Flinch Factor, The Page 20
“From the autopsy?”
“I promised to call you when they came in.”
“And?”
“Interesting.”
“Interesting?”
“Interesting.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning maybe you ought to drop by.”
“I’m heading over now.”
Chapter Forty-one
“Dr. Phil says drownings are tricky,” Bertie Tomaso said.
Dr. Phil was Philip Edison, the chief medical examiner for St. Louis.
I said, “What’s so tricky?”
“Everything—including whether the corpse you fished out of the water actually drowned.”
We were seated in Bertie Tomaso’s office. He had Gene Chase’s autopsy folder on the desk in front of him.
He looked up at me. “Can you handle morgue shots?”
“Sure.”
“Check this one out.”
He slid an 8 x 10 color photo across the desk top. It was a head shot of Gene Chase.
“My God,” I said.
The face had extensive lacerations and bruises. There was an open wound along one cheekbone and what appeared to be a dent high up on his forehead. The dead man looked as if he’d been attacked by someone wearing brass knuckles or wielding a club.
“What’s your conclusion?” he asked.
“Beaten to death.”
“Sure looks that way, eh?”
“He wasn’t?”
“Probably not.”
“Look at his head.”
“Exactly. That’s one of the tricky aspects of drownings, especially in a moving body of water. Corpses in water lie face down. Always. And always with the head hanging down. Bodies tend to move downstream head first. That means the head becomes a battering ram. And with the head hanging down, the blood congests there, which means you can even have post-mortem bleeding if the head bangs into something sharp enough to break the skin. So it’s possible someone beat the crap out of him, but it’s more likely that he got banged up like that after he was dead.”
I leaned back in my chair. “Or maybe before he was dead.”
“Explain.”
“If his killers knew that a coroner would have a hard time figuring out the timing of those injuries, they could have killed him and tossed him into the water.”
He held up his hands, palms toward me. “Be patient, gorgeous. We’re getting there.”
“Proceed.”
“The blood tests confirm he was drunk. The blood alcohol content was almost point two.”
“How drunk is that?”
“Shit-faced, falling-down drunk. And, again, not unusual.”
“What do you mean?”
“A significant portion of male drowning victims are drunk.”
“There must be a good punch line there.”
“Probably. But here’s where it starts to get weird. With your typical drowning victim, you expect to find white foam in the nostrils and in the mouth. None here. With your typical drowning victim, you expect to find a significant quantity of water in the lungs. Not so here.”
“No water?”
“Not much, and certainly not as much as you’d expect see if the victim died in a typical drowning.”
“So you’re saying he didn’t drown?”
“No. Dr. Phil still thinks he drowned.”
“So where’s the water?”
“In his stomach.”
“He drowned by drinking water?”
“Sort of. It’s called dry drowning. It’s a less common way to drown, but it still happens.”
“What is it?”
“Dry drowning involves something called—let me see, where is it—” He skimmed down a page of autopsy notes. “Here we go. It’s called a laryngospasm. It’s a reflex action in your throat when water enters the windpipe. Your vocal chords clench up and seal off the wind pipe. That prevents water from entering the lungs. We’ve all experienced it to a certain degree. It can happen to you if your drinking something and it goes down the wrong tube—or you’re in the ocean and get blindsided by a wave. You start coughing like crazy and for a moment you can’t breathe. It’s pure reflex. It’ll even happen if you’re unconscious. Anyway, because of laryngospasm, in the initial stage of every drowning the first bit of water goes down the other tube and into the stomach. No water and no air enter the lungs in that first stage because the wind pipe is sealed off. In most victims, the laryngospasm relaxes after the victim loses consciousness. When that happens, the water flows into the lungs and causes a wet drowning.”
“But if it doesn’t relax?”
“Then the victim essentially suffocates. A dry drowning. Happens about ten percent of all drownings. The seal to the lungs stays shut until after cardiac arrest.”
“And that’s what happened here?”
“According to Dr. Phil.”
I studied Bertie. “But there’s more, right?”
He smiled. “Correct.”
“What?”
“Dr. Phil had them analyze the contents of his stomach.”
“I thought you said it was water.”
“For the most part. There was a little undigested food.”
“What did the analysis show?”
“The water in his stomach was mostly tap water.”
I frowned. “Tap water?”
“The stuff that comes out of your faucets and garden hose. That same stuff that’s in your toilets and your sinks and your bathtubs.”
“I don’t understand what that—oh.” I leaned forward. “So he was murdered.”
“That’s the way it appears.”
“In his house?”
“Don’t know that yet. We have a forensic team over there now. We’ll see what they come up with.”
I shook my head. “I don’t understand, Bertie.”
“Understand what?”
“If they’re so smart, why did they drown him in tap water?”
“First of all, because it’s a helluva lot easier than dragging him down to the stormwater ditch in the middle of a thunderstorm and trying to shove his head under water. But assuming they’re smart, they could still drown him in a tub or sink because the majority of the time it won’t matter. In a typical wet drowning case, most of the aspirated water gets absorbed into the blood stream before the victim dies. In fact, according to Dr. Phil, that’s part of what kills you. You get some sort of circulatory overload with all that water, and then your blood pressure nosedives and you go into cardiac arrest. Any remaining tap water that’s still in your lungs would get diluted by the ordinary water currents in the River Des Peres. It’s only in a dry drowning that none of the tap water gets absorbed because it’s all sitting down there in your stomach.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah, wow.”
“So what’s next?”
“We’ll see what the forensic team turns up in his house. We’ll see if we have any witnesses in his neighborhood. Did he work at that Corundum Construction outfit?”
“No. He told me he worked at warehouse on North Broadway. I can check my notes and call you.”
“Great. We’ll talk to folks there, too. Try to identify co-workers and friends, start to fill in the picture of who this guy was and who might want him dead. You get any Corundum names from him?”
“Just one. Rudy Hickman.”
Bertie repeated the name aloud as he wrote into his notebook. He looked up.
“What was Hickman’s involvement?”
“He was the guy I talked to on the jobsite. From what Chase told us, it sounded like Hickman was the go-between with Corundum. He gave Chase the release and he gave Chase the cash.”
“You have anything more beside his name?”
“No.”
“Do me a favor, Bertie. Have someone—preferably you—take another look at Nick Moran’s file. I know we don’t know the full story of the connection between Nick and Chase, but we now know that someone killed Chase and tried to make it look like a routine drowning. Maybe someone killed Nick, too. Maybe there’s something in his file that doesn’t jibe with a routine overdose.”
Bertie sighed. “Yes, ma’am. Meanwhile, what else can you tell me about this Corundum outfit?”
“I tried to track them down through their building permits. I came up with a bunch of circumstantial evidence out in the suburbs that seemed to indicate they were involved in a scheme to corrupt city officials.”
“Out in the county?”
“Outside your jurisdiction.”
“At least for a corruption claim. Out of curiosity, what kind of circumstantial evidence?”
“Do you know what tax increment financing is?”
“Sure. TIFs. Corporate welfare. Subsidizing your local Wal-mart through sales taxes. Classic zero-sum gain.”
“Exactly.”
“So?”
I explained what I’d found, namely, the pattern of rehab and renovation jobs on the homes of suburban city officials that seemed to correlate with their votes in favor of TIFs involving Ruby Productions.
“Ruby. That’s that Rubenstein guy?”
“Right. I think there may be a connection between Ruby and Corundum.”
Bertie laughed. “What an arrogant son of a bitch.”
I gave him a curious look. “Who?”
“Rubenstein. He’s a crossword puzzle nut, right?”
“Big time. He enters those national competitions. Why?”
“Corundum. It’s a Friday New York Times crossword puzzle clue.”
“What is a Friday clue?”
“The New York Times crossword puzzle gets harder each day of the week. Monday’s a breeze, Thursday’s pretty tough, Friday’s a bitch, Saturday’s almost impossible. Assuming Rubenstein is the guy behind Corundum, it’s a Friday clue.”
“A clue for what?”
Bertie gave me a wink and shook his head. “I don’t want to spoil the fun.”
Chapter Forty-two
I rolled my eyes.
“What?” Benny said
“They actually let you wear that on campus?”
Benny glanced down. He had on a t-shirt that read: Attention Ladies: I Enjoy Grey’s Anatomy. He looked up with feigned innocence.
“What? A man can’t express an opinion?”
“Have you actually watched the show?”
“I tried once.”
“And?”
“I got as far as the second commercial break.”
“You should be ashamed.”
“Hey, there was a Knicks game on. I’m supposed to pass that up for this chick-flick dreck?”
“That’s my point.”
He gestured at his t-shirt. “This is just my attempt to assure the distaff side that I’m a sensitive, caring New Age guy.”
“Which you aren’t.”
“Now just hold on, woman. I have actually cried while watching television. On more than one occasion, too.”
“Other than while watching a sporting event?”
He paused. “Probably not. But cut me a little slack here. You think the networks are ever going to air a show with anything as heartbreaking as the Giants losing to the Ravens in Super Bowl Thirty-Five? Certainly not on Grey’s Anatomy, for chrissake.”
“So does it work?”
He winked. “Girls like guys who like Grey’s Anatomy.”
“You are a total pig.”
“But I’m your pig.”
“If you were my pig, Benny, first thing I’d do is call the vet and get you fixed. By the way, did I hear you correctly? ‘Distaff’?”
He smiled. “To paraphrase the deathless lyrics of the Pussycat Dolls, ‘Don’t cha wish your boyfriend had words like me? Don’t cha?’”
“Distaff sounds like vintage Playboy Advisor to me, Hef.”
“I confess I never read the Playboy Advisor in my youth. I was too busy studying the interviews. But back to business. Is this creep really going to show up?”
“He said he would. I offered to meet him at my office but he preferred yours. He thinks a professor’s office is a more neutral site. Thanks, by the way.”
“Like I’d let you meet him on your own?”
“I don’t think he’s dangerous.”
“You don’t know that. According to you, at least two people’s deaths might be connected to that Corundum outfit. That means it’s time to play it safe. To quote Auric Goldfinger: ‘Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times is enemy action.’”
“Auric Goldfinger?”
“The bad guy in the James Bond movie. So give me some context here. What’s the purpose of meeting with—what’s his name?”
“Milton Bornstein. He’s one of the Cloverdale City Councilmen who voted in favor of the TIF.”
“What do you want from him?”
“The name of someone at Corundum Construction. Someone higher up.”
“Why?”
“To see if we can interest the St. Louis County Prosecutor’s Office. Bertie’s a city cop. All this suburban stuff is outside his jurisdiction—and his department is focused on Gene Chase anyway. Unless they get lucky, they’ll be plodding along for weeks—or even months. And even if they solve that crime, they may not find any connection between that murder and Nick’s.”
“Assuming Nick was murdered.”
“Right.”
“A big assumption.”
“Fair enough. But let’s assume he was. The next question is, ‘why’? Given what we’ve found so far, it’s probably because of something he knew about Corundum. If so, that means it probably has some connection to this pattern with the TIFs. If we can tie a big name or two with that pattern, we might be able to interest a prosecutor.”
“In Nick’s death?”
“Not initially. The hook for the prosecutor is the corruption angle. But if Nick’s death is connected to that, then maybe—just maybe—they’ll turn up that link.”
Benny scratched his neck as he thought it over. “It’s a long shot.”
“It’s the only shot I can think of.”
He grinned. “As Immanuel Kant once said, ‘What the fuck?’”
He checked his watch.
“If this turkey of yours actually shows up,” he said, “let me do the talking. I got an idea how to reach this guy.”
Ten minutes later, as Benny was filling me in on an antitrust paper he was presenting at an upcoming conference, there was a knock on the door.
“It’s open,” Benny hollered.
Milt Bornstein peered in. He was wearing aviator sunglasses, a khaki trench coat, and a gray herringbone beret pulled low over his eyes. If this was his idea of a disguise, it failed. With his sharp nose, long ears, and high bald forehead, he looked unmistakably like Milt Bornstein in aviator sunglasses, trench coat, and herringbone beret.
“Come on in,” I said.
He glanced from me to Benny and back to me. “Who is this gentleman?”
Benny snorted. “Look at the nameplate on the door, douche bag. This is my office.”
Bornstein looked at me. “I didn’t realize Professor Goldberg would be joining us. I thought we would just be using his office.”
“Hey, pal,” Benny said, “when you’re in my office you address your remarks to me. Now close the fucking door and sit your ass down.”
Oh, boy. Benny was on a roll. Nothing to do but sit back and watch.
Bornstein hesitated a moment and then entered the office. He closed the door and took the seat ne
xt to me facing Benny’s desk.
“Take off those ridiculous shades,” Benny said.
Bornstein removed them and placed them in the inside pocket of his trench coat.
Benny stared at him.
“You disappoint me, Milt.”
Bornstein frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Ms. Gold asked you for a name and gave you a deadline. What did you do? Jackshit. You let that deadline pass. Even worse, you apparently tipped someone off about your meeting with Ms. Gold. What in the hell were you thinking?”
Bornstein sat motionless.
Benny shook his head. “Here’s the deal, Numb Nuts. You either make amends right here and right now, or you can bend over and kiss you sorry ass goodbye.”
Bornstein’s eyes started blinking.
Benny put his hands together, fingers interlaced, and placed them on the desk in front of him. He leaned forward, eyebrows slightly raised.
“Well?” he said.
“What—” Bornstein stammered “—what are you trying to suggest?”
“I’m not trying to suggest anything, Miltie. You know and I know that you have been a bad boy. A very bad boy. You sold your vote on that TIF. You took a bribe in the form of a swimming pool to be built in your own backyard.”
“But there’s no pool there.”
“Not yet.”
“There will be no pool.” He crossed his arms over his chest and tried to look smug. “You have nothing.”
“Of course we do, you putz. We have the fucking building permit. And we have your vote in favor of that TIF.”
“That’s not enough.”
“Miltie, Miltie, Miltie.” Benny shook his head sadly. “It’s way more than enough because you’re not the only one. We’ve got Corundum Construction projects for city officials in several other suburbs where TIFs got approved. And each of those Corundum Construction projects involved corrupt little weasels just like you. And that’s your only hope, my friend. Because those projects have already been built. And that makes those aldermen and council members even more attractive targets than you.”
“Targets?”
“For the grand jury and the prosecutor, Milt. That’s why we invited you here today. There’s going to be an investigation and a grand jury and a blizzard of felony indictments and a big sensational trial with a bunch of nervous city officials sitting in the dock. But first we have to talk with the prosecutor. And that’s your chance, Milt—and your choice. Your only chance and your only choice. You can give us your contact name and we can conveniently forget to include you in the list of corrupt city officials we turn over to the prosecutor. Or you can refuse to give us your contact, and we’ll be sure to include your name at the top of our list. And trust me, pal, that list will be in the prosecutor’s hands long before you can scurry back to your contact begging for help. You get my drift?”