The Disappearance

by J. F. Freedman

  Dinner will be the usual—order-in pizza while he hunkers down, going over everything he knows about tomorrow’s witnesses from his interviews and profiles and personal knowledge. It’s going to be a long night. All of them are.

  “Do we have any Cokes?” Riva is scrounging around in the pantry.

  “I don’t know,” Luke answers distractedly. He’s in the living room, his paperwork spread out on the coffee table, the floor, the couch. He couldn’t care less about what they have to eat or drink.

  “There’s nothing to drink in this house except wine and beer,” she says in exasperation, coming into the room. She checks her watch. “The pizza guy won’t be here for twenty minutes, they always take forty-five minimum. I’m going to run down to Von’s and grab some drinks.” Being pregnant, she isn’t drinking wine. “Do you want anything?” She’s grabbing the keys off the front hallway table.

  “Do we have juice for the morning? And maybe some yogurt? You’ll still be asleep when I leave.” Ewing’s courtroom opens for business at eight in the morning, but he’s out the door at six. “And remind me to set the coffee timer tonight for five-thirty.”

  She gives him a quick peck on the cheek. “I’ll be right back.” The door shuts with a loud thunk.

  The deputy sheriff on duty, sitting in his patrol car, stirs to attention as he sees the figure come out of the house and head towards the old truck. He starts to turn the ignition on, then he realizes it’s the woman, not the man. His job is to watchdog the man. He leans back in his seat, relaxed.

  Riva slowly backs the truck out of the driveway, checking for oncoming traffic. She pops the clutch and wrestles the gearshift into first, waving to the ever-present sentry. Luke’s being protected—she feels safer, knowing that.

  The road, sloping downhill all the way to town, is twisty and narrow, barely wide enough for two vehicles to pass each other. It’s a dark night, foggy too, and there are no streetlights on Mountain Drive. The only light comes from her own headlights. One hand on the wheel, she rubs her belly. She’s just beginning to show—you can’t see it when she has clothes on, only a tiny bit when she’s naked—but she can already feel the life inside her.

  No one knows. Only she and Luke.

  The radio is tuned to public broadcasting, nighttime jazz. She taps a finger on the gearshift lever as Miles Davis percolates out of the old speakers. A couple of cars pass her on her way down the hill. She slows to make sure there’s room to go by, edging slightly to the right, but not very much—the road drops off sharply here, and there are no guardrails. This old, pot-holed mountain road that’s barely five minutes from the center of Montecito is charming, but it’s a bitch to drive.

  Another car is coming towards her. She can’t see it yet, the road is too twisty here, it’s around the next curve, but she can see the headlights cutting through the fog. It seems to be coming fast, considering the bad visibility. She slows down, edging towards the right side of the road, making sure the other car has enough room.

  Then the other car is out of the curve and coming in her direction, about a hundred yards down the road. It has high headlights, too, another truck or SUV. Every other car around here is a four-wheel-drive of some kind, it’s become the housewives’ station wagon. It’s moving at a good clip, faster than it ought to be going, she thinks again. People get these four-wheel-drive contraptions and they think their off-road capability makes them invincible.

  The other vehicle is slowing some, seeing her headlights, but it’s still going too fast for her taste. Now it’s almost upon her, and it isn’t giving enough ground, it’s too far over the center line, she can’t get by, and then suddenly, without thinking of the consequences, the other hits the high beams, they shine right into her eyes, blinding her, she isn’t expecting that, it feels like two searchlights suddenly turned full onto her.

  She slows more, staying to the right. The oncoming vehicle comes abreast of her, and as its headlights slide by she begins to swing back towards the center of the road.

  Then she realizes what’s happening and she screams to herself: You’re not giving me enough room!

  The Range Rover, seemingly oblivious to the danger, almost brushes against the side of the truck. She stands on the brakes as hard as she can and fights the steering wheel, straining to hold her course.

  Somehow, she hangs on. The other vehicle powers by her, lost in a cloud of fog and dust.

  She pulls over at the first wide spot on the road. She’s shaking. Was that deliberate? she thinks. Someone thinking it was Luke driving the truck?

  It takes her five minutes to calm down enough to drive into town. Even in the safety of the supermarket, her purchases in her basket, she’s still shaking.

  She takes a different, longer route back to the house. No cars in sight.

  It was an accident. Some road-raged crazo oblivious to anything else on the road. As she heads into the last section before their place, she glances up the ravine towards the house. It’s easy to spot—the only one with the lights on, blazing in the darkness. Almost everyone else around here seems to have gone to bed.

  For a moment, on the other side of the deep barranca that separates the two sides of the canyon, two or three hundred yards from their house as the crow flies, a flashlight comes on, probing—a distant neighbor looking for a cat that won’t come in. Coyotes are all around this area. They don’t fear humans—they’ll come into your yard and take your pet cat or small dog or even—it’s rare but it did happen a couple of years back—a toddler. The mother heard the baby screaming and managed to save her, but it was a reminder that you’re living close to nature up here, and you have to be careful.

  She continues on to their house, where the cops are keeping them safe, tomorrow morning’s yogurt for the father of her yet-to-be-born child resting on the seat next to her.

  Doug Lancaster is in the courtroom. He isn’t in his normal seat, directly behind the prosecution table. Today he’s sitting in the very last row, in the seat closest to the door—insurance in case he feels compelled to bolt. Glenna is absent. Luke, scanning the audience as he awaits Judge Ewing’s entrance, knew she wouldn’t appear for this testimony, not after what he had witnessed in the corridor.

  “All rise, the Honorable Prescott Ewing presiding.” The bailiff sings out the ancient courtroom salutation. Everyone stands as Ewing sweeps in through the private door from his chambers directly behind the bench. Sitting, he wastes no time. “Call your next witness,” he tells Ray Logan.

  “Call Dr. Peter Manachi,” Logan says.

  The coroner takes the stand, the oath is administered.

  “Good morning, Dr. Manachi,” Logan says.

  “Good morning.” The coroner sits erect in the wooden captain’s chair, lord of all he surveys. He’s testified in thousands of trials, they’re all the same to him. He gives his results, fends off questions from the defense that in any way cast aspersions on him or his staff or their findings, and goes back to his lab in the pathology department of Cottage Hospital, of which he is the head. He’s hardly ever challenged on points that are substantive, and on the rare occasion when the veracity of his conclusions is called into question, he always has a decisive, black and white answer that brings any further doubt to a screeching halt.

  The interrogation begins. “Will you describe for the jury the condition of the murder victim, Emma Lancaster, when you first saw her?”

  “I will,” Dr. Manachi says. He has his report in his hand, reads from it. “The victim was a Caucasian female, approximately fourteen years of age. She had been wearing a flannel nightgown. She had been dead for some time, at least five days, more likely a week. There was gross swelling and discoloration of her abdominal area and gross swelling also of her extremities. Decaying of the flesh had commenced on various parts of her body.” He flips the first page, continues. “There was a significant indentation of her right temple, in the soft area almost directly above her right ear. This was black from occluded blood. And there were
the usual atrophic conditions associated with a corpse that has been unattended for this period of time. Do you wish me to elaborate?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” Logan says quickly. Blood and guts turn juries off, even when the victim is good evidence for you. He wants to skim over this part of his examination. He doesn’t want to overload the jurors with any more than the bare necessities.

  Luke is watching the jury keenly. They’re attentive, all twelve of them. This is going to be a tough day all around—for the prosecution initially, and then for him and Joe Allison. Much of the jurors’ collective attitude is going to be formed today. That may change, move around, ebb and flow, as future witnesses and contradictory evidence come forth. But opinions formed today will last for the rest of the trial, and have a powerful effect on the outcome.

  Logan moves on. “Were you able to determine the cause of death?”

  “Yes,” Dr. Manachi says authoritatively. “The victim was killed by a single blow to the right temple. The impact caused a rupture of the blood vessels in the right side of the brain, creating massive trauma.”

  “Can you speculate as to how soon the victim died after this occurred?” Logan asks.

  Manachi nods. “Instantaneously. A blow of this force causes almost as much damage as a bullet. The brain would have gone into spasm and ceased to function.”

  Luke is impassive as he listens. He’s heard testimony like this, much of it from Manachi, dozens of times. The jury, though, hasn’t. The shock and anguish they’re feeling about how Emma died is clearly registered on their faces. Stealing a glance over his shoulder, he spots Doug Lancaster in his back-row seat. The man’s face is splotchy red; he looks like he’s holding himself back from vomiting, or breaking down.

  Where were you that night? Luke thinks for the umpteenth time. Are you feeling pain? Guilt? Both?

  Logan asks his next question. “Could you speculate as to the type of weapon or object that was used?”

  “It wasn’t a sharp object, like a knife or a tool,” Manachi says. “More likely a hammer, a brick, a two-by-four. Something with weight and a certain massiveness to it. It was a very hard blow to have caused the amount of damage that was inflicted.”

  Logan nods. “All right. I think we’ve covered this sufficiently.” He walks from the podium back to the prosecution table, picks up a manila folder, walks to the witness stand, takes some pages out of the envelope, and hands them to his witness. “Would you examine these, Dr. Manachi?”

  Manachi leafs through the six-page report.

  “Can you tell the jury what this is, Doctor?”

  “This is an autopsy report. A standard form used throughout the state of California.”

  “Did you prepare this report?” Logan asks.

  “With the assistance of my staff, yes,” the doctor replies.

  “Request to be placed in evidence, Your Honor,” Logan intones. “Counsel for defense and the court have copies.”

  Ewing nods. “This will be marked as People’s exhibit fifteen,” he states, looking at his evidence chart.

  Logan hands it to the clerk, who marks it and places it on the evidence table.

  Luke knows what it says. It’s the hand grenade from which Logan pulled the pin during his opening remarks.

  Crossing back to his questioning spot, Logan says, “Was there anything in your report that goes beyond what you’ve told us? Any special injuries, abnormal circumstances surrounding the death, anything out of the ordinary?”

  Manachi looks at Logan, then at the jury. “Yes, there was,” he says gravely.

  Here we go, Luke thinks.

  “What was that, Dr. Manachi?” Logan asks. “What did you find upon your examination of this victim that you felt was unusual, considering the death and how it was caused.”

  “She had been sexually penetrated.”

  Although Logan had introduced this in his opening remarks, a gasp still comes from everyone in the courtroom, powerful in its intensity.

  “Was she raped?” That’s the logical question to ask. A fourteen-year-old girl is abducted, raped, murdered. It’s even worse than people thought, but it’s understandable.

  Dr. Manachi shakes his head. “No, she wasn’t raped.”

  Logan has to play this out. He is the liaison between the facts and the jury that will judge guilt or innocence based on those facts, and the emotions that arise from them. “I don’t understand,” he says.

  “Penetration and rape are two separate and distinct acts,” Manachi says carefully. “Rape is not consensual.”

  Now the gasp is a murmur, a buzzing, people speaking in whispers.

  “Are you telling us that Emma Lancaster had consensual sex with her killer?” Logan asks, his voice ringing with incredulity.

  “Yes.”

  More buzz, a swarming. Ewing thinks to gavel it down, but he can’t, it has a life force of its own. He could only stop it by clearing the courtroom, and that would cause worse problems.

  “What leads you to believe that, Doctor?” Logan asks. “She had been dead for a week or more. With her body decaying as it was, how can you tell if sexual penetration is consensual or rape?”

  “The extent to which the tissues are damaged, and so forth,” Manachi says. “But there was the reason, the physical condition that our autopsy revealed, that indicated that forcible entry had not occurred. She was pregnant, as you have already told this courtroom. That indicates an ongoing history of sexual activity, which would lead a reasonable person to believe that the sexual encounter, as well as other sexual encounters, was consensual.” He pauses. “But as I said, the evidence points in that direction as well.”

  Even though Logan had already lobbed this grenade into the arena, talking about it now, and so dispassionately, causes a collective stopping of breath. Luke, as much as anyone else, feels the importance of what this means.

  Logan waits a moment for the hubbub to subside, then continues questioning the coroner. “Was there sperm present in the victim’s vaginal cavity?”

  “We couldn’t tell.”

  “But you’re convinced that she’d had sex shortly before death. Could contraception have been used?”

  “Yes.”

  The condoms in the gazebo, the condoms in Allison’s house. It doesn’t take a genius to make that connection, Luke thinks.

  “Once more about the method of killing, to make sure we all understand you correctly, Dr. Manachi. It was one blow, strongly delivered, from an object such as a hammer or brick?”

  “That is correct.”

  And with that, the prosecution’s direct examination of perhaps their most important witness, certainly their most attention-grabbing one, is over.

  Luke notices that Doug Lancaster isn’t in the courtroom when he begins his cross-examination. He isn’t surprised.

  “Good afternoon, Doctor.”

  “Good afternoon, Luke—” He catches himself. “Mr. Garrison. I’m sorry.”

  “That’s okay,” Luke says. “We’ve carried a lot of water together, you and me. But you’ll forgive me if I don’t call you Peter.”

  The doctor smiles.

  Luke glances at his notes. “Did you make your determination that there was sexual activity before or after you performed the autopsy, Dr. Manachi?”

  Manachi thinks for a moment. “After,” he answers.

  “You’re sure it wasn’t before? No one called your office and told you that the victim was pregnant? Or might be pregnant?”

  The doctor has to think about that. “Not to my knowledge.”

  “You’re positive.”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” Manachi temporizes, “but I don’t recall getting such a call.”

  Luke shifts gears. “You speculated as to what kind of weapon was used. Hammer, brick, two-by-four were examples you gave.”

  “Yes.”

  “She wasn’t shot, knifed, anything like that?”

  “No,” the doctor says. “Absolutely not.”


  “Would you conclude, then, Doctor, from your long and expert experience in the field, that this killing was accidental or, at least, spur-of-the-moment? Considering the type of object you’re claiming had to have been used?”

  Logan, immediately on his feet, calls out, “Objection! Leading the witness, Your Honor.”

  “This is cross-examination, Your Honor,” Luke says sharply. “That’s the point.”

  Ewing nods in agreement. “Overruled.”

  Shaking his head in disgruntlement, Logan sits down.

  Luke repeats his question. “Is it your opinion that the killing of Emma Lancaster was either accidental or unpremeditated?”

  Manachi looks up at the ceiling, exhales slowly, squares his shoulders. “Given the nature of the fatal injury, that was probably what happened. Not definitely—you could plan to kill someone using an object such as those—but it’s more logical, when a killing occurs as this one did, that it’s a spur-of-the-moment thing and the killer used whatever was handy.”

  Luke pauses to let that sink in. Again, a strong admission to have on the record. Little Lisa Jaffe took forcible abduction off the table. Now the coroner, the most expert witness the state is going to offer on this matter, has proclaimed the killing not to have been premeditated: not first-degree murder.

  Ray Logan steals a look at the jury. They’re listening with interest, but the importance of the point seems to have escaped them. Luke will remind them during final arguments, of course, but for now the shock of the coroner’s recitation of Emma Lancaster’s pregnancy has dulled their critical antennae to anything else.

  “A few more questions, Dr. Manachi,” he says, gathering his notes. “The object that caused Emma Lancaster’s death. You said it was a blunt object, like a hammer.”

  “Yes.”

  “Could it have been something other than a hammer? Say a golf club? Like a three-wood, or a five-iron? A golf club is a blunt object.”

  Manachi considers. “That’s an interesting angle. I’d have to say yes. A golf club could certainly be the murder weapon. The arc of the swing would generate tremendous force.”