Shadow Image (16 page)

Bragg was back at his computer, pecking at the keyboard like an elegant black crane hunched into a rolling desk chair. Christensen decided not to ask for a definition. He copied the cause of death into his notebook, as well as the name Simon Bostwick, the deputy coroner whose signature was at the bottom.

The toxicology report was a check-off sheet listing dozens of drugs, starting with acetaminophen. They'd tested specimens from the boy's heart, blood, urine, stomach, kidneys, liver, and the fluid from inside his eyeballs. All along the page, the “None” box was checked.

The coroner's investigative report was a short account by another deputy coroner who actually retrieved Chip Underhill's body from the hospital where paramedics took him after the accident. That deputy's role, it seemed, mostly involved delivering the boy's body to the morgue and tracking the final disposition of his size 4 clothing, the only personal property noted in the report. Nothing useful.

The autopsy protocol began with a brief history of the death, an account of the horseback-riding accident that injured Chip Underhill. It offered little information beyond what Christensen had seen in the newspaper account. He noted, though, that the lines estimating the time of death and the time of the emergency call reporting the incident were left blank. The rest was a narrative catalog of Bostwick's external and internal examination of Chip Underhill's body, and Christensen was struck by the dispassionate language of death science. The deputy coroner described the boy's height, weight, hair color, eye color, and complexion. The pupils were dilated and equal, but he noted retinal bleeding, again in capital letters. The nose, atraumatic and intact. The upper and lower lips appeared unremarkable, as were the mucous membranes of the oral cavity. His teeth were natural and in good repair. His external genitalia were those of a normal male child. No external injuries were noted, save for an abrasion on the boy's left shoulder.

Christensen imagined Ford Underhill's confusion: His son must have lost consciousness at some point after the riding accident, but from this account he also must have appeared uninjured. What would haunt a parent more? Seeing his child injured in some obvious and horrible way? Or watching him die quietly while seemingly asleep?

Bostwick's account of the internal examination—the cardiovascular and respiratory systems, gastrointestinal tract, pancreas, hepatobiliary system, spleen, pituitary, thyroid, and adrenals—was an inventory of the unremarkable, a grim listing of organ weights and fluid measures.

Christensen scanned to the section describing Chip Underhill's head. There were no contusions or hemorrhages in the deep scalp tissues. The cranium and base of the skull were intact and without fractures. The brain weighed an unremarkable 964 grams, but with “severe edema in the cavity”—blood, apparently, from an “intercranial hemorrhage on both the left and right sides.” The fall, or the horse's kick, apparently had sent Chip Underhill's brain crashing around the inside of his skull like a doomed ship caught between rocks.

Christensen shuddered. He didn't fully understand the arcane medical terminology describing the injuries, but he understood right away that a brain injury had killed Chip Underhill. He closed the file, pushed it back across the counter, and paid the preoccupied clerk to photocopy each of the documents. As he waited, he thought dark thoughts about Molly, about Annie and Melissa, about Brenna and Taylor and the depressing fragility of life.

He'd come straight home from the morgue, forgoing his planned stop at Brenna's office and the chance to pick up the kids early. He was following a bread-crumb trail into Floss Underhill's forgotten recent past, hoping for a break. He checked his notebook for the name that the records clerk had mentioned: Haygood. He typed it in and waited while the computer searched. The screen blinked and, to Christensen's surprise, it announced that it had found one story. It was published in
Pittsburgh Magazine
seven months earlier and was titled “The Worst Job in the World.” The headline alone made it worth the $1.50 it cost him to download it and print it out.

Christensen leaned back in his chair, put one foot up on his desk, and read. According to an information line at the top of the six-page printout, the story had run with a full-page photograph of “Carrie Haygood, head of Allegheny County's new Child Death Review Team.” The secondary headline read: “Why ghetto-born Ivy Leaguer Carrie Haygood is taking on the toughest homicides of all.”

The Child Death Review Team was created by the county commission less than a year ago as a logical outgrowth of the child-abuse awareness movement of the 1980s, the story explained. The team's mission was to scrutinize the circumstances surrounding the death of children in Allegheny County for indications of abuse or foul play, and its initial goal was to begin a systematic review of all child death cases in the county during the past ten years.

He scanned the pages, slowing down to absorb the details of Carrie Haygood's biography: Braxton Heights High School honors student; University of Pittsburgh undergrad; Georgetown University Medical School; forensic training at the University of Virginia; a standout forensic specialist during her fourteen years with the Los Angeles County coroner's office. She called the opportunity to return to Pittsburgh to lead the county's Child Death Review Team “the worst job I can imagine, and an irresistible obligation.”

Christensen stopped reading. If the morgue clerk had made copies of Chip Underhill's file for Haygood and her team, was it just part of that routine records review of cases going back ten years? Or had the case been singled out by someone who suspected the official version of the boy's death? He wasn't finding answers, only more questions.

He checked his watch—fifteen minutes until he had to leave to pick up Annie and Taylor at Kids' Korner. What now? He picked up his notes from the morgue and read through them again, stopping at the name Simon Bostwick, the deputy coroner who signed Chip Underhill's death certificate. He found the phone number of the coroner's office on his receipt for photocopying the documents and dialed.

“Simon Bostwick, please,” he said to the woman who answered “Cahnny Corner” in an unmistakable Pittsburgh accent.

After a long pause, she said, “He's no longer with this office. Somebody else I can direct you to?”

Christensen cleared his throat, stalling for time. Allegheny County still elected its coroner even though most of the rest of the country had gone to an appointed medical-examiner system years earlier. There'd been a change in administration the year before—a comically bombastic Democrat named Cyrus Lawrence Walsh was swept into power on his vague promise to “professionalize” the coroner's office—and he'd replaced much of former coroner Nagiv Pungpreechawatn's staff with political patrons. There'd been lawsuits.

“Your office went through a big transition this past year, I guess,” he said.

“Well, uh—” the woman said. “Dr. Bostwick retired before that, I think.”

Other lines were ringing, and Christensen could hear the impatience in her voice. “I know you're busy, but do you know if he's still in the area?”

“Hold aahn,” she said. WDVE was just coming out of a back-to-back Pearl Jam set, but then, what
would
be appropriate hold music for the county morgue?

Christensen checked his watch again, dashing his thoughts about making a salad for dinner before he picked up the kids.

“He's up near Seven Springs somewhere, is alls we know,” the woman said. “Sorry I can't help you more. Nobody here knows much abaaht him.” The line clicked, and she was gone.

Christensen dialed directory assistance.

“What city?”

The question stumped him. “Somewhere in the Laurel Highlands?” he said.

“Let's try Somerset. Business or residence?”

“Residence.”

“Go ahead.”

“Simon Bostwick,” he said, checking his notes again. “B-O-S-T-W—”

“Here's your number,” the operator said, turning the conversation over to a synthesized electronic voice. Christensen copied it down on a bright-yellow Post-it note, stuck it on the top page of his notebook, then checked his watch again. Kids' Korner levied oppressive fines that increased every five minutes that a pickup parent arrived after 6 p.m. Simon Bostwick would have to wait.

As soon as she stood up, Underhill opened his eyes.

“I should go,” she said.

“It's late. I know you've got kids of your own to worry about.”

She nodded. “Evenings can be pretty hectic, and I've still got some work at the office.”

“Of course.”

In the weight of the moment, Brenna resisted the impulse to apologize. She was doing her job, doing it well, checking the seams of the family's story, exploring all the possibilities that she knew Dagnolo and the investigators intended to explore, possibilities Myron Levin apparently had explored already. The Underhills would commend her thoroughness if things ever got weird, if the D.A. did file charges and tried to prove in court that Floss was shoved off that deck.

“One more thing, governor,” she said. “I'd like to go back to something Ford said that first day we talked about what happened to your wife.”

Brenna tried to gauge Underhill's reaction by the flutter of his eyelids.

“Mr. Chembergo described the sound he heard that day as a thumping. Now, if you walk across the floor of that gazebo out back, even in hard-soled shoes, it's pretty quiet. A few creaks, maybe, but nothing like thumping. But there's apparently an empty storage room underneath the floor, and if you stomp your feet on the gazebo floor, you get this thumping sound, like a bass drum. The sound really travels.”

“Where are you going with this, Ms. Kennedy?”

“If the investigators are as sharp as I think they are, they're going to see Mr. Chembergo's statement about the thumping as credible. The sound would be consistent with a scuffle, and it's not the sort of detail a witness would dream up. He said he was up near the greenhouses when he heard it, right?”

Underhill shrugged. “I don't recall.”

Brenna pressed on. “That's what he told the investigators, and we have no reason to doubt him. Combined with a broken railing where Mrs. Underhill apparently fell, and what Mr. Chembergo apparently said about seeing somebody leaving the area—”

“No reason to doubt him?” Underhill said, standing suddenly. His face remained calm. “You don't find reasonable doubt in the statement of a drunk Mexican who's a football field away? Who lied about his standing with the INS? Who was in this country illegally?”

Brenna stood her ground. To back down would seem defensive. “We have nothing to suggest he was drunk.”

“Mr. Staggers says he caught him drinking down by the stables at least twice in the past few months. Lottie has complained, too. Just say the word. I'll get you all the statements you want about that.”

“He was reprimanded?”

“By Mr. Staggers, yes.”

“In writing?”

Underhill smiled, but his gestures were getting sharper. He was tired of being pushed. “We're talking about a gardener, Ms. Kennedy. How many people do you know who keep personnel records on their gardener?”

“It's a question the district attorn—”

“The district attorney, Ms. Kennedy, can kiss my ass.” Underhill smiled again. He poured himself another brandy, just a splash, and drank it in one swallow. “If he's got nothing better to do than chase down phantoms who throw old ladies into ravines for no apparent reason, based solely on the word of an unprosecuted felon, then maybe we need a new district attorney. A few well-placed dollars, an effective TV campaign, and practically anyone could crush Dagnolo like a bug in the next election.”

“That's two years away,” she said. “If something's going to happen with this, it'll happen long before that.”

Underhill set the bulb of glass back down on the liquor cart and turned his back to her. “Fact is, Ms. Kennedy, they've got no witness. Am I correct?”

“The sheriff has his statement. Myron Levin has God-knows-what on videotape.”

Underhill turned, unrattled, apparently studying his fingernails. “Myron Levin? How far do you really think we're going to let that little loose cannon roll, Ms. Kennedy? Do you know how many seats I control on the board of CapCom Broadcasting?”

The corporate parent of Channel 2. “I admire your confidence,” she said.

“Confidence has nothing to do with it. So enough. End of story. Let J. D. Dagnolo play his little games. Let him and Myron Levin ask their questions. It'll all come to nothing, and both you and I know that.
They
know that. They're desperate little men playing above their ability in a game they don't understand.”

There was no mistaking Underhill's next gesture. He walked to the study door, his footsteps silent on the thick Persian rug. “I know you're anxious to get home,” he said. “May I walk you to your car?”

They crossed the foyer without another word. Brenna was a jumble of emotions. The empathy she had felt for Underhill as he retold the story of his grandson's death was now tempered by a gut feeling about Underhill's arrogance. Dagnolo had an obligation to investigate Floss's fall. Political motives aside, he would have been remiss in not doing so. It wasn't a game, and Underhill's tone went way beyond confidence. It was contemptuous.

Brenna unlocked the Legend's door and set her briefcase on the front passenger seat. Underhill stood beside the car door, his face showing no sign of tension as he watched her bend over. When she stood up again, the door between them, their faces were less than two feet apart.

“If you're not taking this seriously,” she said, “why do you need me?”

Underhill put his hand on the top of the car door, nearly touching hers. “Because besides being the best criminal-defense attorney in town, Ms. Kennedy, we felt that you could understand and appreciate the added dimension that politics brings to any situation. We're taking no chances this close to Ford's election. Once that's over, we'll probably never hear another word about it. I promise it'll come to nothing.” He swept his hand sideways, lightly brushing hers, a horizontal chop that seemed unnecessarily forceful. “Nothing.”

The front door opened behind them, and they both turned at the same time. Alton Staggers strode purposefully across the flagstone porch, between the potted geraniums and across the carport. With his hands clasped behind his back, his gait took on the loping quality of an uncoordinated scientist preoccupied by a sudden discovery. He stopped maybe ten feet away, looked straight at Underhill, and held out a cordless phone.

Underhill looked at Brenna, then at Staggers. “I'll be a minute,” he said.

“It's Bragg,” Staggers said.

The two men stared at one another, their faces blank. But the name was clearly freighted with importance.

“I've already talked to him,” Staggers said, “but you may want to be in on this.”

Underhill reached across the top of the car door. Brenna shook his offered hand.

“If you'll excuse me, Ms. Kennedy,” he said.

“Of course.”

“We'll talk soon.” Underhill winked and turned toward the house.

As she backed the Legend into the center of the carport and shifted out of reverse, Brenna saw Vincent Underhill at the window of his study with a cordless phone to his ear, listening. Behind him, Alton Staggers was pacing like an anxious shadow.