Hypocrisy

by D. M. Annechino

  “Agreement?”

  “Don’t even,” Dupree warned. “You owe me an autobiography. In-depth and personal.”

  “Really?” T.J. couldn’t suppress the grin. “I can’t be held accountable for any commitment I might have made while under the influence.”

  “Let me phrase it in a more compelling way,” Dupree said. “If I don’t get the story—the whole story, not some made-up bullshit—you and a pair of your most prized possessions will be parting company and your voice is going to be an octave higher. Are you getting a visual?”

  Before T.J. could answer, Butler hustled toward them.

  “Just finished with the M.E. It shouldn’t surprise you that Dr. Crawford died of a gunshot wound to the head. In fact, the M.E. found three .22 slugs in her brain. They entered cleanly through her left temple. It appears that the killer must have pressed the weapon hard against her head so that the right side was held motionless against the rear door. Because the bullets didn’t exit, they did as much damage as a high caliber bullet might do. Maybe more. The M.E. said part of her brain looked like red oatmeal. Probably died instantly.”

  “Was she sexually assaulted?” Dupree asked.

  “Negative. In fact, there’s no sign of a struggle. Not even a speck of dust under her fingernails. No bruises. Nothing except the bullets in her head. ”

  “Anything else?” T.J. asked.

  “You got what I got,” Butler said. “Have a lovely day.”

  Considering all of the lies Hansen had told, Dupree didn’t believe that she would actually come to the precinct at noon—if at all. But as she reviewed the documents associated with the investigation, T.J. showed up with Hansen by his side.

  “Thank you so much for coming, Ms. Hansen,” Dupree said, standing and offering her hand.

  Hansen ignored the gesture, noticeably irritated. “Is this going to take long? I have a busy afternoon.”

  Dupree could think of at least a dozen one-liners, but maintained her professional demeanor. “We’ll make it as quick as we can.”

  Dupree and T.J. led Hansen down a long hall to an interview room. Except for a small beat up table and four chairs, the dimly lit room was pretty much empty. In the center of the table were two miniature microphones—one facing the detectives, the other pointing toward Maggie Hansen. Dupree glanced up at the video camera mounted on the wall near the ceiling to be sure the red light was flashing.

  “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “Do you want one?” T.J. asked.

  Hansen seemed to be weighing the option. “I can request one at any time, correct?”

  “Absolutely,” T.J. said.

  “Okay, let’s get this over with,” Hansen said.

  T.J. eyed Dupree and she knew that he was signaling her to take the lead.

  “Do you know a Jonathan Lentz, Ms. Hansen?”

  The question didn’t even faze her. “I do.”

  “What is your relationship with him?” Dupree asked.

  “We had an affair.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  “We met. We liked each other. So we fucked. That’s not a crime is it?”

  Dupree could tell that this would be a difficult interview. “When you two met, did you know that Mr. Lentz was romantically involved with Dr. Crawford?”

  “Involved? They were dating, but no one considered it a real relationship.”

  “Why do you say that?” Dupree asked.

  “Because Dr. Crawford didn’t have time for a relationship. She didn’t have time for anything but her research. Jonathan was really frustrated. When we met at the holiday party, we both felt an instant chemistry.” She rolled her eyes. “What is it with these frigid broads that they think they can keep a man without spreading their legs? I mean really. Isn’t this the twenty-first century?”

  “Sounds to me,” T.J. said, “like you resented Dr. Crawford.”

  “You mean pity? As I told you when we first spoke, I admired what Dr. Crawford was trying to do professionally. But working for her was hell.”

  “Did you believe that Mr. Lentz would end his relationship with Dr. Crawford to be with you?” Dupree asked.

  “I’m not an idiot. I knew that I was just a temporary plaything to Jonathan. But that was okay. Because all he was to me was a good lay.”

  Hansen rolled up her shirt sleeves and wiped one across her forehead. “Doesn’t the city pay for air conditioning? This place is like a sauna.”

  Dupree noticed faded black and blue marks on both of Hansen’s wrists. “Tell me, Ms. Hansen, what are those marks on your wrists?”

  For the first time since entering the interview room, Hansen actually looked amused. “Oh, they’re just the remains of a memorable evening.”

  That Hansen would answer the question so casually puzzled Dupree. She had expected a more challenging response.

  “Can you elaborate?” Dupree said.

  “Let me put it this way. Johnny enjoyed being creative in the bedroom, so even though I wasn’t totally comfortable with his requests…”

  “For how long did Mr. Lentz and you…date?” Dupree asked.

  “Until he said that he wanted to reconcile with her.”

  “I sense a great deal of hostility in you,” T.J. said. “Perhaps enough to make you want to hurt Dr. Crawford?”

  Hansen stood up, knocking her chair backwards. “I think this interview is over.”

  “We’re not finished, Ms. Hansen,” Dupree said. “Now please sit down.” Dupree gave her a frigid stare.

  Hansen hesitated, but then picked up the chair and sat down.

  “Let me rephrase the question,” T.J. said. “Did you think about physically hurting Dr. Crawford?”

  “You two really don’t pay attention, do you? Like I said before, I would guess that everyone who worked for Dr. Crawford fantasized about smacking her.”

  “But you had more motivation to harm her than your colleagues did.”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  “Well,” T.J. said, “Dr. Crawford fired you, she reclaimed her boyfriend, and you passed on a career opportunity with Hyland Laboratories that would have doubled your salary. If that isn’t the Triple Crown, I don’t know what is.”

  Hansen’s eyes were seething. Dupree expected another outburst.

  Before Hansen had a chance to calm down, Dupree kept the pressure on. She never bought into the good-cop-bad-cop strategy. Through her interrogative experiences, bad-cop-bad-cop was much more effective. If you can rile a suspect’s emotions and keep the pressure on, sometimes they say something stupid—something that incriminates them. And once the words slip off their tongue, they’re already a matter of record.

  “Have you ever beaten up another person?” Dupree asked.

  Hansen actually forced a laugh that was more mocking than sincere. “Forgive the cliché, but I wouldn’t hurt a fucking flea. I am a total pacifist.”

  “I think that Tammy Chambers would disagree,” T.J. said. “You might know her as Tammy Holtz.”

  The color drained from Hansen’s face. “That was a…long time ago. We were…just kids. I don’t even remember what the fight was about.”

  “Let me refresh your memory,” T.J. said. “Tammy and you were roommates and were dating the same guy. Starting to come back to you?”

  “Okay, okay, so we got into a bit of a pushing match—”

  “You broke her nose, Ms. Hansen,” Dupree said. “Sounds like more than a little spat.”

  “I didn’t do anything to hurt Dr. Crawford. So, if you have evidence to the contrary and want to charge me with something, go ahead and do it. Otherwise, this interview is over.”

  “Just one more question,” Dupree said, “and you can be on your way. When we spoke to you last time, you led us to believe that you were a few months away from poverty. Are your bank records going to support that statement?”

  “I’m done with this conversation!” Hansen stood up and made a beeline for the door, slamming i
t behind her.

  “Geez,” T.J. said. “She didn’t even say goodbye.”

  “And I was just getting warmed up,” Dupree said. “Any thoughts?”

  “She’s one screwed up scientist, but I don’t think she has the stomach for murder.”

  “But she still might have dirt under her fingernails,” Dupree added. “Let’s go check out Dr. Crawford’s place.”

  T.J. and Dupree cruised up and down Plaza Street West until they found a parking spot reasonably close to Dr. Crawford’s building. As soon as they reached the front door, the unusually tall doorman they’d seen before opened the door and greeted them with a warm smile.

  He tipped his hat. “You two are the detectives who were here the other day, aren’t you?”

  “We are,” Dupree said. “We’d like to speak with Mr. Cardone, please.”

  Before the doorman had a chance to pick up the telephone and page the superintendent, Mr. Cardone stepped off the elevator. He was about to head in the other direction, but when he spotted the two detectives he did an about-face.

  “Good afternoon, detectives.” His voice sounded cheery. “I hope you’re staying cool on this muggy day.” He planted his hands on his hips. “I would suspect that you’re here because you have the warrant for entry into Dr. Crawford’s apartment?”

  T.J. handed Cardone the warrant. Cardone unfolded it and carefully studied it. “I’m not going to waste your time reading all the fine print. I’ve seen what I need to see. Follow me, please.” T.J. and Dupree stepped into the elevator with Cardone. The superintendent pushed the button for the twenty-second floor.

  “Have you made any headway on the murder investigation?” Cardone asked. “Any suspects?”

  “Sorry,” Dupree said, “but we really can’t discuss the investigation.”

  “I understand.”

  Along the way to Dr. Crawford’s floor, the elevator stopped several times and passengers got on and off. Cardone knew each and every one of them, and addressed the passengers by name. After what felt like a ride to the top of the Empire State Building, they finally reached their destination. Cardone led them down a long corridor until they reached 22C.

  Cardone unlocked the door. “I don’t think you detectives need my assistance. Take as long as you like, but please turn the deadbolt clockwise when you leave to be sure the door locks. Good luck.”

  The detectives slipped on latex gloves.

  Dupree turned the doorknob and pushed open the steel door. T.J. and she stopped cold before stepping over the threshold.

  “Looks like someone beat us to the punch,” Dupree said. “This place looks like a tornado blew through it.”

  Dupree speed-dialed Butler’s phone number. He picked up on the first ring. “Hey, John. It’s Amaris.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I need a CSI team dispatched to 1550 Plaza Street West ASAP. It’s in the Park Slope area. T.J. and I just gained entry to Dr. Crawford’s apartment and somebody turned the place upside down. Call me when you get here and I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

  “We’ll be there as soon as we can. I know I don’t have to remind you, but please don’t touch—”

  “Save your speech for the rookies.”

  When Dupree hung up and turned around, T.J. was still standing in the doorway perusing the main living area.

  “Well, it seems that whoever murdered Dr. Crawford,” Dupree said, “wasn’t satisfied with her computer and external drive. Or they didn’t find what they were looking for.”

  “Should we go in and poke around before the crew gets here?” T.J. asked.

  “Of course.”

  Dupree and T.J. gingerly navigated their way into the apartment, finding it difficult to weave through the rubble without disturbing anything. The sofa was turned upside down and the fabric on the underside of the sofa was torn open. Like fallen soldiers, several lamps lay on the floor. A desk was turned on its side, the drawers pulled out, lying on the floor with the contents scattered about. A flat screen TV lay on the floor, its screen shattered. They wandered into bedrooms, bathrooms and looked in closets. But nothing struck either of them.

  “Wow,” Dupree said. “It almost looks like whoever did this was more than looking for something.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t you think that a thief would take her jewelry? There’s a pile of it lying on the bedroom floor and a few pieces look expensive.” Dupree, moving towards the kitchen, pointed. “Look at that Nikon camera sitting on the kitchen table. Why would a thief leave that behind?”

  Dupree walked over to the refrigerator and studied the front of the door. It was covered with everything from photos, to little pieces of paper with phone numbers, to magnets from the local pizza joint, insurance agent, and a real estate broker. There was also an assortment of sticky notes attached to the side of the refrigerator. Dupree studied each and every one of them. About to walk away, a light blue sticky note caught her eye.

  “Check this out.”

  T.J. made his way to the kitchen.

  “Remember what Lentz told us about Dr. Crawford believing that someone in a white Ford was following her?”

  “What about it?”

  Dupree pointed to the blue sticky note “White Ford Fusion. JAF-9401.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Dupree was amazed that she could get a cell phone signal while T.J. and she rode the elevator down to the lobby of Dr. Crawford’s building. She called Brenda—her go-to-gal—and asked her to run the plate number for the Ford Fusion. When the elevator doors opened, David Cardone, the superintendent, was standing near the entrance speaking to the doorman. As soon as Cardone noticed the detectives, he abruptly ended his conversation and walked over to them.

  “Well, detectives, did you find anything unusual in Dr. Crawford’s residence?”

  “Other than the fact that it looks like Godzilla and King Kong had a little party up there,” T.J. said, “everything looks fine.”

  T.J. explained to Cardone what they’d found.

  “I don’t understand,” Cardone said. “No one has been in there since Dr. Crawford’s murder.”

  “I’m going to disagree with you on that one,” Dupree said. “The place is completely trashed.”

  “I don’t know how this happened,” Cardone said. “If it’s as bad as you say, whoever broke in must have made a racket.”

  “Based on the condition of the place,” Dupree said, “I’d say that your assumption is correct.”

  “But this doesn’t make any sense,” Cardone said. “First of all, nobody gets into any residence without a key. Our deadbolts are nearly impossible to jimmy. And second, Dr. Crawford’s neighbors, two senior citizens who have zero tolerance for noise, complain about everything. I don’t know how Dr. Crawford’s apartment could have been ransacked without her neighbors hearing anything.”

  “I guess we’ll have to speak to the neighbors and see what they have to say.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible, Detective Dupree. You see, the Johnsons left early this morning for a European vacation and won’t return for five weeks.”

  “Terrific,” Dupree said.

  Just then, the doorman opened the front door for John Butler and two other CSI agents.

  “Nice to see you could make it,” Dupree said. She turned toward Cardone. “This is John Butler, one of our forensic experts. He and his team are going to need access to Dr. Crawford’s apartment so they can dust for fingerprints and search for anything unusual.”

  “You can take it from here, John,” Dupree said. “T.J. and I have bigger fish to fry.”

  “Must be time for your midday snack,” Butler said. “You two have the good life.”

  “That we do,” T.J. said. He turned towards Dupree. “What’s your pleasure, partner? Sushi? Italian? Thai?”

  “Let’s try that new seafood restaurant in the Village.”

  “Perfect!”

  Just as Dupree and T.J. were about to leav
e, Dupree remembered something. “Mr. Cardone, I noticed surveillance cameras in the hallway not far from Dr. Crawford’s residence. Can we get a copy of the videotapes for the last forty-eight hours?”

  “That’ll take a little maneuvering, but sure. I’ll get them ASAP.”

  “If John Butler’s still here,” Dupree said, “just give them to him. If he’s not, you still have my phone number, correct?”

  “Sure do, Detective. As soon as I give your colleagues access to Dr. Crawford’s apartment, I’ll contact the security company and see how quickly I can get you the videotapes.”

  “Tell them it’s a police matter and it’s urgent,” T.J. said.

  Dupree and T.J. headed for the front entrance and the doorman promptly opened the door. Dupree looked at Butler. “Call me if you stumble on anything worthwhile, John.”

  He saluted her like a boot camp recruit. “Roger that, Sir.”

  “Butler’s a real ball buster, isn’t he?” T.J. said.

  “Yeah, but you gotta love the guy,” Dupree answered. “He knows his job inside and out.”

  Dupree and T.J. waited in the idling car with the air conditioner on full blast. Knowing that Brenda would be calling any minute with info on the Ford Fusion plate number, Dupree thought it best that they just sit tight.

  “Feels like it’s flirting with triple digits today,” T.J. said.

  “One-oh-two to be exact. The humidity isn’t making it any better.”

  “Do you have plans for the holiday?” T.J. asked.

  At first, Dupree didn’t answer. She just studied her fingernails. “Every year on July 4th, I participate in the Making Strides for Breast Cancer five-mile walk in Central Park—in memory of my mother.”

  “I thought all the Making Strides events across the country were coordinated for May or September,” T.J. said. “Why the hell would they schedule the walk in the middle of summer?”

  “I think it’s because Rita Sinclair, founder of the Sinclair Memorial Hospital, which specializes in treating breast cancer, opened the facility on July 4th. I guess it’s in commemoration of her. Besides, it kicks off at six a.m., long before the crushing heat sets in. It’s more of a casual walk than a marathon. And there are a dozen booths set up along the way providing water, Gatorade, and dampened washcloths. Far as I know, no one’s ever died from the walk, so unless someone has a heat stroke, the local American Cancer Society will continue organizing the event for July 4th.”