The Falling Girl (A Private Investigator Mystery Series of Crime and Suspense, Lee Callaway #3)

by Thomas Fincham

  Callaway bit his bottom lip to control his emotions. He couldn’t believe it had come to this.

  He placed the photo back and walked around the room. He didn’t see anything that resembled a file or folder.

  He was walking around the bed when his foot hit something underneath. He leaned down and pulled out a shoebox. He opened it and found notes, police reports, and photos. One of the photos was of Gail with her friends.

  Jackpot! he thought

  He grabbed the box and went downstairs.

  The landlord hurried up to him. “You find any money?”

  Callaway pulled out two hundred dollars. “It was tucked under his pillow,” he said.

  The landlord smiled. “I knew it.” He took the bills.

  Callaway hated having to spend the money Frank Henderson had given him, but he couldn’t leave without greasing the landlord’s palm.

  Callaway got in his Charger and drove away.

  NINETY

  Fisher found the medical examiner in the morgue. She was dressed in green overalls, and there were specks of blood on the front of her shirt and her sleeves.

  “I was in the middle of an autopsy,” Wakefield said as a way of apologizing.

  “I can wait until you’re done,” Fisher said.

  “No, this is important.”

  Fisher was across the city when she received the call. She had dropped everything and rushed over.

  They walked to another room. Wakefield stopped next to a gurney. A white cloth was covering a body. She slid the cloth down to reveal Scott’s face.

  Fisher no longer shared Wakefield’s admiration for how handsome Scott was, even in death. Behind the good looks lurked a hideous human being. Instead of using his fame to help others, he used it to help himself.

  “I believe my initial instincts were correct,” Wakefield said.

  “What do you mean?” Fisher asked.

  “The victim did not die of blunt force trauma. The wound on the head is superficial and could not have caused significant damage that would lead to death.”

  “Okay, but how did he die?” Fisher asked.

  “It was a puzzle that kept me up many nights.”

  I don’t doubt it, Fisher thought.

  “I couldn’t pinpoint the basis of his demise. How could a man in relatively good health die from a bump on the head? There had to be a logical explanation for this.”

  Fisher could tell Wakefield was enjoying this. The big reveal would come after she had set up the mystery.

  “If it wasn’t blunt force trauma, then what? The victim showed no other signs of physical distress. There were no marks on the face, torso, arms, or legs. That means death was not caused by external factors, but internal.”

  “Internal?” Fisher repeated.

  Wakefield nodded. “I had to go back and conduct a fresh autopsy. I had to ignore what I saw before—the wound on the head—and focus on what I knew about the victim. You mention in your report that you had seen an insulin injection in the victim’s home.”

  “I did, in his bedroom.”

  “This reminded me of a study I had read a few years ago. It took some work, but I was able to dig it up.”

  Wakefield walked over to a table and returned with a document. “Scientists in the U.K. have demonstrated that having high sugar levels could affect blood vessels, which in turn could lead to heart attacks.”

  Fisher blinked. “So he died of a heart attack?”

  Wakefield nodded. “The coronary artery provides blood to the heart muscle to give it oxygen and nutrients. When that artery is blocked, it can lead to heart attacks. The study showed that high glucose in the blood can change the behavior of the blood vessels, making them contract even more. What’s more interesting, a significant portion of the population who suffers a heart attack will show high glucose in the blood stream because of the stress response from changes in the blood vessels. In order to further confirm my findings, I had to request the victim’s medical records. They took some time to arrive, but when they did, they confirmed the victim was suffering from DHD.”

  “DHD?” Fisher asked.

  “Diabetic Heart Disease. The victim had had this disease for over twenty years. Over time, high blood sugar levels can damage blood vessels and nerves that connect to the heart. For diabetics, the most common cause of death is from heart disease and stroke.”

  “So are you saying he was not taking his insulin shots?” Fisher asked.

  “I think he was.” Wakefield pulled up the white cloth, revealing Scott’s stomach. “There are tiny puncture marks in the stomach where the victim was injecting insulin. Also, like you said, the victim had an insulin kit next to his bed, which indicates he was taking his daily required dose.”

  “Then how did his blood sugar level go dangerously high?” Fisher asked.

  Wakefield pulled a magnifying glass from her coat pocket and held it over Scott’s arm. “It took some sleuthing, but I found a puncture wound on the right arm. It’s fresher than the marks on the stomach. The toxicology report showed no traces of drugs of any kind, which would eliminate recreational drug use. The mark could have appeared from giving blood or getting IV fluids, but I am inclined not to go with either of those scenarios.”

  “Then what are you saying?” Fisher asked.

  “It seems someone may have injected the victim with enough glucose to induce him to have a severe heart attack.”

  NINETY-ONE

  Callaway spent an hour going through the contents in Jimmy’s shoebox. The police report concluded that Gail’s death was either an accident or a suicide. They could not say which one with certainty, but they had ruled out murder.

  The autopsy report explained Gail had suffered a ruptured spleen, cracked ribs, broken arms and legs, facial fractures, and brain hemorrhaging. The latter was the cause of her death.

  Anyone who fell fifteen floors would suffer that, and much more, Callaway thought.

  Scott’s statement was verified by the lead detective on the case. Scott was indeed in Vermont shooting a movie at the time of Gail’s death.

  A statement by Brad Kirkman was also verified. He was on a flight out of Bayview on the night Gail died.

  Then there was the witness at the crime scene, Douglas Hoyte. He said he had seen a woman run out of the building right after Gail’s fall. The woman’s name was Tamara Davis, and she was homeless and a drug addict.

  According to Jimmy’s notes, he had searched for Tamara throughout Bayview and had come up empty. Jimmy believed Tamara had either left the city, was dead, or perhaps someone was hiding her. He had no proof to confirm his theories, but Callaway could tell he was troubled by the fact he was unable to locate her.

  Jimmy had a nose for trouble and for sniffing out clues. He was like a bloodhound who could follow a trail from one end of the city to the other, so it wasn’t inconceivable for Jimmy to think someone was helping Tamara elude the authorities.

  But why? Who would want her to stay quiet?

  After an online search, Callaway found she had died of a drug overdose.

  Callaway decided to start his investigation by speaking to Douglas Hoyte.

  The apartment building was two blocks from where Gail lived. When Callaway knocked at Hoyte’s fourth-floor unit, he didn’t look displeased or annoyed by the unexpected visit. He smiled and invited Callaway in.

  “I worked thirty-two years as an electrician,” he said. “It got me out of the house every day. But after I got severe arthritis, I had to retire and stay home. Now all I do is take Goldie out for a walk or watch TV all day.”

  Goldie, Callaway assumed, was the Golden Retriever in Hoyte’s one-bedroom apartment. “I don’t get many visitors, you see,” Hoyte said.

  Callaway nodded.

  “Can I get you a beer?” Hoyte asked. He had gray hair, taut skin, and droopy eyelids. When he smiled, he revealed yellow smoker’s teeth.

  “I’m good, thanks,” Callaway replied.

  “You said you wante
d to know what happened to that girl who fell from her apartment, is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not sure what more I can tell you that I didn’t already tell the police, or the private investigator that showed up at my door.”

  “I’m just trying to get a better idea of what might have happened, so whatever you tell me is greatly appreciated.”

  “Okay, sure. I guess I’ll start by saying that every night after dinner, Goldie and I go out for a walk. I don’t like smoking indoors, so while she gets her exercise, I can light up, you know? Anyway, we usually go a couple of blocks. When I first started, I could barely walk one block before I started wheezing. The smoking doesn’t help. You smoke?”

  Callaway shook his head.

  “Don’t ever start. It’s worse than having a nagging wife. At least you can divorce the wife, but if you’re not strong enough, the smoking will stick with you until you die.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “So, I was doing my usual walk when I heard a scream. I first thought it was screeching tires or something else, but a few seconds later, I heard what sounded like a wet bag hitting concrete. Goldie started going crazy. I had never seen her like that. She’s very nurturing. She knows when I’m sick or if I’m feeling down, so when she started barking persistently, I had to check it out. I knew where I had heard the sound come from, and when I went over, I saw the girl on the ground. I thought maybe she had slipped and hurt herself, but then I saw the blood.” Hoyte sighed. He shook his head. “There was so much blood, I knew something bad had happened. I then dialed 9-1-1.”

  “Did you see anyone on the balcony?” Callaway asked.

  “Sure.”

  Callaway blinked. “You did?”

  “Yeah. I think all the neighbors heard the scream like I did, and they all came out onto their balconies to see what it was.”

  Right.

  “Did you notice anything suspicious?” Callaway asked.

  “I saw a lady run out of the back of the building. She was black, and she wore dirty clothes. She looked homeless, but it was dark, so I can’t be a hundred percent sure. I told the police about her, though. I don’t know what they did with that information.”

  The police did search for her, Callaway thought. But Tamara Davis was eventually found dead.

  “I feel bad for the girl,” Hoyte said. “She was young, and I saw photos of her family in the newspaper. They looked like nice people. It was a real tragedy.”

  “It was,” Callaway agreed.

  There was a reason Jimmy’s visit to Hoyte was fruitless. The man didn’t know anything. He was merely the first person at the body.

  “Thanks for your time,” Callaway said.

  “No problem,” Hoyte replied.

  Callaway was moving to the door when he stopped. There were two hand-carries in the hallway. “You’re going somewhere?”

  Hoyte smiled. “As a matter of fact, I am. You were lucky to catch me at home when you did.”

  “Lucky?”

  “I was supposed to be on a flight to Minnesota to meet my grandson. He was born last night. There’s a pilot strike, so my flight got delayed. I always call before I go. I hate waiting at the airport. And I’m glad I called. My plane doesn’t leave for another couple of hours. You can tell Goldie is not talking to me.”

  The Golden Retriever had her head down. Callaway had to admit she did look sad.

  “She wants to go with me, but I have to leave her with a neighbor until I get back,” Hoyte said.

  He knelt down and rubbed Goldie behind her ears.

  Callaway thanked him and left.

  NINETY-TWO

  Fisher was in Sherman Grumbly’s office.

  “Thank you for having an officer bring the script to my office,” Grumbly said. “It took years to get this project off the ground. When Dillon signed on, it was a bittersweet moment. I thought all the hard work and dedication had finally led us to this point. With Dillon, we knew we had a hit on our hands. Now I’m not so sure. The movie was financed through private investors and government grants. The investors started pulling out once they heard what happened, and unless we have money to start the production, we will lose the grants as well.”

  Grumbly looked like he was under immense stress. This was likely his last chance to show the industry he could release a successful movie. Fisher was aware that actors, directors, and producers lived and died by their last movie. If that failed, there was no guarantee they would get picked up for another project, or in the producer’s case, have their next project greenlit.

  “I will be flying to Los Angeles tomorrow,” Grumbly said. “I will speak to agents, managers, and lead actors to try and drum up interest in the project.”

  She could tell from his face that it was going to be an uphill battle. If Grumbly could not sign another star, the project might never see the light of day.

  Fisher was not here to discuss the movie business, but before she got to the main reasons for her visit, she wanted to ask something. “There were rumors that Mr. Scott had non-disclosure agreements with certain individuals. Were you aware of this?”

  Grumbly looked taken aback. “What kind of agreements?”

  Fisher wanted to see if Grumbly knew of Scott’s sordid past. She also wanted to know how complicit he was in working with a man who preyed on innocent women.

  “Dillon had a great reputation,” he said. “It was what helped us raise the funds to get the project off the ground.”

  “Yes, of course,” Fisher said. She then dove in. “Did you know about Mr. Scott’s medical condition, specifically about his diabetes?”

  “Sure. We had him do a physical to make sure he could complete the project. It’s a requirement for insurance purposes. His diabetes was under control, and his overall health was excellent.”

  “Who else was aware of his condition?”

  Grumbly frowned, thinking. “Um… I guess his doctors… his agent… and his wife for sure.”

  “Mrs. Scott?”

  “Absolutely. Before you qualify for insurance, they look at the actor’s family medical history. Mrs. Scott is also diabetic.”

  “She is?” Fisher asked, surprised.

  “Yes. But it’s standard procedure because of the amount of money invested in the project. It also lets the director know how far he can push the actor.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, we knew Dillon was diabetic…”

  “Did you also know he suffered from Diabetic Heart Disease?”

  “Oh yes, but I was assured by medical professionals that if Dillon kept his sugar levels under control, it was not going to be a health issue. In fact, in his contract, it was outlined that he could not be forced to do any cardiovascular activities, so we had stunt people perform scenes that required a lot of running or jumping. We once had an actress who was allergic to a specific plant. When we shot a scene in a forest, we had to remove all traces of that particular plant. It was a costly thing, but a necessary one. The actors’ union would have crucified us, not to mention the press if they found out we were negligent. So, yes, we took all precautions with Dillon.”

  NINETY-THREE

  Brad Kirkman was in his office. He was seated behind his desk, and he had a cell phone cradled to his ear.

  Callaway knocked on the door. Kirkman looked up. “Can I help you?” he said.

  “I’m from the Daily Times,” Callaway claimed. “I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”

  “Where’s Louise?” Kirkman asked, annoyed.

  “Who?”

  “My secretary. You can book an appointment with her.”

  “There was no one at the desk,” Callaway said.

  Kirkman frowned. “She’s probably out to lunch. Why don’t you leave your name and telephone number and I’ll have her schedule you in. I’m very busy at the moment.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, but I drove all the way from Franklin.”

  That caught Kirk
man’s attention. “Did you say Franklin?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And what was the name of the newspaper?”

  “The Daily Times.”

  “I’ve read it. You know their lead reporter, Hyder Ali?”

  Callaway was familiar with the name, but he had never met Ali. “Of course I am,” he claimed. “Hyder and I share desks.”

  “I’m a fan of his work,” Kirkman said, putting the phone down. “Brad Kirkman.”

  He extended his hand. Callaway shook it.

  “Gator Peckerwood.”

  Kirkman’s eyes narrowed. “Is that a real name?”

  “Unfortunately, it is.” He pulled out a business card. “My parents are from Louisiana.”

  “That explains it.” Kirkman looked at the card. “It doesn’t have the name of your newspaper.”

  “I was in a rush. I left all my official business cards behind. If you call the number, you will get the Daily Times’ main directory.” Callaway doubted Kirkman would call.

  “So, what can I do for you?” Kirkman asked.

  “I’m writing an article on Gail Roberts, and I was hoping you’d give me a quote.”

  Kirkman frowned. “She died over a year ago, so why the sudden interest?”

  “After Dillon Scott’s murder, I wanted to focus on a different angle to her story.”

  “Angle?”

  “I mean, don’t you find it odd that an employee of this production company is found dead, and then a year later, the co-owner of the same company is found dead as well? Could the same person who killed Gail Roberts have also killed Dillon Scott?”

  Kirkman’s expression hardened. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  “No joke at all.”

  Kirkman stared at him and sighed. “First of all, Gail’s death was an accident. The police conducted a thorough investigation and came to that very conclusion. As for Dillon, didn’t someone just confessed to his murder?”

  “They did, yes. Did Gail Roberts have any enemies?”

  “No, she did not. Gail was a wonderful person. She was a valued member of our company. Her death was a loss we were still mourning when we found out what happened to Dillon. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an important call to make.”