[Deborah Jones 02.0] Dark Waters

by J. B. Turner

‘My shorthand isn’t what it used to be.’

  Dr Simmons smiled. ‘Well, we doctors have the worst handwriting among all professions, as you know.’

  ‘Okay, we’re ready to go, Doctor Simmons. First of all, thanks again for seeing me at such short notice. But we’re looking for some clarification.’

  Dr Simmons raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Into the autopsy of John Hudson.’

  Dr Simmons nodded.

  ‘I believe it was carried out here, is that right?’

  ‘Do you mind me asking what is the precise purpose of your questions? I believe you are the investigations editor of the Miami Herald?’

  ‘That’s correct. We’re looking into the deaths of John Hudson and a friend of his called Richard Turner.’

  The doctor’s face remained impassive.

  ‘Can you tell me about the autopsy that was carried out on John Hudson?’

  ‘We’re still running some tests, so I can’t say anything definite at this stage. And obviously, we have to be mindful of the family.’

  The doctor’s face remained impassive.

  ‘Of course. I believe my boss, Sam Goldberg, an old friend of Bill Hudson, met you shortly after the body was brought in.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘My second question is this: we’ve been told by someone within the media office for the Chief Medical Examiner in New York City that the autopsy of Richard Turner was also carried out by Doctor Brent Simmons. Subsequently this assertion was retracted. I wondered if you would care to comment?’

  ‘How very bizarre. It must’ve been a mix-up of names.’

  ‘The press office had no record of you.’

  ‘That’s the craziest thing I’ve heard. It’s out of my jurisdiction. I’ve not been to New York for months. I think the last time I was there was for a conference way back in March. My secretary could confirm the dates if you’d like.’

  ‘So you never carried out the autopsy in New York?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’ Dr Simmons smiled, as if waiting for another question.

  ‘I’ve got the autopsy report number on Richard Turner. That report would have the name of the medical examiner on it.’

  ‘Of course. But, frankly, nothing surprises me these days what with the amount of administration, form-filling and God knows what new regulations that we’re all supposed to follow. It’s never-ending. The miracle is that we get any real work done at all.’

  23

  Simmons’s casual explanation rankled with Deborah. She didn’t buy it. She trawled through public records and, with some help from McNally’s contacts, compiled a 115-page dossier on Dr Brent Simmons, the Chief Medical Examiner in Miami-Dade. It contained everything from his birth certificate, school reports and college grades right up until his current employment.

  Deborah fixed herself a turkey sandwich on rye and a glass of mineral water. She felt better after the food, and then she got down to business.

  The autopsy report on Richard Turner revealed that it had apparently been undertaken by Dr Ken T Meiter, the medical examiner assigned to Brooklyn.

  She called Sam immediately with the news.

  ‘Sometimes, Deborah,’ Sam said, ‘things aren’t exactly as they seem.’

  ‘You sound like Fox Mulder.’

  ‘Does the name Roger Mittleman ring any bells?’

  ‘Of course. He was the Miami-Dade medical examiner a few years back.’ She suddenly made the connection. ‘He once altered an autopsy report, didn’t he?’

  ‘He removed the fact that traces of marijuana were found in the body of Mayor Miscon’s wife.’

  ‘Are you saying that this autopsy report has been doctored?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s possible.’

  ‘There’s something not right here. I know it.’

  ‘Perhaps. Look, I’ve got stuff to do. Let’s speak later. I love you.’

  ‘Love you too, Sam.’

  Deborah worked her way through the rest of the file.

  Brent Simmons had been educated at the private St Leonard’s Episcopal School, Albany, New York, leaving in 1967 with a high school diploma. He then went to Levington College, in Boston, and achieved an Associates Degree in Liberal Arts, in 1971. Three years later, he’d graduated with a Bachelor of Science, from the University of Texas, Austin. Five years later‌—‌1979–he was a medical doctor after studying at the University of Vermont Medical School, Burlington.

  Next, he did an internship at All Saint’s Hospital in Tampa, Florida‌—‌six months in internal medicine, six months general surgery. Afterwards, he took up residency in the Department of Anatomic and Clinical Pathology at Brown University Rhode Island.

  Deborah was impressed. This man was highly qualified, and highly intelligent.

  She read on.

  Simmons’s educational path then moved to Miami where he specialized in forensic pathology with his current employer, the Miami-Dade County Medical Examiner Department.

  In 1985 Dr Brent Simmons became Associate Medical Examiner, teaching at the University of Miami School of Medicine. His position was Assistant Clinical Professor of Pathology. He also lectured abroad extensively.

  Deborah scanned through pages outlining his membership of elite professional groups‌—‌American Academy of Forensic Sciences, National Association of Medical Examiners. And then there were the awards. Teaching awards, certificates of appreciation, exceptional-service award from the Miami-Dade Police, and on and on.

  Two hours later, Deborah was barely a third of the way through the dossier. She knew she’d have to call Faith, her soccer coach, who wanted the team in for extra training that evening, ahead of a big game.

  She punched in the cellphone number. Faith answered in her usual cheery voice. ‘Hey, honey, what’s happening with my favorite striker?’

  ‘I don’t think I’m going to be your favorite anything for much longer. Faith, I’m sorry, I have to cancel tonight.’

  ‘Why, for Christ’s sake?’

  ‘I’m working on something. And I just can’t put it to one side.’

  ‘You ain’t never missed no practice session before. Why start now? Next time I see you, you better have on your T-shirt and shorts or you ain’t never gonna play for us again. Is that understood?’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘Hey, you ain’t two-timing me for that fine young Mr Goldberg?’

  Deborah laughed. ‘If only,’ she said.

  24

  The smell of stale coffee lingered in the conference room. Sam Goldberg sat alone, following the afternoon news meeting. He felt quite drained after ninety minutes of heated arguments.

  Sam had always relished the cut and thrust of negotiating what went in the paper and what was left out. Today he had sat quietly as Metro put their case that a five-year-old Hispanic boy who’d been dubbed the ‘Mozart of Miami’ by a famous Russian conductor deserved a front-page slot, while the Foreign Desk pressed hard for an urgent reappraisal of the situation in Afghanistan.

  When Larry Coen mentioned the John Hudson police investigation Sam didn’t bat an eyelid. Had his judgment been clouded because of his personal relationship with a member of staff, and indeed, because he was also the victim’s godfather? Would he have allowed any other senior journalist to ignore Juan or Harry’s instructions?

  Sam stood up and looked down over the city. The dark blue waters of Biscayne were choppy after a near-miss hurricane. He spotted a couple of dolphins swimming against the tide, not a care in the world. He really fancied a drink.

  There was a knock at the door.

  Hablo Ferrer came in, holding a cup of coffee. ‘You got a few minutes, Sam?’ he asked.

  Sam shrugged. ‘Sure.’

  Hablo pulled up a seat next to Sam and placed his coffee on the table. He adjusted his red braces. ‘I just want to clear the air. You need to know my side of the story.’

  Sam shrugged.

  ‘We’ve been working for a long time on a story about Cuban spies
coming ashore in speedboats with their families, claiming they’re fleeing Castro. My source is someone I’ve known for fifteen years. He asks me where he can reach Juan. When I ask why, he tells me about Deborah and this Turner guy. He’s concerned that she might have compromised something they had been working on for months. I gave him Juan’s cellphone number, and that was that.’

  Sam said nothing.

  ‘I was not trying to undermine you, I swear,’ Hablo said. He took a sip of his coffee. ‘Believe me on that.’

  Sam sighed. ‘Couldn’t you have spoken to me first?’

  ‘Perhaps. But I don’t answer to you, Sam.’

  ‘You’re still smarting that it was the Miami Herald that exposed those payments…’

  ‘Sam, as you know, the three journalists who were fired were taken back.’

  ‘After an outcry in the Cuban-American community in Miami.’

  ‘Know what pisses you off, Sam? Miami is no longer the city you knew when you grew up. Is that what this is all about? It’s changing all the time, whilst you’re stuck in the past. This is a Latino city, and my paper reflects that.’

  Sam’s cellphone rang, interrupting the exchange. ‘Let’s just agree to disagree, okay?’ He looked at the caller display and saw that it was his sister. ‘Look, I need to have some privacy for this call, if you don’t mind.’

  As he left the conference room, Hablo muttered under his breath, ‘You really are an asshole’.

  ‘How are you, Lauren?’ It was the first time in a week Sam had spoken to his sister.

  ‘Don’t think I’ll be touching oysters again.’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry I’ve not been up for a couple of weeks, but—’

  ‘Sam, you don’t have to explain. You’ve got your hands full, I know. I read about Bill Hudson’s boy. Terrible!’

  ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’

  ‘Sure. Listen, only a quick call. Miriam just called to say that it’ll soon be Joel’s bar mitzvah. And she’s wanting the whole family up there.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘In a couple of weeks. It’s a Friday night.’

  ‘In Seattle?’

  ‘Where else?’

  ‘Shit…I’ve got a million and one things to attend to.’

  Lauren sighed. ‘Sam, Miriam’s counting on you. She’s your sister. You have to go. It’s the rules.’

  ‘Who says? It’s not even her son, for chrissakes. It’s her stepson.’

  ‘Oh come on, Sam, don’t be so mean.’

  ‘Lauren, we haven’t talked for nearly two years. Maybe more.’

  ‘It was one of your dumb throwaway remarks, wasn’t it?’

  Sam smiled. ‘I think I may have mentioned, just in passing, a joke about Bill Clinton and his penchant for Jewish interns.’

  Lauren laughed. ‘You know how she is, Sam. She’s very thin-skinned. But she’s got a good heart. Besides, she’s very happy just now.’

  ‘Unlike her husband. Every time we meet up, he can barely string a sentence together. He’s one sullen asshole.’

  ‘Maybe. Look, Sam, Miriam’ll be devastated if you and Deborah can’t make it. You need to do this.’

  ‘This is crazy. I’ve not even had an invite. And why isn’t she calling me?’

  ‘She wanted to. But she’s scared that you’ll turn her down flat. She asked me to talk to you.’

  Sam sighed. ‘I don’t know…look, I’ll think about it, okay?’

  ‘I’m asking you really nicely, Sam, to forget about any argument you’ve had with her in the past, and enjoy a great bar mitzvah. Joel’s a lovely boy. You’ll like him. He wants to be an editor, just like you.’

  Sam said nothing.

  ‘Miriam’s always looked up to you, Sam. Even more than I do. Just say yes.’

  ‘You’re a pain in the ass, do you know that?’

  ‘So, can I tell her you’ll both be there?’

  Sam let out a long sigh, thinking of his horrendous workload. He couldn’t afford to take any time off in the next month. But then he thought of Miriam’s ghostly, anxious face, trying to explain to her cold fish of a husband why Sam couldn’t manage to get away for his beloved Joel’s bar mitzvah. ‘Lauren, tell Miriam from me that I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

  25

  Just after nine p.m. Harry Donovan had settled down on the living-room sofa with a glass of Merlot to watch Piers Morgan interviewing Barbara Walters on CNN‌—‌his wife fast asleep after popping her nightly Ambien sleeping pills‌—‌when his cellphone rang.

  ‘Harry Donovan,’ he groaned, hoping the interruption wouldn’t wake Jacqueline.

  ‘Can we talk?’ It was Rebecca.

  ‘Are you out of your goddamn mind?’ Harry hissed. ‘What have I always said?’

  ‘I had to call you. I’m scared. There’s a prowler outside.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m looking out of my apartment, towards the gatehouse, and he’s smoking a goddamn cigarette. He’s wearing a baseball cap.’

  ‘Where’s the guard?’

  ‘Off sick.’

  ‘Call 911. Now!’

  ‘Harry the police already came round fifteen minutes ago. But this is the second time I’ve seen him. Harry, please. Can you come over? The cops’ll think I’m nuts if I call again.’

  ‘Gimme five minutes. And lock your doors and windows. I’m on my way.’

  Harry picked up his car keys and sped the two miles to the smart enclave on the northern tip of Key Biscayne. He slowed down beside the empty gatehouse‌—‌its barrier was raised‌—‌wondering if the man was still around. He parked next to Rebecca’s metallic silver Honda, the car he’d bought her.

  He got out of his own car and walked across the parking lot, looking around. The air was humid and warm, and his shirt was already sticking to his back. He bent down to look under the parked cars and then peered into the darkness to check for any movement in or around the rear of the building. Nothing.

  Satisfied that there was no one around now, he buzzed Rebecca’s apartment and was let in.

  Rebecca was shaking and he put his arms around her. ‘It’s okay, I’m here. You’re gonna be fine.’

  Rebecca held him tight for a couple of seconds too long before she extricated herself from his embrace. Then she went across to the lounge windows overlooking the parking lot and pointed at the gatehouse. ‘I swear he was staring up at me, both times,’ she said.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘What, you think I made this up?’

  Harry shook his head.

  ‘The cops came and didn’t see anything.’

  ‘Could you make out his face?’

  ‘He was white, I think. Dolphins baseball cap, but it was dark and the palms around the gatehouse obscured his features.’

  Harry pulled out his cellphone from his pocket and dialed 911. ‘Hi, this is the residence of Rebecca Sinez at Ocean Park Drive. The prowler returned after your guys left, but he seems to have disappeared once again into thin air. I need you to send round a car and do one more sweep.’

  The dispatcher, a woman, was helpful. ‘Sir, they’re on their way. Sit tight. Are you a friend of Ms Sinez?’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘I’d appreciate if you could stay right there. Is that okay?’

  ‘No problem at all.’

  The police arrived in under a minute. Harry and Rebecca peered down to the parking lot as the cops searched the area with flashlights. But they didn’t find anything, not even a cigarette butt.

  The officers said they’d keep a car nearby all night, which pacified Rebecca and Harry. When they left, Rebecca buried her head in her hands.

  ‘What’s going on, Harry?’

  ‘I wish to God I knew.’

  ‘You think this is connected to…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The investigation. Is that what this is?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s like a nightmare.’

  ‘Hang on, t
his might all be perfectly innocent, so let’s not get too carried away.’

  ‘It might seem perfectly innocent to you, but coming so soon after the guy taking pictures of my son… our goddamn son at the beach, what am I supposed to think?’

  ‘Keep your voice down. Look, you were the one who was against me going to the feds about this. Have you changed your mind now?’

  Rebecca dropped her gaze to the floor.

  ‘Just say the word and I’ll let the authorities know. Is that what you want?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ll stay here tonight if you want.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘How about if I sit outside in the car. Would that make you feel better?’

  ‘Would you do that?’

  Harry held her hand and smiled. ‘I only want what’s best for you and Andrew, that’s all.’

  He waited until just after 10.30 p.m. and after kissing his son as he slept he left quietly, doing another quick sweep of the parking lot. But again he found nothing. He got into his car, watching for anything untoward in the shadows. The only sound was his own breathing.

  He glanced up and saw the blinds being drawn in Rebecca’s lounge, thinking of his flesh and blood sound asleep under his Spider-Man duvet. But instead of heading home he just sat and watched and waited.

  Harry switched on a Miami talk-radio channel and listened as the host and the callers talked about everything from the budget deficit to gay marriages.

  It was going to be a long night.

  26

  It was late and Deborah was reading the dossier on Simmons. Letterman was on the TV with the sound down when Sam called.

  ‘Fancy a bite to eat?’

  ‘Sam, do you know what time it is?’

  ‘I can’t sleep. Besides, I’d like to relax for an hour or two. What do you say?’

  ‘I’d love to see you, Sam. You know that, but I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘Hey, join the club.’

  • • •

  It was really buzzing on the terrace of Emeril’s. Deborah laughed a lot and Sam quickly gave up grimacing every time he took a sip of his Badois sparkling water. The night was luxuriantly warm.

  When they kissed, a couple nearby shook their heads.