Cold Justice

by Rayven T. Hill

  Philip nodded slowly. “Then I’m sure you can imagine what losing a child would do to you.”

  Jake looked at Annie and shuddered at the thought before turning back to Philip. “That must be about the worst thing any parent could experience.”

  Philip nodded again and cleared his throat before continuing. “However, she seems to have taken a turn for the worse in the last couple of days, but I was finally able to get something out of her.”

  “Is your wife here now?” Annie interrupted.

  “Yes, she’s upstairs. She knows I called you, but she doesn’t want to see anyone.”

  “That’s fine,” Annie said. They waited.

  “Like I said, my wife, Abby, hasn’t been taking Timmy’s death well at all. She has been drinking often lately. She says it helps her, but I think we both know it’s just a temporary remedy.”

  Jake nodded.

  Annie agreed, “Yes.”

  “She finally told me last night... She was on the way home from Eddie’s. That’s a bar a couple of streets over. She was walking home, and she claims to have seen someone get killed. Murdered.”

  Annie caught her breath.

  Jake leaned forward.

  “I called the police as soon as she told me,” Philip said. “They came here right away. She talked to them briefly, and told them where she had seen the murder. They called me back this morning. Apparently, they investigated right away. They went to the house where she had seen it. They talked to the owner, checked out the lawn, etc., filled out a report. They found no evidence of a crime.”

  Jake gave a low whistle.

  Philip said, “They talked to her psychiatrist. He was reluctant to say anything at first. Patient confidentially and all that. But I talked to him, and he was willing to give some information. He said he had diagnosed her as having anxiety disorder. I already knew that much, but he also stated it has been making her delusional and paranoid, as evidenced by the sessions he has had with her. Also, the fact she had been drinking that evening, well, the police agreed with the psychiatrist’s report.”

  “But you don’t agree with that, do you,” Jake stated. “You believe she really saw what she said she saw. Is that right?”

  Philip nodded his head vigorously. “Oh, yes. I do think she saw something. I’ve spent a lot of time with her lately. Even though she doesn’t want to talk much, she still needs my support. And I haven’t seen any evidence of delusional thinking at all.”

  “So, you want us to do what?” Annie asked.

  “I want you to get to the bottom of this if you can. She seems to be afraid. Not just paranoid for no reason, but genuinely afraid. She may think the killer knows who she is. I’m sure if this is straightened out, if you can find out if she saw a murder, and hopefully find the person responsible, then she will recover a lot quicker.”

  Annie poised her pen over the notepad and asked, “Do you have the address of the house?”

  “It’s just a few doors down. At number 76. Apparently it’s a Mr. Kevin Rand.”

  Annie wrote the information in her pad. “Is there anything else you can think of?” she asked.

  “Unfortunately, that’s all I have. She didn’t seem to know any more details.”

  “Where do you work, Philip?”

  My wife and I have a small accounting firm. Macy & Macy. Abby worked there part time as a receptionist, or just helping out in a variety of areas. Until recently, that is. She hasn’t been in since... Timmy.”

  Annie consulted her pad and thought a moment before looking up. “I guess that’s about all for now,” she said.

  “If your wife happens to think of anything else, please be sure to let us know right away,” Jake said. “In the meantime, we’ll come up with a plan of action, and we’ll let you know how we proceed.”

  Annie tucked her notepad away and stood up. Jake stood and Philip followed them to the door. Jake dug a business card from his top pocket and handed it to Philip.

  “We’ll be in touch,” Annie said as they left.

  Philip thanked them and shut the door.

  Jake whistled. “Not much to go on here,” he said.

  Annie agreed.

  Chapter 3

  Tuesday, August 16th, 11:55 PM

  THE DARK FIGURE waited in the shadows while a car drifted by. He watched it out of sight, and then rose to his feet. He glanced up and down the street. It was empty. All clear.

  He adjusted his ski mask and stepped out of the shadows. He crept cautiously to the side of the house, keeping low. He stopped to listen a moment, and then continued along the side of the house toward the back, rounding the corner.

  He saw a basement window a few feet away. He stole silently across the grass and knelt down in front of it, avoiding a row of blooming rosebushes. He tested it. Locked.

  Reaching in the side pocket of his jacket, he retrieved a knife. He snapped it open and forced the blade between the upper and lower panels of the window. He worked at it awhile, and then heard a satisfying snap. He grunted softly and withdrew the knife, folded it carefully and tucked it away.

  Cautiously and slowly, he inched up the lower window. It slid easily, making only a soft squeak as he pushed it open.

  He stopped to listen again and heard nothing. He found a penlight in his other pocket. He switched it on and flashed it briefly inside, and then carefully eased through the window, feet first, finally landing with a faint thud on the basement floor.

  He switched the flashlight back on and looked around. He could see the steps to the main floor on the other side of the room. He stepped around a pile of boxes, and weaved his way around furniture and chairs. He cursed to himself when his foot connected with something lying on the floor. It sounded like a can. A soda can, or a beer can maybe. It skittered away and rattled for a moment, then became silent. He stood frozen for several minutes, listening, waiting, and hoping he hadn’t been heard.

  Finally, he was convinced he was safe. Moving more cautiously now, he crept across the room to the stairs ascending to the main floor of the house.

  He tested the steps for squeaks, seemed satisfied, and slowly made his way up. The door at the top swung smoothly as he turned the knob and pushed it open. He switched the flashlight off and stopped again to listen.

  The kitchen was straight ahead, the living room to the left, and a small bathroom to the right. There were no lights burning. Only the bright moonlight broke the darkness of the house, allowing enough light to see as he made his way down a short hall to the stairs leading up to the bedrooms.

  He removed a pistol from an inside pocket of his jacket, and holding it ready in his right hand, he took the stairs two at a time to lessen the odds of hitting one that squeaked. None did. He took the last step and stood quietly at the top, listening, pistol poised.

  He glanced to the right. The door to the master bedroom was closed. A smaller bedroom was dead ahead, and to the left was the guest room. He went left, creeping, the soft carpet deadening his footsteps. Just a few feet more.

  He reached the door and twisted the knob with his gloved hand, swinging it gently open a few inches. He could see the bed at the side wall. He smiled grimly when he saw Abigail. Her face was toward him, and her shallow breathing told him she was in a deep sleep.

  He cautiously moved across the carpeted floor until he stood by the side of the bed. She hadn’t moved. Satisfied, he reached into his side pocket and removed a small bottle. He twisted the top off and slowly poured its contents into the drinking glass, half full of water, sitting on the nightstand.

  As Abigail continued to breathe, sound asleep and unaware, he reached for the bottle of pills on the nightstand. He tucked the bottle under his jacket to reduce the sound as he popped it open. Then he poured several pills into his hand, counting as he went, and dumped them into his side pocket. Again, using his coat, he muffled the sound as he snapped the top back on and returned the bottle to the nightstand.

  He took one last look at his sleeping victim and
stole quietly from the room. He held the pistol, ready, just in case. He listened. All was quiet.

  He made it to the top of the stairs, then down. He carefully closed the door behind him before descending to the basement.

  He stole across the basement floor, avoiding obstacles, and hoisted himself out of the window. He slid it closed, then turned and made his way across the back of the house, down the side, and then he was gone, blending into the shadows and out of sight.

  Wednesday, August 17th, 8:05 AM

  THE EARLY DAWN threatened to brighten up Abigail Macy’s room, even through the drawn curtains.

  She had slept soundly. The extra sleeping pill she had taken the night before had done the trick. She felt wide awake and refreshed.

  Suddenly the events of the last days crashed back into her memory.

  She sighed and sat up, reaching for the bottle of pills. She dumped two into her hand and picked up the glass of water. It felt warm, so she dropped the pills on the nightstand and went into the washroom in the hallway outside of her room.

  She dumped the lukewarm water down the drain and turned on the tap. She looked at herself in the mirror while waiting for the water to run cold.

  She looked a mess. She reached for a hairbrush in a basket beside the sink and gave her hair a few strokes. Just enough to loosen some knots. Then she frowned at herself, and tossed the brush back into the basket.

  She rinsed out the glass and filled it with cold water. She carried it back into her bedroom, and swallowed the two pills.

  She looked at her watch. Philip would be gone to work by now. She picked up her housecoat that had been tossed over the end of the bed, put it on wearily, then knotted the belt, drawing it snugly.

  Her slippers were peeking out from under the bed. She kicked them out and slipped into them, wandered from the room, and went downstairs to the kitchen.

  She made a pot of coffee, poured a cup, and sat sipping it silently.

  She wondered if the murder she had seen was real. She hoped it wasn’t, but couldn’t convince herself. She had seen his face, and she was afraid to tell anyone who it was. He would come after her if she said anything.

  She sat alone in the kitchen, quietly sipping her coffee, fearful, and thinking.

  Chapter 4

  Wednesday, August 17th, 9:30 AM

  DETECTIVE HANK CORNING was slouched at his desk in the precinct. The desk, like the rest of the building, was well worn and had seen better days. The ancient hardwood floor was popping in places, the paint beginning to peel on the walls, and chairs squeaked and rumbled as officers moved about. All around were the low sounds of chatter, a louder voice now and then, phones ringing incessantly, all mixed with the hum of the naked fluorescent lighting overhead.

  Hank was sucking on a pencil and staring at the monitor of his outdated computer. As head detective of Richmond Hill’s small robbery/homicide division, he was trying to unravel a series of break-ins that had been taking place in the south end of the city.

  He ran his hand through his short cropped, slightly graying hair before massaging the back of his stiffening neck. Too much desk time.

  The phone on his desk jangled. He scooped it up.

  “Detective Hank Corning.”

  “Hank, it’s Jake.”

  Hank sat forward and put his elbows on the desk. “Hey Jake, what can I do for you?”

  Jake and Hank had known each other a long time. They met as teammates on the high school football team, and have been good friends ever since. Hank went on to police academy after that. No amount of convincing would get Jake to become a cop. He had already met Annie at the time, and as she went to U of T, Jake decided to go there as well.

  “We’ve been hired by Philip Macy to look into a murder his wife claims to have witnessed, “ Jake said. “I’m hoping you have some info for me.”

  “The Macys? There’s nothing much to it.”

  “You may be right Hank, but we need to look at it anyway. If you can help us?”

  “Sure, ok. That was a couple of days ago as I recall. I was at the scene. Let me grab the police report and I’ll drop over and see you guys. Just give me a half hour or so.”

  “Sounds good. See you soon.”

  Hank was eager to get out. He was more comfortable on the streets, rather than sitting behind a desk.

  The Macy case was already closed so he ran to the file room, made a photocopy of the report, returned to his desk, tucked it into his valise, and strode out the door.

  His old brown 2008 Chevy was waiting for him in the parking lot. It coughed a couple of times as he turned the key, then sputtered into life. He popped it into gear, and ten minutes later, he turned onto Carver Street and squeaked to a stop at the curb in front of the Lincoln’s.

  Jake answered the buzz at the door with a wide grin. "Come on in."

  Hank followed him into the office where Annie was parked at the desk. She looked up and smiled when they came into the room.

  Jake pushed the guest chair toward Hank. “Have a seat,” he said, as he grabbed a fold-up chair, flipped it open, and dropped into it. It groaned gently under his two hundred and ten pounds of muscle and bone, but held.

  Hank sat down, snapped open his valise and pulled out the report. He handed it to Annie. She browsed it.

  “It’s rather strange,” Hank said. “We talked to Philip and Abigail Macy. Abigail is very convincing. Her husband certainly believes she saw something, and I’m not so sure she didn’t either.”

  Annie was consulting the notes she had made during the interview. She frowned and said, “Apparently she had been drinking that night. And she was on some kind of medication...”

  “And,” Hank broke in, “we went to see her psychiatrist, a Dr. Hoffman, who seems to be of the opinion she was delusional.”

  “The booze, the drugs, and her anxiety disorder,” Jake said. “That’s quite a combination.”

  “Yes it is, and the fact we saw no indication of what she claims to have seen, well, we had to close the case.”

  “And you talked to the owner of the house?” Annie glanced at the notes. “Kevin Rand?”

  Hank pointed toward the papers Annie was holding. “Last page of the report. We talked to him. If he had killed someone, we saw no evidence of that, except for the lack of a woman in the house.”

  “Annie frowned. “Do you think maybe he killed his wife?”

  “We checked into that as well. He claims they are divorced, and she moved out west. He gave us her contact number, so we checked it out. Unless this is an elaborate cover-up, the woman I talked to certainly seemed to be his ex-wife.”

  “Maybe he had a girlfriend?” Jake suggested. “And he killed her?”

  Hank looked at Jake and shrugged. “Anything’s possible, but unless we have a body, or at least some evidence of a crime, we have nothing to go on.”

  “And Abby didn’t want to talk to us,” Annie said.

  “She didn’t say a lot to us either,” Hank said. “Philip did most of the talking, and she nodded a lot. She seemed to agree with everything he told us.”

  Annie sighed and leaned back in her chair. “Where do we start?” It was a rhetorical question.

  Hank shrugged. “Beats me.”

  Jake looked at Annie. “Any point in us talking to Rand?”

  “That’s about all we have.”

  Chapter 5

  Wednesday, August 17th, 11:30 AM

  “ACCORDING TO THE police report,” Annie said, “Kevin Rand runs a sporting goods store, called Game Time, in Midtown Plaza.”

  “We’ll take the Pontiac,” Jake said.

  Annie grabbed her handbag from the small table in the hallway. She checked to be sure it contained her cell phone and notepad, along with the police report and other necessary items, and then headed for the front door. Jake was right behind her, slipping his keys from a ring by the door on the way out.

  The Hurst mufflers rumbled when Jake turned the key. The motor purred like a contented kitten,
and they swung from the driveway onto the street. The wide tires squealed as they sped away. Annie frowned and rolled her eyes. She was used to it.

  The sun glinted off the hood of the bright red Firebird as they rounded the corner, heading for Main Street. Jake squinted, grabbed his sunglasses and poked them on his face.

  Another left and they were on Main, and in two minutes, they pulled into Midtown Plaza.

  The plaza was the home of the local Walmart store, along with a long row of other shops and businesses. Game Time was a large corner store at the far end of the plaza.

  Jake was able to find a parking space in front. He pulled in slowly, careful to keep a distance from other vehicles so a careless driver wouldn’t open their door and ding his beloved machine.

  The engine roared as Jake revved it couple of times, then died down to silence as he switched off the key. They climbed from the vehicle and went into the store.

  “Is Mr. Rand here?” Jake asked the cashier inside the front doors.

  She motioned vaguely toward the back. “In his office, I think.”

  Jake led the way, wandering down aisles of jerseys and t-shirts, skateboards, hockey sticks and pucks, baseball bats, gloves, and caps. A big-screen TV hung from the ceiling replaying yesterday’s baseball game. Jake stopped to try on a Blue Jays cap, then tossed it back on the rack and turned away. Annie put the hat back in its proper spot and followed him.

  A sign on the door along the back wall said, ‘Office, Employees Only’. Jake tapped.

  “Come in.”

  Jake pushed the door open. Kevin Rand was sitting, crouched over a desk, writing in a ledger of some sort. He looked up as the door swung open. He was fairly short, maybe late thirties, with a dab of gray already invading his temples. Thin, but not muscular. To Jake, he didn’t look like the type to own a sporting goods store.

  “May I help you?” Rand asked.

  Jake offered his hand. “I’m Jake Lincoln, and this is my wife Annie. We’re from Lincoln Investigations. May we ask you a few questions?”