"So, after a week, Connor is called in. And he solves it in one day. A fucking miracle of detection. I mean, it's a week later. The physical evidence is long gone, the bodies of the honeymooners are back in Osaka, the street corner where it happened is piled high in wilted flowers. But Connor is able to show that the youthful Mr. Arakawa is actually quite a bad boy in Osaka. He shows that the street-corner gangland shooting is actually a yakuzakilling contracted in Japan to take place in America. And he shows that the nasty husband is the innocent bystander: they were really gunning for the wife, knowing she was pregnant, because it's herfather they wanted to teach a lesson. So. Connor turns it all around. Pretty fucking amazing, huh?"
"And you think he did it all with his Japanese connections?"
"You tell me," Graham said. "All I know is, pretty soon after that, he goes to Japan for a year."
"Doing what?"
"I heard he worked as a security guy for a grateful Japanese company. They took care of him, is what it amounted to. He did a job for them, and they paid off. Anyway, that's the way I figure it. Nobody really knows. But the man is not a detective. Christ: just look at him now."
Out in the atrium, Connor was staring up at the high ceiling in a dreamy, reflective way. He looked first in one direction, and then another. He seemed to be trying to make up his mind. Suddenly, he walked briskly toward the elevators, as if he were leaving. Then without warning, he turned on his heel, and walked back to the center of the room, and stopped. Next, he began to inspect the leaves on the potted palm trees scattered around the room.
Graham shook his head. "What is this, gardening? I'm telling you, he's a strange guy. You know he's gone to Japan more than once. He always comes back. It never works out for him. Japan is like a woman that he can't live with, and can't live without, you know? Myself, I don't fucking get it. I like America. At least, what's left of it."
He turned to the SID team, which was moving outward from the body. "You guys find those panties for me yet?"
"Not yet, Tom."
"We're looking, Tom."
I said, "What panties?"
Graham lifted the girl's skirt. "Your friend John couldn't be bothered to finish his examination, but I'd say there's something significant here. I'd say that's seminal fluid oozing out of the vagina, she's not wearing panties, and there's a red line at the groin where they were ripped off. External genitals are red and raw. It's pretty clear she had forcible intercourse before she was killed. So I'm asking the boys to find the panties."
One of the SID team said, "Maybe she wasn't wearing any."
Graham said, "She was wearing them, all right."
I turned back to Kelly. "What about drugs?"
He shrugged. "We'll get lab values on all fluids. But to the eye, she looks clean. Very clean." I noticed that Kelly was distinctly uneasy, now.
Graham saw it, too. "For Christ's sake, what are you hangdog about, Kelly? We keeping you from a late-night date, or what?"
"No," Kelly said, "but to tell you the truth, not only is there no evidence of a struggle, or of drugs – I don't see any evidence that she was murdered at all."
Graham said, "No evidence she was murdered? Are you kidding?"
Kelly said, "The girl has throat injuries that suggest she may have been into one of the sexual bondage syndromes. She has signs beneath the makeup that she's been tied up before, repeatedly."
"So?"
"So, technically speaking, maybe she wasn't murdered. Maybe she experienced sudden death from natural causes."
"Aw, Christ. Come on."
"It's quite possible this is a case of what we call death from inhibition. Instantaneous physiological death."
"Meaning what?"
He shrugged. "The person just dies."
"For no reason at all?"
"Well, not exactly. There's usually minor trauma involving the heart or nerves. But the trauma isn't sufficient to cause death. I had one case where a ten-year-old kid got hit in the chest with a baseball – not very hard – and fell down dead in the school yard. Nobody within twenty meters of him. Another case, a woman had a minor car accident, banged into the steering wheel with her chest, not very hard, and while she was opening the car door to get out, she dropped dead. It seems to happen where there is neck or chest injury, which may irritate the nerves running to the heart. So, yeah, Tom. Technically, sudden death is a distinct possibility. And since having sex is not a felony, it wouldn't be murder."
Graham squinted. "So you're saying maybe nobodykilled her'?"
Kelly shrugged. He picked up his clipboard. "I'm not putting any of this down. I'm listing the cause of death as asphyxiation secondary to manual strangulation. Because the odds are, she was strangled. But you should file it away in the back of your mind that maybe she wasn't. Maybe she just popped off."
"Fine," Graham said. "We'll file it. Under medical examiner's fantasies. Meanwhile, any of you guys got an ID on her?"
The SID team, still searching the room, murmured no.
Kelly said, "I think I got a time of death." He checked his temperature probes and read off a chart. "I register a core of ninety-six point nine. In this ambient room temperature, that's consistent with up to three hours postmortem."
"Up to three hours? That's great. Listen Kelly, we already knew she died sometimetonight."
"It's the best I can do." Kelly shook his head. "Unfortunately, the cooling curves don't discriminate well for under three hours. All I can say is death occurred sometime within three hours. But my impression is that this girl has been dead a while. Frankly, I would say it's close to three hours." Graham turned to the SID team. "Anybody find the panties yet?"
"Not so far, Lieutenant."
Graham looked around the room and said, "No purse, no panties."
I said, "You think somebody cleaned up here?"
"I don't know," he said. "But doesn't a girl who's coming to a party in a thirty-thousand-dollar dress usually carry a purse?" Then Graham looked past my shoulder and smiled: "Well, what do you know, Petey-san? One of your admirers to see you."
Striding toward me was Ellen Farley, the mayor's press secretary. Farley was thirty-five, dark blond hair cropped close to her head, perfectly groomed as always. She had been a newscaster when she was younger, but had worked for the mayor's office for many years. Ellen Farley was smart, fast on her feet, and she had one of the great bodies, which as far as anyone knew she retained for her own exclusive use.
I liked her enough to have done a couple of favors for her when I was in the L.A.P.D. press office. Since the mayor and the chief of police hated each other, requests from the mayor's office sometimes passed from Ellen to me, and I handled them. Mostly small things: delaying the release of a report until the weekend, so it'd run on Saturday. Or announcing that charges in a case hadn't been brought yet, even though they had. I did it because Farley was a straight shooter, who always spoke her mind. And it looked like she was going to speak her mind now.