Murder Suicide (15 page)

In that instant, Clevenger realized Heller had a remarkable way of dissolving another person’s resistance by voicing it himself.  Hearing him speak your objection made you object less.  Was that manipulative?  Or was it his way of being up-front?  "No need to back off," he said.  "I think watching surgery will be wonderful for him."

"Just wanted to clear the air."

"Done.  I’ll get back to you."

Clevenger hung up.  He grabbed a cab for downtown and called Billy’s cell phone en route, figuring he’d leave him a message.  School wasn’t out yet.

Billy picked up.  "Whazzup?  In D.C. yet?"

"Just now.  Where are you?"

"Headed to Somerville.  My last class got canceled.  Teacher went home sick.  They let us go."

"I got a call from J.T. Heller.  He’s doing surgery today on that woman — the one he thinks could end up getting back her sight.  He wants to know if you’d like to scrub in."

"I’ll take the ‘T.’  I can skip the gym."

"No need," Clevenger said.  "Dr. Heller said he’d swing by and pick you up at the Club.  You can get in an hour of practice, then head over to the General with him."

"Unreal."

Clevenger hadn’t heard that kind of enthusiasm from Billy in a long, long time.  "I’ll see you at home when you’re done."

"Definitely," Billy said.  "Cool."  He sounded as pumped as Heller.  "Thanks."

The thank you was new, too.  "No problem," Clevenger said.

He dialed Heller back, gave him the thumbs up to take Billy over to the hospital and drop him back home.  Then he dialed Boston Police headquarters, got Coady on the line.  "What’s the news?" he asked him.

"Jeremiah Wolfe called.  He’s into the microscopic anatomy on Baxter."

"And?"

"He’s not buying the carpet knife as the blade that caused her wrist lacerations," Coady said.

"Why not?"

"He says the tissue was splayed open by something with a finer edge.  There isn’t quite enough damage at the borders, or whatever.  He figures a razor blade is more like it."

"Which we don’t have."

"There are razor blades in that bathroom, but none of them have any blood on them."

"And Wolfe thinks the carpet knife is consistent with the wounds on her neck?"

"He does," Coady said.  "I can’t figure many people committing suicide using two different blades.  But I don’t think many killers switch weapons, either."

"Unless the razor blade just wouldn’t do the trick," Clevenger said.  "Let’s say she was passed out, drunk.  Somebody looking to make this look like a suicide might have started using a razor blade on her wrists, hoping she wouldn’t wake  up, die in her sleep.  That way, he’d get away easy.  But maybe she wasn’t as deep as he thought.  She started to struggle.  He needed to stop her.  Maybe he had the carpet knife handy, just in case."

"Maybe," Coady said.  "And flushed the razor blade?"

"Or cleaned it off."

"I’ll get the lab to test every sharp piece of metal in that bathroom.  Let’s see if they come up with any trace blood on those new blades.  I’ll also have them take apart the plumbing.  See if we can find anything caught in the pipes."

"Sounds like the right idea."

"Let me ask you a question," Coady said.

"Shoot."

"How about this scenario?  She starts cutting her wrists..."

How had they slipped back into the suicide theory?  "You know I don’t think..." Clevenger broke in.

"Hear me out."

Clevenger felt his pulse begin to race.  His jaw tightened.  "Alright."

"She starts cutting her wrists in the bathroom.  She’s drunk.  The blood’s trickling out.  She stumbles around.  She’s thinking how Snow is dead, her love affair is over.  Or maybe she’s even freaking over how she killed him."

Coady segueing into the murder-suicide idea only made Clevenger grit his teeth harder.

"Maybe she hates herself for what she’s done," Coady went on.  "And she looks at the blood still trickling out.  She sees the carpet knife, probably left there by one of the workmen using the john.  She grabs it..."

"And cuts her throat, killing herself and the baby," Clevenger said.  "I thought we were past that.  Remember the prenatal vitamin?  Materna, right?"

"Right.  Ya.  We were past that.  But then I kept thinking.  And I thought, what if it was
his
baby?  Snow’s."

Clevenger hadn’t thought through whose baby Grace had been carrying.  And that blind spot made him wonder whether there really was an angle to the case he didn’t want to see.  Was it possible he felt go guilty about not hospitalizing her when she visited his office that he was shutting down?  At the back of his mind did he think he had caused two deaths — Grace’s and her unborn child?  "Let’s say the baby was Snow’s," he said, the anger gone from his voice.

"Then I start to think maybe she could have done what maybe she did.  I mean, I can picture her taking that vitamin an hour before offing herself.  It’s part of her routine.  She’s trying to get things back to normal, get over what she lost in that alleyway, or what she
did
in that alleyway.  Then, even with the booze on board, it all really starts to sink in.  She’s carrying Snow’s child.  She murdered the father or her baby.  She’s living a nightmare.  And it’s never gonna end.  She looks down, can’t believe what she’s done to her wrists.  How can she be a mother?  All her rage, grief, guilt funnel together..."

"And she just wants it to stop."

"No more trickle.  She wants it over."

"The carpet knife," Clevenger said.  The cab stopped outside the Hyatt.

The doorman opened his door.  "Good to see you, sir.  Any bags?"

Clevenger waved him off.  He paid the driver, got out, closed the door.  He didn’t feel the cold air on his face.

"All I’m saying is that theory might be worth considering," Coady said.  "I don’t know if the psychology fits."

That was a question.  "It might," Clevenger said.  "I think it could."

"Not that we’re ruling anything in or out," Coady said, obviously emboldened.  "We’ll still bring George Reese in — and any other suspect."

"Right."

"Did you get everything you needed from the Snows today?"

"I didn’t get to talk with the son, Kyle," Clevenger managed.  "He wasn’t around.  At least that’s what Theresa Snow told me.  I think she may be trying to keep him away from me."

"Why?"

"I don’t know."

"I can grab him off the street right now," Coady said.

"For what?"

"His urine drug screen came up dirty at probation today.  Opiates.  That’s a violation.  You want to come in later and take your shot with him?"

"I just got to D.C.," Clevenger said.

"D.C.?  What’s down there?"

"Collin Coroway flew here yesterday."

"Who tracked that down?"

"What difference does it make?"

"Were you planning to let me know?"

"Like I said, I just got here.  It was a last minute thought."  He knew that didn’t answer Coady’s question.  "I should have called it in to you," he said.

"It is my case."

"It’s your case."

Coady was silent a few seconds.  "Not that you’d quit," he said.  Another couple of seconds.  "I need you on this more than ever.  I may have a theory about what happened, but I’m not even close to being able to prove it.  And I could be very wrong.  I get that."

"I don’t quit cases," Clevenger said, conscious of the effort to sound convincing.

"I’ll set Kyle Snow up for first thing tomorrow.  How’s 9:00
A.M.
?"

"I’ll be there."

"See you then."

Clevenger hung up and walked inside the Hyatt lobby.  He tried to focus on finding Collin Coroway, but his mind kept replaying what he had just heard.  Because the picture Coady had painted was anything but outlandish.  If Grace Baxter had been carrying John Snow’s baby, her hatred of him for abandoning her and their child was a credible motive for murder.  And her desperation after his death could have led to a complete psychological implosion.

He remembered telling Coady why Baxter’s slashed throat didn’t fit with a female suicide.  Men chose the more violent methods,
except in cases where a person — male or female — was delusional
.  He had given an example:  a woman who believed the devil’s blood flowed through her veins.  But what if the thing Grace hated and had to be rid of was no demon, but the new life growing inside her.  What if Snow’s death made her think of the baby as an invader, of its blood as his blood, mingling with her own, poisoning her?  She would be desperate to bleed out.

He was still reeling from that thought as he walked up to the reception desk.

"Can I help you?" a kind-looking Indian man in his thirties asked him.

"Would you mind phoning Collin Coroway’s room and letting him know I’m here?"

The man checked his computer.  "Who shall I say is calling?"

"Dr. Clevenger.  Frank Clevenger."

"One moment."  He picked up the phone, rang the room, listened.  Ten, fifteen seconds went by.  He shook his head.  "He doesn’t seem to be in."

Clevenger figured he was better off coaxing one employee to do as much legwork as possible.  It would raise less concern than poking around the place itself.  "Would you mind asking the concierge whether Mr. Coroway might have called a car service?  Maybe I can still catch up with him."

"Let me check."  He dialed the concierge and asked whether he knew if Coroway had left the property.  He got his answer, hung up.  "You’re in luck.  He took a car to 1300 Pennsylvania Avenue.  The Reagan Building.  Would you like me to call one for you?"

Wonderful service at the Hyatt.  "Please," Clevenger said.  "The same company, if that’s all right."

For the first time, the man looked at him slightly askance.

"Expense accounts," Clevenger said, with a wink.

"Of course.  Not a problem, sir."

*            *            *

Fifteen minutes later Clevenger was headed to 1300 Pennsylvania Avenue in a black Lincoln Town Car from Capitol Limousine.  "Where you from?" the driver, a burly man about sixty asked in a baritone.

"Boston," Clevenger said.  "You?"

"Los Angeles."  He chuckled.  "Couldn’t stand the weather."

Clevenger knew the joke was an invitation to ask the real reason behind his move.  He would have liked to ignore it, to stay completely focused on Snow and Baxter.  But he had never built up any resistance to the life stories of others.  "Too hot out there for you," he said.

"Manner of speaking."

Another open door.  "Not the weather, you mean."

The driver shook his head.  "A woman."

"Things went badly?"

"Worse than that."

The story was gaining momentum.  "Oh?" Clevenger asked, settling back to listen.

"Two kids, when I met her.  But I had a thing for her right off.  You know?  So I go with her a little over a year.  Everything’s good.  She loves me.  I love her.  The kids are already calling me Dad, which I maybe should of seen as a problem, seeing as the real father is in prison."  He raised a finger to highlight his next point.  "For armed robbery," I thought.

"Armed robbery," Clevenger said.

The finger, again.  "I marry her.  Now, the little girl is eleven.  Out of the blue, the mother accuses me of fawning her."

"You mean, fondling."

He ignored the edit.  "I did nothing.  On my parents’ souls.  Nothing.  I brought her a towel after her shower.  I opened the bathroom door two inches, turned my head out of respect for her privacy.  Her mother is down the hall.  She sees this, starts screaming.  I mean, at the top of her lungs.  Long and short of it, I’m arrested."

"For what?"

"Indecent assault and battery.  My wife says I forced the door.  And the girl, who I just happened to ground for getting three C’s, two D’s, says I touched her."  He ran a hand over his chest.  "
Never happened
."  He looked in the rearview mirror, presumably checking whether Clevenger believed him.  He seemed satisfied.  "I had to get a lawyer, give him thirty grand to get found innocent, which I was.  But a case like that, there doesn’t need to be any evidence, only the word of the victim.  She took it all back on the stand."  He nodded to himself.  "Three guesses what the old man was really in jail for."

"Indecent assault and battery on the girl."

He looked in the mirror.  "You’re good.  See, I was taking the heat for him.  He did something out of the way, so she and the mother jumped the gun, figured I was the same way."

"If he was that way," Clevenger said.

"What do you mean?"

"Maybe the first husband touched the girl, maybe he didn’t.  Maybe your wife’s own father touched her when she was ten or eleven.  Maybe it happened in the bathroom of the house where she grew up.  Then you open that bathroom door a few inches, and she sees it happening all over again — this time, to her daughter."

"Never thought of that."

"You moved away," Clevenger said.

"It was in all the papers out there.  Big headlines when I was arrested.  No headline when I was cleared.  Plus, I got beat up in the divorce.  And, get this..."

"Child support."

"Right, again."  He turned to glance at Clevenger.

Clevenger saw for the first time that his eyes were pale green and remarkably gentle.  He looked at his hand on the steering wheel, saw he was wearing a wedding ring.

"So, I left, broke," the driver went on, "my name dirt."

"You’re remarried?" Clevenger asked him.

"Never."

"You wear a wedding band."

He shrugged.  "Craziness, I know.  I’ve never taken it off.  Not when I went to trial.  Not when I was found innocent.  Not when I got the divorce papers."

"Why not?" Clevenger asked.

"I still love her."  He shook his head.  "I still love the kids.  Some things, you never, ever get over."

Some things you don’t, Clevenger thought.  He fought off another memory of Whitney McCormick.  But you go on.  If the driver was telling the truth — and he seemed to be — he had lost the woman he loved and two step-children he cared deeply about, lost his reputation, spent all his money on a lawyer to overcome charges of sexual assault, then moved across the country to start over.  Why couldn’t John Snow do the same?  Even if his marriage was at an end, even if his relationships with his children were strained to the point of fracturing, why couldn’t he start fresh?  Were his feelings for Grace Baxter ultimately too unwieldy, too threatening?  Was his neurosurgery as much to remove her from his mind as anyone else?  "Ever think of getting in touch with them again?" Clevenger asked.