by Joel Goldman
I loaded Regina Blair's file into the copier, skimming the Delaney report while I waited. Delaney lived in an apartment building at Thirty-eighth and Wyandotte. A neighbor reported a bad odor. The manager recognized the smell and called the cops.
Delaney's body was found slumped in a chair. He didn't leave a suicide note.
The gun was on the floor. Most people who shoot themselves hold on to the gun.
The autopsy report noted that the bullet's angle of entry was downward. Most people who shoot themselves in the temple aim level or up.
The entry wound was in Delaney's left temple. Delaney was right handed. A right-handed person was much more likely to shoot himself in the right temple than the left. Delaney would have had to turn his head all the way to the right to expose his left temple to the gun. Killing yourself is hard enough without adding a gymnastic degree of difficulty.
Photographs showed Delaney's body in the chair, the location of the gun on the floor, and close-ups of the wound. There was also a series of photographs of his apartment.
The entry wound was described as a hole with a compact area of stippling, a surrounding area of charring, and a bright red hue to the wounded tissues. Based on that, the coroner concluded that the muzzle was less than six inches from the victim when the gun was fired. Most suicide wounds are contact wounds, muzzle pressed against the temple. The distance wasn't typical of suicide but was more likely if Delaney had turned his head to the right and stretched his right hand around to the left side of his head, which could also explain the downward angle of the entry wound. The question was why he would go to such trouble.
Delaney's fingerprints were found on the gun, a Beretta 92F.9mm pistol registered in his name. It had a ten-shot magazine that had been loaded with jacketed rounds. The gun and the ammunition were nothing fancy; typical of what someone would buy off the shelf for home and personal protection.
There were also two unidentified partial prints, one on the handle and one on the barrel. They were smudged enough that there were no clear ridges or whorls, raising the possibility that they had been made by someone wearing a latex glove. The only thing for certain was that these prints didn't rule out anyone or anything.
Powder burns were found on Delaney's right hand, confirming that he was holding the gun when it was fired. Two rounds were missing from the magazine. Only one bullet was recovered from Delaney's body. The missing round was not recovered or accounted for, and Claire Wilson, the investigating officer, concluded that the gun's magazine must not have been full when Delaney fired the gun.
The neighbor who reported the smell coming from Delaney's apartment and the building manager were the only people interviewed and their statements did not expand on the basic facts. Neither knew Delaney and had not seen him in the days prior to his death.
McNair's supplemental report described his meeting with Milo Harper and his review of Delaney's dream video. McNair wrote that the video in which Delaney talked of killing himself confirmed the coroner's determination of suicide and that there was no evidence to justify further investigation.
Milo Harper was worried about being liable for Delaney's suicide but another possibility jumped off these pages even though it wasn't there in writing. Delaney may not have committed suicide. He may have been murdered.
Someone wearing latex gloves could have shot Delaney, then put the gun in his hand and pulled the trigger a second time, firing the gun into something to muffle the sound and then recovering the second bullet to make it appear that Delaney killed himself. The Beretta and the jacketed ammunition would do the job. That would account for the gun being on the floor, the absence of a suicide note, the downward angle of the entry wound, the wound being on Delaney's left temple rather than the right, the distance of the muzzle from Delaney's temple, the questionable partial fingerprints, and the missing round from the magazine. The combination was enough to raise questions.
The file on Regina Blair was thin, devoid of anything that raised a homicide red flag. A homeless man found her body early on a Sunday morning in an alley between an unfinished parking garage and adjoining office building under construction on the northeast corner of downtown. Cause of death was massive head wounds from the fall. She was wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and a down parka. A leather folio embossed with her name and containing architectural drawings was found on the partially enclosed top level of the garage three stories above where her body was discovered.
The coroner ruled that her death was an accident caused when she came too close to the edge of the uncovered portion of the garage's third level that was not protected by a guardrail and somehow lost her balance. He noted that it had sleeted during the night and that the exposed concrete surface was wet and slick with traces of ice.
No other witnesses were identified in the report signed by Detective Matt Culpepper. McNair's supplemental report after his meeting with Harper was also brief, noting that Blair admitted in her dream video that she was afraid of heights and that she feared she would one day fall to her death, adding that nothing in the video suggested her death was not an accident.
The photographs showed her body where it was found, views from the ground to the upper deck and from the upper deck to the ground and the area from which Blair fell.
I finished copying both files and made my way back to McNair's desk.
"I don't see any witness statements in Delaney's file besides the neighbor's and the building manager's," I said to McNair.
McNair wiped sauce off his chin. "That's cause there weren't any other witnesses."
"No one heard a gunshot?"
"Uniforms knocked on some doors. Nobody heard nothing."
"What about Delaney's family? Had he threatened suicide before? Was he depressed?"
"His parents said he'd been treated for depression since he got back from his tours of duty in Iraq. I watched that goofy video he made for Harper's people. All the guy talked about was killing himself. Finally got around to doing it."
"Any chance it wasn't suicide?"
"What you mean? You think someone killed him?"
I gave him my take. "Any reason someone would have wanted to kill him?"
McNair shrugged. "Delaney was a newspaper distributor for the Kansas City Star which meant he worked middle of the night until mid-morning. Only people mad at him are the ones who didn't get their paper on time. Who's gonna want to kill him? Look," he said, hunching over his desk, "the guy offed himself. That's what the coroner's report says. That's what he dreamed of doing. End of story."
"What about Regina Blair?"
"Dizzy bitch. She's the goddamn architect on this building, which includes the parking garage, and she's scared of heights. So what's she doing standing on the edge three stories up, especially when the concrete was slippery as goose shit. You tell me that? OSHA fined her firm a thousand bucks for not putting up barriers, like it was their fault she was an idiot. Load of crap, you ask me."
"Any chance hers wasn't an accident?"
"Not unless she jumped and she didn't leave a note."
"Neither did Delaney. There are no witness statements in her file either. Did your uniforms bother to knock on any doors on this one?"
McNair swept the remains of the ribs into his wastebasket and turned the volume down on his radio. He stood, planted his palms on his desk, and hung his head, smiling the thin, tight-lipped smile of the trod upon, then turned on me.
"Listen, hotshot, these weren't my cases. I got them when Jason Bolt called the chief and told him to reopen the cases or get sued. The chief promised he'd have someone take another look so I took another look and I didn't see anything new because there wasn't anything new to see."
"You didn't think it unusual that Delaney and Blair both died the exact same way they dreamed they would within a month of one another and that both were participants in this dream project?"
"What? Bolt wants to collect from your boss on these cases and you want to turn them into murder so he don't have to pay
? The hell with both of you! Those two had death wishes and they made their wishes come true. You tell me what you would do if you were in my shoes, someone tells you a cockamamie story like that."
"I think I'd ask some more questions, knock on some more doors, and do the job right."
McNair straightened, yanking his pants over his belly.
"I showed you these files as a professional courtesy and all you can do is bust my chops. Delaney was depressed and shot himself. Blair was stupid and fell off the edge of a concrete slab three stories up where she had no business being on account of there was no safety barrier and she was afraid of heights. That's not just me talking. That's what the prosecuting attorney and the coroner said. You want to turn that into murder, be my guest but do it on your time. Now get the fuck out of here!"
Chapter Twelve
My ex-wife, Joy, divorced me after twenty-eight years of marriage. I didn't blame her. When our young son, Kevin, was murdered, she anesthetized her pain with booze and I buried mine with work, each of us blaming the other for our daughter Wendy's problems. Twenty-plus years after Kevin died, she came out of her fog and realized that it was time for both of us to move on. I didn't argue. We'd done enough of that.
Some people keep the war going after they split up. Joy and I went the other way. At first, she blamed me for what happened to Wendy, but in time she let that go too, shouldering more of the responsibility than was right. We had what I called an easy peace, both of us reconciled to what we had had and what we had lost.
I met Kate Scranton while I was married, lying to myself that my crush on her was merely the admiration of one professional for another. She was a forensic psychologist and jury consultant, blessed or cursed depending on the moment, with a unique ability to diagnose involuntary microfacial expressions that she claimed were the true windows into our hearts, minds, and souls. Together with her father, Henry, and ex-husband, Alan, both also psychologists, she had built a successful jury consulting practice, reading jurors with uncanny accuracy.
I justified our long lunches as networking, denying Joy's allegations that I was cheating even though our marriage had been dead by any definition of intimacy for a long time. I didn't know what an emotional affair was until Wendy called me on it.
Kate gave me a second chance after the divorce. She was ten years younger, a difference that peeled years off me without aging her. Tall and slender with shimmering black hair and blue eyes to get lost in, she had the sleek, confident beauty that caught other men's stares but stopped my heart. That she wanted me was an enduring mystery I didn't try to solve.
Reality chilled our fantasy of love lost and found. There were reasons we were both divorced. She could be unyielding and just because my body did contortions didn't mean that I was flexible. She could read me when I didn't want to be read and, more to the point, she couldn't help it.
Her teenage son, Brian, was struggling to find his place in a world of divided loyalties where I was one more competitor for his mother's affection. Alan wanted her back and Henry was rooting for him. She didn't want to leave their firm, didn't want to encourage Alan, and didn't want to alienate him for fear of how that would affect Brian. Both told her I was a bad bet.
She said that I cared too much whether people thought my movement disorder was real or bad enough to cost me my career since I didn't shake all the time or whether people thought it was all in my head, making me a crazy freak instead of just a freak. I worried that my world was too small for her, that she would come to resent that I couldn't do all the things that she was used to doing and enjoyed, the travel, the nights out at the theater, the symphony, or the ball park. We weren't there yet, she said, and besides, it was her life and that decision was up to her.
We navigated our way around these land mines, stepping on a few, staying together because what we had was so much better than what we'd come from and we knew too well what it was like to be alone, both of us struggling with being in love.
Kate had been on the road the last few weeks pitching prospective corporate clients, so busy we'd not seen each other or said more than good night or good morning over the phone. I was glad to see her when she picked me up for dinner at seven Saturday evening. I preferred not to drive at night when I was more likely to spasm and contort my way into a plaintiff's lawyer's payday.
"I made a reservation at Axios," she said when I got in her car.
"That place off of Fifty-fifth and Brookside?"
"Yes. It's French. Fine dining encourages two things we haven't had enough of lately-quiet conversation and intimacy."
"We can talk all you want but they better have a hell of a dessert menu because I prefer my intimacy served at your place or mine."
"Brian is with his father this weekend so you might get lucky if you clean your plate."
We sipped the wine, lingered through dinner, and talked. It was quiet and intimate. I led off, telling her about Lucy Trent, Ammara Iverson, and the envelope from Wendy.
"What do you think was in the envelope?" she asked.
"I've got no idea. Could have been anything from a card to a confession."
"I'm sure Ammara will tell you if they find it."
I nodded. "Trouble is, she'll wait until it's all over before she tells me."
"And you don't like being shut out in the meantime."
"Not so much."
"But you have to accept that because the FBI has the people and resources to do the job and you don't and you don't need the stress."
"Not so much," I said with a grin that she didn't reciprocate. "Okay, yes."
"I know it's hard, but it will be easier on you if you let Ammara handle it."
Her concern was legitimate and genuine but that didn't make it welcome. It was another reminder of limitations I resented more than I accepted. There was no point in having this argument since we both knew that I couldn't and wouldn't sit on the sidelines. I decided to change the subject before telling her about my job for Milo Harper.
"How's Brian?"
She let out a long sigh. "His grades are down and his barriers are up. I want him to see a therapist but his father says to give him time to figure things out on his own. I'm the disciplinarian and Alan is the laid back retro-hippy. Guess which one of us Brian prefers?"
"No contest, but take it from me, you can't make a teenager do anything. Any luck on your trip?"
"No. Our business went into the tank six months ago and isn't getting any better. I've spent the last three weeks smiling while being turned down."
"The economy catching up to you?"
"Maybe. We've reduced our salaries and laid off some staff but if things don't get better soon, I don't know how long we can keep the doors open."
"What would you do if you didn't have the firm?" I asked her.
She reached across the table, taking my hand in hers, caressing my fingers like worry beads. "I don't know. Teach, probably, or do what I've been doing only on a smaller scale, work from home. Neuromarketing is a hot new field. It's all about how the brain influences decision making. My skills are transferable to that field. I might put out some feelers."
"You could talk to Milo Harper, take his offer."
"I'd rather starve."
"Why? He seems okay."
She withdrew her hand. "And you know that how?"
I told her about my conversation with Simon, my meeting with Harper, and that I had accepted Harper's job offer.
She folded her arms across her chest. "When were you going to get around to telling me?"
"I thought I'd wait until we finished your list."
She frowned. "Sorry. I'm whining."
"Nope. Not your nature. You worry, argue, and dissect but you don't whine. So why is working for Harper worse than roaming the streets rummaging through trash cans?"
She parked her elbows on the table, locked her fingers together, and rested her chin on her hands and studied me. I knew her well enough to know that she was thinking about more than her answer. S
he was anticipating the conversation that would follow, mapping it out in her mind.
"I don't trust him."
"You've told me that before. Why not?"
She took a deep breath. "He is not an honorable man."
"That's two conclusions and zero facts. Convince me," I said.
"I saw it in his face when he tried to recruit me."
"You didn't like his involuntary facial expressions? What did he do, flash a secret smirk or stick his tongue out at you?"
She wadded her linen napkin and threw it onto the table. "Don't demean what I do, Jack."
"I'm not demeaning it one bit. I know your track record but you're not infallible. Give the guy a chance."
"That's the point. I gave him a chance when there was nothing on the line. He told me about his vision for the institute, how the brain is the last frontier and how he needed someone with my expertise."
"And you thought he was blowing smoke?"
"No, I'm sure he believes every word."
"Then what?"
"He asked me what it would take for me to come work for him. I told him there was nothing he could do because I was happy with my firm. He asked whether I would reconsider if there were no firm. I told him that we were doing quite well and I couldn't imagine that happening. That's when he told me that life is uncertain and that he could imagine anything happening. When he said that, he revealed part of his hidden self. His expression was ravenous, like a wild animal."
"He's a billionaire, for Christ's sake. They're all ravenous. That's how they got so rich."
"He's a billionaire who sits on the boards of three of our biggest clients-all of whom quit using us after I turned Harper down. That was six months ago."
"I thought you said it was the economy."
"That's what the general counsels of each company told me. Then I found out that they hired our competition."
"You think Harper is sabotaging your practice so you'll accept his job offer? C'mon."
She ran her fingers through her hair. "I think he's sabotaging my practice because I didn't accept his offer. You can work for him if you like, but I won't."
