Hannibal Jones - 02 - Collateral Damage

by Austin S. Camacho

  -25-

  Francis gasped and fell back, allowing the detective to step through the door. Two uniformed men entered behind him. While one of them produced handcuffs Thompson began reading Francis her rights. Hannibal interrupted him by standing between him and the woman, allowing barely an inch of free space between their chests.

  “Mind telling me just what the hell you’re doing?”

  Thompson breathed liver and onions down into Hannibal’s face. “What I’m doing is arresting a suspect. You want to add interfering with an arrest to harboring a fugitive?”

  “A fugitive?” Hannibal said. “Since when?”

  “Oh, since about a half hour ago,” Thompson said. He looked past Hannibal to Francis who was flanked by the other two policemen. He smiled at her the way the winner of a chess game smiles at the loser. “The lab boys finally finished their analysis of the wounds and guess what? Looks like Oscar Peters was killed with the same knife that went into Grant Edwards. Same weapon, same approach, same entry point. That was enough to get me a warrant to come in here. Lucky thing I had a tail on the great detective here.”

  “Thompson, you son of a bitch, you set me up.” Hannibal bared his teeth. Thompson turned his maddening satisfied smile to him.

  “A real detective uses all the resources at his disposal, son,” Thompson said. “And since I’m in such a grateful mood, I’ll invite you to come along peacefully. Or do we need to put the cuffs on you too?”

  “Yeah, I think you’d better,” Hannibal said. His face relaxed just before he hooked his right fist up into Thompson’s midsection. He watched the big detective double over and back away a few steps then turned to face the two uniforms. They stepped away from their prisoner and pulled their clubs into attack position.

  “Hold on, boys,” Thompson said from behind Hannibal. “No need for violence. I’m sure Mr. Jones will cooperate now that he’s gotten that little bit of spite out of his system. Won’t you, Mr. Jones?”

  Hannibal filled his lungs with deep, angry breaths. He was ready for violence of the worst sort, but he realized that it wouldn’t help Dean, or his mother, for him to be locked up for physically abusing a couple of innocent police officers. Little by little he slowed his breathing and even more gradually he raised his fists straight out in front of him. One of the policemen produced his handcuffs and quickly turned Hannibal around. Hannibal was surprised to see Thompson’s smile fade when they heard the click of the cuffs behind him.

  * * *

  Cindy waited until she and Hannibal were out of the police station before she turned and hugged him. He briefly returned her embrace, but his mood would not allow for much affection. He located his car and stepped quickly toward it.

  “Thanks for bailing me out, babe,” he said. “I knew if I called you everything would be all right. Do you think Walt will be able to get Francis out too?”

  “Not likely,” Cindy answered. “They’ve formally charged her with Oscar’s murder. And I’ve got to admit that if I were a judge I’d consider her a flight risk.”

  When they reached the car, Cindy handed him the keys. It was not until that moment that he realized what had happened.

  “Did you drive my car over here?”

  “Seemed like the most practical thing to do,” she said as they got in. “I didn’t think you wanted too many people to have that address you gave me, so I just took a cab over and got it.” Hannibal nodded. Knowing Cindy didn’t own a car, he wasn’t sure she had a current license, and decided not to ask.

  “You know the evidence they’ve got against her?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Cindy said, “And Walt and I have already asked for copies of all the photos and documentation describing the two knife wounds. But from what I’ve heard, all the circumstantial evidence points to the same killer in both incidents.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me,” Hannibal said, pulling out into traffic. “But I’m surer than ever that the killer isn’t Francis Edwards. Now, if you’ll excuse me a minute, I owe somebody a phone call.”

  Hannibal pushed buttons on the phone hanging on his visor, and three rings later Kate Andrews answered. “Wanted to keep you in the picture,” Hannibal said. “They’ve arrested Francis Edwards for the murder of Oscar Peters. If you’re hot you might be able to break the story.”

  “Appreciate the thought,” Kate said, “but our stringer on the police beat already caught it. Did she do it?”

  “Not a chance.”

  “Well, I don’t know if this helps, but Joan Kitteridge didn’t do it either,” Kate said. “I checked out her alibi, and she most definitely was at a Falls Church Chamber of Commerce dinner until a few minutes before we saw her Monday night. Lots of witnesses who have no reason to lie for her. There’s no way she could have done the deed.”

  It was no surprise, but still Hannibal had wished otherwise. “Thanks Kate. I’m on my way now to one place we might get a clue as to who did.”

  -26-

  The scene at Charter was more like some satanic ritual than a cross-examination. Dean lay in his bed at the center of the room, bright ceiling lights giving his face an almost angelic glow which combined with the innocent expression to give him the look of a victim or, perhaps, a sacrifice. An intravenous drip flowed into the inside of his left elbow. Dr. Quincy Roberts sat on his right, holding a small medallion hanging from a short chain. Off to the left, in the dimmest corner of the room, Hannibal sat holding Bea’s right hand. Cindy held her left. All eyes were on Dean, all faces strained. The look reminded Hannibal of cult members who knew what they had to do, but felt guilty for being willing participants in a grim sacrifice.

  They had listened to Quincy’s slow rhythmic speech for ten minutes, while Dean stared at the twirling coin and counted down from ten to zero. Hannibal didn’t like hypnosis, was perhaps a little superstitious about it. Or maybe he just didn’t like the idea of losing control of his own thoughts.

  After what seemed like a very long time, Quincy turned to face his audience and said, “He’s ready. I’ve prepared him to answer any question posed by Ms. Santiago.”

  “You’re on, babe,” Hannibal said. Cindy sighed, stood, and switched seats with Quincy. She took a couple of deep breaths, then looked up and smiled at Dean. His eyes floated in a nearly closed posture, but he may have seen her.

  “Now Dean, I need for you to answer some questions for me,” she began. “I need for you to think before you speak, and to tell me the truth when you answer. Don’t worry about how you might have answered a question in the past. Don’t worry about what I or anyone else might want the answer to be. Just tell me the truth. Can you do that?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Dean muttered. Bea sobbed hearing him speak almost as a child. Hannibal squeezed her hand.

  “I want you to remember the night your father was killed,” Cindy said. She was looking for a reaction, but there was none. “Can you do that for me?” Dean nodded.

  “You were at home with your father and someone came to visit you, is that right?” Another nod.

  “Who did you see?” Cindy asked.

  Dean’s brow knit for a moment. “Nobody.” Hannibal slid his glasses off and stared hard into Dean’s face.

  “Now, Dean, I want you to go back there now,” Cindy said in her most soothing tones. “I want you to really be there that day. Can you do that?” Dean nodded his head but was otherwise still. “Where are you, Dean?” Cindy asked.

  Dean snapped his head back and forth, as if trying to shake something off. A lie, perhaps. “I’m on the dining room floor, behind the door. There’s yelling. A fight.”

  “Whose voices?”

  “Papa’s,” Dean said. “Papa and...Mama?”

  Cindy leaned closer. “Are you sure it’s her voice?”

  “I think so. It’s a woman, but she’s kind of whispering. But Papa’s shouting. Really loud.”

  Hannibal felt Bea shuddering beside him, but his focus was on Dean’s face, which showed an inner conflict of some kind
.

  “After the fighting, tell me what you heard,” Cindy said. “Everything you heard. Like you’re there right now.”

  Dean’s eyebrows rose without his eyes opening. He cocked his head, as if he could hear those awful sounds again. “They’re fighting. Papa yelling, yelling. Then... then the door. Yes, the door opening. Now it’s quiet for a second. Then the thump.”

  “Thump?” Cindy asked after a moment of silence.

  “The thump. And now I hear footsteps. Quiet again. I get up to see what’s going on now it’s quiet.” Dean shuddered in his bed, then snapped upright like a puppet whose strings had been yanked hard. “Mama screams really really loud so I run out to see what happened and...”

  Everyone jumped when Dean’s eyes snapped open. He sat still, and Hannibal could tell he wasn’t seeing anything. At least, not anything in the room right then. Perspiration dripped into Dean’s eyes, but they did not blink from the horror in his mind. Cindy reached out to cover one of his hands with her own.

  “Tell me what you see, Dean,” Cindy said. “You have to tell me what you see.”

  Dean’s eyes clamped shut and big tears dropped from them onto the white sheets. “Mama. Mama is standing over Papa with this huge knife in her hand. Blood’s coming off the knife. She’s standing in his blood. It’s on her shoes. It’s all over.” Dean’s voice rose into hysterics before Quincy pulled Cindy away and took her seat.

  “Dean, this is Dr. Roberts. All that you saw is in the past. The distant past. It can’t hurt you now.”

  “Want to bet?” Hannibal said under his breath.

  Cindy turned to Hannibal, wrapping her arms around him. She was shaken by her part in this drama, but he was barely able to hold her. He was energized by what he had heard. He stood, pulling her with him, struggling to be quiet while Quincy talked Dean back into a restful sleep.

  “If that’s the truth it’s sure not what he said in court,” Hannibal said. “Did you hear it?”

  Bea looked up, her brow knit. “I heard him say he caught his mother with the knife, standing over his father. What a horrible thing for a child to see.”

  “No, no,” Hannibal said, breaking away from Cindy and pacing toward the bed. “There was an argument, but he didn’t see his mother. Whoever it was left. Remember, the door opening? Then the thump. Surely Grant’s body hitting the floor. Then a pause. Then Francis walks in, finds the body...”

  “There’s a lot of supposition there, don’t you think?” Quincy said.

  “No I don’t,” Hannibal said, facing the doctor across Dean’s sleeping form. “What’s the alternative? She opens the door, stabs him, stands there for a minute to think about it, and THEN screams? No, she came in after the fact and found the body. Wake him up.”

  Quincy hesitated. “That might not be a good idea.”

  “There’s no time, Doc,” Hannibal said. “If you want to save him, wake him up.”

  -27-

  Dean still looked like a child to Hannibal, even after dressing in chinos and a sweatshirt. Bea sat beside him on the edge of the bed and held him for a good five minutes while Hannibal conferred in a corner with Cindy and Quincy. They had agreed to stay away until he felt receptive to questioning.

  “I’m ready to talk, Mr. Jones,” he called over Bea’s shoulder. When she shook her head at him, he added, “I want to find out what really happened. I think you can help me find out.”

  Hannibal walked in close to Dean, looking into his eyes, which were as big as those of a Japanese anime figure, and asked himself one last time if the boy could really understand the truth.

  “Okay Dean, what I need now is not what you saw or what you heard. I need to know what you thought. Are you ready to talk about that?”

  Dean shrugged and sighed. “I’ve got nothing to hide, Mr. Jones. I just don’t know if I know what I was thinking ten years ago.”

  “Let’s keep this simple,” Hannibal said, pulling a chair over to the bed and dropping into it. “You do remember who your baby-sitter was in those days, don’t you?”

  Dean’s eyes widened for a second, then narrowed to slits. He lowered his head to look down at Hannibal’s hands. “Yes. It was Joan Kitteridge.”

  Bea pulled his arm and turned him to herself. “Your boss was your baby-sitter?”

  “Coincidence?” Cindy asked, standing behind Hannibal’s chair.

  Dean shook his head. “I’ve tried to stay close to her. Thought I could maybe find out. Something.”

  “You thought she had something to do with your father’s death, didn’t you?” Hannibal asked. “Maybe it was her voice you heard arguing with your father that night.”

  “But baby,” Bea said, pulling his head to her with a moan and staring deep into his eyes. “I don’t understand. If you suspected Joan enough to follow her for all these years, why did you try to tell people you killed your father? You said you killed him and Oscar. Why?”

  Dean seized Bea’s arms. It was the first intensity Hannibal had seen out of him. His breath was labored, as if pushing a great weight. Hannibal thought maybe there was a great weight, but it was on his chest.

  “Don’t you see? At first I thought mother had killed him, because he was with Joan. I’m the one who told mother they were together. If I’d kept my mouth shut, she wouldn’t have known, and my father would be alive today. I’m the one responsible. I killed him.”

  Hannibal stood and started pacing again, rounding the three sides of the bed and turning around to retrace his steps. “Okay, Dean, the little boy in you might believe that, but when you grew up you must have realized there were other possible answers. And you obviously thought Joan Kitteridge knew something, right? That’s why you followed her around.”

  Bea looked at Dean with a different expression now, as if just accepting an unexpected depth in this man she loved. “You followed her?”

  “She was my father’s girlfriend,” Dean said, squeezing Bea with one arm. “She watched me every day. Practically family. But when the trial started up, she was nowhere to be seen. And over the years I started to wonder why. I began to remember that there was another man. I think she had another boyfriend.”

  “Actually,” Hannibal said, “There’s good reason to believe she was married at the time.”

  “Well, that didn’t change my guilt,” Dean said. “If Joan’s other man did it, mother must have told him about Joan and my father. Again, if I’d kept my mouth shut, Papa would be alive today.”

  “Or Joan did it herself,” Hannibal put it, “to keep him from confronting her husband.”

  “Well anyway, I felt like I had to know what really happened. So when I finished school, I tracked her down. I think she gave me a job out of sympathy.”

  Now Cindy looked at Dean out the corner of her eye. “Now I’m thinking you were close to Oscar, but not for the reason I first thought.”

  “I know Oscar, er, experimented,” Dean said with a grin, “but he and I were never more than friends. We got to talking one day and it turned out we had some background in common. And he told me once that he had something on Joan, some kind of information that might tie in to something bad in her past.”

  Hannibal almost lunged toward Dean, pushed by the force of a revelation. “Of course! That’s why you felt guilty about Oscar. You thought he was killed because of something you told him, maybe just confirming Joan’s connection to your father’s murder.”

  “Yes,” Dean said, hanging his head again, “So you see, I killed him too.”

  “Well I don’t think so,” Hannibal said, laying a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “It looks like Oscar was a blackmailer maybe, so lots of people might have had a reason for going after him. Personally, I think your boss Joan is the lead suspect. I’m thinking she did the deed and left. Your mother comes in, sees her husband dead and picks up the knife just like people always do in the movies.”

  “I’m sorry,” Quincy said from the other side of the bed. “Believe me, Joan was just not capable of that sort of a c
rime.”

  The whole room seemed to hold its breath as a single thought jumped from Hannibal’s mind to everyone else’s like a psychic signal. Finally, when it became too uncomfortable to hold his breath any longer, Hannibal looked up at the older psychiatrist, forcing calm into his voice.

  “And just exactly how would you know that, Doctor?”

  -28-

  Under the stars Quincy Roberts’ white shirt glowed, making him look like some puffy, gray-bearded angel recently descended from the dark clear sky to a muddled ball of confusion. Cindy and Hannibal faced him as if awaiting the answers to all questions. Hannibal’s stomach rumbled, reminding him how the day had gotten away from him. Maybe he should have stopped for a bite, but he was hungry for something else even more than food. He hungered for the truth.

  “So she was a nut case way back then,” Hannibal said, foregoing all delicacy.

  Quincy bristled. “Joan Kitteridge was my patient, yes, but she was never violent. In fact, I’d go on record as saying she was incapable of violence. She had serious ego strength issues. I shouldn’t be telling you this.”

  “Us now or the police later,” Cindy said. “They’d just subpoena your patient records. It IS a murder investigation.”

  “It was so long ago it probably doesn’t matter now,” Quincy said. He drew in a deep breath but puffed it out as if a great weight had slammed into his chest. “The poor girl was so badly dominated by that man she could hardly breath without his approval. How she survived to be a success in the business world...”

  “By that man,” Hannibal prodded, “you mean her husband?”

  “Well of course,” Quincy said. “So young to be married, too. If I could have gotten him to come in to therapy I might have helped her more, but I never even saw the man.”

  * * *

  By the time Hannibal got home, he was both ravenous and irritated. At these times he appreciated Cindy’s perceptiveness. She knew the wise thing to do was to keep her distance until he was fed and calmer. It was a good time to be alone, just the two of them, at least until he could regain his perspective. He knew that was why her mouth dropped open in fear and her eyes darted back at him when they found Janet Ingersoll slumped into his doorway. Hannibal stared at her for a moment, as if he spotted a booby trap set between himself and his long delayed dinner.