Dark Lady (43 page)

Dr. Jack Corn, the medical examiner, had lank gray-blond hair, wire-rim glasses, and the amiable half smile of a small-town banker. Little about this mild appearance suggested that—as Caroline well knew—he was a nationally recognized pathologist who had brought the New Hampshire Medical Examiner’s Office to a place of professional esteem. His manner was courteous, his voice soft and faintly midwestern. Methodically, he took Jackson from his appearance at the crime scene through the trip to the morgue in Concord—Corn and two assistants assessing and photographing the body; inspecting it for trace evidence; measuring the width and depth of the wounds; taking blood samples; searching for prints on the body. The reality of this, Caroline knew, was not pleasant; it was part of Corn’s gift to make the process sound clinical, thorough, and scientific. Which it clearly was. “And in the course of these procedures,” Jackson was asking, “did you determine the cause of death?” Corn nodded slowly. “The victim died from a deep wound to the throat, severing the jugular vein, the carotid artery, and the victim’s airway. As a result, the airways were filled. So that, quite literally, Mr. Case drowned in his own blood.” Next to Caroline, Brett folded her hands on the table, took a deep breath, and kept on looking at the witness. “Could you describe,” Jackson said, “the nature of such a death?”

Cora’s face had lost its semi-smile. “It would not be instantaneous, Mr. Watts. There would be a gurgling sound, perhaps with the victim thrashing in agony, for as long as three or four minutes. What Mr. Case would have experienced was the quite horrific knowledge that he was drowning and that there was nothing he could do.” Caroline saw Brett’s eyes shut. Jackson moved forward. “This gurgling sound, Dr. Corn—what would account for that?”

“Asphyxia. The victim would be unable to speak. Instead he would suffer what we call agohal breaths, spewing blood from his mouth for approximately ten to fifteen seconds.” Corn paused, as if imagining the moment. “Eventually, he would suffer hypovolemic shock: the absence of sufficient blood to the brain. I should add that with respect to movement, there does not seem to have been much. But then the wound was so grave that Mr. Case’s head was partially severed.” Touching Brett’s arm, Caroline felt a spasm pass through her. Caroline’s fingers tightengd around her wrist. “Was there also, Dr. Corn, a second wound?”

“There were three, actually. I believe that the first in time was also a throat wound, but much shallower, from which we concluded that the fatal wound was a second and more successful effort to sever the victim’s throat. The last wound, we believe, was the stab wound near the heart.” Corn’s narrative, calm and uninflected, somehow conveyed the picture of a determined killer, a butchering both intimate and passionate. “And did you determine the type of wound?” Jackson asked. Corn folded his hands. “It was a knife wound. From the tearing of the skin, it appeared that the knife had a serrated edge. From that, and from our measurements, we determined that the wounds were consistent with the Cahill fishing knife found in Ms. Allen’s possession.”

“And did you photograph the body and the wounds?”

“My assistant did. Yes.”

Jackson produced a sheaf of photographs from an envelope on the prosecution table. Reluctantly, he turned to Caroline, glancing at Brett as he did so. “Would you care to review these again, Ms. Masters?” Briefly, Caroline turned to Brett. She had her own copies. But it had been Caroline’s judgment that seeing the photographs would only haunt Brett’s nights. “Don’t look,” she whispered. “There’s no point to it.” Pale, Brett nodded and turned away. “Yes,” Caroline said evenly. “Thank you.” Looking down at Caroline, Jackson hesitated. Then he handed her the photographs and went back to his table. Caroline took them one at a time. By agreement, they were premarked for identification: the first, prosecution exhibit number twenty-seven, was an overhead shot that captured the staring eyes of a man for whom death was the end of agony. Next to her, Caroline felt Brett flinch. Caroline wondered if this was the horror of discovery, or of memory. “Don’t,” she murmured. “They get no better.” Caroline reviewed the photographs as quickly as she could. “Thank you,” she said to Jackson. Taking the exhibits, Jackson shot a quick, opaque glance at Brett. In that moment, Caroline saw in close-up the deepening lines at the edges of his eyes, the bruises of weariness. Within minutes, a blond assistant from Jackson’s office had pinned the photographs to a bulletin board. Even from a distance, Caroline could see the spatters of blood on James’s face, the gash in his throat. Glancing at her family, Caroline saw Betty and Larry looking down; only her father, face impassive, seemed to study the photographs. Next to her, Caroline heard the slow intake of breath. “It was dark,” Brett murmured. “I couldn’t see him.” Caroline turned to her. Staring at the pictures, Brett’s face had filled with something close to awe. “How could someone do that … ?”

Jackson stepped forward. “Dr. Corn,” he asked, “were these the photographs taken as part of your autopsy of Mr. Case?”

“They were.”

“And are they consistent with your opinion with respect to the cause of death?”

“Yes.” Corn left the witness stand and stood before the photographs; Caroline saw the judge’s gaze, intent and narrow, follow him. “For example, Exhibit Twenty-seven shows the pattern of blood on the victim’s face—large spots in some areas, spatters in others. For lack of a more felicitous description, the airway wound sustained by Mr. Case creates a pattern similar to a can of spray paint that is running low, where spurts and spatters alternate with the degree of pressure.” Pausing, Corn adjusted his glasses, and then he concluded: “After a time, ten to fifteen seconds, the pressure subsides altogether. But this pattern was already here.” Caroline knew what was coming now. Within moments—a few brief exchanges between Jackson and Towle—a second bulletin board of premarked exhibits stood near the first. Next to Caroline, Brett was still. In the photographs where Brett’s eyes showed, they were dull with shock. Her breasts and face and torso were flecked with blood. “I’m sorry,” Caroline said softly. “But there’s no help for this.” Brett’s eyes had frozen. Perhaps, Caroline thought, it was simply humiliation; more likely, it was the shock of seeing the masks of James’s dead face, her shocked one, twinned by specks of blood. Even Judge Towle seemed transfixed by the imagery. “Did you also,” Jackson asked Corn, “examine the pattern of blood on Ms. Allen’s face, neck, arms, and body?”

“I did.”

“And are these photographs consistent or inconsistent with the conclusion that Ms. Allen killed Mr. Case?”

“In my opinion, they are consistent.”

Brett stared at Corn, her body rigid with anger. But Jackson sounded quite c’alm; it was as if, Caroline thought, he preferred this case in someone else’s hands. “And on what, Dr. Corn, do you base that opinion?”

“The pattern of blood.” Pausing, Corn pointed to a photograph of Brett’s neck. The pattern in Exhibit Thirty-nine, for example, is consistent with the spraying from the first infliction of the wound. It’s the spray I would expect when, in the alternating force of pressure, it lessens.”

“Could it also be consistent with the administration of CPR, which Ms. Allen claims to have attempted?”

“Not in my view. For instance, there’s no contact pattern of blood on Ms. Allen’s mouth, as one might reasonably expect. And, while CPR might possibly cause the pinpoint spray one sees in Exhibit Thirty-seven, it would not account for the teardrop pattern on Ms. Allen’s stomach. As shown by Exhibit Thirty-nine, for example.” Corn turned to the judge, as if conducting a seminar for one. “You’ll notice the teardrop pattern of the spatters here: slender at the bottom, much wider at the top. That would not be caused by CPR on the victim after the immediate spurt from his wound had abated—it’s much too heavy. But it could be consistent with the agohal breaths of the first few seconds.” He was quite impressive, Caroline thought. “It’s all right,” she murmured to Brett, and scrawled a note—cast-off pattern?—on the pad in front of her. Jackson’s voice was firm now. “Are there other factors which are consistent with the commission of a homicide by Ms. AllenT’ “There are.” Corn turned to the picture of James’s stomach. “As I understand the prosecution theory, Ms. Allen cut the victim’s throat while sitting astride his torso, perhaps during intercourse. You will note from the photographs of Mr. Case’s chest that there is a void—a distinct lessening of spatter—on the area of his chest and stomach. Suggesting that the spray was blocked by Ms. Allen’s chest and stomach.” Watching, Judge Towle seemed to nod. “In sum,” Jackson said, “the pattern on both Mr. Case and Ms. Allen is consistent with the belief that she cut his throat and then stabbed him?”

“It is.” Slowly, Jackson turned to Brett, eyes a little melancholy. “How could a woman as slight as Ms. Allen inflict such grievous wounds?” Facing Brett, Corn’s expression was somber. “Quite easily.”

“On what do you base that?”

“The murder weapon, to begin with. The blade was razor sharp.” Pausing, Corn retreated to the professorial. “A number of years ago, a famous pathologist, Bernard Knight, established that it takes just a little over one pound of force to stick a sharpened knife into the human body. Which, when one thinks about it, we know from our own experience. After all, how much force does it take for a nurse to give you a flu shot?” Folding his hands, Corn finished quietly. “The knife was quite a fine one, and it was well maintained. With a knife like that, Mr. Watts, a woman like Brett Allen would have no trouble killing this boy at all.”

Walking toward Corn and the bloody photographs, Caroline took her time. Her face was as serene as she could make it. “Are you familiar,” she asked, “with Ms. Allen’s account of the murder?” Corn gazed at her, neither welcoming nor defensive. “I believe so, yes.”

“Specifically, that she and Mr. Case had wine and marijuana. That afterward, while making love, Mr. Case passed out. That she went swimming. That she saw a shadow over Mr. Case. That when she returned, she heard a gurgling sound. That in the belief that Mr. Case might be choking in his own vomit, she got on his chest and administered CPR. That this caused blood to spray on her face. And that, in horror and shock, she pulled out the knife she discovered in his chest.” Abruptly, Caroline’s voice softened. “You are aware of all that, aren’t you?” Corn folded his hands; the effect was of someone bracing himself. “Yes, Ms. Masters. I am.”

“Well, what’s wrong with that? From your review of the medical evidence, couldn’t it have happened just as she says?” Corn frowned. “I don’t believe so.”

“But it is consistent with the lack of struggle, is it not?”

“It could be.”

“And with the agohal breaths you describe.”

“Possibly.” Caroline put her hands on her hips. “By the way, you’re not asserting here that Brett Allen did kill Mr. Case, are you? Only that she could have.”

“Yes. Who killed this man is beyond my province.”

“And the entire reason that you prefer Mr. Watts’s story to Ms. Allen’s is that, in your view, the spatter on Ms. Allen is inconsistent with CPR?” Corn pursed his lips, forming a small o. “It’s the totality of the circumstances. But sticking to the spatter pattern, it’s at least two things. First, the appearance that the blood on Ms. Allen’s torso accounts for the void on Mr. Case’s. Second, the fact that the teardrop pattern of some spatter on Ms. Allen is inconsistent with what CPR would cause.” Caroline nodded. “All right, Dr. Corn. Let’s take CPR first. You’re not saying that all the blood on Ms. Allen is inconsistent with CPR?”

“No. CPR could have caused a brief spray from Mr. Case’s throat, resulting in the light spattering found on Ms. Allen’s face. But it could not, in my opinion. explain the teardrop spatter.” Caroline looked puzzled. “But as you described the fatal wound, at least in its first seconds, a spray would alternate with a spewing pattern—almost a gushing. Correct?”

“Yes.” Turning to the first bulletin board, Caroline gazed for a moment at James’s dead, staring eyes. “Indeed, on Exhibit Twenty-three, the streaks of blood on Mr. Case’s face reflect that spewing effect.”

“That’s true.” Walking to the second board, Caroline stood next to a picture of Brett’s face. “But there is no such pattern on Ms. Allen’s face, is there?” Corn paused. “There is not. But that could be the result of distance.” Caroline turned to him. “Forgive my indelicacy, Doctor, but does ‘spray’ travel farther than ‘spew”?”

“Not necessarily. But you’re assuming that, through those first seconds, Ms. Allen kept her face equidistant from Mr. Case’s throat.” Corn examined the board. “I also

point out Exhibits Thirty-five and Thirty-six—the heavier spatter on Ms. Allen’s breasts and stomach.” For a moment, Caroline simply looked at him. With a hint of asperity, she asked, “Are you familiar with the term ‘cast-off pattern’?”

“Of course.”

“Could you define it for us?” Corn gave her a glance of oblique annoyance. “It’s the blood spatter made by the entry of a sharp object into the human body.”

“Or exit?”

“That too.”

“What are the characteristics of a cast-off pattern?” For a moment, Corn gazed at the photographs of Brett. “It can have a teardrop effect,” he conceded. “As you see on Ms. Allen.”

“And can that effect result from the withdrawal of a knife?”

“It’s possible. Yes.”

“So that it’s also possible that the medium-velocity splash pattern on Ms. Allen’s face resulted from her administration of CPR, and the teardrop pattern on her torso from the withdrawal of the knife?” Here Caroline paused for emphasis. “And not from the agonal breaths you ascribe to Mr. Case?” Turning to Caroline, Corn seemed to study her with the interest of a professional. “Yes,” he said at length. “That’s also possible.”

“Which leaves Mr. Watts only with the void in the pattern of blood on Mr. Case’s chest.” Corn’s small brown eyes were watchful. “If you’re referring to the pattern of blood and not to the prosecution’s entire case.” Caroline nodded briefly. “You’ve already told us that the void would have been caused by the murderer sitting astride Mr. Case. From the pattern of blood on the victim’s face, what pattern would you expect on the murderer?” Corn removed his glasses, polishing them with a hand-kerchief. “Hard to say, Ms. Masters. Again, it might depend on distance.” Turning, Caroline pointed to the spray on Brett’s shoulders and breasts. “Wouldn’t you expect a pattern heavier than this?” Corn studied the photograph. “All that I can tell you,” he finally answered, “is that it’s possible …. “