“I saw more heroism in those days than most men see in a lifetime, and I saw the bad stuff, too, the way men turned coward or turned cruel. Of the thirty-six in that initial platoon, only four of us came back alive. One killed himself a year later, Charlie Green, a corporal, a Kentucky boy. James Rapp robbed a bank, pulled eight years of hard time, then got out, stole a car the same day, and drove into a phone pole. Some said it was intentional, another suicide. No one really knows. The third survivor was from California, Alex Chopin, a good kid, a little flaky but solid in a fight. After the war, he lived rough for a while in LA, then disappeared into some kind of commune up the ass end of Humboldt County. As for me, number four…” Ken sat, his eyes dark and distant. “I lost my wife. I struggled.”
“You said there was a point.”
“People change. That’s the point. They change in wartime most of all.”
“Do you really think he killed her?”
“I think it’s possible.”
I put down the glass, and rose to my feet, dry-mouthed.
“Sit down, Gibby.”
“I think you’ve said enough.”
“You don’t have the facts, son, not about this case or your brother or what war can do to a man.”
“So give them to me.”
“I told you, kid. It’s not my place.”
“He couldn’t have changed that much.”
“War and prison and drugs.” Ken reached for my untouched glass, poured the whiskey into his, and leaned back. “You do the math.”
* * *
At home much later, I stayed awake for hours, afraid that if I slept, I would dream of a river and mud, and small men come for killing. I pictured Ken on a windswept hill—this friend of my father who’d fought young, and lost some piece of himself. He’d known war, as had my brothers; and without meaning to, he’d put some of that war inside me.
The Jason I’d known.
Jason as he might now be.
I didn’t know what to believe, so I twisted and turned, and each time I drifted, I started awake. Eventually, though, I slept, and the dreams that came were not of war or pain or prison but of Becky Collins, who smiled in the sun, her eyes like blue flowers.
Have faith, she said. Life is beautiful.
I woke in a sweat, hoping she was right.
18
Detective French rose early and left the house before the sun had cleared the trees. He’d spent most of the night wrestling with thoughts of his son and murder and a dead girl’s cloudy eye. It looked bad for Jason: the photos of Tyra’s torture and death, the bloody scalpel taped to the back of his son’s dresser.
But still the doubts lingered.
Still, these images of the boy he’d raised.
Captain Martin had locked him out of the case, and word had gone down the line. Only Burklow had the balls to break ranks, and what he’d shared was not enough. French had not seen the knife or the photographs. He knew nothing about witnesses, forensics, the specifics of the autopsy results. Patience had been urged, and French, half-broken, had agreed.
But that was last night.
Like most in law enforcement, the medical examiner was an early riser, and was still at home when French parked the car and killed the engine. He hesitated because there were boundaries in the murder business—there had to be. Putting his uneasiness aside, he climbed out into the morning sunlight as a young man jogged past, and a kid on a bike flung papers. French waited until one landed in the ME’s yard, then picked it up: The New York Times, which was good.
Nothing local.
No mention of his son.
On the porch, he raised his hand to knock, but the door opened before he could. “Detective French. What are you doing here?”
“I brought your paper.” He tried to keep it light, but Malcolm Frye declined to return the smile. “I’m sorry, Mal. I know it’s early.”
“I can’t discuss the case with you.”
His reticence was understandable. Going against the captain’s orders would get any medical examiner in trouble, especially in a case as politically loaded as Jason’s. And Malcolm Frye wasn’t just any ME. He was the only black one in the city, no small accomplishment in a county that had only recently integrated its public schools. That made Malcolm an important part of the civil rights movement. He was visible. He had a lot to lose.
“He’s my son, Malcolm. I don’t know where else to turn.”
The moment stretched uncomfortably. Neither man would call the other a friend, but the respect had always been there: all the years, dozens of cases. The ME frowned, then softened. “You still drink coffee, don’t you?”
“Only in the mornings.”
“Coffee, then. Come on.” He led the way into a neat kitchen. “Two things first.” Malcolm poured the coffees. “If anyone asks, you were never here. Second, the autopsy file is at the office. Even were it here, I wouldn’t share it with you. That’s a line I can’t cross.”
“Hey, we’re just two guys talking.”
“All right, then.”
French had a thousand questions, but one rose first in his mind. “You’ve seen the scalpel recovered from Jason’s bedroom. Is it consistent with Tyra’s injuries?”
“With the more precise cuts, yes.”
“Would most scalpels be consistent?”
“Bear in mind that two blades were used on Tyra Norris, one very thin and incredibly sharp. It takes high-grade steel to hold that kind of edge. A scalpel is specifically engineered to that purpose. Telling one from another…” He made a face that meant probably not.
“And the blood on this particular scalpel?”
“It matches Tyra’s.”
“Do two blades mean a second cutter?”
“It means a second blade, something like a kitchen knife, nothing special, sharp enough but not surgical. Beyond that, we move into speculation.”
“At the scene, you said some cuts indicated a higher level of skill or knowledge. A corpsman, you thought. Maybe a med school dropout.”
“Yes, but again, that was off-the-cuff speculation.”
“Not enough to rule out my son?”
“I’m sorry, but no. Everything that led me to that initial impression could be learned in a book or on a battlefield or working on stolen cadavers. I can’t testify to a specific level of skill or training. Whoever did this had patience, a steady hand, and a general knowledge of anatomy.”
French stared through the window. Outside, the day was brighter: a high blue sky, the shadows rolling back. “Walk me through it. Front to back.”
The ME kept it clinical. The specifics. “In the end, she died from blood loss and mass, diffuse trauma. The murder took time.”
“How much time?”
“Hours. She suffered.”
French walked to the window, and peered out. “You have a background in psychology, don’t you?”
“Before medical school, I was a clinical psychologist.”
“Forensic, as I recall.”
“I worked with police departments, yes. Miami-Dade. Los Angeles.”
French pinched the bridge of his nose. He was about to leave the cop behind, and it was hard, losing that shell. “How does it happen, Malcolm? What makes someone capable?”