Death Grip

by Elaine Viets

‘Yes,’ Katie said. ‘He’s in a basket on the other side of the file cabinet. I moved the cabinet to make room for my pup. That’s why the room is even smaller. I was terrified he’d make a sound when Evarts was in here.’

  She peeked down the hall again. ‘It’s empty. You and Jace can come out now.’

  I crawled out from under the desk and dusted off the knees of my pantsuit. Jace and I had some pup therapy, both of us scratching and cuddling the little gold fluff ball. He was growing fast.

  Cutter licked Jace’s face. Then, snap! The pup bit Jace right on the end of his beezer.

  ‘Ouch!’ Jace said, and dabbed at his nose with his handkerchief. Cutter had drawn blood.

  ‘Bad dog! No! No!’ Katie said, and carried the disgraced pup to his basket.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jace,’ Katie said.

  Jace grinned. ‘That’s OK. This love bite will be easy to explain to my wife.’

  TWENTY-SIX

  ‘Where the hell have you been?’ Greiman roared at me when I phoned him from my car. ‘I called you eight minutes ago. I’ve been sitting with my thumb up my ass, waiting for your call.’ He was rude, impatient and sneery, but that was the answer I’d expected.

  ‘I couldn’t call back. I was in a meeting.’

  ‘Oh? A meeting? You do know your job is to stay in contact at all times? Does Evarts know about this?’ Greiman demanded.

  ‘Evarts was there.’ Well, he was. That was technically true. Greiman didn’t need to know I was hiding under a desk. Besides, the creep shut up when I said the magic word – Evarts.

  ‘We’ve got a traffic fatality on Gravois,’ he said. ‘One dead teenager, the other seriously fucked.’ Nice language, I thought. Really professional. But I wasn’t going to take the bait.

  ‘What’s the address?’ I asked.

  He gave it to me and said, ‘Traffic is backed up for half a mile.’

  ‘I’ll be there as quick as I can,’ I said.

  Fifteen minutes later, thanks to some semi-legal maneuvers like driving on the shoulder to a chorus of furious honks and flipped middle fingers, I made it to the scene. I parked in a muddy spot by the side of the road and hauled out my death investigator’s suitcase.

  This section of Gravois cut through majestic limestone bluffs, with green woods on either side of the narrow, winding two-lane road. Under less dire circumstances, it was a scenic drive.

  I threaded my way through the patrol cars and other official vehicles, including an ambulance with flashing lights, and a red fire truck with shining chrome. Firefighters in turnout gear and helmets were swarming over the car, a black sporty coupe with blood on the windshield.

  The accident scene was hidden from prying eyes by portable screens. I stepped around the screens to find Greiman. He was dressed in charcoal gray Hugo Boss pants and a light gray sweater. I took childish glee in seeing his pricy Fendi footwear caked with an inch of sticky clay soil.

  ‘What happened?’ I asked Greiman.

  ‘The car was speeding, missed a curve and hit that rock face.’ He pointed to a towering limestone cliff with a long white horizontal gash in the stone.

  ‘The car flipped over twice, slid across the road and ended up hitting that tree on the passenger side.’

  The car broadsided the tree, a thick black walnut a good sixty-feet tall, and caved in the passenger side of the car almost to the center console. The windshield on that side was cracked and spattered with blood. I caught a glimpse of a mangled body in the passenger seat, and heard someone moaning in the front seat. The fire department would have to take the car apart to free the passengers.

  ‘The firefighters are using the Jaws of Life to extract the two passengers, both males, aged seventeen,’ Greiman said. ‘The kid in the passenger seat is dead.’

  ‘Do you know who he is?’ I’d have to do the death investigation on his body.

  ‘Jared Dunning. He is – or rather, was – a linebacker for the Forest High football team. He was being scouted by four college teams. I know his stats, too. Kid was custom-built for that position: he was six feet two inches tall and weighed two-hundred-thirty pounds.’

  ‘Poor kid,’ I said. ‘All that promise cut short.’

  ‘The driver – Chad Du Pres – is also on the team. Another big guy. Six one and two-forty. He’s alive but badly injured, possibly paralyzed from the waist down.’

  ‘Is he the Forest High star running back? Henry Du Pres’s grandson?

  ‘That’s the one. This accident is going to destroy the team’s prospects.’

  And a lot more than that, I thought.

  ‘His grandfather showed a lot of foresight,’ I said, ‘and it’s going to save Chad. The Jaws of Life will get the old man’s grandson out of that wreck alive.’

  ‘The kid would be better off dead, if you ask me,’ Greiman said. ‘He won’t be able to play football ever again.’

  ‘What happened to him is tragic,’ I said, ‘but he’s young, healthy and rich, and science has made great advances with spinal cord injuries.’

  ‘I can tell you this – I’d rather be dead.’

  I’d rather he was dead, too. I fought hard not to answer him back. The damaged car looked like a bag of blood had exploded inside.

  Chad was the child of either very good luck, or very bad, I wasn’t sure which. Henry Du Pres was one of old Reggie’s cousins. The Du Pres had their fingers in every pie – and cash drawer – in the Forest. Henry’s oldest daughter, Caroline, was in a big wreck on the Dan Ryan Expressway in Chicago some years back, and the Jaws of Life saved her.

  I give Henry credit. He made it his personal mission to get the Jaws at the Chouteau County fire department, and donated seventy-thousand dollars of his own money for tools and training. Most small fire departments couldn’t afford these expensive lifesaving tools.

  Now the equipment he’d bought was going to save his grandson, Chad. A firefighter covered Chad with a protective sheet to keep the fine powdered glass out of his eyes, and turned on a Sawzall, a kind of machine-powered saw. The firefighter deftly cut out and removed the cracked windshield in two neat pieces.

  While he worked, I opened my iPad and began the preliminary information for a Vehicular Related Death.

  I noted the accident took place on an open two-lane road in a wooded area, and the car was southbound. The speed limit was twenty-five miles per hour, because of the sharp curve. The accident took place in daylight, at 10:34 a.m. The temperature was seventy-two degrees. The weather was clear and sunny. The roadway was asphalt and had a ninety-degree curve. A yellow sign with a blinking light warned, SLOW! DANGEROUS CURVE.

  There was no debris in the roadway, no deadly ‘rising sun over a hill’ factor – no reason at all for this fatal one-car accident except stupidity.

  A woman firefighter with a face shield had started up the noisy hydraulic Jaws of Life cutter tool, a two-pronged machine that resembled a giant can opener, and began working on the driver’s door. The cutter’s mouth opened and closed. It could snap a doorpost like a twig and cut through the door like it was aluminum foil.

  While she worked, I wrote down the vehicle’s details. The crushed car was a sweet ride, 2020 Nissan Z 3702. Later, I would discover it only had 19,012 miles on it. Black, with a black interior, it had been a real beauty, and I wondered if it was a birthday present for the promising running-back. I noted the Missouri license plate number.

  The mechanical chomping stopped for a moment, and I saw a strapping young paramedic talking to the driver, Chad, who was moaning under the protection.

  ‘Chad,’ the paramedic said. ‘Stay with me, buddy. This will be over soon. We have to keep you covered just a little longer.’

  ‘Jared …’ the injured driver said. ‘Why … won’t he … answer me? Is he … mad at me?’

  ‘No, Chad, he’s not,’ the paramedic said. I was close enough to see the sadness on his face, but he kept it out of his voice. He looked like a bodybuilder, somewhere in his early twenties. His hair was brown and
buzzed.

  I wondered if Chad couldn’t see the mangled body of his friend and teammate next to him, or if he was too shocked to comprehend what had happened.

  ‘How come I … can’t move … my legs?’ Chad asked.

  ‘We’ll have a doctor look at you and find out.’ The paramedic didn’t lie, but he didn’t tell the injured young man what he suspected was the full truth, either.

  ‘Chad, I have to ask you some questions,’ the paramedic said, ‘and I want you to answer honestly. The doctor may have to do surgery and it’s important that you tell me what really happened. Do you understand?’

  ‘OK.’ Chad’s voice sounded slurred.

  ‘Chad! Stay with me. Did you and Jared have anything to drink this morning? Maybe a couple of beers? Some of your dad’s bourbon? A little Captain Morgan, maybe?’

  ‘No … We’re … in training.’ Chad’s answer wrung my heart.

  ‘I’m not judging, Chad. Just asking. You understand that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you use any controlled substances – pot, coke, crack, happy dust …?’

  He rattled off some names I’d never heard before and ended with ‘Did you take anything, Chad? Any pills or powders? Please, it’s important.’

  ‘No …’ Chad’s voice was growing weaker.

  The paramedic turned to the female firefighter with the Jaws of Life and said, ‘How much longer?’

  ‘Less than five,’ she said.

  The paramedic was back talking to the injured driver. ‘OK, Chad, are you there? Are you with me, buddy?’

  ‘Uhh,’ said Chad.

  ‘Can you tell me what may have caused this accident? Did a rabbit run out in front of your car? Or a deer? What ran out in front of your car?’

  ‘No … no deer. It was Mom.’

  I figured the poor kid was hallucinating.

  The paramedic said, ‘Your mom ran out in front of the car?’ I heard the disbelief in his voice. He signaled to the firefighter to hurry.

  Chad sounded impatient. ‘No … Mom not here … Mom caused this.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Mom …’ With that, the hydraulic Jaws of Life started again, prying the car apart like a tin can, and I couldn’t hear any more.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The firefighter had predicted the time of the grand opening correctly. Five minutes later, the once-snazzy sports car was reduced to rubble. Despite the paramedic’s entreaties, Chad had stopped talking and slipped into unconsciousness.

  Under the blood, the injured athlete was a handsome young man, clean-shaven with even, well-defined features and the choirboy-pink complexion that fair-skinned young men have in their teens and early twenties. Marring this manly beauty was a deep, bloody gash running down his face from his eyelid to his jawline. I suspected he’d need plastic surgery.

  Chad’s blond hair was cut in a trendy flattop. He wore khaki Bermuda shorts and a green Chouteau Forest High School T-shirt. His flip-flops were in the footwell. He may have kicked them off to drive or lost them trying to control the car when it went into its fatal skid.

  Chad was a big young man. Greiman’s estimate of six feet one and two-hundred-forty pounds seemed about right. He had a football player’s broad shoulders and muscular arms. He was definitely a catch – a good-looking football star with the right bloodline and big bank account. I wondered if that would change now.

  The four paramedics quickly and expertly lifted Chad out of the car seat and onto the gurney. The bone was jutting out of his right leg. The paramedic put a tourniquet on the unconscious man’s leg, and the four rushed him to the waiting ambulance. The doors slammed with an ominous sound, announcing that Chad’s life as a football hero was over. He went off in a blaze of lights and blare of sirens.

  Now I had to focus on the death investigation of Chad’s friend and teammate, Jared Dunning.

  The police tech had videoed Jared’s body in the wrecked car at every stage: from the time they arrived at the scene, through the dismantling of the car by the Jaws of Life, to now, when he sat slumped in the stark shell of the sports car.

  I opened my DI case, gloved up with multiple pairs, and took my own photos for the medical examiner – wide, medium and close-up shots from both sides of the car – driver and passenger – as well as front and back views.

  As I worked, I hoped time would erase the grim sight of Jared’s death from my memory. This morning, Jared Dunning had looked much like his friend, Chad. He’d been another privileged, careless youth with golden hair, a handsome fortune and a bright future. Now he was two-hundred-thirty pounds of butchered meat.

  I checked the car and noted that the airbags had been disabled on both the passenger seat and the driver’s seat sides. If this went to court, the Dunning family lawyers were going to love that information.

  Jared had been wearing his seatbelt, but it wasn’t enough protection. Jared’s face was covered with blood. His elegant patrician nose and strong jaw had been smashed against the passenger window, and some of the skin had peeled off his face. His neck was at an awkward angle, which might have been a sign it was broken. For his sake, I hoped his death was quick.

  On a nearby patch of grass, I spread out a clean, sterilized sheet for the body inspection, sometimes known as the body actualization. Then I opened the Scene Investigation form on my iPad.

  Four firefighters lifted Jared out of the car seat and gently laid him face-up on the white sheet. I started answering the long list of questions on the form. I’d fill in the demographic data later, probably when I saw his family.

  When was the time of death? the form asked.

  The paramedics had pronounced Jared dead at 10:47 a.m.

  What was the location of the body?

  The decedent was in the vehicle’s passenger seat.

  What direction was the vehicle?

  The car had been heading south on Gravois Road.

  What was the directional body position?

  The decedent was sitting straight up and wearing a seatbelt. He was also facing south.

  Again, I listed the weather conditions. The day was becoming sunnier and more beautiful by the hour, a heartbreaking fact I didn’t have to mention.

  I used Greiman’s estimate of Jared’s height and weight, then described the decedent’s clothing. Like his friend Chad, he wore khaki shorts and a Forest high school T-shirt. Jared’s shoes, brown Topsiders, were in the footwell. I was always amazed how many car accident victims wound up shoeless. Pedestrians, too. They were often knocked out of their shoes.

  Jared wore no socks – typical for kids his age – and no jewelry. It was unsettling to see this uniform of preppy privilege soaked in blood.

  Was the body fresh? the questionnaire asked.

  Yes, I wrote.

  Beginning to decompose?

  No.

  Any insects present?

  No. That was good news for me. Otherwise, I’d have to gather samples of fly larvae, beetles and other critters, then label and package them. Insect scavengers helped the medical examiner determine time of death. When these creatures arrived and began laying their eggs were vital clues.

  Environmental temperature?

  My thermometer said seventy-four degrees.

  That was the easy part of my examination. Now for the body actualization. I had to document the wounds, starting at the top of Jared’s head, and I had to be absolutely accurate. Two wealthy families were involved, and a promising young man had met an abrupt, violent death. Lawyers would be circling like buzzards to grab this accident. The blood complicated my job.

  I recorded that the decedent had a deep ‘cut-like defect on his right temple.’ Actually, it was a deep gash, but I couldn’t say that. If this case went to court, as I suspected it would, and that gash turned out not to be a cut, the attorneys would tear apart my testimony.

  On Jared’s once handsome face, a seven-inch by three-inch flap of skin was torn away, exposing the muscles on the right side of his head. The
right eye socket was smashed and so was the right eye. The eye had burst or been torn open, and it leaked vitreous fluid.

  I felt suddenly dizzy and leaned against a nearby tree, breathing in the soft green spring air. I needed a break from recording these stomach-turning injuries. I gave myself the usual lecture: get past the ‘oh my God’ reflex and help this poor man. He died young. He needs your help and respect. Woman up and finish this.

  I shook my head, squared my shoulders, and went back to work.

  Jared’s right side had taken the brunt of the injuries. His right forearm had a compound fracture of the radius, the long bone in his arm. A two-inch jagged piece of bone had pierced the skin. There was a fourteen-inch by three-inch bloodstain on his right arm.

  Both hands were a shattered, bloody mess. I had to document the injuries. I saw multiple broken and twisted bones – four metacarpals (the bones that extended from his wrists), six proximal phalanges (the first joint above the knuckles), eight middle phalanges (the second joint) and two distal phalanges (the fingertips). Both wrists also appeared broken. I wondered if Jared had held up his hands to protect his face. Both sides of his hands had significant (six by four inches) patches of drying blood, almost as if he was wearing red gloves.

  I lifted his blood-soaked shirt and noted a three-inch by five-inch yellow-green healing contusion – in other words, a bruise – on his abdomen. Was this an old football injury?

  Jared had an eight-inch cut-like defect on his thigh. If he’d lived, my guess was that deep cut would have needed stitches. There were six cut-like defects on his right knee and four on his left. His right leg had thirty-four cuts, ranging from one-eighth of an inch to six inches, plus four abrasions.

  His rather hairy right foot had a patch of blood measuring three-by-two inches. The foot might have been broken. The ME would X-ray the body and see how many fractures there really were.

  The firefighters were packing up the Jaws of Life gear. The tools that could take apart a car fit inside a surprisingly small case. I asked the firefighters for help turning over Jared’s heavy body, and the woman volunteered.