lawyer from the
children’s court to ensure she receives the kid-glove treatment from us. Though
it she has genuinely lost the ability to speak, it’s debatable what benefit
will come from interviewing her.”
Val grunted unsympathetically. “We know she can hear.
Can she read and write?”
Larson poured himself another shot of Chivas. “The kid
took an axe to her mother and has maimed a detective. She’s hardly in any rush
to put it on paper.”
“Has she been placed under arrest?”
“Not yet. She’s not going anyplace and I thought you
should be the one to do it.”
Valbrooded over it for a few moments
and realized that he had no strong feelings either way. Duval was a killer and
it was his job to uncover enough evidence for the DA’s office to successfully
prosecute her. The fact that she was a child didn’t really come into it. “Why
not?”
“You’re positive you’re fit enough? I could assign
another detective. All the evidence points to her having acted on her own, but with
the media attention the killing has attracted, I want to make sure that nothing
is overlooked.”
Val held up his left hand with the heavily bandaged
stump. “I may be incapable of saluting the press in a fit and proper manner but
I can still do my job. As soon as Angie returns with my clothes, I start back
to work.”
Larson grinned and looked at Val’s injured hand. “If
it helps improve your keyboard skills, maybe some good will come of it.”
Less than four hours later Val walked into the city
morgue in search of the assistant medical examiner. He found him in the autopsy
suite, halfway through a post-mortem on a Jane Doe floater. He was whistling
Old Man River.
Val told him that he wanted a word, but that it could
wait until he was finished. He knew it wouldn’t be long.
Before witnessing his first post-mortem, Val’s
impression of an autopsy had been gleaned from television shows like Quincy. He
had imagined that the autopsy suite would be similar to an operating theatre,
spotlessly clean, equipped with lots of delicate, shiny surgical instruments
laid out in rows. It came as quite a shock to discover that the majority of a
medical examiner’s tools appeared more fitted to pruning pecan trees than to
fine surgical procedures. That discovery and the rapidity of a typical
post-mortem were the indelible recollections he had of that first procedure —
not the offensive stenches or the gore that had been retained by the majority
of his fellow probationers.
“How’s the hand, Detective Bosanquet?” the ME asked,
when he finished and was peeling off his surgical gloves.
“Throbbing.”
“You were lucky. It could have been a lot worse.”
Val nodded. He had been thinking the same thing. It
was part of cop folklore that a newly married officer would react differently
to a threatening situation than a single officer, especially if a child was
involved. He didn’t believe he would have handled the tree incident any
differently if it had happened three weeks earlier. “I guess so, if losing a
finger can be described as lucky.”
“I didn’t mean in that way. Valerie Duval tested
negative for HIV. The incidence of AIDS amongst Haitians has reached epidemic
proportions, exacerbated by the island’s extreme poverty and almost zero health
education. Traces of the victim’s blood on the axe could easily have
transferred to your wound.”
Val said nothing, but suddenly the throbbing did not
feel so bad.
“You want the report on the Duval post?” the ME asked.
“Yeah, and I’d better take another look at the body.
I’m still the primary investigating officer.”
The ME brought him through to the mortuary storage
facility, located the relevant drawer and slid it out on its rollers. He took
hold of the zip and pulled it open along the body bag’s full length. Val helped
him ease back the plastic so he could better examine Valerie Duval’s body.
The flesh of her face had been rinsed and
Carolyn Faulkner, Alta Hensley