Dupree glanced at T.J., hoping he wouldn’t react to the security guard’s comment.
The security guard nodded. “Yes, Ms. Hansen, right away.”
“You’re all set, Detectives. Please take elevator #2.”
When Dupree and T.J. stepped onto the elevator and realized that there was actually an operator—something Dupree hadn’t seen in years—they looked at each other in amazement. Dupree guessed that T.J. was as surprised as she was.
“Floor twenty-three, please,” Dupree said.
The elevator zoomed up to the 23rd floor without stopping once. The doors opened and the operator pointed. “Ms. Hansen’s residence is down the hall on your right. Have a pleasant day.”
T.J. tugged on Dupree’s arm. “How the hell did he know we were here to see Hansen?”
Dupree shrugged. “Is it my imagination, or is this place a little creepy?”
“Not the word I would use, but yes, it’s like something out of a Tim Burton movie.”
They found unit 2311 and Dupree softly knocked.
Nothing.
She knocked a little harder this time. The door swung open and there stood a young woman wearing baggy lounging pajamas. Her disheveled hair was loosely pulled back into a ponytail. She held a cup of what looked like coffee in her hand. Except for the out-of-style glasses worn low on her nose, she looked anything but how Dupree pictured a scientist. But after a closer appraisal, Dupree realized that Hansen could star in one of those commercials where the frumpy, plain-looking teacher takes off her geeky glasses, let’s down her hair, tosses it from side-to-side, and instantly looks like a movie star. With the right makeup and hairdo, Dupree thought, Hansen could be a knockout.
“Been expecting you,” the woman said, an unmistakable southern twang in her voice. Dupree guessed Virginia or the Carolinas. “Sorry I look so dreadful. Been a little negligent with my personal hygiene since I lost my job.” She slurped her coffee. “I’m Margaret Hansen. Most people call me Maggie.”
“I’m Detective Dupree and this is Detective Brown. May we speak with you for a few minutes?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Already with the attitude, Dupree thought. “Of course you have a choice. You can speak with us now, or we can get a summons and you can come down to the precinct. Whichever you prefer.”
“I’m sorry for the sarcasm. Since I’ve been unemployed, I’ve been a little on edge. I hope you understand.”
“We do,” Dupree said. “We won’t take up much of your time.”
“I’ve got nothing but time.” Hansen gestured with her arm. “Come in and have a seat.”
Dupree looked around for a place to sit, but mounds of clothes covered the sofa, loveseat, and armchair. It looked like Hansen had heaped every piece of clothing she owned on her living room furniture. Hansen set down her coffee, lifted two armfuls of clothing from the loveseat, and moved them to the sofa.
“I’m really not a slob,” Hansen apologized. “I’m just going through all my closets and dresser drawers and getting rid of the stuff I no longer wear or no longer fits me. There’s a Salvation Army just around the corner.” She pushed a pile of clothes out of the way and sat on the sofa. “Of course, if I don’t find a job soon, I’ll be bringing all my clothes to a local consignment shop and eating egg salad sandwiches every day.”
Clearly, Dupree thought, Hansen was in no mood to entertain two cops.
Just then, a grey Siamese cat casually wondered into the living room, walked over to Dupree, and sniffed her legs.
Dupree reached down and scratched the cat’s head. It instantly started to purr.
“You must be a cat person,” Hansen said. “Mickey usually doesn’t warm up to strangers.”
“Got two cats of my own: Benjamin and Alexandra. Must be that Mickey’s picking up their scent.”
Mickey meandered over to Hansen and hopped up on her lap.
“So,” Hansen said, “I don’t believe you came here to talk about my lifestyle or my cat. I would guess that you want to talk about Dr. Lauren Crawford.”
Dupree nodded. “That’s correct. Is it okay for us to record this interview?”
Hansen smiled. “Interview? I was under the impression that you were going to interrogate me.”
“Call it what you will,” T.J. said. “We’re merely here to gather information.”
“Fair enough. Tell me what you want to know.”
“How long were you employed at Horizon?” Dupree asked.
“Nearly three years.”
“And during the three years, did you work directly for Dr. Crawford?” Dupree asked.
Hansen nodded. “I reported to her and only her.”
“Did you interact with Dr. Mason at all?” Dupree asked.
“Not really. He participated in our morning meetings and weekly brainstorming sessions to discuss the latest developments, but the bulk of my relationship with him was seeing him in the break room when I was having lunch or getting a cup of coffee.”
“As I understand it,” Dupree said, “Dr. Crawford and you parted company about a month ago, correct?”
“Thirty-four days ago, to be exact.”
“Can you tell us why Dr. Crawford let you go?” T.J. asked.
Hansen laughed. “No reason to walk on eggshells here. She didn’t ‘let me go’, she fired me. And you want to know why? Because I missed a deadline by one day.”
“Can you be more specific?” T.J. said.
“I was working on a report that compiled statistics on a specific clinical study, and Dr. Crawford asked that I have these spreadsheets and graphs completed in three days. I worked my ass off to get them done—coming into work early and staying late—but there were a few components missing from the statistics that prevented me from completing the assignment on time. Now bear in mind that this was through no fault of my own. It was merely a logistic problem. Dr. Crawford asked me to deliver the report to her no later than May 25th at five p.m. and I completed them on May 26th around noon. When I set the report on her desk and apologized for not meeting the deadline, she didn’t even make eye contact with me. She just kept her eyes focused on whatever she was reading and said, ‘Your work performance is unacceptable. This project is way too important for me to employ slackers. Gather your personal things and I want you out of here in thirty minutes’.
“I was absolutely stunned. Speechless. When I tried to reason with her, she wanted no part of it. I got loud. She got loud. And the next thing I know, two security guards accompanied me to my office, watched me pack up my personal belongings, and then escorted me to the front door. I felt like a criminal.”
“Did you threaten her in any way?” Dupree asked.
“I called her a bitch and yelled something, but honestly don’t remember what I said. I was a little shell-shocked.”
“The way I understand it,” Dupree said, “you said, ‘You haven’t seen the last of me, bitch’. Do you remember saying that?”
“Look, I don’t know what the hell I said. But what I do know is that yes, she was a bitch, and no, I didn’t kill her.” Hansen paused for a minute, her hands trembling. “You know the worst part? I had just turned down a job offer from Hyland Laboratories that would have doubled my salary. Doubled my salary! What did my selfless loyalty get me? If I don’t find a job soon, I’ll be living in the streets in six months.” Hansen let out a heavy sigh. “You want to know why I passed on this opportunity with Hyland? Because I truly believed in what Dr. Crawford was trying to do. I had heard so many wonderful things about her, that she was very generous and a genuinely nice person. And that may be the case in her personal life. But I can tell you this—and you can verify my story with anyone who worked for her—in the work environment, she was a different animal. An unforgiving tyrant. A woman so driven by her passion to find a new treatment for cancer that she operated Horizon like a fucking concentration camp. Everybody, and I mean everybody—even Dr. Mason—trembled in their boots when she walked by.” Hansen was
noticeably upset. “I moved here from my hometown in Virginia, left my family and lifelong friends to work with Dr. Crawford. And where am I now? Alone and soon I’ll be standing in the breadline.”
Dupree eyeballed T.J. and she could tell by the look on his face that he too remembered that Dr. Mason had told them that Hyland Laboratories attempted to partner with Horizon, but Dr. Crawford had vetoed the idea.
“Tell me, Ms. Hansen,” T.J. said, “can you think of anyone who would want to physically harm Dr. Crawford?”
“Well, I think most of her employees had fantasies about flattening the tires on her car. But murder her?” Hansen paused again and looked past the detectives at something in the distance. “All I can say is that this woman was on the threshold of discovering something revolutionary. Something that would turn the whole medical industry on its ear. Lots of people in healthcare stood to gain a great deal if Dr. Crawford’s theories proved true. But there were also those who would lose—and lose big time.”
“Can you explain why?” Dupree asked, reasonably sure she knew what Hansen would say.
“Cancer research, cancer treatment, cancer prevention is a multi-billion dollar enterprise. Do you have any idea how many people are employed just because there is no real cure for cancer? Do you have any idea how much the pharmaceutical industry makes treating cancer patients with chemotherapy drugs? Can you even begin to imagine how many hundreds of research centers there are worldwide just like Horizon that are funded by the American Cancer Society, the National Cancer Institute, other non-profit organizations, and private investors? How about radiology, oncology, surgery? If Dr. Crawford’s clinical research validated her theories, if she had developed an effective treatment for cancer, the entire landscape of cancer research and treatment would dramatically change. I don’t buy into conspiracy theories. But when the stakes are this high, anything is possible.”
There was a long stillness as both detectives processed Hansen’s little speech.
“Do you really believe that there are people or organizations in healthcare that would actually try to suppress the cure for cancer?” T.J. asked.
“In my opinion, money and power could have corrupted even Gandhi and Mother Teresa.”
Dupree glanced at T.J. and noticed a strange look on his face.
“One more question and we’ll be out of your hair,” Dupree said. “I don’t mean to insult you but I have to ask if you’ve ever been arrested.”
Hansen laughed. “I don’t even kill spiders.”
“Me neither,” Dupree said. “I let my cats take care of them.”
Dupree reached into her purse and handed Hansen a business card. “If anything at all comes to mind—no matter how seemingly insignificant—please give me a call. We appreciate you taking the time to speak with us.”
Hansen opened the door for the detectives. Dupree stopped and turned around. “One more thing. Did Dr. Crawford and you have any prior conflicts?”
Hansen hesitated for a long time. “I don’t know if I would call our little spats conflicts, but to put it crudely, let’s just say that Dr. Crawford regularly chewed on my ass.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
After interviewing Hansen, Dupree and T.J. compared notes.
“Peculiar gal,” T.J. said. “Not how I pictured a scientist. And that accent just doesn’t fit.”
“That was my immediate thought as soon as she opened her mouth,” Dupree agreed.
“Interesting coincidence that Hyland Laboratories not only tried to partner with Horizon, but also tried to recruit Hansen,” T.J. said.
“I think it’s more than just interesting.”
“I can’t envision Hansen involved in a conspiracy to commit murder,” T.J. said. “Just doesn’t seem the type.”
“Neither was Ted Bundy.”
“Not quite a fair comparison.”
“All I’m saying,” Dupree said, “is that if you want someone dead, you don’t have to look like a murderer to commit murder. You just need a motive and a set of balls.” Dupree’s thumbs went to work on her iPhone.
“And you’re point?”
“Given the right circumstances, good people will do bad things.”
“Seriously?” T.J. said. “You actually believe that Hansen is capable of such a thing?”
“My point is that as harmless as Hansen may seem, it is possible that she somehow is complicit in Dr. Crawford’s murder. Remember the Carson homicides? How certain were we that this fragile, old lady wasn’t capable of hurting a flea? Turned out that this sweet woman who looked like she could win first prize for grandmother of the year, hacked up her neighbors with an axe, just because their German shepherd kept digging up her tulips. If messing with your neighbor’s flowers can get you chopped up into little pieces, maybe getting fired can make you hungry for revenge as well.”
“Revenge, yes,” T.J. said. “But murder?”
Dupree talked while she still typed on her iPhone. “Been around dead bodies long enough to know that nothing would surprise me.”
“Okay,” T.J. said. “Let’s get real crazy here. We know that the bald guy videotaped on the surveillance cameras at the crime scene was the killer. So, let’s assume that Hansen hired him to murder Dr. Crawford. Do you know what kind of money we’re talking?”
“Hey,” Dupree said, “Hansen lives in a pretty posh condo. Just because she’s crying poverty doesn’t mean it’s true. Besides, how do we know that the bald guy didn’t have something to gain from murdering Dr. Crawford and taking her computer? And…could be that Hansen wasn’t flying solo.”
“Good point,” T.J. admitted. “First thing tomorrow after our morning briefing, I’ll get a complete background check on Maggie Hansen. Criminal records. Employment history. Credit reports.”
“And if we find anything suspicious,” Dupree said, “I’ll contact Judge Marshall and I’m sure I can twist his arm for a subpoena to check her banking records. I’d like to know if there are any unusual transactions.”
Dupree started the car and drove towards the condo exit, still holding her phone while driving.
“Interesting that Dr. Mason also pointed out that certain people or corporations would benefit from stealing Dr. Crawford’s research records and putting her in an early grave,” Dupree said.
“True,” T.J. agreed. “But more often than not, homicides usually come down to the most obvious possibility. This whole case might be something as simple as a mugging, sexual assault, or a carjacking gone badly.”
“I think it’s something bigger,” Dupree said. “Something much bigger.” She handed the iPhone to T.J. “Don’t you just love smartphones? The Internet at your fingertips 24/7.”
T.J. seemed not to understand why Dupree gave him her phone. Then he looked at the screen. “Holy shit.”
“Hyland Laboratories,” Dupree said, “the company that allegedly offered Hansen a job and tried to partner with Horizon, is the number one manufacturer of Camadyacin, the most widely used chemotherapy drug in the world.”
Dupree eased her car into the heavy traffic and stopped at a red light. “So, where are you buying me that cocktail?”
Dupree sat across from T.J. and tasted her drink. She clicked her glass against his bottle of Heineken. “Thanks for the drink. They taste so much better when someone else picks up the tab.”
She hated the bar scene, all of the games and the lies and the antics. Lonely women searching for “Mr. Right,” and hopeful men looking for “Ms. Right-Now.” Why would any woman search for a quality man in a bar? Then again, she’d read somewhere that in this day and age, more women than men were on the prowl for one-night stands. It was probably an article in Cosmo. Maybe all the steamy romance novels she’d read and the romantic comedies she’d watched on TV with storybook endings were nothing more than fairytales.
Sitting across from T.J., nursing her drink, Dupree once again realized how very little she knew about him personally. Sure, she had heard the gossip about his supposed unsavory reputation
with women, and his daily accounts of conquests. But she had no idea who he was, where he came from, or what made him tick. Strange, she thought. How is it possible to work with someone closely day after day for half a year and not really know them?
“I owe you an apology,” Dupree said. “You probably think I’m a fourteen-carat-jerk for lecturing you when we went to interview Dr. Mason, and I’m sorry. I have no right to judge your lifestyle or any part of your personal life. But when it interferes with our job duties, I can’t turn my head the other way. Someday I’m going to need you to watch my back and you’re not going to be there. If this was an isolated incident or a once-in-while-thing, I could let it go, but—”
“I’m not going to bullshit you, Amaris. I have no argument and no defense for my irresponsible actions. I’m truly sorry.” He took a long swig of his beer.
Dupree studied T.J. with probing eyes. He waved to the cocktail waitress and she promptly came to their table. T.J. looked at Dupree.
“Another?” he asked.
Normally, she was a one-drink-gal, but felt a little wound up today. She nodded. “I can handle one more.”
For over an hour, the two detectives talked about their homicide investigation, trying to fit all the pieces in place and noting where pieces were missing. Dupree, quite to her surprise, was nursing her third lemon drop; T.J. gulped the last mouthful of his fourth beer. Dupree hadn’t been this tipsy in years and she actually enjoyed the feeling. It was refreshing to let down her guard. Refreshing and dangerous.
“So, T.J., don’t you think it’s about time we get to know each other?”
He looked confused. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve been working together for six months.”
“And that in itself means we know each other? I mean really know each other?”
“Where are you going with this, Amaris?”
“I’m only trying to point out that our entire relationship is superficial; business only. I know little if anything about you, and you know less about me.”
Hypocrisy Page 6
