Dead Even Page 24

  “We can try to block it, but personally, I think that’ll do more harm than good. The last thing we want is to appear more suspicious.”

  “Then what do we do?”

  “We schedule our own autopsy, which’ll hopefully contradict the findings of their pathologist. Conflicting reports always confuse a jury. Besides that, the best thing we can do is wait. I know that makes you crazy, but there’s no reason to get excited until we know what they find.”

  “What if they find something suspicious?” Kozlow asked.

  “That depends,” Jared said. “If it’s a debatable issue, the pathologist we hire might be able to downplay it. But if they can link it directly to you, they may charge you with mur—”

  “I told you, I don’t want this turning into a murder trial,” Rafferty interrupted.

  “Well, sorry to disappoint you, but that’s out of my control at this point.”

  When Sara and Fawcett were done scrubbing up, Fawcett handed her a piece of spearmint gum. “Chew this,” he said.

  “Huh?” Sara said, taking the gum.

  “You’re not supposed to bring in food or drink, but it’ll keep you from getting nauseous. The smell can turn stomachs.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Sara said as she pocketed the gum and pulled her surgical mask in place. “I’ve been inside a mortuary before.”

  Shrugging, Fawcett walked toward the autopsy room. The enormous, immaculately clean room was sectioned into eight individual working areas and contained eight autopsy tables. The metal tables had hundreds of small holes to drain internal fluids away from the body. At the moment, three other autopsies were taking place. When Fawcett opened the door to the room, the stench of decomposing bodies hit Sara like a freight train. As she frantically reached for the gum, she caught sight of Arnold Doniger’s unearthed remains. She saw the greenish hue that now colored his complexion. And the decomposition that had just started to eat away at his shoulders and the outside of his thighs. And the slippage of skin that made his face seem almost liquefied. Before she could even get the gum out of her pocket, Sara lurched forward and vomited into her surgical mask, causing a stream of discharge to run down the front of her hospital gown.

  Fawcett immediately pulled Sara out of the room to avoid contaminating the area. Watching her clean up in a metal sink next to the autopsy room, he asked, “Would you like that piece of gum now?”

  “I think so,” Sara said as she spit out the remainder of her breakfast. After rinsing her mouth and splashing some water on her face, she looked up at Fawcett.

  “Ready to try again?” he asked, handing her a new surgical gown.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

  Fawcett took a quick scan of Doniger’s body, then stepped on the foot pedal that started his hands-free recorder. His voice became careful and meticulously measured. “There are embalming incisions in the left and right femoral triangle, as well as the left side of the neck. The embalmed body is a well-developed, well-nourished sixty-six-year-old white male measuring sixty-eight inches, and weighing one hundred and seventy-four pounds. He has brown hair and no discernible exterior injuries.” Opening Doniger’s eyes, Fawcett pulled out two plastic disks that looked like opaque contact lenses.

  “What’re those?” Sara asked.

  “Eye caps,” Fawcett said. “Mortician’s favorite trick. They’re lenses with ridged teeth on them—that’s what keeps your eyes closed. Permanently.”

  “Nasty,” Sara said.

  “But they work,” Fawcett replied. “I just hate having them in there. Personal taste.” He put the eye caps aside and picked up a scalpel. With a quick flourish, he sliced a large Y into Doniger’s chest. The incisions ran down from each shoulder, met at the center of his chest, then went down to the pelvis. “Chew,” Fawcett said when he noticed that Sara’s mouth wasn’t moving. “This is the worst of it.”

  Following his directions, Sara frantically chomped on her gum. It still didn’t prepare her. Fawcett reached into the center of the Y and peeled Doniger’s skin away from his body, revealing darkened ribs and most of his internal organs. That’s when the sweet, alcoholic smell of the embalming fluid hit.

  “You still there?” Fawcett asked.

  “I…I think so,” Sara muttered. All she tried to think of was the freshness of her spearmint gum.

  “Good—because I was lying. This is the worst part.” He put down his scalpel and picked up four-foot-long stainless steel cutting shears. “For a gardener, it cuts heavy branches; for me, it’s just as good on old bones.” He then went to work on Doniger’s ribs, cutting through the lowest ribs and working his way up. Each crack was like a wooden bat against a baseball. To clean it up, he drew the breastbone away from the heart, then pulled away five ribs that were lodged in the diaphragm.

  “Spearmint gum, spearmint gum, spearmint gum,” Sara whispered to herself.

  When the ribs were gone, Fawcett took a survey of the now easy-to-reach organs. “Nice,” he said, seeming pleased. “They didn’t trocar him much. Most of it’s intact.” Turning to Sara, he added, “What’d you say she fed him the night he died?”

  “Apple juice and a granola bar. Why?”

  Fawcett leaned into the open body, took his scalpel, and sliced around Doniger’s stomach. Satisfied with his cuts, he slid his hands under the organ, lifted the stomach, and put it into a nearby metal pan. He then looked back at Sara. “Because we’re going to peek inside and see for ourselves.”

  Three and a half hours later, on the last piece of her second pack of gum, Sara left the autopsy room. She watched through the door as Fawcett pulled a sheet over the body, then made some final statements into his recorder. When Fawcett joined her, she could barely contain her excitement. “What’d you think?” she asked eagerly. “Is it a murder?”

  “I can only give you facts—you draw your own conclusions.”

  “That’s great, but I’ve spent the last three and a half hours listening to you talk about anterior chambers and aqueous equilibration. I need you to put it in plain English. Did Arnold Doniger die in a coma caused by his diabetes?”

  “As near as I can tell, yes,” Fawcett said as they took off their gowns. Well accustomed to Conrad’s black-and-white approach to answering questions, Sara was frustrated by Fawcett’s conditional responses. “The relevant question now is: Was the death natural or was it caused by a third party?”

  “I don’t understand,” she said as they headed back to his office.

  “There’s enough information to support both—you just have to decide which scenario is more logical. According to the decedent’s wife, her husband was cranky, so she gave him some apple juice and a granola bar. When you’re a diabetic, the crankiness is caused by low blood sugar. To raise your blood sugar, you commonly have some form of caloric intake—an apple, a cookie, something like that. And if the food makes your blood sugar too high, you ordinarily take an insulin shot to lower it. At least, that’s generally the case.”

  “So food brings your blood sugar up, and an insulin shot brings it down.”

  “Correct,” Fawcett said as he stepped into his cluttered office and headed directly for the overcrowded bookshelf on the far wall. As he looked for a particular book, he continued, “And if you give yourself a shot when your blood sugar is low, the shot will bring it down even further and you’ll fall into a coma or have a stroke. Essentially, we know his blood sugar was low at the time of the shot, because it caused him to go into the coma. The trick is finding out what his blood-sugar level was hours before the shot.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “As I said, that’s the trick. Remember the Claus von Bülow case? Detecting blood sugar levels to prove a murder is a difficult game. It’s an almost undetectable crime.”

  “What do you mean ‘almost’?” she asked, trying to drag concrete answers out of him.

  “Ah, here we go.” Fawcett pulled a small white textbook from the shelf. As he scanned a few pages, he rubbed his right earlobe b
etween two fingers. Eventually, he explained, “According to traditional practice, a few hours after someone dies, you can’t tell their blood-sugar level. It’s undiscernible in most of their body. But if you subscribe to some of the superior medical journals—which were recently sliced from our budget—you’d know that it’s still detectable in one place: the anterior chamber of the eye.”

  “Are you telling me that when you were dissecting Arnold’s eyes, you were actually measuring his blood-sugar level?”

  “Science can only give you the facts if you know where to look,” Fawcett replied. “Equilibration in the eye is very slow, so the fluids of the eye don’t match the fluids of the rest of the body. As a result, while the fluids in your body may dissipate, the fluids in your eye linger and leave a mark that’s as clear as a fingerprint—which allows us to track the body’s blood-sugar levels.”

  “And what did Arnold Doniger’s eyes say?” she asked anxiously.

  “They said his blood sugar was normal, but you have to remember that the eyes are always a little bit behind the rest of the body. Which means that if he died of low blood sugar, which is strongly suggested by the autopsy results, his blood sugar dropped precipitously in the end.”

  “But doesn’t that support Claire’s story that his blood sugar was low and that that’s why she gave him the juice and the granola bar?”

  “Don’t lose sight of the facts. You saw what was in his stomach—there were no signs of food. He hadn’t eaten for several hours.”

  “So they starved him, and then when his blood sugar was low enough, they gave him a shot of insulin and finished him off?”

  “Or they gave him an overdose of insulin. That’s if a third party caused the death. Either way, it’s a wonderful way to kill someone. As a pathologist, even if I’m diligent enough to check the eyes, it’s still difficult to reach a solid conclusion. Whoever did this, you have to admire their ingenuity.”

  Sara nodded. “What about pinpointing the time of death? According to my theory, he died about four days earlier than his wife says. Any way to prove that?”

  “That’d be simpler if he was a fresh kill, but he’s been in the ground for almost a week. Were there any odd smells reported by the paramedics when they came to get the body?”

  “I don’t think so, but I’ll ask,” Sara said. “Anything else suspicious?”

  “Actually, there was some tearing in the lining of the brain, which is sometimes the result of intense cold or freezing temperatures. But since the brain is now mostly a mass of decomposed mush, I’m not convinced that’s what caused it. It did strike me as odd, though.”

  As she processed the information, Sara glimpsed Fawcett’s clock; it was almost eleven forty-five. “I’m late,” she blurted, leaping out of her seat. As she rushed to the door, she added, “Let me ask you one last question: Do you think your findings are convincing enough to prove that Arnold Doniger was murdered?”

  “You’re the one who draws the conclusions—were you convinced?”

  Sara opened the door and smiled wide. “Thoroughly. Now all we have to do is convince the jury.”

  Running up the steps of 100 Centre Street, Sara glanced at her watch and cursed the New York City traffic that had held her taxi hostage for the past half hour. It was now almost quarter past twelve, which meant she was already fifteen minutes late for Kozlow’s arraignment. Hoping that Kozlow still hadn’t entered his plea, she darted into the building, through the metal detector, and took the elevator to the eleventh floor. She read room numbers as she ran and headed up the hallway until she reached room 1127. Pausing in front of the courtroom, Sara took a moment to catch her breath. The much-needed minibreak made one thing clear: If she didn’t go to the bathroom soon, she was going to explode.

  Looking through the glass window in the door of the courtroom, she saw that Kozlow was seated on the left side of the room. He still hadn’t been called, which meant the proceedings were running late. She raced for the bathroom. Inside, she headed straight for the first of the four bathroom stalls. Moments later, she heard someone else enter the bathroom and turn on the water at one of the sinks. Curious, Sara peeked through a crack in the door. But by the time she got a good look at the sinks, the person was gone. Sara was startled by a loud knock on the door of her stall.

  “Who is it?” she asked nervously.

  “It’s me. Rise and shine.” The familiar voice sent a chill through Sara’s chest, and there, peering over the top of the stall, was the man with the sunken cheeks.

  She jumped to her feet, readjusted her clothes, and barreled out of the stall.

  Sunken Cheeks was leaning against one of the sinks, waiting for her. “Caught you with your pants down, huh?” he asked as she charged toward him.

  “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Just checking up on my inves—”

  Before Elliott could finish his sentence, Sara swung her briefcase through the air, attempting to hit him in the face. Raising his hand to block her attack, he caught her briefcase in midair. “Nice briefcase,” he said. He threw it to the floor. “I see you rubbed my message out.”

  “Stay away from me.”

  “You’re not the one I care about, Sara—although I’m glad you kicked your hubby out.”

  “Don’t you dare touch him.”

  Elliott grabbed Sara by her lapels. “Don’t tell me what to do.” He shoved her backwards, sending her crashing into the stall. Tripping over the toilet, she banged her head on the back wall. As Elliott left the bathroom, he added, “By the way, check out Doniger’s basement. You’ll like what you find.”

  Picking herself up as fast as possible, Sara raced after Elliott. But by the time she reached the hallway, he was gone. “Damn,” she said, vigorously rubbing the bump on the back of her head. Her heart was drumming as she peered through the window in the door of the courtroom. To her surprise, Jared and Kozlow were standing at the defense table, addressing the judge. With a sharp tug, she pulled open the door.

  When she walked into the room, she heard the clerk of the court ask Jared, “How does your client plead, sir, guilty or not guilty?” Wondering how the arraignment was proceeding without her, Sara headed briskly to the front of the room. Maybe she should shout an objection, she thought, her mind scrambling for a solution. But as she was about to open her mouth, she noticed that Conrad was sitting at the prosecutor’s table. Nodding, she offered a silent thank-you to her mentor.

  “Not guilty,” Jared said, standing next to Kozlow at the defense table.

  In response, Conrad approached the bench and handed a bundle of papers to the judge.

  Without saying a word, Sara sat at the prosecutor’s table. Glancing to her left, she locked eyes with Jared. He looked haggard, with heavy bags under his eyes. He clearly had had a rough night. Purposely turning away Sara waited for Conrad to return to the table. When he sat down next to her, she whispered, “Thank you. The autopsy ran longer than I thought and traffic was—”

  “Don’t sweat it,” Conrad interrupted. “You’re just lucky Guff had copies of your files. He’s the one who really saved your ass.”

  Turning around, Sara saw Guff in the front row of the spectator section. He winked at her.

  “The motion day is set for two weeks from today,” the judge announced from the bench. “Report to Part Thirty-one on October third. The case will be heard by Judge Bogdanos.”

  When the judge banged his gavel, Jared approached his wife. “Nice to see you. I was starting to get worried.”

  “I had some extra work to do,” Sara said.

  “You mean the autopsy,” Jared said definitively.

  “Exactly.”

  “So what’d they find?”

  “I don’t think she has to answer that,” Conrad interrupted, standing from his seat.

  Annoyed, Jared said, “You must be Conrad.”

  “And you must be Jared.”

  “That’s right. Her husband. And last I checked, Sara was able to answer
questions for herself.”

  “Well, last I checked, defense attorneys knew that they shouldn’t expect shortcuts. So stop begging for autopsy results you’re not entitled to yet.”

  “I didn’t realize this was your case,” Jared said.

  “It’s not,” Sara said, stepping between the two men. “Conrad, back off. Jared, we’ll discuss this later.”

  “Whatever you want,” Jared said, still staring at Conrad. “Give me a call when you’re ready.” Motioning to Conrad, he added, “Nice to meet you.”

  “You, too,” Conrad said coldly.

  As Jared and Kozlow walked out of the courtroom, Sara looked at Conrad. “What was that about?”

  “I just didn’t want to see him walk all over you,” Conrad said, packing up his briefcase.

  “I appreciate the concern, but I can handle my husband just fine.”

  “I’m sure you can, but—”

  “There is no but,” Sara interrupted. “I may be new, and I may still be learning, but I’m not a lightweight. The only reason I let him broach the subject of the autopsy was because I wanted to see how much he knew. Jared’s got a great information network and I want to know where it starts. So stop thinking you can swing in on a vine and save me from the bad guys.”

  “Sara, just so you know: Not once, ever, have I thought you were a lightweight.”

  Caught off guard by the compliment, Sara took a second to respond. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything. That’s just how I feel.”

  “Then don’t treat me like a novice. I finally know what I’m doing with this one.”

  “So I guess you didn’t need me to stand in for you today? You had the whole thing covered yourself, right?”

  Sara had to grin. “C’mon, don’t go mucking up my impassioned arguments with some lame logical flaw,” she joked. “I know I needed you to stand in for me. I just—”

  “I get the picture—he’s your husband, so you’re the only one who can pick on him. Now can we get out of here? You have a trial to prepare for.”