Chapter 8: No One Wins
Victoria Grange-Martinson, alleged killer of three office workers in downtown LA, continues to mount her defense. The District Attorney's office has successfully petitioned for a closed trial, but sources say the defense team has "given up" on defending Ms. Grange-Martinson on several of the charges . . .
I settled a little more into my slouch, balancing my bowl of macaroni and cheese atop a throw pillow on my lap. It was seven in the evening and I was already in my pajamas. Not all that long ago I would've been dressed in some unlikely outfit allowing Karne to drag me off into something mildly illegal, I mused. I felt the smile slide off my face. It hadn't been that long, but I hadn't heard from him at all.
I dug my spoon into my macaroni and cheese and pulled my attention back to the local news. The little adventures with Karne weren't real life. I'd known that at the time, and I knew it now. I'd never hear from him again.
Sources close to the investigation claim that Ms. Grange-Martinson convinced the young women that their symptoms of arsenic poisoning were indicators of Lupus, and that she was skilled in alternative medicine. She allegedly convinced the young women to stay at her home and continued to poison them until they died.
I shook my head. In my line of work you can't pretend there aren't people like that out there—murderers, I mean—but it can still be a little shocking. I suppose I'm just more used to the crimes Karne said were "unoriginal," like Ramos' murder.
I lifted my left hand up into my line of sight, blocking the anchorwoman. A faint stain of Karne's wedding ring tattoo still clung to my ring finger, though I'd taken nail polish remover to it a week ago. I supposed I'd simply have to wait for the skin to slough off.
"Guess this way I know it actually happened," I muttered to myself. I turned my attention back to the TV in time to catch the weather and an investigative report on campaign finance, and I finished my dinner alone.
The case lingered in trial and stayed on the news every night—LA loves a true crime story that sounds like a fiction—and I was on a difficult identification case. I had charred remains of what seemed to be two skeletons. They were so hopelessly meshed in the remains of fabric and soft tissue that it seemed like someone had put them in a cement mixer and let them rumble a while. The work was painstaking.
Bridget and I had been bent over a lab table together for something like four hours when I declared a short break. We were both sweating under the high-powered lab lights. Bridget's purple hair dye had left a line against her skin where a damp tendril clung to her neck. I couldn't help staring at the dyed mark so similar to the ones still faintly visible on my ring finger. I blinked hard and gathered my thoughts.
"I'm pretty sure we've got adolescents," I said. Bridget nodded tiredly. She peeled off her exam gloves and coat before sinking into her chair.
"Do you want to grab coffee?" She leaned her head on her hand and left her legs sprawled in front of her. "If you give me a sec to photograph what we've got I can meet you downstairs."
"Sounds perfect," I agreed. I shucked my gloves and lab coat and grabbed my purse. The flash from the digital camera popped behind me as I put my hand to the door latch. "You'll be down in a minute?"
"You won't even miss me," she called. When I got to the lobby I saw McLynn and Chad headed toward a car going up. I called out to stop them, and we stood in a cluster near the metal detectors.
"Hon, you look like you got dragged through a hedge backward today," McLynn drawled. Chad let out a snort that he tried to cover by clearing his throat. I put a palm up to my hair. From what I could feel, she was right.
"I've been trying to separate two charred skeletons all morning," I said. "Bridget's on it too." Chad and McLynn both looked sympathetic and dismayed. Everyone who's worked with charred remains knows the word "separate" is a sign of regrettable things to come.
"You've been at it all morning?" Chad lifted his eyebrows. I nodded.
"There's good news, though," I raised my hand to my hair again to shove some loose strands back behind my ears. "I've got enough teeth to get somewhere with dental pulp."
"Dental pulp nothing, girl," Bridget's voice cut in. "Where's my coffee?" Chad and McLynn laughed. They left us for the elevators and we wandered across the echoing lobby to the small coffee stand. By the time we made it there the barista had our usual orders on the counter. Bridget insisted it was her turn to pay, so I slunk off to one of the bistro tables. I was a few swallows into my drink before I noticed DuPret was at an adjacent table. He was on his phone and gesturing sharply. Of course I eavesdropped.
"Look, I don't care if she's the Queen Mother. She's got a serious case already." DuPret gripped the side of his table as the person on the other end spoke.
"And I told you we have other…" DuPret's voice trailed off. "Damn it, Karne, I can't just hand Connell a skull from outside my jurisdiction because she's the only…"
I sat up straight and wrapped both my hands around my cup. Bridget arrived at the table and gave me a sideways look. I shook my head as she opened her mouth to speak.
"I don't care about tool marks. I care that that golf course is in Arizona." Bridget and I frowned at one another. I heard DuPret's palm hit the top of his table. "Then talk to them, Karne. Connell only works in California." DuPret snapped his phone shut with some violence and let out a puff of air. Bridget raised her eyebrows at me. I shook my head again and waited for DuPret to walk off.
"What the hell?" Bridget demanded.
"I don't know anything about it," I said, staring down at the surface of my coffee and wrinkling my forehead. "Seriously, he hasn't talked to me since DuPret arrested Victoria Grange-Martinson."
"Not at all?" Bridget's intonation shot up at the end. "But you guys were friends."
"I don't know about that." I took a drink of my coffee and took a long time in swallowing. "I don't think he likes friends."
"I don't know what the hell that means, Amy, but I don't think you're right."
"Right about what?" I had the feeling we were talking past one another.
"He obviously wants you to do something. He'll be around." She glanced past me to the table where DuPret had been sitting.
"Maybe," I muttered.
A short time later I heard the case had gone to the jury for a verdict. I wasn't very aware of the amount of time the deliberation was likely to take or even whether there was a way to know about things like that. In fact, I hadn't thought much about it. I was too busy spending my days bent over a skull two boys had found at the edge of a water hazard on a golf course in Arizona. Then Karne showed up.
I took an embarrassingly long time to figure out that he was there to see me and that I ought to greet him. I just managed to straighten up from the table and stare at him.
"Connell?" He prompted at last, stepping closer to the lab table where I'd placed the skull on a cushion beneath a magnifying light. "Are you well?"
"Course—I'm fine," I blustered, fidgeting with the pockets of my lab coat. "Yourself?" Karne just smiled at me and shook his head. He tilted his head at me and peered at my face.
"You look terrible." He straightened up after making his pronouncement. I heard Bridget snort behind me.
"Thanks," I snapped.
"I believe the jury will return a verdict today, Connell," Karne explained, "most likely this afternoon."
"Will they?" I muttered, reaching for my notebook to record the location of a tool mark before I forgot what I'd concluded.
"Well?" Karne demanded. I looked up at him, stymied. He stared back, impatiently flaring his nostrils. "Are you coming?" He flung his hand up between us. I turned away from him as I took off my lab coat so he wouldn't see me smiling.
"I'm off to the courthouse," I yelled to Bridget.
"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," she yelled back. Karne huffed quietly beside me. He handed me my purse, which he must have been holding even before he found me at the table. I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling again.
He said nothing to me on the ride to the court building, and he barely said a word beyond basic directions to the courtroom once we arrived. The press had formed a clot just outside the doors of the room, and I could see technicians with cameras and sound booms lingering by the doors to the courthouse steps. It seemed the journalists agreed with Karne about the likely timing of the verdict announcement.
Karne opened the courtroom door for me and put a hand to my back as I walked through. I'd forgotten his gestures during the weeks since I'd seen him, and the contact made me stiffen. He withdrew his hand the moment I flinched, and I felt a little guilty. I tried to crane my head around to smile at him, or something, but he looked occupied with leading us through the crowded room.
He slouched beside me as I peered at the people in the courtroom. Most of the times I had testified nearly no one had been at the trial beyond cops, lawyers, and defendants. The most I'd seen was family, really. Never press. I gawked.
The delivery of the verdict was almost a disappointment. The jury filed in, looking nervous and tired, and the foreman stood. They observed the same formalities as always. The foreman read nervously from a paper he'd hidden in his hand: Guilty. All counts. The increase of noise in the courtroom held off until the judge finished speaking, but was impressive once it started. The entire table for the defense vanished under the crush of press pushing forward. I felt Karne's grip on my forearm and let him lead me out a side door and into the front lobby of the building. We came to a stop by the doors, where Karne let go of my arm and started off toward the metal detectors.
"You win," I said. He turned to face me and raised his eyebrows for a moment, then smiled.
"Of course not, Connell," he shook his head, "I was wrong about the cameras in the lobby."
"What?" I had a hard time catching up for a moment, there—the cameras in the atrium? Where she'd hidden the bones?
"They weren't entirely blocked, Connell." His voice was flat as he told me. I looked up at him, nonplussed. Then I laughed.
"You are so odd, Karne," I pronounced. He frowned at me. "Who cares about the cameras? You found out who did it."
"I care about the cameras," he said stiffly.
"Sorry." I kicked my toe against the polished floor and regretted my big mouth. "You won't get any credit in the stories, I suppose," I said.
"All the better," Karne said. His tone had returned to normal, and I let out a breath. "Credit makes it difficult for me to work. But that was not your question, I perceive. You want to know why I don't care that DuPret gets all the glory?" He smirked down at me. I squirmed. "It is not the glory, Connell. DuPret works for the fame. I am in it for the challenge."
"You do a lot of this?" I stepped closer to him to allow the exiting crowds more room to pass, and noticed again how much I had to crane my neck to look at him.
"I am a detective, Connell," he smirked. The expression slid from his face as his eyes drifted toward the crowd leaving the court building. Then he cut his eyes back toward me and peered down into my face. "Enough," he said suddenly, waving a hand. I waited, hoping he'd have found another skeleton for me to think about. "Connell, you must learn to defend yourself."
"What?" I blurted. He took my elbow and led us out the door and down the steps.
"You should start by learning to shoot, I think," he began. "Yes, your skull can wait. We'll go to the shooting range."
"Now?" I was trotting to keep up with his strides as he made his way toward his car.
"Of course now," he snapped. "How do you expect to be of continued use to me if you're in danger of getting yourself killed?" I blinked at him. I tried to think of a response. In the end, I got in the car, and I spent the evening learning to shoot. Because, as usual, he had a point: I wouldn't make much of a Watson to his Holmes if I didn't have my trusty revolver, now would I?
