Shadow Image (17 page)

Christensen checked Brenna's scribbled directions. She'd come home late, made a cryptic midnight call from the downstairs office, come to bed brooding, then left again before the kids woke up for school. She hadn't even asked him why he was coming Downtown as she told him the best place to park and how to navigate the courthouse entrance. Truth was, he wasn't entirely sure why he was here either, beyond a vague sense that this whole thing was more complicated than he or Brenna had ever imagined. He wanted to talk to Carrie Haygood.

He pushed through the revolving brass door, expecting to emerge into a grand entry so typical of Pittsburgh's ancient public buildings. Instead, he stepped into what looked like a catacomb. He'd seen root cellars with more light and less dust. He stepped aside and waited for his eyes to adjust from the morning sun outside. In the darkness, on the leg of an arched pillar, the dim face of a lighted building directory emerged.

He scanned the listed offices—sheriff, judges, commissioners, clerk of courts. The Child Death Review Team wasn't listed, but since it was technically part of the district attorney's office, he started up the marble steps to the third floor, emerging first into a larger and lighter lobby flanked by tile murals titled
Industry
and
Peace,
past a large window overlooking the building's red-brick interior courtyard, then through another arched doorway and up the building's central stairs. A hand-painted wood shingle—“Office of the District Attorney, J. D. Dagnolo”—hung outside a heavy wooden door. Through the door glass, on the facing wall, hung two black-and-white portraits: John F. Kennedy and Harry S. Truman. The receptionist to Christensen's right motioned him in.

“Carrie Haygood's office?” he said, pushing halfway through the door.

“Fifth floor.” She checked a sheet of paper taped to her desk. “514.”

The corridors outside the third-floor courtrooms were populated with bored and desperate-looking people, silk-suited lawyers, and uniformed bailiffs. Christensen stepped around a man sitting on the floor and took a narrow set of steps two at a time to the fifth floor. Room 514 was near the men's room, its door closed. Christensen twisted the knob and stepped in, startled to find himself not in a reception area, but in a cramped, overstuffed office. Once inside, he was less than five feet away from a sturdy, unflustered black woman behind the desk who was glaring at him over the rims of her black-framed Ben Franklin glasses.

“I should have knocked,” he said. “I didn't realize … Sorry.”

The woman seemed frozen in place among stacks of boxes and piles of documents, a file folder open in her left hand, an elegant ink pen clamped in her right and suspended above a scribble-filled yellow legal pad. The tailored jacket of her gray suit hung over the back of her chair. Her blouse looked silk, and her elegant strand of pearls seemed especially out of place in this setting. Her eyes, nose, and mouth were closely gathered in a way that would have made her face equally interesting upside down. Her hair was cropped short, making her African-primitive earrings seem too big. She did not smile or blink. This was not someone whose time Christensen wanted to waste.

“Yes,” she said finally.

Christensen extended his hand. It seemed too intimate a gesture in a space this small. “My name is Jim Christensen,” he said as the woman set down her pen. Her grip was wary. “You must be Carrie Haygood.”

She nodded, then checked her leather-bound personal organizer. “Did you have an appointment?” Her diction was precise, its earthy richness tinged with a trace of formidable Ivy League snobbery.

“Sorry, no,” he said. “I won't take but just a minute of your time now, or I can come back when it's more convenient.”

The woman sighed, folding her arms across her substantial bosom. She nodded to a metal chair to his left. Its seat was stacked with thick manila file folders. “Set those off if you want to sit.”

Christensen stood for an awkward moment, searching the tiny office for somewhere to move the stack. From the dated labels and bright Post-it notes affixed to some of the boxes, he was sure there was a system at work in the jumble of cartons, cabinets, and loose files, just as he was sure that the woman across the desk was the only person who could possibly understand it.

“The floor's fine,” she offered.

He moved the folders and took the chair. “Looks like you've taken on a huge job here.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Christensen?”

So much for chitchat. “I need some forensic advice, and someone at the morgue suggested I talk to you,” he said, which wasn't entirely true.

Her smile was patient, but purposeful. “The morgue couldn't offer forensic advice?”

“It's about a child's death, part of some research I'm doing.”

She looked suspicious.

“I'm a psychologist. I study memory,” he said, realizing as he spoke that it explained nothing. “It's a long story. I won't bore you with it. If I could just get you to help me interpret a death certificate, I'll be out of your way. But I would beg your discretion on this, as far as my interest, I mean.”

“Recent case?” she said.

“Three years old.”

“Do you have the file with you?”

“Copies.” Christensen pulled his notebook from his briefcase. Tucked between the pages were the photocopied documents given him by the morgue clerk the day before. He gestured around the room. “You've apparently got a copy here as well, they said.”

“Name?”

“Chip Underhill. It's Vincent the third on the records.”

She took the documents he handed across the desk, poker-faced, saying nothing. “It's entirely possible we requested it, but that doesn't mean anything. We're just working our way forward.”

“From ten years ago, right?”

She nodded, adjusting her glasses to the end of her nose. The woman radiated a strength Christensen couldn't quite define, the look of someone on a mission. She was also absorbing everything he said, but giving nothing in return.

“This conversation will stay between us?” he said.

“These are public documents,” she said without looking up.

“But as far as me bringing them to your attention—”

Carrie Haygood offered a slight smile, which could have been more reassuring. “I'll let you know if you say something important.”

The death certificate was on top. Her smile evaporated, either from focusing her attention on the task, or in response to something she'd read. He wished he could be sure. She flipped quickly through the next document, the toxicology report, and scanned what he assumed was the coroner's investigative report. Her face betrayed nothing but intensity as she studied the information before her.

She laid the manila folder down on her desk on top of the file she had been reading when he'd barged in, folded back the cover page of the final document, the autopsy protocol, and started reading at the beginning. When she finished, she closed the folder, stood up, and walked her fingers along a row of hanging folders sitting sideways on the opposite side of her desk. Even from his angle, Christensen could read the file tabs. They were arranged by year, going back ten years. Her fingers stopped at the one she wanted—the one labeled with the year of Chip Underhill's death written on the tab in black Magic Marker. She pulled a thin manila folder from inside. It was labeled “UNDERHILL, Vincent III.”

Christensen searched her inscrutable face for clues, finding no information about what had just happened. He looked at the file. Despite the apparent chaos of her organizational system, there was no mistaking its prominent spot on her desk. But why?

“So?” he said.

She studied him. “What's your interest in this case, Mr.—”

“Christensen.”

The woman was like a sponge, sopping up his every gesture, expression, and proffered piece of information without a leak. Give a little to get a little, he thought.

“I'm researching the function of memory in Alzheimer's patients, out at the Harmony Brain Research Center. One of the study subjects is this boy's grandmother, and I'm just trying to construct a reliable account of certain events in her past, particularly events that may have been traumatic for her, so I can see how her mind interprets those memories.”

“That's it?”

“That's it,” he said.

Haygood knitted her fingers together and set her hands on her desk. “Why this woman in particular?”

“I'm following an art therapy group that she's in,” he said, resisting the urge to explain more. He'd said all he was going to say unless Haygood gave a little, too.

Haygood waited. He waited. Haygood blinked first. “So she remembers something about how this child died, and you're just trying to corroborate it?”

“Is this an interrogation?” Christensen hoped his smile would temper his agitation.

“Just curious. Your work sounds interesting.”

“Thank you.”

Haygood unraveled her fingers and reached across her desk. She slid the hanging file rack around until its front face was angled toward him, then waited as he read the front label. “Team Review,” it said. The gesture seemed purposeful, but Christensen wasn't sure what it meant.

“Your team is already looking at this boy's file?” he said finally.

“Mr. Christensen, I'm not at liberty to discuss any particular case, especially one that's officially under review.” Her tone had shifted, suggesting something not apparent in her words. “But I can answer any general questions you may have about what we do here.”

He tried again. “What does it mean if you refer a case for team review?”

She winked. The gesture was as unexpected and welcome as a first kiss.

“The team has fifteen members,” she said. “Experts from various fields—a detective, a prosecutor, two sheriff's deputies, a psychiatrist, a social worker, a pediatrician, a violence-prevention expert, and seven others from various agencies.”

“And you,” he said.

“And me. It's my job right now to do preliminary screening. At least initially, I'm reviewing details of all the child deaths in Allegheny County for the past ten years. In cases where questions arise, I recommend a full team review.”

“In cases where questions arise,” he repeated.

“That's correct.”

They both looked at the hanging files.

“And these are the cases from the past ten years you feel should be reviewed?” he said.

“I've only completed my review of seven of those ten years.” She nodded toward the file from which she'd pulled the Underhill folder. “But you're essentially correct.”

“And these are cases you're reviewing because you have questions about them?”

“Correct.”

The cat-and-mouse game was annoying, but at least Christensen felt like he was making progress. “What sort of things do you consider when you refer a case? I mean, you must have specific things you're looking for.”

Carrie Haygood leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk and folding her thick hands beneath her chin. Her face was serious now. The stakes of the game seemed to rise. “There are indicators we look for, Mr. Christensen, red flags that are typical in cases of this sort.
Inconsistencies.”
She paused to let the word's weight settle.

“Between?”

“Cause of death. Physical evidence. Witness statements. Forensic science has come a long way in the last few years, Mr. Christensen. A physical injury tells a story, but not every overworked detective is able to hear it or understand it.”

“You look for red flags,” he said.

“Correct.”

“And you saw one in this file?”

She shook her head, slowly and deliberately. “I'm not at liberty to discuss any particular case, Mr. Christensen, as I said.”

He tried again. “Are there certain causes of death that are suspicious?”

“Not on their face, no,” she said. “But some findings are misinterpreted more often than others.”

“And when you see one of those, you pay particular attention?”

“Correct.”

Christensen shifted forward in his chair. Their faces were maybe three feet from one another, their eyes locked. “I assume you then examine the other information in the file for those inconsistencies you're talking about.”

“Yes.”

“And when you come across questions you can't answer, you refer that case to the Child Death Review Team for further review.”

Haygood nodded toward the hanging files, her eyes never leaving his. “We have twenty-eight so far.”

Christensen sat back, the implication settling on his chest with the weight of an X-ray apron. He felt as if he'd kicked over a rock, exposing something wretched and squirming and very dangerous. He looked around the room at the paperwork of tragedy. Only twenty-eight cases stood apart, and Chip Underhill's was one of them.

A question popped into his mind, and he asked it as soon as it did. “What's a subdural hematoma?”

The air around Carrie Haygood seemed to crackle with tension, an almost electrical charge. “It's a brain injury,” she said, “but one with very predictable causes.”

They had reached a precipice now, and there was no turning back.

“Such as?” Christensen said.

“It's most common in cases where there's a high-velocity impact.”

“Like a car crash?”

“Correct.”

“Or a horse kick?”

Haygood shrugged. “In my experience, Mr. Christensen—and I'm speaking generally here—only two things cause a subdural hematoma in children. A high-velocity impact, or an assault.”

“By an adult?”

Haygood nodded. “We call it shaken baby syndrome. Snaps their little heads back and forth. It explains maybe ten percent of the two thousand child-abuse deaths every year in this country. But subdural hematoma cases are tricky, because there usually aren't classic signs of abuse. No history. No criminal record in the adult. What you have are people, typically boyfriends or fathers, who just lose control for a minute or two. Which is why we try to look at the SH cases more closely than some others.”