Evidence (47 page)

Thorpe
had been smart.

Scoppio
squinted. His finger whitened.

Milo
fired.

So
did everyone else.

Dr.
Clarice Jernigan said, “This autopsy was fun.”

“Real
hoot,” said Milo.

The
pathologist’s office at the crypt could have been anywhere.

No
specimens swimming in formaldehyde, no morbid humor. Potted Peruvian lilies and
cactus sat atop a low, white bookshelf, along with cheerful family photos.
Jernigan and five healthy-looking kids and a husband who looked like a banker.

She
said, “I mean fun from an intellectual puzzle perspective. Your Mr. Scoppio had
twenty-eight bullets in him from five different firearms, with at least four wounds
theoretically fatal. I don’t need to pinpoint which one did him in, because
frankly, who gives a damn, he’s a sieve. But if I was writing this up for
Journal
of Forensic Science
, I’d tag the frontal head wound. Big-caliber bullet,
went straight through the cortex and dipped down into the brain stem.”

“Three
five-seven?”

Nod.
“Yours?”

“Mine’s
nine-millimeter.”

“Like two other shooters. No rifle fire. How come?
Fugitive guys always bring assault rifles.”

“The
officer didn’t have a clear shot.”

“Shootout
at the O.K. Mall … well, if your nine-millimeter impacted anywhere above the
rib cage, you can award yourself honorable mention. If you got him in the
legs?” Shrug.

Milo
didn’t fill in the blank.

Jernigan
said, “In terms of why he faced off against such heavy firepower, that’s Dr.
Delaware’s bailiwick.” To me: “I’m comfortable with suicide by cop. How about
you?”

I
said, “Works for me.”

“I’m
going to write that his inherent psychiatric issues were helped along by
amphetamine intoxication, ’cause we want to lay everything at this bastard’s
feet, make sure no ACLU types start bitching and moaning.”

Milo
said, “He was tweaking big-time?”

“I’m
surprised he didn’t jump out of his skin, Lieutenant. Anyway, I don’t see a
problem, hopefully the pencil-pushers won’t, either.”

“I’ll
find out soon enough. Meeting with the chief in an hour.”

“That
should be fun.” She walked us to the door. Milo said, “Thanks, Doc.”

“Thank
you. For what you did on Bobby. Bobby was a great kid. I know I’m supposed to
be objective but when I found out the bastard ambushed him, I allowed myself a
little pleasure when I peeled his damn face off his damn skull. And by the way,
I remember my pledge about autopsies. Long as you don’t push it.”

Milo
drove to the chief’s office and I returned home.

Detouring,
I drove past the lot on Borodi. All the embers gone, bulldozed clean and level,
surrounded by a new, substantial fence. Doyle Bryczinski sat in his car by the
curb. He seemed to be snoozing, but as I drove by, he waved.

I
backed up. “Back on the job, huh?”

“Company
finally got their act together,” he said. “Realized they better have me every
day, all day. Sometimes they give me a double. When Mom doesn’t need me, I’m
here.”

“Keep
up the good work.”

He
saluted. “Only way I know how.”

Milo
didn’t phone after the meeting with the chief and I wondered if it had gone
badly.

Probably
on his way to Southwest Division. Maybe that rib joint was still operative and
he’d dive into seven courses of trans-fat bliss.

He
dropped in the following morning, wearing a puce aloha shirt,
baggy brown pants, desert boots. I’d been working on
custody reports, Blanche curled on my lap.

She
bounced off, smiled up at him.

He
said, “I gotta bend? Next time get a Great Dane,” but patted her head far
longer than mere courtesy called for.

I
said, “Vacation or wishful thinking?”

“Two
weeks of sun and fun, Rick managed to finagle some time, we’re headed for the
Big Island tomorrow morning.”

“Think
of me at the luau.”

“What
I think of at a luau is more luau.”

He
walked to the kitchen, took a half pint of orange juice out of the fridge, put
on glasses and read the expiration date. “A week past, I’m doing you a favor.”
He upended the carton, guzzled.

Blanche
watched, fascinated. His eating habits have never stopped puzzling her.

I
said, “Two weeks. No Southwest gig?”

Crushing
and tossing the empty carton, he took out a plate of cold roast beef, brought
it to the table. “Change of plans.”

“Gunrunners
off the radar?”

“Still
on the radar but I won’t be watching the screen.”

“Chief’s
happy.”

“Not
a relevent concept for him. What I did was bring up the fact that I’d closed
Backer and Doreen well before his deadline, in addition to preventing a
potential arson disaster by nabbing Helga. But that
I
wasn’t happy,
because of two skeletons in a Prius. Yeah, it was Van Nuys’ case but I’d
checked and Van Nuys wasn’t working it, no one was, and I thought that was a
crying shame. I also informed him that when I drove out to Van Nuys Airport a
few nights ago, Hangar 13A was totally cleared. No jet, no cars, no gazillion
dollars’ worth of gold and furs and diamonds and art. No accounting of the
skeletons ever being taken to the crypt and the FAA had no record of the jet
ever taking off. Not to mention the absence of a single letter of press ink.
His Exaltedness’s response was his brand of empathy.”

“I
know what you’re going through?”

“‘Don’t bitch, Sturgis, we’re both victims of the
politicians and the diplomats, they’re all Ivy League faggots compensating for
short dicks—and don’t get touchy about “faggot,” I’m talking generically.’ Then
he ushers me out of his office, informs me I need to concentrate on West L.A.,
not stick my nose in any other sectors’ cases. I say, ‘Can I take that to mean
Southwest as well as Van Nuys, sir?’ He says, ‘Don’t make me explicate,
Sturgis. It saps my prostate.’”

During
his interview of Lara Rieffen, Milo had used John Nguyen’s relentless approach
to prosecution as a scare tactic.

A bit
of performance art, but part documentary, as well.

Rieffen’s
defense lawyers filed motions to dismiss; Nguyen countered each with growing
ferocity, won every time.

Their
next step was to attack the admissibility of various pieces of evidence. As
part of that, I was deposed to testify about Rieffen’s mental state during
“Detective Sturgis’s clearly intimidating and abusive interrogation.”

Nguyen
said, “Don’t respond, I’ll handle it,” and when the defense team tried
plea-bargaining down to a series of lesser charges, Nguyen threatened to go for
the death penalty, pointing out that Rieffen’s prints on the murder weapon made
it a no-brainer, special circumstances due to multiple victims, lying in wait,
extreme cruelty and depravity, murder for profit.

Rieffen
pled guilty to one count of second-degree murder in exchange for the
theoretical possibility of parole.

Nguyen said, “I’m happy with it, anyone else isn’t,
that’s their problem.”

I
kept checking the Internet for some mention of Dahlia Gemein or Prince Teddy.

Her
name never came up, but four months after the turret murders, an Asian news
service reported the “tragic death of Prince Tariq Bandar Asman Ku’amah Majur
in a diving accident off the coast of Sranil.” The sultan, “grief-stricken and
dismayed,” had declared a week of national mourning and announced that the pediatric
cancer center crowning the world-class medical center planned for Sranil would
be named after the prince.

“My
brother was a selfless man with a special place in his heart for children.”

One
week later, insurgents attempted to storm the island’s southern beaches. The
sultan’s troops turned them away but several commentators believed this was
only the beginning.

Logging
off, I got into running clothes, jogged south on the Glen, made a few
well-practiced turns, ended up on Borodi Lane.

Doyle
Bryczinski was gone. Men in hard hats were busy nailing up the framework of an
enormous house. Three stories, subterranean parking lot, multiple gables, and
adventurous windows. A style that couldn’t be pinned down beyond
Look At Me!

Where
a sidewalk would be, if this was that kind of neighborhood, a couple stood,
pointing and talking.

Stunning
blonde, mid-to late thirties, well-toned body, sculpted face. She wore pink
cashmere, a pale blue silk scarf, brown croc pumps, big diamonds. The man with
his arm around her was closer to sixty, a little thick around the middle, with
wavy silver hair of a tint that required effort. Soft blue blazer, white linen
pants, a red pocket handkerchief that tumbled from his breast pocket like blood
from a gunshot wound.

Designer
sunglasses on both of them.

As I
ran past them, the woman said, “Oh, it’s going to be gorgeous, honey.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

JONATHAN
KELLERMAN is one of the world’s most popular authors. He has brought his
expertise as a clinical psychologist to more than thirty bestselling crime
novels, including the Alex Delaware series,
The Butcher’s Theater, Billy
Straight, The Conspiracy Club, Twisted
, and
True Detectives
. With
his wife, the novelist Faye Kellerman, he co-authored the bestsellers
Double
Homicide
and
Capital Crimes
. He is the author of numerous essays,
short stories, scientific articles, two children’s books, and three volumes of
psychology, including
Savage Spawn: Reflections on Violent Children
, as
well as the lavishly illustrated
With Strings Attached: The Art and Beauty
of Vintage Guitars
. He has won the Goldwyn, Edgar, and Anthony awards, and
has been nominated for a Shamus Award. Jonathan and Faye Kellerman live in
California and New Mexico. Their four children include the novelists Jesse
Kellerman and Aliza Kellerman.

[http://www.jonathankellerman.com]
www.jonathankellerman.com

Evidence
is
a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of
the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2009 by Jonathan Kellerman

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an
imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc.,
New York.

BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks

of Random House, Inc.

eISBN: 978-0-345-51814-9

[http://www.ballantinebooks.com]
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