Killer in Sight (A Tom Lackey Mystery)

by Sandra Carrington-Smith

  ready to go all the way with the process was a

  dangerous thing to do; even more dangerous than

  staying. Years ago, when he was still a uniformed

  officer, he was called in to a domestic disturbance; the

  woman who opened the door insisted that a mug had

  fallen from the cupboard and hit her. Of course he knew

  she was lying, so he convinced her to press charges. The

  next day she dropped the charges, and went back home

  to her husband. She was found dead in her home a week

  later, and two young children were left without a mother

  or father.

  He walked down the hallway to Tracey’s room and

  found her laptop inside a case on her desk. He picked it

  up and went back to the living room where Shannon was

  still sitting on the couch with her eyes open and staring

  at something only she could see – most likely, she was

  replaying the whole episode with Mary in her mind. He

  coughed softly to alert her of his presence in the room,

  and then walked to the front door. “I’ll be on my way,

  Shannon, but if you change your mind, call me.” He

  scribbled his home and mobile numbers on a business

  card and handed it to her. Shannon took the card and

  placed it in the pocket of her robe. She didn’t say

  anything. She opened the door and watched him walk

  down the breezeway to the stairs, then she quietly closed

  the door.

  Tom got in his car and put the computer bag on the

  passenger seat. As he drove off, he looked toward the

  window of Shannon Brinkley’s place, and saw the lights

  going out. It wasn’t the first time Mary hit her, and

  Mary hated Tracey. Could Mary have killed Tracey in a

  fit of jealousy? She could have been angry enough to

  follow her when she went jogging and confronted her in

  the woods. The puzzle was far from being complete, but

  as he drove off in the night, Tom hoped the pieces would

  soon begin to fall into place.

  #

  By the time Kathy drove home it was already dark.

  After spending the afternoon with Alexis, her mind was

  filled with information that was screaming to be

  processed and filed. She and Alexis had a special bond,

  which the little girl’s family didn’t seem to mind. Kathy

  believed Alexis and her story of Lily. Although she

  never had an imaginary friend herself, her sister swore

  up and down her own “friend” told her things she

  couldn’t have known otherwise. The day her sister told

  her about the secret things Kathy had written in her

  diary about Billy McRae, Kathy ran to check her diary,

  sure that her sister had broken into the lock; but the

  diary was sealed and in exactly the same place where

  she had left it, so she knew her sister wasn’t lying. From

  that day on – even if her studies later on taught her

  differently – Kathy believed that imaginary friends were

  spirits that would connect with a few gifted people. And

  how could she not believe in ghosts? The thought of

  Tracey’s face in the photos made her shiver.

  #

  When his mobile phone rang, Tom was just getting

  ready to pull into his driveway after stopping by the lab

  to drop off the computer. He looked at the clock in the

  car – nine o’clock sharp. He clicked the green button on

  his phone and answered. “Lieutenant Lackey.”

  The same raspy voice from the afternoon filled the

  line. “Lieutenant, I told you I was going to call you.”

  “Yes, I was expecting you. So, what did you want to

  discuss?”

  “Brad Johnson killed Tracey, Lieutenant. He was

  afraid she would tell hospital administrators that she was

  stealing drugs for him. If news of that came out, he

  would have probably lost his job, and he couldn’t afford

  that right now.”

  Tom arched his eyebrows. “Are you sure of this?

  How do you know?”

  “I know. Go talk to the hospital people, and they

  will tell you there was an ongoing investigation. Brad

  Johnson is a junkie, Lieutenant, and Tracey was his

  dealer. When they broke up she threatened to tell, and he

  had to silence her.”

  Tom made a mental note to go by the hospital the

  next day, and he hoped to get more information from the

  person on the phone. The voice sounded feminine, but it

  was so muffled he couldn’t be sure. “Listen, can you tell

  me what kind of drugs Tracey was getting for him?”

  The line went dead. Tom had one more clue to

  follow and one more truth to uncover.

  Chapter 8

  Tom walked through the sliding doors of the main

  hospital entrance and went straight to the reception

  desk. The area looked more like the lobby of a luxury

  hotel than a hospital – well-cared-for plants had leaves

  so green and moist they appeared to be freshly stroked

  by the brush of an artist, and the sitting area featured

  appealing and comfortable couches that would have

  been perfect in a country club. The classy designer

  decorations, tastefully spread around the room, clashed

  with the blue signs on the walls directing people to

  different wards. Instinctively, Tom breathed through his

  mouth – after being hospitalized several times as a child

  because of his asthma, he abhorred the smell of

  antiseptic that was characteristic of hospitals. This place,

  however, emanated the buttery sweet scent of gardenia.

  “May I help you, Sir?” The woman at the reception

  desk – a volunteer, according to her name tag -appeared to be in her mid-forties, with honey-hued short hair and warm brown eyes. Her lips were plump and

  barely tinged by a touch of lip gloss the color of apricot,

  set in a perfectly oval face.

  “Yes,” Tom said, discretely showing her his police

  badge, “I would like to talk to someone in

  administration. I spoke with Your Chief of Hospital

  Police, Mr. Barrett, on my way here, and he mentioned

  he would be out this afternoon; he said it is okay for me

  to speak directly to Mr. Russet.

  “Of course, Sir. One moment, please.” She picked

  up her phone and dialed an internal number. After

  talking for less than thirty seconds, she placed the phone

  back down and looked at Tom with kind eyes. “Mr.

  Russet asked me to send you to his office. Let me give

  you a map.” She traced the route on the map with a

  yellow highlighter and handed it to Tom. “Here you go,

  Sir. Follow the directions on the map; Mr. Russet’s

  office will be on your right.”

  The map guided Tom through several corridors until

  he arrived near a small cluster of offices. He scanned the

  name tags beside the open doors until he found the right

  one. He knocked lightly and waited for the man sitting

  at the desk to raise his head and acknowledge he was

  there. Mr. Russet looked up and waved Tom in.

  “I am Donald Russet. The receptionist said you

  needed to talk to someone in administration. How can I

>   help you?”

  Tom walked in and sat in one of the two chairs

  across from Mr. Russet.

  “I am Lieutenant Lackey, with the Raleigh Police

  Department. I am investigating the death of Ms. Tracey

  Newman.”

  The man shook his head and not one of the few

  hairs left on it moved, trapped in place by an

  unforgiving overdose of hair spray. Reading glasses

  were lowered toward the tip of his nose as he focused on

  Tom, and his long, thin fingers came together as if in

  prayer. “That’s terrible news about Ms. Newman,

  Lieutenant. The hospital is deeply sorry for her untimely

  departure.”

  “I understand there is some sort of internal

  investigation going on, centered on Ms. Newman taking

  possession of medications that were property of the

  hospital.”

  “Yes. Ms. Newman was unfortunately caught in the

  act of filling her bag with several doses of Xanax and

  Lendormin. Both are benzodiazepines.”

  “Benzodiazepines?”

  “Yes. They are medications similar to barbiturates.

  Sedatives.”

  “I see. Did the hospital press charges, Mr. Russet?”

  “No. We decided it would be best to keep the matter

  as discreet as possible to avoid any unflattering

  publicity, but of course we were going to dismiss Ms.

  Newman as a result of the investigation.”

  “I understand. Did you tell Ms. Newman that she

  was going to be fired?”

  “Not immediately, Lieutenant. Initially Ms.

  Newman was suspended from her duties at the

  hospital.”

  Tom arched his eyebrows in surprise. “She was?

  Are you certain of that?”

  “Of course. I talked to her myself.”

  “The woman who reported her missing said that the

  hospital called after Ms. Newman missed two days of

  work.”

  “That’s unlikely, Sir. Ms. Newman never came back

  after she was told she was suspended.”

  “Do you remember the exact date of your

  conversation with her?”

  “No, but I can look it up.” Mr. Russet stood up from

  his chair and walked to a file cabinet. He pulled out a

  beige folder which he brought back to the desk.

  “Here it is. April 21. We spoke at three o’ clock in

  the afternoon. She left the premises right after that, I

  believe.”

  Tom nodded and tried to work the timeline in his

  head. Tracey left the hospital probably around threethirty or four, and nobody saw her, or her car, at the park during the afternoon hours. In fact, the park caretaker

  who was on duty that day was sure that no car was left

  in the parking lot by the time he left. Strangely, her car

  was in the parking lot the next day, although the park

  personnel didn’t think it was important enough to call

  the police at the time. So, if Tracey left the hospital

  around four at the latest, where did she go from that

  time until after five o’ clock? There was no activity on

  her credit cards and she didn’t make or receive calls. He

  needed to talk to Shannon again, and find out if she had

  gone back home to change before going to the park to

  jog.

  “How long do you think she was here for, Mr.

  Russet? Fifteen…thirty minutes? An hour?”

  “Oh, less than that, Lieutenant. We spoke several

  times during the course of the investigation, so that

  afternoon we only met for a few moments for her to find

  out what we had decided. She was probably here for

  about ten minutes.”

  “So you would assume that she left the hospital

  around three-fifteen?”

  Mr. Russet nodded somberly. “Yes. I would say that

  three-fifteen is correct.”

  “Another question, Mr. Russet…do you know a

  man by the name of Jack Little?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t. Who is he?”

  “From what I’ve gathered so far, he does, or did,

  landscaping work for the hospital.”

  Mr. Russet raised his head knowingly. “Oh yes. We

  contract a landscaping service – he must work for them.

  Why do you ask?”

  “I have reason to believe he knew Ms. Newman.”

  “I see. Well, he was not directly employed by the

  hospital.”

  Mr. Russet stood up, sending a subtle signal that he

  was ready to wrap up the conversation. As annoying as

  Tom found his behavior, he got up and handed him one

  of his business cards. “Thank you for your time, Sir.

  You’ve been of great help.”

  “Don’t mention it. I’m glad I could be of service. I

  would really appreciate it if your department didn’t

  mention Ms. Newman being involved in an internal

  investigation. The last thing we want to do is to

  undermine the integrity of our personnel and the good

  name of our hospital. I am sure you understand,

  Lieutenant, that it would be a sour pill for our patients to

  swallow.”

  “I can’t guarantee that, Mr. Russet. Unfortunately,

  the press has a way of digging out the most guarded

  pieces of information.” With that, Tom left the office

  and headed out to the parking lot. He wondered if

  Shannon knew about her friend stealing medications, so

  he resolved to go back by the apartment a bit later in the

  day. Right now, his focus was on Brad Johnson and on

  the skeleton he was probably determined to keep in his

  closet.

  #

  Kathy sat at her desk staring at the photos she took

  at her house. She tried to magnify the images to see if

  she could make sense of them, and understand once for

  all if the foggy apparitions were the product of a faulty

  flash or a ghostly visit. After looking at them for so

  long, her eyes were burning and the mystery was still

  unsolved. Could it be possible? Could it be that Tracey

  came back to give someone a message?

  It was all too much to process, and the sharp waves

  of pain she felt in the crown of her head were a sure sign

  that a migraine was on the way. She stood up and

  stretched, her eyes immediately focusing on the empty

  coffee pot near her desk. She decided to brew enough

  for one cup – just a treat to offset the stress she was

  under – and walked to the window to check on the

  weather while the coffee was brewing.

  Dark storm clouds were blowing menacingly from

  the west, carried by an unfriendly wind that bent the

  newly planted trees across the street almost to the

  ground. The rain hadn’t started yet, but from the look of

  things, it wouldn’t be long before it did. The gloom of

  the day added to her mood, and she felt unmotivated to

  do anything, even if she had several projects waiting to

  be worked on.

  A steamy, snorting sound coming from across the

  room announced that coffee was ready, and Kathy

  walked toward her small coffee station with nostrils

  open wide, eager to capture every whiff of the

  bewitching aroma that was quickly spreading through


  the entire room. She poured a cup and took it back to

  her desk, and before she could get sucked into the

  images of Tracey again, she quickly exited the program

  and clicked instead on a series of portraits that needed a

  few touch ups. She went through each photo and jotted

  down the numbers and respective adjustments on a

  notebook beside her computer, and she was almost done

  when someone knocked on the door.

  She opened to find an acne-ridden teenager standing

  timidly by the door, his shaggy blond hair strategically

  covering his forehead where the pimples were probably

  at their worst. His illfitting uniform gave away his

  reason to be there.

  “Oh yes, you’re here to pick up the packages, right?

  They are over there by my desk. I already talked to

  Wanda at the shop and she told me she would address

  them for me since I ran out of shipping forms.”

  “No problem, Ms. Spencer. Wanda told me to just

  pick up the packages and to get the list of names along

  with the codes.”

  The phone rang from the other side of the studio.

  “Would you excuse me one second, please? I will be

  right back.” Kathy said as she hurried to pick up.

  When she heard the voice of the bride’s mother on

  the other end of the line her heart sank – this was going

  to be a long conversation. “It’s wonderful to hear from

  you, Mrs. Downey. Belinda’s portraits are beautiful! I

  can’t wait for you to see them.”

  She tried several times to shorten the conversation,

  but the woman’s constant vomiting of new words and

  new issues made it impossible. “Mrs. Downey, would

  you excuse me for a moment? I have someone here to

  pick up some packages.” Mrs. Downey continued to talk

  as if she never heard Kathy’s request, so Kathy muted

  the phone and yelled across the divider to the young boy

  who was waiting by the door. “Hey! Can you please go

  ahead and take the packages? I’m afraid I am going to

  be on the phone for a while. The list is right beside my

  computer.”

  The boy yelled back. “No problem, Ms. Spencer, I

  will take care of it.”

  Kathy clicked off the mute button and almost

  laughed when she heard Mrs. Downey still talking – the

  poor woman never realized the sound was turned off for

  a blessed few seconds. It took a while to finalize all the

  details and to get the overwhelmed mother off the