Zoe squirmed out from under Franklin, cradling his head in her lap as she yanked off her heavy Kevlar gloves. “Call 911,” she told the pathologist.
He gave her a look. “Once a paramedic, always a paramedic. We’re already in the hospital.” He climbed to his feet. “I’ll phone the emergency department and have them send someone.”
“Tell them he’s hypoglycemic.” Zoe rested her fingers on the groove on Franklin’s neck. “Insulin shock.”
“I may deal with dead people, but I do have a medical degree.”
“Sorry,” she said to Doc’s retreating back. Beneath her fingers, Franklin’s carotid artery pulsed much too fast. She hoped she only imagined the irregularity. What she didn’t imagine was the shallowness of his breathing. The autopsy suite may have been well equipped with the tools needed to cut through bone and tissue, but she’d have happily traded them all for a heart monitor. Or even a blood pressure cuff and a stethoscope.
Beneath the heavy apron, Franklin’s chest rose—minimally—with his next inhalation. Sank on the exhalation. Then nothing.
The tech burst through the office door, clutching a small can of orange juice. Zoe pointed in the direction from which he’d just come. “Never mind the juice. Out in the hallway to the left, there’s an AED unit. Go get it.” When the young man didn’t move, she added, “Now.”
Doc strode toward Zoe and Franklin. “The Emergency Department is sending a team down. Why do you need the defibrillator?”
“Why do you think?” She immediately regretted her harsh tone. “He’s not breathing.” As she said it, the pulse beneath her fingers melted away. “No pulse. I need to start CPR.”
“I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me.”
Vance Township Police Chief Pete Adams clasped District Attorney Frattini’s hand and refused to wince at the grip meant to reinforce the DA’s position of power. “Not a problem.” As if he had a choice.
Frattini shook hands with County Detective Wayne Baronick as well before gesturing both cops to the pair of faux leather chairs facing a mahogany desk. The DA settled into his seat and leaned forward, hands folded on the desk’s surface. “I suppose you’ve both guessed why I asked you here.”
Anyone who followed the local news knew the answer to that one. “Dustin Landis,” Pete said flatly.
“Correct.” Frattini reached for a stack of folders to his left, extracted a copy of the local edition of the Pittsburgh Reporter, and unfolded it with a deft flip of the hand. He spread it in front of Pete and Baronick, jabbing at the front-page story Pete had read over breakfast. “We worked our asses off to get that conviction. I wasn’t about to let that guy get away with murdering his wife. I crossed every ‘t,’ dotted every ‘i.’ Every search warrant was in order. Dustin Landis was—and is—guilty as sin.”
Pete sat in silence, letting the DA have his rant.
Baronick wasn’t so wise. “You’re retrying him?”
“Damned straight. I’m not about to give him a get-out-of-jail-free card.” Frattini fixed the detective with a hard stare. “You weren’t involved in the case, were you?”
“No, sir.”
Pete knew the DA was aware Baronick had still been a patrol officer nine years ago. Frattini likely knew the status of every member of law enforcement in Monongahela County then and now.
Frattini continued to study Baronick. “But you’ve read the reports.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Read them again.”
Baronick crossed an ankle over his knee. “The judge overturned the conviction because Landis claims he had ineffective counsel?”
Frattini’s jaw clenched. “Rick Hirst was a damned fine defense attorney. Landis insisted some transient murdered his wife. That was the best he could do to defend himself from the charges.” Frattini blew a disgusted puff of air. “Might as well have said a one-armed man did it.”
“But—”
Pete clamped a hand on Baronick’s arm before the detective could point out the one-armed man from the old Harrison Ford movie did do it.
Frattini ignored them. “Now Landis says he’s found compelling evidence that a serial killer was in Vance Township at the time of the murder. His new attorney was able to convince the judge of the legitimacy of the claims.”
“A serial killer?” Pete made no effort to keep the skepticism from his voice. “Wouldn’t we have known about a serial killer in our area?”
“You would think so, wouldn’t you?” Frattini stood and paced to one of the walls lined with shelves of law tomes. He studied the titles for a moment before facing Pete and the detective. “I want you both on this case. Chief, you worked it nine years ago. You know the details as well as I do. Detective, you’re our fresh set of eyes. I want to rebuild from the ground up. Track down our witnesses. Re-question them. Go over all the evidence. Every fiber. Every fingerprint. Investigate as if it’s a brand-new case.”
“What about the one-armed man?” Baronick asked.
Pete winced.
Frattini gave the detective a look that should’ve left nothing but scorched earth. “If he exists, find him. And find out everything there is to know about him. I don’t want any surprises.” He shifted his focus to Pete. “Got it?”
Pete gave one subtle tip of his head. “Got it.”
“Good.” The DA returned to his seat behind the desk. “A jury found Dustin Landis guilty once. A new jury will find him guilty again.”
By the time a crew arrived from the Emergency Department, Zoe and Doc had removed Franklin’s heavy apron and cut away his surgical scrubs. Zoe had used the AED, a simplified but effective defibrillator, to shock the coroner’s heart back into a normal rhythm. They’d just started him on a dextrose IV and wired him to an EKG when he regained consciousness. By the time they wheeled him into a cubicle in the ER with Zoe tagging along behind—sans her autopsy garb—Franklin was alert and talking. Mostly about getting back to his job.
“Not happening,” Dr. Fuller, Zoe’s favorite
