Deceived (15 page)

Nick and Meg
stood when Dr. Samuels, a tall, dignified man who compared favorably to the
idealized television persona of a doctor, leaned into the waiting room. "Mr.
Ford
…
Ms. Taylor," he announced, then disappeared.

Dr. Samuels
held an excellent reputation as a forensic pathologist, perhaps due in no small
part to extensive practice
—
a dubious benefit of being one of the medical
examiners for Washington D.C., the off and on murder capital of America. Nick
was lucky to have gotten him to fly down on such short notice. An unusually
slow day in D.C., evidently
.

Nick and Meg
followed Dr. Samuels through the door marked CORONER'S OFFICE, EXAMINING ROOM
in black block letters.

McKenzie lay naked
on a large waist-high stainless steel table. A Y-shaped incision marked his
body, from just under each of the armpits to the bottom of the sternum, then
down in a straight line to the pubic bone. The incision bulged open slightly,
irregular masses visible underneath. Nick tried to keep his eyes from the area
above McKenzie's shoulders, but his eyes were drawn there in spite of himself. McKenzie's
features were identifiable, barely, but not especially pleasant to look at.

A scale hung
over one end of the table
—
to weigh organs stripped from the corpses
—
a
large sink with a heavy-duty spray attachment was built into the table's other
end. An antiseptic smell, exceptionally strong, pervaded the room, masking more
unwelcome scents, Nick guessed.

It was the first
autopsy room Nick had ever visited. So far, surprisingly, he had managed to
remain analytical about the experience. Dr. Samuels' attitude helped:
professional, unemotional, almost as if showing Nick and Meg under the hood of
his car.

Nick looked at
Meg. Her face had gone white, but her breathing seemed controlled. "You
okay," he asked.

She nodded
shortly, and Nick turned to the coroner. "Have you finished your
examination, doctor?"

"Yes,"
Dr. Samuels confirmed, and he briefly summarized what that entailed in clinical
detail.

"And what
did you find?"

"Of course
I'll have to wait to see the results of the lab and toxicology tests
…
"

"Of
course."

The doctor
shrugged. "Frankly, at this point I see no sound basis for challenging the
coroner's preliminary report. Death caused by a fall."

"Could he
have been pushed?" Meg asked.

Dr. Samuels
paused. "Certainly possible, just no evidence to suggest he was."

"How about
thrown off the balcony?" Nick suggested. "Killed first, then
thrown?"

Dr. Samuels
reached two hands under McKenzie's right thigh and raised it for Nick's and
Meg's inspection. "See the blotching?"

Nick would have
been content with the oral explanation. He glanced quickly, then nodded.

"Livor
mortis," Dr. Samuels explained. "The pooling of blood in a dead body.
When blood stops circulating on death, the red blood cells settle with gravity
over time, giving the skin underneath the body a reddish, mottled color. By
examining the resultant pattern of skin discoloration, it's possible to
determine the position of the body after death. In this case, the discoloration
on the corpse is consistent with the position the police found the body."

Dr. Samuels
lowered McKenzie's thigh and picked up a medical chart. "Algor mortis
—
the
temperature of death
—
tells much the same story. A live body, as you
know, maintains a constant temperature of approximately 98.6 degrees
Fahrenheit. After death, the body temperature falls about a degree an hour,
depending on conditions. The coroner tested body temperature through the anal cavity.
96.1 degrees. Factor in the loss of blood, the ambient temperature, the result:
I'd say the victim died within two hours of the time the coroner arrived at the
scene, a half-hour or so before the police were called."

Nick kept
himself from shuddering. A very cold science. "So in your opinion, doctor,
McKenzie
was
alive when he fell from the balcony."

Dr. Samuels
shook his head. "I didn't say that. What I can say, is that if he was
killed and thrown over the balcony, the two events were closely linked in time.
Mr. McKenzie wasn't, for instance, killed across town, transported to his
apartment in a car's trunk, then thrown off the balcony
…
we would see a
different pattern of blotching
—
evidence of the body's prior position
—
and
a lower body temperature."

Dr. Samuels
crooked his finger and Nick and Meg followed him to the head of the examining
table. Dr. Samuels pointed to the corpse. "As you can see, the back and
right side of the victim's head, his right shoulder and spinal column, are
crushed. Damages consistent with a fall from eight stories. Falling victims
often land on their backs or sides; the position of the body wasn't suspicious
in that respect. I could find no other evidence of violence to the body. However,
the fall would likely have obscured prior injury to the neck and cranial
region."

Meg said,
"So if McKenzie was
…
say hit on the head, then thrown off the
balcony
…
"

The doctor
finished Meg's thought. "I wouldn't be able to distinguish the separate
traumas."

Interesting,
but as Nick thought it over, not overly helpful. He stroked his chin. "Doctor,
couldn't everything you've told us be said about
every
accidental
falling victim. If I've understood you correctly, you've found no actual
evidence of wrongdoing."

"That's
correct, Mr. Ford. Although there are three things
—
not exactly what I'd
call hard evidence
—
that I noticed. Things one would classify as
peculiar."

Nick and Meg
exchanged quick glances. "And they are?" Nick asked.

"From my
examination of the body and the photographs of the scene, the blood loss
surprised me. Less than I would have expected."

"One of
the cops said the scene was a mess," Meg said.

"I can
imagine in the eyes of a police officer it would appear to be. What I'm
referring to is bleeding from the resultant trauma. In the case of a falling
victim, a body that strikes the ground alive bleeds more than one that strikes
the ground already dead. A live body, the blood's still under pressure; a dead
body, the heart's stopped pumping. No pressure, less bleeding."

"I don't
understand. Now you seem to be saying McKenzie
was
dead before he struck
the ground."

"Not at
all. Again, Mr. Ford, I'm only talking possibilities. The amount of blood loss
was less than I would have expected, but not unreasonably so. The deceased may
have been alive when he fell; he may have been dead. I couldn't say with any
certainty."

Nick kept his
eyes from going to the ceiling. "Just possibilities."

"Exactly. Another
thing
…
I inspected the victim's clothing. On his trousers I found a large
urine stain."

"Not
uncommon for a person's bladder to empty on death, is it, doctor?"

"No, not
unusual at all. What's unusual about this stain, however, is its shape. A wide
streak down the length of his pants."

"What's
unusual about that?"

"Gravity,
Mr. Ford. The police found the victim lying on his back eight floors below his
balcony, right? If he had expelled his bladder on death, and death occurred on
the ground below his apartment, why wasn't the stain pooled around his crotch
and the seat of his pants? Instead it ran down the
length
of the
victim's pants"

Meg caught the
doctor's reasoning. "As if the victim died in an upright position. Perhaps
as he was lifted over a balcony?"

"That's
conjecture, Ms. Taylor. But, yes, that would be consistent with what I found. Then
again, I cannot prove that urine stain wasn't from earlier in the day."

"You said
you noticed three curious things," Nick prompted.

"Yes. The
victim's
…
well perhaps it's better if I showed you." Dr. Samuels
moved around the examining table to McKenzie's left side. "I checked the
victim's fingernails. I was looking for skin samples, blood samples, preserved
under the deceased's nails
—
evidence of a struggle."

Nick's eyebrows
arched. "You found something?"

"See for
yourself." Dr. Samuels lifted McKenzie's lifeless left hand by the wrist.

Nick noticed a
trace substance under McKenzie's nails. "Is it skin?"

"No. Dirt.
Nothing unusual." Dr. Samuels set down McKenzie's left hand, and walked
around the examining table. Nick and Meg followed, confused. The doctor lifted
McKenzie's right hand this time. "Now take a look at the right hand."

"I don't
see anything."

"Correct. That's
what gave me pause. Look under his nails again."

Nick did. They
were clean.

After a moment,
Dr. Samuels said, "Clean.
Perfectly
clean."

Nick saw where
the doctor was going. "You're saying the nails on his right hand have been
cleaned."

"It
appears so. Either the deceased cleaned the nails of his right hand, and
only
his right hand, shortly before he died, or someone else did after the fact. The
latter possibility raises intriguing questions."

Nick's mind
weighed possibilities. "Let me see if I've got this, doctor. McKenzie is
attacked. He struggles, perhaps scratches his assailant with his right hand. Then
he's killed. The assailant destroys the incriminating evidence by cleaning the
blood and tissue from under McKenzie's fingernails, then throws McKenzie off
the balcony."

Dr. Samuels
shrugged. "That, Mr. Ford, is a string of conclusions I myself have not
put forward. I have just made observations. I will tell you this, though:
nothing I have observed would be
inconsistent
with the scenario you
suggest. But let me be clear, we have allowed ourselves to make suppositions. Suppositions
aren't enough for me to challenge a finding of accidental death."

"I wouldn't ask you to challenge the finding, doctor," Nick
said. "In fact, I understand your position completely. Do me a favor
though. The urine stain, the fingernails, make notes, take a few pictures, if
you could, and send them to us. For our files."

Nick took the
two sodas from the stewardess and handed one to Meg, who sat next to him in the
window seat. Meg's hand trembled, spilling 7-Up on her skirt.

"You
okay?" Nick asked.

"Fine,"
Meg said, though Nick noticed her hand continued to shake.

"That was
my first autopsy too," Nick said. "Not very pleasant, was it?"

Meg shook her
head. "No, but
…
" She gulped. "The autopsy isn't what's
bothering me, Nick."

"Than what
is? Because something sure has you spooked."

Meg took a deep
breath. "I guess I've just let my imagination get the better of me."

"Meaning?"

Meg shrugged,
embarrassed. "I'm nervous. Worried. Scott was investigating this case, now
he's dead. We go to interview McKenzie, now he's dead too."

Nick gave voice
to his own thoughts: "You think, somehow, someone's been keeping a step
ahead of us all along?"

"I'm not
sure, but if they are
…
Nick, two people are dead, both probably
murdered. Are we next?"

Nick hadn't
considered the possibility. He was a government accountant; people didn't
murder government accountants. At least that's what he always had believed
before Scott's death. He shook his head forcefully, as much to convince himself
as to convince Meg. "No, Meg. Really, we don't have anything to worry
about."

Meg nodded. "Like
I said, I let my imagination run away with me. You're right
…
I know that.
It's just
…
" Her voice trailed off.

"Of course
I'm right," Nick said, sounding more confident than he felt. Scott dead,
McKenzie dead.
Could
they be in danger
?

On the way home
from the airport, Nick shared a cab with Meg. The cab dropped her off first,
and he manufactured an excuse to escort her up to her apartment. He walked
through each room before leaving.

J. T. Frasier
settled into his desk chair like an old man, everything he did slowed in tempo.
His head sunk onto a clenched fist; he bit his forefinger between the first and
second knuckle. He tried to think, but his normally orderly mind wouldn't
cooperate
—
random thoughts, mainly fears, flashed through his
consciousness.

Finally,
Frasier reached for his phone, though he did not pick up the receiver
immediately. He stared at it a moment instead, then his eyes traveled upward,
settling on a black and white photo of him and his father. They stood on the
deck of the
Intrepid,
the small sailboat his father once kept in
Pensacola. Of all the photos adorning his office walls
—
and there were
many: photos of him shaking hands with CEOs, governors, senators
—
it was
his favorite.

The boat had
been little better than scrap when his father bought it. They refurbished her
together, replacing the rigging, patching the sails, sanding and refinishing
every inch of her hull and teak deck. His father passed away five years ago,
and though Frasier rarely sailed her anymore, he still kept the boat in perfect
condition.

He lowered his
eyes again, ashamed.

Everything
had been laid out for him—it would have been such a damn easy ride.

Retirement was
only ten years away; he could have looked forward to a generous consulting
contract requiring little more than dinner with the board of directors once a
month or so. His stock options alone were worth over fourteen million dollars. Why
the hell had he risked everything? And for what? An indiscretion, a sick
obsession.

Maybe people
would have understood if he had come forward in the beginning. Asked
forgiveness, sought help. But not now
—
now things had gone too far. He
had no alternative but to play ball.

Why had he been
convinced that he could get away with anything? And why had he ever thought he
could deal with Li?

It was so easy
to deceive one's self
.

Frasier picked
up the receiver. Li preferred face to face meetings, but in this case who cared
what the son-of-a-bitch preferred. Things had gone terribly wrong, again
.

He dialed Li's
personal line; a pleasant, female voice answered with, "John Li's office,
may I help you?"

"May I
speak to him?"

"I'm
sorry, sir, but Mr. Li's in a meeting right now. May I take a message?"

"This is
very important; could you please get him out of the meeting? I know he'll want
to talk to me."

"I'm
sorry, sir. If you'd just leave your number, I'm sure
—
"

The small
amount of patience Frasier started the call with deserted him. "
I'm
sure
I have no interest in leaving my number. I want to talk to Mr. Li
immediately."

"Sir, I
—
"

"What's
your name?" Frasier demanded.

"Excuse
me?"

"I
said
,
what is your name?"

"
…
Susan."

"Okay,
Susan, I'm going to tell you what you're going to do. You're going to march
into whatever meeting Mr. Li is attending and tell him he has an urgent call. It's
an emergency. Got it?"

"Your name
is?"

"Tell Mr.
Li we played a hole of golf recently.
One
hole. He'll know who I
am."

"I really
don't think
—
" the woman began
.

Frasier drained
the last bit of fight from her. "Do it. Don't argue, just
do it.
"

"
…
Just
a moment, sir."

Less than two
minutes went by before the secretary's now chastened voice again came over the
line. "Mr. Frasier, please hold for Mr. Li."

Li's voice came
next over the line, relaxed but somewhat impatient. "Mr. Frasier, I didn't
expect to hear from you."

"I didn't
expect to call."

"I believe
you are aware our normal protocol requires
—
"

"The hell
with normal protocol." From the first Frasier hadn't liked Li, hadn't
liked the way he talked, the heavy jowls and small eyes that seemed too
self-satisfied. Now his feelings had moved beyond dislike.

"
…
I
was told you had an emergency," Li said.

"You bet
your ass I do."

"Then we
should meet. I could make some time later to
—
"

"No more
golf courses," Frasier interrupted. "We'll do this now. My line's
secure."

"
…
Very
well. What is it?"

Frasier ran his
free hand through his hair; he willed his voice not to break. "
What is
it?
God dammit, let's not play this game again."

"I'm
afraid I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Over the
last couple of days I passed you information. Credit reports and a memo from
Ford's desk, a report on Ford's visit to Smith Pettit. The information I passed
you incriminated McKenzie. Do you remember that?"

"Yes."

"Today I
got another report
—
McKenzie's dead."

Li said
nothing, and Frasier continued. "He
fell
from his eighth floor
apartment."

"Accidents
do happen," Li said matter-of-factly.

"You had
him killed, didn't you?"

"Would it
surprise you to know Mr. McKenzie had a complete set of financials for his
company
—
a true set
—
stored on a computer disk in his apartment. I
don't need to tell you the damage such evidence could have caused us. I believe
Scott Johnson may have gotten a look at that disk; I wanted to make sure he was
the last."

"
A true
set of financials?
Dammit, Li, if Johnson made copies
…
"

"Relax,
Mr. Frasier. We searched Johnson's car; you had his office searched. If Johnson
had made copies, they would have surfaced by now. I did what I had to do. I'm
afraid Mr. McKenzie could no longer be trusted."

"McKenzie
was one of your men. You picked him, God dammit. I didn't."

"No, in
fact I did not pick McKenzie, but you,
you
passed on the information
that Ford was about to interview him.
You
did that. Now you tell me,
what
the hell did you think would happen?"

Frasier's mouth
went dry; he said nothing and after a moment Li continued. "I'm waiting
for an answer. What did you think would happen? You wanted the problem solved,
that's why you came to me. Well I took care of it, like
you
wanted."

Frasier's
breathing echoed in the phone as his mind raced. He had only passed on
information, that's all.
That's all
, he repeated to himself. He closed
his eyes, fighting to compose himself. Couldn't he just go back in time, to
before Li, to before the insanity?

"This has
got to stop," he said.

Li let
Frasier's sentence settle before answering, his voice soft. "You should
not lose sleep over this McKenzie. Trust me, he wasn't worth it."

Frasier reached
for a paper clip, began straightening it with his left hand
—
a nervous
habit, dozens were scattered across his desk. What choice did he have but to
move forward? Li owned a part of Frasier's soul and Frasier knew it. Certainly,
there was no going back
.

"You
fucked up, " Frasier said sternly.

"I did
what necessity required, and because of that, we all sleep easier."

Frasier
clenched his teeth. "Sleep easier? You're not following me, Li. I said you
fucked up
, and I meant it
.
You didn't solve a goddamn thing by
killing this man. Do you understand what I'm saying: you didn't make things
better; you didn't solve the problem. You made things
worse
."

The other line
went silent. Finally Li said, "Explain."

"Ford
called in a forensic specialist to examine McKenzie. He must have found
something, because Ford's now convinced McKenzie's death wasn't an
accident."

"What did
he find?" Li asked, for the first time sounding anxious.

"I don't
know, not yet."

The other line
went momentarily silent again. "It's a bluff. He didn't find
anything."

"I don't
give a damn if it's a bluff or not. One way or the other it means the case will
draw more attention. Do you understand now?"

"Unfortunate."

Frasier tired
of hearing that word. "Unfortunate," like an earthquake or tornado or
an act of God. "I hold you, your people, responsible."

"The
business we are engaged in entails risks. That can't be avoided. Would you have
preferred Ford had reached McKenzie? Had convinced him to talk? Had gotten a
hold of McKenzie's disk? If you want to guarantee there will be no further
unfortunate incidents, stop the investigation. Stop the hearings. Stop
Ford."

"We've
discussed this before
—
"

"We're
discussing it again."

"He's a
high ranking employee of a federal agency, for God's sake."

"He's a
insignificant insect who continues to irritate. No more arguments
—
you
will
take more aggressive action to stop Ford."

"And how
do you suggest I do that?"

"I believe
in insurance, Mr. Frasier. Contingency plans. I put a few things into motion
months ago in case Mr. Ford became overly bothersome.
…
The next hearing
is Thursday?"

"
…
Yes."

"Expect a
package in the mail tomorrow. You'll find it interesting, I believe. Use your
connections, see that the contents are delivered to the appropriate parties
before
Thursday. There should be enough inside to haul in Ford's chain. If not
…
well,
I'll be compelled to consider more drastic and final alternatives."

Frasier let the
now straightened paper clip fall from his hand as the sentence lingered. "
…
What
do you mean by that?"

"I think
I've made myself clear. Too much chain to play with and a dog can end up
choking itself. Ford will be silenced, one way or the other."

Frasier's mouth
went dry. It took a second before he could respond. "You can't," he
said.

"Oh, but I
assure you I can; in fact it would be extremely simple. A hit and run, an
apparent mugging, a faked suicide
…
any number of ways. You must
understand, Mr. Frasier, one man's overzealous curiosity is threatening us. Very
plainly, we can't have that. You either use your connections and my package to
deal with the matter, or
…
" Li let the sentence hang. "I
suggest you don't disappoint me."

Frasier let the
phone slip from his ear. Should he disconnect the line and try to run away? How
far would he get if he did? From every corner, people pulled his strings, like
a marionette. He felt himself sinking deeper into madness, but had no idea how
to extricate himself.

He heard Li
call his name, at first quietly, then louder
.

Frasier slowly
raised the phone. He closed his eyes. "All right," he said. "I'll
look for your package. And I'll do what I can."

"No,"
Li corrected him, "you will do what you
must.
"