Jefferson Bass - Flesh and Bone - A Body Farm Novel

He smiled at that. “Bill Brockton, you are the last person on earth I would have expected to find myself representing in a murder case.”

“Well, I’m as surprised as you are,” I said. “Astonished to be suspected of murder; amazed to be hiring you. But you have a remarkable track record. Good as you are at getting guilty clients off, you should have a pretty easy time representing an innocent man.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them.

DeVriess looked away, then back at me. “Why, you smug, self-righteous son of a bitch,” he said. “You have the nerve to look down on me, to judge me, while you come to me for help in a murder case? I ought to throw you out right now.”

I felt a rush of shame, mixed with fear. “You’re right,” I said. “I apologize. That was rude.”

“You’re damn right it was rude,” he said. “I do my best for every client I have. When I was admitted to the Tennessee bar, I promised to represent my clients to the best of my skill and abilities. Whether they’re pure as virgins or guilty as sin, it’s my job, my duty, within the American legal system, to fight like hell for my clients. You know why? Because the prosecution will fight like hell to convict them, whether they’re guilty or not. You’ve seen that yourself-your DA friend Bob Roper tried to send Eddie Meacham to the chair for killing Billy Ray Ledbetter, even though that was an accidental death. If they decide they can convict you of this woman’s murder, he’ll try to do the same to you. After that Meacham case, you, of all people, ought to know better. Unless you’re one of the twelve people in the jury box, or unless you’re God the Father Almighty, you have no right to judge me or my clients.”

Now it was my turn to be mad. I had apologized, and sincerely, but instead of accepting it, he had rubbed my nose in it and gotten up on his lawyerly high horse. “You know, that all sounds really noble, Grease. But I sat across from Susan Scott a few days ago as she howled like some dying animal. You remember Susan Scott, don’t you? Mother of Joey Scott, little kid who was raped by your client Craig Willis? Joey Scott, who will spend years in therapy and still never completely recover? You’re telling me I have no right to judge Craig Willis, a child molester caught in the act? You’re saying I should feel a warm glow of civic pride that you cut him loose to prey on other kids? And you’ve got the nerve to call me smug and self-righteous?”

DeVriess’s eyes flashed and his jaw muscles clenched and unclenched as if he were attacking a piece of gristle. For a moment I thought he might actually come across the desk at me. Finally he said, “Shit, Doc. Goddamnit.” He looked away, and when he looked back at me, I could see pain in his eyes. “There’s half a dozen cases keep me awake at night. That’s number two on the list.”

“Let me take a guess at number one,” I said. “The case where the little girl was abducted, and then killed, while you delayed the search of the suspect’s car?”

“Yes, damn you, that’s number one. Are you satisfied?” He sighed wearily. “I like to believe that the good cases make up for the bad ones. Like clearing Meacham of a murder he didn’t commit.”

“Can’t hurt,” I said. “You just need some more like that.”

“And is this a case like that?”

“Yes. I didn’t kill Jess Carter.”

“You know I’d defend you just as vigorously if you did.”

“I know. I want to hire you in spite of that, not because of it.”

“Defense lawyers have a saying, Doc: ‘There is no client so dangerous as an innocent man.’ Know why?”

“No; why?”

He thought a moment, then shrugged. “You know, it beats the hell out of me.” He smiled ruefully. So did I. He picked up the phone and hit a button on the console. “Chloe, cancel the rest of my appointments for the afternoon,” he said. “Yes, even him. And draw me up a letter of engagement with Dr. Brockton. Yes, the standard retainer, twenty thousand.” I felt my sphincter muscles clench at the mention of the sum. “Thank you, Chloe.” He set the handset back in its cradle. “Okay, tell me about it,” he said, opening the leather notebook and uncapping the fountain pen. “Start at the beginning.”

“Which beginning?”

“The beginning of the end. When things began to go wrong.”

So I did. I started with the body Miranda and I had tied to a tree at the Body Farm for Jess, and I went on to tell about the creationist brouhaha, and Miss Georgia, and Craig Willis’s raging mother, and Susan Scott’s raging grief, and Jess’s sweetness when she finally invited me all the way in, and her suspicious ex-husband, and her obscenely posed corpse. By the time I reached the end of the end-or at least the present moment-two hours had passed, the sky was dark, and I felt exhaustion and grief seeping into my bones.

I TOOK A CABfrom DeVriess’s office to McGhee Tyson Airport and had the driver drop me at the doors to the baggage claim area. The Hertz counter was near, and there was no line, so I opted for that one. “I need to rent a car,” I told the young woman behind the counter.

“Do you have a reservation?”

“No. Is that a problem?”

I thought I saw the corners of her mouth twitch. “Do we look swamped with business?”

I smiled. “This could be the first piece of good luck I’ve had all day,” I said.

She entered my driver’s license number and credit card into her computer, and five minutes later I was headed north on Alcoa Highway in a white Ford Taurus, which struck me as surely the most boring car to emerge from Detroit in de cades. But my feet were still sore from my trek to DeVriess’s office, so, boring or not, I appreciated the vehicle.

I passed the turnoff to UT Medical Center and the Body Farm-a place that would forever be haunted by Jess’s ghost for me now-and crossed the river, then took the Kingston Pike exit. The winding roads of Sequoyah Hills felt unfamiliar, probably because the Taurus handled differently from my truck. But maybe they felt unfamiliar also because the world had changed so completely in the past two days.

When the police impounded my truck, they impounded my garage door opener along with it, I realized, so I would have to leave the rental car in the driveway overnight unless I wanted to park, go inside, open the garage door, then drive it. The sequence of actions, which would have taken sixty seconds or less, loomed as overwhelming. The Taurus didn’t strike me as a particularly tempting vehicle for car thieves, who could take their pick of Audis, Mercedes, Jaguars, and other high-end vehicles in other driveways in this part of town. As a security compromise, though, I paused on the front porch and clicked the keyless remote, and the vehicle locked with a diminutive beep.

As I stepped inside my front door, I heard and felt the distinctive crunch of broken glass underfoot. Switching on the light in the entryway, I saw glass littering the slate floor-dozens of shards and chips of it-and a rock sitting atop some of the pieces, a note attached to it with duct tape. I removed the note and unfolded it. “Now it’s your turn to burn,” it read. Below the words was a crayon drawing of a monkey engulfed in red and orange flames. I ripped the note in half, and was about to tear it into shreds when I realized that might be a terrible mistake. I remembered the newscast the night of the creationist protest, and my surprise at seeing Jess interviewed at the scene. I also remembered the look of rage on the face of Jennings Bryan as he listened to Jess’s sarcastic comments about his movement, his philosophy. And I recalled what she had said about the obscene and threatening phone calls she had gotten that evening. Had whoever made those threats actually followed through on them? And was I the next target?