Flesh and Bone: A Body Farm Novel

did she say about the ex-husband,” I asked, “and how he acted when he saw her having dinner with another man?”

Evers smacked his palm down on the table, hard. It sounded almost like a gunshot, and it made me jump. It made the tape recorder jump, too. “I’m asking the questions here, Dr. Brockton, not you. But since you asked about him, I’ll tell you something. We’ve already looked at Preston Carter. We always look first at the husband or the ex. And he’s got something you don’t have, Doc. You care to guess what that might be?” I shrugged and shook my head. I had an uneasy feeling what it might be, but I didn’t want to say the word. “He’s got an alibi,” said Evers. “He is a deputy district attorney, and he has a damn good alibi.”

He picked up the recorder and read the time off his watch, saying there would be a short break in the interview. Then he looked at Horace and cocked his head toward the door of the room. They walked out without a word. The door closed behind them gently, but even so, the sound of it clicking shut seemed almost deafening in the hard, empty room.

I pulled out my cellphone and hit SEND. My last call had been the one from Art, so the phone automatically dialed him. Please answer, I prayed, and he did. “Art, I’m scared,” I said.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m not sure, but I’ve got a bad feeling.” I told him how Evers chased me down and referred to my truck as evidence, and hauled me back in, and all but accused me of Jess’s murder.

“You’re right,” he said. “Not good. I hate to say it, Bill, but I think maybe you better get a lawyer.”

“Why? I didn’t do anything. You think they think I killed Jess? You think they might be about to arrest me?”

“Probably not. Not yet, at least. But meanwhile, it looks like Evers has decided to put the screws to you.”

“But dammit, Art, if I hire a lawyer, doesn’t that just make me look guilty?”

“You already look guilty to him. And to a homicide cop, looking guilty and being guilty are virtually synonymous. Evers is looking for the best-fit explanation. And if he’s decided you’re it, he’ll search like hell for other evidence that supports your guilt. He’ll ignore things that suggest you’re innocent, or he’ll twist them around in ways that make even the innocent things look bad. Not because he’s trying to shaft you personally. But because he’s trying to piece together who committed a murder. And for what ever reason, you’re starting to look like the key to the puzzle.”

I knew Art was right. I’d spent years at crime scenes talking to cops like Evers, listening as they tried and discarded various theories. That experience enabled me to step back and look at this from his perspective, at least for one brief moment of clarity. “So I really do need to lawyer up?”

“You need to lawyer up.”

“Who should I call?”

“David Eldredge is good,” he said. “Smart. Respected. So is Herb Greene. Herb has cross-examined me three or four times in murder trials. Thorough. Kinda dull, though. A plodder. He’s no Clarence Darrow. He’s ain’t gonna win the hearts and minds of the jurors for you.”

There was an uncomfortable thought buzzing around my mind. I tried swatting it away but it kept coming back. “There’s another name occurs to me,” I said, “though I shudder to think about it.”

“Me too,” he said, “but he’s the first one I thought of. I just couldn’t bring myself to say it.”

We spat it out in unison: “Grease.”

“Art, I swear, I would never have imagined I might stoop to hiring that guy. But then again, I never dreamed I might need to.”

“I would never have imagined stooping to recommend him,” he said. “Bottom line, though, is he’s got the best win record, despite the worst clients.”

“Yeah, but hiring Grease is like taking out a billboard ad along I-40,” I said, “with my face and the words YES, I DID IT in ten-foot letters over Jess’s corpse.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “If things get bad and you’ve hired a lawyer you respect, you might find yourself sleeping soundly in prison. If you’ve hired Grease, you’ve got a pretty good shot at tossing and turning in your own bed for the rest of your nights. Sure, everybody will assume you’re guilty. Doesn’t make it so, though. Suck it up and call the bastard.”

“I’ll think about it. Let me see how it goes once Evers comes back and starts asking questions again.”

“Okay. Call me later. I don’t know what I can do to help, but I’ll try.”

“You already have,” I said. “Thanks.”

“That’s what friends are for. You want me to sing it?”

“I’d rather you didn’t. Talk to you soon.” I hated to hang up. Art’s voice felt like a lifeline, and it was tough to let go. But I heard the doorknob rattling, and I knew I had no choice.

Evers and Bingham filed in and sat down, and Evers cranked up the recorder again. I felt his knee wedging itself between both of mine.

“Dr. Brockton, in your initial statement out at the scene, you told us you arrived at the Body Farm at approximately eight A.M. yesterday morning.”

“Yes, that’s right,” I said.

“And you told us that again in our interview in this room about an hour ago, did you not?”

“I think so. I’m pretty confident it was around eight. Give or take a few minutes. Doesn’t 911 automatically record the date and time of emergency calls?”

He ignored my question. “And before that, when were you last out there?”

“When was I last out at the Body Farm?”

“Yes, when? Think carefully.”

I did. “Last Thursday afternoon. End of the day. A little after five. I was there to check on the condition of that research body. The one tied to the tree.”

“You’re saying you were last there one day before your dinner with Dr. Carter?”

“Yes, why?”

“And you’re saying you were not out there at any time between Thursday night and Monday morning- yesterday morning-at approximately eight A.M.”

“That’s correct.”

Evers smacked the table again. “You are lying to me, Dr. Brockton. And there is nothing I hate worse than being lied to.”

“The hell I am!” I shot back in frustration. “What makes you think I’m lying?”

He swiveled and looked at Horace as if it were the most insulting thing anyone had ever said to him. “You hear that?” Horace nodded grimly. “You think I should tell him what makes me think he’s lying?” Horace shrugged, then-as Evers continued to stare at him-nodded again. Evers turned back to me, his face so close to mine I could count the pores on his nose. “What makes me think you’re lying, Doctor, is that I just watched a surveillance video that shows your truck-your truck, Doctor-driving through the gate of the Body Farm at five A.M. yesterday morning. Three hours before you called 911 to say you’d found her body.”

“That’s not possible,” I said.

“Don’t you dare fuck with me!” he shouted. Specks of spittle flew from his mouth onto my face. “It is on the goddamn tape! Your truck, Doctor.”

I wiped my face. Evers’s spit was mixed with a layer of sweat that had suddenly coated my forehead.

“I was not there,” I said. “I was at home, in my bed asleep, at five A.M.”

“Can you prove that in a court of law?”

“Do I need to? Are you saying I’m a suspect?”

“Not a suspect, Doctor. The suspect.”

“Should I get a lawyer?”

“Do you need a lawyer?”

“If you think I’m a killer, then I think I need a lawyer.”

He suddenly leaned back, out of my face, and scooted his chair back, withdrawing his knee from between my legs. He drew a deep breath and blew it out between pursed lips. “Here’s the thing, Doc,” he said in a weary, regretful voice. “If you want to stop talking to me until you’ve got an attorney present, you have that right. Absolutely. No question about it. But if I shut off this tape recorder and stop this interrogation now, then from here