Faith was claiming her sister’s personal possessions was the suicide note. From the form of the note, including the random capitalization, Faith claimed there was no way her sister would have written it.
“My sister was a meticulous woman,” Faith had told me. “She had a masters degree in geophysics, but right out of college, when jobs in the oil industry were scarce, Billie worked briefly as an executive assistant. Her language skills were impeccable, and years later, even as company president, she wrote her own correspondence. She wouldn’t have left something so poorly written as her final communication with her family and friends.”
It was Billie Cox’s suicide note that I wanted Mike to evaluate.
A brief hello and the required niceties out of the way, I suggested we catch up another time, and told Mike what I needed. “I have six documents I want you to examine,” I explained. “The first is a suicide note left by a woman named Elizabeth Cox, the head of an oil company. The other five are documents we know Cox wrote. No question. They’re all personal notes and letters written to her sister.”
“You want me to compare all six and let you know if I think the dead woman authored the suicide note?” Mike asked. “You’re figuring that maybe this wasn’t a suicide?”
“Not necessarily. Maybe there’s nothing out of whack here. Could be this is just what it looks like, a tragic suicide,” I said. “I’m figuring maybe you can clear up the mystery. You’re the best documents-guru I know, Mike.”
“E-mail the paperwork,” he said, not arguing the point. “I’ll get back to you in a couple of days.”
“You’ve got it. It’ll be on its way in a flash,” I said. “And Mike, by the way—”
“Let me guess,” he cut in. “Don’t tell anyone I’m doing this for you?”
“Mike, you are the best. Hell, you can even read minds,” I said with a laugh. “The truth is that this is H.P.D.’s case, and I want to find out if there’s even a crime before I get called on the carpet for poaching.”
Seven
W hat’re you looking for?” Dr. Joe asked.
Hands tucked in his lab coat pockets, he watched with interest as I circled the cold, lifeless body of Elizabeth Cox on a steel exam table. Dr. Joe hadn’t been happy when I asked his assistant to remove Cox’s remains from the refrigerated vault and black body bag. I needed to see her laid out as she was now, under a bright exam light, so I could get a good look. Not that I particularly wanted to. Despite my chosen profession, I’ve never been at ease around dead bodies, at least not those who meet their ends through violent means. The way I see it, these are folks who die unfinished. I’m sure there are those who’d argue it with me, but I’ve never believed deaths like Billie’s are God’s will. Someone else makes the decision, fires the fatal bullet. Was the killer in this case also the deceased? That was what I was there to figure out.
“Lieutenant Armstrong,” Dr. Joe said again. “You want to tell me what you’re looking for?”
“Sure,” I said. The truth was that I didn’t have a clue. Thatsaid, I figured I’d know it when I saw it, so I suggested, “Give me a couple of minutes.”
We were in an autopsy suite on the first floor of the county forensic center, a redbrick building just outside the skyscraper hospitals that make up the Texas Medical Center. In this part of the state, the M.E.’s office is a stop on the way to eternity for not only crime victims but any questionable death. Texas law stipulates that anyone who dies by homicide, suicide, in an accident, or from undetermined causes, anyone who’s not in a doctor’s care, and folks in hospitals for less than twenty-four hours before their deaths must be examined by a medical examiner. About a quarter of the time, an autopsy is unnecessary, because it’s apparent that a terminal disease, like cancer, has reached its logical
“My sister was a meticulous woman,” Faith had told me. “She had a masters degree in geophysics, but right out of college, when jobs in the oil industry were scarce, Billie worked briefly as an executive assistant. Her language skills were impeccable, and years later, even as company president, she wrote her own correspondence. She wouldn’t have left something so poorly written as her final communication with her family and friends.”
It was Billie Cox’s suicide note that I wanted Mike to evaluate.
A brief hello and the required niceties out of the way, I suggested we catch up another time, and told Mike what I needed. “I have six documents I want you to examine,” I explained. “The first is a suicide note left by a woman named Elizabeth Cox, the head of an oil company. The other five are documents we know Cox wrote. No question. They’re all personal notes and letters written to her sister.”
“You want me to compare all six and let you know if I think the dead woman authored the suicide note?” Mike asked. “You’re figuring that maybe this wasn’t a suicide?”
“Not necessarily. Maybe there’s nothing out of whack here. Could be this is just what it looks like, a tragic suicide,” I said. “I’m figuring maybe you can clear up the mystery. You’re the best documents-guru I know, Mike.”
“E-mail the paperwork,” he said, not arguing the point. “I’ll get back to you in a couple of days.”
“You’ve got it. It’ll be on its way in a flash,” I said. “And Mike, by the way—”
“Let me guess,” he cut in. “Don’t tell anyone I’m doing this for you?”
“Mike, you are the best. Hell, you can even read minds,” I said with a laugh. “The truth is that this is H.P.D.’s case, and I want to find out if there’s even a crime before I get called on the carpet for poaching.”
Seven
W hat’re you looking for?” Dr. Joe asked.
Hands tucked in his lab coat pockets, he watched with interest as I circled the cold, lifeless body of Elizabeth Cox on a steel exam table. Dr. Joe hadn’t been happy when I asked his assistant to remove Cox’s remains from the refrigerated vault and black body bag. I needed to see her laid out as she was now, under a bright exam light, so I could get a good look. Not that I particularly wanted to. Despite my chosen profession, I’ve never been at ease around dead bodies, at least not those who meet their ends through violent means. The way I see it, these are folks who die unfinished. I’m sure there are those who’d argue it with me, but I’ve never believed deaths like Billie’s are God’s will. Someone else makes the decision, fires the fatal bullet. Was the killer in this case also the deceased? That was what I was there to figure out.
“Lieutenant Armstrong,” Dr. Joe said again. “You want to tell me what you’re looking for?”
“Sure,” I said. The truth was that I didn’t have a clue. Thatsaid, I figured I’d know it when I saw it, so I suggested, “Give me a couple of minutes.”
We were in an autopsy suite on the first floor of the county forensic center, a redbrick building just outside the skyscraper hospitals that make up the Texas Medical Center. In this part of the state, the M.E.’s office is a stop on the way to eternity for not only crime victims but any questionable death. Texas law stipulates that anyone who dies by homicide, suicide, in an accident, or from undetermined causes, anyone who’s not in a doctor’s care, and folks in hospitals for less than twenty-four hours before their deaths must be examined by a medical examiner. About a quarter of the time, an autopsy is unnecessary, because it’s apparent that a terminal disease, like cancer, has reached its logical
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