Barry Lando: Deep Strike

“I’ll get right to the point,” said Steve.

“Good.”

“You said the cause of Brian Hunt’s death was drowning?”

The doctor turned back to his computer. “That’s H-U-N-T?” he asked.

“Correct”

“And the date?”

“Last Monday.”

The doctor brought up the file and read the conclusion: “The cause of death was drowning.”

“A couple of questions about that,” Steve said.

The doctor scowled.

“First,” said Steve, “Hunt fell more than forty feet, before he crashed onto the boulders at the bottom of the precipice. Here let me show you.” He took his iPad and flicked through several pictures he had taken at Fountainhead Park the day before.

The doctor glanced at them briefly, and then returned his gaze to Steve. His fingers drummed the desk.

“You’d think a fall like that would kill anyone outright, wouldn’t you?” said Steve.

Stone shrugged. “You might.”

“But if he were dead when he hit, he wouldn’t be breathing,” said Steve. “So how could he drown?”

The doctor glared. “Are you questioning my professional judgment?”

Steve continued, “I checked with the weather bureau. You remember the storm that hit Virginia the night of his accident? Dumped more than three inches of water in twenty-four hours?”

“Your point?” said Stone, glancing at his watch.

“At the time Brian Hunt had his so-called accident, the level of water in the river was four feet lower than it was a day later when his body was discovered. Which means Brian’s head was well above the water when he lay on those rocks. In fact, it must have taken a while for the water to reach him. You’re saying he just lay there alive all that time until he drowned?”

“He was probably paralyzed,” snapped Stone. “As you noted, it was a long fall.” He looked again at his watch. “You said you needed two minutes.”

“And all the while,” Steve persisted, “Hunt was unable to make enough noise to attract the attention of any of the searchers. Not even the sniffer dogs were able to find him.”

“Is that it?” The doctor’s eyes narrowed.

“There’s also this,” said Steve. He reached down and extracted the crimson fragment of Brian’s biking helmet from his backpack. “This belonged to Hunt. I just found it.”

“And?”

“You can see he obviously took a major blow. There’re bloodstains as well.”

The doctor shrugged. “He took a big fall.”

“Right, except I found this piece by the side of the trail at the top of the cliff. In other words, Hunt was hit on the head before he fell.”

Stone’s lips tightened. “Look, Mr. Penn, I agreed to meet you because I thought you were on some kind of official business. If that’s not the case, this meeting is over. If there’s anything to change in my report, I can handle it myself.”

It was raining now; the rhythmic beating of his windshield wipers sounding a soothing, hypnotic note. But the vague doubts Steve had before his visit to Doctor Stone were now shrill questions demanding answers. He called Brian’s widow from his mobile.

“Joanne, it’s Steve. I’m sorry to intrude at this time, but I’ve really got to talk with you.”

“About what?”

“Rather tell you in person.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“You’re scaring me.”

“Nothing to be scared of. I can be there in ten minutes.”

“O.K. But I’ve got to get the kids at five.”

Picking up kids from school, thought Steve. What’s it like? He’d never done it. Never had a kid who’d lived long enough to go to school.

A few minutes later, he pulled to a stop before the Hunts’ shingle-roofed bungalow on North Rockingham Street. It was a quiet, bucolic neighborhood, perfect for raising kids. There was a maple tree in the front yard with an old inner tube hanging from a limb. There were neat flowerbeds under the windows: the mauve and orange crocuses were already coming up; the rows of daffodils preparing their own show for spring. Joanne’s black Prius was in the driveway. Steve wondered if he was making a mistake, stirring things up like this, going off half-cocked on some wild conspiracy theory without any real evidence. But no, this had to be done. It was still drizzling as he walked to the porch and rang the bell.

Joanne opened the door with one hand, talking on her mobile with the other. She motioned him in. Still on the phone, she led him to the living room. He sat on a leather sofa; she settled into a beige armchair facing him. She was wearing a pale blue jogging outfit, her hair disheveled, and the laces of her sneakers were undone. A large picture of Brian, Joanne, and their two boys was on the coffee table, draped in black.

There were three Afghan kilims on the floor. Brian and Steve had been assured by a bearded doctor in Kabul they were “top quality,” “museum pieces.” Desperate to get himself and his family out of Afghanistan, the doctor was selling anything he still had of value. Steve had picked up a spectacular crystal vase and a string of amber beads that supposedly dated back to the 16th century.

Joanne frowned as she attempted to end the phone call. “Yes, yes, okay thanks, Denise. Goodbye. Yes, I will. No, don’t worry. Okay. Goodbye.” She put down the mobile and let out a deep sigh. “That was Brian’s mother,” she said. “Seems like she’s calling me every hour. Wants to come over. Take care of the kids. Do my shopping. I know she just wants to help… but… but sometimes it just gets too much.”

She took a Kleenex from a box on the table and dabbed her eyes. “Can’t seem to stop crying,” she said. “I think it’s under control, but then it just starts up again.”

“It’s okay. You’re entitled,” said Steve. He was trying to figure out how to begin.

“The kids still can’t understand what happened,” she said. “They were at the funeral. You saw them there. Yet this morning they came into the bedroom and asked when Daddy was coming home. I’ll get you some coffee.”

“Don’t bother, I….”

“It’s alright, really.” She got up and walked to the kitchen in the next room. “It’s already made,” she called out behind her.

She returned with her tears dried and a tray bearing a pot of coffee, two cups, and some sponge cake. “You can’t believe how many people brought cake. They’re still coming.”

As she took a seat, Steve poured himself a cup. “Joanne, look…”

She interrupted, chattering on. “It’s strange to see you here without Brian. I can’t believe how many times we had you over for a barbecue or to watch football, or Homeland or whatever. Always trying to fix you up with someone. Never seemed to work, though, did it?”

“Guess not.” There was an awkward pause. He put down his cup. “Joanne, it’s a strange thing I’m going to ask, not at all easy.”

“You’re frightening me again.” She stared at him, alert to the change of tone.

“You have to request a new autopsy of Brian.” There, he finally got it out.

“What?” Her brow furrowed as if she hadn’t heard him correctly.

“You have to ask for another examination of Brian’s body,” he repeated slowly as if talking to a child. “To find out how he died.”

Her fingers dug into the arms of her chair. “Are you serious? Dig Brian up? Are you crazy?”

“I’m pretty certain his death was not an accident.”

“You’re out of your mind,” she finally burst out. “Brian said you were always inventing conspiracies. You want to cut him open again? Make us go through it all over again?”