by Anne Frasier
“I’ll just stay in my room and type up my notes,” he’d said, relief in his voice at not having to witness another autopsy.
Their covered shoes made a shushing sound as they shuffled across the polished cement floor. Taking their places around the zipped and sealed body bag, they dropped their face shields.
The room always had the same mood, and that was one of respect and calm. Odd to say, but Elise thought of it as soothing. She even associated the sound of the exhaust fans and the smell of formalin with peace.
John started with the time, dictating into a microphone. That was followed by the stats of name and age and height and weight. The red dressing gown was carefully removed and put in an evidence bag. Photos were taken, and an external exam was made. Birthmarks and tattoos were documented. After that, John noted and measured abrasions and contusions and lacerations, most superficial.
Hoffman’s hands had been bagged at the scene. John carefully cut the bags away and took fingernail samples, the bags themselves not discarded but logged as evidence, which Mara labeled as John worked. Hair samples were collected, along with skin scrapings. Fingerprints and blood cards would remain on file at the morgue.
The diener positioned a rubber body block under Hoffman’s neck to allow for easier access to the chest cavity, leaving the head tipped back, the neck gash agape.
“He practically severed her spine,” Elise said.
Lamont nodded. “That would take a lot of strength.”
“How much?” Elise asked. “Are we talking about a big man?” David was not a big man.
“Not necessarily,” Lamont said. “I’ve seen scrawny guys do some serious damage when they’re full of adrenaline. Think about the instances of women being able to lift cars.”
“What about the murder weapon?” Elise asked.
John motioned for the assistant to take a photo of the gaping wound. “Going by the clean edges and depth of the cut, I’d say this was done in one motion with an extremely sharp blade. Maybe a hunting knife.”
A half hour into the autopsy, John ran the rape kit, standard in murder cases. He handed a swabbed slide to Mara. “Check that, darlin’.”
Mara carried the slide to a microscope at the counter in the corner of the room. “Sperm present,” she announced over her shoulder. “Fresh as the day they were launched.”
That got everyone’s attention. Sperm usually disintegrated after one or two days. If the sperm ended up being David’s, it would be enough to arrest him even though it wouldn’t unequivocally put him at Hoffman’s house at the time of the murder.
“We’ll get samples to Atlanta for a DNA test,” John said.
“Any indication of sexual assault?” Elise asked.
After a visual exam, John shook his head. “No bruising, no contusions. Can’t say one hundred percent, but it appears the sex was consensual.”
Which might also implicate David.
“That goes along with my theory,” Lamont said with satisfaction. “She knew her assailant.”
“The sex could have happened before the perpetrator arrived at her house,” Elise pointed out. “There might not be any connection between the murder and the sexual act.”
Lamont gave her a long look of exasperation, shaking his head. “That’s stretching the time frame in which semen will remain viable.”
“It still falls within the parameters. It’s a stretch, but even May eleventh falls within the parameters.”
“We’re here to find evidence, not launch a defense,” Lamont said.
“Defense?” John asked. “Who are you defending?”
Elise gave him an almost imperceptible shake of her head. “I’ll fill you in later.”
“I’ll fill him in right now,” Lamont said.
Elise fixed him with a hard stare. Don’t say a word.
Without hesitation, Lamont said, “Our main suspect is David Gould.”
Mara let out a gasp. John’s hands froze over the body, and he looked up at Lamont. “David Gould is going to be my best man.”
Lamont shrugged inside his yellow gown. “Sorry about that. He’s our prime suspect.”
Mara joined them over the body. “What about innocent until proven guilty?”
“I’m all for that, but right now Gould is looking damn guilty.” Lamont waved a gloved hand at the body. “So can we just continue?”
“He didn’t do it,” Mara said with defiance and conviction.
“Do you think David is guilty?” John asked Elise through his face shield. She could see the disbelief on his face. “It can’t be David. It’s not David.”
She had no words of assurance to offer. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I honestly don’t know.”
“Let’s keep moving,” Lamont said. “The autopsy? Will you continue? You can sob over Gould later.”
“None of this leaves this room.” Elise wasn’t worried about Mara and John, but the diener was practically salivating behind his mask. What was his name? James? Jimmy? She gave him a stern look. “If this news hits the streets, I’ll know where it came from.”
He blinked. “You don’t need to threaten me,” he said, clearly offended. “I have ethics. I signed confidentiality papers.”
Elise nodded. “Okay. I know. I’m sorry. Just wanted to make sure everybody was on the same page.”
The exam continued, but the tone of the room had changed. Elise felt bad about that, and she felt she was as much or more to blame for the change as Lamont. The feeling of peace was gone, replaced with unease and resentment.
Hoffman’s mouth was examined, the condition of her gums and teeth noted, and her tongue and throat were swabbed, the sample slipped into a tube with a fixative solution. As John passed the solution to Mara for labeling, he kept his eyes on Hoffman’s face. “That’s strange,” he said, almost to himself. He leaned in closer. “Bring me a light, Jimmy.”
Jimmy.
High-powered flashlight in one hand, forceps in the other, John probed Major Hoffman’s oral cavity.
Murder was strange enough, but many murderers left calling cards. The Savannah Killer left his on the body, but the mouth and rectum were favorite places for others.
Like someone handling nitroglycerin, John worked carefully to extract something from Hoffman’s throat, finally depositing a blood-soaked ball about the size of a grape on the stainless steel tray Mara provided.
The object looked like a wad of papier-mâché.
Elise felt a surge of hope.
All five people gathered round as John gently coaxed the bloody piece of pulp open.
“Water.”
A bottle of sterile water appeared. Mara uncapped it, breaking the seal and handing it to John.
He poured it gently over the material.
Like a flower, the thing on the tray began to slowly unfold.
A rectangle of newspaper, the edges torn, not cut with the precision of scissors.
“I’d hoped for a note.” Elise didn’t try to hide her disappointment.
John continued to examine the material with forceps. “The newsprint has run so badly I can’t make anything out.”
Lamont straightened away from the evidence. “It’s a crossword puzzle.”
He was right. “It’ll have to go to the Georgia Bureau of Investigation,” Elise said. “They have an expert who might be able to decipher the text.”
“Put that under a magnifying glass, will you?” John handed the tray to Mara. “See if you can make anything out.”
A few minutes later, Mara said, “The date. That’s all I can see.”
A date would seem insignificant to most people. “What is it?” Elise asked with growing dread.
“May twelfth.”
Elise looked at Lamont’s smug face, easily reading his thoughts. The anniversary of David’s son’s death.
“I want a full copy of your report.” With a sound of satisfaction, Lamont snapped off his latex gloves and dropped them in the biohazard bin near the door. “I also wa
nt to see the autopsy report on Flora Martinez.”
“Martinez?” John frowned behind his face shield and shot Elise a puzzled glance.
Tell you later.
“I also want you to compare both reports,” Lamont said. The yellow gown joined the gloves.
John stood over the body. He’d be there another hour, removing organs and weighing them. “Are those your orders?” he asked Elise.
“I’m federal,” Lamont said. “You answer to me.”
“I work for the city,” John said.
Elise reached behind her back to untie her gown. “It’s okay.”
John shrugged. “Will do.”
“Tell the lab to call with the results as soon as they get them,” Lamont said. “And put a rush on everything.”
Thirty minutes later, Elise’s phone rang as she was getting into her car.
David.
She answered, careful to keep her voice neutral, hoping he wasn’t calling to ask about the autopsy.
“Coretta’s funeral has been scheduled,” he told her, naming the date and time. “You wanna ride together?”
“Sure,” she said with temporary relief. “I’ll pick you up.”
CHAPTER 32
Turned out Major Hoffman did have relatives; they showed up for the funeral. In a small white wooden church located west of Martin Luther King Boulevard, officers filled the pews. Pretty much the entire police department was there, at least all of the officers who weren’t on duty, along with some, like Elise, who were. David, Avery, and Jay Thomas sat on one side of Elise; John Casper and Mara on the other. Lamont sat in the aisle across and behind them, keeping his eye on his prime suspect. At the last minute, Jackson Sweet had chosen to stay home, brought down by a wave of dizziness, while at the same time deciding it would be best if he kept a low profile. His forte.
The front pews were filled with elderly family members and an aunt who’d made the funeral arrangements. The closed casket, set front and center, was white and covered with wildflowers. In the center of those flowers was a photo of Major Hoffman.
A female minister gave the eulogy, and a soloist sang. Relatives, old and needing assistance getting to and from the podium, spoke about Major Hoffman’s childhood on Sapelo Island. They talked about what a joyful and God-fearing child their Cora had been. They told stories about her mischief and her generosity.
This was a person Elise had never known. This was a person she wished she’d known.
At one particularly poignant part of a story, when sniffles were heard moving through the church, David shifted and Elise glanced at him. His face was ashen. He’d said he hadn’t loved Coretta and that the relationship had been a mistake, but maybe he was crying for the secret Coretta.
Elise felt for his hand and gripped it, hoping the gesture would give him a bit of comfort. He turned his head and looked at her, his eyes like stars, lashes wet.
This was not the face of a killer. No matter how guilty the evidence made him appear, the murderer couldn’t be David. He wouldn’t have killed Coretta.
Not consciously, came the reminder. Not with awareness.
For a weird fraction of a second, she thought, So what? So what if he’d done it? This was David.
Her reaction horrified her. She instantly rejected her thoughts, kicked them away, and buried them deep, but that moment of deviancy had brought with it a deeper understanding of the criminal mind and of the women who followed their men into murder. It took only a small tweak, a small misfiring of synapses to be okay with aberrant behavior.
The pallbearers were uniformed officers. Walking slowly down the aisle, they carried the casket high, as if it were no burden. Outside, they slid it onto the bed of a shiny black carriage pulled by a white draft horse. The procession of mourners moved on foot behind the carriage, singing sad songs of hardship as they went. On the street, people stopped and bowed their heads.
The burial took place in Laurel Grove Cemetery. Elise heard that one of the family members wanted to take Coretta’s body to Daufuskie or Sapelo Island, where a few of Hoffman’s relatives still lived. The aunt from Atlanta won, claiming Coretta would have wanted to be buried in the city she’d loved.
In the cemetery, birds sang and traffic roared past. In the distance, children laughed while another prayer was said, and grave diggers waited in the shade.
“I’m gonna find whoever did this,” David said under his breath as he and Elise watched the casket being lowered into the ground.
They’d arrived at the awkward part of a funeral. Where everything was done, but there was no real ending. No credits rolled, nobody said it was time to leave, and nobody said it was over. People wondered if every song had been sung and every prayer prayed. At last a few began to drift and fan out in a slow dance. The rest followed.
Elise’s phone vibrated, indicating a call. She checked the screen: Georgia Bureau of Investigation Crime Lab.
She answered while moving away for privacy.
“We have DNA results on that rush order,” the girl calling from Atlanta told her. “Most of the print matches belonged to David Gould. The rest belonged to Coretta Hoffman. I’m faxing the results to your office right now.” The sound of shuffling paper. “We also got a DNA match on the semen.” A pause. “Also David Gould’s.”
It was eighty degrees out, but Elise felt a chill run through her. She’d mentally prepared herself for this, but in the back of her mind she’d clung to the hope that they wouldn’t find David’s DNA.
A heartbeat later, the rationalizations began. Of course his DNA was found inside Coretta. They’d been lovers. Of course his prints were everywhere.
Numbly, Elise signed off. Seconds later, across an expanse of cemetery, she saw Lamont answering his phone. With the device to his ear, he scanned the dispersing crowd, stopping when he spotted David.
The FBI agent was getting an identical call from the Georgia Bureau of Investigation.
Sometimes life-changing decisions were made, not with long hours of deliberation, but without thought, in a split second.
Elise made one of those decisions now.
She pulled out her phone and sent a text message to David, who stood near Coretta’s grave. Run.
CHAPTER 33
David read the text from Elise.
Run.
He looked up to see Lamont striding toward him, jaw rigid, face intense.
David ran.
People everywhere.
He dodged a fragile old woman with a cane, cut to the left, past a guy who smelled like cigars, then right around a table tomb, leaping over graves and headstones until he reached a flat, open area where he could really haul ass.
The cemetery was long and narrow, covering a shitload of acres, with flat dirt roads that wound through live oaks, past statuary and mausoleums.
The landscape was a blur because one thing David could do was run—even in a suit and tie.
As he moved, as his arms and legs pumped, he put the pieces together. Elise and Lamont had both received phone calls, probably from the crime lab, probably finding DNA that incriminated him.
He couldn’t go to jail. He had work to do, murders to solve.
Behind him, way behind him, Lamont shouted for him to stop. “You’re under arrest!”
David kept going.
The terrain changed, and blue water sparkled in the distance. He knew this area. He’d been here before.
Slide down the hillside into a shallow valley, heart pumping, breathing harsh. What kind of shape was Lamont in? Bad, hopefully.
Lamont must have called for backup, because David heard sirens, the sound normally welcoming, normally the sound of help. They weren’t coming to help him now.
He paused to get his bearings.
From behind the top of a hill, Lamont’s head appeared. The bastard could run faster than David would have guessed. But his face was red, and he was sweating profusely. “You’re under arrest.” The gun in his hand was aimed at David.
David d
ove behind an altar tomb, scrambled to his feet, and kept going, pouring it on.
He heard a series of pops. Tufts of grass exploded around his legs, dirt flying as bullets peppered the ground. He felt a sting in his shoulder.
This was the part of the story where David knew he should stop, knew he should raise his arms and clasp his hands behind his head and give up. But Lamont now had a real reason to lock him up and throw away the key, and David seriously began to doubt the choice he’d made to run.
Too late now.
With a hand pressed to his shoulder, he kept moving, the sound of sirens increasing while Lamont began to lag.
David veered back to the dirt road where he could run flat out. A couple of minutes later, he rounded a bend and spotted what he’d been looking for. A mausoleum. The mausoleum where he’d almost died.
It was a popular spot with kids, probably more popular now that the story had gotten out about the events that had taken place there. The lock was broken.
Thank you, vandals.
Diving inside, David pulled the heavy marble door shut behind him. The sound of the closing tomb was like nothing he’d ever heard before. Like the sound of finality. The sound of death. And the darkness inside was absolute.
He dug out his phone and hit the flashlight app, scanning the space. There was the altar in the center; there were the vaults lining one wall where cremains were stored. A nasty blanket lay in the corner with some half-burned candles, along with empty beer cans and broken glass.
And what he was looking for.
An opening that led to the fragile and dangerous underground tunnels where, years ago, the bodies of yellow fever victims had been transported to the cemetery for burial.
David slipped through the opening, climbing over rubble that had either fallen or been removed by kids in order to gain access.
The tunnels were arched and lined with brick, much of which had crumbled away. Tangled roots had broken through walls and the tabby floor in their search for water, and as David moved, they grabbed at his feet.
