Joel Goldman - Chasing The Dead

“But as long as it doesn’t impact the case, how about sending me the standard discovery before the grand jury indicts my client?”

Kalena smiled and shook her head. “Then I’d be the one looking for a job. Besides, I won’t have all that stuff before the grand jury convenes. We’re still working the case up, and I’ll save you the trouble of asking me to reduce the charges to a misdemeanor. You’re not that stupid and I’m not that easy, especially when the death penalty is in play.”

That was the response Alex expected unless Kalena was getting pressure to put the case on a fast track to a plea bargain, her response making it clear that she wasn’t.

“Never hurts to ask. Can you at least tell me if the victim has been identified?” Kalena hesitated. “C’mon. Don’t make me wait for the grand jury for that information. You’re going to release her identity to the press anyway.”

“We’re not quite there yet, but I’ll give you a call as soon as I can.”

“Fair enough,” Alex said. She had gathered her things and begun to walk away when she stopped and turned back toward Kalena. “By the way, who else in your office had access to the file?”

“Everyone,” Kalena said.

Alex went home and changed into faded jeans, a long-sleeved navy polo, and boots. She played fetch with Quincy in the backyard using one of the many tennis balls he’d stashed around the house and yard, waiting for him to tire while she thought about Jared’s case.

When she met him at the jail, she didn’t ask him to tell her his version of what happened. She was more interested in getting a sense of him and beginning the process of building a rapport. The more he liked, trusted, and believed in her, the more likely he’d be to tell her the truth. She was under no illusion that he’d ever tell her the entire truth. Few, if any, of her clients did that. The most she hoped for was that he’d tell her enough of the truth that she could build a defense. And the more she knew about the case when she had that conversation with Jared, the more she could tell when he was lying.

Rossi’s investigative report and the prosecutor’s complaint gave her the outlines of the state’s case. It would be a while before she got any discovery from Kalena Greene and before Grace Canfield tracked down Jared’s army buddies or anyone else who might know something useful. That left the crime scene.

The courtroom was Alex’s favorite place, but the crime scene, alive with smells, colors, and textures and speaking a sign language peculiar to the horror it had witnessed, was a close second. The challenge was figuring out what the scene was trying to say.

She didn’t have the police photographs, the forensic report, or the physical evidence taken from the scene or Jared’s confession. And that was fine with her. She wanted to see the scene through her eyes first. There would be other versions told by people with an agenda, but the crime scene didn’t have an agenda. Though bloodstained, it was pure.

She’d driven by the scene countless times, the grassy, overgrown stretch of ground flitting past in her peripheral vision. It was flanked by I-435 on the west, Truman Road on the north, and Twenty-Third on the south. Jackson County had two courthouses, one downtown and another in Independence, Missouri, which bordered Kansas City’s easternmost edge. She regularly used both Truman Road and Twenty-Third to get to that courthouse, never thinking to detour onto the winding side streets that led to where the murder had occurred.

She exited from I-435 onto Truman Road, passing a porn shop called Erotic City. Its sign towered above the store’s roofline, enticing customers with the promise of literature, films, books, playthings, and videos. Once when she and Bonnie were about to pass the store, Bonnie made her stop, claiming she couldn’t live another day without knowing the difference between pornographic literature and pornographic books. She discovered that the difference was in the price and walked out with a few delightful playthings.

According to Rossi’s report, the police had entered the area from the north. Alex did the same, thinking to retrace Rossi’s steps. The north end was narrow and studded with stunted trees, their limbs bent and bare, and clusters of runaway weeds that tugged at her jeans as she strode past. The ground was riddled with hidden rocks and cracks in the earth that could snag a careless ankle and twist an unguarded knee.

The area opened up as she approached the center, which was flat and grassy, with few of the hazards of the north end, making it an inviting place to pitch a tent. The southern end was tapered like the north, with woods so thick she couldn’t see Twenty-Third Street.

A creek running north and south cut through the area at an angle. She was on the east side. There was another hundred yards of grass and scrub on the west side of the creek, with the interstate just beyond.

Rossi’s report described a campsite with a number of tents. Now there was only one, set deep in the shadow of a rock wall carved out of what was once a bluff marking the eastern border of the unofficial campground. Murder was bad for property values, even in a homeless encampment, Alex thought. Or maybe it wasn’t the murder. Maybe it was the scrutiny that came with the murder. Either way, the campgrounds had been abandoned save the one tent. Grace would have a hard time running down anyone who had been there that night.

Rossi’s diagram of the scene put Jared’s tent near the midpoint between Truman Road and Twenty-Third Street. She had no trouble finding his campsite. The grass was still beaten down and faded from where the tent had been. And it was the only vacant site with crime scene tape ground into the turf by an anonymous boot.

She made her way to the lone remaining tent, stopping when she was within twenty feet. The tent flap was half-open and she could hear someone stirring inside.

“Hello in the tent,” she called out.

There was no reply.

“Anybody home?”

Silence, then a raspy, smoke-addled voice answered. “Who gives a shit?”

Alex bit her lip, trying not to laugh. “I do. My name is Alex Stone.”

“Good for you. Go away.”

“I’d rather talk to you first.”

“And I’d rather be the queen of England, so it looks like we’re both gonna be disappointed.”

“No reason for both of us to be disappointed. All I want is to talk to you. That’s a hell of a lot easier than you giving up all of this to marry Prince Charles. And I’ve got twenty dollars for you if that will help.”

A burst of lung-busting coughing exploded inside the tent, after which a short, skinny woman wearing sweatpants cinched around her bony hips and a grease-stained yellow T-shirt stepped into the sun. Her gray hair was stringy and tangled and her eyes were bloodshot. She opened her mouth, sucking in air like it was hard labor, running her tongue where her teeth had been and sticking out a scrawny hand.

“Like the man says, show me the money.”

Alex approached, catching a whiff of the woman’s stench, a sour, curdled odor like garbage left to rot in the sun.

“C’mon, now,” the woman said, snapping her fingers, “I ain’t got all day.”

Alex held out a twenty-dollar bill and the woman grabbed it in a flash.

“Were you here the other night when they found that woman’s body in the creek?”

“You a cop?”

“No. I’m a lawyer. I represent Jared Bell. The police arrested him for murdering that woman.”

“Poor Joanie,” the woman said, fishing a cigarette from her T-shirt pocket. “Got a light?”

Alex caught her breath at the mention of the victim’s name. “Sorry, I don’t. You said her name was Joanie.”