“That’s because we’re in the business of using the justice system to help people. Not spending time watching our backs.”
“Amen. Hey, by the way, don’t forget to use the Prius tomorrow morning. After meeting Tim at the morgue, we pick up Jayne. LAX. 12:30. And no way we all fit in the Vette.”
“Got it. I’m really looking forward to Tim Sanchez. If anyone can figure out exactly how and why the judge died, it’s him.”
Ridge nodded. “I sure as hell hope so.”
“Dr. Sanchez—the Answer Man.”
“Roger that. Would be nice if he could tell us who the Hulk is. Or why that dumbass driver was tailing us.”
Terry smiled. “He’s good, but I’m not sure he’s that good.”
CHAPTER 13
Friday morning, 10 a.m. sharp, Ridge and Terry arrived at the cement-colored Orange County Morgue with Starbucks in hand. Dan, waiting in the marble lobby, frowned at them. “No coffee for me? And with all I do for you guys.”
Terry shrugged. “You keep saying you want to ditch caffeine. Now’s a good time. And, while you’re at it—the donuts should go too.” He patted his flat stomach. “Anyway, we’re almost finished. You know how it is, no food, no drinks downstairs.”
“Life on high, death below,” Ridge intoned.
Dan rolled his eyes. “Then chug-a-lug, boys. Sanchez is waiting.”
Terry and Ridge gulped down the last dregs of their coffees, tossed their cups into the nearest trash can, and headed downstairs to the morgue. When the shiny elevator doors opened, they were hit by darkness and a strong antiseptic smell. Then Dr. Timothy Sanchez materialized in the hallway, his white smock giving off an ethereal glow.
Short, only five-foot-three, stocky and sporting a deep tan, Sanchez had brown eyes and silver-streaked brown hair. He gave them a huge smile and opened his arms as if to hug all three men at once. “The three musketeers together again. What an honor. Good to see you, but look, we’ve got to move fast. I have a meeting at 11, and you need to see what we call evidence down here.” He pointed to the camera case Dan carried. “That could prove useful.”
Sanchez turned to lead the way but caught a good look at Ridge removing his sunglasses. “What the hell happened to you? Looks like Frankenstein meets Rocky Raccoon. You OK?”
Ridge once again explained the Hulk story as Sanchez led them through the swinging metal doors. A cold breeze and stiff scent of chemicals met them. Two customers, each on their own metal table, were draped in white sheets, everything covered except for toe tags. Other bodies along the wall were stored horizontally, head-first in three-high stainless-steel lockers. Dr. Sanchez unlocked one of the lockers, hit a remote, and a body on rails slid silently out toward them. Then he pulled down the blanket, pointed at the judge’s face and explained: “Here’s the key. You see all those vertical scratches on her face? Presumably from a high-speed bicycle accident. The marks on the bike told us the judge crashed sideways so we figured she skated across the ground headfirst. But it doesn’t match up. Look closer. The scratches should be wider at the forehead and narrow down toward the chin. They do the opposite. Dan, go ahead and take some close-up photos.”
When Dan stopped clicking, Tim continued his explanation. “Next, I examined the clothing the judge had on at the time. Here, let me show you. We still have the evidence bag. All the torn threads and marks on the front of her jacket, blouse and pants go in the wrong direction. A person that crashes sideways off a bike doesn’t slide feet first. Something is wrong. The physical evidence doesn’t add up.”
After Dan shot a dozen close-ups of the judge’s clothing, spread out on a nearby stainless-steel table, Dr. Sanchez added: “Another thing, we carefully studied the bike. No marks, none, except on the front wheel and scratches along the right side from ground contact.”
Ridge interrupted. “Isn’t that what you’d expect in a bike spill?”
“Not this one. Look, the front wheel took a hard hit. Cut the tire, banged in the wheel, and drove it into the bike frame behind. At that point, the biker’s going up and over the handlebars. Yet no marks on the handlebars, none at all. They never hit the ground. Also, a bike that takes a front wheel hit like that doesn’t just plop over on its side. You’d see scratches and other marks in more places around the bike.”
Ridge fiddled with his sunglasses. “Where does that leave us? How about cause of death?”
“Definitely carbon monoxide poisoning. No question about it. And that’s why the D.A. cleared the case. He didn’t want to launch a criminal prosecution based just on scratch directions or a lack of marks on a bicycle, especially when the bike accident didn’t cause death. To use his exact words—that will never get us beyond reasonable doubt even if we had a suspect, motive, and opportunity, which we don’t.”
Ridge glanced at Dan and Terry, then back to Tim. “Raises more questions than answers, doesn’t it? Anything else strange?”
Tim tapped a finger on the metal table. “Only one thing I can think of right now. The level and saturation of carbon monoxide in her system is extremely high. Carbon monoxide is colorless, odorless, and tasteless, and mixes evenly with air. It enters the blood stream through the lungs and displaces oxygen needed by the body. Prolonged exposure to low concentrations can kill. But so can shorter exposures to higher concentrations. The judge sucked in huge concentrations—so much carbon monoxide her brain exhibited severe damage before death. It’s strange, considering the garage was thirty feet from the bed where she was found. I simply don’t know what to make of that.”
Then Dr. Sanchez’s cellphone buzzed. He answered, turned back to them and said, “Sorry. I need to vamoose, guys. Next time.”
After goodbyes all around, Dan left to make his way along the freeways toward his office in downtown L.A., and Terry and Ridge headed to LAX to pick up Jayne. Westbound on the 91, Ridge got a call from Patty Barnes at Harbor Patrol with good news and bad.
“Good news first?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“We’ve got a witness who was in the public parking lot on the night of the Hulk attack. He remembered a big guy in a wetsuit getting into some type of pick-up truck. The engine roared when the driver started the truck, so it probably has a lot of horses under the hood. But pitch dark, the witness couldn’t see much else. Except, when the truck’s headlights were switched on, weak lights at the rear illuminated a black license plate with yellow lettering, the type of California plate used in the 60s and before.”
Ridge’s pulse pounded at his temple. “You’ve got a license plate number?”
“Not quite. He said the plate had “MAN” on it. But, and here’s the bad news, he couldn’t remember any numbers.”
“You try to run the plate? It’s gotta be vintage, right?”
“I had a friend at Redondo P.D. run it. But the search for active vintage plates came up empty.”
“Still, it’s something. Thanks, Patty. As always.”
He ended the call and immediately called Dan, hoping L.A.P.D. had access to more databases on vintage plates. The 5 Freeway to L.A. had moved much faster than the 91, and Dan was already at his office.”
“On it,” he said. “I’ll call as soon as I know anything.”
Ten minutes later, Ridge’s phone rang.
“Sorry, man. Ran it through two different state-wide systems. Turned up nada.”
