The Medical Examiner, Page 3

  As he stood with her in her office, Conklin watched Claire open the paper bag on her desk and take out the large, blood-red leather handbag with what looked to be expensive stitching and details.

  Claire said, “This purse belongs to Joan. I also have bags of her clothes and those belonging to the John Doe. But let’s look at the contents of her handbag first.”

  She began taking items out of the handbag. There was a nice-looking wallet, a makeup case, keys, and an assortment of other commonplace items.

  “This is a pricey bag,” Claire told Conklin. “It appears that Mrs. Murphy is a woman of means.”

  She handed over the wallet. Conklin opened it and looked through the contents.

  Claire said, “Look at this.”

  She was pointing to a photograph under plastic of a man and woman at a resort, their backs to the ocean. Claire flipped the sleeve over, and Conklin read the inscription. “Robert and Me, Cannes, Second Honeymoon, 2016.”

  Claire said, “Notice the necklace Joan is wearing in the photograph. That pendant is a helluva big diamond. There is a similar enormous rock in her engagement ring, and the wedding band is encrusted with other precious stones. Look at all the glittering bangle bracelets. Joan clearly likes her diamonds.”

  “A girl’s best friend, right?”

  “That’s what they say. But, Richie, no jewelry was found on her person or in her bag.”

  “She was robbed.”

  “That’s my first guess.”

  Conklin made notes, then said, “What do you say, Claire? Can you introduce me to Mr. Doe?”

  “I’m dying to meet the man myself,” said Claire.

  They walked back to the autopsy suite and Claire pulled open the drawer next to the one that had been vacated recently by Joan Murphy.

  Conklin found the unknown man to be as described. He was a white male who seemed to be in his thirties. He had a slight paunch and a lot of chest hair. From his conservative haircut and manicure, Conklin guessed that the guy was some sort of businessman. He looked like he could be a sales executive of some sort.

  Conklin told Claire what Sackowitz had put in his case notes. “He was found naked, lying on the naked body of Mrs. Murphy.”

  Claire said, “That seems right. Looks to me like he took the first two shots to his back. Then, he probably turned to face the shooter and that’s when he got this one to the underside of his biceps. It went through the muscle and into the chest. That could have been the slug that stopped his heart forever.”

  Conklin said, “So, who do we think was the shooter? Mrs. Doe? Did she get someone to let her into the room so she could kill her husband? It’s a logical explanation. An obvious one. Or could it have been Mr. Murphy, who killed the man cuckolding him? Is that why his wife was spared?

  “And if the motive was a domestic beef,” Conklin continued, “why take the jewelry? Was it staging, to make the shooting look like a robbery?”

  Claire listened as Conklin continued theorizing out loud. He said, “Or was it, in fact, a robbery? A stranger gets into the room or he was waiting in the room. He gets the loot and John Doe’s wallet. But why didn’t he give Mrs. Murphy a shot to the head so she couldn’t testify? Was he convinced she was dead?”

  Claire cut off his musings, saying, “Here’s my theory. Anyone would have been convinced that that woman, Joan Murphy, died in that hotel room. You see, there’s an unusual condition called ‘catalepsy.’ If this is that condition, it’s my first experience with it. I know that death is a many-part process. Different parts of the body cease at different times. Skin lives for twenty-four hours after a person dies, for instance.

  “So, catalepsy is a nervous condition that looks like death even though it’s an attenuated slow-down. If Mrs. Murphy had not been refrigerated overnight, she would have suffered brain death and she would have died.”

  “Okay, so what causes catalepsy?”

  “Could be a number of things. Parkinson’s disease, epilepsy, cocaine withdrawal. It can be a side effect of an antipsychotic. And one of the most common causes can be traumatic shock.”

  Conklin said, “She had to be pretty traumatized, all right. You think her memory will ever come back?”

  Claire shrugged and said, “It’s possible. Let me know, will you? I can’t really explain it, but I feel somewhat attached to Joan. I want to know what happened to her and why.”

  Chapter 9

  Conklin came through the gate to the Homicide squad room and went directly to the small island made up of two facing desks—his and Lindsay’s—and a side chair.

  He grabbed his desk phone and called St. Francis Memorial. He was shunted around to various bureaucrats until finally a head nurse told him that Mrs. Murphy was in stable condition and was currently having a CAT scan.

  Conklin said he’d call back. He was glad to have time to do a background check on the miraculous Mrs. Murphy before meeting with her.

  He booted up his computer and began opening the databases that were at his disposal at the police office. He learned that Joan Murphy, nee Tuttle, had been born in New York in 1972. Her mother had been an editor at a high-fashion magazine and her father was CEO of a business machine corporation. Joan had gone to private schools and had capped off her high school diploma with a degree in literature from Berkeley.

  Murphy’s first husband, Jared Knowles, was a well-regarded art director in Hollywood. Her second and current husband, Robert Murphy, was a model and small-time actor who was born in 1986. Conklin did the quick math in his head. That made Robert fourteen years younger than his wife.

  Joan had bought and paid for the Murphys’ home prior to her marriage to Robert, and it had since been featured in multiple glossy style magazines. The Murphys were also pictured in many of the society columns and had a handful of celebrity friends. On the face of it, they seemed to have a pretty good quality of life.

  Conklin stretched, taking a break. He texted Sackowitz, telling him he was going to interview Joan Murphy ASAP. After that, he scavenged the refrigerator in the break room and found a container of yogurt marked “Boxer.” He grabbed the snack, knowing Lindsay wouldn’t mind.

  He ate at his desk and opened the criminal databases, finding zip, zero, and nada on Joan and Robert Murphy. They hadn’t ever been in trouble with the law. No scandals, no shoplifting, no nothing.

  Next, Conklin looked at all online photos he could find of this nice, upscale couple. What had happened to Joan? She seemed to have a decent life, but then one night she checks into a hotel room and entertains a man who isn’t her husband. A shooter somehow gets into this hotel room and blows away the lover. Then that same assassin wings the millionairess and leaves her for dead.

  And what had happened to Joan’s jewelry? Had the whole thing been a pre-planned armed robbery? It was starting to look that way to Conklin. Maybe it hadn’t been about the duplicitous relationship after all.

  Suddenly, his desk phone rang, jerking him out of his thoughts.

  The caller ID read SACKOWITZ.

  “It’s crazy that Joan Murphy is alive, right?” he said to the night-shift detective.

  Sac said, “My thinking exactly. Who’s the target here? Or was this a robbery that got out of control?”

  Conklin said, “I’ve been wondering the same thing. Hopefully this interview helps us figure things out. Then, after I see Mrs. Murphy, I’m going to drive out to her home so I can talk to the husband. I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  “Sounds like a plan. But be careful.”

  PRESENT TIME

  Chapter 10

  Rich Conklin had finished his useless bedside interview with Joan Murphy, but before they could go to Claire Washburn’s office, Joan had to be cleared to leave the hospital.

  He called Cindy from the waiting room and left her a voice mail telling her that she shouldn’t hold dinner for him. Minutes later, the attending physician came down the hallway to ask him to come with him to his patient’s room.

  Once he wa
s standing at Joan’s side, Dr. Kornacki turned to Conklin and said, “I want you to be my witness on this situation. I told Mrs. Murphy she should stay with us overnight, so that we could keep an eye on her for twenty-four hours at minimum.”

  Joan chirped, “And I said, ‘No thanks, doctor. I’m fine now.’ And I really, truly am. I’m ready to go home.”

  Kornacki said sternly, “There’s a chance that you might relapse if you leave, but I can’t force you to stay here. See your regular physician. Please do it tomorrow.”

  Joan plucked at the hospital-issue nightgown. “Detective, may I please have my clothing and other belongings back? I must have been wearing quite a bit of jewelry. I’m never without my engagement ring and mother’s necklace.”

  Conklin ran his hand down the side of his face. “Unfortunately, Joan, we weren’t able to locate your jewelry. And your clothing will need to stay with our team for now, for testing.”

  Joan sighed and said, “Doctor, may I borrow some scrubs? Either blue or green would be fine with me.”

  Conklin stood outside as Joan dressed and then he co-signed the “Against Medical Advice” release form. He watched as Joan submitted to the nurses, who were fussing around her as they seated her in a wheelchair.

  He pushed Joan’s chair out to his car. The foot well on the passenger side was filled with litter, and Joan sniffed in disgust when she saw it.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I can get that.”

  He gathered up the pile of fast-food wrappers and empty water bottles, and then placed it on the seat of the wheelchair. He walked the trash over to a garbage receptacle and returned the chair to the lobby.

  He’d rarely worked a case as incomprehensible as this double homicide that only had one actual fatality. But he was determined to see it through to its conclusion. Whatever that might be.

  When he and Joan were both in the car and buckled up, she said, “Richard, why not just drop me at home? We can shake hands and say good-bye. I’ll write a note to your superior saying how good you have been to me. You have been very nice.”

  “Joan, there was a dead body of a man found in a bed with you. He has a family out there somewhere and they’re never going to see him again. Someone killed him.” He wanted to add, Does that ring a bell? but he bit down on the sarcasm. The last thing he wanted to do was drive his witness underground.

  Joan said nothing in reply. She just looked out the window at rush hour traffic on Pine.

  He continued, “We’re going to make a quick stop at the medical examiner’s office. Twenty minutes after that, you’ll be home.”

  She said, “I know I said I would look at that man. But this isn’t easy for me, Richard. I have really bad memories of that place.”

  “I know you do. But can you try to look at this a different way? Your unscheduled stop at the ME’s office was a blip in the span of your life. Now you’re alive and well, and you’re helping out the San Francisco Police Department. For about two minutes, you’re going to return to the site of a personal miracle.”

  She looked at him dubiously.

  Rich gave her one of his beautiful smiles and said, “I’m not going to leave your side. You want the sirens, Joan? Or shall we just enjoy the ride?”

  She let out a good laugh.

  “Sirens,” she said.

  Conklin grinned at her.

  He flipped on the sirens and the lights, and they headed toward the medical examiner’s office. He couldn’t wait to reintroduce Joan to Mr. John Doe. He had absolutely no idea—couldn’t even guess—what she would say or do when she looked at the man’s dead body.

  But he had a feeling her reaction was going to surprise him.

  Chapter 11

  Conklin draped his Windbreaker around Joan Murphy’s narrow shoulders and walked her from Harriet Street to the ME’s office.

  Claire was waiting for them at the open rear door. She gently placed her arm around Joan and told her how glad she was to see her.

  “How’s that shoulder? Are you feeling okay?” Claire asked.

  “The pain pills are telling me that I feel just fine.” Joan Murphy’s smile faded as she looked around the autopsy suite. She stiffly walked with Claire and Richie into the cool room in the back. There, she took in the sight of the stacked stainless-steel drawers that were holding bodies of the dead.

  Claire said cautiously, “Are you ready, Joan? I’m going to open the drawer now.”

  Joan Murphy shook her head and said, “I’m never going to be ready for this. But let’s get it over with.”

  Claire slid the drawer open slowly. Wisps of brown hair peeked out over the top of the crisp sheet, followed by a long topographical stretch of white. The sight before them terminated with a man’s knobby toes.

  Claire carefully folded the sheet down below John Doe’s chin.

  Conklin stood beside Joan as she peered down at the dead man’s blanched and chubby face. To Rich, the man’s features were unremarkable. He looked like a typical suburban dad, the kind of guy who would watch out for the kids on the block, was handy around the house, and didn’t fool around at the office.

  Clearly, his appearance didn’t square with the circumstances in which his body had been discovered.

  Joan stared at the corpse for a long moment. Then she seemed almost indignant when she said, “I’m supposed to know this person?”

  Conklin looked past Joan to Claire. Their eyes met. He said, “Joan, this is the man who was found dead, naked, and in bed with you in room three twenty-one at the Warwick. His wallet was stolen. We’re trying to identify him and it’s only a matter of time before we’re successful. And we could do it faster and better if you can give us a name or a lead.”

  “Sorry to disappoint, Richard. I’ve never seen this man before, and honestly, I don’t think I would even notice him if he walked by me on the street. He’s not my type.

  “Here’s my theory,” she continued, looking up at Conklin. “Somehow, both he and I were drugged, kidnapped, put into that bed, and shot. Maybe he was already dead. I was as good as dead, and maybe they didn’t realize that I was still kicking. There’s no other explanation.”

  Conklin stifled a laugh. He couldn’t believe that Joan had come up with the fantastic theory that somehow two people had been kidnapped and smuggled into the Warwick, where they were stripped, posed, and shot, in that order. For what purpose? To create a scandal?

  Maybe to create a pulp fiction murder tableau for a book cover.

  He arranged his features in a straight face. “But why would anyone do that to you?”

  “How would I know? I don’t have a criminal mind. And now, I’m ready to go home. Didn’t you hear the doctor? I need to rest.”

  Chapter 12

  Conklin had promised to bring Joan home and he kept his word. He walked her back to his car and drove them to Seacliff. The sun was going down and house lights winked on along Lake Street. Conklin turned right on 28th and took it to El Camino Del Mar. When he pulled into her neighborhood, he noticed that it was an upmarket, oceanside area dotted with large estates. Many of them had water views and private access to the shoreline. Joan was looking straight ahead, saying to him, “How am I going to explain all of this to Robert?”

  “That you were found in bed with another man?”

  “What? No. He’ll believe me when I say that I was drugged and kidnapped. But I have to explain getting shot. Why would anyone shoot me? Maybe Robert got a call from the kidnapper. Maybe he had to pay ransom money or something. Did you think of that, Richard?”

  Joan had some pretty crazy theories about her attempted murder, but this time, she had a point. Her husband hadn’t reported his wife as missing. Could he have forked over a ransom payment while he was waiting for his wife’s return?

  Rich Conklin couldn’t wait to see Robert Murphy’s face when Joan came through the front door to her house—alive.

  Maybe it would give him the final clue to crack this case.

  Chapter 13

&n
bsp; The closer they came to Joan’s home on El Camino Del Mar, the more anxious Joan became. She tried to call her husband again, as Mallory had done when Joan had first woken up in the morgue, but the call went unanswered.

  “I’m very frightened now,” Joan said to Conklin. “What if we find him shot and lying dead on the floor? What if my kidnapping was part of a larger plot?”

  “Everything’s going to be okay, Joan. We’ll investigate every piece of evidence we find. If a clue surfaces in your memory, you know where to reach me.”

  The brass house numbers were embedded in the gateposts that flanked the driveway leading to a handsome Mediterranean-style stucco house with a tiled roof. The gate was open, revealing manicured gardens inside the walls. Conklin pulled his car up the long driveway and parked it between a blue Mercedes XL sedan and a silver Bentley.

  “Which one is Robert’s car?” he asked Joan.

  “The Mercedes. The Bentley is mine.”

  Conklin went around to the passenger side and helped Joan out of the car. He retrieved her handbag from the foot well and held it open for her while she searched inside it for her keys. When she found them, she handed the set to him.

  They reached the front door, and Conklin unlocked it. He pushed the door open and said, “Stay here. I’ll go in first to make sure everything is safe.”

  Conklin took three steps into the room, entering the foyer. Lights were on inside the house, but the security alarms weren’t set.

  He called out, “Mr. Murphy? This is the SFPD.”

  There was no answer. Conklin drew his gun and held it out, but he kept the muzzle pointing down. He walked through the foyer, which emptied into a spacious living area decorated with modern furnishings. The windows along the far wall looked out over lawns with topiary and a small pathway of stone steps. A large swimming pool was across the lawn and off to the right.