Blessed are the Meek

by Kristi Belcamino

  During the autopsy, I was surprised to see the forensic pathologists use a tableful of tools that looked like they came from someone’s garage or kitchen—­a vibrating circular saw to cut through the skull, what looked like a bread knife to slice samples of organs, pruning shears to cut the rib cage apart, a hammer with a hook to help pry open the cut skull, and a pair of everyday scissors. Later, I found out that frugal—­and savvy—­forensic pathologists will save money by buying ordinary tools instead of more expensive autopsy accouterments.

  I first smelled death when the forensic pathologist sliced open the chest with what looked like a big butcher knife. The pungency of the smell that arose from the internal organs made the smeared Vicks VapoRub under my nose a total waste.

  Later, the pathologist used a circular saw to cut through the top of the skull. To get at the brain, the doctor peeled the skin from the forehead to the chin, so it flopped down over the face like a mask. I flinched at the suction sound the skull plate made when the doctor pulled it off. I can still hear that sucking noise if I try.

  That day, I also learned about the linger factor of the smell of death. After the autopsy, I was covering a swearing-­in ceremony of some new cadets when I smelled the dead guy again. And it was strong. Discreetly, I took a piece of my hair and held it up to my nose to see if the smell had gotten into my hair like smoke sometimes does. No, it smelled like my hair conditioner. Driving back to the office, the smell was so strong I began to fear I was actually losing it, some strange side effect of seeing the autopsy. I called Nicole, our resident expert on autopsies.

  “Oh, yeah. It sticks around for a long, long time,” Nicole reassured me. “The scent gets in your nose hairs or something. It might be there for a while. Don’t worry, it’s real. It’s not in your head.”

  When I pull into the morgue parking lot today, I dial Brian on my cell because the morgue lobby is closed for lunch.

  He tells me to pull around to the big bay doors at the garage in back. The doors are open, and I see Brian stoking the coals on a small black barbecue to the side of the garage where the big vans drop off the bodies. One van is gone.

  “Jim out on a call?” I ask.

  “Yeah. T.C.,” Brian says.

  Traffic collision.

  “Hungry?” Brian asks. “We got bratwurst.”

  “No, I’m good.”

  I’ve attended barbecues at the morgue before to be social, but having to carry my plate through the autopsy room into the inner offices always gives me the heebie-­jeebies. I usually secretly make the sign of the cross, praying that some screwy airborne meningitis or flesh-­eating bacteria don’t land on my burger.

  Today, Brian leads me through the empty autopsy room—­past the freezer of dead bodies and the storeroom with jars of organ samples—­into the inner offices.

  In the county I cover on my beat, Contra Costa County, the coroner is the sheriff. He assigns deputies to the morgue—­two-­year stints of working twenty-­four-­hour shifts. Their job is basically to go pick up bodies that the coroner’s office needs to autopsy. Usually, that involves anyone who died a suspicious death but also includes victims of fatal traffic accidents and drug overdoses. The two deputies on duty sit in cubicles with walls reaching nearly to the ceiling. A big white board on the far wall lists all the bodies they’ve brought in over the past twenty-­four hours. It’s sort of a “Dead of the Day” list. I scan it briefly.

  Davidson, Luke, #341, Antioch PD, homicide

  Doe, John, #342, Martinez PD, unknown

  Smith, Anne, #343, Danville PD, traffic collision

  The homicide was a gang retaliation from last night. May already wrote about it for today’s paper.

  “Want to see my latest?” Brian asks.

  Brian keeps a death book. Although the deputies have to photograph the scene as part of their job, Brian keeps copies of the Polaroids for his own personal scrapbook. I’ve browsed it before. I still can’t get some of the images out of my head, especially the father of five whose head was crushed by a six-­ton dump truck as he worked on its brakes.

  “Another time. On deadline.”

  Brian hands me the Laurent file, and I sit at an empty desk.

  Most autopsies include the coroner’s determination of the cause and manner of death, then specifics of the autopsy findings. I’m looking for anything that sticks out.

  Opening the file, I set aside the postmortem photos—­after all, I’d seen his dead body in person—­and flip to the report.

  AUTOPSY REPORT

  Department of Coroner

  Autopsy performed on Sebastian Laurent

  at the Department of Coroner, Martinez, Calif. June 23, 2002 @ 1000 hours.

  FINAL DIAGNOSIS AND FINDINGS:

  1. Perforating Gunshot Wound of the Head

  A. Entrance: posterior cranial, intermediate range

  B. Path of the projectile: Skin, left occipital region

  C. Direction of projectile: Diagonal, front to back, posterior cranial to occipital lobe

  D. Exit: None. Fragments of projectile recovered in parietal lobe, cephalic region, frontal region

  E. Associated injuries: Entrance wound; perforations of posterior cranial region with bilateral hemorrhage

  F. Postmortem radiograph: Metallic fragments of projectile identified

  Cause of Death: Gunshot Wound of Head

  Manner of Death: Homicide

  How Incident Occurred: Shot by another person

  CIRCUMSTANCES:

  On June 21, 2002, the decedent left his San Francisco residence at an unknown time in the early-­morning hours and drove to Kirker Pass Road in eastern Contra Costa County. At approximately 0800 hours, a neighbor walking her dog on the hills above the road saw the decedent’s vehicle in the ravine below.

  California Highway Patrol officers responded to reports of a traffic collision and found the decedent’s body inside the vehicle. They initially believed the death was accidental. An officer examining the vehicle called homicide after finding evidence of foul play in the form of a .40 caliber shell casing found inside the vehicle and an entry wound at the back of the decedent’s head.

  EXTERNAL EXAMINATION:

  The body is secured in a blue body bag with Coroner’s Examiner seal #0000523

  The body is viewed unclothed. The body is that of a normally developed, white male appearing the stated age of 34 with a body length of 72 inches . . .

  I skim the external examination since I saw the body myself. Up close. I pause at the part where the forensic pathologist identifies the slug. The bullet was fired from a SIG .40 caliber duty weapon—­the gun most cops, FBI, DEA, and Secret Ser­vice members carry.

  My stomach flip-­flops. I don’t know why. I continue to read, skipping the sections on the endocrine, cardiovascular, respiratory, and other systems so I can get to the tox report. I make a note to ask why the tox was a rush job.

  TOXICOLOGY:

  Blood, bile, urine, liver tissue, and stomach contents were submitted to the laboratory.

  Findings: Toxicology studies indicate high concentration of sodium pentothal in the blood.

  Sodium pentothal. The drug is famous for being a “truth serum” because it can decrease the higher brain function needed to lie.

  But after covering an execution on Death Row—­I know its other use—­lethal injection. It’s a rapid-­onset knockout drug—­the first of three drugs used in lethal injections. It’s not an easy drug to get your hands on, either.

  Did someone inject the drug into Laurent before his car went careening over the edge of the road? Did the killer strip the body of clothes before sending the vehicle plunging, or did it happen later, when he was in the ditch? And what was Laurent doing out on that deserted stretch of rural highway in the middle of the night?

  In my car on the way back to the newsro
om, I call one of my best sources. Lt. Michael Moretti and I bonded on the Italian-­American thing. Plus, he knows I would go to jail rather than tell ­people he fed me information. We Italians can be loyal sons of guns.

  “Hey, kiddo.” I don’t know why, but it always makes me feel good when Moretti calls me this.

  “Any new dirt on the Kirker Pass Road shooting?”

  “Don’t I even get a ‘Hey, how’s it going, Moretti?’ ”

  “Sorry. Saw the autopsy report. The slug was from a SIG .40 caliber.”

  “Yeah. Heard that,” Moretti says. He waits, clearing his throat.

  “What is it?” Fear shoots through me.

  “Did you see the list of belongings taken from the car?”

  “No.” I slam on my brakes. “I’m heading back to the morgue right now.”

  “Slow down. You didn’t hear this from me.” Famous Moretti words.

  “Of course I didn’t,” I quickly reassure him.

  “They found a badge. A police badge.”

  “What the hell?” I can feel the shiver streaking down my arms, raising the small airs and making me feel weak. “Let me guess? Rosarito?”

  Now it is his turn to be quiet. I tell him about my tires being slashed and finding the badge on my windshield. Which means the killer is the same person who slashed my tires.

  “I don’t like it,” he says grimly. “Not one bit. I want you to be extra careful, Gabriella. This doesn’t sit right with me at all. Why don’t you come by the station later, I’ve got an extra bulletproof vest here. Size small. You could borrow it.”

  I change the subject.

  “Did you see the tox?” I ask. “He was drugged. Knocked out. And why do they have tox already?”

  “They probably made tox priority because the guy was a big shot. Ended up finding the hypo on the shoulder, in the weeds. Clean. No prints.”

  They found the needle? “I can’t figure that whole scenario out,” I say, pressing my foot down hard on the accelerator. If I don’t hurry, I’m going to be late to Grant’s funeral.

  “No skid marks going over the side,” Moretti says. “Plus, some old boozer was driving home from the bar and says he saw the McLaren F1 parked on the side of the road. Another car was behind it, but he has no clue what kind of car it was. Too busy ogling the F1.”

  “Yeah, that’s one car that’s hard not to notice. Kind of like when a bank robber wears a clown wig so everyone remembers the wig and nothing else,” I say, navigating a hairy turn on the long road up to the cemetery.

  “Capisce. Same thing. Detectives even brought the old guy in for hypnosis to see if he had some details buried in his memory that could help him describe the second car, but it was dark that night, and the old geezer’s eyesight isn’t that great anyway, so no dice.”

  I think about Annalisa’s car, parked in the garage.

  “So, probably if it was a red Ferrari, he would have remembered it.”

  “You’d think.”

  “Was the car in PARK when they found it?”

  “Nope. DRIVE. Someone pushed it, maybe with another car. By the way, they did find some red paint on the bumper.”

  Chapter 25

  ADAM GRANT WILL be buried in a family plot on a stretch of the Oakland Hills cemetery called Millionaire’s Row. Although the section is gorgeous with palm trees, ornate Greek-­ and Roman-­style crypts, and stunning panoramic views of the San Francisco Bay, it seems like he would’ve been embarrassed to be interred in a place with that name.

  The funeral is a media spectacle. At least four helicopters circle overhead. All the major news stations have reporters on scene. I spot Andy Black, my competition from the San Francisco Tribune. Even the BBC is here.

  Kellogg was distracted when he agreed to let me cover the funeral. I’m sure if he knew the cops had questioned me a second time, he’d have forbidden it, but he seems preoccupied with editing a Bay Bridge story coming out this weekend.

  Lisa Shipley is somewhere around here, covering the funeral as part of her story about the political impact of Grant’s death. I spot her across the lawn, with notebook in hand, talking to official-­looking ­people.

  The church ser­vice was closed to the public, but they couldn’t block off the graveside ser­vice, so the mass of mourners and reporters congregate on the cemetery’s green slopes watching the hearse pull up. I feel a little like a vulture, but I keep telling myself that it’s my job to be here.

  Lopez and I both stand back, letting the television reporters storm the cemetery, inching as close to the burial site as they can. I stay back and quietly take notes on the scene, so I can describe it later in my story. I don’t need to be graveside. I have too much respect for Grant’s family members to disrupt the ser­vice with my presence. I do keep an eye on them, though, in case anything unusual happens.

  It wouldn’t be the first time. During one funeral I was covering, a mother threw herself on top of the casket after it was lowered into the ground. I’m still haunted by the sound of her wailing. I’m scanning the crowd when I see two ­people who make me cringe. Across the lawn, the detectives who questioned me—­Sullivan and Gold—­are hanging back from the crowd, leaning against a tree. The redheaded cop must see me looking because he lifts his two fingers in a salute.

  I know that homicide detectives often attend funerals because they have this theory that killers like to attend the funerals of their victims. Nice try. I lift my notebook in response to his salute. I’m here doing my job, sweetie.

  If they think they can pin Grant’s murder on me, they are out of their minds. All my fear about being considered a suspect churns into rage. Incompetent morons have no suspects, so they are focusing on me while the real killer skips around doing a jig because he or she is getting away with cold-­blooded murder.

  Lopez must notice my face turn purple because he lays his hand on my arm.

  “Jerk-­off cops over there staring at me.” I jut my chin in their direction.

  He knows the whole story.

  “Fuck ’em,” he says, taking a drag off his cigarette. “Want me to go have a word with Mr. Big Butt Detective?” He does a funny walk with his butt sticking out, and I laugh. The older cop does have an extraordinarily large backside. Lopez’s impersonation gives me the dose of laughter I need to relax. The anger whooshes out of me. Pull it together, Giovanni. You’ve got a job to do.

  I spot Annalisa Cruz in the line of mourners at the front, next to the grave. She has her arms entwined with a woman I recognize from TV as Daphne, Grant’s sister, the one I spoke to on the phone. Annalisa wears a tight, pencil skirt and balances on impossibly high black stilettos. A wispy veil attached to her big black hat covers half her face. Every once in a while, she dabs her eyes with a handkerchief. I swallow hard as they lower the shiny black coffin into the ground and release dozens of doves that take flight, soaring in the blue sky above.

  The mourners file away from the grave and get into big black cars. The line of cars is nearly gone when a stretch limousine stops in front of us. The driver, wearing a black suit and old-­fashioned chauffer’s cap, rolls down his window.

  “Annalisa Cruz would like to offer you a ride to the reception,” he says.

  Lopez and I look at each other in surprise. We weren’t invited to the reception in the first place.

  “The front seat please,” he says, leaning over to open the passenger door.

  We climb in quickly, so we don’t hold up the funeral procession. I try to peek in the back, but the thick black glass prevents me from seeing anything. But I know. I can feel her.

  The wake is at a private home in the Oakland Hills. Nobody says a word during the drive. When the limo pulls in front of the sprawling house, the chauffer hops out. He holds the door as a fishnet-­stocking-­clad leg emerges from the car. Annalisa’s shoulders are quaking as she turns and walks up to
the house without a backward glance.

  I shrug and nod for Lopez to follow. Inside, a butler leads us to an elaborately furnished sitting room that is bigger than my mother’s entire house.

  Lopez keeps his camera snug in its case. We find a quiet corner to hide in, feeling out of place and conspicuous. We are the only news­people in the room. I still can’t figure out why Annalisa wanted us there. So far, she’s avoided speaking to us.

  The nook where we are sitting only has the two seats and gives us a view of the entire front room, packed with ­people in black dresses and suits, holding glasses of wine and nibbling from plates of hors d’oeuvres carried around by white-­coated catering staff. I scan the crowd and spot the red-­faced man who was rescued from the pool. A few minutes later, I see the blond woman on the opera board. I cast a quick glance around looking for the black-­bikini woman. Makes sense the same ­people would be at Adam Grant’s funeral. They were his friends.

  Annalisa flits in and out of the crowd, swigging wine and casting an eye in our direction at least every five minutes. Men are constantly at her elbow. It looks like they are consoling her. Lots of hugs and kisses ensue. At one point, I see her surreptitiously wipe a tear from a corner of her eye.

  A man wearing dark sunglasses takes her elbow. She jumps. Then when she sees me watching, she smiles and wraps her arm through his. She leans her body close, pressing her chest up against his side, then stands on tiptoe as if to whisper something in his ear.

  When he turns his head I recognize him. It’s the man I ran into in the hall at Grant’s house. Like a magnet, my gaze is brought back to the man. Even though I can’t see the direction he’s looking beneath his sunglasses, it almost seems like he’s looking at me. It’s confirmed when he leans down and says something to Annalisa, and her head jerks toward me with a scowl. She flails her arm in my direction, with a nasty sneer on her face. I can just imagine what she is telling the man on her arm, but whatever it is, he still gives me a slow smile and raises his chin to acknowledge me.