by Blair Howard
Me? I never did get over my feeling of utter despair. Emily had been a very special kid, and I brooded over the loss—and several glasses of scotch whiskey, and a very fine lunch, which I only played with. I couldn’t wait to get out of there and go home.
Halfway through the meal I called Kate, but got only her voicemail. I then got through the first four numbers of Wes Johnston’s number, but thought better of it. In the end I excused myself, left the table, and went out onto the patio to think, but I couldn’t get the image of Emily’s body out of my head. Two more large scotches later, Amanda had to drive me home. Hell, it was where I should have stayed. Amanda had to put me to bed that night, or I would have fallen asleep with my shoes on. I woke up the next morning feeling and looking like shit. Even thirty minutes in the shower didn’t help. I hadn’t been on a bender like that in almost twenty years.
Chapter 8
Monday started badly. It was raining, miserable, a portent of what was to come. Kate was already in scrubs when I arrived at the forensic center that morning.
“Hey,” she said. “You don’t look so good. How are you doing?”
“I feel like a sack of… well. You?”
“I’ve been better.” She glanced toward the autopsy room door. “Before we go in there, I should tell you I’ve made us an appointment at the college. We’re seeing the chancellor, a Mrs. Jones, at two o’clock. You all right with that?”
“Yeah. Maybe this won’t take too long.” Who the hell am I kidding.
The mood in the autopsy room was all doom and gloom. Even the usually bubbly Carol Owens—Bones, as Doc Sheddon insists on calling her—had a grim look on her face. And no wonder: we all knew Chief Johnston, and we’d all known Emily too. Now here she was, her body laid out on a stainless steel table, about to undergo one of forensic medicine’s most horrendous procedures.
“Carol hasn’t cleaned her yet,” Sheddon said, leaning with both hands on the edge of the table. “She’ll do that when I get done going over her skin.”
Emily’s body lay face up on the gleaming table. The skin of her legs, chest, and face were creased from lying facedown in debris on the woodland floor, bits of which were stuck to her skin, and lividity and early putrifaction had turned her the color of rotten plums.
I’ve seen some god-awful things in Doc Sheddon’s house of horrors, but this…. Probably because of who it was—who it had been—this was the worst ever.
Kate and I stood back from the table at Sheddon’s right. Carol was at the head, just to his left. The doc’s face was grim. There was no sign of his usual gallows humor. Carol’s face was white under the surgical mask, as was Kate’s. Me? My guts were churning, though more from anger than from the appalling ordeal we were all about to undergo.
“Well,” Sheddon said quietly, “let’s do it.” With a large magnifying glass in one hand and an ultraviolet light in the other, he began to examine the body. He inspected every inch of her, searching for anything that might offer a clue to where she’d been or what had happened to her: fibers, hairs, dust particles, paint or other deposits; bruises, cuts, ligature marks, injuries, anything. While he was doing that, Carol took swabs. She took hair samples, nail clippings, and scrapings from under Emily’s finger and toenails. Everything was bagged and labeled. And Doc Sheddon droned endlessly into the microphone clipped to his lapel, pausing to bag and label small pieces of what looked to me like debris, several hairs, and flakes of what might have been paint, and to make notes on a body diagram.
“You find anything, Carol?” he asked eventually, taking a step back.
“There appears to be blood and tissue under the nails of the first, second, and third finger of the right hand, and under the first and second of the left. Looks like she put up a fight.”
He nodded. “Yes, that’s consistent with what I’m thinking. You can go ahead and clean her up now, Carol.
“At this point,” he continued, “I’d say the cause of death was strangulation, possibly due to the incorrect application of a sleeper hold.”
My gut knotted. “You’re talking about a choke hold, right?”
“Hmmm, yes… and no. A carotid sleeper hold is applied by using the forearm and upper arm. In which case the v—the antecubital fossa or crook of the arm—is centered at the midline of the neck, so the trachea is not compressed, only the carotid arteries and jugular veins. Such an application is designed to render the victim unconscious in a matter of seconds by restricting the flow of blood to the brain. Relaxing the hold would restore consciousness quite quickly, leaving the vic virtually unharmed. That would be the correct way, if there is such a thing, to apply what you call a choke hold, and if that were the case there would be bruising here, and here.” He indicated either side of her neck. “As you can see, that’s not the case. The bruising is here.” Now he pointed to the front of her neck at the underside of the chin.
“Unfortunately, a less-than-skilled application of such a hold would be the ‘bar,’ or choke hold proper, in which case the forearm lies across the center of the throat and does in fact crush the trachea, as I’m sure was the case here. This would cause asphyxiation and… most probably, death.”
It was at that moment that Chief Johnston walked in. He was wearing a full set of scrubs. I turned toward him and held up my hand. “Chief—”
He brushed me away. “Get out of the way, Harry. This is my child.”
“Chief,” Sheddon said, “I’ve barely started. You don’t want to be here for the rest of this.”
“You know the cause of death yet?” Johnston asked.
“Maybe. My gut feeling is that she was strangled, but that’s not all. You need to leave, Chief. Harry, take him out. I will not continue as long as he is present.”
I took Wes by the arm, turned him around, and led him out into the waiting area. He slumped down in an easy chair, his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He was shaking from head to toe. I laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, but he didn’t respond.
“I’ll be back when this is done, Chief, and then we’ll talk. Okay?”
He didn’t answer.
I returned to the autopsy room and to my place at the table.
“You said there was more,” I said to Sheddon.
“I want to take a look at her organs and stomach before I say anything else.”
“Shit.”
“You all right, Harry?” Kate asked.
I looked at her. Her face was the color of cookie dough.
I nodded, took a deep breath. “Get on with it, Doc.”
“Okay. Carol, if you please?”
Together they wrestled the rubber block under the torso to extend the ribcage and, when he was satisfied with the positioning, he picked up a scalpel, looked at me, then at Kate, then shook his head and made the first incision, down from the left shoulder joint, under and around the left breast to the center of her chest. The skin and flesh, already in the early stages of decomposition, split open like an over-ripe banana. He repeated the incision from the right shoulder, and then completed the y by cutting from the join of the first two cuts down to the pubic area. The now-exposed flesh was a deep, blueish violet color, which I knew indicated asphyxia.
He’s right. She was strangled.
It went on. He pulled the flaps of skin back, cut the ribs with an instrument most folks use for pruning trees, removed the breastplate, and inspected the internal organs: the liver, kidneys, lungs, stomach, and finally the brain. The stench was overpowering.
“I need a drink,” Sheddon said.
“Shit, so do I,” I said. “In the worst way.”
He smiled wanly. “That’s not what I meant, Harry. I’m thirsty. You probably need something a whole lot stronger.” He went to the refrigerator, got a bottle of water, unscrewed the cap, and took a long swallow.
He was right. I looked down at the now-broken body of Emily Johnston and I did need a drink, and I sure as hell would get one just as soon as I could get out of this hellhole.
I was horrified. “Christ, Doc. What are you talking about?”
“First, there are signs that she was restrained, and I don’t mean locked away, though I’m sure she must have been. See these marks on her wrists and ankles? They were made by straps, but this is what’s really interesting.”
Interesting?
“These marks here and here…. They also were made by straps and, from the positioning of the bruises—see? They are mostly on the inside and rear of the thighs—I think the restraint was a sex swing.”
And I knew exactly what he meant. I’d seen the apparatus he was talking about, and so had Kate. Back when I was a cop, we’d been called to the scene of a sex party gone wrong. In that case the poor woman had still been hanging there, naked and gagged, legs and arms spread for all to see. Her death was an accident, but this—
Jeez.
“Now for the tough part. Her breasts were tied with, I’m almost certain, nylon electrical ties—zip ties. You can see the marks where someone cut them off. They were circled around the breasts and tightened: extremely painful. There’s trauma to the nipples, possibly caused by the application of electrical clips. Even worse, there are injuries to the vagina: the vulva and labia both show signs of blunt force trauma. I think someone beat her genital area, probably with some sort of flat instrument, maybe just a piece of wood, or maybe some sort of whip. There is also trauma to the interior of the vagina consistent with the insertion of a foreign object, something too big for the poor girl to handle. What, I have no idea.”
“Oh shit.” I shook my head.
“I found five human hairs,” he continued, “one with the follicle attached. That’ll be good for some usable DNA, as will the tissue under her nails. There are also some other hairs, short, white, coarse, not human. I found two small flakes of what I think is white paint—old paint, possibly lead—with traces of mold on them and some dust particles, all of which will need to be analyzed. And… that’s about it, at least for now. The rest will have to wait until I get the tox screen and the hair and DNA results back. That could take a couple of weeks.”
“We need to do better than that,” I said. “Can you put a rush on it?”
He began to shake his head.
“Oh no, Doc. We have to move on this. If you can’t get it rushed, I can. Do you have enough material to let me have samples?”
“Can’t do that, Harry. This is evidence we’re talking about. Chain of custody and all that.”
He was right, of course.
“Let me see what I can do,” he said after a moment. “The big problem is cost, of course.”
“Cost my ass. This is the chief’s daughter we’re talking about. It’s Emily, for Christ’s sake. Look, give it a try. If you need cash… hell, I’ll pay for the tests, just get ’em done as fast as you can.”
“I’ll give it my best shot, Harry.”
I shook my head in frustration, looked again at the mess on the table, then turned to Kate and said, “Let’s get the hell out of here. I need to get drunk, again.”
“Wait,” she said. “What about the chief?”
“He’s waiting outside.”
“What are we going to tell him, Harry?” Oh she was pissed. “You going to lay all that crap about BDSM on him? Because I’m sure as hell not.”
“I don’t see how we can’t. It will be in the record, right?” I looked at Sheddon. He shrugged and nodded.
“I’ll tell him she was sexually assaulted, for now. That’s the best I can do. If he asks how, I’ll have to tell him. I’m not going to lie to him.”
As luck would have it, I didn’t have to do it either. When we arrived in the waiting area, Johnston had already left. I heaved a sigh of relief, then glanced at my watch. It was just after twelve thirty.
“I said I needed a drink, and I meant it. The Boathouse okay with you? It’s the nearest decent place I know.”
“That’s fine with me,” she said.
Less than ten minutes later we were seated in a booth alongside the window, overlooking the river. It was not the pleasant panorama it almost always was. Today the driving rain had turned the river into a vast bed of nails. Oh happy day.
Chapter 9
I sure as hell needed a drink, and a single shot of Glenlivet would have cut it, but I was driving and didn’t want alcohol on my breath. Cops tend to take a dim view of it. And besides, I never drink when I’m working. So no Glenlivet. Instead, I had black coffee. Kate had a single glass of house white. Neither of us felt like eating, or talking, so we sat there in silence like two zombies, staring out over the turbulent river. There was no sky, just an impenetrable gray mist… and the rain. A driving, almost horizontal torrent that hammered against the glass.
Our appointment was set for two o’clock. We left the Boathouse at 1:15. Usually it would have been a drive of twenty or thirty minutes, but not that day. I’d allowed a little extra time because of the weather—it wasn’t enough. Signal Mountain Road was a virtual river. We arrived outside the administration building at Belle Edmonson at ten after two. A little late, but what the hell.
The chancellor’s PA showed us into the office, and the chancellor herself came around from behind her desk to greet us. She quite beautiful. Not tall, maybe five foot six; perhaps forty-five years old, but she looked younger. Her red hair was cut very short and showed off her long neck and near-perfect ears, accented by ruby studs that looked to be all of two carats apiece.
She extended her hand to Kate, who made the introductions, and we sat: Kate and I on one side of a heavy, carved coffee table, and she on the other, facing us.
“Before we begin,” she began. “I would like to say how utterly devastated I was to hear about poor Emily.”
Wow. That’s some accent. Victoria Mason-Jones was English. But with a name like that, she had to be, right?
“Now,” she continued. “How may I help you?”
Kate lifted a small digital recorder. “Do you mind?”
“Not at all.”
Kate turned on the machine and noted the details of the meeting for the record: time, date, present, etc.
“We have some questions about Emily, but before we begin, you should know that we are investigating her death on behalf of Chief Wesley Johnston.”
“I thought the sheriff’s department was investigating her death. The detectives didn’t mention anything about your department being involved.” She reached for the phone and punched in a number.
Why doesn’t that surprise me?
“How will your investigation affect the one being conducted by the sherriff’s office?”
“It’s a combined effort. The two departments are working together.” I could almost see her tongue in her check.
“Very well… and…? Oh, just give me a minute,” she said to Kate. She tapped another number into her cell, and then said, “Could I speak to Sheriff Hands, please?” There was a moment of silence, and then, “Sheriff Hands. This is Victoria Mason-Jones at Belle Edmondson. Thank you for taking my call. Yes… yes…. I’m sure, but that’s not what I called about. I have a Chattanooga police office here, a Lieutenant Catherine Gazzara, and a private investigator, Harry Starke. I was wondering if you were aware that they are conducting an investigation into the death of
Emily Johnston. Hmmm. Yes…. I understand. So it’s all right for me to talk to them? Good…. Thank you, Sheriff. Yes, I’ll see you then.” She disconnected and hung up the handset.
Okay, I thought. That sure as hell lays out the ground rules. Yours, anyway….
“Very well,” she said to Kate. “It seems everything is in order.”
“That’s good to hear,” Kate said dryly. “We’ll need to talk to you, of course, Ms. Mason-Jones, and your staff, which means we’ll need their cooperation, especially your security people. We’ll need access to the college, the dorms, and the grounds, and we’ll need your permission to talk to the faculty and students, especially Emily’s friends. I will also need a list of the faculty members she’s involved with. And we’ll need it all in writing, please.”
“You have my full cooperation, and that of my staff, of course. Give me a minute and I’ll organize the lists and written permissions. I’ll also have extended passes made up for you.” She got up, walked to the door, and gave the necessary instructions to her secretary. “My assistant will have something ready for you when you’ve finished here,” she told us. She looked pointedly at her watch—a slim gold Rolex—and then expectantly at us.
“You said detectives from the sheriff’s department were here. Hart and McLeish,” I said.
“Yes. This morning. They weren’t here very long; they said they had an appointment in town, but would be back later today.”
“Did they look at Emily’s room? Talk to her friends, staff, anyone other than yourself?”
“I don’t think so. They seemed to be in a hurry.”
Okay. They’re not Hamilton County’s finest by any means, but this is a murder investigation. They should have had that room locked down. What the hell are they thinking?
“What can you tell us about Emily?” Kate asked. “What kind of girl was she?”
“I can’t tell you very much, I’m afraid. My job here is almost entirely administrative, and I have very little interaction with the student body. I do know she was a good student, well-liked and active in sports, predominantly show jumping. I’ve also been told she was quite a golfer. But you should talk to Edna Morgan. She’s the vice chancellor of student affairs.”