoult

  Q. Was there anything unusual about her that night?

  A. I don’t think so . . . no, wait. There was a moment where poor Cissy spilled a glass of wine. One of the help, a Gypsy boy, came over to assist but took liberties, touching Cissy’s person while trying to clean up the mess. Professor Pike, well, he quite rightly ripped the waiter up one side and down the other. [Pause] I don’t know the Gypsy boy’s name. But you all might want to find out.

  “Goddamn,” Eli said, when he heard the crash. He ran downstairs from the bathroom, half his face still lathered with shaving cream, to find Watson hiding under the coffee table. One quick look at the living room told him there either had been a recent B&E, or a 150-pound dog chasing something. The TV had been knocked off its stand, the pillows tossed from the couch, and one ladderback chair was now tipped over beside a broken window. Eli crouched down near the dog. “Give it up.” He held out his hand, and Watson sheepishly opened his mouth so that the mouse dropped into it.

  Eli tossed it out of the shattered window. “Well, this is great, Watson. We can open a McDonald’s drive-through in our very own home.” The dog’s ears flattened. “I suppose you’re going to tell me it wasn’t your fault. Oh, that’s right, you’re smarter than that. You’re not going to say anything at all.”

  The dog whined and snuffed his nose further into the carpet. Eli put the couch to rights, and then gently set the television back on its pedestal. This, at least, wasn’t smashed. Sighing, he walked to the window and moved the chair that had broken it. A rainbow of shattered glass lined the sill, but since the window had been broken from the inside, most of the shards had landed somewhere in the azalea bushes.

  Suddenly, he turned and charged up the stairs, this time with the dog at his heels. In his bedroom, Eli overturned a pile of folders on his nightstand until he found the manila envelope containing the crime-scene photos. The photographs taken after the Pike homicide were seventy years old, but they had been made with 4x5 negatives—still the best source around for excellent detail. Eli squinted at the shot taken inside Cissy Pike’s bedroom. The focal point of the picture was the bed, but the window was just behind. Something sparkled on the sill. What about the floor?

  Eli scratched his jaw, surprised to remember he was still covered with shaving cream. “When I finish, Watson,” he said, “we’re going for a drive.”

  Rod van Vleet put his face very close to Ross’s. “Let me get this straight,” he enunciated. “You actually found a ghost?”

  Ross nodded. “Isn’t that what you asked me to do?”

  “No!” Rod threw up his hands and walked away. “I asked you to come check out the property. I never actually expected you to find anything.” He sat down across from Ross in the narrow on-site trailer. “So what am I supposed to do now? Douse the place with Holy Water? Wait until my foreman’s head starts doing 360s?”

  “It’s not a demonic possession. Just a ghost.”

  “Oh, well, fabulous,” Rod said. “I’m glad you’ve cleared that up. And what do I do when it starts coming after my workers?”

  “That probably won’t happen. Curtis Warburton always said that ghosts tend to do their own thing.”

  “Then she should be willing to move somewhere else.”

  Ross shook his head. “According to Curtis, human spirits only leave if they want to. If they’re comfortable where they are, or emotionally tied to the place, or just stubborn, they don’t budge.”

  “Curtis said. According to Curtis. What do you think?”

  For a long moment, Ross was silent. “I don’t really know anymore,” he said finally.

  “Well, let me tell you what I think, then. If a judge happens to believe in this crap and thinks there’s a spirit floating around here, I lose my permit to build. That means one of us is going to have to disappear . . . and for a nominal fee, I’m sure I can count on both of you to do that.”

  The color drained from Ross’s face. “I can’t make her leave.”

  “Then I’ll find someone who can.”

  They stared at each other, and then, without another word, Ross slammed out of the trailer. Rod stood in the doorway and watched him go. The workers he passed didn’t even bat an eye. Then again, they were being paid to do a job—and minor setbacks like frozen ground in August, or shovel handles that split at the touch of a hand, or nails that simply would not burrow straight, were all just a path to fat overtime checks. So he had a ghost in his strip mall. So what? Maybe he could even capitalize on it. Launch a breakfast café called “Restaurant In Peace,” and sell boo-gels and scream cheese. When the press interviewed him, he’d deadpan and say the place was a great undertaking.

  Or maybe . . . he wouldn’t build a strip mall at all. New England was full of creepy old B&Bs stuffed to their dusty rafters with stories of hauntings. If he already had a ghost, why not build a hotel around it?

  After, of course, he had found someone to officially evict the thing.

  Just in case.

  Rod whipped his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed 411. “Angel Quarry,” a voice answered.

  He checked the number, then hung up and redialed. When the operator picked up on the other end, Rod exhaled. In truth, he’d been expecting the quarry again. “Yes,” he said. “I’m trying to find a Mr. Curtis Warburton.”

  The Forensic Lab in Montpelier prioritized cases depending on severity. Which meant that although evidence from a homicide that needed processing might be returned in just a day’s time, a simple burglary might not yield results for several weeks. Eli knew this well, which was why he was even now holding a conversation with Tuck Boorhies, a technician he’d worked with in the past. “A murder?” Tuck said. “In Comtosook?”

  “That’s right,” Eli said. He did not mention that the event had occurred seventy years ago.

  Tuck took the print from Eli. “Jeez. What’s with the black-and-white?”

  “Crime-scene photographer is a purist. How long is this going to take?”

  “How long are you going to stand there breathing down my neck?” Tuck answered, but he scanned the print into the computer programmed with Adobe Photoshop. “Now, what part do you want blown up?”

  Eli showed him on the screen, and the computer zoomed into the bedroom window and the wooden floor in front of it. The technician punched buttons, highlighting the contrast between light and dark. “What do you see?” Eli asked.

  “A floor.”

  “What do you see on the floor?”

  “Nothing,” Tuck said.

  Eli grinned. “That’s right.”

  Ten minutes later, he had a print of this enlargement, as well as some others, including a zoom taken from a photograph shot outside the house below Cecelia Pike’s window. There on the grass, near the feet of the ladder still propped against the house, were small winking chips that looked like broken glass. “There’s no glass inside,” Eli said to Watson, a half-hour later on the drive home, as the bloodhound panted beside him in the cab of the truck. “But there is glass outside. That means no one took her out; she broke out. But if she was being abducted, why would she have broken out?”

  Eli slowed as a car passed him. “She wasn’t abducted, that’s why. She was running away. Why else would you go out the window, instead of using the bedroom door? Because you don’t want someone to see you leaving. Or because you try going downstairs, and can’t, since the bedroom door and window have been locked by someone trying to keep you there.”

  He turned to the dog. “Next question: why was the downstairs of the house wrecked? Pike says on the police report that Gray Wolf entered the bedroom through the broken window. If that’s true, then he wouldn’t walk downstairs with the victim to make his escape—he’d go out the way he came. Which means that house must have been tossed by someone else.” He thought about staging this crime, and what it might accomplish. Then Eli put on his blinker, turning off at the exit. “All roads,” he said, “lead to Spencer Pike.”

  CORONER’S REPORT


  CAUSE OF DEATH: HANGING

  MANNER OF DEATH: SUICIDE

  Significant associated findings:

  Recent childbirth, at or near term.

  EXTERNAL EXAMINATION

  External exam: The body is that of a well-developed well-nourished white female who appears the stated age. Hair is blond. Irides are brown. Pupils are equal and measure 6 mm each. The body measures sixty-two inches in length and weighs 124 pounds. No scars are identified. There is moderate rigor. Moderate livor is noted in the hands, forearms, feet and legs. There is slight livor noted on the back of the trunk.

  The eyes are prominent. A 2 cm red groove is noted in the neck, more prominent anteriorly. It extends from just above the level of the thyroid cartilage to the level of the ears. Petechiae are noted in the skin above the groove. Bloody mucus exudes from the mouth and nares. The tongue is protruberant and the protruding tip is dusky and dry. Linear scratch marks are noted in the skin of the neck.

  Examination of the thorax reveals the breasts are engorged. No ecchymoses are identified.

  Examination of the abdomen reveals a protruberant abdomen with striae noted. The uterus is palpated four inches above the pubis.

  Examination of the extremities reveals multiple ecchymoses on both shins and wrists.

  INTERNAL EXAMINATION

  The body is opened through a standard Y-incision. The thoracic and abdominal viscera are in their appropriate positions. There is no measurable pleural or peritoneal fluid. Examination of the neck reveals no evidence of fracture of the thyroid cartilage or hyoid bone. There are ecchymoses only underneath the externally noted groove.

  The right lung weighs 300 grams and the left lung weighs 280 grams. There is minimal congestion in the posterior aspects of the lower lobes bilaterally. The heart weighs 350 grams. No abnormalities are identified.

  The liver weighs 1200 grams and on sectioning it contains 600 cc of liquid blood. The liver otherwise shows mild nutmeg appearance. The pancreas, gallbladder, and biliary tree are unremarkable. The spleen weighs 100 grams. It is unremarkable externally and on sectioning. Examination of the stomach reveals a small amount of partially digested food. No pills are identified. No abnormalities are noted in the intestines.

  The kidneys, ureters, and bladder are normal in location and contour.

  The uterus weighs 450 grams. The endometrial lining is thick and hemorrhagic. The wall measures 2 cm in thickness. Examination of the ovaries reveals a 2 cm corpus luteum in the right ovary. The left ovary is unremarkable.

  The abdominal aorta and vena cava are unremarkable. There is minimal postmortem hemorrhage. Examination of the brain and spinal cord shows no significant gross abnormalities.

  MICROSCOPIC EXAMINATION

  Sections of the ecchymotic area over the right flank show small numbers of segmented neutrophils around the extravasated red cells. Sections of the lungs show mild congestion and edema. There is no evidence of pneumonia. Sections of the liver hematoma confirm the gross impression of blood without significant organization. Sections of the other viscera are unremarkable.

  “Translate for me, Wesley,” Eli said. He sat on the porch of the old man’s house, holding a sweating glass of lemonade. Watson had turned himself into an area rug beneath the hanging cedar swing.

  Wesley Sneap had been the town doctor back when there were town doctors—and by default, the county coroner until 1985. The coming of HMOs, plus a shaking scalpel hand, had pushed Wesley into retirement. However, he still kept a microscope and makeshift lab in his basement. And sitting on a sideboard in his parlor was his old black medicine bag, just in case someone should call for assistance.

  “Well,” he sighed, “she was hanged, all right. You could see it in her face, and in the way she scratched at her neck.”

  Eli leaned forward, hands clasped. “What else?”

  The doctor skimmed the report again. “Lot of the notes just confirm a recent delivery of a baby . . . the thickness of the uterus, the colostrum, the size of the heart. Oh, and she had a fight with someone a few hours before the hanging. There are bruises on her shins and her wrists, but only the wrists show inflammation in reaction to the injury. The bruises on her shins don’t, because she died before there was time for a cellular response. Probably was kicking like the devil to get free.”

  “What was the time of death?”

  “Let’s see.” Wesley frowned. “Nothing in her stomach, but then again she was busy giving birth. We can guess the hanging interval though . . . it was long enough for there to be livor—blood pooling, that is—in the legs and lower arms . . . at least four or five hours. But she wasn’t hanging much longer than that, because it would have been fixed. Instead, there was some redistribution of blood to the back of the trunk after she was cut down.”

  “The husband told the cops he cut down the body around ten-thirty in the morning . . . but that the killer came into the house in the middle of the night.”

  Wesley shook his head. “Doesn’t fit. Based on the autopsy report, if she was cut down at ten-thirty in the morning, then she was hanged at around six A.M.”

  “What if she was hanged in the middle of the night?” Eli asked.

  “Then she was cut down by six or seven A.M. Otherwise, the livor would have been fixed and wouldn’t have redistributed to the back of the trunk.”

  He picked up one of the slides that had been tucked into the autopsy report, holding it up to the light. “Huh.”

  “What’d you find?”

  “Well, the old ME mentioned a bruise on the right flank, and then he talks about a liver hematoma. He seems to have chalked those up to some physical trauma. See here, when he talks about that nutmeg liver? He thought they were expanded blood vessels, from right-sided heart failure.”

  “So what?”

  “Imagine it like a backed-up drainpipe: when the heart isn’t working well, everything jams up in the liver. But she died instantaneously . . . and there wouldn’t have been time for this kind of reaction.” He squinted at the slide. “Come downstairs with me. I want to take a closer look.”

  Eli followed Wesley down to the basement. Where most men had a workshop or an exercise room, Wesley had a stainless-steel examination table and a counter full of instruments and microscopes. “I remember this case,” he said, pulling stain from a shelf. “When I came to Comtosook in 1943, folks still talked about it. In fact, I can recall how teenage boys used to hide in the woods at the Pike place on Halloween night, so that they could live to tell about it in the halls of the school the next day.”

  “Yeah? What did they say?”

  “Not much, come to think of it. They’d go out there as a dare, and come back quiet as church mice. I once treated a fellow, a football star, who couldn’t speak for the whole month of November. Had him go to Boston, to have his larynx checked out by a hoity-toity specialist and everything.”

  “What was wrong with him?”

  “Not a thing, physically. Started talking again one day as if there’d never been a problem.”

  “You think something happened to him at the Pike property?”

  Wesley shrugged. “I think things can happen to a body that never make it to the medical books. Like how grief can kill you, or how falling in love can give you the bed spins. I never thought that boy had any damage to his vocal cords, no matter how many fancy tests those city doctors sent him for. And I was right all along—that’s what had come of swallowing sadness.” He slipped the slide beneath the microscope and sucked in his breath. “Aha.”

  “What is it?”

  “Fibrin deposition within the periportal sinusoids, and microscopic areas of hemorrhage. And coagulative necrosis in the periportal hepatocytes.”

  “Jesus, Wesley. English.”

  Wesley took off his glasses, then rubbed his eyes. “Pre-eclampsia is a serious complication of pregnancy. It gets even more serious when it causes the HELLP syndrome—that’s short for hemolysis, elevated liver enzyme levels, and a low platelet count. They’ve o
nly been diagnosing it for about twenty years—and it’s treatable, now that they know what it is. But back then, it was a different story . . . and could escalate quickly. It looks to me like this liver hematoma developed as a result of the HELLP syndrome . . . not the knocking around your old medical examiner seemed to think.”

  “Does that affect my investigation?”

  The doctor shook his head. “Not really. It just means that if Cissy Pike hadn’t been hanged, she probably would have died of natural causes within a couple of days.”

  Spencer Pike’s skin had gone a dull shade of yellow, like rotting parchment. Tubes piped oxygen into his nose. He watched Eli start his tape recorder with the disappointment of a man who knew he had limited time left on this earth and was not willing to share it with a stranger. “Last I heard, it wasn’t a criminal act to sell a piece of land that belongs to you.”

  “It isn’t,” Eli agreed. He glanced at the other residents of the home sitting in this cafeteria, eating an unidentifiable lunch best suited to a mouth without teeth. “I wonder, though, what made you decide to sell at all.”

  Pike chuckled. “I just want to be able to continue to live in the sumptuous style to which I’ve become accustomed. You can tell those Gypsies that it’s mine, Detective. If I want to set up a carnival there, I have the right to do it. If I want to donate it to white supremacists, I can. And if I feel like letting some fool developer give me cash for it, instead of waiting for the state of Vermont to take it as part of my estate when I’m gone, then that’s my prerogative too.”

  Eli realized two things at that moment: Spencer Pike thought he’d come to smooth out relations with the protesting Abenaki, and Spencer Pike did not realize Eli was part-Native American. He seized on this. “It sounds like you’ve had some run-ins before with the Abenaki.”

  “Damn right I have! One of them killed my wife.”

  “Yes, that’s what it says in the police report. That must have been very difficult.”

  “She was the love of my life. No one should have to bury his wife and his baby the same day.”