by Ian Smith
“May I help you?” a student called from behind a cluttered desk. Sterling could hardly see him over the stack of papers.
“I was hoping you might help me find someone,” Sterling said. The student got up and came over to him. “Do you keep files on which students get assigned to the various jobs?”
“Absolutely,” the student said. He was tall and thin—a great body for long-distance running, Sterling thought. “We need to keep track of the job matches to make sure the right person gets paid. Also, if someone doesn't show up, we need to know where to send a replacement worker.”
“Then maybe you can help me figure out who was parking cars at the president's house this past Friday night.”
The boy's expression suddenly changed. “I'd like to help you, sir, but I can't just give out information like that to anyone.”
“I'm Agent Sterling Bledsoe.” Sterling flashed his shield. “Brother of Professor Wilson Bledsoe.”
“I'm sorry, sir, I didn't know,” he said. “I'll be right back.” The lanky student hurried to the desk and rummaged through a drawer full of loose papers. He returned after a few minutes with a narrow look on his face.
“All the parties at the president's house are serviced by our seniors,” he explained. “Those jobs are always in high demand, because the president pays a little more for student services and his guests usually leave bigger tips. That night there were nine students—two behind the bar, three serving hors d'oeuvres, two checking coats, and two parking cars.”
“I'd like to speak to one of the valets.”
The student traced his finger across the page. “Carlos Sandoza and Michele Leone,” he said.
“I'm looking for Carlos. How can I get ahold of him?”
“Let me call his room.”
Sterling observed the busy office, watching the students scribble down names and phone numbers of potential employers. His undergraduate years were different. Extra money was hard to come by unless you shot a good game of pool or could play a mean hand of poker. Things seemed much easier now.
The student came back in a minute or two. “I talked to one of his roommates. You're in luck. Carlos left the dorm about five minutes ago. He's heading over here to pick up his paycheck.”
“How far away is his dorm?”
“Just on the other side of the green. It won't take him long to get here.” Students continued to file in and out of the office.
“I'll wait for him,” Sterling said, stepping back into the empty hallway and taking a seat on the small bench outside the office. He pulled out his black book and slowly turned the pages. Carlos Sandoza was probably one of the last friendly faces his brother saw.
Carlos Sandoza was a strongly built kid with dark, wavy hair that had been combed back and gelled into a perfect helmet. His Sean John headband, baggy denims, and black Timberland boots were the clothes of his neighborhood—the South Bronx—and he walked with the swagger of someone familiar with the life of the streets. Sterling had a feeling that he hadn't grown up with the same advantages as the other students, and he wasn't going to make any excuses for it. In an Ivy League town full of privileged prep schoolers, Carlos Sandoza wore his hardened Bronx upbringing defiantly.
“You looking for me?” he asked.
“Carlos Sandoza?”
“Yeah, that's me. Who wants to know?” A long toothpick dangled from the corner of his mouth.
“I'm Sterling Bledsoe, brother of Professor Wilson Bledsoe.”
Carlos sized up Sterling. “Your brother was the shit,” he said. The toothpick seemed like it was about to fall out, but it didn't.
“What part of the Bronx?” Sterling asked.
“You know the city?”
“I can find what I need,” Sterling answered.
“Hundred and Thirty-ninth and Beekman. South Bronx.”
“Mott Haven,” Sterling said. “Number 6 train to Brook Avenue.”
Carlos nodded his head in approval. “You know the 'hood. Most people don't.”
“Not many reasons to go to that part of the city.”
“That's right, not unless you got business.”
“I want to ask you some questions about the night you were parking cars.”
“I don't know anything,” Carlos said. “He came out, got in his car, and left. Someone called me this morning and said he was dead.”
“Not just dead,” Sterling said. “Murdered. And it was someone with a grudge against him. Messed him up real bad.”
“That's fucked up!” Carlos said. The toothpick finally escaped his mouth and landed somewhere on the ground between them. “Who would kill the Professor?”
Sterling grabbed Carlos's arm and walked him away from the employment office and into an unlit hallway. “That's why I'm here,” Sterling said. “I think you might be one of the last people he saw.”
Carlos put his large hands on his hips and shook his head. Disappointment and shock wrinkled his forehead, making his hard countenance appear even tougher.
“What can you tell me about that night?” Sterling asked.
Carlos paused. “Everybody wanted to work that party because a lot of big names were coming from across the country. It was a nice set. Bigger than usual. I only went inside a couple of times, because I was parking cars. Most cats have too much pride to park cars, but not me. Parking gets you the biggest tips. By the time people leave President Mortimer's parties drinking all that fancy shit, they ass is tore up. When I bring their cars around, they're so drunk they give me whatever's green in their pocket—fives, tens. I even got a twenty that night. I remember Professor Bledsoe was one of the first to leave.” Carlos stopped and shook his head. “I can't believe he's dead.”
“Try to think back, Carlos. Did Wilson appear to be drunk? Was he acting unusual?”
“Not at all,” Carlos replied. “I've served him at parties before, and he never drank more than one glass of wine. I think he liked red. I was surprised to see him leave so early, you know, because it was his party and all.”
“He never was much of a partier,” Sterling said. “He'd rather be in the classroom or working in the lab.”
“When I saw him getting his coat, I ran and got his car so that it would be waiting when he walked over to the driveway. I have much respect for your brother. A lot of us looked up to him. He might've been the quiet type, but he kicked some serious academic ass at this lily-white school.”
“Did he say anything that was out of the ordinary?”
Carlos squinted hard. “Not really. I asked him to autograph one of his textbooks for me, but he laughed and wouldn't sign it. He said that autographs were for famous people and that he was just a small scientist daring to dream big. He was keeping it real. I'm telling you, your brother was the shit.”
Sterling nodded his head slowly. “Did he say where he was going?”
“Not really. Not that I remember.”
“After he left, did you hear anything funny that night?”
Carlos thought hard. “It was a rainy night. Up here in the boonies you hear all sorts of strange sounds. When the rain started coming down harder, I went in the house to get an umbrella. As soon as I walked back outside, I heard a pop. It sounded familiar. Reminded me of gunshots back home.”
“You think it was a gun?”
“It definitely sounded like one, but it was off in the distance. I heard the same thing a few minutes later. I thought maybe one of the frat houses was setting off firecrackers or something—sounded like an M80.”
“Which direction did the sounds come from?”
“From the back of the house,” Carlos answered. “That's another reason why I didn't hear it too well.”
“Do you remember about what time it was?”
“I remember exactly. Between seven thirty and a quarter to eight.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Right after I heard them, one of my boys hit me on my cell to see if I was going out that night. The Kappas were having a party
at Collis, and everyone was leaving Shabazz House together at eight, getting some chow at the Hop, then heading over to the party. He told me the crew would be leaving in about fifteen minutes.”
“Did you go out with them?”
“I couldn't. I didn't finish getting cars till nine thirty, then I had to go over to Baker to study for midterms.”
Sterling closed his book. “You've been a big help, Carlos. Just do me a favor and don't talk about this to anyone. We're still trying to figure out what the hell is going on.”
Carlos pounded his chest three times—a street sign for secrecy. He turned back before leaving. “What part of the city do you live in?”
“Upper East Side in the Sixties,” Sterling said.
“High society.” Carlos laughed. “You fuckin' sellout.” He plucked a fresh toothpick out of his pocket and slipped it in his mouth. He slid his hands in the pockets of his jeans and strutted down the hall to collect his paycheck. Attitude back in effect.
16
The investigative team decided to conduct Professor Wilson Bledsoe's autopsy at the morgue of the Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center, known to the locals as the Hitch. The hospital had been gracefully assembled on more than two hundred acres of rolling hills and green meadows, a colossal structure of white stone and glass two miles outside of Hanover in the town of Lebanon. The Hitch looked more like a hotel than a hospital. Its modern design and well-appointed decor were a refreshing break from the traditional dull brick and steel beams, and it had garnered numerous awards. Even the New York Times Magazine had run a small feature, calling it “the inevitable future of hospital construction.”
Most autopsies performed at the Hitch fell under the auspices of the chief pathologist and his lab assistants. In the majority of cases, the doctors already had a good idea of the cause of death but performed the inspection to either comply with insurance regulations or bring closure for a disbelieving family. The autopsy of Professor Wilson Bledsoe, however, was like none other ever performed at the Hitch. There were few murders in the region, and the racial nature of the crime and the profile of the victim mandated that the state's chief medical examiner and his team travel up from Concord to conduct the highly publicized autopsy.
Sterling was waiting outside the examining suite when Dr. Gerald Withcott entered with two young assistants trailing. Dr. Withcott walked fast, with his head slightly down and his hands planted deep inside his lab coat pockets. He was a wisp of a man, standing only five feet two, even when he straightened his curved spine. He looked to weigh all of a hundred and ten pounds after his biggest meal. Before moving on to the CME's office five years ago, he had been the longtime chief pathologist at Dartmouth's medical center.
The owner of the biggest and most successful organic farm in the Upper Valley, Withcott was something of a celebrity in the community. His fruits and vegetables were shipped throughout the region, and twice the White House had specially ordered crates of his plump, sweet melons to serve at state dinners. But while his neighbors most admired him for his prolific farm, his work as a pathologist had brought him national recognition. In the relatively short time since he had left the Hitch and taken his position with the state, he had made a name for himself handling some of the toughest cases. Withcott was a stickler for detail, and efficiency fell second only to accuracy on his list of priorities. Wasting time in his lab was a cardinal sin.
“Good morning, all,” Withcott said, not bothering to look up at those gathered. He remained focused on the body bag.
“Dr. Withcott, this is Agent Sterling Bledsoe,” Lieutenant Wiley said. Even Wiley spoke in a tone of deference. “He's also the brother of the deceased.”
Dr. Withcott lifted his head and nudged the large round glasses up the bridge of his narrow nose. “My condolences, sir, and my apologies,” he said. He spoke in a cadence that seemed like it was rehearsed, but this was how he always spoke. “I typically don't like the family of the deceased to be present while I work. But I have little choice since I've been told you're leading the FBI team. I've also heard that you share this line of work.”
Sterling nodded slowly.
“Well, as you know, no two autopsies are the same, nor are the techniques. I've been doing this for more than twenty years, but even I make mistakes and miss things.” He pointed his thumb at the two assistants. They had taken up positions on either side of the body. “That's why I always bring my help. Stephanie Elam and Patrick Riley. Both of them trained here at Dartmouth.”
The two offered friendly nods, but neither smiled.
“I've heard only good things about you, Dr. Withcott,” Sterling said. “In fact, I studied some of your cases when I was in basic training. Your case résumé is quite impressive.”
“Well, now that you've raised the stakes, let's hope that I don't disappoint,” he said. “Feel free to comment as we go along. Collaboration is always a good thing.”
Dr. Withcott motioned to his assistants. They unzipped the bag and removed the body. Patrick, tall and gangly, snapped open the autopsy kit while Stephanie, prettier than any lab assistant Sterling had ever seen work a cold body, wrapped the headlight around Withcott's tiny dome. He snapped on two pairs of gloves, then opened his hand for the measuring tape.
Dr. Withcott worked mostly in silence, and Sterling appreciated his well-orchestrated movements—nothing short of art. His assistants anticipated his needs, slapping the instruments into his palm without his looking up. Their sequence of inspection was standard, starting with the external examination, taking measurements of the body's length and using the specially designed table scale that calculated its weight.
Withcott turned on his headlight, and with a magnifying glass bigger than half his narrow face, he began to inspect the skin. His assistants worked on their own, clipping finger- and toenail samples, cutting small patches of hair from Wilson's head, from under his arm, and from his groin. Sterling watched quietly, admiring the fluidity of the autopsy and how well the three worked together, always seeming to know one another's next move.
Withcott remained emotionless, his expression never changing. Until he reached Wilson's chest. He paused for a moment and shook his head. His jaw tightened as he inspected the carved letters and pulled out jagged pieces of bone matted with clotted blood and hair. “Awful,” he groaned, carefully examining edges of the skin, relaying the wound measurements to his assistants, who dutifully recorded them. Then he stopped.
“Forceps and another light,” he instructed. It was the loudest he had spoken all evening. At the second G, something deep inside the chest cavity had caught his attention. Steadying the forceps in one hand and a hooked probe in the other, he worked his way in until he grasped something. He slowly pulled out a twisted metal object covered in blood. Everyone else in the room moved closer for a look.
“Exactly what I thought,” Dr. Withcott said to no one in particular, his magnifying glass covering the object. “The instrument used was some type of saw, maybe a portable jigsaw.”
Stephanie produced a small vial of clear liquid and handed it to Dr. Withcott. He dipped the twisted blade until it was free of the clotted blood. He picked it back up and looked at it. “Bingo,” he said. “Half of the blade is gone, but they left us the important part. The serial number is stamped across the bottom. AE4390-289.”
“Is there a make on it?” Sterling asked.
“Doesn't appear to be,” Withcott answered, still examining the blade. “But it still might be possible to make the match.” Withcott dropped the evidence in a bag, leaving Stephanie to seal and mark it. He continued with his external inspection, humming a tune that Sterling eventually recognized was from Carmen.
Withcott reached the neck and stopped. “More light here,” he commanded. “And get me a block.” Stephanie adjusted the overhead light while Patrick brought over a wooden block with a semicircle carved into one side. Patrick lifted Wilson's head and carefully slid the block underneath, exposing more of Wilson's neck.
Withcott peeled off one pair of gloves, leaving the inner layer intact. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small camera no bigger than his hand. He snapped five pictures of the neck from different positions, then returned the camera to his pocket.
He looked at Sterling. “What do you think, Agent Bledsoe?”
Sterling moved closer and immediately noticed what had drawn Withcott's attention. Small disk-shaped bruises no more than a couple of centimeters around covered the middle of the neck. The area along the jaws had longer, irregular marks of the same discoloration. Sterling pointed to similar bruises along the sides of the neck and just above the clavicle. At first, the two men had a difficult time discerning the bruises on Professor Bledsoe's dark skin, but the overhead light made them more visible.
“Strangulation,” Sterling said. “Classic findings, especially the small circular bruises.”
“And it looks like he put up one hell of a fight,” Withcott said.
“No doubt,” Sterling agreed. “Look at the number of bruises and how they run up and down the neck. Long marks. The attackers must've lost their grip as he tried to fight them off.” Pops would have been proud of the way Wilson fought for his life. Sterling was proud of him too.
For the next two hours, Dr. Withcott and his assistants continued their meticulous inspection, extracting, weighing, and examining Wilson's internal organs, stopping to take photographs when something caught their attention. Sterling occasionally stepped out of the room when he found it too much to bear, returning only after he had regained control.
Another hour elapsed before Withcott called out. “There's something here. More light and the camera.”
Withcott had Wilson propped on his side, supported by two large sandbags. Withcott lowered his magnifying shield and swabbed a small area of skin just above the left hip. “It's an eagle,” he announced. “It's branded into his skin. The impression is clean and deep.”
Sterling stepped closer to the body. One of the assistants handed him a magnifying glass. He easily made out the eagle with its ruffled wings spread wide. The head had been drawn in profile with a perfect triangular eye.