Time of Death rb-2

by Alex Barclay

  Billy said nothing.

  ‘Maybe he needs to get to know you a little better,’ he said.

  ‘But if he did, he’d walk away thinking he knew more about me than I did. I swear to God.’

  ‘Aren’t you being a little hard on him?’

  ‘Aren’t you being a little annoyingly on-his-side about him? I don’t want to talk about Jay any more, because I don’t want to get mad at you.’

  ‘OK. I’m just trying to show you his side.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t have brothers and sisters, so I guess—’

  ‘You romanticize them. I love Jay dearly. I wish we got along, I wish it more than you do.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘He’s teetotal too.’

  Billy laughed loud. ‘And so we come to the real problem. He makes you feel bad for drinking.’

  ‘Very funny.’ Ren let out a breath. ‘His last hurrah was at Beau’s funeral. In spectacular fashion. Enough to make him never want to drink again.’ She paused. ‘I’m surprised anyone who witnessed it ever wanted to drink again.’

  ‘Ooh,’ said Billy.

  ‘I have to say – I can’t blame him. Beau’s funeral was so weird.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘It kind of drew some people to it and repelled others. And there was this strange sense of shame hanging over the whole thing. I remember sitting in the church and wanting to get up on the altar and just shout at everyone, “What is wrong with you all? This is not shameful. It’s tragic, it’s devastating, it should not be how anyone’s life ends, but it’s a fact. And Beau is not the only depressed person in the world and there are probably people sitting here today who have thought about committing suicide. Yup, he committed suicide. Everyone – after me – Beau committed suicide. You can say it. No one’s going to die.”’

  Ren glanced at Billy. ‘You know what I mean. And the worst part was the people who didn’t show. I mean, sure, they may have seen this big black sinful cloud hanging over our family, but what happened to compassion and kindness? These were some of the people that Mom had been so good to. Or Jay had mowed their lawn or Beau had taught their grandchildren…’

  Ren sat in silence. Her mind wandered to another funeral – Douglas Hammond’s – and the shame-free sorrow that everyone was free to feel because his death wasn’t ‘at his own hand’. People had no problem showing up at that funeral.

  Ren paused.

  But still, why was Lucinda Kerr there? Lucinda Kerr who had been married to Peter Everett who had been dating Helen Wheeler who had been murdered and whose files had been due to go to Douglas Hammond who was murdered and whose wife had been murdered almost thirty years previously.

  WTF?

  32

  Mia Hammond was a twenty-nine-year-old orphan. There was something so poignant about it. Ren didn’t want to intrude on her grief, but if she ever let that feeling stop her, she would get nowhere. Sifting through wreckage was all part of the job.

  When Ren introduced herself, Mia Hammond looked like she could have laid on the ground right there and curled up into a ball.

  ‘I’d just like to speak with you about your father’s funeral, please,’ said Ren. ‘It won’t take long.’

  Mia looked surprised. ‘His funeral?’

  Ren nodded. ‘I saw that Lucinda Kerr was there. Can I ask how you know her?’

  ‘I don’t, actually,’ said Mia. ‘I recognized her, obviously, because of who she is. I just thought that maybe she knew my father through work. But she came up to me afterwards and said that she remembered me from when I was a child. She and her husband used to live on our street. I had no idea.’

  The Everetts lived on the same street as Douglas Hammond?

  ‘Did she say when this was?’

  ‘She said I was a toddler. So that would have to have been around 1983, because we moved shortly after mom died. Obviously, my father didn’t want to stay in the house.’

  ‘That’s understandable,’ said Ren.

  ‘Sorry, but what has Lucinda Kerr got to do with anything?’

  ‘I’m information-gathering at this point,’ said Ren.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘I can’t say.’ I’m not sure myself…

  Peter Everett’s house was another in Ren’s straight run of beautiful homes with not-so-beautiful stories to tell. He invited Ren in and led her to his study, a room with a glass wall that overlooked a softly lit pool area surrounded by pale granite flagstones, dotted with patches of snow. The house was tastefully designed and decorated, but the sadness was overwhelming.

  Or maybe that’s because I know what he has lost.

  Everett’s face betrayed it all – he was a very attractive man being seen at his worst – exhausted, puffy-eyed, hollowed out. He was tall and slim with dark hair in an old-fashioned side parting. He was dressed in a pink V-neck cashmere sweater with a white T-shirt underneath, a pair of dark blue jeans and brown loafers. Despite the preppy look, Ren imagined he drew all kinds of women to him without even trying and without even realizing it.

  ‘I’d like to talk to you about Helen,’ said Ren.

  Everett nodded, but looked as though it was the last thing he wanted to do.

  ‘She was a wonderful person,’ said Ren. ‘You must be devastated.’

  He seemed thrown. ‘Yes. I…you knew her?’

  ‘I always had a lot of time for Helen.’ Scheduled time.

  He rubbed his face with his hands. ‘Everyone did.’ His voice cracked.

  Ren could barely hold it together herself. ‘Mr Everett, I wanted to talk to you about the book you said Helen was writing?’

  ‘It was in its very early stages.’

  ‘Did Helen say what the book was about?’

  ‘It was about her practice, about the treatment of a broad spectrum of mental illnesses, about medication versus talk therapy, et cetera.’

  ‘And when did she start writing it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Peter. ‘I wouldn’t say she had particularly started writing it. It was more at the thinking stage. Maybe for the past few months.’

  ‘Did she have a publisher?’

  ‘No. But I don’t think that would have been a concern at that stage. What she’d really been working up to was putting together a synopsis and a pitch.’

  ‘And had she requested permission from any of her patients for their details to be included?’

  ‘As far as I know, not yet,’ said Peter. ‘It wasn’t going to be public knowledge any time soon. Helen wouldn’t have dreamed of releasing anything without a patient’s permission. And a publisher would certainly never publish without it. She was even careful about the initial notes she was making.’

  Not careful enough. ‘Are you saying that no part of the book was actually written?’

  ‘The only thing she had done were the notes that you have. She and I were the only ones who knew that that was what she was doing.’

  ‘Yes, we have the notes, but there’s not a lot of information in them.’

  ‘That doesn’t surprise me. Helen was discreet…obviously.’

  Ren nodded. She stood up. ‘Thank you for your time.’

  ‘May I ask how the book is relevant to the investigation?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t disclose that information,’ said Ren. ‘Oh, by the way, I was just speaking with Mia Hammond – Douglas Hammond’s daughter…’

  ‘The judge?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Ren. ‘She told me you used to be neighbors.’

  ‘A long time ago.’

  ‘You weren’t at the funeral.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your ex-wife, Lucinda was there. She went up to Mia Hammond and introduced herself.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Peter. ‘That’s the type of thing Lucinda would do. Yes. We lived in Everdale on the same street as the Hammonds. It wasn’t for long. I guess it was just a year or so.’

  ‘Were you living there when Trudie Hammond was murdered?’


  ‘Sadly, yes,’ said Peter. ‘It was a terrible time.’

  ‘Were you in Everdale for long after that?’

  ‘No – Lucinda was pregnant with our daughter. Everdale was only meant to be a temporary home, while our new house was being built.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Ren. ‘Did you know the Hammonds well?’

  ‘No. They were across the street and down a few houses. But they seemed like a nice family.’

  ‘OK,’ said Ren. ‘Well, thank you for your time.’

  ‘That’s no problem,’ said Peter. ‘If there’s anything else I can do…’

  Ren shook his hand and left.

  Gary called Ren into his office when she arrived back.

  ‘Good news,’ said Gary. ‘Looks like your files are going to remain secret for a long time. One of Helen’s patients got wind of the cops wanting to access privileged files, the word spread and a whole bunch of patients’ lawyers waded in.’

  ‘Thank God,’ said Ren. ‘Thank God. I wonder how it got out.’

  ‘Could’ve come from anywhere. Helen’s secretary would be a strong candidate…’

  ‘Yes.’ Go, Sandy, go.

  ‘So there you have it.’ Gary nodded. His we’re-done-here nod.

  Ren stood up. ‘You are…’ So clinical. And impassive.

  Gary looked up at her. ‘What?’

  ‘You are…’ Ren paused. ‘Do you play poker?’

  Gary laid his pen down. ‘Yes. As a matter of fact.’

  ‘Do you win a lot?’

  ‘Yes. But I don’t play for real money.’

  ‘Isn’t that part of the fun?’

  ‘Maybe to some people.’

  ‘And when you say “people”, you mean “losers”?’

  Gary was back writing. He didn’t look up. ‘Every opponent of mine is a loser by definition.’

  Men are simple folk. Compete. Win. Repeat. Apply liberally to all areas.

  33

  Ren went to her desk and sat very still, her hands in her lap, her eyes straight ahead, staring at nothing.

  My file is safe.

  She couldn’t quite believe it would stay that way. She pulled her keyboard toward her and typed Trudie Hammond’s name into Google. Almost a decade ago, Trudie Hammond’s murder file had become the responsibility of the Jefferson County Cold Case Unit – a one-person unit run by a detective Janine Hooks. Ren went to the website and scrolled through the forty cases posted on it – missing persons, homicides, unidentified remains – the text broken up with images of the victims or their possessions or their reconstructed clay faces. She scanned through the reports. Trudie Hammond’s case was the twelfth one in and read like the news report. There were three other cold cases listed whose victims had last names beginning with H. Ren picked one at random and studied it. Then she grabbed her jacket and purse and headed for the door.

  The Jefferson County Cold Case Unit was housed in a government complex off Main Street in Golden. Ren had been there before – to Dr Barry Tolman’s office, the pathologist to sixteen counties, including Jefferson. Ren went to reception and asked for Janine Hooks.

  There was a temp on reception who looked as though she had never used a phone, a piece of paper or a pen before. She managed to get through to Hooks on the third attempt. She turned to Ren. ‘She’ll be free in about ten minutes. Are you OK to wait, ma’am?’

  Ma’am. ‘Yes, thank you,’ said Ren. ‘I’m going to go outside for a cigarette.’

  ‘They’re not too keen on smoking out front,’ said the receptionist, as if she was delivering a death notification.

  ‘OK,’ said Ren.

  She went out the front door and took a cigarette from the pack she kept in her purse for use whenever she needed it. Real cigarettes, fake uses. She headed round to the back of the building where two PAs stood smoking and bitching. They gave Ren a light and, in pushing a few buttons on a keypad on their way back in, provided some helpful information she didn’t even have to ask for. She stubbed out the cigarette, popped two sticks of cinnamon gum in her mouth, and strolled around to the front entrance and up the stairs to the second floor.

  Janine Hooks worked in a blow-your-brains-out office: small, brown, beige, seventies. Hooks was sitting in the visitor’s chair, facing her own empty chair. From the back, she looked like a teenage boy, her neck skinny and sinewy, her head small with short, wispy dark brown hair. She turned at the sound of Ren’s footsteps. She had huge brown eyes, faintly shadowed, sharp cheekbones and a large, wide mouth with prominent teeth and full, angular lips. Individually, it was a strange collection of features, but it came together to create a pretty vulnerability. If dogs could look like their owners, Janine Hooks could look like her job – there was something lost in there, waiting to be saved. She was a living cold case.

  ‘Hello,’ said Hooks, standing up, trying to repackage a sandwich with her left hand while holding out the right one.

  Ren was thrown by Hooks’ body. She wondered if Hooks was used to people having a delayed reaction to her – she was remarkably thin. Probably anorexic. Her shirt was tucked in as far as it could go, her pants tied with a belt that she probably had to cut in half to fit. She was immaculately dressed. She offered Ren coffee and revealed a warm smile. There was something likeable about Janine Hooks.

  ‘Hi,’ said Ren, carefully shaking Hooks’ tiny hand. ‘Ren Bryce from Safe Streets in Denver.’

  ‘Yes, sit down, sit down.’

  ‘I’m sorry to arrive unannounced, but I read that you are investigating the…Hopkins murder from 1989 and I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about it.’

  ‘Why?’ said Hooks. She didn’t take her eyes off Ren.

  Shit. ‘I read online that Hopkins was shot and his body was dumped in the Golden River. I was wondering if you could give me any further details on that. Last year, I worked a case where the victim was dumped in the Clear Creek River. Dr Tolman performed the autopsy, in fact, if you’d like to check with him.’

  ‘So, what…you’re looking at body dumps in rivers as being connected?’

  ‘Yes, actually,’ said Ren. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Sure, but…’ Hooks shrugged, got up and walked over to a cabinet and pulled the file. Hopkins, filed under H. Hooks’ files were organized by the victim’s last name, not the year of the crime, not type of crime, not in a file cabinet hidden away in a back office – just right here in this grim little space.

  She opened the folder. Her tiny hands had long, delicate fingers. ‘OK, let me see…here it is. GSW—’

  ‘My guy was shot close range, back of the head with a .22,’ said Ren.

  ‘Nope,’ said Hooks. ‘Hopkins was a chest wound, 45 caliber.’

  I could care less. ‘Ah. OK. Well, thank you for that.’ Ren stood up and said her goodbyes before Janine Hooks had the chance to ask her why the hell she didn’t just call.

  Ren was drawn to cold cases, but to investigate them every day would have driven her crazy. Knowing that, before you even started investigating, many people – experts with the same information at their disposal – had tried and failed, had a certain predestination about it. The older the case, the more likely it was that the evidence had been compromised, the original investigators were retired or dead or the witnesses were dead. If anyone was still alive, their memories had most likely faded.

  What lay in Trudie Hammond’s file could be something or nothing. What it could not be was ‘asked for’. If she’d walked into Janine Hooks’ office with a request for Trudie Hammond’s file right before the story broke that Judge Hammond had also been murdered, Ren might as well have walked into Denver PD and held out her hands for the cuffs to be slapped on. There was no official reason for her to be there.

  Billy Waites got out of his car when he saw Ren pull up outside Annie’s. He jogged up to her.

  ‘Hey,’ he said. ‘Why the mystery?’

  ‘Not so much mystery,’ said Ren, ‘as…well, yes, mystery, I suppose. In many ways.’

  �
�How does Misty feel about it?’

  Ren smiled. She put the key in the door and they went into the living room.

  ‘Take a seat.’ Ren sat beside him on the sofa. ‘OK…I wouldn’t ask this if I wasn’t – as the song goes – Desperado.’

  ‘In the land of Ren, desperado could mean so much,’ said Billy.

  ‘You know what?’ said Ren. ‘You are correct. But take it as a compliment. I am asking you because (a) I think you are up to it and (b) I will watch your back for the entire process.’

  ‘OK – what is it?’

  ‘It’s…well, it is a biggie. I need you to break in…somewhere.’

  ‘Whoa, I did not see that coming,’ said Billy. ‘Are you for real?’ He looked at her. ‘Oh. You are.’

  ‘I am,’ said Ren. ‘And obviously I’ll understand you saying no…actually, more than I understand you saying yes.’ But please say yes.

  ‘Hmm. There is steel in your eyes,’ said Billy. ‘Which I respond to better than that puppy-dog crap.’

  ‘Not quite steel,’ said Ren. ‘What you see in my eyes is a substance one hundred times stronger than steel, a material incapable of destruction.’

  ‘Right. Jesus, Ren, I’m not sure about this.’

  ‘I have a watertight plan—’

  ‘What, water with the power to tighten my ass muscles one hundred times more than regular plans?’

  ‘There’s a reason why I’ll be watching your…back.’

  Billy shook his head. ‘Tell me your plan.’

  ‘I need you to break into the office of Detective—’

  ‘Oh no, no detectivey things, no law-enforcementy things.’

  ‘Hear me out,’ said Ren. ‘It’s a low-security office. It belongs to Detective Janine Hooks of the Jefferson County Cold Case Unit. I need a file from a cabinet that I will mark clearly on a room plan. It’s under H for Hammond. Trudie Hammond.’

  ‘As in Judge Hammond Hammond? Hey, why don’t you throw a few congressmen’s offices into the mix, maybe the DA?’

  ‘It’s the file of his wife’s homicide in 1983,’ said Ren.