Snakebit

by Linsey Lanier

They took the confusing mix of I-85 and I-75 southward through the city with its tall, pointy buildings and noisy, eighteen-wheeler-sprinkled traffic, past the airport, until finally they were out of the urban area and surrounded by the miles of thick, endless pine trees that defined so much of Georgia. Deer roamed in those woods, Miranda thought, gazing out the window, and rabbits and squirrels. Creatures who lived by instinct and never had to ponder the death penalty or whether a man was guilty or innocent of a crime.

  For a moment, she envied them.

  Traffic wasn’t too bad this time of day, but it still took them over an hour to get there.

  The Georgia Diagnostic and Classification State Prison was tucked away far to the south of the city—just where you’d want to stash the most violent offenders in the state.

  Parker turned off the interstate and they rolled over a bridge. Soon they came to a gate surrounded by rows of oak trees and a walking trail that gave the place the air of a serene park where locals might take their pets.

  Parker brought the Mazda to a halt at the booth and gave the guard their names, their IDs, and the purpose of their visit. After scrutinizing the cards and handing them back, the guard directed him toward the parking lot. They moved on.

  Now the serene park-like atmosphere gave way to a looming complex of iron-grey buildings. As the ominous structures came into view, Miranda felt the muscles in the back of her neck tense. Murderers and rapists and sex offenders of all sorts were housed behind those walls. The idea set her teeth on edge.

  Parker pulled into the parking lot. There were hundreds of cars and it took a while to find an empty space.

  When they did, they got out, waited for Estavez to join them, and silently walked to the front door.

  Inside, they signed in at a desk in a holding area. The large circular space smelled like urine and rang with the shouts and groans of prisoners complaining about mistreatment, unfairness, and the misery of life in general.

  Once again, a guard asked for IDs, ensured they had left their cell phones in the car, and led them into a tiny hall where they were thoroughly patted down just to make sure. Once that was done, another guard buzzed open a door and led them into a long unadorned passage with the typical cinderblock walls.

  At the end of the door was another guard who buzzed them through another thick iron door and down another stark, airless corridor, this one with a number of L-shaped turns. At the end of it stood another stern-face guard and another door, and after that another. Before long, Miranda had lost count of the hallways and felt as if she were lost in a maze.

  It wasn’t as if she had never seen the inside of a prison before. Before she met Parker, she’d been thrown in the slammer a few times. For nothing more than a misdemeanor, of course. Things like busting some sexist oaf’s jaw in a bar fight. And since she’d met Parker, she’d been to prisons to question suspects. But she’d never seen a penal complex so big.

  Or so—final.

  At last the final buzzer squealed out its jarring sound, and the guard ushered them into an interview room. It was tiny, done in the same tight, suffocating décor as the halls, but with another dose of urine odor. And the addition of a vending machine. A stool against the wall faced a thick window barrier where the prisoner could be interviewed.

  The guard left and they waited for what seemed like an hour.

  Miranda was beginning to feel she had been convicted of a crime when at last the door on the other side opened, and a man in the drab grey jumpsuit appeared. Escorted by a guard on either side, shackled at his wrists and ankles, he shuffled across the cement floor in his prison slippers. The guards settled him into the stool on his side of the window. He peered through it and he smiled sadly when he saw his visitors.

  He was definitely the man Miranda had seen in the photo in Parker’s office. But he had aged. The picture had been taken a dozen years ago, but this man seemed twice as old as that. The copper skin had grown sallow, the round cheeks were now sunken, and the close cropped ringlets on his head had turned gray.

  Parker picked up the phone on their side of the window.

  The prisoner reached across the narrow ledge in front of him and did the same.

  “Hello, Antonio. Wade,” he said in a soft spoken voice. “I see you’ve brought someone new today.” He had the slightest touch of a Creole accent.

  Parker managed a warm smile. “This is Miranda Steele.”

  “Ah, yes. Your new wife and business partner. Antonio told me you had remarried.” He nodded politely as Parker handed her the receiver. “Glad to meet you.”

  Telling herself this was a client, Miranda nodded back. “Sorry it couldn’t be under better circumstances.”

  The doctor studied her a moment. “Antonio seems to think you’re something of a miracle worker.”

  “Parker’s the miracle worker.”

  “I know he is. However, I don’t think there’s much any of you can do for me at this point.”

  Overhearing his client’s words, Estavez took the phone from her. “We’ve decided to reopen the case one more time, Clarence,” he said with determination. “If we can find something, anything, no matter how small, we can get a stay of execution and time to build an appeal.”

  “Ever the optimist.” Dr. Boudreaux shook his head.

  The sadness in his dark, wide set eyes made Miranda’s heart squeeze.

  Then he turned his head to stare absently at the wall a moment, and Miranda caught sight of a tattoo along his neck. Her stomach tensed. It was a snake. What was a man accused of killing his wife with a snake doing with a tattoo of one on his neck? Bragging rights?

  She took back the phone from Estavez and gestured to Boudreaux’s neck. “Excuse me for asking, Doctor, but what’s the tattoo about?”

  For a moment he seemed not to understand what she meant, as if he’d forgotten he had it. Then he touched his neck. “Oh, that. It’s the rod of Asclepius. The symbol for professional healthcare.”

  Uh huh. “Did you get that—in here?” She gestured toward the walls. Some prisoners got tattoos while incarcerated to make themselves seem tough to would-be attackers.

  She felt Parker tense at her side, but Dr. Boudreaux only smiled his sad smile. “Oh, no. I got it a long time ago. Charmaine wanted me to. Sort of a pledge.”

  “A pledge?”

  “Of our commitment to our work. Our mutual goal of helping cure diseases.”

  Miranda hadn’t read enough of the case file to know the details of their relationship. Feeling behind, she resisted the urge to pull at her hair. “Cure diseases?”

  “Charmaine was a brilliant medical researcher,” Parker said. “Sylvia knew her well. We admired both of them greatly.”

  So Parker’s first wife was part of his feelings of tenderness for this man. It was starting to make sense why he thought Dr. Boudreaux was innocent.

  Rich with emotion, the prisoner’s voice came through the receiver. “Charmaine was researching snake venom as possible cures for diabetes, heart disease, even cancer.”

  “She was ahead of her time,” Parker added.

  “She was.” His eyes took on a despondent look. “I miss her so.”

  Miranda leaned over the counter toward the phone. “Dr. Boudreaux, are you saying the snake that killed your wife was part of her research?”

  He seemed surprised at her question. “Yes, it was. She had wanted to experiment with the venom of an oxyuranus microlepidotus. A western taipan. Also known as an inland taipan, or fierce snake. They are native to central eastern Australia. Fortunately one had arrived at the zoo about a month earlier.”

  Fortunately? “Ozzie.”

  “Yes. Actually, I procured him on a trip to the outback for the zoo. I found him in the arid region near Birdsville, where the borders of South Australia and Queensland meet. I spent two months there in the desert and brought back several specimens, Ozzie among them. Once he was settled in his new home, I made an arrangement with Charmaine to milk him and deliver the venom to her re
search lab.”

  Love could be expressed in so many different ways. “But that’s not what happened.”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “How did—Ozzie—get to your house?”

  “He wouldn’t produce venom. After observing him, I came to the conclusion he was under stress.”

  Just as the report had said.

  Miranda lifted a brow. “Stress? A snake with stress?”

  “It’s not unusual. He wasn’t adapting to his new environment. We tried to accommodate his needs, but our methods weren’t working. He needed a quiet, dark atmosphere where he could be alone and readjust to his new surroundings.”

  Miranda felt a glimmer of hope for this case. “So it was your wife’s idea to keep Ozzie in your home?”

  Frowning, he shook his head. “Oh, no. She was deathly afraid of snakes.”

  “But she let you keep him in your bedroom?”

  “She didn’t know about it. We were both away at professional conferences for the weekend. She wasn’t supposed to have even seen him.”

  Interesting. “But you both came home early from your conferences.”

  “No. I mean, yes. Apparently Charmaine came home early. I wasn’t aware she had until I got to the house.”

  Maybe, maybe not. “And when did you get to the house?”

  “The conference I was attending at the Hilton ended that Sunday evening. I was supposed to stay until the end, but that afternoon I was suddenly overcome with fatigue. There had been so much going on. I had given several presentations and sat in on a panel. I decided to go home early, but I felt I shouldn’t drive in that condition. So I went back to my hotel room and fell asleep. When I woke it was well after eight p.m.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I checked out of the hotel and drove home. I tried to call Charmaine to tell her that I was coming, but I couldn’t reach her.”

  Time of death on the medical examiner’s report was between four and six. She was already gone. “Then what?”

  “When I got home, I saw Charmaine’s car was in the driveway. I was feeling better, so I thought we could go out for a quiet dinner at her favorite restaurant. I went inside and called for her. There was no answer.”

  The doctor’s eyes began to grow moist, his grip on the receiver tight.

  “I thought she might be napping, so I went to our bedroom to wake her up with kisses along her neck. She always loved that. And then I saw her—lying there.”

  Miranda waited, watching the memory play over the man’s face.

  “I tried to revive her, but I knew it was no use after I saw the envenomation sites.”

  “You mean the bite wounds.”

  He nodded stiffly. “I recognized the signs immediately and knew what had happened. I checked Ozzie’s case and of course, it was empty. I got my tongs and hunted the room for him. He hadn’t gone far. I found him nestled in a corner of the closet. I caught him, put him back in the case, secured it, and called 911.”

  At least that part of his account was consistent with the summary from the file.

  Suddenly the doctor let out a heart wrenching cry and raised his eyes to the ceiling. “She was the light of my life. I never would have done that to her.” He leaned an arm on the narrow ledge and pressed his head into his palm. “I didn’t do it. I loved her. How could I kill her?”

  Overly dramatic? Maybe, but once more he tugged on Miranda’s heartstrings. And yet, facts were facts.

  “Dr. Boudreaux,” she said into the receiver as softly as she could. “How do you explain your DNA?”

  Blinking he raised his head and looked at her as if he were coming out of a trance. “That was my home. Of course my DNA was there.”

  “I mean—inside her.”

  He didn’t answer.

  “You had sex with her.”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “You had sex with her the night she died.”

  “No, I did not. We hadn’t had relations for over a week. I swear we didn’t.”

  Miranda leaned in and repeated her question. “Then how do you explain your DNA inside her?”

  The interview room went silent as the doctor stared at her with helpless watery eyes.

  At last, he whispered, “I can’t.”

  Chapter Five

  A new set of guards escorted them out through the buzzing labyrinth of hallways until they were back outside facing the parking lot.

  Miranda stood on the sidewalk staring out at the trees, breathing in the fresh air of freedom, her head spinning from her meeting with Dr. Boudreaux. He claimed to be innocent, despite the evidence. Not uncommon for a guilty man. Still, had there been some mistake?

  She paced down the walkway and back to Parker.

  “Did you check out his alibi at the hotel?” she said to him.

  “I did.”

  “And?”

  His brow furrowed. “A neighbor saw Clarence’s car in his driveway about four p.m. that afternoon.”

  She closed her eyes in frustration. “So Dr. Boudreaux lied.”

  “So it seems, but I’ve never known him to be dishonest. He was always a stickler for the truth. One time in the eighth grade, for example, he put himself at risk and turned in a fellow student for cheating.”

  “He was a snitch.”

  Parker scowled at the term. “He had a strong sense of ethics. The boy threatened to beat him up. Clarence would have been no match for him.”

  Now she got it. “And so you came to his defense.”

  “I told the boy if he touched Clarence, he’d have to deal with me.”

  She let out an exasperated breath. Parker had been defending the doctor a long time.

  Shifting her weight, she studied a distant tree whose leaves had turned deep red. A coolish breeze wafted over her cheeks. Fall would start in earnest in a week or so.

  “Okay, he’s believable,” she admitted. “Very believable. But so are a lot of guilty people.”

  “Are you saying you don’t believe him?”

  She didn’t know what to think. “DNA doesn’t lie, Parker.”

  “Are you refusing to work this case, then?” His voice steady, low, darkly noncommittal, he straightened his shoulders as if bracing for a blow.

  She wanted to help, but this case seemed like a waste of time.

  Suddenly he turned and gave her a hard, icy look that sent a chill through her. Something she hadn’t felt from him since the day they broke up.

  She raised her hands. “I don’t know what to say.”

  He drew in a breath. “I need some air. I’ll get the car and pick you up here.”

  And without waiting for her to answer, he marched off across the parking lot. The sound of his dress shoes clicking against the pavement told her he was none too pleased.

  Miranda turned to Estavez, who’d been silently taking in the conversation. “You agree with me, don’t you?”

  Estavez’ lips became a thin line. “As a defense attorney I am trained to believe there is always hope.”

  “Even when the evidence is solidly against you?”

  “This case is very personal to Papa, Miranda. He feels he was never able to devote enough time to it, and now it is too late.”

  “Because of the evidence against Dr. Boudreaux?”

  “Because just when Clarence’s case went to trial, Sylvia fell ill.”

  “Oh.” Parker had lost his first wife to ovarian cancer.

  “He spent all his time caring for her. It was a difficult period. I had just finished a clerkship and was starting out as an associate at Chatham, Grayson, and McFee. A senior counsel was assigned to Clarence’s case and he asked me to assist. Papa gave us what information he could, but we both were distraught over Sylvia.”

  Parker’s first wife had been a second mother to Estavez. Her heart ached for both of them.

  “Six long years of chemo and radiation and glimmers of hope that led to nothing.”

  Except Sylvia’s death. Miranda k
new Parker had taken the loss of his first wife hard. He was a strong man, but his love was stronger.

  “Her death nearly broke him. He almost gave up detective work.”

  She knew that. Parker had been in a bad way a long time before she met him. She rubbed her arms. “And so nothing was done on Dr. Boudreaux’s case during that time?”

  “He passed it to Judd and Tan.”

  The top two people at the Agency. “What did they do with it?”

  “They could not find an explanation for the DNA either.”

  “What about you?”

  “I dealt with the loss of Sylvia by throwing myself into my work. I had an overflowing caseload, but I put a lot of time into Dr. Boudreaux’s case. Unfortunately, I could find nothing to exonerate him, either.”

  How was she supposed to, then? “I don’t think I can—”

  Gently Estavez laid a hand on her shoulder. “All Papa is asking is that you try.”

  Try and fail. Wouldn’t that be worse? No. If she didn’t try, Parker would always wonder if she could have found something. She and the team. If they didn’t try, he’d feel as if he’d failed his friend. And if his hunch was right, the real killer would go free.

  Hunch. Parker didn’t go on hunches. That was her department. On the other hand, that meant she got how he felt.

  She huffed out a breath. “All right. I’ll do what I can. But I’m not promising anything.”

  Estavez flashed his sexy, white-toothed lawyer grin. “That’s all we ask.”

  Chapter Six

  As the Mazda hummed over the interstate and signs for I-285 came into view, Miranda tapped her fingers on her lap and gazed out the window at a jet gliding lazily through the clouds, coming in for a landing at Hartsfield-Jackson.

  It made her think of her last flight with Parker. The one to Chicago, where she’d first learned about Tannenburg.

  Parker hadn’t said a word since they left the prison, and her thoughts had gone back to the text she’d gotten that morning about Mackenzie.

  Suddenly the low murmur of his deep voice broke the silence. “What did you come to see me about earlier?”

  He hadn’t forgotten. He had a habit of reading her thoughts, though right now they seemed loud enough to fill the entire car.