Chapter 3
Jack ended his day with a trip to the Miami-Dade medical examiner’s office.
autopsy report. Except for photographs, which could not be released without the consent of next of kin, autopsy reports were
public records in Florida. Jack completed the formal request online, but he wanted the report before meeting Owen Pollard’s
business partner, so waiting two weeks for a response was not an option. Jack had one reliable contact at the ME’s office,
an old friend of his father from Harry Swyteck’s first term as governor. Jack made a phone call.
“The report will be waiting for you at reception,” Dr. Wheeler said, and Jack was in business.
The medical examiner’s office was in the Joseph H. Davis Center for Forensic Pathology, a three-building complex on the perimeter
of the University of Miami Medical Center campus and Jackson Memorial Hospital. Typical for late afternoon, the campus was
bustling with activity, people headed to the spine institute, the eye institute, and other world-class specialists. Jack went
to the main entrance. The guard buzzed him in, and as promised, the report was waiting for him.
“Could you let Dr. Wheeler know that Jack Swyteck is here?” he told the receptionist. “I’d like to say hello.”
She assured him she would, and Jack took a seat in the waiting area. Jack knew his way around an autopsy report, and he read
quickly. Dr. Wheeler appeared just as Jack finished reading.
“How’s your old man, Jack?” asked Wheeler, smiling.
“Playing too much golf but otherwise enjoying a stress-free retirement.”
“Golf,” he said with a roll of his eyes. “That’s why I’ll never retire.”
Wheeler had been with the ME’s office since the building’s namesake, the late Joseph H. Davis, was chief examiner, back in
the days when drugs, riots, and good old-fashioned Florida insanity pushed Miami’s homicide rate into the stratosphere, more
than six hundred murders a year.
There was another minute or two of chitchat. Jack thanked him for the report, but he couldn’t resist fishing before saying
goodbye.
“I see the autopsy was done by Dr. Carolina Cruz. Is she good?”
“One of our best. Very thorough. Remind me: Which case is that?”
Jack told him.
“Ah, the shotgun blast.”
“You know it?”
“We’re on pace for two thousand autopsies this year, so I wouldn’t say I ‘know’ it. But I do recall some news coverage on
that one.”
“Dr. Cruz ruled it a suicide, I see.”
Jack handed him the report, and Wheeler checked. “Yup. Manner of death: suicide. Cause of death: single gunshot to the head.”
“No mention of a second gunshot wound anywhere on the body,” said Jack. “Or did I miss something?”
Wheeler skimmed through the entire report, flipping through the pages. “Nope. You didn’t miss anything.”
“I assume that if there had been a second gunshot wound, it would have been in the report.”
“If Dr. Cruz wants to keep her job, it would,” Wheeler said with a chuckle. Then he turned curious. “Why do you ask about
a second gunshot?”
Review of 911 recordings was not part of the medical examiner’s function, and Jack saw no reason to get into it. “Long story,”
said Jack.
They shook hands, and Jack left with the report in hand. It was too late in the day for Jack to return to his office. He drove
home to Key Biscayne.
The “Key,” as Jack called it, is an island in the shallow bay waters east of downtown Miami, tethered to the mainland and the ever-growing cityscape by the Rickenbacker causeway.
Real estate prices there were shocking even by Miami standards, but years earlier, before he’d even met Andie, Jack had cut a steal of a deal on one of the last remaining Mackle homes, basically a 1,200-square-foot shoe box built right after World War II as affordable housing for returning GIs.
Every day he made the drive, but especially after doing battle in a Miami courtroom, Jack felt like he was getting a glimpse of how those returning warriors must have felt as they drove to their new home in an island paradise, even if Jack’s was the last Mackle house standing.
Andie was in the bedroom when he got home. She was packing a suitcase.
“No, I’m not leaving you,” she said. “But I am leaving.”
The suitcase was on the bed, and Jack noticed the sweaters, coat, gloves, and other winter gear that no one wore in Miami,
not even in January.
“Where is the FBI sending you this time? Alaska?”
“Ha ha. You know I can’t tell you.”
Andie was an undercover agent. She was already in undercover mode.
“When are you coming back?”
She folded a cotton sweater and put it in the bag. “You know I can’t tell you that either. But don’t complain. When I come
back, I’ll be a hot blonde you barely recognize, and lucky you gets to have wild sex with another woman.”
“I’m pretty happy with my hot brunette wife.”
“You’re sweet.” She gave him a quick kiss, then continued packing.
Jack completely understood that an FBI agent couldn’t talk about an undercover assignment.
That was half the reason they’d lived the first nine years of marriage under “the Rule”: Andie didn’t talk to Jack about her active investigations, and Jack didn’t talk to Andie about his active cases.
Jack’s fear was that he might say something to land his client in jail; Andie’s fear was that she might slip and reveal an FBI secret to one of Miami’s top criminal defense lawyers.
They’d dropped the Rule on the advice of their marriage counselor.
“It’s not healthy for two career-oriented people to muzzle themselves in that way,” their counselor had advised, adding rather ominously, “I honestly don’t know how you two have managed to stay together this long.
” Sometimes, however, it seemed that only Jack had dropped the Rule.
But a deal was a deal, and he would keep up his end of it.
“I’m taking a new criminal case.”
“Oh? What’s this one about?”
“A grand jury is looking into the suicide of Owen Pollard.”
She froze. “He was FBI, retired.”
“Yes. I hope you don’t have a problem with that.”
“I didn’t know Pollard personally. He was the liaison for Violent Gang Safe Streets Task Force and the Transnational Anti-Gang
Task Forces, which means he was hardly ever in Miami. There are almost two hundred local law enforcement agencies on those
task forces, so he was constantly traveling.”
“Well, I’m glad he wasn’t a friend of yours.”
“Frankly, I don’t think he had any friends left in the bureau.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The task forces he coordinated confiscated thousands of firearms from gangs all over the country. Most of those guns had
no lawful owner, so they ended up destroyed. From what I heard, Pollard steered the gun destruction business to one company,
and then he retired early from the bureau and became part owner of the same company. If that wasn’t bad enough, his business
partner was a left-wing lunatic who spits in the eye of law enforcement every chance he gets. Not to be callous, but most
agents in the Miami field office weren’t shocked to hear Pollard killed himself.”
“If he killed himself,” said Jack.
“Is there evidence his death wasn’t suicide?”
“The 911 call is odd,” said Jack, and he told her about it.
“Hmm,” said Andie, and she zipped up her suitcase. “Where was the body found?”
“In the kitchen, according to the media reports I’ve seen.”
“So, Pollard calls 911, says he’s been shot, and then goes into the kitchen and shoots himself with a shotgun.”
“Weird, right?”
“Maybe he was trying to make it look like his wife did it.”
“What?”
“You know, kind of like the movie Gone Girl. One spouse hates the other so much that they create this elaborate plan to make it look like the husband—or in this case
the wife—killed them. Except that Mr. Pollard’s version of the setup only works once.”
She seemed serious but then smiled, and Jack realized she was joking. Cop humor. Jack didn’t always get it.
“Good one,” said Jack.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t joke like that. But the way Pollard monetized his position on those task forces was scummy, even if it
wasn’t illegal.”
“No need to apologize,” said Jack.
“You mind if I change the subject?”
“Not at all.”
Andie moved the suitcase from the bed, then went to him. “It could be a while before I’m back,” she said in her bedroom voice.
“Where’s Righley?”
“Soccer practice for another hour.”
He smiled with interest. “How convenient.”
“Just one last word about your case.”
“You always get the last word.”
“It’s who I am. I assume it’s in your client’s best interest to prove that it was a suicide, so will you do me this one favor?”
“You caught me in no mood to say no.”
“Please don’t cast Pollard as yet another typical angry white male zealot who can’t help turning his gun on himself and ends
up blowing his brains out in the kitchen. As a responsible gun owner, I hate those clichés.”
“I hate all clichés.”
She touched his chest. “All of them? Even the strong, buff husband who carries his wife into the kitchen, lays her naked on
the counter, and makes love to her like they might never see each other again?”
“Hmm. Not all clichés are bad, I suppose.”
He tried to pick her up, but they were leaning in opposite directions and fell onto the bed.
“But who needs a cold granite countertop?” said Andie.
“When there’s a perfectly good mattress right here,” said Jack, finishing her thought for her with a kiss on the neck.