Cold Justice

by Rayven T. Hill

  “Jake here.”

  “Jake, it’s Philip Macy.”

  “Hello Mr. Macy. How are you?” He sounded truly concerned.

  “Well, not really so good. I just wanted to see if you had anything yet?”

  Jake paused. “My wife and I had delayed calling you until we had something solid to go on. I don’t know if you had heard about Vera Blackley. Her body was discovered yesterday afternoon.” Jake told him the details.

  Philip was stunned. He hadn’t heard, had barely been mobile since Abby’s death, and hadn’t even switched on the television.

  Jake continued, “We believe Mrs. Blackley is the woman that your wife saw being murdered. They live on the property directly behind. We’re sure if we find her killer, then we’ll know what happened to your wife. We believe it’s the same man.”

  “So then, you believe my wife was not delusional?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Do you have anything on Vera Blackley’s murder yet?” he asked hopefully.

  “I’m sorry, nothing concrete yet, but we’re currently following up a few good leads, and we’ll be sure to let you know what we find.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Silence, then, “Not really, but I’ll certainly keep in touch, and if there’s anything we need from you, I’ll let you know,” Jake said, and added firmly, “We’re going to get to the bottom of this.”

  “Thanks, Jake,” Philip said quietly.

  They hung up. Philip was dejected, and felt useless. He knew it had only been a couple of days, and these things take time, but he was anxious. He went to the outer office and started a pot of coffee. He had to get his mind off Abby.

  Chapter 37

  Friday, August 19th, 9:28 AM

  DETECTIVE HANK CORNING had dropped by the precinct to pick up the reports on Vera Blackley. All around was the constant buzz of activity, rustling paper, phones buzzing, the prattle of chatter, and the tapping of duty boots on the time-honored hardwood floor. Officers scurried back and forth in their unceasing battle for law and order. A useless air conditioner droned behind him, kicking out a stingy amount of air, barely cooling the tepid atmosphere.

  He slouched at his ancient desk and leafed through the paperwork. He wanted to have another go at Captain Diego. He saw a definite connection between the murder of Vera Blackley, and the death of Abigail Macy.

  But, he knew any attempt to get Diego to rethink this thing, would be fruitless. Abigail had committed suicide, and Anderson Blackley was in jail, charged with murdering his wife. Two separate and unrelated cases. At least, that’s the way the captain saw it. It was nice and neat.

  Too neat.

  The autopsy of Vera Blackley had been finished, and forensics had gone over everything from the crime scene and Blackley’s house. The complete lab reports were in. It was all right there, sitting in front of him on his desk. All wrapped up.

  After his talk with Philip, Hank had been concerned. Philip seemed to be so despondent. Who could blame him, really?

  He closed the folder and dropped it into his valise. He had some other business to attend to. He was still working on the series of break-ins that had been taking place in the south end of the city. He would drop these reports to the Lincolns on his way there. He gave Jake a call to be sure he was at home. He was.

  Grabbing his valise, he strode across the precinct floor and out the front door. His Chevy was parked behind the building where it always was, and he climbed in and keyed the ignition. The engine knocked a couple of times and then awoke.

  In a few minutes, he slipped into the driveway behind Annie’s Escort and shut down the motor. It crackled and popped as he stepped out and climbed the steps to the front door.

  Annie answered his ring and invited him in. “We’re just in the office,” she said. “Going over our notes, and trying to figure out our next move.”

  Hank followed Annie to the office, and Jake grabbed a fold-up chair, flipped it open, and dropped it in front of him. “Have a seat, he said. “I’d take that one, but I’m afraid I might break it.”

  Annie parked behind the desk as Jake sat in the guest chair. Hank dropped into the fold-up, pulled out the reports and set his valise on the floor beside him. He plopped the folder on the desk. “All of the reports on Vera Blackley are there,” he said.

  Jake grabbed the folder and pulled out the autopsy report, tossing the rest back on the desk. He leafed through the pages, making the occasional sound of interest as something caught his attention.

  Annie flipped open the folder and studied the forensics report.

  “One interesting thing there,” Hank said, pointing to the paper Annie was reviewing. “Blackley’s car came up clean. They also checked Vera Blackley’s car, it was in the garage, and it came up clean as well. There’s no evidence either car was used to transport the body to the bin, or anywhere else for that matter.”

  Jake looked up. “So, if Blackley was the killer, then how did he get her body out of there?”

  “Good question,” Annie said. “And it bolsters my theory. I still think Blackley is innocent.”

  “And looky here,” Jake said, as he stabbed at the autopsy report with his finger. “The coroner reports no signs of sexual abuse or intercourse.”

  Annie looked at Jake with interest. “I think that tells us a lot.”

  “It sure does, cuz here’s the question. If Blackley came home and killed his wife, then why was she half naked? If she was dressed that way because some other guy was there, and Blackley killed her, then where’s the other guy?”

  Hank cut in. “And if she wasn’t having an affair, then why was she half naked?”

  Annie added. “And why no signs of sexual intercourse?”

  “On the other hand,” Hank said. “If she wasn’t having an affair, then was it an attempted rape gone wrong?”

  “It doesn’t seem like a rape to me,” Annie said. “Because of the wine. A rapist doesn’t usually bring wine with him. There were two glasses, remember?”

  Hank nodded, and said, “Going back to the way she was dressed, or rather not dressed, it seems obvious, given the Blackley’s failing marriage, she had not dressed that way for her husband. Therefore, I think we can conclude she was having an affair of some kind.”

  Jake added, “I think the wine stains found on the floor of Blackley’s home show that as well. There was definitely some wine tasting going on that day.”

  “I talked to some of the neighbors as well,” Hank said. “And the woman across the street remembers seeing a red Mercedes convertible parked in the Blackley driveway on occasion. She remembered it so well because she had often wanted one herself, but could never afford it.”

  “That’s interesting,” Jake said, “There’s gotta be a lot of those cars around, but it does tell us she had a visitor. Somebody with some money.” He paused. “He may be the other man.”

  “So,” Annie added. “We’re back where we started. Who’s the other man, and why did he kill her?”

  “Here’s the most interesting thing,” Hank said, as he glanced at Jake. “It’s in the autopsy report you’re holding, Jake. Remember the hammer?”

  Jake nodded. Annie frowned and said, “Yes.”

  Hank continued, “There was blood on it, along with Blackley’s fingerprints, and a strand of hair from Mrs. Blackley. However, the coroner report states there was no blunt force trauma to her head, or anywhere else on her body. There seems to be no way she had been hit with that hammer.”

  “And yet,” Jake said. “Her blood was on it.”

  “I had a problem with that hammer right from the start,” Annie said. “Now, I think it’s part of the frame-up.”

  “You might be right, Annie,” Hank said. “There was a small cut on her wrist. The only place blood was drawn.”

  “And that’s where the blood came from,” Annie concluded.

  Hank shrugged. “Could be.”

  “Were there any defensive wounds on her bod
y?” Annie asked.

  Jake answered, “There seems to be a whole lot of them.” He waved the report. “According to this.”

  “I’m not sure what that tells us,” Annie said. “Except she tried to fight off her attacker.”

  Hank added, “There was nothing under her fingernails to show she scratched him, or anything else on the body that would show exactly who he was.”

  “What about the stuff that was in the garbage bag, in the bin?”

  Hank said, “The wine glasses, the bottle, the cork, and the cloth, along with the wine stains on Blackley’s floor, all came from the same source. And there were no prints on any of them.”

  “So, they were wiped clean,” Annie said.

  “Almost,” Hank said. “There were small traces of lipstick on one of them, consistent with the lipstick Vera Blackley had on.”

  “So, one of the glasses was hers,” Jake said. “No surprise there.”

  “True,” said Annie. “But it does tell us they drank some of the wine. There had obviously been some conversation going on prior to the murder.”

  Jake interrupted. “And that proves, to me, she knew her killer.”

  “That rules out attempted rape,” Hank added.

  Annie laughed. “So, we’re back to our original theory. I think we’d better stick to that.”

  Jake and Hank agreed.

  Chapter 38

  Friday, August 19th, 9:32 AM

  PIERRE BOUTIN was a perpetual tourist.

  His grandfather had made an uncountable amount of money on a goldmine in northern Quebec, and Pierre had never known what work was all about. He spent most of his days, just wandering around from city to city, country to country, enjoying the sights, sounds, and smells of the world. He used to call Montreal his home, but it had been so long since he had been there, he almost forgot his old town.

  This morning, he was running a little late. He had partied too long last night, and slept in. It wouldn’t do to miss his morning run, so he donned the jogging bottoms he had picked up in Paris, along with a Nike sweatshirt, and runners that bore an American label.

  He popped a couple of Tylenol, and downed a bottle of water, grabbing one more for the road, and fast-walked from his hotel room. He took the stairs down five flights to the lobby. He drew stares from the front desk as he jogged across the Italian marble, and out the door, giving a merci beaucoup to the doorman on the way through.

  Without pausing, he took a deep breath of the city air, better than most, worse than some. He pounded up the sidewalk, twisted and weaved around the bustling pedestrians, heading for a place where he could go all out. He loved to run, and his destination was the park he had enjoyed the last few days, just a couple of blocks from the hotel.

  He spun around a curve in the sidewalk and took a quick left onto a wide path leading into Richmond Valley Park. He sang lustily as he jogged, his clear voice catching the ear of a few curious who were strolling about.

  As he blurred past a row of cedars, something red caught his eye. Looks like somebody is sleeping back there. He continued on.

  The pathway that wound through the trees, past benches and picnic tables, snaked in and around for almost a mile. He would take the route twice, and then head back to the hotel for a much-needed shower, and an adult beverage. Or two.

  As he passed the wading pool, near the park entrance, he paused and knelt down, cupped his hands, pouring some of the cool liquid over his head. It drenched his short hair, ran down his face, his neck and back, and refreshed him. Ready for another lap.

  He rose to his feet, and as he began to pick up speed, he glanced again toward the sleeping guy behind the bush. Except, when he curiously pulled the bushes aside, it wasn’t a guy, and she wasn’t sleeping.

  He stepped around the evergreens for a better view.

  “Sacré Bleu,” he shouted. “Qu’est-ce que c’est?”

  He stepped back onto the path, hurried past the wading pool, and onto the sidewalk. A woman lugging two bags of groceries was hustling by, muttering to herself.

  He stopped her. “Telephone, please.”

  She frowned at him, looked the other way, and hustled faster.

  Along came a boy on a skateboard, leaning over, burning up the sidewalk. Pierre stepped in from of him, flagging him down. The boy spun to the side, almost wiping out in the grass. He looked angrily at Pierre and swore.

  “Bonjour. Telephone, please?” Pierre asked.

  The skateboarder cursed again. “I don’t have a phone. Get out of my way, you idiot.” He dropped back on his board, and rolled away.

  Pierre sighed. Nobody wants to help. He spun around, stepped through a row of parked cars, and into the street. A taxi was cruising by, looking for a fare. It squeaked to a stop as Pierre took another step forward and raised his arm.

  He swung the front door of the cab open. “Police. Telephone, please. Need police.”

  The cabbie cocked his head and ogled him for a moment.

  Pierre pointed toward the park. “Body. She dead.”

  The driver grunted, threw the car in park, and climbed from the cab. “Show me,” he said.

  Pierre rushed away, turning often to beckon the lumbering man to hurry.

  The cabbie followed Pierre, jiggling and puffing, to the row of evergreens, and then behind. He stopped short when he saw where Pierre was pointing. He cursed and turned his head from the sight of a woman, rotting in the heat, covered with flies. The flow of blood from her almost severed head had spread out, dried, and been devoured by the rich soil beneath her lifeless body.

  He called 9-1-1.

  Chapter 39

  Friday, August 19th, 10:05 AM

  JAKE HAD BEEN discussing their plans for the day with Annie, when his iPhone buzzed. It was Hank.

  “There’s been another murder,” Hank said. “I thought you might want to come down here. It’s a friend of Abigail Macy.”

  Jake’s eyes popped. He leaned forward and looked at Annie. “Another murder,” he whispered, as he put the phone on speaker and set it on the desk. Annie leaned in.

  “It’s at Richmond Valley Park. I’m there now,” Hank continued. “Near the wading pool.”

  “We’ll be right there,” Jake said, hanging up the phone and tucking it away.

  Annie looked at Jake and raised a brow.

  “A friend of Abigail Macy,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  Annie grabbed her handbag from the kitchen and followed Jake out the front door to the Firebird. They jumped in and the engine thundered, tires squealed, and trees blurred by as they sped up the street.

  The park was near the downtown core, but traffic was light this time of day. In a few minutes, they saw flashing red and blue ahead of them. A dozen police cars were pulled over, one or two halfway on the sidewalk. A cop was directing traffic, the flow bogging down as drivers slowed and twisted their necks in the direction of the commotion.

  Jake pulled up behind the line of cruisers and shut down the engine. They stepped from the vehicle and hurried into the park, past the wading pool.

  An area to the left had been cordoned off with familiar yellow tape. Investigators were busy, placing evidence cones as cameras clicked, evaluating and collecting physical specimens, studying, and consulting with each other. Two or three officers guarded the area, making sure the gathering group of onlookers stayed well back.

  Jake pointed. “There’s Hank,” he said.

  Hank was just outside the yellow barrier, talking to Rod Jameson, the lead investigator. He nodded a hello as they approached, and pointed to a short row of evergreens. “She’s right back there,” he said. “You can circle around and take a look if you want, but I wouldn’t suggest it. It’s a pretty gruesome sight.”

  “What happened?” Annie asked.

  “Her throat was slit. Her head is nearly half off. Pretty messy.”

  Annie wrinkled her nose and looked at Jake. “I guess we won’t bother,” she said.

  Jake shook his head vigorously.
He didn’t want to see either.

  Hank pointed to a man, just inside the tape. He was sitting forward in a fold-up chair, his head in his hands. “That’s Pierre Boutin,” he said. “He discovered the body.”

  Annie looked over. Boutin sat up and rubbed his face, looked around, and dropped his head again. Annie looked at Hank. “Did she have ID on her?”

  Hank shook his head. “No, she had no identification. Nothing at all, but I recognized her right away. Her name is Samantha Riggs, and she worked for Philip Macy. I talked to her briefly when I interviewed Macy a few days ago.”

  Jake whistled. “She knew who killed Mrs. Macy. That’s why she’s dead.”

  “I think you’re right,” Hank said. “Or perhaps, she knew who killed Vera Blackley.”

  “Or both,” Annie said.

  Jake turned and scowled as he heard a familiar screech. It was the voice of Lisa Krunk. She was rushing toward them, microphone pushed ahead of her, Don bustling along behind.

  The red light glowed. Lisa looked down her thin nose and spoke, “Detective Corning, can you tell me a little bit about what’s happening here?”

  Hank looked at the microphone three inches from his nose, and then at Lisa. “A body of a woman was discovered here. We don’t know much else at this point. The investigators have just arrived.”

  “Who was she, Detective?”

  Hank frowned. “She had no identification with her,” he said.

  Lisa turned to Jake. The camera followed. “Mr. Lincoln, you and your wife are private investigators. Do you have an interest in this latest murder?”

  Jake thought a moment before saying, “It’s too early to tell. There may, or may not, be any relation to something we are working on now.”

  “Are you saying this may be related to the murder of Vera Blackley?”

  Jake frowned. “No, I’m not saying that at all.”

  Hank spoke up. “I’ll make a comment when we know more, but right now, excuse us please.” He motioned toward Jake and Annie to follow him as he lifted the tape and stepped inside. They were right behind.