Page 90 of The Devil's Advocate

Korn took a step back, those fine lines around his eyes deepened in anger.

‘You’re not suggesting Esther Edwards murdered her own daughter?’ he asked.

‘That’s the defense theory,’ I said. ‘Now, you better let us in the house so we can gather evidence to make that case. If you don’t, I’ll need to wake up the judge and get a court order so I can go in and take a look.’

‘This is outrag—’ but Korn didn’t finish expressing his indignation. I could tell by his expression, something had clicked in his mind. The anger lines disappeared, and he pursed his lips, pressing them tightly together, yet the corners of his mouth drew into the smile he was desperately trying not to show.

‘No need to wake the judge,’ he said. ‘You two go right ahead. I’ll let the officers know you can view the scene.’

‘Thank you,’ I said, and I walked away, toward the front door. I heard Korn holler to the deputy at the front door to let us in so we could look around, but make sure we were accompanied.

When we were out of Korn’s earshot, Bloch said, ‘Are you really going to run that as a defense?’

‘Accusing the victim’s mother of her murder is just about the worst thing we could do. Especially if it looks like she took her own life because she couldn’t deal with the loss of her child. That would alienate the jury. In fact, the jury would hate us forever for making that suggestion. It’s a terrible idea. Korn knows this. That’s why he’s letting us take a look. He wouldn’t otherwise. First rule of trial law is you let your opponents make their own mistakes, and then you expose them. Korn thinks he’s playing it smart by letting us run all the way with that theory.’

Bloch said, ‘You’re pretty smart, for a lawyer.’

The deputy on guard outside the house stood aside as we approached, signaled to one of his colleagues he should follow us around inside. Make sure we didn’t mess with the scene.

Soon as you stepped through the front door, the horror was there to be seen. No wonder Francis Edwards was losing his mind in the back of a squad car.

Esther hung facing the front door. A crime scene photographer was still snapping pictures, which explained why they hadn’t cut her down yet. Judging by her face, cause of death was consistent with strangulation. Her eyes were black eight balls, and her tongue had swollen and hung, distended, from her open mouth. She wore a pink robe, which had fallen open. Beneath the robe she had on a silk pair of pajamas, also pink. A dark patch covered her groin and stomach. As we got closer, I picked up the smell. Her bladder had emptied.

There were no other marks or signs of violence. A classic suicide. Except, of course, it wasn’t.

Bloch gave me a look. She was good at that. Lucky for her, because she didn’t like to talk, and at times, like now with a cop behind us and a crime photographer in front, it was wise not to speak openly. But I read her look.

She had spotted it too. When someone dies, the bladder and bowels will void at some point shortly after as the muscles relax. There was a wet patch of urine on Esther’s crotch and stomach, instead of a dark trail down her legs. The carpet beneath her suspended body was quite dry. She’d wet herself lying on her front.

I watched Bloch wander past Esther, through to the lounge. I went upstairs, careful not to touch the rail.

At the top of the stairs I turned right and examined the rope. A thick knot, looped and doubled and knotted again around the banister and posts that ran along the first-floor hallway for the length of the stairs.

I got up, looked at the rail. A notch had been sawed into it, by the rope. I looked at the six inches of rope that descended from the rail to the thick knot. There were flakes of white paint in the fiber. I snapped a picture of the notch in the rail, the paint flakes and the carpet.

I’d seen enough. I went downstairs, Bloch looked up at me as I came down. She gave me another look. This time, with a slight nod.

We went outside, without a word.

Korn had left the scene by this stage. We got into the car, turned on the engine and drove away before either of us said anything.

‘There’s a wet cigarette on the kitchen floor with a strong smell of urine coming from it,’ said Bloch.

‘I thought you might find something like that. The carpet below her was dry. Upstairs, there’s a notch on the rail where the rope has burned through it and paint flakes on the rope leading to the knot.’

Bloch nodded.

‘Who killed her?’ I asked.

‘The same person who killed her daughter.’

‘What makes you say that?’

‘It would take a strong individual to haul her up those stairs, and stronger still to keep her there with one hand while he tied the knot. That’s consistent with the strength used in Skylar’s murder. The big question is, why did he kill Esther? And why tonight?’

THE SIXTH DAY

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN