Capitol Murder (16 page)

“I . . . suppose.”

“Did you ever ask Senator Conrad if he’d had any of those meetings with Senator Glancy? Oh
wait—since you didn’t even know who he was, I guess the answer to that would be no. Am I
right?”

“I didn’t talk to Senator Conrad. I saw no reason to do so.”

“Because you’d already made up your mind who the guilty party was, long before you even began
your so-called investigation. Probably the instant you entered Senator Glancy’s hideaway. He was
the obvious suspect, and it’s always easiest to go with the obvious suspect. Are you by any
chance a Republican, sir?”

“Check your coat?”

Loving and Daily whirled around and saw a young twentysomething man in a dark tuxedo and tails
standing behind a counter. In total contrast to the rest of the club, he had red hair. And a
lighthearted manner that was more twee than Transylvania. He almost smiled.

“It’s hot in there,” the man added, pointing to Daily. “Thought you might want to lose the
jacket.”

“Right, right.” He shrugged off his navy-blue jacket and handed it to the man behind the
counter.

“Mmm. Yummy, yummy.”

Daily did a double take. “Huh?”

The man pointed. “Blood.”

Daily glanced down and saw a dark red splatter on the right arm of his shirt. “Blast,” he
muttered. “Scraped my arm in that alley, Loving. Wouldn’t have happened if you’d gone down
easier.”

“My apologies.”

“Maybe I better keep the jacket.”

“Whatever you say,” the man replied, handing it back. “But you may be passing up your chance
to make yourself Mr. Popular in there with the Gothettes.”

“I’ll take the risk.” Loving headed toward the dance floor, while Daily slipped back into his
jacket. “Do I detect a certain wry tone in your voice?”

“Who, me?” the man said, pressing a hand against his chest. “Far be it. I just work here.”

“What’s your name? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“Well, in real life, it’s Joe. But in here—I’m Baron Orzny.”

“Pleased to meet you, Baron. So—you
just
work here. You’re not—”

“A member of this Gloomfest? No. Find me an opening at the Hard Rock Café and I’m gone.”

Daily grinned. “Not your kind of people?”

“Aw, they’re not that bad. Ever been to a biker bar?”

“No.”

“Well, this is better. Certainly more stylish. Just keep reminding yourself it’s all
make-believe. Even when some of them seem to have forgotten.”

“How does a person turn into a . . . Goth?”

“It’s easy, man. Just remember the number one rule.”

“And that is?”

“Become clinically depressed. Or look like you are, anyway. No smiles permitted, except for
the occasional throaty growl of sensual pleasure. After that, it’s all easy. Change your
vocabulary. Instead of talking about ‘blow’ or ‘wingspan’ or ‘hotties,’ you talk about the
‘ethereal,’ or ‘ectoplasmic dimensions’ or ‘life force’—also known to the Goth elite as ‘psi.’ A
name change is equally essential. ‘Heather’ is out. ‘Lucretia’ is fashionable. Long hair is good,
especially if it impairs the vision or obscures the face. The dress code—well, that part is
obvious enough. The popularity of tattoos and piercings is equally self-evident. The latest rage
is to have some body part pierced no one else has yet thought to pierce—and my, hasn’t that led
to some delightful spectacles.”

“But—why would anyone want to do this?”

“Evidently it’s fun, dude. I mean, look at them out there, writhing and twisting and doing
that stuff they euphemistically call dancing. Mostly they just sort of sway—not in rhythm, but
then this minor-key dirge-like music has no rhythm. Of course, they look ridiculous, but most of
them are so stoned they don’t know the difference.”

Daily stiffened. “Stoned?”

“Look at the expressions on their faces. Look at their eyes. Do they seem normal to you? Maybe
it’s just the booze, but . . .”

“I didn’t see anyone pushing on the dance floor.”

“You think they want to be arrested?”

“Tell me where it’s coming from.”

“I’m not so sure that would be smart.”

“Tell me!” Daily bellowed. As an afterthought, he added, quietly, “Please.”

Baron Orzny hesitated. “You’re looking for your daughter, aren’t you, man?”

Daily nodded slowly.

The Baron blew out his cheeks, checked to make sure no one was listening. “Thought so. That’s
why I started talking to you in the first place. Look, the kind of action you’re talking about
isn’t on the dance floor.”

“Then where is it?”

Baron Orzny pointed to the far end to the club, past the dance stage, to a staircase in the
rear leading up to a room overlooking the club. “Owner has a private place up there. Very
exclusive. Only a few are admitted—just his close buddies, the goon squad, and some very young,
carefully chosen girls. Every night his people scour the floor looking for new meat. After a girl
goes up there and disappears for a while—she’s like a whole different person. Changed.
Personality, attitude, everything. And then they disappear.”

“Amber,” Daily said, under his breath. “How do I get up there?”

The Baron gave him a once-over. “Well, nothing personal, dude, but—I don’t think you do.
You’re not really the owner’s type.”

“He’ll have to make an exception.”

“Hey!” He grabbed Daily’s arm. “Don’t do anything stupid. He’s got all kinds of security.”

Daily’s teeth were set firmly together. “I’ll find a way.”

Although the ropes lining the granite courthouse staircase were still in place, Ben was
pleased to see that the podium had been removed. The federal marshals delivered his client at a
discreet location out of camera sight, and together they walked up the long steps.

“What,” Ben asked him, “no press conference today?”

Glancy smiled, adjusting the lie of his bright red necktie as he walked. “First rule of
politics, Ben. Never repeat yourself. The first post-incarceration press conference is an event.
After that, it’s yesterday’s news. Buzz Aldrin was the second man to walk on the face of the
moon. You remember what he said?”

“No.”

“Which is exactly my point.” Glancy smiled, waved, even signed an autograph book, all without
ever slowing or tempting the marshals to intervene. “I’ve been meaning to say something about
your taste in attire, Ben. I gather you’re not exactly . . . up with the latest fashion
trends?”

Ben tugged at the lapels of his jacket. “You think my suit is dated?”

“I think it’s carbon-dated. And isn’t that the same suit you wore on Monday?”

“I only have three. And one of them was stained by an outraged parent.”

Glancy made a tsking sound. “Don’t you realize you’ve been appearing on television
constantly?”

“Yup. But I still only have three suits. And one of them was stained—”

Glancy held up his hands. “Let me see what I can do. I’ll talk to Shandy. She’s a wonderful
girl, very devoted to me. She’s been organizing my wardrobe. And you and I are about the same
size.”

“Thanks, but I’m perfectly happy with the clothes I’ve got.”

“I’m not.”

They passed through the massive front doors and headed toward the staircase. Elevators were
too slow, too crowded, and too difficult for the marshals stalking them to control.

“I thought yesterday went rather well,” Glancy said. Once again, Ben was amazed by his
serenity, his apparent absence of fear or concern. It was as if they were discussing the progress
of the World Series, not his trial on capital murder charges. “Didn’t you?”

“Yes. Christina was magnificent. But of course, the prosecution is just getting started. Once
they finish with the technical and forensic witnesses, they’ll bring on the fact witnesses.
That’s when we have to be wary of surprises.”

“Well,” Glancy said, smiling, “I have a few surprises of my own.”

“Could you please describe the condition of the body when you first saw it?”

Dr. Emil Bukowsky was the senior coroner for the District of Columbia. Ben gathered that due
to his senior status, it was usually one of his assistants, not he himself, who handled courtroom
appearances. This time, however, the prosecutor was accepting no substitutes.

“I found the body just as Lieutenant Albertson described—her head between the sofa cushions
and the rest of her body bent behind her. No one to my knowledge had touched her or in any way
altered the crime scene. And I arrived barely an hour after the police did. I would’ve been there
sooner, but I was carrying a kit filled with metallic instruments, many of them sharp, so I
encountered the same problems with the Senate security officers that the detectives had.”

Padolino nodded. “Could you tell how long she had been dead?”

“I never attempt to make any precise estimates until the corpse is back in my laboratory and
we’ve run a full battery of tests. There were, however, indications that she had not been dead
for more than a few hours.”

“And what were these indications?”

Bukowsky turned slightly to face the jury. He was one of the better medical examiners Ben had
encountered—in the courtroom, anyway. He could talk to the jury without making it obvious he was
doing so, could explain his findings without reliance on jargon or sounding as if he was talking
down to them. “The absence of a strong odor, for one thing. Lividity, for another. That’s the
purplish skin mottling that occurs after death, when the cessation of heart functioning and
gravity cause the blood to settle to the lower parts of a body. Unfortunately, in this case, I
found that to be somewhat deceptive, given the position of the body and the fact that so much of
the blood, most in fact, had escaped from the body.”

“Were you able to make any findings regarding lividity?”

“Yes. With the corpse in question, there was very little. It was only slightly present in her
elbows, on the backs of her legs and around her shoulders—she was upside down, remember. So the
time of death was no later than ten thirty that morning. Probably closer to ten.”

“Were you able to make any preliminary observations regarding the cause of death?”

“The blood loss immediately suggested exsanguination. It was only after further examination
that I was able to confirm that she had bled to death. We did find unusually constricted
vasoconstrictors in the GI tract and the kidneys. Her surface vessels had shut down—that’s caused
by the absence of blood volume. She had a greatly heightened level of epinephrine and
norepinephrine in the tissue samples we took, which also indicates a sharply reduced blood
volume.”

“Was there anything unusual about the blood loss that you observed?”

“Yes. I noticed that much of the blood appeared to have dried from evaporation, rather than
clotting.”

“And what did that tell you?”

“It told me that, despite the size of the gash in her neck, she bled slowly. Almost
completely, but slowly.”

Ben could see the pained winces in the jury box. He didn’t blame them. Everyone wanted to
believe that she had died quickly. It would suggest that she hadn’t suffered much.

“Could you please describe this large neck wound to the jury?”

“It was about six inches long—virtually the length of her right shoulder. And very deep. I
even found markings on her clavicle—her collarbone. Marrow had actually seeped from the bone.
Granted, her medical records showed the woman had some degree of osteoporosis—rare in someone
that young, but not unheard of. Even then—to leave marks on the bone indicates a deep and severe
injury.”

“Would you please tell the jury what you did next?”

“After the scene had been thoroughly photographed and searched, I instructed three of my
assistants to place the corpse in a body bag for removal.”

“Were there any difficulties?”

“A few. Some of the blood had pooled under her buttocks, causing the body to stick to the wall
when we tried to remove her. We had to be careful not to create any new injuries. But we managed
it. And once we did, moving her was easy. I doubt if she weighed one hundred and ten pounds when
she was alive. After all that blood and other fluid loss, she weighed considerably less.”

Again Ben saw the jury avert their eyes, as if somehow not looking at the coroner would alter
what had happened.

“Once I had Ms. Cooper’s remains in my laboratory, I began a full battery of tests. Under
magnification, I carefully examined each fragment of tissue from the wound, as well as the wound
itself.”

“Could you determine what caused the injury?”

“Yes. I found that the edges of the neck wound were consistent with the use of a wide,
sharp-edged instrument. A knife, most likely. Possibly a chopping knife.”

A knife? Ben pondered, not for the first time. How could anyone get a knife into the U.S.
Senate?

“Did you discover anything else of note during the course of your examination?”

“I found evidence of recent sexual activity. Unfortunately, we were not able to recover any
sperm or other fluids to perform a DNA analysis.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. When I took blood samples, I discovered that the woman had been given a significant dose
of warfarin.”

“And what is that?”

“A chemical anticoagulant. It prevents blood clotting.”

“Is this something found naturally in the human body?”

“No. Not even in hemophiliacs. It had to be administered, and it explains a great deal. It
significantly increased the likelihood that, absent medical intervention, she would bleed to
death—especially given the size of the wound.”

“And—” Padolino actually stuttered as he asked the question. “—would Ms. Cooper have been
conscious during this . . . slow death?”

He nodded sadly. “Almost to the end. Helpless, probably. But conscious.”

“And would she have experienced . . . great pain during this time?”

“Objection,” Ben said, grateful for a chance to interrupt the flow. “Lack of relevance.”

Judge Herndon nodded. “Sustained.” Whether she felt pain did not in any way relate to the
question of who killed her or how or why, but Ben knew this was a Pyrrhic victory at best.
Everyone already knew the answer to the question.