Cold Justice

by Rayven T. Hill

  “But again, it’s nothing conclusive. Certainly not enough to reopen her file.”

  Annie said, “Maybe not, but it’s enough for us.”

  “Annie and I are planning to see her psychiatrist this morning, Dr. Boris Hoffman,” Jake said and shrugged. “Maybe he can tell us something we don’t know.”

  “We talked to him before, regarding Mrs. Macy’s report she had seen a murder,” Hank said. “At that time, he stated she was showing tendencies to be delusional and paranoid. Another talk with him might be a good idea.” He shrugged, and added, “I guess it wouldn’t hurt, anyway.”

  Annie was browsing the forensics report. She looked up. “We don’t have much else at this point. We can talk to any friends or acquaintances she may have as well. If Mrs. Macy was murdered, as we suspect, then it was by someone she knew. I think she let him into the house.”

  “So,” Jake said, “we need to get a list of everyone she knew. One of them is likely her killer.”

  “What’s the motive?” Hank asked.

  “She witnessed a murder,” Annie said. “I believe he thinks she could identify him, and he had to eliminate her as a precaution.”

  “So find out who was murdered. If there was truly a murder. And then you have your suspect,” Hank said.

  “That’s our best bet,” Annie said.

  “I have a problem with the pills,” Jake said. “How did he, or she, get her to down all those pills?”

  “Perhaps she was drunk, and then he forced them down her throat,” Annie said.

  “Or, dissolved them in her drink,” Jake said, and then looked at Hank. “Do any of those reports say whether or not there was anything in the glass? Any residue of Lorazepam?”

  Hank shook his head. “There was no residue in the glass. She had to have taken them directly in pill form.”

  “Or in the coffee,” Annie added.

  Hank agreed. “Perhaps.”

  “Funny thing is though,” Annie said. “There were no dirty cups.”

  Jake shrugged. “She washed up.”

  Annie nodded slowly. “Maybe, but then why didn’t she wash up the coffee pot. She would have dumped out the rest of the pot. She didn’t drink much coffee and likely had no plans to have another cup.” She paused, and added, “And I believe the killer is a he, not a she. Remember, Abigail Macy said it was a man she saw killing a woman.”

  “Yeah, good point,” Jake said.

  Annie glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. “So, we need to see Hoffman this morning. He said he could allow us a few minutes. And then, we need to find out who Mrs. Macy saw being killed.”

  “Good luck guys. I gotta run,” Hank said as he stood and picked up his valise. “You can keep those reports. They’re just copies.” He turned to leave.

  “Oh, Hank,” Annie stood and asked, “Can you get me any reports of missing persons from Sunday night on?”

  “Sure,” Hank said. “I’ll see what I can come up with.” He waved over his shoulder as he left, and said, “Thanks for the coffee.”

  Chapter 15

  Thursday, August 18th, 9:50 AM

  THE SUN WAS blinking in and out from behind inky clouds. A few drops of rain were already splashing onto the windshield of the Ford Escort as Jake and Annie climbed inside. Thunder smacked a few miles away, rumbling through the air, promising to bring more rain. It boomed again, this time closer.

  Annie tossed her handbag and umbrella into the back seat, fastened her seatbelt, and turned the key. The engine spun and came alive.

  She glared up at the sky and touched the wiper control, slipping it into intermittent. It squeaked across the glass and settled again into place.

  Jake’s machine was parked in the garage, safely out of the way of the rain that had been threatened that morning. It wasn’t used to seeing rain. Annie’s car was. Jake wanted to keep it that way.

  Annie looked over. “Fasten your seatbelt,” she said.

  Jake could never get used to wearing seat belts. They didn’t seem safe to him. All tied in like that. Hard to control a vehicle when you can’t move around. Nonetheless, he wasn’t driving, so he snapped his belt on, and powered down his window. Not enough rain yet to worry about a few drops. He stuck his elbow out, and settled back.

  Annie tugged on the shifter and touched the gas pedal. She drove carefully from the driveway, down the street and took a left turn.

  Traffic was thin. Usually was this time of day. Most people were either at work already, or didn’t work at all. There wasn’t enough rain to slow things down yet, just a dampening of the streets, making the tires squish as they turned onto Main Street.

  Dr. Boris Hoffman’s office was located on the second floor of Midtown Plaza, above a pizza restaurant. Eat in, take out, and delivery, the sign promised. Jake had ordered pizza there once. It was as good as any.

  The steps to the second floor were to the right of the restaurant. Annie slipped into a parking space directly in front of the doors leading up, and they stepped from the vehicle.

  Inside the lobby, a placard on the wall listed the establishments occupying the second floor.

  Annie pointed. Dr. Boris Hoffman. Suite 204.

  There was no elevator, just stairs, and they climbed them, entering through a door leading into a wide hallway extending for a distance in both directions. An arrow led them to the right. They passed a few suites, and stopped in front of a door with a shiny faux gold banner, the doctor’s name stenciled in plain black letters. A handwritten sign below said, ‘Ring Bell and Come In.”

  They did.

  A pretty young receptionist looked up as they entered. She smiled. “Can I help you?”

  “Jake and Annie Lincoln. We have an appointment to see Dr. Hoffman,” Annie said.

  The receptionist consulted a ledger. She frowned. “I don’t see anything here.”

  “We’re not patients,” Annie said. “We called earlier and were promised we could see him for a few minutes at ten o’clock.”

  The girl peeled off a sticky note stuck to the computer monitor. “Here it is,” she said, looking up. “If you would like to take a seat, Dr. Hoffman will be right with you.”

  She picked up a phone and stabbed a button. She spoke into it as Jake and Annie took a seat along a wall of chairs, packed together in a row of four or five.

  Jake browsed through a stack of magazines on a table in front of them. Psychiatric Times. Journal of the American Psychiatric Association. He looked for something worth reading, and settled on a three month old copy of Time.

  Annie was already browsing a magazine, flipping impatiently through the pages.

  The receptionist looked up. “You may go in now,” she said, as she stood and went to a door to their left.

  They dropped their magazines back onto the pile, stood, and the girl swung the door open and motioned inside as they approached it. They stepped inside the room, Annie leading, Jake followed.

  Dr. Boris Hoffman was seated behind a large, and intricately carved walnut desk, containing only a delicately decorated lamp, a photo, and a pen resting on the blotter in front of him. Jake glanced at the photo. It was a woman, nice looking, sophisticated, probably his wife.

  Hoffman was resting back, his elbows on the armrests, his hands in a praying position, tucked under his neatly trimmed dark beard. He motioned toward a pair of guest chairs in front of the desk.

  They sat.

  Jake studied Hoffman. Maybe about forty years old, slightly thinning hair, with no gray. Probably touched up. Looks like an expensive suite. Maybe Armani, or Gucci. Jake didn’t know the brands too well. Nice tie, too.

  He took a quick look around the spacious area. Dark paneling on the walls. Maybe walnut, or mahogany. A bookcase filled with rows of matching books. A few paintings on the walls. Could be originals. Jake didn’t know. There was a comfortable looking couch to the right, with a pair of matching armchairs. The whole room had a rich, elegant look.

  Hoffman spoke. His voice was slightly deeper
than most. “I promised you a few minutes, however I don’t know what I can tell you that may help.” He sounded refined, well educated. Rich.

  “Thank you for your time, Dr. Hoffman,” Annie said. “We’ll try not to take up too much of it.”

  Hoffman nodded slightly.

  Annie continued, “As you are aware, a patient of yours, Abigail Macy, was found dead yesterday. An apparent suicide.”

  Hoffman nodded again. “I am aware,” he said.

  “We don’t think it was suicide.”

  Hoffman’s brows shot up.

  “We believe she was murdered,” Jake said.

  Hoffman looked thoughtfully at Jake. “What brought you to that conclusion?”

  “There’s some evidence. A few things don’t make sense.”

  “Such as?”

  Jake ignored the question. They weren’t here to answer questions. They were here to get answers to their questions. “Dr. Hoffman, we had hoped to get some insight into Abigail Macy.”

  Hoffman frowned. “I can’t tell you a whole lot,” he said. “Patient confidentiality precludes me from discussing certain areas.”

  Annie spoke, “I understand Doctor, but Mrs. Macy is dead now. Confidentiality in many areas doesn’t apply, such as...”

  Hoffman interrupted, “I am well aware of the exclusions. I will conduct our conversation accordingly.”

  Jake thought the guy was a bit of a jerk, but didn’t say anything.

  Annie spoke, “Dr. Hoffman, Mrs. Macy had an appointment to see you yesterday morning. We are trying to piece together her day. Could you tell us, did she keep her appointment?”

  Hoffman shook his head. “No, she never showed up.”

  “Was that unusual for her?”

  Hoffman nodded. “I believe it was the only time.”

  “She had been seeing you quite often over the last month,” Annie said. “Can you tell us a little bit about her state of mind?”

  “I already spoke to the detectives regarding this.” He frowned.

  “Yes, I realize that, but we would like to hear it first hand. And perhaps there may be something you can add.”

  Hoffman thought a moment. “As I stated, she had anxiety disorder brought on by the death of her child. This had been making her delusional and paranoid at times.”

  “Did she express any of her delusional thoughts to you?”

  “Not explicitly, but her overall state of mind suggested it.”

  “Did she ever appear suicidal, or have any thoughts of suicide?” Jake asked.

  “Yes. She certainly did. She occasionally expressed her lack of the will to live. She was very depressed at times, and a deep depression can cause you to take actions you wouldn’t normally consider.”

  Annie nodded. “Yes, I understand that, however, did she ever mention specifically any attempts she had made?”

  “No, she never specified any attempt. I believe she had been considering it for some time, however, before finally acting on it.”

  “So it’s your professional opinion then, that she took her own life?”

  “Yes. I believe she did. She felt she was to blame for the death of her child.”

  “And yet, she didn’t leave a note. Isn’t that unusual, Doctor?”

  “I can’t speak to that. I don’t have any information on why, or why not, suicide victims write notes. Frankly, in the years I have been involved in this field, I have only counseled one other person, many years ago, who eventually took his own life.”

  Annie hesitated. She looked at Jake for a moment before looking back at Hoffman, “Dr. Hoffman, Mrs. Macy had claimed to have witnessed a murder on Sunday evening. What’s your opinion of that claim?”

  “Again, I believe she was delusional. When the police interviewed me, they told me she had consumed a significant amount of alcohol. I believe the alcohol, coupled with the medications, had caused her delusion and paranoia.”

  Annie nodded. “Is there anything else you could tell us, Doctor?”

  “I really can’t think of anything else. Unfortunately, Abigail Macy was in an unwell state of mind. Her death is sad, but not totally surprising.”

  Annie looked at Jake and then stood. She offered her hand to Hoffman and they shook. Jake stood and shook as well.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Jake said, as they turned and left. They smiled and thanked the receptionist as they left the office.

  Chapter 16

  Thursday, August 18th, 10:43 AM

  ANNIE SLIPPED the paper from the fax machine and glanced at it. It was from Hank. It was a list of persons reported missing in the last month.

  She sat at the desk, dropped the paper in front of her and studied it.

  There were five names on the list.

  The first name she was able to eliminate immediately. It was a twelve-year-old boy who had been reported missing two weeks ago. She grabbed a red marker from the penholder and crossed it out. Immediately, she felt guilty about slashing his name out as if he didn’t matter, and felt sorry for the boy, and his parents, and hoped he would be found safe.

  She paused a moment before continuing down the list.

  The second name was Betty Barnoble. Thirty years old. A possibility. She ticked the name.

  The third one. Nope. An eighty-four-year-old man had gone missing two weeks ago. A note beside his name said he had turned up two days later, wandering in the park.

  She stroked that one out, and was glad he was safe.

  The fourth name looked possible. Thirty-eight-year-old Vera Blackley. She put a tick beside the name.

  The last name was another man. Abigail Macy had said it was a woman she had seen murdered. She crossed out the name and sat back, twiddling the marker in her fingers.

  She realized the victim could have been from anywhere. From another city, or town, but she suspected they were local. That left two distinct possibilities. Vera Blackley and Betty Barnoble.

  She leaned in and powered up her Mac. In a couple of minutes, a picture of Matty and Jake, wrestling in the back yard, appeared on her monitor. She smiled at the sight of her two boys. It always made her smile.

  She booted up Safari and went to Google. She did a boolean search. ‘“Vera Blackley” AND “Richmond Hill”’. Nothing. Another search. ‘“Betty Barnoble” AND “Richmond Hill”’. Nothing. It seemed missing persons were not big enough stories to rate mentioning, even in the local papers.

  She picked up the desk phone and dialed Hank’s cell.

  He answered on the first ring. “Detective Hank Corning.”

  “Hi, Hank. It’s Annie. I got the list of names you faxed me and I see a couple of possibilities. There’s two local women on the list. Do you have the police reports on Betty Barnoble and Vera Blackley?”

  “One second,” Hank replied. She could hear the faint tapping of computer keys. Then, “Betty Barnoble. Thirty years old. Reported missing by her husband on August eleventh. Last Tuesday. According to the report by the attending officers, Mrs. Barnoble had gone shopping out of town the day before and never returned. Because there was no evidence of wrongdoing, only the basic investigations were done. She was unable to be reached via her cell phone, and after contacting her friends and family, there was still no trace of her.”

  Annie was furiously taking notes. “Is she still missing?” she asked.

  “According to a follow up by the investigating officer, she was still missing as of yesterday.”

  “And the other one?” Annie asked.

  “What’s the name again?”

  “Vera Blackley.”

  A few more key taps could be heard, and then, “Vera Blackley. Thirty-eight years old. Reported missing this Monday, August fourteenth, by her husband. He was out of town for several days and came back on the fourteenth. He was unable to reach her by phone and he had tried calling her friends and family. No one had heard from her since Sunday, the thirteenth. Again, there was no evidence of foul play, so after the basic investigations, it was filed away. A follow-
up yesterday showed she was still missing.”

  Annie scribbled a few notes on the paper beside Vera Blackley’s name.

  “There’s a note here by the attending officer,” Hank continued. “The officer was of the opinion the husband didn’t seem concerned. The husband stated, and this is a quote, ‘She probably just left me again.’ Unquote.”

  Annie laughed, and then said, “Ok, that’s great Hank. This gives me somewhere to start. Will you fax me over those two reports?”

  “Sure. Right away.”

  “Oh, and Hank?”

  “Yes?”

  “That twelve year old boy on the list. Jerry Farnsworth. Did they ever find him?”

  Hank tapped the keys and a moment later he said, “Yup. He showed up three days later. According to the report, he had run away from home and found out life on the street wasn’t all he had expected, and returned on his own.”

  Annie smiled. “A happy ending.”

  Hank chuckled. “Yes. And a lesson learned.”

  Annie laughed, and then said, “Thanks, Hank. Take care.”

  Annie studied the notes she had made. She realized, if the woman that had been murdered, was murdered by her husband, then she may not have been reported missing. But at least these two names were a place to begin. It’s all she had.

  The fax machine rang, and then squealed. She would have to get a new machine one day. That one was pretty ancient. But it still worked. She stood and went to the fax and waited. She watched a paper come from the machine and slide into the tray. Then another one. She scooped them up and sat at the desk. Leaning back, she studied the reports.

  She was looking for the addresses of the missing persons.

  Betty Barnoble. 18 Maverly Court. She tapped a few keys on the keyboard. Google maps showed Maverly Court to be on the other side of Main. She used the satellite view and studied the area, trying to get a feel for things.

  Next, Vera Blackley. 90 Berrymore Street. Again, she did a search on Google maps. Berrymore Street was just a few blocks away. She zoomed in closer and her mouth dropped open.