A Kiss Gone Bad

25

‘Don’t ever send me a famous body again.’ Dr Liz Contreras, deputy medical examiner for Nueces County, had a voice that reminded Whit of crumpled foil – raspy, bright, a little grating.

‘You finally get some pressure to hurry Pete Hubble along?’

‘I got a call from the governor’s office. Some aide to an aide with a degree in snotitude. I explained to said flunky I don’t have powers over time and space to hurry up blood tests.’

‘Then let me be the first to thank you for your quick work.’

‘Don’t thank me too quick. You need to chew out your evidence people. I’ve already had a chat with your delightful Mr Gardner.’ She cleared her throat. ‘Hubble’s hands weren’t properly bagged. The GSR readings are not going to be particularly accurate.’

Whit had counted on the gunshot residue tests to help him determine if Pete had been holding the gun when it fired. A high level of residue implied suicide.

‘How was the bagging screwed up?’

‘The bag on the victim’s right hand wasn’t fastened properly, and the bag itself has defects – holes, as if torn by rough handling. Now, that said, I found gunshot residue on the right hand, but the amount could have come from Hubble pulling the trigger and then the residue getting worn off with crappy bagging, or because someone stuck the gun in Hubble’s mouth and Hubble’s hand went to the gun or was by his mouth or jaw. It’s not definitive that he pulled the trigger or that he didn’t.’

Crap. If Liz said outright suicide, his ruling became simple. ‘So what can you tell me?’

‘Time of death was between seven and nine o’clock. He’d eaten shortly before he died, most of a pepperoni-and-mushroom pizza, a number of tostada chips, and several glasses of red wine. Death was instantaneous. Bullet entry wound through the mouth – the angle is consistent with a gun placed in a mouth with little or no struggle. So he wasn’t lurching or fighting when the gun fired. That could indicate self-inflicted.’ She made a humming sound, and he pictured her scanning her report. ‘The bullet didn’t exit the skull. I’ve retrieved it and sent it to the crime lab here. Dried blood around the mouth, specks of blood on face and hands. The specks on his face are blowback – blood and tissue bursting forward from the bullet’s pressure moving through the head.’ She paused.

‘What?’

‘Well, this amount of blowback, we ought to have seen it on Hubble’s right hand as well. There’s very little there.’

‘Would the bad bagging of the hands account for that?’

‘Maybe. But I would still expect to see as much blow-back on his trigger hand as on his face. The amount of blowback on the gun itself is consistent with what I would expect with a self-inflicted

shot. Hubble’s prints are readable on the gun, according to the lab. They said there were a couple of partials but not readable enough for an ID.’

He thought of Eddie Gardner, easing the gun out of Pete’s mouth and thumbing the safety.

‘Could that have happened if an officer handled the gun improperly?’ Whit asked.

‘Possibly.’

‘Did he have sex before he died?’ Whit asked.

‘No.’

‘We did find a pair of panties by the bed, mixed in with his clothes.’

‘Then have Gardner check those panties for seminal traces or pubics. We will comb the deceased down for hairs and fibers not his,’ Contreras said.

‘What’s your considered opinion as to homicide versus suicide? A lot of folks are watching me on this one.’

Liz Contreras’s voice softened. ‘That he is lying in the bed, with this bullet angle, is a big suicide supporter. There’s just no sign of struggle. The lack of blowback and gunpowder residue could be attributed to the poor handling. But I can’t say with certainty. If there’s much reason to believe he was depressed or suicidal, you’ll probably be safe in ruling for suicide.’ She paused. ‘He’d had a lot to drink, too. His blood alcohol count was point two – that’s a lot of hooch, might supercharge any depression. Toxicology on narcotics will take a while longer. I’ve sent fingernail scrapings, hairs from up and down, and the bullet to the crime lab, along with hand swabs. They can do a double check on my work there. That’s about it.’ She paused. ‘If your inquest is showing he was suicidal, you’re probably safe in ruling that way, Whit.’

‘Thank you, Liz. If I decide to do a formal inquest, you’ll come testify?’

‘Sure,’ Liz said. ‘Especially if you’ll treat me to one of those Russian hamburgers at your stepmom’s place.’

He chatted with her for a minute more, hearing all about her young daughter’s dominance of the Pee Wee soccer leagues in Corpus Christi, then clicked off.

He called Delford, left a message asking him to call, and then nearly dialed Patsy Duchamp at the Mariner to give a statement. But he felt tired, and oddly disappointed. There was no case here to be solved, really, after all. And Patsy didn’t have a paper hitting the streets again until Saturday. He could talk to her in the morning.

He went home, ate a quiet dinner with Babe and Irina, and was getting into his car to go to Irina’s cafe to borrow her computer when Velvet pulled up. He stood in the yard and waited for her to get out of the car.

‘You got a minute for me?’ she asked.

‘Yeah. I have some news for you,’ Whit said. ‘We have a suicide note.’ He explained to her Sam’s revised account.

She leaned against her car. ‘No way, Whit. I sure don’t believe he killed himself, and I sure don’t believe he killed his own brother.’

‘The note said Corey’s death was an accident.’

‘I still don’t believe it.’ She stalked around the yard in a circle, burning nervous energy. ‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Why? Why not?’

‘Because he was a genuinely sweet guy. He was. I can look at him the same way I look at you and know you couldn’t kill someone.’

‘We never, ever know people exactly the way they are.’

Velvet shook her head. ‘I want to see this note.’

‘The police and the Hubbles haven’t released it to the press yet.’ He watched her fidget. ‘I don’t think I can get you a copy. I’m sorry. Velvet.’

‘His damned family. They’ll say Pete was a murderer and a suicide. I mean, why not kick him when he’s dead?’ She crossed her arms. ‘Don’t you have autopsy results yet, anything to contradict that stupid note?’

He wasn’t about to disclose Liz Contreras’s findings, not yet. ‘Nothing yet.’ He paused. ‘Tell me about Junior Deloache.’

She crossed her arms. ‘Junior? What’s to tell?’

‘I understand he wants to be in movies.’

To his surprise she laughed. ‘Honey, I couldn’t sell tickets to Junior. The biscuit, shall we say, lacks yeast.’

‘He says Pete promised him.’

‘Only if Junior bought his way in.’

‘You mean, an actor pays you?’

‘Not exactly. I’ve known investors who’ve wanted to come watch the shoots or take some photos of their own. Or screw a starlet, if she didn’t mind. But never while the camera was rolling.’

Whit studied her. ‘Pimping for investors. What does that have to do with love and happiness and all that stuff you whacked me with at lunch, pray tell? Doesn’t that make you just a glorified madam?’

‘Life is a tough business.’

‘And you’re running right back into the sleaze.’

‘What am I supposed to do, Whit? Put down roots here in Pleasantville?’

‘Why not make this film about Corey that you and Pete planned?’

She stared. ‘Without Pete? I don’t think so. Plus, the purse is empty. He hadn’t gotten the financing.’

‘Any excuse will do, right, as long as you can make more porno crap.’

‘This crap is what I do, and I tend to be quite good at it.’ She stepped closer to him. ‘Would you like to experience how good? We could do a tape together, never release it in the U.S. Distribute it in Asia only. No one here would ever know.’

He didn’t say anything for ten seconds, and she laughed. ‘No smart answer? Whit, under all that assurance you’re such a white-bread boy. If I took you on, you’d be toast.’

‘And if I took you on, maybe I could help you get out of the pit you’re in. Deep in your heart you know porn’s wrong. You know. I can tell you do.’

‘I don’t. I’m not one bit debased. I’m superior to any man who pays money for my tapes. And the last thing I need or want is a white knight to bring me a new set of morals. Mine are just fine,’ she said. ‘I don’t tell you what you do is wrong. Let me guess why you’re still living at home at your advanced age. Your stepmother’s charms?’

‘No.’

‘Whit, you’re a sweet man. But you look at me like a street whore maybe your church could sponsor. I like my life as it is.’

‘I like you, period, and I don’t want to see you ruin your life.’

‘It’s mine to ruin, as you put it.’

‘If I rule for suicide, what are you gonna do?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. Does that note mention his career?’

‘Not directly.’

‘If it wasn’t for Sam… I’d blast Lucinda Hubble with Pete’s career in every paper I could.’

‘Why do you hate her so?’

‘Because, Whit, she hated her own kids. Pete told me once his mother treated him and Corey like stagehands in her great play of life. Faith should have been Lucinda’s kid. She seems to relish the role of Little Miss Macbeth. If Lucinda won’t stand by Pete when he’s dead, I ought to hit her exactly where it hurts. With the voters.’

‘Vendettas don’t get you far.’

‘They get you far enough.’ She got in her car.

Whit stood in the yard, in the twilight, and watched her go.

‘Excitable thing, isn’t she?’ a voice called to him, coming across the yard. Whit turned and saw Buddy Beere, dressed in a suit the color of a stale brownie and thick-knotted polyester tie, clutching a sheaf of campaign flyers.

‘Hi,’ Whit said.

‘Hi, Whit. Hope you don’t mind me canvassing your neighborhood. Just out meeting the voters.’

‘Well, I suppose if you haven’t grown up and known most of the voters all your life, you need to campaign.’ He felt extraordinarily peevish, and the sight of Buddy, in his lumpy suit and sweaty brow and dork’s tie, only irritated him.

Buddy didn’t rise to the bait. ‘If it makes you feel better, two houses on the street already said they were voting for you.’ Considering there were at least fifteen houses, Whit saw the jab.

‘Thanks.’

‘That was Pete Hubble’s girlfriend, right?’ Buddy asked. ‘You still chasing her?’

‘Part of the inquest is gathering information on the deceased. To do that you have to talk to the bereaved. You’ll have to learn that if you win.’ Suddenly he was tired of arguing and jousting with this little man so determined to take his job away.

‘Good night. Buddy.’

Buddy rolled his remaining flyers into a cylinder. ‘Whit? One question. Did you have to buy your robe, or did the county buy it for you? I just want to be sure I get the right size.’