Dr Innis wiped his brow. ‘Too bad. It would’ve saved her life.’
‘How do you figure?’
‘Because the hospital would’ve never let her out. The shoulder especially. That shoulder was an awful mess. She would’ve required surgery on it – she had an infected multiple fracture.’
Spencer was unable to speak.
Dr Innis looked as pleased as if he’d just found the killer, not told Spencer that Kristina was weak.
‘She was in bad shape,’ Innis said. ‘Which is why anyone, including my seven-year-old granddaughter, could’ve overpowered her. She couldn’t struggle except with her right hand.’
‘Do you think,’ Spencer asked haltingly, ‘that she struggled? There are no marks on her.’
The doctor smiled. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, detective. You do need the state medical examiner, after all. And I thought I might be out of a job with you knowing all you know and still nodding away there. There are marks on her. There’s a large wound at the back of her head, on the occipital lobe. Slight subdural hematoma. She probably lost consciousness.’
‘She was hit?’ Spencer exclaimed. God, Will was right, it was a rape-murder.
‘Maybe. I think she was pushed, or she fell.’
‘Fell?’
‘Yes. She could’ve been backing away, tripped and fallen, hit her head on a log, a stone. It wasn’t a sharp object, it didn’t penetrate the skin, but there was bruising. This is just my theory, you understand. Or she was shoved. She fell, hit her head, became dazed, maybe unconscious for a few seconds. From then on it was easy. There are two symmetrical marks on the insides of her upper arms and two marks on her chest, just above the thoracic cavity. Contusions with broken blood vessels below the skin. What does that tell you, detective?’
Spencer thought about it for a moment. ‘Someone sat on her arms and chest. Knee marks.’
‘Exactly. Knee marks. Now, this girl, she was fighting for her life, trying to breathe –’
Spencer interrupted, ‘What was she suffocated with? A hand?’
‘No, no, that would have left a nice imprint on her face. No, it was a large, absorbent object. There are no specific points of pressure from fingers on her face. Maybe a pillow? Any twelve-inch-square pillow would do.’
Spencer couldn’t look at the doctor.
‘Detective O’Malley,’ Innis said, his manner becoming gentler, ‘I found something under her nails. Her killer might have been scratched up, gouged.’
‘What was under her fingernails?’
‘Blood,’ replied the doctor. ‘Small hair fibers.’
‘Ahh. Why didn’t you say so?’
‘I was waiting for you to ask.’
‘What color hair?’
‘I did not examine it that closely, detective. I have a microscope, though. Would you like to take a look yourself?’
Spencer almost said yes. But what did he know about hair samples?
‘Do you have a sample for me to compare it against?’ asked Innis.
Spencer almost said yes, and then stopped. They were just three stupid kids. He shook his head, and then thought of something. ‘Are you ruling out it was a female?’
‘I never rule anything out, detective, unless I’m absolutely sure.’
‘Well, a female couldn’t have raped her.’
‘Who said anyone raped her?’
‘She wasn’t raped?’
‘No.’
‘No? You’re sure? You’re absolutely sure?’
‘Am I sure?’ Innis chuckled. ‘This is my job. Do I ask you if you’re sure how to write a ticket, or interrogate a suspect? She wasn’t sexually assaulted, there is no tearing of her vaginal walls, there’s no sperm –’
‘He could’ve used a condom,’ Spencer said.
‘Who? The killer? What, before he raped her, he could’ve said, excuse me while I put this on? Very thoughtful of him. Did he ask her to hold the pillow while he was adjusting the rubber, or did he put the pillow under her bruised head for added comfort? No, detective, I already told you, whatever the motive was, sex wasn’t it.’
Spencer wished it had been. He couldn’t believe it, but he was wishing she had been brutalized by a total stranger.
Bowing his head, Spencer said, ‘I’ll give you something to work with as far as hair and blood samples.’
‘Oh, you have something? Good. I’ll get it to the lab.’
‘Which lab do you mean, the DNA lab in Cellmark? In South Carolina? Why, that takes months!’ Spencer exclaimed.
‘We’ll do a simpler blood and hair test in Concord.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘You’re very impatient, Detective O’Malley. A minute ago you didn’t have a case.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong, doctor. I’ve had a case since yesterday. I just didn’t have any evidence. How long?’
Dr Innis thought about it. ‘A few days. Maybe a week.’
‘Faster than that.’
‘Detective, New Hampshire is a state of a million people and has only one medical examiner – me. Hanover is a town of ten thousand. You’ll wait.’
Spencer bit his lip but would not raise his voice at the coroner. ‘Was she drunk?’
‘Drunk?’ Dr Howard said, panting, surprised. ‘Why do you say that?’
‘Was she?’
‘I don’t think so. I mean, I won’t know till the blood work comes back, but there was nothing in her stomach, completely empty.’
Nodding, Spencer said, ‘When will you know for sure?’ But he would have bet his paycheck the last time in her life Kristina Sinclair Kim walked the wall, she was sober.
‘I told you, detective-sergeant,’ Dr Innis panted. ‘A few days.’
‘All right. Is the death certificate ready?’
‘You’ll have to wait for me to fill it out. I just finished with her.’
Spencer sat down in one of the chairs, muttering, ‘I’m doing a lot of waiting at two in the morning, aren’t I?’
Dr Innis heard him, because he turned around and said, ‘And I’m still working at two in the morning, detective.’
‘As am I, doctor,’ said Spencer.
‘No, Detective O’Malley, now you’re just waiting.’ And with that he left and Spencer was alone in the cold, stark room.
He was tired and his thoughts drifted, wandering to Kristina, walking backward in the snow, down the slope, why would she get off the path? And then, she’s pushed, and falls, and can’t breathe, she’s trying to fight, but she can’t breathe. Spencer’s heart was aching. He tried to think of something else, of Howard Kim, of his marrying a girl he didn’t know to live in America. Marrying Kristina Sinclair and taking her father’s money. Where was Katherine Morgan Sinclair now? Address unknown. Spencer thought about John Henry Sinclair. Had he taken his own life? It seemed likely, with his only daughter in a scandal. But what could be worse than a sixteen-year-old marrying an Asian man she’d never met and moving to New York? Maybe he really had died of heart failure. Spencer’s own heart was weakening just trying to wade through the muck. Spencer needed to find Katherine Morgan Sinclair.
Kristina, Kristina … did you fight? Did you rage and scream into the good night, did you flail and gasp for your every last halting breath? Were you surprised by death?
Spencer drifted off, his head drooping to the side, and was awakened some time later by Dr Innis, who held a manila envelope under his arm.
‘Here it is,’ he said mildly. Spencer started, rubbed his eyes. He felt like shit, heavy-lidded and drained. Dr Innis, on the other hand, looked refreshed and alert. He wasn’t sweating anymore and he wasn’t panting. He even had a glow to his cheeks. This man must thrive on cutting people open in the middle of the night, thought Spencer. There is a word for night creatures like that. Anne Rice wrote about them.
‘I did a preliminary analysis of her blood,’ the doctor said. ‘I was right. There was no alcohol in her system at all.’
Spencer nodded,
his eyes burning. ‘What time is it?’
‘Five-thirty,’ the doctor replied. ‘You should go home and get some sleep. I’ll have the lab work for you by Monday, all right? You can hang in there till Monday, can’t you?’
‘What choice do I have?’ said Spencer, standing up and reaching out for the death certificate. Dr Innis pulled his hand back. ‘It’s not ready. I can’t figure out the time of death. No rigor, no decomposition until yesterday in the morgue, no stomach contents. Also the photographs and x-rays are not ready to go in the case file. I’ll send everything to your office Monday.’
Spencer felt as if he had cotton in his mouth and cotton for a brain. ‘Don’t worry about the time of death,’ Spencer said groggily. ‘We know when she died. Put down between one-ten and one-thirty in the morning on Wednesday, November twenty-fourth, 1993.’
‘You’re sure about this?’
‘Yes. Last time someone saw her alive was fifty yards from the scene of death at one-oh-five.’
‘I see. She could’ve died much later.’
‘No. She was completely naked and it was cold. She would’ve turned around and come back home. I’m certain she never returned from the woods.’
‘Yes, you’re right, you’re right. Fine. Between one-ten and one-thirty it is.’ Innis scribbled something on the manila envelope. ‘By the way. It wasn’t human hair under her nails. Probably dog hair.’
‘Oh,’ said Spencer. He was too tired even to be disappointed. ‘Just do the blood work for us, okay?’ It was too much for him at five-thirty in the morning. He had been up on his feet for twenty-one hours. It felt like a hundred and twenty-one.
Spencer went home to Hanover. It was still dark out, but the sky had taken on the metallic hue of a winter sunrise. Spencer let himself in and looked at his chair, but it was too late, or too early, to think about sitting down in it. Too late, or too early, to eat or to drink whiskey. Spencer took off his big brown boots and his socks, and then looked in his empty refrigerator. He wanted to close the curtains, but it was morning. He went into the bedroom, wanting to think about everything, wanting to think about the blood under the long red nails, wanted to think about the knee marks, about Kristina, about her letters, about Howard, whom she had married, and Albert, whom she had loved, and Red Leaves House, which was probably going to end up with her fortune. Instead, he fell on the bed and was asleep in an instant.
At ten-thirty Saturday morning, Spencer jumped up from the bed as if his military commander were walking through a barracks inspection and he had been caught napping. Then he realized the phone was ringing.
Will was calling to see if he was coming in today.
‘I’m in the middle of a murder investigation. Of course I’m coming in.’
‘Okay. Because I’m already at the station. I’m only going to be here for a little while longer. Innis faxed us a copy of the death certificate. Very interesting.’
‘Yeah, I’d say interesting.’
‘Rules out a rapist.’
‘You could say that.’
‘We better check out those kids again. Don’t you think?’
‘Absolutely,’ said Spencer.
‘Have you seen the papers, Trace?’
‘No, you know,’ said Spencer, ‘I haven’t had time.’
‘Don’t be snide. You should pick one up if you can. Kristina is front-page news everywhere. They’re all saying it was a rapist.’
‘Perfect,’ said Spencer. ‘In their ignorance, they’ll print anything.’ He asked Will to call Frankie Absalom in Boston and ask him to return to Dartmouth immediately, and also to ask Frankie if anyone could vouch for his whereabouts at Feldberg the night of Kristina’s death.
‘What, you think maybe Frankie killed her?’ asked Will.
‘What do we know? We’ve never met this Frankie. Somebody killed her, why not him?’
‘Motive, Trace?’
‘Bring him in and we’ll find out.’
‘Yes. I think we should check out the alibis of her friends, don’t you think?’
‘What alibis?’
Will didn’t say anything.
‘Will, listen, go to Feldberg Library, to the second floor, and ask any of the students there if they were studying late the night of November twenty-third.’
‘Well, it’s only ten-thirty. I don’t think any students are awake this early on Saturday,’ Will replied. ‘And I already talked to a bunch of kids at Feldberg, and all the kids who were out there when we found her. All fifteen of them.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes what?’
‘Yes, I don’t know. Like, yes, I saw a white male Caucasian, five-eleven, hundred and seventy pounds, shove her down, sit on top of her, and smother her.’
‘O’Malley, you’re describing yourself.’
‘Will, go to Safety on Campus and have them put up some posters.’
‘To say what?’ asked Will. ‘Wanted: Dead or Alive. Kristina Kim’s killer.’
‘Yes, exactly. Or, if you can’t swing that, reward money for any information leading to the arrest, blah, blah, blah.’
‘Reward money? Where do you think you are, New York?’
‘Come on, we must have something in the budget.’
‘Yeah, your salary. I’ll talk to the comptroller. I doubt it, though. Besides, you forget, these are rich Dartmouth students. You think they’ll talk for two hundred bucks?’
‘I was thinking more like two thousand.’
Will laughed.
‘Do what you can and I’ll talk to you later,’ said Spencer.
‘What are you up to today?’
‘Me? I’m going to take a drive with Albert Maplethorpe.’
‘Sounds like fun. Can I come?’
‘No, that’s okay. Then I’m going to go to Red Leaves House. Talk to the woman who runs it. Want to come there?’
‘No, thanks. Come noon and I’m going home till Monday. We don’t have any blood work back yet. Or fingerprints.’
Spencer grunted. ‘You know, in New York, the blood work on a homicide case comes back in two hours.’
‘Yeah, well, where’s New York when we need it?’
Spencer wanted to hang up. It was already ten forty-five. The day was short.
‘The prosecutor’s office called,’ Will said.
‘What took them so long?’
‘They were short-staffed and busy –’
‘Will,’ said Spencer tiredly. ‘It was a rhetorical question.’
Will continued, ‘- but then they saw the coroner’s report. All of a sudden it’s a capital case.’
‘It was a capital case from word go,’ snapped Spencer.
‘Well, you know, no blood, no struggle marks – but they wanted to know if you wanted them to send their own investigators –’
‘Only if they want me to quit,’ replied Spencer.
‘Spence, there you go again. They’re only there to help.’
‘Yeah, to take over.’
‘To help. To find the killer. You know?’
‘No,’ said Spencer. ‘What else?’
Will paused. ‘If we have a warrant for anyone’s arrest yet.’
‘Yeah, tell them, my mother. I have a warrant out for my mother. She killed Kristina. What are they, kidding?’ Spencer couldn’t believe it.
‘The DA asked if we have any suspects.’
‘Yes, call them back and tell them four thousand Dartmouth students and one hundred furloughed prisoners.’
‘Spencer, they’re just trying to –’
‘I know what they’re trying to do,’ Spencer interrupted. ‘Call Innis, ask him to hurry on the blood work. And Landers too – the prints.’
‘Innis and Landers said by Monday.’
‘God! Is this usual – taking the weekend off during a murder investigation?’
‘The labs are booked solid in Concord.’
‘Oh, yeah, I forgot, Thanksgiving is notorious for inciting felonies,’ Spencer said and hung up.
&n
bsp; The phone rang immediately. ‘Just wanted to ask,’ said Will. ‘I didn’t see the contents of her safety-deposit box.’
‘I entered them as evidence yesterday,’ said Spencer.
‘That’s not what I asked,’ said Will.
‘Yes. Don’t worry. Okay?’ And Spencer hung up for the second time.
He showered, then dressed in khaki pants and a dark blue sweater. He strapped on the tan leather holster with his short-barreled Magnum in it. Looked in vain for Nescafe instant. Andie O’Malley never had had time to teach him how to use her coffeepot, though he kept it on the counter as a souvenir. Spencer got a can of Coke and sat down at his kitchen table. He swiped the old newspapers to the floor and emptied out the contents of Kristina’s safety-deposit box.
He sifted through carefully. He was looking for something from her father and something from or to Albert. He was just looking, just feeling her be alive amid the papers.
There were her grandmother’s letters, lamenting all the troubles, missing Kristina, missing the kids playing together at the lake.
Spencer looked at the photo of pre-adolescent Kristina holding a kite; she looked extremely neat and well attended to, her hair was short and brushed, she was smiling, and behind her was Long Island Sound. Between her and the sound was a low stone wall, and there was a stretch of beach. The time looked late autumn – the leaves had gone. Kristina looked very happy, smiling broadly at the photographer.
Greenwich, Spencer thought. Greenwich, Connecticut.
The phone rang again. Will had found some reward money in the budget and was about to ask the college to put up posters around the administrative buildings, libraries, and dormitories.
‘How much money?’
‘Five hundred bucks,’ said Will with emphasis, as if five hundred bucks were five hundred thousand bucks.
‘Oh,’ said Spencer widening his eyes. ‘Oh, good. Well, if that doesn’t get us the killer, nothing will.’
Spencer continued looking through Kristina’s things. He found nothing from her father. She must have thrown out his letter telling her she was no longer his daughter.
On the back of one of her grandmother’s letters, he found a note addressed to Dearest Albert.
Spencer quickly picked it up. The letter on the front was of no consequence; the note to Albert had nothing to do with the grandmother’s letter. Dearest Albert, the note read,