Page 12 of The Right to Remain

Jack ended his day with a trip to the Miami-Dade medical examiner’s office.

The 911 recording raised questions about Owen Pollard’s death, and the logical place to start searching for answers was the 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?”