A Ghost of Justice

by Jon Blackwood

  "Why? Is he innocent because of a rotten childhood or something?"

  "I don't know. I haven't heard yet."

  Debra Angelucci faced Emily. "Actually, Ms Sheafer, Mr. Hardy did have problems with his mother, but that likely has no bearing on the question of guilt or innocence."

  "I'm so relieved." After she spoke, Emily felt foolish. She didn't truly feel the sarcasm. "I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I really do want to hear your report."

  "Good," Eric said. "So you'll mind your manners."

  Emily nodded.

  "That's all right, Eric," Dr. Angelucci said. "I may as well start."

  The kettle started whistling, so she waited while Eric poured. "Do you take sugar?" he said.

  "One, thanks. Well, first thing to explain, Emily, is that when your father told me what it was he needed, I went on the e-magistrate site to get the files on Hardy. I have clearance, so as soon as I provided the e-mage with proof of my credentials and that your father had contracted me for the case, I was able to get more than the court records."

  "More?" This was not something Emily expected.

  "Yes. More. The full evidence list and the investigation records. Not everything comes out in the trial. And sometimes what doesn't come out can be vitally important."

  "Like what?"

  "Like what is missing in the evidence. There's no physical evidence placing Hardy inside your brother's home, either that night or at any time. No DNA, no prints, no threads from his clothing or footprints in the size of his shoes. Not even a positive essence scan. And, besides the money, your sister-in-law's hair and blood were the only things found on Hardy's person from your brother's house."

  She looked at her father. "Did you know about that?"

  He shook his head.

  Dr. Angelucci then said, "I decided the best approach with John Hardy would be two-fold. First I wanted to determine, as best I could in so short a time, if John showed any signs of psychological abnormalities, such as anti-social tendencies, but, in particular, any psychopathic predispositions. Secondly, regardless of the first findings, I felt it was important to determine if John might be capable of murder.

  "What I did find out was rather interesting. First, John is completely in touch with reality. This precludes most dangerous psychoses. This is further supported by the fact that he feels it is wrong to steal, even to provide for himself, unless his very survival depends on it."

  Emily found herself listening intently. Maybe she wanted to hear something to allow her to ignore what Hardy had said. Or to believe him. She didn't know.

  "Understand that I am basing my conclusions on information gathered in a very brief period of time," the psychologist said, "as well as through the limited sources of the court records and a single interview with the subject. However, I feel John was quite open with me after the first few minutes."

  "That's okay, Debra. The main thing I want is your professional impression," Eric said as he set the tea down.

  Dr. Angelucci took a sip, looked at the cup. "This is very good. Need to let it cool, though." She set the cup back on the saucer. Looking at Emily, she continued. "There's more to rule out any psychosis. John loves his father a great deal. They were very close during his childhood. Yet he never could get along with his mother. There seems to be some underlying tension between them. When he dropped out of school, she never wanted to see him again."

  "None of that ever came out in the trial."

  "Yes, I know, Eric. That's why you had me come in. No serious analysis was done. Hardy feels guilty about the problems with his mother. John believes he is somehow responsible for them, so he never told his lawyer either."

  "What do you believe," Emily said. Tickling her mind was a vague memory of something Hardy's father had said about him.

  "I need more information. But it takes more than one person to cause a rift that large, and, even if John were at fault initially, it seems to me his mother could use some therapy to help her with it. It is not normal to nurse wounds for so long and to readily take on new ones."

  "Intuitively, I would have to agree," Eric observed.

  Debra Angelucci nodded and took a long sip of her tea. "John also tries to understand his mother and his fiancée ."

  Emily stopped with her cup half-way to her lips. "What?"

  "Oh. Of course. It's not in the records. He was engaged. But the girl reacted about the same way as his mother when he dropped out. She was also seeing other men at the time.

  "Except for a feeling of betrayal by his fiancée, he doesn't harbor any ill will against either of them. This is very important because a psychopath cannot even fake concern for others. John has such a highly developed empathy that he is mildly neurotic from the guilt this causes. I believe he has been in a withdrawal period, maybe even depressed. I also think this might be about to end, even if he continues living. I didn't mean anything by that remark, Eric."

  As if he would take offense at it, Emily thought without anger.

  He waved dismissively. "So you think he has been withdrawn or depressed," Eric confirmed. "What do you mean?"

  Debra shrugged. "He had 'withdrawn' from life as it had been for him. He felt fully responsible for the breakup, for the way his mother treated him, for his indecisiveness in school…in general, for everything wrong in his life."

  "So he left all that. Why? Because he wanted to start over again?"

  "Not quite. I got the feeling that he no longer felt worthy of being in the company of anyone he knew from childhood, with the sole exception of his father. Although it wasn't often or regular, he maintained contact with him. Always through the store. John never risked running into his mother."

  Eric took a drink while Debra paused. Then he set the cup aside. He dropped the big question. “Do you think he killed my son?"

  Dr. Angelucci's mouth turned up on one side in a genuine, if half, smile, cocking her head a little to one side.

  Emily leaned forward, waiting.

  "I can't be a hundred percent certain at this time, but my gut feeling, as well as my professional judgment, says John Hardy couldn't kill to stay alive."

  Eric chewed on his lower lip and nodded. "Thank you, Debra. You've been helpful. Extremely helpful."

  Emily worked her temples with both hands. "What do we do now, Dad?" Even as she spoke, she knew what she was going to do next.

  "That sounds like a change of heart, Em. How did this come about?"

  She nodded, looked up and smiled listlessly. "I saw a side of me that was…worse than anything I could have imagined."

  "What was that?"

  "I think you know," she said. Lowering her head, she began massaging the back of her neck. For Debra Angelucci she said, "It was my Grandfather. He kept saying things that sounded so familiar. That was because they were right out of my own mouth." She stopped massaging and noted that her father didn't ask why she hadn't referred to that old man in her old way. Bringing her hands down together on the table, she finished the statement. "And it was ugly…monstrous. God, it made me sick." To her father, she said, "When he started attacking you, I… I'm sorry, Dad."

  Eric reached over and placed a hand over hers. Nodding, he said in a whisper, "That's okay."

  50

  Ten minutes after Dr. Angelucci had gone, Emily surprised herself to be thinking of supper, but, when she thought about it, she'd had little to eat all day. And yesterday. The headache didn't surprise her. As much as she had on her mind, Emily felt it should be worse. Food would take care of both those problems.

  She sighed, wishing her other problem was as easy to solve. "Would you like anything to eat?" she asked her father, as she stood up.

  "Are you okay, Em?"

  She nodded. "Actually, except for a little headache, I feel just about fine."

  "Good. I'll take care of supper, though. You don't have to."

  "No. I feel like doing it tonight. "Let me see what we've got."

  "Okay."

  A quick survey through the
kitchen revealed soups and sandwich fixings. Either sounded good to her stomach.

  Then the idea came so suddenly Emily could imagine the corny old light bulb flash over her head: 'go to the store.'

  Of course, she just might 'happen' to go see Ed first. After checking out John's suspicions, she could run by a store and grab something better than what they had, yet quick to prepare.

  It was perfect. Her father wouldn't have to know about it, unless (she frowned, but had to face the possibility) John was right. So she said, "I'm going to the store. We don't have anything I want."

  "We could call for a pizza delivery or something," Eric said.

  She made a face. "I'm tired of that kind of food. I want some home-cooked."

  Standing up, he shrugged and said, "Drive careful, then."

  Emily nodded, grabbing her keys and heading out the back door.

  Stopping at the end of the drive, she craned her neck to look at the front upstairs windows. The white of his face was plainly visible. Knowing he was looking, Emily nodded once, then pulled the yellow Mustang out to the left, accelerating up the hill. The clock on the heads-up-display said 5:42.

  She was actually going to do it! Or at least that's what her nod seemed to convey. The wait was going to be unbearable. A glance at the old-style bedside clock showed him all of twenty minutes had passed.

  He went into the small bathroom, ran the water 'til it was warm and splashed some on his face. Then he cupped some and held his face in it, the heat feeling good to his sore and puffy face. Then he sat on the beanbag. Crossing his legs, he closed his eyes, trying to meditate. Or daydream. Or anything to pass the time.

  John had just begun to tire of the attempt when a tapping made him jump.

  "John, are you awake?" Eric Sheafer said from the other side of the door.

  "Yes," he said, a bit too loud and too quick. He coughed once.

  "Good. Why don't you come on out and join me in the kitchen?"

  He blinked in surprise. "Really? You mean it?" The words sounded stupid as soon as he said them.

  "Of course."

  He heard the quick ratcheting of a key jamming into the lock. John scrambled to his feet as Eric opened the door.

  "Before we go down," he said, "I just want to know: do you have any idea why they didn't do a complete psych profile on you before the trial?"

  John shook his head, afraid to show his relief that the question had nothing to do with Emily, or Ed, or Frank.

  "That's all. I just find it strange that they omitted that."

  Then Eric turned and went down the stairs to the kitchen, John following. As he walked behind the archeologist, John kept shaking his head. He knew Eric Sheafer no longer seemed ready to execute him, but this treatment was all together unexpected. It implied a trust in him.

  "Would you like some tea?" Eric said as they came into the kitchen.

  John nodded, beginning to feel hungry.

  51

  Emily took the Fleming road exit off Bryan Boulevard, made a pretence of yielding and gunned the Mustang around the curve and up the grade. She braked lightly, down-shifted and turned sharply onto Lewiston Road. A minute later and she was on Ed's street. A glance at the clock told her she had made it in about nine minutes.

  She felt herself relax ever so slightly with relief that the Jaguar sat inside the garage, the door to which was still open. Pulling up behind the Jag on the short double-wide driveway, she set the parking brake and switched off the engine.

  While the excess steam pressure released upward with a mild hiss, she sat there, staring at the Jaguar. The house faced west so even in the fading light she could see what John had been talking about. It was a beautiful car, but the exact color was elusive. Only by looking carefully could she see that it had elements of both blue and gray, all dark and glimmering.

  Not for the first time, she also wondered at the size of Ed's home. No children, not even a wife (with the exception of his nine-month marriage seven years ago) to share over twenty-five-hundred square meters, twice what Steve and Kelly had.

  She got out when Ed appeared at the inner garage door.

  "Hello, Emmie," he said tonelessly. "What do you want?"

  She walked into the garage. "Can we talk?"

  He stood silent for several seconds. She could see little more than his silhouette in the glow of the kitchen light. Finally his shoulders relaxed and he motioned her in.

  He led her to his den. "I guess I still have enough regard for you and your father to listen to you." Ed stood next to the sofa below the shelves.

  Emily took the chair by the reading lamp. She rubbed her thighs. Realizing she was nervous and probably showing it, she said, "It's cold outside."

  Ed nodded. "You're not here to talk about the weather. What do you have to say to me?"

  "I…I've been thinking."

  "About what?" He slouched impatiently. "While you're getting your words together, I'm going to fix some coffee. Would you like some?"

  Emily hated coffee, but she was still hungry and her headache was no better. Maybe a little worse. "Plenty of cream and sugar."

  Normally she would have liked Ed's den. Looking around, she felt the wood paneling was oppressive rather than warm. She started to join him in the kitchen, then stopped short.

  A small green LED caught her eye. It indicated his Desktop PDM was in standby mode. Suddenly curious, she wandered over to see what he was working on.

  A touch on the inset pad and the image sprang up. Just columns of numbers. Then she noticed it required either expansion to see the whole page, or scrolling side-to-side and up-down. And it was in the middle of the page.

  She scrolled it left. Each line was headed by office items. She scrolled it back and touched the EXPAND icon. The image instantly became a four-foot by two-foot ledger, listing dates across the tops of columns. The office items were actually subheadings under what seemed to be customers.

  Scanning the ledger, she wondered at how a person could keep working well into a Sunday evening on such nothing, at least as she saw it, and was thankful for working with artifacts, actual things. Things people had made and used, long ago. Real people.

  Just as she was figuring she should put it back in standby, she noted that the last four columns had different headings. First of them said 'price per,' followed by 'discount' and 'total.' The very last had no heading at all, and the numbers in the column were two sets per line, one in parentheses. Some of the last were negatives.

  She frowned, not knowing what to make of it. Then, deciding it was none of her business, she shrank the image back to original size and put it in standby.

  "Coffee's ready," Ed called. "Come fix it the way you want." His voice was still not particularly friendly. She was glad he hadn't caught her snooping in his files.

  Breathing a shaky sigh, she went into the kitchen.

  He motioned at the counter and went to sit at the round oak table.

  She dumped an uncertain amount of sugar into her cup, followed by at least an ounce of creamer. Then she joined him. Sitting, she tried to think of the best way to broach the subject of her visit. Nothing coming to mind, she decided maybe the how would come to her if she talked about something else. "Who are you going to work with at the school system now that Joan's been, ah, is dead?" Taking a sip, she tried not to frown at the bitter flavor.

  Ed took a full swallow, even though it was steaming. "I don't know yet. I think I'll wait. Things are going to be crazy for a while. But I won't leave them hanging. I keep good records and, under the terms of the contract, I can anticipate their needs and keep them replenished."

  Emily nodded. Remembering someone her cousin had dated, she said, "Maybe it'll be Paula Altman. Didn't you date her for a while?"

  "Yeah," Ed confirmed. He shrugged. "Neal Scott would be better. Working with Paula would be a bit uncomfortable, you know."

  Thinking of Lee, she nodded. It would be impossible after what she had gone through with him.

  "I thi
nk she's still mad at me, too," he added.

  "What for?"

  "I don't know. I thought I was pretty diplomatic when I dumped her."

  "You dumped her?"

  "Yeah. She was too old for me."

  "The way you said that makes me think you must've been rather blunt when you did it." Unsaid, she believed she remembered Paula as being three years younger than Ed. Maybe she didn't know him as well as she thought.

  He shrugged. Looking at Emily over the rim of his cup, he took another drink. Then he said, "You didn't come out here just to make idle chat, Emmie."

  She gazed down in her coffee as if words would form in the muddy brown. "You're right," she said. "I can't think of any other way to do this, Ed. When did Frank get the Jag back to you that night?"

  Ed blinked, then raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean," he said, giving a heavily serious emphasis to the words.

  The expression entering his eyes gave Emily pause, but she pressed forward. "Come on, Ed. It's important. When did Frank bring the Jaguar back the night Steve was killed."

  He broke eye contact, glancing about the kitchen. "I don't know exactly. It wasn't extremely late."

  "How late?"

  "Sort of late." His eyes brushed the ceiling, then at the wall clock. "Let me think. It was…a little before ten. Nine-thirty? I don't know. Why? What's with the time that's so important?"

  Emily sighed. It was just like Ed not to pay attention to a detail outside the world of dollars and business. She was going to have to confront Frank. Shrugging with one shoulder, she stirred her coffee. "I guess nothing," she said. "It's just that Hardy insists he saw your car in the alley as he ran from Steve's house. Maybe Frank saw something."

  "Hardy again," Ed blurted, not hiding his hostility. "Didn't I say that guys like him are born liars. You aren't going to take his word on anything like that, are you?"

  She shook her head. "No. I guess not," she lied.

  "Good." Ed straightened his shirt, although it wasn't wrinkled. "Would you like some more--"

  His PDM rang, loud enough it made Emily jump.