Murder Suicide (3 page)

"We never seem to find a nice occasion," Clevenger said, heading over.

"Occupational hazard," Wolfe said.  "Detective Coady," he said, nodding across the table at a bulldog of a man, about forty-five, with red hair and a ruddy complexion, dressed in a dark blue suit.  He stood about five-foot-seven, with massive shoulders.

"Thanks for coming, Doc," Coady said.

Clevenger shook Coady’s meaty hand.  Then he stared down at Snow’s lifeless face, all the energy that had animated his inventive mind and athletic body gone to who knows where.  He looked twenty years older than the slightly unkempt, but strikingly handsome man Clevenger had seen on television days before; his eyes now seemingly focused on something very far away, empty of the obvious intelligence that had once burned through them, his skin already the gray of dried parchment, his full head of silver hair matted with blood.  "He looks even worse than they usually do," Clevenger said.

"The Glock will do that," Coady said.  He nodded at a bloody 9mm slug on a stainless steel tray beside the table.

"He lost nearly seventy percent of his blood volume," Wolfe said.

Maybe that explained how empty Snow looked.  But Clevenger thought he sensed something else missing.  There was nothing in Snow’s expression that gave him the sense that he was at peace.  At first, he dismissed the observation, told himself he was making more of Snow’s tight lips, set jaw and searching eyes than he should, that he was probably seeing nothing more than early rigor mortis.  But that didn’t erase what he felt in his gut.  Because even though he was a medical doctor, even though he had studied physics and epidemiology and biochemistry long before psychiatry, the scientist in him had not suffocated the poet.  And he could not deny having the impression that there was a piece of work to be done before John Snow could truly be laid to rest.  Maybe that was what North Anderson had been feeling back at the office — that Snow’s story was still unfinished.

"Are you both comfortable with the music, or you’d like something else?" Wolfe asked.

Clevenger and Coady looked at one another.  Coady shrugged.

"I think we’re fine," Clevenger said.

"Take note," Wolfe said, "there was a Herculean effort made on Dr. Snow’s behalf in the E.R."  He checked to make sure the warning had registered.  Then he pulled back the sheet.

"Holy Christ," Coady said.

A hole the size of a man’s fist — Jet Heller’s fist — was ripped in Snow’s chest.  The left ventricle of his heart, swollen and blue-black from Heller pumping it, ballooned through the open wound.  the anatomy was so distorted, the skin so mottled from bruising, that the pathology associated with Snow’s cause of death — a bullet hole above his first rib — was almost completely obliterated.

"The doctors tried to save him by reaching through an incision they made in Dr. Snow’s chest wall and pumping his heart by hand," Wolfe said.  "As you can see, tissues were stretched, torn.  I’m confident about the point of entry of the bullet, just above the first rib."  He used a telescoping metal pointer to indicate the spot.  "I’m certain it passed through the right ventricle of the heart and came to rest in the third thoracic vertebra.  But to make an educated guess whether the wound was self-inflicted, I would need to know the bullet’s precise angle of travel.  That would give me an indication whether an assailant aimed the pistol, holding it level to the ground, or whether Dr. Snow, pointing the barrel upward, shot himself."

"So why can’t you figure that out?" Coady asked.  "The angle."

"Because the posture of the victim is also a variable.  And I don’t know that.  Dr. Snow cold have been standing straight up or leaning to his left, or his right.  He could have been on his knees, begging for his life.  Without knowing his position when he was struck, I can’t extrapolate from his injuries and plot a clear trajectory for the bullet."

Coady shook his head.  "You forgetting Chuck Stuart?  You said 99.9% he shot himself.  What’s different this time?"

Coady was referring to the famous case of Charles Stuart.  Back in 1989 Stuart had murdered his pregnant wife Carol and shot himself in the abdomen after parking their car in a tough Boston neighborhood.  He later claimed a black man had car-jacked them on their way to a hospital birthing class, then opened fire on them.

"First of all, Stuart was known to be seated behind the wheel at the time of the ‘assault.’  The bullet was found in the back seat.  Secondly, there’s extensive iatrogenic damage here."

"Please watch the syllable count, Professor," Coady said.  "I went to Zoo Mass."  U. Mass., 4.0 Phi Beta Kappa, double major in criminal justice and sociology — but Coady never mentioned any of that.  He didn’t need the guys on the squad thinking he was any different than they were.

"
Iatrogenic
," Clevenger said.  "Caused by hospital workers."  He nodded at Snow’s ballooning left ventricle.  "The cardiac massage."

"Right," Coady said.  "That’s just beautiful.  What about his glove?" he asked Wolfe.  "Didn’t you say there were powder burns left on it?"

"There is indeed evidence of gun powder on the leather," Wolfe said.  "But again, the pattern was disrupted by spillage of fluids in the E.R. — blood, IVs, antiseptic.  I can’t say whether it's more likely the powder was deposited when Dr. Snow held the gun and fired it or when someone else was pulling the trigger, and he tried to push the gun away."

"So you’re telling me we got nothing," Coady said.

"We have precisely what he had when we spoke on the phone," Wolfe said.  "Nothing conclusive."

Clevenger leaned to get a closer look at Snow’s fingernails, glowing under the fluorescent lights.  "Manicured," he said.  "Clear nail polish, hardly any scratches."

"If he had a pedicure," Coady said, glancing at Snow’s feet, "we’d at least know something conclusive about him."

Wolfe ignored Coady.  "Was there a thought you wanted to share, Doctor?" he asked.

"Why would a man depressed enough to shoot himself have his nails manicured a day — two, at the most — before going through with it?" Clevenger asked.

Coady pursed his lips, nodded.  "First year on the force I get called over to the Hancock Tower.  Guy in a tux at a Christmas party threatening to take a header off the roof.  "Bow-tie, cufflinks.  The whole nine yards.  I bet his nails were shined up real nice."

"Point well taken," Clevenger said.

"I’m no psychiatrist," Coady said, "but so far as I can tell, people’s behavior can be highly contradictory.  A guy loves his wife so much he kills her when she says she’s gonna leave him.  Kills her because he can’t stand the thought of not being with her.  Makes no sense, right?  ’Cause he ain’t gonna be hanging out with her when she’s in a box, and he’s doin’ life."

"It makes no sense, on the face of it," Clevenger said.

"On the face of it, right.  But when somebody like you digs a little deeper — or a lot deeper — maybe the pieces start to fit.  You can get into the killer’s mind.  His reality.  Which is why I called you in.  You do that with Snow here, I figure we’ll understand why he blew himself away in that alley, polished nails and all.  Then I can get the media off my back and move on to a case with a real victim."

"Not that you’re trying to force anyone’s hand," Wolfe said.

"Course not," Coady said.

"At least Coady wasn't pretending to have an open mind, Clevenger thought.  "You do have a favorite theory — that Snow committed suicide," he said.  "Do you also have a theory why he did it?"

"Like I told the professor here," Coady said, "I don’t think he had the guts to go to the O.R.   He lost his nerve."

"A moment of cowardice," Clevenger said.  "I’ve wondered about that."  He nodded to himself.  "But if he shot himself on impulse, how do we explain him taking a gun with him, in the first place?"

"He was licensed to carry.  He must have wanted the gun with him when he got out of surgery."

"Why?"

"He was rich," Coady said.  "He had a company doing business with military contractors.  He..."

"He might have felt threatened," Wolfe said.  "Not that it’s my place to theorize."

"Anything’s possible," Coady said, tightly.

"Did he drive himself to the hospital?" Clevenger asked.

"No," Coady said.  "He’s had a driver the past seventeen years.  A Czech immigrant, name of Pavel Blazek.  Guy says he dropped him off on the corner of Stanford Street, two blocks away from where he shot himself, about fifteen minutes before the 911 call came in."

"And Snow was married, with a family?  I think I read that.  His wife is a pretty-well-known architect."

"Wife, two kids; sixteen-year-old son, eighteen-year-old daughter."

"But he went to the hospital alone to have brain surgery.  The Snows don’t exactly sound like the Waltons."

"Listen, a case like this can generate plenty of suspects," Coady said.  "A man was found dead in an alleyway.  There were no witnesses.  If we find out a dozen people hated his guts, half of them won’t have alibis.  Three, four of them might look like they’re better off with him dead than alive. 
But that doesn’t mean they killed him
.  The fact remains he was shot with his own gun."

"Did he have anything other than the gun with him when he was found?" Clevenger asked.

"A black leather bag with a laptop and some kind of notebook or journal inside.  Pages and pages of chicken scrawl and drawings.  Everything’s being tagged for evidence back at the station."

"Can I get a look at it?"

"Whenever you like.  I’ll make you a copy of the journal and any files off the laptop."

"I could pick them up tomorrow morning."

"You got it," Coady said.  He cleared his throat.  "One thing:  I know the media can’t get enough of you since the Highway Killer case."

"There’s no need for..." Wolfe started.

"I already got
The Globe, Herald
, and every network in town hounding me," Coady interrupted.  "I’d like to avoid Geraldo Rivera, Larry King, et. al., crawling up my ass, if at all possible.  If you have something to say, let’s keep it between you and me."

"No comment, all the way," Clevenger said.

"Excellent," Coady said.  "I appreciate it."

"No problem," Clevenger said.  "One thing I can tell you right now:  If this isn’t a suicide, you could have another body on your hands very soon.  Because if Dr. Snow didn’t put that gun to his chest and blow a hole in it, it was somebody who didn’t feel shy firing a Glock at point blank range while his victim watched.  Someone filled with fury.  And there’s no reason to think he’s any less angry right now."

"Thanks for the warning," Coady said coldly.

"Just between you and me."

Chapter 4

Clevenger had a few hours before his adopted son Billy Bishop, eighteen, needed to be picked up from boxing lessons at the Somerville Boxing Club.  He decided to drive over to Mass General and drop in on J.T. Heller.

He parked in the Mass General garage and walked to the Wang building.

Heller’s office suite was on the eighth floor, down a nondescript corridor that ended with a short run of mahogany, recessed paneling and incandescent wall sconces.  Frosted, sliding glass doors etched with
DEPARTMENT OF NEUROSURGERY, CHAIRMAN, J.T. HELLER, MD
led to his waiting area.

Inside, half-a-dozen patients, a few of them with freshly shaven heads and scars bisecting their scalps, sat on claw-footed, tufted, leather sofas reading magazines or dozing off under at least fifty framed photographs, newspaper clippings and magazine articles chronicling their surgeon’s rise to fame.  There were shots of Heller with celebrities of every ilk — politicians, actors, professional athletes.  Black-and-white candids showed Heller at fund-raisers and awards ceremonies with leading ladies, models and debutantes he had romanced at one time or another.  One article, from
Boston
magazine, was blown up bigger than the rest and carried the headline, "Jet Heller Will Go to Hell and Back to Save Your Life."

Clevenger walked up to Heller’s receptionist, a slim, black-haired woman about twenty-five who looked like she could easily make the cover of
Vogue
.  She looked up at him as though she couldn’t quite place him.  "Are you a new patient?" she asked, in a British accent.  The phone rang.  She kept looking at Clevenger as she answered it.  "Dr. Heller’s office."

Clevenger heard another line ring.  He looked down at the blinking light on the phone.  Someone answered the call, put it on hold.

"I can take your name and give it to the doctor," the receptionist said.  "No.  I can't say precisely when he’ll return your call."  She wrote down
Joshua Resnek, Independent News Group
, along with a phone number.  "No, I wouldn’t be able to let you hold on until he’s free."

Clevenger knew Resnek well.  He was Boston’s most aggressive reporter, the one who had held Clevenger’s feet to the fire when it looked like Jonah Wrens, a.k.a. The Highway Killer, might just keep leaving bodies strewn along the nation’s interstates forever.

"Very good, then," the receptionist said.  "Yes, yes, of course.  I’ll make sure he gets it."  She hung up, looked back up at Clevenger.  "Which doctor referred you?"

Clevenger realized his shaven head made him blend right in with Heller’s post-op patients.  He lowered his voice just above a whisper.  "I’m not a patient.  My name is Frank Clevenger.  I’m a psychiatrist working with the police on the John Snow case.  I wondered if Dr. Heller might be able to fit me in for a few minutes."

"Oh, Lord.  I am so sorry," she said.  She extended her hand.  "Sascha Monroe."

Clevenger shook it, noticing her long, slender fingers, her slim wrist and the obvious confidence in her grip.

"I didn’t mean to offend you," she said.  "I should have recognized you.  I’ve seen you on television so many times."

"No offense taken."

"Dr. Snow’s death has been a terrible shock."

"Did you know him very well?" Clevenger asked.

"We would talk while he was waiting for Dr. Heller.  I thought we had a real rapport."