James Grippando - Beyond Suspicion

“I said I don’t know.”

“Perhaps it was a combination,” said Drayton, suggesting an answer. “Was it paid in a lump sum, or in installments from various sources?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“That’s unfortunate. Because if you can’t help us, we can’t help you.”

“Help me what?”

“It’s no secret that the state attorney suspects foul play in the death of Jessie Merrill. The way the evidence is playing out, you’re pretty high on the list of suspects.”

“Plenty of innocent people have found themselves on a prosecutor’s list of suspects.”

“No question. And if just half the glowing things your old boss says about you are true, then you probably will be exonerated. Eventually. But wouldn’t it be nice to speed up that process?”

“I’m listening.”

“The quickest way to get off the list of suspects is for you to convince the state attorney that someone else did it. We might be able to help you with that.”

“Are you sitting on evidence that Jessie Merrill was murdered?”

“This is a money-laundering investigation. All we can tell you is that the people we’re investigating-the people who we believe are in control of Viatical Solutions, Inc.-are certainly capable of murder. Your cooperation with us on the money-laundering investigation may well provide the jump-start you need to prove your innocence on the murder charge.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Just answer all our questions about the source of the funds, the structure of the transaction. Who did you meet with? How was the money transferred? From what accounts?”

“I told you, I wasn’t there.”

“And I keep coming back to the same question. Why is your name on that joint account? Just what secrets were you trying to cloak in the shroud of the attorney-client privilege?”

“I can only say it again: I don’t know anything about that.”

“Obviously, we don’t accept that. You have a pretty stainless reputation, but an argument could still be made that you and your client knowingly entered into a transaction that allowed these investors to launder one and a half million dollars in dirty money.”

“There’s no reason for anyone to believe that.”

“Yes, there is. I don’t care how clean you are. A married guy makes a mistake, there’s no telling what he might do for his girlfriend to keep her from sending an audiotape of their little escapade to his wife.”

Jack’s heart sank. Is there anyone Clara Pierce didn’t send that tape to? “That’s an old tape. Jessie and I dated before I was married.”

“That’s a likely story.”

“I didn’t have anything to do with that joint bank account.”

“We’ll see what your computers show.”

“If that’s why you seized them, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”

“Computers are just one angle. Fortunately, we have ways of stimulating your personal memory.”

“Is that a threat?”

Drayton resumed his position at the whiteboard. “Simply put, you owe the Internal Revenue Service some serious money.”

“What?”

Drayton and the IRS agent were suddenly making goo-goo eyes at each other. “Peter, what’s the exact number?”

The bean counter flipped open his notebook. “Our latest calculation is in the neighborhood of three hundred thousand dollars.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Hardly,” said Drayton as he wrote the number on the board. “You and Jessie Merrill were joint account holders on her one and a half million dollars. It’s our position that your half of that account is taxable income for legal services rendered. You owe income tax on seven hundred fifty thousand dollars.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’ve already spoken to the PR of Jessie’s estate and disavowed any interest in my alleged half of those funds.”

Drayton’s eyes brightened. “Thank you for sharing that. Peter, make a note. It seems Mr. Swyteck has made a gift of his seven hundred fifty thousand dollars. So, in addition to income tax on that sum, he now also owes gift tax.”

The bean counter scribbled in his pad and said, “That brings the total closer to four hundred thousand.”

“You arrogant prick,” said Jack. “I dedicated a big chunk of my career to this office. And now this is what I get? Trumped up charges from Washington?”

“Calm down, all right? I didn’t want to have to threaten you, and I’m not going so far as to say you killed the woman. But there was something funny going on between you and Jessie Merrill. This is an eight-month investigation that needs your help. Fact is, you need our help too.”

“I don’t need anyone’s help. No juror in his right mind is ever going to believe I’m a murderer. I mean, really. If I wanted Jessie Merrill dead, would I kill her in my own bathtub?”

“Good answer, Mr. Swyteck. Did you think of it before or after you murdered Jessie Merrill?”

He knew that Drayton was just role-playing, stepping into the shoes of a state attorney on cross-examination. Still, it chilled him.

“You done?” said Jack.

“That’s all for now.”

He rose and started for the door.

“Hope to hear from you,” said Drayton. “Soon.”

“Hope springs eternal,” said Jack. He left the room, steadily gaining speed as he headed down the hall to the elevator.

•

A blast of chilly air followed Todd Chastan out of the autopsy room. He wadded his green surgical scrubs into a loose ball and tossed them into the laundry bag in the hallway outside the door. A soiled pair of latex gloves sailed into the trash. His pace was brisk as he headed down the gray-tiled hallway.

Dr. Chastan was an associate medical examiner in Atlanta. The office served all of Fulton County and, on request, certain cases from other counties. Chastan had spent nearly the entire morning exploring the internal cavity of a sixteen-year-old boy who’d botched his first attempted robbery of a convenience store. He’d left a loaded.38 caliber pistol, twenty-eight dollars, and about two pints of blood on the sidewalk outside the shattered plate-glass window. Just a few hours later, his young heart, lungs, esophagus, and trachea were resting on a cold steel tray. The liver, spleen, adrenals, and kidneys would be next, followed by the stomach, pancreas, and intestines. His brain had already been sliced into sections, bagged, and tagged. It was all part of a typical medical-legal autopsy required in the seventy or so homicides the office might see in an average year. Over the same period of time, ten times that number of examined deaths might be classified as “natural.”

An urgent message from a medical-legal investigator didn’t usually spell “natural.”

Dr. Chastan made a quick right at the end of the hall, knocked once, and entered the investigator’s office. “You paged me?”

Eddy Johnson looked up from the papers on his desk. “It’s about the Falder case.”

“Falder?” he said, straining to recall.

“The woman you did yesterday. The one with AIDS.”

“Yeah, yeah. Her medical history painted a bleak picture. By all accounts, she was on borrowed time. Full autopsy didn’t seem necessary. I did an external and sent some tissue and blood samples to the lab.”

“Got the report right here,” Johnson said as he pulled a file out from under two empty coffee cups and the sports section.

“Something give you concern?” He smiled impishly, but realized that he was in a medical-legal investigator’s office, and answered his own question. “Obviously, something gives you concern.”

Johnson was deadpan. “Plate’s under the microscope. Have a look-see for yourself.”