TIL DEATH

by Annette Dashofy

  “I wasn’t involved in the case back then,” Zoe said. “I wasn’t a deputy coroner. I was just a paramedic. I wasn’t even on duty the night Elizabeth Landis was killed.”

  “It doesn’t matter. You’ll represent the office and will simply need to offer the reports made at the time into evidence.”

  “Won’t the defense attorney object because of hearsay?”

  The forced reassuring smile became one of annoyance. “Have you studied law, Ms. Chambers?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then leave the legal arguments to me.”

  Zoe lowered her face to hide her own annoyance but decided if she was going to do this, be the county coroner and take on all the ensuing responsibilities, she couldn’t allow this man to intimidate her. She squared her shoulders and met his gaze. “You said you’d make sure I was prepared for court, so prepare me. What exactly should I expect from Anthony Imperatore?”

  “We’ll have time to go over all that closer to the trial date—”

  “I want to know now.”

  His annoyance flared to anger.

  Zoe decided the adage about catching more flies with honey than vinegar might hold true in this instance. “This is all new to me. I’ve been learning the forensic side of the job for several years now. Lately, I’ve had a crash course in the administrative end of it. You’re adding additional duties to my plate that Franklin hadn’t prepared me for. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not have to treat this trial like I was cramming for a high school exam on the bus in the morning.”

  Frattini’s clenched jaw relaxed. “Fine.” He pushed away from his desk, moved behind it, and lowered into his chair. “You’re right. Mr. Imperatore will object on the grounds of hearsay. I’ll counter by citing an exception that you’ll be offering testimony from a previous trial.”

  “That’ll work?”

  “Probably not. Mr. Imperatore will then object, citing the Confrontation Clause of the Sixth Amendment which states the defendant has the right to confront his accuser.”

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  “I’ll then quote from Crawford versus Washington. The evidence you’re offering will be non-testimonial.”

  “Non…” She tried and failed to grasp the legalese. “You lost me.”

  “Which is why I’m the attorney and you’re not.”

  She looked at him. Was he patronizing her? From the hint of a twinkle in his dark eyes, she had a feeling he was more amused than condescending.

  “Seriously, Ms. Chambers, I’ll make sure you’re prepared well ahead of time. The last thing I want is to have you appear anything less than an expert witness once you’re on the stand. Which is why I want you to focus on the forensics of the case. Not personal opinions. And certainly not the legal arguments about admissibility.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Good. I want you to go over the autopsy reports. Learn them inside and out. I want you to be able to recite the specifics in your sleep. Do you understand?”

  “What about the trial transcripts of Franklin’s testimony? If I’m supposed to sit there in his place, shouldn’t I know what he said?”

  Frattini’s expression soured. “I’d rather not taint your own interpretation of the facts.”

  “Interpretation of the facts?” Zoe had the same feeling as when someone tried to bluff her in their Saturday night poker game. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Mr. Marshall had some unsubstantiated opinions on the case. The defense attorney in the first trial played them up.”

  “And you don’t think Anthony Imperatore will do the same?”

  “Not if you don’t give him the material to work with. All you need to do is tell the jury that Elizabeth Landis died of a single gunshot wound to the head, the location of the entrance and exit wounds, and the caliber of the bullet. None of that has ever been in question, and the judge should overrule any objection that it be admitted into evidence. In other words, simply read the official report your late boss wrote nine years ago.”

  Zoe sank back into the chair. What was DA Frattini trying to keep under wraps? Whatever it was, he wasn’t about to tell her. But he didn’t need to. He might not be willing to turn over the transcripts, and Franklin might not be around to ask, but she knew one man—intimately—who’d been involved in this case from the very beginning.

  Baronick remained silent, thoughtful, for several long moments, scowling at the file in front of him. “Landis had more than just those two girlfriends over the years.”

  “I was able to track down three who were willing to cooperate. There was a fourth woman, but she was married and denied everything. She had a rock-solid alibi for the night in question, and the affair had ended years earlier,” Pete said. “I couldn’t find any trigger to explain why she’d want Landis dead after all that time.”

  Baronick continued to frown at the list of names as if trying to make sense of them.

  “Something wrong?”

  Baronick looked up. “What about the most recent one?”

  Pete didn’t need his notes to remember Landis’ mistresses, especially the last one. “Not tall or athletic, and no way would she be mistaken for a man. Her alibi checked out too. All the women’s alibis did.”

  Baronick drained his coffee and shifted forward in his chair. “I’m going to track down a few of these ladies and get their take on our bad boy. What’s your next move?”

  Before Pete could respond, his phone rang. He gestured for the detective to wait and answered.

  “This is Special Agent Felicia Graley. I’m on my way to Vance Township to speak with your eyewitness.” There was a pause and a rustling sound as Pete imagined her checking her notes. “Cheryl Vranjes. Would you be interested in joining me?”

  The invitation startled him into silence.

  “You’re the one who pointed out we’re supposed to cooperate,” she said, correctly interpreting the reason behind his hesitation.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Besides, having you along will ensure I don’t get lost out in the backcountry you call home.”

  And there it was. The real reason.

  Pete eyed Baronick, who continued to perch on the edge of his chair. “Think you can find the Vance Township Police Station? We’re on Main Street in Dillard.”

  “Is the street paved?” Her tone oozed sarcasm.

  “Barely.”

  “I’ll be there in forty-five minutes.”

  Pete ended the call and met Baronick’s curious gaze. “Special Agent Graley is on her way to interview Cheryl Vranjes and has invited me to provide guide service. Want to come along?”

  He broke into his patented over-white smile. “You couldn’t keep me away.”

  “She’s still forty-five minutes out.”

  “How about we grab some lunch at Walden’s?”

  “You go. I have some business here to take care of.”

  “Suit yourself.” Baronick climbed to his feet and deposited the mug on the table next to the Mr. Coffee.

  “Hey,” Pete said as the detective headed for the door.

  He turned.

  Pete pointed at the cup. “Wash that out.”

  Baronick grumbled but retraced his steps and snatched the mug from where he’d left it. “You need to work on your social skills. Making guests wash their own dishes is just plain rude.”

  “You’re not a guest.”

  Baronick flashed the smile again. “Aw. Does that mean you consider me family?”

  “More like an annoying neighbor. One who keeps dropping by. Uninvited.”

  Chuckling, the detective disappeared into the hallway.

  “And bring me back a Reuben sandwich,” Pete called after him.

  Once Baronick had left the building, Pete picked up his phone and keyed in Abby’s num
ber.

  Her voice sounded less sleepy than the last time. “What’s up, Chief?”

  “How’d you like yesterday’s day shift?”

  “It was great.”

  “How would you like it to be permanent?”

  After a pause, she asked, “When do I start?”

  “Right now.”

  Cheryl Vranjes hadn’t changed much since the Landis trial. After introductions, she escorted Pete, Baronick, and Special Agent Graley into her living room and offered them beverages, which the trio of law enforcement politely refused.

  “I suspected I’d hear from you when I learned about Dustin’s conviction being overturned.” Cheryl perched on the edge of an easy chair, hands folded in her lap. She cast a nervous glance at the detective and federal agent before meeting Pete’s gaze. She lowered her voice as if only he could hear her. “I’m not sure why the FBI is involved though.”

  Graley, however, was not hard of hearing. “I want to ask you about the man you saw leaving the scene.” Her tone was considerably softer than the one she used on Pete, for which he was grateful.

  “I’ve already told everything I know. I never saw the man’s face. He was running away from us, dressed all in black including a hoodie.”

  “Can you describe his build?”

  “As I’ve always said, he was tall. Athletic. Or at least not overweight.”

  Graley nodded and thumbed her phone’s screen.

  Baronick had claimed the end of the couch farthest from Cheryl. “At the trial you stated the person you saw could have been Dustin.”

  “Yes. I also said I couldn’t be sure either way.”

  Pete remembered it well. Frattini had played up her testimony, focusing the jury’s attention on the “could have been Dustin” part. Rick Hirst emphasized her lack of certainty.

  Graley, who’d remained standing, approached Cheryl and dropped to one knee, holding the phone for Cheryl. “Does this look like the same man you saw?”

  “Wait.” Cheryl reached for her glasses on the table beside her. “Okay.”

  Graley touched the screen and again held it in front of their witness.

  Cheryl squinted, watched intently, then lifted her eyes to Pete. “I thought there wasn’t any video footage of that night.”

  “There wasn’t,” he said.

  Cheryl looked at the agent, eyes wide. “Can you play that again?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The lines in her forehead rode a wave of puzzlement and surprise. “That’s not the parking lot at the Route 15 Plaza.”

  “No, ma’am. It’s not.”

  “But that’s…him.”

  Pete felt the air sucked out of the room by her words, as if they carried every last atom of oxygen into another dimension. Another night. Another place.

  A dark parking lot.

  “‘Him’ who?” Pete asked.

  “Dustin.” Cheryl gave her head a shake. “I mean the same man who killed Elizabeth. The one I saw running away that night. That’s him.”

  Pete closed his eyes. Wished he could close off his mind as well. At the very least, Cheryl’s confusion about the identity of the man in Graley’s video added to reasonable doubt in the upcoming trial. At the very worst, Cheryl had confirmed Elizabeth had been the victim of the serial killer.

  “Are you sure it’s the same man?” Graley tried and failed to veil the excitement in her voice.

  Cheryl watched the video several more times, her fingertips lightly touching her lips. “Yes. That’s him.”

  Pete approached the women, his open hand extended to Graley. “Mind if I take a look at that?” Baronick joined him.

  Rather than relinquish her phone, Graley stood and held it so they could see.

  The low-quality black-and-white video clip showed a shadowy figure of a man in dark clothing, his head covered, jogging away from a car and out of the frame. He didn’t appear to be aware he was on camera, but the footage still failed to capture a shot of his face.

  Without looking away from the image, Pete asked Cheryl, “Are you positive this is the same guy?”

  “He’s wearing the same clothes.”

  Black hoodie. Just like every other thug who prowled the night.

  “He runs the same way,” she added.

  Neither the man in the video nor Landis walked—or ran—with any kind of odd gait.

  Graley pocketed her phone and again knelt next to Cheryl. “Can you tell me about that night?”

  “I’ve already—”

  “I know. You’ve told the story a hundred times. But not to me. Please.”

  Cheryl shot a look at Pete. He nodded to go ahead, and she launched into the same tale she’d told him nine years ago.

  Once Baronick, Graley, and Pete left Cheryl’s house, they gathered between Pete’s SUV, in which he and the detective had traveled, and Graley’s dark blue sedan.

  Baronick faced the FBI agent. “I’d like a copy of that video.”

  “So would I,” Pete said.

  Graley nodded. “Not a problem.” She crossed her arms. “What do you gentlemen think?”

  Baronick snorted. “I think she’s gonna sink DA Frattini’s battleship if he puts her on the stand.”

  Another matter gnawed at Pete. “What was the date on your security footage?”

  “I know what you’re getting at,” Graley said, “but I already looked at the timeline of events. Your man was incarcerated when this video was shot. The only thing I can tell you with any certainty is Dustin Landis is not DLK.”

  “But is DLK Elizabeth Landis’ killer?” Baronick mused.

  “I still have trouble believing he would attack in a parking lot with potential witnesses around. He’s smarter than that.” She chuffed a laugh. “If he wasn’t, we’d have caught him by now.”

  “If Cheryl Vranjes gets up on the witness stand and identifies the man in that video as the same man she saw in the Route 15 Plaza lot that night,” Baronick said, “Landis is gonna walk.”

  “Your DA may not even call her to testify.”

  “If not, Imperatore will.” Baronick breathed a growl. “All he needs is reasonable doubt.”

  Which was what Pete was swimming in at the moment. “The quality of the video leaves a lot to be desired,” he said, thinking out loud.

  “No argument.” Graley tugged her collar up against a sudden breeze. “But it’s all we have.”

  “Cheryl claims the man is wearing the same clothing.” Pete replayed the grainy video in his mind. “Black hoodie? How many people own black hoodies?”

  Baronick raised a hand. “Guilty as charged.”

  “Same here.” Pete looked at Graley.

  Her lip curled into a smirk. “Sorry. I prefer navy blue.”

  “But you get my point. There’s nothing unique about his clothes. No way to positively identify him by what he’s wearing. Cheryl claims his gait is the same, but I didn’t see any limp or unique manner of moving. Did you?” He looked from Graley to Baronick.

  Both shook their heads.

  “Which means Cheryl’s given us nothing.”

  Baronick hiked an eyebrow. “Unless she’s right.”

  Unless she was right. The thought roared inside Pete’s head. He knew he could shoot holes in Cheryl’s story. But was he doing it because he believed she was mistaken? Or because he didn’t want to admit he’d helped put an innocent man behind bars?

  Sixteen

  Zoe’s plan to drive to Vance Township and talk to Pete was thwarted by a vehicular homicide on the opposite side of the county. She hadn’t made it back to her office in Brunswick when another call sent her to a crumbling apartment building downtown where a decomposing body had been found. From all appearances, an elderly man had expired alone in his bed, only to be discovered by police when other residents compl
ained of the smell. An autopsy would confirm or refute her initial assessment.

  She and Doc were going to be busy.

  It was almost three o’clock by the time she made it back to Franklin’s office to find Paulette waiting at the door, clutching a legal document. From the expression on the secretary’s round face, Zoe braced for more bad news.

  “I found the deed.”

  Zoe made a looping gesture with one finger, indicating their surroundings. “For the funeral home?”

  “Yes. And that creature was right. Her name’s on it.”

  “Loretta?”

  “What other creature’s been around here laying claim to Franklin’s estate?”

  Under different circumstances, Zoe would’ve laughed, but Paulette was deadly serious. Zoe extended a hand, and Paulette gave her the document. Scanning through the legal jargon, Zoe headed into Franklin’s office with the secretary on her heels. “This is dated sixteen years ago.”

  “That’s when Franklin’s father signed over the business. Old Ben died a few weeks afterwards.”

  “And Franklin and Loretta were still married at the time?”

  “As I understand, they divorced a couple of years later.”

  Zoe lifted her gaze from the papers to look at Paulette. “The property wasn’t divvied up in the divorce settlement?”

  “I don’t know. This was the only legal document I found in Franklin’s files. And, believe me, I spent all day searching.”

  From upstairs, the sound of pounding filtered down to them.

  “What on earth?” Paulette scowled. “I locked the front door and posted a sign stating we’re closed until further notice.”

  Zoe heard Franklin’s voice inside her head. “Someone’s dying to get in.” The old, overused joke had always brought a smile to her face. Now it threatened to bring tears.

  The pounding grew more insistent. “You’d better go see who that is,” Zoe said. She continued to read through the document as Paulette tromped up the stairs. The wording was standard stuff. The estate of Benjamin Marshall deeded ownership of the property and structure to Franklin and Loretta Marshall. All the proper signatures were in place, including that of the notary. Zoe thumbed the raised seal.