by Dan Simmons
Dr. Epstein nodded slowly. “This is consistent with the studies done on the so-called Face of Frozen Horror. The brain must be…disconnected…from the nervous system in one point eight seconds or less for the facial expression to remain fixed in such a manner.”
Dar looked at Syd. “And how far do you think Esposito’s body was from the column where the screw was opened to spill the hydraulic fluid?”
“The platform is twelve and a half feet wide,” said Syd. “Esposito was on the side opposite the column with the released screw, and his head was protruding from the scissors’ struts by several inches, as if he were trying to throw himself out through the closing X of metal.”
“Do you think he could have turned that bolt, removed that long screw, and jumped across that space in less than two seconds?” asked Dar.
“No,” said Syd. “And if, as his expression suggests, Esposito saw the platform falling, his instinct—anyone’s instinct—would have been to jump forward, out from under it. Not run deeper under and try to escape near the wall.”
Dar put his calculator away.
“There is something else,” said Dr. Epstein. He led them into a medical work and storage area between the waiting room and the actual morgue lockers. There were various bags on shelves, most labeled with the international symbol for toxic bio-waste. Epstein pulled a box from a drawer, pulled on disposable surgical gloves of the type used by paramedics since the AIDS epidemic began, and handed a pair to both Dar and Syd. He lifted down one of the clear bags. The tag on it said ESPOSITO, M. JORGÉ and had the current date and case number on it.
“This has all been photographed and videographed by the police, of course,” said Dr. Epstein, “but you should see the actual thing.” He opened the bag and laid Esposito’s clothes out on a stainless steel table with blood gutters.
The pinstripe suit had been a cheap one, Dar could see, and the blood and brain matter on it did not make it look any more attractive. The white shirt was almost completely red. Esposito had been wearing a bold, yellow tie, now stained mostly crimson.
The medical examiner lifted the sleeves of the suit jacket and then the sleeves of the shirt. “You see,” he said.
Syd nodded immediately. “Blood…human tissue…but no hydraulic fluid.”
“Exactly,” said Dr. Epstein, in his modulated, mournful tones. “Nor was there any hydraulic fluid on the body’s hands, face, or upper body. But here…”
He lifted the trouser legs. Dar put his gloved hand on them to turn them better into the overhead light. The right trouser leg was black and oily from hydraulic fluid. Epstein removed worn, black Florsheim shoes with a reinforced heel from the bottom of the bag. Both shoes had blood on them, but only one, the right one, had been soaked in hydraulic liquid. And even the sole of the shoe stank of the fluid.
“The spray trail we saw must have spurted out of the pipe about eight feet,” said Syd. “For some reason, Esposito was under the lift—probably near the middle of the area or closer to the wall—and couldn’t run for the opening. He turned and jumped for the gap between the cross struts just as the scissors closed. The hydraulic fluid caught just his pant legs and his right shoe as he jumped.”
“What could keep someone from running the shortest distance to safety with two tons of platform dropping toward him?” asked Dar.
“Or who?” added Syd.
Dr. Epstein put the clothing back in the evidence bag. He peeled off his now bloody gloves, dropped them in the toxic bio-waste bin, and scrubbed his hands at the sink. Syd and Dar followed suit.
In the waiting room again, the monitor now mercifully blank, they both thanked the medical examiner.
Dr. Epstein smiled, but his eyes remained sad. “I know about Attorney Esposito,” he said so quietly that Dar had to lean closer to hear him. “Ambulance chaser. Almost certainly an accident capper. But it was a terrible death. And…even though Detective Hernandez and others do not seem interested…it must be reported as a wrongful death.”
“A wrongful death,” agreed Syd.
“Murder,” said Dar.
The two went out into the heavy rain.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“K IS FOR STRIKE OUT”
IT WAS NEARLY noon when Sydney Olson’s Ford Taurus turned off the Avenue of the Stars in Century City and rolled down the steep ramp toward the underground parking garage.
“So are you going to tell me now what all this is about?” asked Dar, sipping the last of his 7-Eleven coffee and trying not to spill it as Syd took the ticket and drove quickly down the curving concrete ramp that seemed to be leading them to the parking lot for Hell.
“Not quite yet,” said Syd. She noticed an empty slot next to a scarred concrete pillar and swung the Taurus in expertly.
Dar grunted.
Dar hated rising early, and he hated driving into L.A. during Monday rush-hour traffic even more. This morning he had done both. Syd had picked him up at seven-thirty for this lunch-hour meeting with… Dar had no idea with whom. The traffic had been as bad as he had ever seen it, but Syd had driven calmly, resting her thin wrist on the steering wheel and becoming lost in thought when the miles of packed vehicles came to a total stop. They had spoken little during the long commute.
At least the press was gone. There had been no TV vultures skulking outside Dar’s warehouse condo when he had returned on Sunday evening, and none this morning. Last week’s “road rage killing” was evidently old news and all the Insta-Cams and satellite trucks were off covering this week’s top story—a sex scandal involving someone high up in the mayor’s office and a well-known lobbyist. The fact that both the principals were attractive women did not make the press’s appetite any less voracious.
In the elevator from the basement parking garage, Syd said, “You sure you’ve got the video?” Dar hefted his old briefcase.
They passed the floor where Robert Shapiro had leased his office space during the O. J. trial. Dallas Trace’s office suite was on the penthouse floor.
Dar was surprised by how spacious and busy the suite was. Once beyond the foyer, receptionist, and plainclothes security guard, they passed through a large area bustling with at least a dozen secretaries. Dar could see five smaller offices, undoubtedly staffed by Trace’s young legal associates, before they reached the main man’s corner office. The door was open and Dallas Trace looked up, grinned, and leaped out of his leather executive chair, gesturing them in and grinning as if they were old friends.
Again, Dar was surprised by the sumptuousness of the office. He could see the hills to the north—and because yesterday’s storm had blown away most of the smog for the time being, Dar knew that if he looked out the west window wall, he could make out Bundy Drive in Brentwood, about three miles west, where Nicole Brown Simpson and Ronald Goldman had been murdered years before by someone cleverly disguised in the DNA of O. J. Simpson.
Dar was surprised by the size of the staff and the elegance of the office because most defense attorneys of his acquaintance—even the very successful and somewhat famous ones—tended to run a lean, mean business operation, often paying office expenses, including their lone secretaries and one or two young legal associates, with their own personal checks each week. It was—as legal writer Jeffrey Toobin once said—the famous criminal attorney’s dilemma: successful though one may be, repeat business is rare.
Dallas Trace showed no signs of financial anxiety. The man was taller and thinner than he looked on television—at least six three, Dar thought—with a chiseled and manly face, a Marlboro Man face. His smile was easy and emphasized the laugh lines around his eyes and the muscles around his thin-lipped mouth. Trace wore his long, gray hair tied back with a leather thong. His eyebrows were deep black, which emphasized his light gray eyes and made them all the more startling and photogenic in the tanned, lined face. Trace was wearing his trademark denim shirt and bolo tie—although Dar noticed that the shirt was blue silk rather than actual denim—and a leather western vest. This one looked as
if it had been tanned from the hide of a stegosaurus—an old stegosaurus—and probably cost several thousand dollars. The bolo was held in place by the de rigueur jade-and-silver piece of jewelry, and there was a small diamond in the cowboy attorney’s left ear. Dar always realized how old he was when he reacted negatively to jewelry on men: sometimes, alone on a summer night, he would yell at his TV when a ballplayer was thrown out at first—“You would’ve made it, you jerk, if you weren’t carrying ten pounds of gold chain!” Dar recognized it as age, intolerance, and possibly the onset of Alzheimer’s in him, but he did not change his opinion. Dallas Trace wore six rings. His suede Lucchese cowboy boots looked as if they were as soft as butter.
Trace shook Sydney’s hand first and then Dar’s. As Dar had expected, the big attorney, although slim, was a bone-crusher.
“Investigator Olson, Dr. Minor, take a seat, take a seat.” Trace moved back around to his huge leather chair with real speed. Dar guessed that the man was in his early sixties, but he was buff as a twenty-five-year-old athlete. Dar had seen Dallas Trace’s twenty-five-year-old wife on TV, and guessed he had good reason to stay in shape.
Dar glanced around the office. Dallas Trace’s desk was at the nexus of the two window walls, the attorney’s back to the view as if he did not have time for such things. But other walls and shelves and bookcases were covered with photographs of Trace with celebrities and power brokers, including the last four U.S. presidents.
Trace lounged back in his luxurious chair, steepled his fingers, propped his butter-soft Luccheses on the edge of his desk, and asked in his familiar gravelly tenor, “To what do I owe the honor of this visit, Chief Investigator? Doctor?”
“You may have heard about the attempt on Dr. Minor’s life last week,” said Syd.
Trace smiled, picked up a pencil, and tapped at his perfectly white teeth. “Ah, yes, the famous Road Rage Killer. Are you seeking counsel, perhaps, Dr. Minor?”
“No,” said Dar.
“There have been no charges filed,” said Syd. “There probably won’t be. The two men who opened fire on Dr. Minor were Russian mafia hit men.”
Even though this had been reported on the television news ad nauseum, Dallas Trace managed to look surprised and raised one dark eyebrow. “So if you’re not here about representation…” He let the question hang.
“When I called for the appointment, counselor, you seemed to know who we each were,” said Syd.
Dallas Trace’s smile expanded and he tossed the pencil expertly back into its leather cup holder. “Of course, I do, Chief Investigator Olson. I’ve taken great interest in the state’s attorney’s efforts to rein in insurance fraud and its teamwork with the FBI and the NICB. Your investigative work in California the past year or so has been excellent, Ms. Olson.”
“Thank you,” said Syd.
“And everyone interested in expert accident reconstruction knows about Dr. Darwin Minor,” continued the attorney.
Dar said nothing. Beyond Trace’s silhouette in the tall chair, traffic moved through Hollywood, Beverly Hills, and Brentwood. Beyond, Dar could see the dark smudge of the sea.
“Dr. Minor has a videotape that you should see, Mr. Trace,” said Syd. “Do you have media equipment handy?”
Trace tapped a button on the speakerphone console. A minute later, a young man wheeled in a cart carrying a thirty-six-inch monitor and a stack of VCR and DVD players of every religious denomination. “Is there anything I should know, Ms. Olson, Dr. Minor, before I play this tape? Anything incriminating or which would put us in a lawyer-client relationship?” said Trace, the amusement now absent from his gravelly rasp.
“No,” said Syd.
Dallas Trace popped the tape in, closed the office door, returned to his chair, and activated the half-inch VCR with a credit-card-size remote. They watched the video in silence. Actually, Dar noticed, he and Dallas Trace were watching the video; Syd was watching Dallas Trace.
The video showed only the three-dimensional computer animation of the accident: two men coming out of a building, one pushing the other in front of a skidding van, the van circling around to hit him again. Trace remained completely impassive during the presentation.
“Do you recognize the accident depicted in this visual reenactment, counselor?” said Syd.
“Of course I do,” said Dallas Trace. “It’s a mixed-up computer representation of the accident that killed my son.”
“Your son, Richard Kodiak,” said Syd.
Trace’s cool, gray gaze stayed on the chief investigator for a moment before he replied. “Yes.”
“Counselor, can you tell me why your son had a different last name than yourself?” Syd’s voice was low, conversational.
“Am I being interrogated, Chief Investigator?”
“Of course not, sir.”
“Good,” said Trace, leaning back in his chair again and propping his boots on the edge of the desk. “For a minute I was afraid I might need my lawyer present.”
Syd waited.
“My son, Richard, chose to take his stepfather’s name… Kodiak,” said Trace eventually. “Richard is…was…my child by my first wife, Elaine. We were divorced in 1981 and she has since remarried.”
Syd nodded and continued to wait.
Dallas Trace quirked his lips into a curve that was equal parts sadness and smile. “It is no secret, Ms. Olson, that my son and I had a serious falling out some years ago. He legally took his stepfather’s name—I can only surmise—at least in part to hurt me.”
“Was that falling out related to your son’s…ah…lifestyle?” said Syd.
Trace’s smile became thinner. “That, of course, is none of your business, Investigator Olson. But in the spirit of goodwill, I’ll answer the question—as invasive and presumptuous as it is. The answer is no. Richard’s discovery of his sexual orientation had nothing to do with our disagreement. If you know anything about me, Ms. Olson, you must know of my support for gay and lesbian rights. Richard is…was…a headstrong youth. Perhaps you could say that there was only room for one bull in the family herd.”
Syd nodded again. “What is your reaction to this video, Mr. Trace?”
“I would have been outraged by it,” Trace said easily, “except for the fact, of course, that I’ve seen it before. Several times.”
Dar had to blink at this news.
“You have?” said Syd. “May I ask where?”
“Detective Ventura showed it to me during the course of the investigation of the accident,” said Trace.
“Lieutenant Robert Ventura,” said Syd, “of the Los Angeles Police Department’s homicide unit.”
“That’s correct,” said Trace. “But both Lieutenant Ventura and Captain Fairchild assured me…assured me, Ms. Olson…that this…video ‘reenactment’ was based on faulty data and completely unreliable.”
Dar cleared his throat. “Mr. Trace, you seem confident that the video is not showing you the murder of your son. May I ask why you’re so confident?”
Dallas Trace fixed Dar with his cold stare. “Of course, Dr. Minor. First of all, I respect the professionalism of the detectives in question—”
“Ventura and Fairchild of LAPD homicide,” interrupted Syd.
Trace’s gaze never left Dar. “Yes, Detectives Ventura and Fairchild. They spent hundreds of hours on the case and ruled out foul play.”
“Did you speak to anyone in the LAPD Traffic Investigation Unit?” asked Dar. “Sergeant Rote, perhaps? Or Captain Kapshaw?”
The attorney shrugged. “I spoke to many people involved, Dr. Minor. I probably spoke to those men. Certainly I spoke with Officer Lentile—who wrote the accident report—as well as with Officer Clancey, Officer Berry, Sergeant McKay, and the others who were there that night.” The strong muscles around Trace’s thin lips quirked upward again, but the resulting smile did not reach his eyes. “I am not without my own slight abilities of interrogation and cross-examination.”
“Undoubtedly,” said Syd, drawing the att
orney’s gaze back to her, “but did you speak to the claimants—the other two people directly involved in the accident—Mr. Borden and Ms. Smiley?”
Trace shook his head. “I read their depositions. I had no interest in speaking with them.”
“They were reported to have moved to San Francisco,” said Syd, “but the San Francisco police cannot locate them at the present time.”
Trace said nothing. Without actually glancing at his watch, he made it obvious that they were wasting his expensive time. Dar could only look at Syd. When had she tracked down this information?
“Did you know that your son had an alias, Mr. Trace? That he had identity papers under the name of Dr. Richard Karnak and worked at a medical clinic called California Sure-Med?”
“Yes,” said Trace, “I became aware of that.”
“Was your son a doctor, Mr. Trace?”
“No,” said the attorney. His voice seemed to hold no tension or defensive tone. “My son was a perpetual student… He was in his thirties and still attending graduate classes, never finishing any. He spent one year in medical school.”
“How did you become aware of your son’s alias and involvement with the Sure-Med clinic, Mr. Trace?” said Syd. “Through Detectives Ventura or Fairchild?”
Trace shook his head slowly. “Nope. I hired my own private investigator.”
“And you’re aware that the California Sure-Med clinic was an injury mill—a source for fraudulent insurance claims—and that your son had violated state and federal laws by posing as a doctor and sending in false injury reports,” Syd said.
“I am aware of that now, Investigator Olson,” Trace said, voice flat. “Do you intend to indict my son?”
Syd did not break away from the lawyer’s eagle gaze.
Trace sighed and dropped his feet to the floor. He ran his hands over his combed-back gray hair and adjusted the leather thong holding his ponytail in place. “Investigator, I’m afraid I’m ahead of you here. What the police didn’t turn up, my private investigator did. I discovered and acknowledge now, on the record, that my son was part of—what did you call it?—an injury mill. A fraudulent-claims network run by what the fraud business calls a ‘capper’?”
