Sarah Armstrong: Blood Lines Part 3

"Please, just listen. I never touched the keyboard, but somehow this popped up on the screen," she insisted, pulling a sheet of computer printer paper out of her purse. "As soon as I saw it, I knew my sisters death wasnt a suicide. Billie didnt pull that trigger, Lieutenant Armstrong. Someone murdered my sister."

Six.

Im on my way," I told Mom when she finally answered her cell phone. "Is Maggie home yet?"

"Sh.e.l.l be here any minute," Mom said, sounding worried. "Its okay that you werent here to see Doc, Sarah, but I hoped wed have a chance to talk before Maggie gets home."

I knew from the tone of her voice that Docs news wasnt that Emma Lou had made a full recovery. "Maybe you should tell me now, on the phone," I said. "So Im prepared."

It was a bright, warm winter day with a cloudless blue sky, and I drove down one of my favorite stretches of road, not far from the ranch. I crossed a small bridge over a creek and drove under a canopy formed by the strong, gnarled branches of black-trunked live oaks. I maneuvered through an S-curve and pa.s.sed Libertyville, the postCivil War settlement where Stringss dad pastors a white-clapboard church. On the other side of the road sat the Jacobses brown brick one-story house and a fenced pasture, where Bruce, Stringss 4-H project, chomped on high gra.s.s growing along a barbed-wire fence. As I pa.s.sed, the gray Brahman reared its head back, ruffling the thick flap of skin draped from its chin to its chest and scattering the white egrets at its feet. The birds unfurled their long, elegant wings, and flew off, their slender bodies soaring gracefully overhead.

"Doc was right," Mom said. "The blood tests show Emma Lou has that bacterial infection he worried about."

"d.a.m.n," I said.

There was no mistaking the worry in her voice. "Based on when we had her bred, Emma Lou is two-hundred and ninety-eight days into the pregnancy, Sarah. Theres a good chance that the infection will cause the foal to birth early," she said. After a long, quiet pause, she explained, "If its born in the next few days, Doc says the foal wont survive."

"Now Maggie, you have to trust that Emma Lou and her foal will be all right," I said. Mom and Bobby were seated on one bench at the kitchen table, and Strings was beside my daughter on another across from them. The only one standing, I couldnt see their hands, but I suspected Strings held Maggies under the table.

"But Emma Lou could be blind, and what happens if Doc is right and the foal comes early?" Maggie asked, her voice urgent with fear. "The foal could die, Mom. Doc said the foal could die."

"We cant guarantee anything, Magpie. I wish we could, but we cant," I said, using the nickname Bill and I gave her at birth. "None of us has the power to control what will happen. But we will do everything we can for Emma Lou and her foal."

"Maggie, honey, your mom, Bobby, and I, were all going to take care of Emma Lou," Mom said. "Sh.e.l.l have everything she needs. With just a little bit of luck, both the horses will be all right."

I walked over and slipped my arms over my daughters shoulders. She shivered just slightly, I guessed from fear. "Yeah, theyll be okay, Mom," she said, sounding not quite convinced. "Weve been through a lot, all of us, and were going to make sure Emma Lou is okay."

"Thats what I like to hear," Bobby Barker said, slapping a thick hand on the hard, bare wood of the table. "Why this family, this group of women, you three could lick anything, couldnt they, Strings?"

"I think they could even lick us in a fight," Strings agreed. "Maybe not one-on-one but . . ."

"Oh, we could so," Maggie said, the prospect edging away her frown. "Couldnt we, Mom? We could wrestle both of them and win."

Glad my daughter was up for the fight ahead, I didnt disagree. "I bet we could, Magpie," I said. "I bet we could."

The discussion ended, and Mom and Maggie drew up a schedule listing everyones responsibilities, from giving the mare her medicine to cleaning her shed. I suggested we put the baby monitor, the one Bill and I used for Maggie, in the shed. As the lightest sleeper, I volunteered to cover the nights, listening for Emma Lou from my bedroom.

It seemed we were thinking of everything. Maggie and Strings even decided to download music from the Internet, to play in Emma Lous shed to relax her and the foal. To my chagrin, what I heard the kids playing were Ca.s.sidy Collins songs.

While Mom made ham and macaroni and cheese for dinner, and Maggie coddled her horse, I disappeared into my workroom to make phone calls. Listening to Collins sing had reminded me that Id run out so quickly after Faith Roberts left, I didnt have time to follow through on any of the things Id wanted to do for either of the cases dumped on my lap that first day back at work. Number one on my list, I called an L.A.P.D. special crimes officer whom Sheila had already alerted. The sergeant who answered listened to my a.s.sessment of the stalking situation and agreed to get an L.A. prosecutor to set up traces on landline phone numbers Barron would supply him with later that evening. If the calls were being rerouted, caller I.D. wouldnt work. Barron had already contacted the cell phone company and asked them to do tower checks on all incoming text messages and calls, to narrow down where the signals were coming from. Meanwhile, Janet, the clerk at my office, was busy writing subpoenas for any information a.s.sociated with Arguss e-mail addresses.

Confident that the Collins case was being worked, I dialed the Houston morgue, and asked for Dr. Joe, a.k.a. Joseph Fernandez, M.D., one of the a.s.sistant medical examiners. "Dr. Joe, will you check and see if you still have a body there? Its an apparent suicide from last Friday," I said.

"Whats the name?" he growled back. A thick-necked, round man, Dr. Joe had been in a foul mood for the past month, ever since hed crashed his motorcycle into a pickup truck and cracked a few ribs. In his sixties, he was probably too old for speeding through the countryside on his Harley, but I would have paid to see anyone tell him that. This was not a man who pampered those who saw things differently.

"Elizabeth c.o.x," I said. "Her sister tells me that the body is ready for transport, but she hasnt sent a funeral director to do a pickup yet."

"Just a minute, Lieutenant," he said. Only silence until he clicked the telephone back on and said, "Yeah, shes still here, but she shouldnt be. Anyone planning to claim this body anytime soon?"

"I need to check a few things out," I said. "Ill be there in forty-five minutes. After that, I think we can get the sister to call the hea.r.s.e and transport Ms. c.o.x."

"Hallelujah," Fernandez said. "Ive got bodies waiting in the wings for a vault. Ill be glad for the extra room."

One last thing to do before I left for the morgue, I called an old friend, a retired FBI profiler named Mike Davis. Back in the day, as Mom likes to say, Davis headed the doc.u.ment a.n.a.lysis branch at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. Wed met what seemed like a lifetime ago, when I studied profiling. What had popped up on Billie c.o.xs computer screen the day Faith was claiming her sisters personal possessions was the suicide note. From the form of the note, including the random capitalization, Faith claimed there was no way her sister would have written it.

"My sister was a meticulous woman," Faith had told me. "She had a masters degree in geophysics, but right out of college, when jobs in the oil industry were scarce, Billie worked briefly as an executive a.s.sistant. Her language skills were impeccable, and years later, even as company president, she wrote her own correspondence. She wouldnt have left something so poorly written as her final communication with her family and friends."

It was Billie c.o.xs suicide note that I wanted Mike to evaluate.

A brief h.e.l.lo and the required niceties out of the way, I suggested we catch up another time, and told Mike what I needed. "I have six doc.u.ments I want you to examine," I explained. "The first is a suicide note left by a woman named Elizabeth c.o.x, the head of an oil company. The other five are doc.u.ments we know c.o.x wrote. No question. Theyre all personal notes and letters written to her sister."

"You want me to compare all six and let you know if I think the dead woman auth.o.r.ed the suicide note?" Mike asked. "Youre figuring that maybe this wasnt a suicide?"

"Not necessarily. Maybe theres nothing out of whack here. Could be this is just what it looks like, a tragic suicide," I said. "Im figuring maybe you can clear up the mystery. Youre the best doc.u.ments-guru I know, Mike."

"E-mail the paperwork," he said, not arguing the point. "Ill get back to you in a couple of days."

"Youve got it. Itll be on its way in a flash," I said. "And Mike, by the way-"

"Let me guess," he cut in. "Dont tell anyone Im doing this for you?"

"Mike, you are the best. h.e.l.l, you can even read minds," I said with a laugh. "The truth is that this is H.P.D.s case, and I want to find out if theres even a crime before I get called on the carpet for poaching."

Seven.

Whatre you looking for?" Dr. Joe asked.

Hands tucked in his lab coat pockets, he watched with interest as I circled the cold, lifeless body of Elizabeth c.o.x on a steel exam table. Dr. Joe hadnt been happy when I asked his a.s.sistant to remove c.o.xs remains from the refrigerated vault and black body bag. I needed to see her laid out as she was now, under a bright exam light, so I could get a good look. Not that I particularly wanted to. Despite my chosen profession, Ive never been at ease around dead bodies, at least not those who meet their ends through violent means. The way I see it, these are folks who die unfinished. Im sure there are those whod argue it with me, but Ive never believed deaths like Billies are G.o.ds will. Someone else makes the decision, fires the fatal bullet. Was the killer in this case also the deceased? That was what I was there to figure out.

"Lieutenant Armstrong," Dr. Joe said again. "You want to tell me what youre looking for?"

"Sure," I said. The truth was that I didnt have a clue. That said, I figured Id know it when I saw it, so I suggested, "Give me a couple of minutes."

We were in an autopsy suite on the first floor of the county forensic center, a redbrick building just outside the skysc.r.a.per hospitals that make up the Texas Medical Center. In this part of the state, the M.E.s office is a stop on the way to eternity for not only crime victims but any questionable death. Texas law stipulates that anyone who dies by homicide, suicide, in an accident, or from undetermined causes, anyone whos not in a doctors care, and folks in hospitals for less than twenty-four hours before their deaths must be examined by a medical examiner. About a quarter of the time, an autopsy is unnecessary, because its apparent that a terminal disease, like cancer, has reached its logical conclusion. That means that 75 percent of the time, the docs ready their scalpels and fulfill their role as combination physicians and investigators. In this building, pathologists and technicians not only dissect human bodies but conduct DNA and toxicology tests, study recovered bones, collect and process evidence, and in the cold, lonely vaults, the remains of the dead silently wait to be claimed.

For the most part, forensic pathologists are curious individuals, intent on piecing together the clues death leaves behind. What they learn can help the living, hence the Latin motto over the door in nearly every morgue Ive encountered: "Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae." In a more familiar language: "This is the place where death delights to help the living."

Two days earlier, Dr. Joe began with a visual examination of Bil-lie c.o.xs body, and then cut through her chest in a "Y," from clavicle to pelvis, opening her up to inspect her insides. He examined and weighed all her internal organs including her kidneys, heart, and liver, dictating his notes as he progressed. Like many who die violently, Billie c.o.x was a fine specimen, in good health. The physician found nothing organic to portend an early death. After he doc.u.mented the outer appearance of her GSW, the gunshot wound, he cut through her skull with a small electric saw and carefully removed her brain, to trace the path of the bullet. There would be no surprises. Billie c.o.x died of the GSW to the brain. The damage was catastrophic, and death was instantaneous. Finished, Dr. Joe turned her body over to an a.s.sistant, who repaired the pathologists incisions with V-shaped st.i.tches, the same type used to bind baseb.a.l.l.s.

As I patrolled the exam table, I also noticed a few st.i.tches closing a small incision on c.o.xs side, the point at which a probe had been inserted on the scene to record liver temperature. At 7 p.m. on the night of her death, in a seventy-degree bedroom, her body didnt yet show signs of rigor mortis and her liver temp was a nearly normal 98.4, leading to the conclusion that shed been dead for less than two hours. The M.E. couldnt be more precise than that.

"You did the GSR testing here at the morgue?" I asked.

Dr. Joe frowned, looking impatient. "Of course," he said. "The womans hands came in bagged from the scene. We did the testing for gunshot residue here, as we always do. Whats up, Lieutenant? Why are you here? Isnt this H.P.D.s body?"

Not looking up, I said, "I was asked to consult." It wasnt a lie. I had been asked to look over the file, even if this trip to the morgue could be considered extracurricular. "I thought perhaps seeing Miss c.o.xs remains might settle some questions."

"What questions?" Dr. Joe asked.

"Well," I said. "The death scene looked a little too perfect, almost staged to me. Its probably nothing, but did you see anything at all that contradicted the conclusion that this was a suicide?"

Dr. Joe thought about that for a little while. His final report hadnt been typed up yet, but he flipped through his notes on Billie c.o.x, all the while standing on one foot and rubbing his calf with the opposite heel. Theres very little humidity in the morgue, not the best environment for living flesh. "Just what I already told the detective, about the bruising," he said, closing the report folder. "Thats already been discussed, and I cant find anything else of interest."

"Refresh my memory," I said. "What bruising?"

"Didnt Detective Walker fill you in?" he asked. He stretched out his left arm, and rubbed the elbow, scratching. As he did, I noticed a tattoo just above his wrist.w.a.tch, a new one. From the occasional glimpse and death-house rumors, I knew the pathologist had an impressive collection covering his body from his wrists up, extending over his chest, to just below the neck of his blue surgical scrubs. In fact, along with motorcycles, tattoos were a pet interest of the good doctor, which explained why his new one depicted wings emanating from a motorcycle wheel. Somewhere in the lab, legend had it that he kept a three-ring binder filled with tattoos he traced off dead bodies. He referred to it as his "research project."

"Detective Brad Walker?" I asked.

"Yeah," Dr. Joe said. "This is his case. Didnt you know that?"

I hadnt noticed Walkers name in the file. That was why Faith Roberts received such a cold reception at H.P.D. Like all officers, Walker had a jacket, a reputation. Id never met him, but Id heard he was a black-and-white kind of guy. He didnt leave much room for the possibility that things werent as they seemed. When Faith Roberts mentioned communication from the dead, Walker must have flipped. If Id realized he was on the case, I would have asked more questions from the start.

"Just slipped my mind," I fibbed. "Guess the detective forgot to clue me in. Why dont you, Dr. Joe? What bruising?"

Everyone who dealt with the medical examiners office knew Dr. Joe hated explaining anything more than once. As was usual when his patience was taxed, he stared at the one who strained his goodwill as if inspecting bacteria. At such times, he had this look about him, kind of a dead, cold stare. Frowning at me, he took a ballpoint pen from the collection in his breast pocket plastic protector. He bent over and used the tip to point at the skin just below the entrance wound in the right side of Billie c.o.xs head.

"Take a look here," he said. "Its faint but definitely there. Youll have to stand close to see it."

I did as instructed, getting within inches of the raw, angry hole in c.o.xs temple, and I saw just a slight yellow hue, faint but there, on the lower lip of the entrance wound. "That shouldnt be there," I said, stating the obvious.

Suffering from my apparent stupidity, Dr. Joe shook his head. "Lieutenant, when people shoot themselves through the head, depending on the position of the body, standing, sitting, or lying down, there are variations on where the arm holding the weapon ends up and where the gun lands. When the victim is seated, as Ms. c.o.x was, the most likely scenario is what we see in the scene photos. The pistols recoil pushes the hand and gun away from the head, and the body is found with the gun lying near the extended hand."

"I understand that, but a suicide entrance wound isnt usually bruised like this," I asked. "Why is she bruised?"

Again the good doctor sighed, staring at me as if it required all his patience to proceed. "As I explained to the detective, sometimes things dont happen precisely as we expect," he said. "There are multiple possibilities, but my guess is that this woman held the gun so tight against her skull, with so much force, that the recoil bounced it, causing the peri-mortem bruising."

"Ive never seen that before," I said. "Not in a suicide."

"Nor have I," he answered. "But that doesnt mean it isnt possible."

"I have seen this type of bruising in homicides," I said. Offering nothing more, I waited for the physician to jump in. He didnt at first, as if considering how to take my observation. When he spoke, it was again to dismiss my concerns.

"Of course. And I discussed that option with Detective Walker," he said, with an air of finality.

"Just to make sure I get the right version, how about one more time with me?" I asked.

Scowling at me, Dr. Joe cinched his face into a taut frown.

"Youre absolutely right," he said, eyeing me as if my very presence irritated him more than his aching ribs. "The usual scenario with this type of bruising is homicide. Someone holds a gun tight against a victims skull. A living, breathing shooter has the strength to fight recoil, and that increases the odds that a jerking reaction brings the pistol back toward the head, hitting near the entrance wound. The result? A peri-mortem bruise, just like this one."

"In this case, theres some reason you dont believe thats what happened? The file I reviewed had a notation that your conclusion on the autopsy report will agree with a finding of suicide," I said. "You didnt find that bruise a convincing reason to consider murder?"

"No," he said.

"Why not?" I asked.

"Everything else fits a suicide, so my opinion is that this bruise is simply an aberration. Detective Walker agreed with me that when the rest of the scene screams suicide, something so minor isnt enough to question manner of death."

I thought about that for a few minutes, and then asked one more question. "When you did the GSR test on the shooting hand you only tested the back of the hand?"

"Of course. Why?" he asked.

"Humor me and test her right palm."

"Were not going to find anything, Lieutenant. She was grasping the gun, so the grip blocked residue from her palm," he said. I said nothing, just waited, until the good doctor shrugged. "But if youd like, sure. We can do that."

"Thanks," I said, with a smile. "Its appreciated."

"Now, since Ive been such a good sport, you will, of course, return the favor by getting this womans sister to claim her corpse, wont you?" he said. "As I mentioned on the telephone earlier, I need the room. These days the morgue has a permanent no vacancy sign."

I knew he wouldnt be happy, but what the heck. "Id like you to keep Ms. c.o.xs body a bit longer, while I look into the case," I suggested. "Until were sure weve got it right."

Predictably peeved by my request, Dr. Joe glared at me but said, "Okay, Lieutenant, but lets make every attempt to hurry this woman along to her final resting place."

On the way home from the M.E.s office, I called the captain and filled him in on what Id learned about the autopsy and the bruising. "Id like to poke around a bit," I said. "I want to make sure were not closing the book too soon."

"Thats fine," he said. "Now that youve got something to back up your suspicions, Ill notify H.P.D. in the morning, tell them youll be investigating further. Keep me posted."

"By the way, Captain," I added. "You didnt mention that this is Brad Walkers case, and I dont remember seeing his name on the file."

Even on the telephone I could hear the captains sigh. "Sarah, I didnt want it to color the way you saw it, make you second-guess if there wasnt anything there," he said. "Maybe I was wrong, since now you do have suspicions, but I took out H.P.D.s a.s.signment sheet because I didnt want it to complicate matters."

"Okay," I said. "That makes sense. Ive got an appointment in the morning on that Collins stalking case. Ill see you at the office, not sure when."

"See you then," he said.

It was well after dark when I arrived at the ranch and found Mom and Bobby winding white Christmas-style lights over the wrought-iron gate at the entrance. Theyd crisscrossed the circular emblem at the top with the white cord so many times that the Rocking Horse insignia was hidden under what looked like the web of a Chippewa dream catcher. I hoped it would capture all our bad dreams and spirit them away.

I stopped and lowered my window.

"I didnt know you two were doing that tonight," I said.