“Hand it off to—”
“Anyone else,” Rick said. “These are park police. They’re not equipped for a crime of this magnitude. All right? Please: Stick to littering.”
This was both untrue and unkind. Bodies have a habit of turning up in remote, public places, and as a coroner, I’d always found park cops easy to work with — pragmatic, collaborative. I also felt a twinge of annoyance at the snobbery toward a less-sexy jurisdiction. But Rick Valois was my client, and Rick Valois was on a roll.
“What the hell is the point of putting us through this torture, saying awful things about him, and about us, making insinuations, if you’re not going to listen to what we have to say?”
His voice had risen to a bark. “Whatever your ridiculous hypothesis is, if you’re interested in the truth, as you claim to be — if you want to know how something is, in reality — you gather the data first, then form your conclusion. Not the other way around. That’s not how it works. It’s sloppy.”
Gripping the legal pad, wrinkling paper.
Liz reached for him.
He shifted; she shrank back.
He smoothed out the pad, paged forward, and cleared his throat. “The final coroner’s report was issued in September. The death was ruled undetermined.”
I could guess what was coming next.
“In late September we commissioned an independent autopsy. The pathologist concluded that the head injury had occurred prior to death.”
Waiting for my comment. I offered none.
Rick Valois said, “It’s at least possible that someone hit him before he fell in, or that they threw him in. You need to examine all the contingencies, and if you’ve decided that’s an avenue not worth exploring, you need to explain it to me. We asked for a copy of the police report. They won’t give it to us, saying it’s still an active investigation. But that’s horseshit, because in March we finally managed to get a meeting with the district attorney. He insisted they don’t have enough evidence to consider it a homicide. Which is it? Either you’re investigating, in which case listen to what we’re telling you, or you’re not, in which case show your work. You can’t have it both ways.”
Rick slammed the pad face down on the coffee table and sank back, flushed. Sweat beaded his upper lip.
“That’s it, in toto,” he said hoarsely.
“Thank you,” I said. “You’ve been very thorough. I know it must be painful to revisit. Liz, is there anything you’d like to add?”
She scratched out a pitiful half smile. “Richard pretty much covered it.”
“Okay. I’ll ask some questions now,” I said. “But if anything else occurs to you along the way, jump in. Either of you.”
I ran through the basics: Adam’s DOB; his phone number and address and Social Security number; his educational background and employment history.
Prep school in San Jose. One year at Oberlin, two years at Sarah Lawrence, dropping out junior year. Commercial video paid the bills while affording him the freedom to pursue his own projects.
Much of this information I could find on my own. Not all of it would end up being material. But I like to begin difficult conversations with low-hanging fruit, and the hypnotic rhythm of question-and-answer helped coax Liz out of her shell.
She said, “He made these sort of visual poems. They’re very beautiful.”
Rick said, “You can see them on his Instagram.”
“How long have he and Olivia been together?”
“Three, four years,” Rick said.
“Four,” Liz said.
“Was it serious between them?”
Rick said, “She’s nice enough, but it’s not like they were getting married. At the end of the day, she’s moved on. We’re his parents. We have to live with this forever.”
“What about the rest of his social circle? Who did he hang out with?”
The question Rick Valois had been waiting for.
“Trevor Vogel,” he pronounced as if offering a diagnosis.
Liz said, “A childhood friend.”
“An addict. Adam had a soft spot for him. I told the police to look into him, but they weren’t interested.”
“What about him concerns you?” I asked.
“He’s an addict. He lives in Oakland. Adam would drive up to visit him. You do the math.”
“Do you have an address or phone number?”
Rick shook his head.
“Anybody else worth mentioning?” I asked.
“He’s the only one comes to mind.”
“Okay. Aside from work, how did Adam spend his time? Did he have hobbies?”
“The gym,” Rick said.
“He started working out when he was a teenager,” Liz said. “It gave him confidence. He was born premature and was small for his age. He got teased a lot.”
“He caught up once he started taking growth hormones,” Rick said.
“I think that’s why he liked the camera,” Liz said. “It allowed him to be present, without being involved.”
“Shy?” I asked.
“Well.” She seemed to regret her previous statement. “He could be funny, too.”
“More macabre,” Rick said. “And deadpan, you couldn’t always tell if he was joking or not.”
“In general,” I said, “how would you describe Adam’s health?”
“Good,” Rick said.
“He got migraines from time to time,” Liz said.
“Did he take medication for that?” I asked.
“Just ibuprofen, I think.”
“Did he have seizures or fainting spells?”
“Oh no, nothing like that.”
“Any other medications?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“What about psychiatric medication?”
“As a teenager,” Liz said. “I don’t know if he still does.”
She’d lapsed into the present tense.
“Did he ever receive a psychiatric diagnosis?” I asked.
“Excuse me,” Rick said. “What’s the purpose of this line of questioning?”
“It’s part of building a profile,” Regina said. “I’d ask the same things.”
I’d almost forgotten she was there. I’d never seen her so quiet. But I appreciated her breaking in to shunt tension away from me.
“I know you’ve gone over this before,” I said. “Keep in mind that it’s new to me.”
Liz said, “ADHD and anxiety.”
“Was he currently under care for that?”
“He used to see Dr. Sheffield. Joan Sheffield.”
“Years ago,” Rick said.
“I don’t know if he was seeing anyone now,” Liz said.
“Did Adam have a history of drug or alcohol use?”
“He was a normal kid,” Rick said.
Normal, like time, was a construct. “Was he ever arrested?”
“Absolutely not.”
“What did toxicology find?”
“Ketamine.”
“Do you know if that was medical or recreational?”
“Come on now,” Rick said. “Do you talk to your parents about things like that?”
“Rick,” Liz said mildly.
“Point taken, Professor,” I said. “I ask because it can be prescribed for anxiety or depression.”
“We weren’t aware he was using it,” Liz said.
“Was Adam ever hospitalized for mental health reasons?”
Rick’s lips twitched. He started to respond but Liz beat him to it.
“Once. In college. He had a panic attack. They kept him for a few nights.”
“Did he ever attempt suicide, or talk about it?”
“He didn’t kill himself,” Rick said.
“I’m not suggesting he did, Professor, but I do need to—”
“Not to us,” Liz said.