When blood is no longer pumped by a beating heart, it settles with
gravity to the parts of the body closest to the ground. Clarissa
Easterbrook was on her back now, but immediately after her death she
had almost certainly been lying on her left side.
I watched as crime scene technicians methodically photographed and
bagged every item that might potentially become relevant to our
investigation. A candy wrapper, several cigarette butts, a rock that
looked like it might have blood on it. These items meant nothing now,
but any one of them could prove critical down the road. I looked at
Clarissa's body again, surrounded now by all this construction and
police work, and swore I'd find whoever did this to her.
I gave Johnson and Walker the file on Melvin Jackson's case that Dennis
Coakley had copied for me at City Hall. I also gave them approval to
file the standard search warrant application used after a homicide to
search the victim's house. We agreed, though, that they'd continue to
take it easy on Townsend unless the evidence started to point to him.
The police would be working the crime scene for the rest of the night,
but I signed out after a couple of hours, when Johnson and Walker left
to deliver the news to Clarissa's family. I don't envy the work of a
cop.
It's not as if prosecutors don't have bad days. Our files are filled
with desperation and degradation. Even the so-called victimless cases
involve acts that could be committed only by pathetic, miserable people
who've lost all hope. Compare that to fighting over money for a
banking client, and it looks like we're doing the heavy lifting.
But, in the end, I'm still just a lawyer. I issue indictments, plead
out cases, and go to trial. When it comes to the investigation, I
might make some calls on procedure, but it's the police who do the real
work. They're the ones who kick in a door when a search needs to be
executed. They're the ones who climb through the dumpster when a gun
gets tossed.
And Johnson and Walker would be the ones to visit Clarissa
Easterbrook's family members tonight to tell them that their lives
would never be the same again. These days, that concept is overused,
as we all say that the crumbling of two towers changed the world
forever. The kind of change I'm talking about can be claimed only by
the families of the three thousand people trapped inside. It's the
kind of change that causes every other second of life the birth of a
child, a broken leg, the car breaking down at the side of the road to
be cataloged in the memory in one of two ways: before or after that
defining moment in time.
From what I knew of it, everyone deals with the grief of a murder in
his own way. There is shock, then rage, then depression, and
ultimately some level of acceptance. But then the differences emerge.
What kind of survivors would Townsend, Tara, and Mr. and Mrs. Carney
become? The ones who die inside themselves and walk around each day
wondering when their body will catch up to their soul? The ones
seeking numbness in a bottle, the neighbors whispering about how things
used to be different? The ones who run the Web sites and help lines
and victims' rights groups? Clarissa's family still had options for
the future, just not the ones they thought they had when they woke up
yesterday.
Four.
By the time I returned the county's car and caught the bus home, it was
after nine o'clock and there were three messages from my father on the
machine. The gist of each, respectively? How was the first day of
work? I hope you're not working late already. And, finally, You're
not working on that case with the missing judge, are you?
I promised myself I'd call my father back before bed, but not just yet.
A normal person might want to veg out, watch a little TV, and hit the
hay. I wanted to run.
Running is my therapy. My ex-husband called it my escape. No matter
what the problem, a run always helps me see life in perspective. Plus,
I still felt like I needed to sweat out the rum and mint from the
sixty-seven mojitos I must have ingested poolside in Maui.
Even tonight's short three-miler did the trick. After one mile, images
of Clarissa Easterbrook's misshapen head and discolored flesh began to
slip away. After two, I stopped thinking about work entirely. By the
time I got home, I was ready to call my father.
'Sammy?' he said immediately. Dad had recently discovered the wonders
of caller ID as part of his constant effort to stay busy. After
thirty-plus years of marriage, two years as a widower hadn't been
enough for my father to feel relaxed at home alone.
'Yeah, Dad. It's me.'
'Late night at work. I was wondering if you were OK.'
'Everything's fine. Just a lot to catch up on since I've been out and
with the new unit assignment.'
'I bet. So how are the people at the new gig? A step up from the
bozos in the drug unit?'
As pleased as my father is that I've used my law degree to follow him
