Deadly Decisions

by Kathy Reichs

  “The dot points toward the direction the drop was moving.”

  “Exactly. The program produces a file containing the values of the angles for each stain analyzed. It’s from that data that point of origin is calculated. And believe me, using the computer is a lot quicker than the old string method.”

  “Back up.”

  “Sorry. With the string method one end of a string is fastened to the surface at the position of the stain, then stretched in the estimated direction of motion. This is repeated for a number of bloodstains around the scene. The result is a pattern of strings extending away from the spatter toward the source of the blood. Home plate is the point where all the strings converge. The procedure is time consuming and leaves a lot of room for error. Instead of doing it by hand the computer draws virtual strings computed from the data.”

  His fingers flew over the keys and a new image appeared. X and Y coordinates ran down the left side and across the bottom of the screen. A dozen lines formed an X-shaped pattern, crossing each other in a geometric bow.

  “This is a bird’s-eye view of a set of virtual strings based on twelve spatters. It’s hard to get this point of view with real strings, yet it’s the most useful one.”

  More key clicking and a new image appeared. The lines now plunged together from upper left to lower right, converging at a point two thirds of the distance from the bottom of the screen, then spreading slightly, like stems on a bunch of dried flowers.

  “The program can also produce a side view, which is necessary to estimate the height of the source of blood. By combining the two views you have a pretty accurate idea of point of convergence and, therefore, of victim position.”

  Gilbert leaned back and looked at me.

  “So what do you want to know about the Cherokee scene?”

  “Anything you can tell me.”

  For the next forty minutes I listened and watched, interrupting only for clarification. Gilbert was patient and thorough as he walked me through the bloodbath in the apartment.

  What he said increased my conviction that Claudel was leading us in a dangerously wrong direction.

  THE SCREEN WAS FILLED WITH HUNDREDS OF TINY DOTS, LIKE the spray-paint mist in Gilbert’s test room. Scattered among them were small bits of flesh and bone.

  “You’re looking at a section of the north wall, right behind the victim’s chair. That’s forward spatter.”

  “Forward spatter?”

  “From the pellets exiting Cherokee’s head. Blood from an entrance wound is called back spatter. Look at this.”

  Gilbert hit the keys and a new image filled the screen. It was a similar spray of aerosolized blood, though less densely packed, and lacking the larger globs of tissue.

  “That’s from the TV. When the pellets struck Cherokee, blood flew backward.”

  “He was shot sitting in the chair?”

  “Yes.”

  He entered several more keystrokes and the image was replaced by a view of the chair where the body had been found. Lines ran diagonally from the wall and the TV, and crossed at a point head-high above the seat.

  “But the gunshot was icing on the cake. If he wasn’t dead already, he was well on his way. Look at this.”

  More keystrokes. Another image, this one with larger spots and more variation in their size.

  “That’s medium-velocity spatter. It was all over the northwest corner of the apartment.”

  “But—”

  “Just wait.”

  He brought up another frame. This one showed spots slightly larger than those in the previous image, but of roughly uniform size. They varied in shape from round to ovoid.

  When Gilbert hit a key and zoomed out I could see that most of this spatter was distributed in a long curving line, with some drops lying to either side of the arc.

  “That’s from the ceiling.”

  “The ceiling?”

  “It’s what we call a cast-off pattern. It results from blood being thrown from a moving object, like my stick. When swinging a weapon, the attacker terminates his backstroke abruptly, then reverses direction to deliver the next blow. Most blood flies off on the backstroke, at least if there’s enough force, but some can be thrown on the downward stroke, too.”

  He pointed to drops in the center of the trail.

  “These spatters are due to the backswing.”

  He indicated several drops lying along the edge of the arc.

  “And these are downswing trails.”

  I took a moment to digest that.

  “So you’re saying that he was beaten before he was shot?”

  “This trail is one of five we were able to identify. Generally, assuming the blunt injury trauma is the only source of blood, or at least the first, the number of trails equates to the number of blows plus two.”

  “Why plus two?”

  “There wouldn’t have been any blood on the first blow. On the second blow blood is picked up by the weapon and thrown off as the attacker makes the backswing for the third blow.”

  “Right.”

  “This medium-velocity spatter was found down low on the walls, and on the crap stacked in the corner.”

  He worked the keys again and more strings appeared, these converging on a point less than two feet above the floor.

  “My opinion is that he was struck near the corner of the room, fell to the floor, and was then hit repeatedly. After that he was placed in the chair and shot.”

  “Struck with what?”

  Gilbert pooched out his lips. “Pfff. Not my call.”

  “Why bludgeon him then shoot him?”

  “Definitely not my call.”

  “If he was dragged, wouldn’t that have left a trail?”

  “The assailant may have wiped it up. Besides, there was so much blood everywhere, and so many people on the scene the floor was useless.”

  “And the burning may have disguised some of it.”

  “At least on the carpet. We may go in with Luminol, but it’s not going to change what the spatters tell me.”

  I was thinking about that when he spoke again.

  “There’s something else.”

  “There’s more?”

  Again he worked the keys. Again a mist of high-velocity blood spatter filled the screen. But a portion of the cloud was missing, like a stencil with a cut out pattern.

  “This is another shot of the wall behind the victim’s head.”

  “It looks like someone took a cookie cutter to it.”

  “This is called a void pattern. It’s produced when an object blocks the path of blood and is then removed.”

  “What object?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who removed it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  • • •

  As I hurried back to my office, Dorsey’s words provided voice-over for Gilbert’s images.

  Amateur Hour. Whoever did Cherokee is going to walk.

  I grabbed my phone and punched in a number. A secretary told me Jacques Roy had flown to Val-d’Or and would be unavailable until Monday. Impatient, I asked for Claudel. Neither he nor his Carcajou partner was in. I thought of pagers, again decided the situation was not sufficiently urgent, and left messages for everyone.

  I had just replaced the receiver when the phone rang.

  “Should I be sending the world’s biggest fruit basket?”

  “Hi, Harry.”

  As usual my sister sounded as though she’d just completed some event requiring intense exertion.

  “Why are you out of breath?”

  “Akido.”

  I didn’t ask.

  “Is my baby boy driving you back to the solace of drink?”

  “He’s fine, Harry.”

  “Are you always this cheerful on Fridays?”

  “I just heard something disturbing. What’s up?”

  “I suppose you know that Kit and Howard went at it again.”

  “Oh?” I suspected as much, but hadn’t press
ed my nephew.

  “It’s the golf cart all over again.”

  I remembered that episode. When Kit was fifteen he’d stolen a cart from the pro shop at Howard’s country club. It was found the next morning, half-submerged in a water hazard on the fifteenth hole, with half a bottle of tequila in the back compartment. Daddy went ballistic and son lit out. A week later Kit showed up in Charlotte. The last leg of hitchhiking had not gone well, and he owed ninety-six dollars to a taxi driver. Katy and Kit bonded immediately, and my nephew stayed the summer.

  “What was the fight about?”

  “I’m not sure, but it involved fishing gear. Is he behaving himself?”

  “Actually, I haven’t seen that much of him. I think he’s made friends here.”

  “You know Kit. Well, if you could let the little buckaroo stay just a little while I’d appreciate it. I think he and his daddy need some distance and some time.”

  “Doesn’t Howard live near Austin?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Kit’s in Houston with you?”

  That seemed like distance to me.

  “See, that’s the problem, Tempe. I’ve had this trip to Mexico planned for a long time, and I’m supposed to leave tomorrow. If I cancel I’ll lose my deposit, and Antonio will be really torqued. Of course, say the word and that’s what I’ll do.”

  “Uh. Hm.”

  I wondered if Antonio was the akido link. With Harry, a new man usually meant a new interest.

  “I would hate to leave Kit unsupervised and in my home for a week, and at the moment I can’t send him to his daddy. And as long as he’s with you anyway, and you say he’s no problem . . .”

  She let the sentence dangle.

  “You know I love having Kit.” But not necessarily this week, I thought.

  “Tempe, if this is just the least little tiny bit inconvenient you just say so and I’ll cancel this trip quicker than—”

  “I do want to know how much parental control is expected.”

  “Parental control?” She sounded completely at a loss.

  “Guidance? Parenting? It’s a lonely job, but does someone have to do it?”

  “Get real, Tempe. Kit’s nineteen. You can parent until Tinker-bell bites the Pope, but that boy’s born to boogie and that’s what he’s gonna do. I just need to have him check in daily and verify that he is physically fit and not wanted by the authorities. And that he is not using my home as a convention center for underage boozers. He didn’t grow up in the Partridge family, you know.”

  The Partridge family had not entered my mind.

  “But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t make him chop cotton. Make sure he keeps his belongings orderly and does the dishes now and again.”

  I pictured the clothing heaped in my living room.

  “In fact, I’m gonna call him myself and make sure he understands that your home is not a port of entry for any old thing he wants to drag in.”

  “How long will you be in Mexico?”

  “Ten days.”

  “What if he wants to head home before you get back?”

  “No problemo. Howie’s given him about eleven hundred credit cards. Just make him understand that an early return means Austin, not Houston, and don’t let him go off all depressed. You’re good at that, big sister. And you know how crazy he is about you.”

  Sweet-talkin’ Harry.

  “I’ll keep that in mind when he pawns Gran’s silver. Have a good time. And leave a number where you can be reached.”

  As I was hanging up Claudel appeared in the doorway, his face so taut the bones seemed to push out on the tissue. I watched him cross to the chair opposite my desk.

  Great.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Claudel.”

  I didn’t expect a greeting. I didn’t get one.

  “You made an unauthorized visit to the jail.”

  “Did Mr. Dorsey tell you about our conversation?” I asked innocently.

  “You interrogated my prisoner.”

  “He’s your personal property?”

  “You are not homicide, you are not even a detective.” Claudel fought to keep his voice even. “You have no business involving yourself in my case.”

  “Dorsey called me.”

  “You should have referred him.”

  “He called me because he felt you would not listen.”

  “He is just using you to interfere with my investigation.”

  “Why won’t you even consider that you may be on the wrong track, Claudel?”

  “You are out of your league and I don’t have to explain to you.”

  “This thing with Dorsey is a very weak bust.”

  “But it is my weak bust, madam, and not yours.”

  “You are convinced Cherokee was murdered by bikers,” I said evenly. “And I am on temporary assignment to Carcajou.”

  “I am doing what I can to alter that,” said Claudel, his outrage barely concealed.

  “Really.” I felt blood rise to my cheeks.

  “I’m not going to argue the point, Ms. Brennan. Stay out of my investigation.”

  “I do not take my orders from you!”

  “We will see.”

  “We worked together once, with good success.”

  “That does not make you a detective, or entitle you to act directly in a case assigned to me.”

  “You cannot overestimate how much you underestimate me, Monsieur Claudel.”

  He straightened, dropped his chin, and took a deep breath. When he spoke again his voice was calm.

  “Any further exchange is pointless.”

  I agreed.

  He walked toward the door, his back stiff as a dressage rider’s. Before leaving, he turned, raised his chin, and spoke down his nose.

  “There is one other thing that I should tell you, Ms. Brennan.”

  I waited.

  “George Dorsey was charged with first-degree murder this morning.”

  Though his words were ice, I could feel the heat all the way across the room. Then he was gone.

  I took a long breath that caught several times on the way up. Then I uncurled my fingers, sat, and stared at children playing in the school yard twelve floors down.

  I was angry for Dorsey. I was frustrated by Claudel’s pigheaded refusal to listen. I was mortified that the man had taken steps to annul my appointment to Carcajou.

  I was furious with Claudel, but I was equally angry with myself. I detest losing my temper, but seemed unable to control it in arguments with Claudel. But it was more than that.

  While I hated to admit it, Claudel still intimidated me. And I still sought his approval. Though I thought I’d gained ground in the past, the man obviously continued to regard me with disdain. And it mattered. And that irked me. Also, I knew it had been wrong not to at least notify him of the Dorsey interview. Investigative teams demand that all information be contributed to the common pool, and rightly so. Because I knew Claudel would not include me in the loop, I had elected not to inform him. Only, he was one of the chief investigators on the Cherokee case. By my actions, I had handed him a weapon to use against me.

  “The hell with him.”

  I turned my gaze from the kick ball below and surveyed the contents of my office. Articles to be filed. Forms to be signed for destruction of remains. Phone messages. A briefcase filled with biker info.

  My scanning stopped at a pile of photocopies stacked on a corner cabinet. Perfect. I’d been putting it off for months. I decided to distance myself from the current quagmire of bones and bikers and surly detectives by updating my database on old cases.

  And that’s what I did until it was time to go.

  On the way home I swung by the Métro store on Papineau and picked up the ingredients for puttanesca sauce. I wondered if Kit would like anchovies, bought them anyway. I’d proceed as I had when serving Katy a foreign dish. I wouldn’t tell him.

  The evening’s cuisine was a moot point. When I arrived at the apartment no one greeted me but Birdie
. The boots and clothing had been cleared, and a floral arrangement the size of Rhode Island filled the dining room table. A note had been placed on the refrigerator door.

  My nephew was so, so sorry. He’d made plans that couldn’t be changed. Sad face. He promised me the entire day on Saturday. Smiley face.

  I slammed the bags on the kitchen counter, stomped to the bedroom, and kicked off my pumps.

  Hell. What kind of life is this? Another Friday with the cat and the tube.

  Maybe Claudel would like dinner. That would make my day.

  I pulled off my work clothes, threw them on the chair, and slipped into jeans and a sweatshirt.

  It’s your own fault, Brennan. You’re not exactly Miss Congeniality.

  I dug around on my closet floor, located my Top-Siders, and broke a nail yanking them on.

  I couldn’t remember when I’d felt so down. And so very alone.

  The idea popped up without warning.

  Call Ryan.

  No.

  I went to the kitchen and began emptying groceries, Ryan’s face filling my mind.

  Call.

  That’s past.

  I remembered a spot just below his left collarbone, a hollowed-out muscle that cradled my cheek perfectly. Such a safe spot. So quiet. So protected.

  Call him.

  I did that.

  Talk to him.

  I don’t want to listen to lame excuses. Or lies.

  Maybe he’s innocent.

  Jean Bertrand said the evidence is overwhelming.

  My resolve crumbled with the canned tomatoes, but I finished emptying the bags, balled and stuffed them under the sink, and filled Birdie’s dish. Then I went to the living room phone.

  When I saw the light my stomach did a mini-flip.

  I pushed the button.

  Isabelle.

  The landing was like that of a gymnast after a bad vault.

  The machine told me I had two entries that had not been erased.

  I pushed again, hoping Kit had played them and forgotten.

  The first was Harry, looking for her son.