I’d come close to cutting down the tree, knowing I would never be able to look at it without remembering the sight of Jess’s body, without feeling the loss of her. “You should remember her,” Miranda had said when I told her of my plan to fell the tree and chainsaw the memory into two-foot lengths. “I know it hurts right now, and maybe it always will. But she deserves to be remembered, and not just the easy parts. Her life intersected with the Body Farm. So did her death. Don’t try to erase that. Find a way to honor it.”
It had taken me a while to process that. Eventually, though, I realized that what Miranda said was right, and important. Surprisingly wise, too: How could someone half my age possess twice my wisdom? She had shrugged off that complimentary question when I put it to her. “I wasn’t as close to her as you were,” she said. “That makes it easier for me to see this clearly-to see her, and see you, and see you in relation to her. That’s all. You know this stuff, too; you just don’t realize you know it yet, because there’s still too much pain heaped on top of it.” Again I’d marveled at her insight.
“Woof,” I groaned as I staggered the last few steps toward the base of the pine tree. I let the wheelbarrow topple sideways, and half the dirt spilled out into a small pile, alongside the other piles of soil, sand, and peat moss. A pair of shovels reached into the barrow to scrape out the rest.
“I offered,” said Art, who was wielding one of the shovels, “but would you let me? Oh no. You had to do it all yourself.”
“He needs the exercise,” said Miranda, wielding the other shovel. “And his demons need exorcising.”
Art looked me up and down. “I can see how you might benefit from the workout. You got demons need exorcising, too?”
“That might be a bit dramatic,” I said. “It does help to do something physical. Maybe to overdo it, too-maybe sore muscles will take the place of the ache inside. Distract me from it, anyhow.”
Art and Miranda began turning the dirt, mixing the piles of topsoil with the other ingredients. Then they began raking it around the bases of the creeping juniper and mountain laurel we’d positioned around the pine tree. “You’re gonna have to water this every day, you know,” Art said. “Be a lot safer to transplant this stuff in the winter, when it’s dormant.”
“I know,” I said, “but it seemed important to do it now. You wait too long to create a memorial, the memory starts to slip away. Be easy to get sidetracked, forget the point, maybe never get around to it.” I looked at Miranda. She was studying me as I said it, and she smiled. I smiled back and gave her a small nod of gratitude.
Art paused and leaned on his shovel, then reached into his back pocket and took out a handkerchief, which he used to mop his face and neck. “What do you think’s taking them so long? You think they got lost?”
“Naw,” I said. “She’s probably flirting with the stone carver.” Just then I heard the solid thunk of expensive car doors closing down in the parking lot. “Speak of the devil,” I said. “I do believe they’re here.”
My belief was confirmed moments later by a voice wafting up the hill from the gate. “Dr. Bill? Yoo-hoo! Where y’all at, Dr. Bill?”
“We’re up here, Miss Georgia,” I called. “Follow the path through the woods. And watch your step!”
A minute later Miss Georgia wobbled into view, her stiletto heels sinking slightly into the ground at each step. “Dr. Bill, you need you some sidewalks out here, baby,” she said. She fanned herself with an embroidered hanky. “Not to mention a crop-dustin’ with some air freshener. Land sakes, this place got a powerful aroma.”
“Sorry,” I said. “We don’t get many ladies of your caliber out here. Where your men friends?”
“They be along directly. They restin’ halfway up. That thing they carry ing be heavy. Least, they say it be heavy.”
I introduced Miss Georgia to Art and Miranda.
Miranda shook Miss Georgia’s hand. “Thanks for coming to Dr. B.’s rescue,” she said.
Miss Georgia smiled, but I saw her sizing up Miranda at the same time. “You in love with Dr. Bill, too, girlfriend?”
Miranda smiled back. “I just pretend to be, so I’ll get good grades. Truth is, I’d hate to lose my dissertation advisor this late in the game.”
Miss Georgia laughed. “We gon’ get along fine,” she said.
I heard a snapping of twigs and a chuffing of breath, and Burt DeVriess and Detective John Evers staggered off the trail in our direction, a large square of black granite swaying between them. “Damn, Doc, I hope you know CPR. This sucker’s heavy.”
“I told ’em to make it extra thick, once you said you’d pick it up for me,” I joked. “You can set it down right there. Bend your knees, not your back.” He and Evers set the slab down, and as they straightened up, DeVriess groaned and puffed out several breaths in a row.
“Babycakes, you be needin’ some mouth-to-mouth resussification?” Miss Georgia took a hopeful step in his direction, but Burt waved her off with a laugh.
“Thanks, Miss Georgia, but I think I’ll pull through on my own.”
Evers swapped handshakes with Art, then introduced himself to Miranda, who said, “I might still be mad at you for arresting Dr. B.”
Evers shrugged. “Hey, I’m just a dumb cop,” he said. “You have to admit, though, he looked like a killer and quacked like a killer.” Miranda nodded grudgingly. “Would it help any if I told you I testified to the grand jury yesterday, and single-handedly persuaded them to indict Dr. Hamilton for first-degree murder and attempted murder?”
Miranda beamed. “That helps. Be sure to tell me when the trial is so I can come throw rotten vegetables at him.”
DeVriess cleared his throat in my direction. “Just so you know, Hamilton asked me to represent him,” he said. I looked away. The news itself didn’t particularly surprise me; after all, Grease was the most aggressive defense attorney in Knoxville, and he was my choice when I was the one charged with Jess’s murder. What shook me was how betrayed I felt. “Doc,” he said quietly, “I turned him down.”
“What?”
“I said no.” This, this was surprising. He grinned as a smile dawned across my entire face. I felt it wrap all the way around to the back of my head, and from there down my neck, into my shoulders.
“Why, Grease,” I said, “you’ve restored my faith in humanity. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you had rejoined the human race.”
He held up a hand in protest. “Now, don’t go thinking I’ve turned soft,” he said. “It’s an unwinnable case. For starters, there’s your testimony about what he told you the night he tried to kill you. And you, by the way, are a wet dream of a witness for the prosecution. Not just a forensic legend, but a wrongly martyred and freshly redeemed one, too. There’s the blood they found on the floor of his wine cellar. There’s even a receipt for the gun, which he bought at a pa
wnshop on Broadway.”
“On Broadway?” asked Art. “That wouldn’t be Broadway Jewelry amp; Loan, by any chance?”
“I think so; why?”
“Because,” I laughed, “if he bought it there, he bought it from Tiny, who’s an undercover cop. So there’s another good witness against him.”
“He’s getting some karmic payback, that’s for sure,” said DeVriess. “But what really nails him to the cross is the confession Miss Georgia here captured on, um, her cellphone.”
I noticed Art studying DeVriess with a glint in his eyes. Clearly he was not feeling as forgiving as Miranda. “Well, here’s a case I’m sure you’ll want,” he said. “I just arrested a forty-year-old Scout leader. Online solicitation of a minor for sexual purposes. He promised to teach little Tiffany all the joys of love. When we searched the car he drove to the rendezvous, we found handcuffs, a gag, a digital Nikon, and a broadcast-quality video camera.” Art shook his head in disgust. “His name’s Vanderlin,” he said to DeVriess. “We just booked him an hour ago, so I’m sure you could still nab him as a client.”
DeVriess shook his head. “Thanks, but no thanks,” he said. Art stared at DeVriess, then at me.
“What’s the matter, Burt,” I teased, “is this case unwinnable, too?”
“Oh, I’m sure I could win it,” he said, “but I’ve got my hands full right now. I’ve agreed to represent Bobby Scott in the murder of Craig Willis.”
This was news, too. A year earlier, DeVriess had gotten Willis off the hook for molesting Scott’s own son. “None of my business,” I said, “but can they afford you? I had the impression they were pretty tapped out from all the therapy bills.”
“We…worked something out,” he said sheepishly.
“You’re taking the case pro bono,” I marveled, “aren’t you? Tell me again how you’re not going soft.”
“I’m not. Really,” he said. “Just think how much publicity I’ll get for winning this case. ‘Vengeful Dad Goes Free,’ the headlines will say. ‘Homicide Was Justifiable.’ Hell, I’ll probably be able to double my hourly rate once I get him acquitted.”