Flesh and Bone Page 20

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember. I guess I wondered what he was doing there, and I wished he hadn’t been. I worried about what this might do to Jess, and to things between us. I worried about our food getting cold, too, I remember that.” I tried to smile to break the tension between us, but he wasn’t buying it, and that made the smile feel doubly false.

  “Were there other people in the restaurant?”

  “Sure. It was a Friday night. It was pretty full.”

  “Some of those people notice that your date had ditched you for a guy at the bar?”

  “She didn’t ditch me, and she wasn’t my date, exactly.”

  “She wasn’t? You were in a sexual relationship with this woman, and you took her out to dinner in a fancy restaurant. I’d call that a date. What do you Ph.D. types call that?”

  “I wasn’t thinking about it as a romantic evening. I was trying to cheer her up, make her feel better, after she got assaulted in my office.”

  Evers turned to the fireplug again. “You hear that? He wasn’t thinking about it as a romantic evening. You just talked to that waitress, didn’t you?” Horace nodded. “What was it she said about how he was acting? She said it looked kinda lovey-dovey, didn’t she?”

  Horace flipped back a ways in the legal pad. “She said, ‘He kept touching her hand. He kissed her hand. I thought maybe it was an anniversary or something.’ That’s what she said.” His stenographic skills were remarkable. Art had clearly underestimated Horace’s contribution to the investigative duo’s work.

  Evers turned back to me again, scooting a little closer still. His knee was now nearly to my crotch, and he was leaning across the corner of the table toward me, looking me square in the eye. Without taking his eyes off mine, he swiveled his head slightly in the direction of his partner. “And did she say how the good doctor acted while his lady love was having the tête-à-tête with her ex-hubby, and how he acted after she came back?”

  “She said, ‘He seemed nervous at first, and then he looked more and more upset,’” Horace read. “‘I asked if I could get him anything—a cup of coffee or a drink—and he almost bit my head off. When she finally came back to the table, it looked like maybe they were having a fight. Not a shouting fight—people don’t do that in restaurants like the Bistro. One of those quiet fights where the couple just whispers but the woman still ends up crying. Except he was the one who looked like he was crying.’ That’s how she said he acted.”

  I felt myself getting angry. I tried to rein it in—Evers was clearly pushing me on purpose, trying to throw me off-balance, get me to say something he could use against me—and I wanted to be careful not to do that. “And what did she say about the ex-husband,” I asked, “and how he acted when he saw her having dinner with another man?”

  Evers smacked his palm down on the table, hard. It sounded almost like a gunshot, and it made me jump. It made the tape recorder jump, too. “I’m asking the questions here, Dr. Brockton, not you. But since you asked about him, I’ll tell you something. We’ve already looked at Preston Carter. We always look first at the husband or the ex. And he’s got something you don’t have, Doc. You care to guess what that might be?” I shrugged and shook my head. I had an uneasy feeling what it might be, but I didn’t want to say the word. “He’s got an alibi,” said Evers. “He is a deputy district attorney, and he has a damn good alibi.”

  He picked up the recorder and read the time off his watch, saying there would be a short break in the interview. Then he looked at Horace and cocked his head toward the door of the room. They walked out without a word. The door closed behind them gently, but even so, the sound of it clicking shut seemed almost deafening in the hard, empty room.

  I pulled out my cellphone and hit SEND. My last call had been the one from Art, so the phone automatically dialed him. Please answer, I prayed, and he did. “Art, I’m scared,” I said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’ve got a bad feeling.” I told him how Evers chased me down and referred to my truck as evidence, and hauled me back in, and all but accused me of Jess’s murder.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Not good. I hate to say it, Bill, but I think maybe you better get a lawyer.”

  “Why? I didn’t do anything. You think they think I killed Jess? You think they might be about to arrest me?”

  “Probably not. Not yet, at least. But meanwhile, it looks like Evers has decided to put the screws to you.”

  “But dammit, Art, if I hire a lawyer, doesn’t that just make me look guilty?”

  “You already look guilty to him. And to a homicide cop, looking guilty and being guilty are virtually synonymous. Evers is looking for the best-fit explanation. And if he’s decided you’re it, he’ll search like hell for other evidence that supports your guilt. He’ll ignore things that suggest you’re innocent, or he’ll twist them around in ways that make even the innocent things look bad. Not because he’s trying to shaft you personally. But because he’s trying to piece together who committed a murder. And for what ever reason, you’re starting to look like the key to the puzzle.”

  I knew Art was right. I’d spent years at crime scenes talking to cops like Evers, listening as they tried and discarded various theories. That experience enabled me to step back and look at this from his perspective, at least for one brief moment of clarity. “So I really do need to lawyer up?”

  “You need to lawyer up.”

  “Who should I call?”

  “David Eldredge is good,” he said. “Smart. Respected. So is Herb Greene. Herb has cross-examined me three or four times in murder trials. Thorough. Kinda dull, though. A plodder. He’s no Clarence Darrow. He’s ain’t gonna win the hearts and minds of the jurors for you.”

  There was an uncomfortable thought buzzing around my mind. I tried swatting it away but it kept coming back. “There’s another name occurs to me,” I said, “though I shudder to think about it.”

  “Me too,” he said, “but he’s the first one I thought of. I just couldn’t bring myself to say it.”

  We spat it out in unison: “Grease.”

  “Art, I swear, I would never have imagined I might stoop to hiring that guy. But then again, I never dreamed I might need to.”

  “I would never have imagined stooping to recommend him,” he said. “Bottom line, though, is he’s got the best win record, despite the worst clients.”

  “Yeah, but hiring Grease is like taking out a billboard ad along I-40,” I said, “with my face and the words YES, I DID IT in ten-foot letters over Jess’s corpse.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said. “If things get bad and you’ve hired a lawyer you respect, you might find yourself sleeping soundly in prison. If you’ve hired Grease, you’ve got a pretty good shot at tossing and turning in your own bed for the rest of your nights. Sure, everybody will assume you’re guilty. Doesn’t make it so, though. Suck it up and call the bastard.”

  “I’ll think about it. Let me see how it goes once Evers comes back and starts asking questions again.”

  “Okay. Call me later. I don’t know what I can do to help, but I’ll try.”

  “You already have,” I said. “Thanks.”

  “That’s what friends are for. You want me to sing it?”

  “I’d rather you didn’t. Talk to you soon.” I hated to hang up. Art’s voice felt like a lifeline, and it was tough to let go. But I heard the doorknob rattling, and I knew I had no choice.

  Evers and Bingham filed in and sat down, and Evers cranked up the recorder again. I felt his knee wedging itself between both of mine.

  “Dr. Brockton, in your initial statement out at the scene, you told us you arrived at the Body Farm at approximately eight A.M. yesterday morning.”

  “Yes, that’s right,” I said.

  “And you told us that again in our interview in this room about an hour ago, did you not?”

  “I think so. I’m pretty confident it was around eight. Give or take a few minutes. Doesn’t
911 automatically record the date and time of emergency calls?”

  He ignored my question. “And before that, when were you last out there?”

  “When was I last out at the Body Farm?”

  “Yes, when? Think carefully.”

  I did. “Last Thursday afternoon. End of the day. A little after five. I was there to check on the condition of that research body. The one tied to the tree.”

  “You’re saying you were last there one day before your dinner with Dr. Carter?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “And you’re saying you were not out there at any time between Thursday night and Monday morning—yesterday morning—at approximately eight A.M.”

  “That’s correct.”

  Evers smacked the table again. “You are lying to me, Dr. Brockton. And there is nothing I hate worse than being lied to.”

  “The hell I am!” I shot back in frustration. “What makes you think I’m lying?”

  He swiveled and looked at Horace as if it were the most insulting thing anyone had ever said to him. “You hear that?” Horace nodded grimly. “You think I should tell him what makes me think he’s lying?” Horace shrugged, then—as Evers continued to stare at him—nodded again. Evers turned back to me, his face so close to mine I could count the pores on his nose. “What makes me think you’re lying, Doctor, is that I just watched a surveillance video that shows your truck—your truck, Doctor—driving through the gate of the Body Farm at five A.M. yesterday morning. Three hours before you called 911 to say you’d found her body.”

  “That’s not possible,” I said.

  “Don’t you dare fuck with me!” he shouted. Specks of spittle flew from his mouth onto my face. “It is on the goddamn tape! Your truck, Doctor.”

  I wiped my face. Evers’s spit was mixed with a layer of sweat that had suddenly coated my forehead.

  “I was not there,” I said. “I was at home, in my bed asleep, at five A.M.”

  “Can you prove that in a court of law?”

  “Do I need to? Are you saying I’m a suspect?”

  “Not a suspect, Doctor. The suspect.”

  “Should I get a lawyer?”

  “Do you need a lawyer?”

  “If you think I’m a killer, then I think I need a lawyer.”

  He suddenly leaned back, out of my face, and scooted his chair back, withdrawing his knee from between my legs. He drew a deep breath and blew it out between pursed lips. “Here’s the thing, Doc,” he said in a weary, regretful voice. “If you want to stop talking to me until you’ve got an attorney present, you have that right. Absolutely. No question about it. But if I shut off this tape recorder and stop this interrogation now, then from here on, I’m gonna come after you with both guns blazing. Balls to the wall. If you’ll tell me everything right now—tell me what went wrong, tell me how it escalated, tell me what made you do it—I might be able to help you. Might even be able to get you a deal for second-degree or manslaughter. Can’t promise that, but I can recommend it. That’s a onetime offer, though, and it ends the instant we stop talking.”

  I stared at him, and then at the impassive face of Horace, and then at Evers again. “You’re asking me to confess to a murder I didn’t commit?”

  “I’m asking you to explain a murder you did commit.”

  “And this isn’t what you’d call coming at me with guns blazing? Accusing me, spitting in my face, slamming things around, jamming your knee up my crotch?”

  He smiled, in a sinister sort of way, and shook his head slowly. “Heavens no, Dr. Brockton. Not by a long shot. I have not yet begun to bear down on you. You think I’ve invaded your personal space? That was minimally invasive. I am fixin’ to get maximally invasive. Wouldn’t you agree, Horace?”

  Horace considered it, then grinned nastily. “Y’all could share the same pair of grippers. If I was you, Doc, I’d try to clear things up right now. Tell us the truth. Don’t make it harder on yourself.”

  I looked from one to the other and saw focused hostility and determination in both faces. I took a deep breath, then another. “Okay,” I said, “I do want to clear things up. But this isn’t an easy thing for me to say.” Evers and Horace leaned forward; both detectives were practically in my lap now. “The truth is, I thought the world of Dr. Jess Carter. The truth is, I did not kill her. And the truth is—and this is the thing I have the hardest time saying to two police officers—I will not answer any more questions without an attorney present.”

  Evers slammed his hand on the table for the third time, but this time I did not flinch. Then he snatched up the recorder and said, “This interrogation was terminated when suspect exercised his right to counsel.” He spat out the time and snapped off the machine with an angry click.

  Evers stood up so abruptly his chair toppled backward, then spun and walked out of the room. Horace got to his feet more slowly.

  “Are you finished with me?” I asked.

  Horace snorted. “We have not even started with you,” he said. “But you can go, for now. Have your attorney contact us at his earliest convenience.” He said the last two words in a sarcastic sneer. He led me out of the room and to the elevator, and used his key to authorize the car to descend from the fourth floor down to the lobby. He pointed me to the front door. “We’ll be seeing you, Doc,” he said. “Real soon.”

  As I walked out the door into the parking lot, I realized I had no vehicle. It had been seized as evidence, and it would be combed for anything they could use against me.

  CHAPTER 29

  I COULD SEE BURT DeVriess’s office gleaming on the far side of the valley from the hilltop where KPD hunkered. Lacking another way to get there, I set out on foot. DeVriess’s office was near the top of Riverview Tower, a twenty-four-story ellipse sheathed in bands of green glass and silvery steel. Bands that were the colors of money.

  The building soared above the river bluff at the south end of Gay Street, Knoxville’s main drag. I crossed the valley to Gay Street on the Hill Avenue bridge, whose parabolic concrete arches spanned a messy knot of lanes and ramps where the Hill Avenue interchange tangled with James White Parkway and Neyland Drive.

  Riverview Tower was one of a pair of side-by-side office towers built by the Butcher brothers, bankers Jake and C. H. Butcher, in the early 1980s, just before their financial empires collapsed in a rubble heap of criminal fraud. Longtime Knoxvillians still referred to the angular black-glass tower as “Jake’s bank” and to the curving green and silver one as “C.H.’s place,” but the buildings retained no connection to the disgraced bankers except as a fading stain on their architectural pedigrees.

  I entered the lobby by way of the revolving door off Gay Street and rode the elevator up in the company of people in power suits and spring dresses. I was pretty sure I was the only one aboard who was about to be charged with murder, but then again, perhaps none of my fellow passengers imagined me as a fledgling felon, either.

  The entrance to DeVriess’s suite of offices spoke of money and sophistication befitting Knoxville’s most successful defense attorney. Most high-end law offices were lined in an excess of walnut or mahogany veneer, but Burt’s inclined more to chrome, frosted glass, and other touches of Art Deco. His receptionist, a correspondingly stylish woman somewhere in her thirties, looked up and greeted me with a smile. “Hello, may I help you?”

  “Is…Mr. DeVriess in?”

  “Do you have an appointment?” She took a quick glance at her computer screen.

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “I’m sorry, we don’t really take walk-ins,” she said, looking genuinely regretful. “Would you like to make an appointment for a consultation, Mr….?”

  “Brockton,” I said. “Bill Brockton.”

  Her face brightened. “Oh, Dr. Brockton, of course,” she said. “I knew your face looked familiar. I’m Chloe Matthews.” She held out her hand and gave mine a firm shake. “Mr. DeVriess has a meeting with a client in just a few minutes, but I’m sure he’ll want to sa
y hello to you.” She disappeared around a corner, and a moment later she reappeared with Burt DeVriess—my nemesis, on whose mercy I had come to throw myself.

  “Hello, Doc,” he said, giving me the simultaneous hearty-handshake-and-shoulder-pat combination that was supposed to underscore how very glad he was to see me. “What brings you clear up here?”

  “Could I speak with you about…something?” I began awkwardly.

  His eyes took on a startled expression, which he quickly masked. “Come with me,” he said, turning and heading back down the hallway. As I followed, I made one final survey of my options, considering whether there might be some other way to protect myself. I came up dry again, and again I cursed the circumstances that had brought me to this.

  Asking Burt DeVriess to represent me in a murder investigation might just be the hardest request of my life. Although I had testified for him on one occasion—when Garland Hamilton’s botched autopsy had caused DeVriess’s client to be wrongly accused of murder—my feelings for Grease could best be described as variations on a theme of loathing. DeVriess tended to defend the lowest of the low: child molesters like Craig Willis; notorious drug dealers; even one admitted serial killer. Cops and judges unanimously despised Grease. Yet his powers of pretrial maneuvering, courtroom confrontation, and media manipulation were so prodigious he nearly always succeeded in getting his clients off scot-free, or with remarkably lenient sentences. The serial killer’s trial had ended in a hung jury, thanks largely to DeVriess’s success in having the man’s confession suppressed. As a result, the only thing keeping an admitted monster behind bars was a series of rape convictions.

  It had run counter to every instinct I possessed to stop answering John Evers’s questions—I’d spent years talking with homicide detectives, answering every question they asked as completely and candidly as possible. I told them everything I knew about crime scenes, bodies, bones, time since death, and manner of death. Tell the truth, and let the chips fall where they may: as a forensic scientist, I had always lived by that creed. It had served me well, and it had served the criminal justice system well. Now, I had forced myself to say to a homicide detective, “I refuse to answer any more questions without an attorney present.” And now I had come to ask DeVriess to be that attorney.