“I know what balusters are,” Lucas said.
“The thing is, Merion turned the balusters himself on his handy little wood lathe. If he needed to make an exact copy to whack her with, it’d take him about ten minutes.”
“You guys are your own kind of geniuses,” Lucas said.
“We knew that.”
They had the medical examiner on their side: death, he said, had come from asphyxiation, not from the blow to the head. The blow may have been intended to kill, but when that didn’t work, a second blow would be unseemly for the simple reason that a good medical examiner could determine the time difference between the first and second impact, gauged by the amount of blood released by the first whack. If the second impact came, say, three minutes after the first . . . well, falling down the stairs didn’t often take three minutes. Not unless you had a lot longer staircase than the Merions had.
? ? ?
PARK RAINES HAD, of course, gotten his own medical expert, who said that the fall had forced the unconscious woman’s face into the carpeting on the stair tread, and that had smothered her. He found carpet threads on her tongue.
The medical examiner pointed out that Gloria Merion’s mouth may well have been open during her fall down the stairs, and she could have picked up the carpet threads that way.
Could have, might have. Beyond a reasonable doubt? Maybe not.
? ? ?
SO THERE’D BEEN some legitimate doubt, even in Lucas’s mind . . . until Beatrice Sawyer, leader of the BCA crime scene crew, discovered three bloody hairs stuck to a baseboard . . . in the bathroom. And tiny droplets of blood, invisible to the naked eye, on the wallpaper and baseboard, but none on the floor, because the floor had been washed.
That added up to murder.
Unless, Raines argued, in the preliminary hearing, incompetent cops had tracked the damp blood in there—they had gone into the bathroom after tramping up and down the stairs, before the crime scene people got there.
And that insurance policy? Nothing but a legal maneuver rich people used to get around the federal estate tax, and commonly done, Park Raines said. It had been intended to benefit the children from her first marriage, not Ben Merion.
The wood-lathe business? Sure, he could have done that. Proof that he’d done it? Well, show me the proof.
And the girlfriend? Yes, Ben had once been intimate with Connie Sweat, but that ended when Ben and Gloria married. He’d visited Connie’s town house a couple of times, but only to retrieve personal property that he’d left at her place, back before Ben got married.
The trial was starting in three weeks and things did not look all that good. The best trial prosecutors had begged off, worrying about their high-profile conviction stats, leaving the case to a twenty-eight-year-old hippie who’d gotten out of law school three years earlier, played saxophone in a jazz band at night, and showed more interest in the music than the law. He’d never been the lead prosecutor on a major case.
Lucas believed that he would be a good prosecutor someday, if he chose law over music, but he wasn’t yet.
Running five miles, until it felt like his wheels were coming off, didn’t do all that much for his physical condition, but the pain helped Lucas stop thinking about Merion.
And the combination of it all, the strategic and tactical, had the depression monster sniffing around his doorstep.
So he ran.
? ? ?
AS HE WAS OUT RUNNING, his daughter Letty was lying on the carpet in the den, nine o’clock at night, her legs, from her knees to her feet, on a couch. She was staring at the ceiling, thinking about life, or that part of life that involved a guy named Gary Bazile. Bazile was a junior in economics at Stanford who also played lacrosse; he had big white teeth and large muscles. He was calling her every night and her father had begun to notice.
Early in her freshman year, Letty, who had avoided carnal entanglements in high school—“I don’t want to be the girl that the jocks practice on,” she’d told a friend—had decided that Now Was the Time. Bazile had benefited greatly from the decision, but Letty’s interest was beginning to wane.
In contemplating the ceiling, a telephone by her hand, she thought perhaps she’d cut Gary off a little too abruptly a few minutes earlier. “Gotta put my baby sister to bed,” she’d lied. When her phone rang again, she picked it up, willing herself to be kind to him: but the screen said the call was coming from Unknown, in an unfamiliar area code, 605. California? She didn’t get many solicitation calls, because she’d listed her number on the “do not call” registry.
She punched Answer and said, “Hello?”
“Is this Letty?” A woman’s voice, rough, vaguely familiar.
“Yes, this is Letty.”
“Letty, this is Skye, do you remember me? From San Francisco, me and Henry were singing on the square? You bought us dinner at McDonald’s?”
“Hey, Skye,” Letty said, swinging her feet down to the floor. “How are you? Where are you? In town?”
“Rapid City. Man, the devil got Henry. They cut his heart out.”
“What? What? Henry?”
“They cut his heart out.” Skye began to sob into the phone. “That’s what Pilot’s girlfriend told me, and she was laughing. She said Pilot keeps it in a Mason jar. She said they’re going to get mine, next. Man, I am in some serious shit out here and they cut Henry’s heart out.”
“Where are you, exactly?” Letty asked.
“Rapid City . . . I got dropped off by this guy,” Skye said.
“Are you safe? For right now?”
“For right now. I’m in the bus station. It’s the only public phone I could find.”
“Okay, slow down. Now, tell me,” Letty said.
“The devil was in Sturgis—”