David Baldacci - Simple Genius

Hayes considered this and finally put out his hand. “Okay. It’s a deal.” “You can do something for me right now.”

“What’s that?”

“Take me to see Monk Turing’s body at the morgue.”

THE TEMPORARY MORGUE was set up in a small, empty office in the main town area of tiny White Feather. It was staffed by a medical examiner sent over from Williamsburg who didn’t look the least bit happy being away from his home turf. He pulled Monk Turing’s body out of the portable freezer.

Monk had not been a handsome man in life and death had not improved his looks. He was short and muscular with a paunch that had been obscured by the Y-incision that had split him from his neck to his pubis. Sean tried to see a resemblance between him and his daughter, but couldn’t find one. She must take after her mother, he thought.

The ME dutifully went over his official findings with Sean. Monk Turing; age, thirty-seven; height, five-six; weight, one-seventy, etc. The man had clearly died from a gunshot wound to the right temple.

“Monk was right-handed,” Sean commented. “That would fit with the suicide theory.”

“I hadn’t gotten to that part yet,” the ME said a little suspiciously. “How’d you know?”

“Right hand’s a little bigger, more calloused. And I saw a baseball glove at his house. It wasn’t made for a left-hander.”

Hayes nodded approvingly while the ME glanced back at his notes. Sean eyed Monk’s hands again. “Looks to be some trace on his hands.”

“Ground into the palm and fingers. Reddish fragments,” the ME said.

Using what amounted to a high-tech magnifying glass, the ME showed them the traces and then laid the dead man’s hand back down.

“Looks like rust stains. Could have come from climbing the chain link fence at Camp Peary,” Hayes said.

Sean looked at the ME. “You have the clothes he was wearing?”

They were produced and examined. A pair of black corduroy trousers, a cotton, blue-striped shirt, dark jacket with a hood, underwear, socks and muddy shoes.

Hayes handed Sean a small waterproof bag. “This was found next to the body. It’s been confirmed as belonging to Turing.” Inside were a blanket and a flashlight.

“He probably used the blanket to get over the razor wire on top of the fence,” Sean said, noting some tears on the fabric. “Still a dicey proposition. No cuts on the body from the wire?”

The ME shook his head.

“Surprised we didn’t find any gloves,” Hayes added. “I mean for getting over the fence and wire.”

“Well, if he had worn gloves we wouldn’t have his prints on the gun. It’s starting to look like he killed himself, Sheriff,” Sean said.

The ME looked up. “I can’t say for sure if it was suicide or not. Forensics can only go so far.”

Sean remarked, “Your report says that the wound was a near contact, not a contact wound. Also there are no defensive injuries on the victim or evidence that he was bound. Someone getting that close to the guy with the gun and him not defending himself? That’s a little implausible.”

“Could’ve been drugged,” Hayes suggested.

“Which was my next question,” Sean said. “What’s the tox report say?”

“Don’t have it back yet.”

“So we really can’t rule out suicide,” Sean said. “And if he did kill himself, why at Camp Peary? Any connection between him and the CIA? Did he ever work there? Did he want to but got rejected?”

Hayes shook his head. “We haven’t run that down yet.” He turned to the ME. “Do you have an approximate time of death on Rivest yet?”

“He wasn’t in the water all that long. Maybe five to six hours. There was what looked to be hemorrhagic edema fluid in his mouth. That indicates he died by drowning. When I open him I’ll be able to confirm that of course by water in his lungs.”

Hayes consulted his wristwatch. “Five to six hours. Based on when the body was discovered, if he wasn’t in the tub all that long before he drowned we’re looking at between one to two o’clock in the morning as the time of death.”

“Not that long after I left him,” Sean said. And that tallies with the time I might have seen Champ come home. “He’d had a lot to drink,” Sean volunteered. “Cocktails and some red wine.”

The ME noted this down. “Thanks.”

“Could he have been drunk enough to just pass out and drown himself? Wouldn’t the water going in his mouth and nose have woken him up?” Hayes asked.

The ME shook his head. “If he was unconscious from too much alcohol, the shock of the water would not have necessarily revived him.”

“I left him pretty much passed out. I wonder what made him decide to take a bath after he came to?” Sean said.

The ME said, “Maybe he threw up and decided to get cleaned up.”

Sean shook his head. “You’ve got puke all over you, you’re not going to wait for the bathtub to fill up. You’d jump in the shower.” As soon as he said it, Sean froze.

“Good point,” Hayes said, not catching the look on Sean’s face.

Back in the car Hayes said, “Where to now?”

Sean didn’t try to conceal his excitement. “I want to have another look at that bathroom. Something just occurred to me.”

“Like what?”

“I know that Len Rivest was murdered.”

WHEN THEY GOT BACK to Len Rivest’s house, Sean led the way to the bathroom and stopped at the doorway.

He said, “I came in here last night around eleven or eleven-fifteen to use the toilet. This is the only bathroom in the place.”

“Okay,” Hayes said expectantly. “And?”

“And was anything removed from the bathroom by any of your men or the FBI?”

“No. Only the body’s been removed. Why?”

“Well, look around, what’s missing?”

Hayes studied the interior of the small place. “I give up. What?”

“There are no towels, no washcloths.” He pointed at the floor. “And no bath mat. Now all those things were in this room when I was here last night. And there’s something else.” He walked over to the commode and looked behind it. “There was a long, wooden-handled plunger here too. Only it’s not here now.”

Hayes said, “So you’re saying…?”

Sean knelt on the floor and ran his hand along the tile and then along the wall above the tub. “Damp, but not soaked.” He stood. “I’m saying you have to take the towels if you used them to wipe up the water that would have splashed on the floor and walls while you were struggling with Rivest.”

“And the plunger?”

Sean pantomimed gripping something in his hand and standing next to the tub. “You don’t want to hold Rivest under with your hands. He can reach you that way and maybe get some of your DNA or clothing fiber under his fingernails. But if you place a long-handled plunger on his chest, you can hold him down without him being able to get to you.”

“Damn!”

“But everything’s going to get soaked that way. So you have to take the towels, mat, plunger with you otherwise the police will see them, deduce a struggle and we go from accidental drowning to murder. Rivest may have come up here to take a bath and just settled in when the killer struck. If he hadn’t been drunk he might still be alive.”

“So if he was still drunk and the killer used the plunger, we can’t rule out that it was a woman who did it.”

Sean looked at him shrewdly. “That’s right. Call the ME and tell him to check for a circular ring on Rivest’s chest or stomach. A plunger might have made an abrasion that can still be seen under the scope. And also tell him to check for fragments of wood from the plunger handle under his fingernails.”