Lisa Black - Evidence of Murder

Don Delgado poked his head in. “What’s that?”

“This is what we, in law enforcement circles, call a clue.”

He dropped his six foot three frame into an amphitheater seat too small for him and ran two hands over his shiny olive skin. “Clue to what?”

“Maybe nothing. Maybe to whoever left Jillian Perry to freeze to death at the base of an oak tree.”

“I thought she did that herself.”

“She probably did. I’m just not so sure.”

“Why not?”

She did not own up to any guilt over her first harsh assessment of Jillian Perry; Theresa’s ex-husband had taught her the folly of exposing any personal weakness. So she told Don merely this: “I have a hunch.”

“You don’t get hunches.”

“I thought I’d start. It will help me keep up with all those TV detectives.”

“You’ll have to start wearing high heels and low-cut sweaters too.”

“Forget it.”

“That’s a pity. You’d look good in them.” He clasped his hands behind his head and watched her work. He did not offer to help, no more than she would have offered to help him. The lab tried to maintain one forensic scientist per case-it cut down on staff time spent in court when the defendant came to trial.

Jillian had worn white Keds with socks. Not the sort of thing Theresa would have picked to walk three miles in, especially in very cold weather. The treads seemed clean for having traveled through the woods, but then it had been much colder on Monday than today and even mud or slush would have been frozen to an icy solid. “Are you hiding from Leo?”

“Yep. He has to meet with the companies bidding to handle the move to the new building, doesn’t want to leave his office or the coffee machine, and is looking for a handy substitute.”

“That doesn’t sound that bad, really. At least you could get away from test tubes for a while.”

“I like DNA. It don’t talk, just stays in its little incubator and multiplies. Besides, he wants you to take the moving companies-least you could do after bailing on that defense expert. He wants me to search the deep freeze for a piece of bone from a 1994 case.”

Theresa cringed. The deep freeze, a walk-in subzero room used for long-term storage, smelled bad enough to sicken strong men, and anything placed there before she was hired could not be located without hours of work. Organization, like supervision, had never been Leo’s strong point. She turned on the alternative light source and a blue beam of light at 420 nanometers flowed out of the flexible head. She donned a pair of orange plastic goggles and said, “Hit the light switch, would you?”

Jillian’s underwear did not glow, indicating an absence of semen. One errant fiber lit up on the sweatshirt, but the taping had removed most of them. The embroidered words stood out as the optical properties of the threads reacted with the ultraviolet light. Then Theresa turned it over.

She heard Don approaching in the darkness. “What’s that?”

The smudge on the right cuff glowed brightly under the light. “I think that’s the smear of oil I saw. Why the heck is it glowing?”

“It’s not just glowing. It’s signaling the mother ship.”

She marked the area with a Sharpie in case it became difficult to see in regular light. “Sounds like a job for the FTIR, Robin.”

“Don’t call me Robin. You can be Batgirl if you want, but I ain’t going to be Robin. Stupidest name for a superhero ever.”

A knock sounded at the door. The building’s receptionist, an older woman with the physique of a wren but not the sweet voice, cracked it open, turned on the lights, and gave them both a suspicious look, as if wondering just what the two had been up to in the pitch black. “That suicide you just brought in, name of Perry?”

“Yeah?” Theresa asked.

“There’s a guy here wanting to claim the body, and giving me the impression he’s going to stage a sit-down strike until he gets it.”

“He’s working fast. She’s still on the table. Has he made an arrangement with a funeral home yet?”

“No, and I doubt he’ll be able to. He’s not next of kin.”

“Is his name Evan Kovacic?”

The receptionist wrung her hands, though from daily contact Theresa knew that this action came as naturally to the woman as blinking. “No, Drew something. He told me he’s not the husband, but he wants the body, which of course he can’t have, but every time I tell him that, he asks more questions about her death, which of course I wouldn’t answer even if I could. Can you talk to him?”

“Me? I can’t tell him anything either. The autopsy isn’t even-”

“But the phones are ringing off their hooks and this guy just stands there, sniffling, half giving me the creeps, if you know what I mean. I need some help up there. I’ve got too much to do.” She cocked her head as if she could hear the switchboard buzzing, though of course she couldn’t, not without some sort of psychic ability.

“But I-” avoid grieving people , Theresa wanted to say. Though she wondered if the man could shed some light on why Jillian would have left her daughter and sat down in the middle of a frozen forest. She’d feel more comfortable with a finding of suicide if there were some history to back it up.

“Please?” the receptionist added, then piled on more hand-wringing until Theresa relented.

“Good luck,” Don said. “I’m going to stay here and hide some more.”

Theresa folded the jeans over their hanger and shoved the whole clothes rack into the storage room, locking the door. The receptionist waited, bobbing her head in gratitude, and then led the way back to the front lobby. Theresa had to trot to keep up.

The man waiting there could have used another ten pounds and a J. Crew catalog. And a box of Kleenex. Straight brown hair hung past his shoulders. He paced the worn linoleum with fists plunged into the pockets of a jersey jacket, the outline of each finger visible beneath the taut cloth.

“Mr.-?” Theresa prompted.

“Drew Fleming. I’m here to claim Jillian’s body.” He made no move to shake hands and neither did she.

“Jillian’s not ready to be released yet.” She did not tell him that Jillian currently lay on a table in the autopsy suite with her torso flayed open for all to see. “If you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Fleming, are you here on behalf of Evan Kovacic?”

“I wouldn’t cross the street on behalf of Evan Kovacic.” The man shifted from side to side and had difficulty meeting her eyes for more than a glance. She would assume the influence of some drugs, but his words were clear and his pupils weren’t dilated or jumpy. He was not under the influence but crying, lightly and without pause.

“He is Jillian’s husband.”

“The guy she married, yeah, I know that.”

“Then I’m afraid-”

“Because I loved her! Not him! He never loved her. He probably won’t even claim her body.” His eyes welled up, making the blue irises even bluer, and a shudder ran through his body. “ I loved her.”

Theresa considered him, balancing the discomfort of conversing with a distraught bereaved with a sudden and intense curiosity about the circumstances of Jillian Perry’s life, as well as her death. It was not Theresa’s job to talk to witnesses, but on the other hand, no rules prohibited same. “If you’d like to come upstairs, Mr. Fleming, there’s a conference room where we can talk.”

He followed her without a word.

Once they were settled in the central conference room, a musty-smelling area furnished in dingy 1950s decor, she asked, “How did you know Jillian was dead?”

“I think I’ve known for four days. Everyone said she was nowhere to be found-”