Whatever words I am using, though, are falling short, since Detective Matson doesn't understand me. So I decide to take a drastic step, to show him the inside of my mind right here and right now. I take a deep breath, and then I stare directly into his eyes.
It's like having strips of my skin pulled off from the inside. Like needles in every nerve center of the brain.
God, it hurts.
--That was an accident,|| I whisper. --But I saved it. I put it in her pocket.||
Another truth, but one that makes him jump in his seat. I'm sure he can hear my pulse as loudly as I can. That's a sign of arrhythmia. I hope I do not die right here in Detective Matson's office.
My eyes slide to his left, his right, and then up--anywhere so that I don't have to see him directly again. That's when I notice the clock, and realize that it's 4:17.
Without any traffic it takes sixteen minutes to get from the police station to my house. That means we will not get home till 4:33, and CrimeBusters begins at 4:30. I stand up, both of my hands fluttering in front of my chest like hummingbirds, but I don't even care anymore about trying to stop them. It feels like the moment on the TV show when the perp finally caves in and falls to the metal table, sobbing with guilt. I want to be watching that TV show, instead of living it. --Are we done now?|| I ask. --Because I really have to go.||
Detective Matson gets up, and I think he might open the door for me, but instead he blocks my exit and leans closer, until he is too close for me to breathe, because what if I wind up with some of the air that he exhaled? --Did you know you fractured her skull?|| he says. --Did that happen at the same time you knocked out her tooth?||
I close my eyes. --I don't know.||
--What about her underwear? You put it on backward, didn't you?||
At that, my head whips up. --It was on backward?|| How was I supposed to know?
There were no labels, like there are in my boxer shorts. Shouldn't the graphic of the butterfly have gone on the front, rather than back?
--Did you take her underwear off her, too?||
--No, you just said it was on her ...||
--Did you try to have sex with her, Jacob?|| the detective asks.
I am utterly silent. Just thinking about that makes my tongue swell up like a monkey's fist knot.
--Answer me, goddammit!|| he yells.
I scramble for words, any words, because I do not want him to yell at me again. I will tell him that I had sex with Jess eighty times that night if that's what he needs to hear, if that makes him open the door.
--You moved her after she died, Jacob, didn't you?||
--Yes! Of course I moved her!|| Isn't that obvious?
--Why?||
--I needed to set up the crime scene, and that's where she had to be.|| He, of all people, should understand.
Detective Matson tilts his head. --Is that why you did this? You wanted to commit a crime and see if you could get away with it?||
--No, that's not why--||
--Then what is?|| he interrupts.
I try to find a way to put into words all the reasons I have done what I did. But if there is one subject I do not understand--not internally, much less externally--it's the ties that bind us to each other. --Love means never having to say you're sorry,|| I mutter.
--Is this a joke to you? Some big joke? Because I don't see it that way. A girl's dead, and there's nothing funny about that.|| He comes closer, until his arm is brushing mine, and I can barely concentrate because of the buzzing in my head. --Tell me, Jacob,|| he says.
--Tell me why you killed Jess.||
Suddenly the door slams open, striking him in the shoulder. --Don't answer that,|| a strange man yells. Behind him stands my mother, and behind her are two uniformed officers, who have just raced down the hall, too.
--Who the hell are you?|| Detective Matson asks.
--I'm Jacob's attorney.||
--Oh, really,|| he says. --Jacob, is this your lawyer?||
I glance at the man. He's wearing khaki pants and a dress shirt but no tie. He has sandy hair that reminds me of Theo's and looks too young to be a real lawyer. --No,|| I reply.
The detective smiles triumphantly. --He's eighteen years old, Counselor. He says you're not his lawyer, and he hasn't asked for one.||
I am not stupid. I've watched enough CrimeBusters to know where this is headed. --I want a lawyer,|| I announce.
Detective Matson throws up his hands.
--We're leaving now.|| My mother elbows her way closer. I reach for my coat, which is still draped over the back of the chair.
--Mr. ... what's your name?|| the detective asks.
--Bond,|| my new lawyer says. --Oliver Bond.|| He grins at me.
--Mr. Bond, your client is being charged with the murder of Jessica Ogilvy,||
Detective Matson says. --He's not going anywhere.||
CASE 5: THE NOT-SO-GOOD DOCTOR
Kay Sybers was fifty-two years old and, by anyone's standards, unhealthy. She'd been a smoker years ago; she was overweight. But she didn't show signs of medical problems until one evening in 1991, when (after a dinner of prime rib and Chardonnay) she had trouble breathing and developed shooting pain down her left arm. Those are classic signs of a heart attack--something her husband, Bill, should have recognized. After all, he was a Florida physician who doubled as the county coroner. Instead of calling an ambulance or whisking her to the ER, though, he attempted to draw blood from her arm. He wanted to run a few tests that day at work, he said. Yet hours later, Kay was dead. Concluding that she had died from a coronary, Bill Sybers decided against an autopsy.
A day later, based on an anonymous tip of suspicious activity, Kay Sybers was scheduled for autopsy. The toxicology reports came back inconclusive, and Kay was buried. However, suspicions arose again when rumors circulated that Bill Sybers was sleeping with a lab technician at his workplace. Kay's body was exhumed, and forensic toxicologist Kevin Ballard screened for succinylcholine, a drug that increases the release of potassium and paralyzes the muscles, including the diaphragm. In the tissues, he discovered succinylmonocholine, a by-product of succinylcholine and proof of the poison's presence in Kay's body.
Ironically, although Bill Sybers seemed in a hurry to bury his wife and hide the evidence, the embalming process helped preserve the succinylmonocholine and made it easier to detect.
5
Rich
The minute after I arrest Jacob Hunt, all hell breaks loose. His mother cries out and starts shouting at the same moment that I put my hand on Jacob's shoulder to lead him back to the room where we do our fingerprints and mug shots--but from his reaction, you would have thought I'd just run him through with a sword. He takes a swing at me, which sets off his lawyer, who--being a lawyer--is no doubt already wondering how to keep his client from being charged for assault on an officer as well. --Jacob!|| his mother shrieks, and then she grabs my arm. --Don't touch him. He doesn't like to be touched.||
I gingerly test my jaw where he's decked me. --Yeah, well, I don't like to be punched,|| I mutter, and I twist Jacob's arms behind his back and handcuff him. --I need to type up some paperwork for your son. Then we'll drive him down to the courthouse for his arraignment.||
--He can't handle all this,|| Emma argues. --At least let me stay with him, so that he knows it's going to be all right--||
--You can't,|| I say flatly.
--You wouldn't interrogate someone deaf without an interpreter!||
--With all due respect, ma'am, your son isn't deaf.|| I meet her gaze. --If you don't leave, I'm going to arrest you as well.||
--Emma,|| the lawyer murmurs, taking her arm.
--Let go of me,|| she says, shaking him off. She takes a step toward her flailing son, but one of the other officers stops her.
--Get them out of here,|| I order as I start to drag Jacob down the hall to the processing room.
It's like trying to wrestle a bull into the backseat of a car. --Look,|| I say, --you just have to relax.|| But he is s
till struggling against my hold when I finally shove him into the small space. There's a fingerprinting machine in there, plus the camera we use for mug shots, expensive equipment that in my mind's eye I'm seeing shattered by Jacob's tantrum.
--Stand here,|| I say, pointing to a white line on the floor. --Look at the camera.||
Jacob lifts up his face and closes his eyes.
--Open them,|| I say.
He does--and rolls them toward the ceiling. After a minute, I take the damn picture anyway, and then his profile shots.
It's when he's turned to his right that he notices the fingerprint machine and goes very still. --Is that a LiveScan?|| Jacob murmurs, the first coherent words he's said since I placed him under arrest.
--Yup.|| I stand at the keypad and suddenly realize that there is a much easier way to go about processing Jacob. --You want to see how it works?||
It's like a switch has been flipped; the crazed tornado has morphed into a curious kid. He takes a step closer. --They're digital files, right?||
--Yeah.|| I type Jacob's name onto the keypad. --What's your middle initial?||
--B.||
--Date of birth?||
--December twenty-first, 1991,|| he says.
--You wouldn't happen to know your social security--||
He rattles off a string of numbers, looking over my shoulder at the next entry.
--Weight: 185 pounds,|| Jacob says, growing more animated. --Occupation: Student. Place of Birth: Burlington, Vermont.||
I reach for a bottle of Corn Huskers lotion that we use to make sure the ridges are slightly damp and all friction skin is captured and realize Jacob's hands are still cuffed behind him. --I'd like to show you how this machine operates,|| I say slowly, --but I can't do it if you're in handcuffs.||
--Right. I understand,|| Jacob says, but he's staring at the screen on the LiveScan machine, and I think if I'd told him that he'd have to give up one of his limbs in return for seeing the scan in action, he would have eagerly agreed. I unlock the cuffs and wipe his fingertips down with the lotion before taking his right hand in mine.
--First we do the thumb flats,|| I say, pressing Jacob's down one at a time. --Then we do flats of the fingers.|| It's a simultaneous impression, the four fingers of each hand pressed on the glass surface at once. --Once the computer's got these loaded, the other images are matched up against them. You roll side to side, thumbs inward, fingers outward,|| I say, illustrating with the first of his fingers and following through with the rest.
When the machine rejects one of the rolled fingers, Jacob's eyebrows shoot up.
--That is remarkable,|| he says. --It won't enter a shoddy print?||
--Nope. It lets me know when I've lifted the finger too soon or if the print is too dark, so I can redo the scan.|| When I finish with his fingers, I press his palm flat on the surface--it's the type of print we find most often on windows, if a criminal's been peeking inside--and then I scan a writer's palm print, the curved edge of the hand along the pinkie finger down to the wrist. By the time I switch to Jacob's left hand, he's practically doing it himself. --It's that easy,|| I say, as the images line up on the screen.
--So you'll send out searches to AFIS right from here?|| Jacob asks.
--That's the plan.|| Having a digital LiveScan that connects to the Automated Fingerprint Identification System is a godsend; I am old enough to remember when it was far more complicated than it is now. The prints are sent to the state central depository, which documents the arrest and sends it along to the FBI. After I lock Jacob up, I will come back to see if there are any other crimes in his past for which he has a record.
I'm guessing there will not be any other hits, but that doesn't mean this is the first time Jacob's acted out. It only means it's the first time he's been caught.
The printer spits out a card that I'll put in his arrest folder, along with his mug shots.
At the top, all of Jacob's biographical information is listed. Below are ten small squares, each with a rolled print. Under those are the ten fingertip digits, lined up like an army of soldiers.
In that instant, I happen to notice Jacob's face. His eyes are shining; his mouth is bent into a smile. He's been arrested for murder, yet he's on cloud nine, because he's gotten to see a LiveScan system up close and personal.
I hit a button, and a second card is printed. --Here.|| I hand it to him.
He starts to bounce on the balls of his feet. --You mean ... I can keep it?||
--Why the hell not,|| I say. While he's entranced by the printout, I grasp his elbow to lead him to the lockup. This time, he doesn't go ballistic when I touch him. He doesn't even notice.
*
Once, I was called in to a suicide. The guy had OD'd on sleeping pills when he was supposed to be babysitting for his sister's twins. The kids were ten-year-old boys, holy terrors. When they couldn't wake up their uncle, they decided to horse around with him.
They covered his face with whipped cream and put a cherry on his nose, which is the first thing I saw when I took a look at the body stretched out on the living room couch.
Those kids never realized the guy was dead.
Eventually, of course, they would have been told. And even though my work was done at that point, I thought about the twins a lot. You just know that after they found out, they were never quite the same. I was probably one of the last people to see those boys when they were still just two kids, when death was the farthest thing from their minds.
That's what haunts me at night. Not the dead bodies I find, but the live ones I leave in my wake.
When I lock Jacob inside our holding cell, he doesn't react--and that scares me more than his earlier outburst. --I'm coming back for you,|| I say. --I just have to finish doing a little paperwork, and then we'll go to the courthouse. Okay?||
He doesn't answer. In his right hand, he clutches the fingerprint card. His left hand is flapping against his thigh.
--Why don't you sit down?|| I say.
Instead of taking a seat on the bunk, Jacob immediately sinks down onto the concrete floor.
We have a video camera pointed into the cell, so that someone is always watching over a perp. I should be going through the paperwork, which takes forever, but instead, I swing into dispatch to stare at the monitor. For ten whole minutes, Jacob Hunt doesn't move, unless you count the way his hand is fluttering. Then, very slowly, he scoots backward until he is leaning against the wall, pressed against the corner of the cell. His mouth is moving.
--What the hell is he saying?|| I ask the dispatcher.
--Beats me.||
I walk out of dispatch and crack the door that leads to the holding cell. Jacob's voice is faint:
All around in my hometown,
They're trying to track me down.
They say they want to bring me in guilty
For the killing of a deputy.
I swing open the door and walk up to the cell. Jacob is still singing, his voice rising and falling. My footsteps echo on the concrete, but he doesn't stop, not even when I am standing on the other side of the bars, directly in front of him, with my arms crossed.
He sings through the chorus two more times before he stops. He doesn't look at me, but I can tell from the way his shoulders square that he knows I'm here.
With a sigh, I realize that I'm not going to leave this kid alone again. And I'm not going to get my paperwork done unless I can convince him it's another lesson in police procedure. --So,|| I say, unlocking the cell door, --have you ever filled out an intake form?||
Oliver
As soon as I hear the detective say that he'll arrest Emma Hunt if she doesn't shut up, I snap out of the panic I am in, a panic induced by the sentence he spoke just slightly before that: Then we'll drive him down to the courthouse for his arraignment.
What the hell do I know about arraignments?
I have won a couple of civil suits. But a criminal arraignment is a whole different animal.
We are in Emma's car, dr
iving to the courthouse, but that was a struggle. She didn't want to leave the police station without Jacob; the only way I managed to convince her to leave was by pointing her in the direction of where her son would be heading. --I ought to be with him,|| she says, running a red light. --I'm his mother, for God's sake.|| As if that triggers something else in her mind, she grimaces. --Theo. Oh my God, Theo ... He doesn't even know we're here ...||
I don't know who Theo is, and to be honest, I don't have time to care. I am busy wondering where I am supposed to stand in the courtroom.
What do I say?
Do I speak first, or does the prosecutor?
--This is a total misunderstanding,|| Emma insists. --Jacob's never hurt anyone. This couldn't be his fault.||
Actually, I don't even know which courtroom to go to.
--Are you even listening?|| Emma asks, and I realize at that moment she must have asked me a question.
--Yes,|| I say, figuring I have a 50 percent chance of being right.
She narrows her eyes. --Left or right,|| she repeats.
We are sitting at a stop sign. --Left,|| I murmur.
--What happens at the arraignment?|| she asks. --Jacob won't have to talk, will he?||
--No. The lawyer does. I mean, I do. The whole point of an arraignment is just to read the charges and set bail.|| This much I remember from law school, anyway.
But it's not the right thing to say to Emma. --Bail?|| she repeats. --They're going to lock Jacob up?||
--I don't know,|| I say, totally honest. --Let's cross that bridge when we come to it.||
Emma parks in the courthouse lot. --When will he get here?||
I don't know the answer to that. What I do know is that it's nearly the end of the business day, and if Detective Matson doesn't get his ass in gear, Jacob's going to be spending the night at the county jail--but there's no way I'm going to tell Emma that.
It's quiet inside the courthouse; most of the cases are through for the day. However, mine is just beginning, and I need a crash course in criminal law before my client figures out I'm a total fraud. --Why don't you wait here?|| I suggest, pointing to a chair in the lobby.
--Where are you going?||
--To do, um, some paperwork that needs to be filed before Jacob arrives,|| I say, trying to look as confident as possible, and then I make a beeline for the office of the clerk.