“What kind of evidence do the police have that leads them to conclude that Mr. Ginsberg’s murder is connected to this case?” A good question I thought, one I had anticipated.
“It just so happens that a second witness, a young woman named Robin Joiner, is also missing. When the police became concerned, they immediately went to Ms. Joiner’s apartment to check on her welfare. When they arrived, they found her missing and the apartment ransacked.”
“Dear God,” muttered Wilkinson. He sat in silence for a moment then asked, “Is there something you want me to do about this, or are you merely providing information?”
“Actually, Judge, I do have a request, one that I think you should seriously consider.”
“Go on.”
“We’re holding Mr. Bradshaw at the prison as a parole violator. We have a room on the prison grounds that the state parole board uses to conduct hearings. It’s a room that could easily be adapted for you to conduct Bradshaw’s preliminary hearing. The setting is more secure than the courthouse, and we don’t have to risk transporting him.”
“If I understand you correctly, Mr. Kincaid, you’d like me to move the hearing from my courtroom down to the state prison. Is that it?”
“Yes, Judge. That’s what I’m suggesting.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. In the first place, the hearing is scheduled in less than twenty-four hours. I’m certain that the logistics necessary to move the hearing couldn’t be completed in such a short time. Besides court employees, we’ve got lawyers involved, the victim’s family, and even the press. Moreover, as a jurist, I’m philosophically opposed to the notion of moving judicial hearings out of the courthouse to the safe confines of the local jail or prison. It denies the public access and it just doesn’t seem right.”
The judge had a good point, at least about the logistics associated with moving the hearing on such short notice. I thanked him and got up to leave. As I got to the door, he stopped me. “You know, Mr. Kincaid, in light of the current circumstances, I’m somewhat surprised that I haven’t received a motion for a continuance from the district attorney’s office. If I were to receive such a motion, I can tell you that I would likely grant it.”
***
I left the Scott Matheson courthouse and drove the short distance to police headquarters. I found McConnell cloistered in her office with materials from the Ginsberg file spread across her desk including some colored glossies from the crime scene that made me grimace. Looking over her shoulder, I said, “Hope you didn’t have a large biscuits and gravy breakfast this morning.”
“You know, Kincaid, for a veteran cop who has seen some really nasty stuff at the state prison, you sure have a delicate stomach.” I couldn’t deny it.
“How’d it go with Bradshaw this morning?”
“About like I thought it would—complete denial of any involvement in the killing. He kept his cool, didn’t give much away—hard to get a read on the guy. He surprised me with one thing he said, and that was that the death of the ‘queer sinner,’ referring to Mr. Ginsberg, was preferable to the loss of the beautiful, young woman.”
“Hmm. Interesting that he knew something about the witnesses.”
“Exactly what I thought. He explained it away by saying that his lawyer got the witness information from the DA through pretrial discovery.”
“Probably true.”
“I lied and told him that evidence discovered at the crime scene linked the members of his gang to the murder. That seemed to shock him a bit. Now we’ll monitor his communication carefully and see who he talks to and exactly what he says.”
“Good idea. And by the way, you may not have lied to him about the evidence. A patrolman discovered a bloody knife and a tire iron tossed in a dumpster about a block from the scene. Those items are being processed now for prints and other trace evidence.”
“That’s good. So what you’ve been up to?”
“I’ve been on the phone with the crime lab, and setting up interviews with people we need to talk to—friends, family, business associates.
“I did have an interesting interview with the victim’s partner, a guy named Rodney Plow. He was very emotional, broke down several times and just sobbed. At the risk of seeming insensitive, it almost felt contrived, like I was witnessing a performance—theater if you will. I think Mr. Plow was a kept man.”
“Nothing particularly unusual about that.”
“Maybe.” She abruptly changed the subject. “I’m starving. Want to grab a quick sandwich?”
I looked at her. “I’ll pass. In case you’ve forgotten, I’ve got a date with the M.E. in about twenty minutes for the vic’s autopsy. I think I’ll wait until after.”
She was smiling, making fun of me actually. “Queasy stomach, huh.”
I got up to leave. When I reached her office door, I turned. “Hey, you need any auto air fresheners?”
Chapter Seven
I arrived at the Utah State Medical Examiner’s Office on Salt Lake City’s east bench about ten minutes ahead of the scheduled autopsy. The office was located in University Park only a short distance south of the University of Utah campus.
When I entered the building, I was surprised, and slightly amused, to discover that the state had opened a small gift shop in the lobby. Maybe the state budget was in worse shape than I thought. Two black cotton tees were displayed on a rack near the store’s entrance with lettering across the top that read, “Utah State Medical Examiner.” Additional print on one of the shirts said, “Any day above ground is a good day” and on the other, “Our day begins when yours ends.” That was enough for me.
I was ushered into the autopsy suite promptly at one-thirty. I was greeted by Dr. Francis Chandler-Soames, forensic pathologist and the Chief Medical Examiner for the State of Utah. “Well, well, if it isn’t Sam Kincaid. Don’t see you often at these parties.”
“A favor to Lt. McConnell,” I said. “We’re assisting her office on this investigation.”
Chandler-Soames introduced me to her assistant, a young intern from the University of Utah medical school, training in forensic pathology. She offered me a mask laced with some kind of peppermint concoction. I declined. “Thanks, but I came prepared.” I smeared my upper lip with Vicks Vaporub and we went to work.
The guest of honor was zipped in a black, plastic body bag and had been placed on a metal table. The autopsy suite was outfitted with all the latest technological gadgets—a pair of overhead microphones dangled from the ceiling connected to a voice recorder activated by a foot pedal. A Sony camcorder mounted on a tripod sat next to the table to videotape the festivities.
Chandler-Soames and her assistant deftly removed the deceased from the body bag. A trickle of dried blood was visible from the nose and both ears. The assistant began snapping photographs while Chandler-Soames made her initial observations. The blunt force trauma to the back of Ginsberg’s head was the most obvious injury. That changed as soon as the forensics team began removing the vic’s clothing. I couldn’t miss the elongated stab wound that began just under the sternum and continued its jagged path upward toward the heart.
Stab wounds were familiar to me, much more than firearms, since cutting instruments were the most common form of weapon available to prison inmates. Stab wounds were always difficult to analyze but it was a safe bet that the weapon used in this attack was a bit more substantial than a pocket knife.
Fingernail scrapings were taken as well as blood, urine, and hair samples. Mouth and rectal swabs were obtained for subsequent use in toxicological studies. Chandler-Soames used a laser light to examine the body carefully for trace evidence not easily seen by the naked eye. Next, the body was washed, measured, and weighed.
The internal examination began with a large and deep Y incision from shoulder-to-shoulder and down to the pubic bone. Skin, muscle, and soft tissue were then peeled back to expose the internal organs. The internal organs were systematically removed, w
eighed, and carefully examined. The stomach was also removed and the contents weighed and examined in order to determine what was eaten and when.
Mercifully, the entire procedure took just a little over three hours. I’ve attended autopsies that lasted double that. Chandler-Soames met me for a debriefing in a conference room near the autopsy suite.
“Sam, do you want us to turn Mr. Ginsberg’s clothing and personal effects over to you?”
“I don’t think so. That would put me square in the middle of the chain-of-custody. Kate’s going to want to have a look at everything anyway. Just hold the evidence and let her assume custody of it.”
“That’s fine. Let me begin by giving you a brief summary of our findings. Mr. Ginsberg died, and probably very quickly, as the direct result of severe blunt force trauma to the back of his skull sufficient to cause significant epidural intracranial bleeding. An epidural bleed like this one occurs in the space between the brain and the skull.”
I interrupted. “Doc, could you drop that down a decimal or two and put it into layman’s language for me.”
“Sure. Mr. Ginsberg suffered a serious brain concussion probably sufficient to cause immediate unconsciousness. The force of the blow caused a severe skull fracture which tore epidural arteries producing internal bleeding around the brain. If you remember seeing the small amount of dried blood around both ears and the nose, that’s often a symptom of a skull fracture. Arterial bleeding is usually brisk and will cause a coma and death quite rapidly.”
“And what about the knife wound?”
In this case either of the wounds was sufficient to cause death. With the combined wounds, he had little chance of survival. If my theory is correct, this is what probably happened to Mr. Ginsberg: He was struck from behind by a male using some type of pipe or tire iron about three inches in diameter. At about the same time, a second assailant inflicted the fatal stab wound to the chest area.”
“What makes you think the attacker was male?”
“Aside from the fact that women don’t often kill by bludgeoning somebody to death, the amount of blunt trauma to the back of the victim’s head was extreme. It would take an awfully strong woman to inflict that kind of damage—possible, yes, but not likely. Second, the angle of the head wound tells me that you are probably looking for a suspect who is two or three inches taller than your victim. We measured him at six-foot-two.”
“You mean the attacker swung the murder weapon in a downward arc across the back of the vic’s head.”
“Exactly.”
“So, we’re probably looking for a tall, male perp, maybe six-four or five.”
“I think so, yes.”
“And the stab wound. You don’t think it could have been inflicted while the victim was lying prone?”
“I don’t believe so,” said Chandler-Soames. “Whoever inflicted the stab wound went in deep and hard just under the sternum. The perp yanked the blade upward with a hell of a lot of force, inflicting a great deal of internal damage on the way to the heart. The victim would have suffered significant bleeding both internally and externally from the knife wound. Death would have come more slowly, and, of course, if it hadn’t been for the head wound, he might have been able to call out for help.”
“What kind of knife?”
“I’ll have to get back to you on that one after I’ve had time to do more analysis. I can tell you that you’re looking for a large knife with approximately a seven to eight inch blade, serrated on at least one edge.” I remembered Kate telling me that somebody had found what she thought were the murder weapons in a dumpster near the crime scene. I couldn’t recall the specifics on the type of knife.
“Fair enough. I’ll pass this information along to Lt. McConnell, and I’m sure if she has questions, she’ll be in touch. How long before we have a report?”
“Two days minimum, three at the outside. And I’ll see if I can have the tox studies ready as well.”
Chapter Eight
I left the medical examiner’s office and made a mad dash for Park City. I figured that if I drove like Michael Andretti at the Indianapolis 500, I might make Sara’s four-thirty soccer game. This was her second year playing soccer, and she was turning into a first rate little goalie. If I miss one of her games, my most favored Dad rating takes a nose dive, not only on Sara’s scale, but on Aunt June’s as well. That’s real pressure. Sometimes circumstances make it impossible for me to attend a game, but I’ve managed to make most of them.
On my way up the mountain, I tried to call Kate on her cell. This was high speed multi-tasking at its very best, and I’m happy to report that I didn’t kill anyone in the process. Kate didn’t answer so I left a message promising to call her first thing in the morning. I also found a message on my cell from Patti telling me to contact Captain Jerry Branch, day shift commander of the Uintah I prison housing unit. Perhaps my interview with Walter Bradshaw resulted in a flurry of communication with his contacts on the outside. I would soon find out.
The game was being played at the middle school near Kimball Junction. I made it just as the game began. I took over from Aunt June who had driven Sara and two of her teammates to the game. Sara managed fourteen saves but her team lost two to one. In order to lift team spirits, yours truly sprang for Pizza Hut pizza for what seemed like half the team.
When we got home, I observed an unmarked Summit County Sheriff’s Department car parked across the street from my house. Because of the nature of my work, I pay particular attention to unfamiliar vehicles parked anywhere near my home. I sent Sara on into the house. An older, plain-clothes suit got out of the sheriff’s vehicle and walked toward me carrying what looked like a legal file. I didn’t recognize him.
“Excuse me,” he said. “Would you be Sam Kincaid?”
“I am. And you are?”
“Jerry Grover.” He reached out and shook my hand. “I’m a retired deputy with the sheriff’s department. I still work part-time serving legal process.”
I was puzzled. “And what brings you to see me, Jerry?”
He broke eye contact and looked slightly embarrassed. “I’m sorry, but I have the unpleasant task of having to serve you with court papers.”
I had a sinking feeling. “What kind of court papers?”
“Family court documents—appears to be a child custody law suit.” I accepted service of the documents and Grover departed. I should have seen this coming.
My former spouse, Nicole Bingham-Kincaid, had gone ballistic when she heard about the violent incident that occurred in our home several months earlier. In the confusion of the moment, it never occurred to me that I’d better call her in Atlanta and explain what happened before somebody else did. Well, somebody else did, and Nicole was furious that she got the news from someone else, and furious that my work had placed our daughter in imminent danger.
She arrived in Salt Lake City the next morning on the first available flight from Atlanta. Because Nicole is an Atlanta-based flight attendant for Delta Airlines, she was able to arrange her schedule over the next several weeks so that she was routed through Salt Lake City. This allowed her to spend more time with Sara. During the ensuing summer months, Sara spent several weeks in Atlanta with Nicole. When Nicole had to fly, Sara stayed with her grandparents who reside about thirty minutes outside Atlanta.
Standing in my driveway, I quickly perused the legal paperwork. The documents notified me of Nicole’s intent to seek primary custody of Sara and move her to Atlanta. A hearing had been scheduled in three weeks. Nicole had made noises to me about this during the summer, but I had chosen to ignore her, believing that things would calm down and it would all blow over. Not so.
I felt sick to my stomach. What would I say to Aunt June and Sara? Should I even tell Sara at this point? Since the divorce, with a lot of help from Aunt June, we had managed to become a loving, cohesive family. Surely, no family court judge would choose to turn Sara’s and our lives upside down.
&nbs
p; And what was Nicole thinking? Her life, the life that she had chosen ahead of marriage and family, was a life flying to destinations all over the globe. She could only make this arrangement work with the help of her parents or a live-in nanny. I slipped the documents into my briefcase and went in the house.
Aunt June was waiting for me in the kitchen wearing a concerned look on her face. “Who was that man and what did he want?”
“We need to talk. Where’s Sara?”
“Downstairs playing computer games. What’s this all about? He came to the door looking for you. When I told him that you weren’t home from work, he thanked me and then just sat in his car. He’s been out there for almost an hour.”
I showed her the paperwork and explained what I thought it meant. In my entire life, Aunt June had always been calm and stoic in the face of difficulty. I had seen tears only once, and that was at the funeral of my parents, both killed in a light plane crash while vacationing. On this occasion, I could see tears welling in the corners of both eyes. She dabbed them with a tissue. What came next surprised me. The emotion had quickly given way to something between anger and outright defiance.
“We’re going to fight this, aren’t we?” she asked. “We’ll hire the best damn attorney money can buy. And we’ll fight her. What in heavens name could Nicole be thinking—to tear this little girl from a loving and stable environment and move her clear across the country?” A fair question I thought.
“Yes, I suspect we will,” I said. “But we’ve got to think it through very carefully. This would be a poor time for a knee-jerk response. In the meantime, we say nothing to Sara. There’ll probably come a time when we will have to tell her, but not now.” I knew myself well enough to understand that I’m not particularly good at figuring things out on the fly—thinking quickly on my feet had never been my forte. Given a little time, things would come into focus, and I would know what to do.
Sleep did not come easy. I read, tossed and turned, read some more, and tossed and turned some more. I did what I often do in situations like this. I got up and went to work. I tip-toed down the hall, looked in on Sara, and then slipped into my office.
Silent Witness Page 4
