Authors: Amy Gutman
NYPD’s Citizens’ Police Academy.
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For inspiration, thanks go to Delaware Chief Medical Exam-12
iner Dr. Richard T. Callery.
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For answers to medical questions, I’m grateful to Dr. Brian 14
Smith of Baystate Medical Center and to my second, anony-15
mous, consultant (you know who you are).
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For assistance on a range of subjects — including manuscript 17
critiques and research help — thanks to Gordon Cotler, Ruth 18
Diem, Susan Garcia, Penny Geis, Theresie Gordon, Kirk Loggins, 19
Anne Paine, Kirstin Peterson, Marissa Piesman, Polly Saltonstall, 20
John Shiffman, Louisa Smith, and Kerstin Olson Weinstein.
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This book is once again dedicated to my family, which has sup-22
ported me in so many ways in writing and all else: To my mother, 23
Janet Franz, my brother, Peter, my father and stepmother, Froncie 24
and Bonnie Gutman, and my sisters, Karin and Megan. I couldn’t 25
have done it without you.
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About the Author
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Amy Gutman, author of the widely acclaimed suspense novel 5
Equivocal Death,
has worked as a newspaper reporter in Ten-6
nessee and Mississippi and was the founding director of the Mis-7
sissippi Teacher Corps. An honors graduate of the Harvard Law 8
School, Amy practiced law in Manhattan for several years before 9
writing her first book. She divides her time between New York 10
City and western Massachusetts and welcomes mail through her 11
website, www.AmyGutman.com.
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Special eBook Feature:
An Excerpt from
Amy Gutman’s
Equivocal Death
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death
a n o v e l
amy
gutman
l i t t l e , b r o w n a n d c o m pa n y b o s t o n n e w y o r k l o n d o n 9858_01_003-152_r5hb.qxd 9/28/00 3:57 PM Page 3
Wednesday, December 23
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Ice cold. He pressed his hand to the window and watched the frost 3
dissolve, felt the moisture collect on his palm. He’d switched off 4
the lights, and the interior darkness mirrored the inky void out-5
side. Standing immobile, he could almost imagine that he was 6
alone in the world or better yet that he did not even exist, that he 7
was simply a part of this floating emptiness, transported by waves 8
of black snow.
9
But his lungs filled with air. He felt the rhythm of his breath, 10
stark and fatal as an accusation.
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He was alive.
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And there was work to be done.
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Moving away from the window, he switched on a Bestlite floor 14
lamp, acquired from a British import company during his last year 15
of school. He liked things to be well made. He surveyed the scene 16
before him. The space where he stood was cavernous, at least 17 sh
thirty feet long and twenty feet wide. Part of a former warehouse, 18 re
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A M Y G U T M A N
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it was isolated enough to meet his needs. His desk faced a sweep of 2
tall windows, while his clothes — Brooks Brothers suits, several 3
shirts, a tux — hung neatly on a portable chrome garment rack. A 4
Bose CD player sat on an antique table.
5
He was pleased with the space. Everything was just as he liked 6
it. The barren surroundings only underscored the beauty and fine-7
ness of his few selected possessions. His eyes traced the narrow 8
confines of his life.
9
Then, decisively, he made his entrance.
10
Moving to the CD player, he pushed Play. Instantly, the room 11
filled with the opening chords of Cherubini’s
Medea.
A 1959
12
recording. Remarkable music. Potent. Full of a terrible rage. He 13
glanced down at the CD cover, at the diva Maria Callas. Arched 14
nose. Raven hair. Hands splayed like claws. What was it he saw 15
there? A passion for vengeance — for justice — that matched his 16
own. The promise of its fulfillment. And with this, an unflagging 17
sense of order, of timeliness, of fate. It was this he needed above all 18
else. For even as the time for action grew closer, his confidence had 19
started to ebb. Why had he waited so long? The plan that had 20
seemed so brilliant when he first conceived it could at times seem 21
almost absurd. Again, he tried to push back these thoughts. It was 22
dangerous to think this way.
23
Sitting down at his desk, he turned on his laptop computer. The 24
screen flashed bright. From here on, it was almost too easy. The 25
most profitable law firm in the country. Thirty-seven partners who 26
counted themselves among the most respected lawyers in the 27
world. Power brokers and advisers, they counseled governments, 28
corporations, and the rare private individual with sufficient wealth 29
to pay their fees. And yet cracking their computer safeguards had 30
been child’s play.
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Strange, the unerring detection of their clients’ vulnerabilities 32
and the utter disregard of their own. Samson’s computer network 33
had just been overhauled at huge expense. The mere fact of this in-ort 34
vestment had seemed to assuage their concerns. There was some-reg 35
thing touching in this naïveté, the almost childlike belief in 9858_01_003-152_r5hb.qxd 9/28/00 3:57 PM Page 5
E Q U I V O C A L D E A T H
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money. Their computer network was top of the line. Nothing more 1
need be said.
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Besides, the elder statesmen of Samson disdained technology, 3
the proliferation of desktop computers. They yearned for the days 4
of dictation. Of pretty secretaries, heads bowed, recording their 5
every word. But in the end, even Samson had been forced to sub-6
mit. The firm’s quaint refusal to communicate by e-mail, once seen 7
as a charming relic of its patrician past, had begun to interfere with 8
business. And Samson was, first and foremost, a business. Bowing 9
to the inevitable, the firm edged its way into cyberspace, a territory 10
as alien to its rulers as the planet Mars. E-mail. The Internet. Stan-11
dard issue for more than a decade in the modern business world but 12
still suspect intruders at Samson.
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And so he found himself in the happy position of breaking and 14
entering an unlocked house. The attorneys’ “secret” passwords 15
gave the illusion of privacy but none of its substance. Remarkable, 16
really, the faith placed by these brilliant men and women in a tech-17
nology they didn’t understand.
Hubris.
The fatal flaw.
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He typed in her user ID, mwaters. Then came the password 19
prompt. He grinned as he typed in the response: password. That 20
was it. The same word for everyone. Something easy to remember.
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She could have changed the defaults, of course. It would have 22
taken only a minute. But she hadn’t taken the time. Like the oth-23
ers, she couldn’t be bothered.
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A few more clicks, and he was scrolling through a list of her files.
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Luckily for him, she was one of the new breed, treating her hard 26
drive like a filing cabinet. He’d dipped into these files in the past, 27
not out of any real interest, but for the thrill he took in the fact 28
that he could. Confidential memos outlining trial strategies for 29
lawsuits worth tens of millions of dollars. Clinical dissections of 30
the odds of success. Privileged information that, if leaked, would 31
mean the loss of fortune and career. If blackmail were the goal, 32
he’d have had it made.
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But he had other things on his mind.
34 sh
Exiting WordPerfect, he clicked on the Calendar icon. In an in-35 re
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stant, it appeared before him, everything crystal clear. The perfect 2
map. Madeleine Waters’s anticipated movements for the next 3
twelve months. He felt an adrenaline surge, stiff heat in his shoul-4
ders and neck. The room was growing colder as the night chill 5
deepened, but he barely noticed. He had work to do, decisions to 6
make.
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He reviewed the recent additions. December 23. With Christ-8
mas approaching, the week had been slow: the usual assortment of 9
professional engagements, lunches, meetings, the occasional bene-10
fit or awards banquet in support of a worthy cause.
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And then a single entry struck his eye.
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Dinner with Chuck Thorpe. At Ormond. January 5. He knew 13
the restaurant. Had in fact eaten there when it opened last year, 14
unable to absent himself discreetly from the Civil Rights Forum’s 15
annual dinner. Such occasions always left him aching with hatred 16
for the world he’d been forced to inhabit. The smug corporate 17
sponsors. The self-satisfied attorneys who came to be feted, confi-18
dent that their brief forays into pro bono work conferred a sort of 19
secular sainthood.
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But this miserable dinner had finally proved a gift in disguise.
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He remembered the restaurant clearly, the low lights, the widely 22
spaced tables. Yes, it was almost ideal, better than he could have 23
hoped. A sense of euphoria swept through him.
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Then, without warning, it was gone, and he was spinning, spin-25
ning down a cold black chute.
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No. Make it stop.
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He pressed his teeth together, already knowing what would 28
come. Dizzy, he grasped the table’s edge. A sour sweat leaked 29
through his pores. The smell of fear. The smell of death.
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I’m moving as fast as I can.
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He tried to fight back, to win a reprieve. But it was no use. He 32
was already tumbling back. Back to where it all began.
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A dark room. And everywhere the scent of fear.
ort 34
She’s sprawled across the floor. He looks down at her from above. It
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feels strange to look down. He’s always looked up at her face, her beau-1
tiful, smiling face.
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It’s so dark. For a long time, now. Why is she lying so still?
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He sleeps.
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And then it’s light. She’s still there, sprawled and broken in ways that
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he can’t comprehend. She’s floating in a sea of red.
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He wants to get up, to go to her. But he can’t stand up, can’t seem to
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move at all.
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He cries out, but there’s something in his mouth.
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At first, he thinks she’s asleep. But not really. Really, he knows that
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she’s dead.
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He’s hungry. He’s thirsty.
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And, even then, he knows that she’s dead.
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She’s dead, and it’s all his fault.
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And then it was over. Slowly, the vision faded. Still trembling, 15
he stared at the wall. He felt weak, depleted, as if he could sleep for 16
days. But he couldn’t give in to these feelings. Not with success so 17
close. He had to think of the plan.
He had to think of the plan.
Soon, 18
it would all be over.
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And he was finally ready to begin.
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Monday, January 4
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Monday morning. 7:05 a.m. A gray fog hung over the ice-glazed 4