Trial and Error

Thirty-two

Steve flicked his wrist and jiggled the frying pan a foot above the burner. He prided himself on his ability to make a perfectly symmetrical apple-cheddar omelette, the cheese melting right to the edge without slopping over.

“Smells good,” Victoria said, checking out the kitchen table. Toasted English muffins, freshly brewed coffee, and sliced papayas. “Someone wants something.”

“Don’t be so cynical, Vic. You know I like to make you breakfast on Saturday mornings.”

“Only when you’ve been bad Friday night.”

Bobby walked in, barefoot and wearing a Miami Heat jersey that hung to his knees. “Yum. Is it makeup time, Uncle Steve?”

“Hey, cut it out, you two.” Steve served Victoria her omelette and started up another one. “Can’t a guy do something nice for the people he loves?”

“Most people can. Bobby, why do you think your uncle’s being so thoughtful?”

“No idea, but I’m cool with it.” The boy speared a slice of papaya. “Can I pitch to you today, Uncle Steve?”

“As soon as we get back from the morgue.”

“Great. Can I watch an autopsy?”

“Nope. We’re just gonna meet with Dr. Ling.”

“So, that’s it,” Victoria said. “You’re witness-tampering today.”

“Hey, I’m entitled to talk to your witnesses.”

“You don’t want me to tell Dr. Ling to stonewall you, is that it?”

“Dr. Ling won’t talk to Uncle Steve, anyway,” Bobby said. “Dr. Ling hates him.”

Steve flipped the second omelette, his motion herky-jerky, the cheese slopping onto the pan. “No she doesn’t, kiddo.”

“I heard her say she’d like to cut your heart out.”

“She’s a medical examiner. It was a professional statement.”

Not long before Steve met Victoria, he’d had a brief relationship with Dr. Mai Ling. He’d known her for several years from court, but they’d only got together after a marathon night of Texas Hold ’Em with a rowdy group of homicide detectives, ER doctors, and deputy medical examiners. Steve admired Mai’s ability to keep her poker face whether bluffing, folding, or removing bullet fragments from a spleen. She was committed to her work, and would often cancel dinner dates after a drive-by shooting in Liberty City.

Mai was blatantly pro-prosecution. She was constantly irritated by Steve’s courtroom antics on behalf of defendants. The tipping point came when he cross-examined her in a murder case, pointing out that she’d performed the autopsy the morning after consuming two bottles of Sauvignon Blanc and spending the night in a bed not her own. Steve didn’t need a private investigator to ferret out the information, as he had provided both the wine and the bed. On her way out of the courtroom, Mai announced that she would, indeed, be pleased to perform an autopsy on Steve while he was still breathing.

“I could always tell when Dr. Ling slept over,” Bobby said. “The house smelled like formaldehyde.”

“She called it ‘le parfum de la mort,’” Steve said, “but to her, it smelled like roses.”

“Uncle Steve, you sure dated a lot of weirdos, B.V.”

Meaning “Before Victoria,” Steve knew.

Victoria poured herself a cup of coffee. “You don’t expect Dr. Ling to contradict her autopsy report, do you, Steve?”

“I just need her to refine a point or two.”

“If she’s holding a scalpel,” Bobby said, “I know what she’d like to refine.”

The county morgue was a red brick building that resembled a schoolhouse. It was located, not so humorously, on Bob Hope Road. Usually, Dr. Mai Ling spent Saturday mornings doing the paperwork that had piled up along with the bodies. But today she was perched on a stool in a spotless lab, gently brushing specks of tissue off a skull under a magnifying lens.

“Hey, Mai,” Steve called out.

She turned and stared at him with the same poker face she used when pushing all-in on the river. Mai was a petite woman with short dark hair and a face with sharp planes and small features. She wore eye shadow the color of an eggplant. This, with her dark eyes, tended to give her a raccoon look. Her white lab coat was crisply starched.

“How’s my favorite canoe maker?” Steve tried again.

No smile. No nothing.

“Bobby,” he continued, “did I ever tell you that Dr. Ling never had a patient who lived?”

Bobby rolled his eyes.

Still ignoring Steve, Mai smiled at the boy and held up the skull. “Bobby, do you know what I’m doing right now?”

“The skull has two different spiderweb fractures. You want to see which one caused the death because-and just guessing here-two different guys hit the dead guy.”

“You’re a very smart boy.” Mai set the skull on the counter and turned toward Steve. “What brings you here on a Saturday, Counselor?”

“Same as you. Pursuing justice.”

“If it’s the Nash case, my autopsy report speaks for itself. I have nothing to add.”

“I’m going to cross-examine you next week. Don’t you want a preview?”

“Sure. Preferably without wine.”

Steve spent a few minutes explaining what he wanted. Illustrations on the autopsy report showed the location of Sanders’ wounds. Pellets from the first shotgun blast peppered the gluteus medius muscle of the hip and lodged in the iliac crest. But the femoral artery wasn’t severed. Steve’s question was simple and direct.

“Would that first shot have killed Sanders?”

“I know what you’re getting at,” Mai replied. “You want me to say the first shot disabled Sanders but wouldn’t have killed him. Then you’ll argue to the jury that Grisby’s responsible for Sanders’ death by firing the second shot needlessly.”

“I want the truth, Mai. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Ha.”

“C’mon. You’re supposed to be impartial. You’re a public employee, and my client’s a member of that public.”

“You want impartial? Here it is. I can’t tell to a reasonable medical probability whether the first hit was a kill shot.”

“I don’t believe that. You’re helping the home team, Mai, just like always.”

“And just like always, you’re being a total shit.”

“Please. No profanity in front of the child,” Steve said, with a straight face.

Bobby tossed off a laugh. “That’s whacked, Uncle Steve.”

“Mai, I’m gonna move to strike your testimony on account of bias and prejudice.”

Mai’s eyes blazed from beneath her purple eye shadow. “Dammit. I’m telling you the same thing I told the FBI agent. There’s no way to know for certain whether-”

“What FBI agent? This is a state case.”

“Great. Go tell it to Washington.”

“C’mon, Mai. Who came to see you?”

“A female agent. I don’t remember her name.”

“I need to know who’s mucking around in my case.”

“Oh, you have needs? Well, guess what, Steve? So do I.”

“Jeez, don’t make this personal. Now, I know you, Mai. Anytime you talk to someone, you make a note in the file. Those files are public records. If I have to get a court order, I will.”

“Bobby,” Mai said. “Will you promise me that when you grow up, you won’t be a defense lawyer?”

“I’m going to be a major league pitcher,” the boy promised.

Six minutes later, Dr. Mai Ling reached into a file cabinet and handed Steve the file. It didn’t take long for him to find what he wanted. Stapled inside the cover was a business card.

Constance Parsons. Special Agent. Federal Bureau of Investigation.

“Happy now?” Mai asked.

“Did she tell you why the FBI was involved in a state murder case?”

“She told me she was investigating. That’s all.”

“Constance Parsons,” Steve said, as if the name might conjure up something. “What else can you tell me about her?”

“She’s one of the young ones. You know how they are. Gung ho, until they get transferred to Missoula or Rapid City.”

“Connie Parsons,” Bobby said.

Steve gave him a look. “Constance. Connie. What difference does it make, kiddo?”

“Nothing much. Except her friends probably call her Connie.”

“Yeah, probably. So?”

“‘Connie Parsons’ is an anagram for ‘Passion Conner,’” Bobby said.