Caught
“Yes.”
“Good. I would also conclude the same about a knife stabbing, but we just don’t know for sure. If, for example, the perpetrator pierced an artery—”
“Yeah, I think I get that.
“And of course there are many more possibilities. The victim may have been suffocated—the classic pillow over the face. Even in cases where the body is found after a few days rather than a few months it can be hard to determine suffocation for certain. But in this case, after spending most likely three months buried, it is virtually impossible. I am also running some specific drug tests to see if there is anything in her system, but when a body breaks down like this, the blood enzymes get released. It throws many tests out of whack. In lay terms, the body almost turns into something like alcohol as it breaks down. So even those drug tests on remaining tissue may prove unreliable. Haley’s vitreous humor—that’s the gel between the retina and the lens of the eye—had disintegrated, so we couldn’t use that to look for drug traces either.”
“So you can’t even say for sure it’s a murder?”
“I, as medical examiner, can’t, no.”
Wendy looked at Walker. He nodded. “We can. I mean, think about it. We don’t even have a body on Dan Mercer. I’ve seen cases go to court where no body was found, and like Tara said, this is hardly uncommon with bodies found after this much time.”
O’Neill rose, clearly indicating their dismissal. “Anything else?”
“Was she sexually assaulted?”
“Same answer: We just don’t know.”
Wendy stood. “I appreciate your time, Tara.”
After another stiff, formal handshake, Wendy found herself back on Norfolk Street with Sheriff Walker.
“Did any of that help?” Walker asked her.
“No.”
“I told you there was nothing here.”
“So that’s it? It’s over?”
“Officially for this sheriff? Yeah.”
Wendy looked down the street. “I keep hearing Newark is coming back.”
“Just not here,” Walker said.
“Yeah.”
“How about you, Wendy?”
“What about me?”
“Is this case over for you?”
She shook her head. “Not quite yet.”
“You want to tell me about it?”
She shook her head again. “Not quite yet.”
“Fair enough.” The big man shuffled his feet, his eyes on the pavement. “Can I ask you something else?”
“Sure.”
“I feel like an ass. I mean, the timing and all.”
She waited.
“When this is over, when this all passes in a few weeks”—Walker tried to raise his eyes to meet hers—“do you mind if I call you?”
The road suddenly seemed even more deserted. “You weren’t kidding about timing.”
Walker jammed his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “I’ve never been the smoothest.”
“Smooth enough,” Wendy said, trying not to smile in spite of herself. This was life though, wasn’t it? Death made you crave life. The world is nothing but a bunch of thin lines separating what we think are extremes. “No, I wouldn’t mind you calling at all.”
HESTER CRIMSTEIN’S LAW OFFICE, Burton and Crimstein, was in a midtown Manhattan high-rise and offered fantastic views of downtown and the Hudson River. She could see the military-carrier-ship-turned-museum the Intrepid and the enormous “fun” cruise ships packed with three thousand vacationers and figured that she’d rather give birth than actually go on one. The truth was, this view, like almost any view, just became a view. Visitors were stunned by it, but when you see it every day, much as you never wanted to admit it, the extraordinary becomes commonplace.
Ed Grayson was standing by the window now. He looked out but if he was enjoying the view, he was keeping it pretty hidden. “I don’t know what to do here, Hester.”
“I do,” she said.
“I’m listening.”
“Listen to my professional legal advice: Do nothing.”
Still staring out the window, Grayson smiled. “No wonder you get the big bucks.”
Hester spread her hands.
“So it’s that simple?”
“In this case, yep.”
“You know my wife left me. She wants to move back to Quebec with E. J.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“This whole mess is my fault.”
“Ed, don’t take this the wrong way, but you know I’m bad at hand-holding or false platitudes, right?”
“Oh yes.”
“So I’ll make it clear for you: You messed up big-time.”
“I never beat up someone before.”
“And now you have.”
“I never shot someone either.”
“And now you have. Your point?”
They both went quiet. Ed Grayson was comfortable with silence. Hester Crimstein was not. She started rocking in her desk chair, played with a pen, sighed theatrically. Finally she got up and crossed the room.
“See this?”
Ed turned around. She was pointing at a statue of Lady Justice. “Yes.”
“You know what it is?”
“Sure.”
“What?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Who is this?”
“Lady Justice.”
“Yes and no. She is known by many names. Lady Justice, Blind Justice, the Greek goddess Themis, the Roman goddess Justitia, the Egyptian goddess Ma’at—or even the daughters of Themis, Dike and Astraea.”
“Uh, your point?”
“Have you ever taken a good look at the statue? Most people see the blindfold first and, well, that’s an obvious reference to impartiality. It’s also nonsense since everybody is partial. You can’t help it. But take a look at her right hand. That’s a sword. That’s a kick-ass sword. That’s supposed to represent swift and often brutal, even deadly punishment. But you see, only she—the system—can do that. The system, as messed up as it is, has the right to use that sword. You, my friend, do not.”
“Are you telling me I shouldn’t have taken the law into my own hands?” Grayson arched an eyebrow. “Wow, Hester, that’s deep.”
“Look at the scales, numb nuts. In her left hand. Some people think the scales are supposed to represent both sides of the argument—prosecution and defense. Others claim it is about fairness or impartiality. But think about it. Scales are really about balance, right? Look, I’m an attorney—and I know my rep. I know people think I subvert the law or use loopholes or bully or take advantage. That’s all true. But I stay within the system.”