by James Hayman
He nodded. “I hope I get it back. I inherited it from my father so it has some sentimental value. He was a passionate hunter.”
“Do you hunt?”
“Occasionally.”
“What do you hunt?”
“Deer mostly. I’m not a bad shot. I could have hit you if I was trying.”
“But you weren’t?”
“No. I had no intention of that. Would you mind taking these handcuffs off if I promise not to attack?”
McCabe, deciding Fischer posed no immediate threat, unlocked the cuffs and handed them to Maggie, who put them back on her belt.
“Thank you.”
“So you weren’t trying to hit us out there?” Maggie asked.
“No. I’m a lousy shot but not that lousy. I’d have a hard time killing a human being. Even a cop.”
“How about Joshua Thorne?”
“I have a hard time thinking of Thorne as human so I guess I could kill him given the opportunity. I wish I had, but no, I didn’t do it. I would have loved to see both those bastards dead but I’m not the man you’re looking for.”
“Are there any other guns in the house?” asked Maggie.
“No. Well, yes, actually, one. About five years ago Hannah bought herself a handgun and took a course on how to use it. I took the course with her.”
“You’re telling me you knew your wife was suicidal. Tried to kill herself twice before she actually succeeded and you allowed her to keep a handgun in the house . . . not to mention the rifle?”
“I tried to talk her out of buying it but she wouldn’t listen. She said if I didn’t like the fact that she was a woman who wanted to protect herself, well, then, she was perfectly willing to leave me and find her own place to live. Rather than lose her, I gave in. I’m pretty sure if anybody had ever tried to rape her again she would have killed the rapist without a second thought. I like to think I would have too. But it would have been harder for me. But having the gun loaded and available made her feel safer.”
Chapter 34
BRIAN CLEARY COULDN’T get the pug comment out of his head when Rachel Thorne settled herself in the same chair in the same small interview room she’d been in before. The insult irritated him, changing his perception of her from babe to bitch. He had a strong feeling that that was what McCabe had intended by telling him, but still it pissed him off.
“Sergeant McCabe asked me to go over a few details with you that we haven’t covered yet,” said Cleary.
“Fine.” Rachel looked up at the light. “I suppose I’m back on video.”
“You are. By the way, my condolences on your loss.”
“Thank you.”
“What I need you to tell me now, Mrs. Thorne, is where you’ve been and what you were doing from the time you left police headquarters yesterday until you heard about your husband’s death last night.”
“I spent the day worrying about Josh. Hoping he was all right.”
“Just sitting alone in your hotel room?”
“No. I went out.”
“Maybe you could provide some details. Where you went. What you did.”
“Is that really necessary?”
“My boss thinks it is. As many details as you can recall.”
“Fine.” Rachel sighed audibly. “Well, let’s see. First thing I did when I left here was to stop by Starbucks. I told my brother Mark I was going to stay in Portland until we’d found Josh. He said that was probably a good idea and that I should keep him informed. He said he was going to catch the next flight back to New York. He’d made a reservation for one that left at six o’clock and called for an Uber car to take him to the airport. I waited with him till it arrived ten minutes later. Then I walked over to the Regency Hotel. Since I thought I might be staying for a while I asked for the best suite they had. I checked in, took a look at the room.”
“Room 411?”
“That’s right. Then, since I’d brought absolutely nothing with me from New York except my shoulder bag and tablet, I went shopping.”
“Shopping?”
“Yes. You know, shopping,” said Rachel. “Going into stores and buying things. Surely you’ve tried it once or twice.” Then looking him up and down, she added, “Then again, maybe you haven’t.”
Cleary managed to restrain himself from snapping back at the sarcasm. It wasn’t easy.
“Where did you go and what did you buy?”
Rachel sighed loudly once again, signaling her impatience to Cleary. Letting him know she found this conversation about as interesting as filling out tax returns. “Is any of this really necessary?”
“Yes. I’m afraid it is, so you may as well relax and hang in till we’re finished.”
Rachel sighed again. “Initially I walked down Exchange Street. They have some nice shops there. I went into three. Tavecchia. Serendipity. Anthropologie. I mostly bought clothes. A couple of pairs of jeans. Some underwear. A couple of tops. Two pairs of wool trousers. A warm casual coat. A more formal coat. And, of course, a ball gown.”
Cleary frowned. “A ball gown?”
“Yes. In case I get invited to any parties while I’m here.”
Cleary’s frown deepened.
“Sorry. Only kidding. Just wanted to see if you were actually paying attention to all this nonsense.”
“I’d advise you to take this seriously, Mrs. Thorne. It’s far from nonsense. This is a murder case and it’s your husband who’s been murdered.”
“Yes. You’re right. I’m sorry. Somehow it just seems so irrelevant. Especially knowing that Josh is dead.”
“I understand. Did you buy anything else?”
“Yes. A backpack and a suitcase to carry everything in. Then I went back to the hotel and dumped all the stuff in my room. After that I went back down and asked the concierge where the nearest pharmacy was. He pointed me to a Rite-Aid on Congress Street. I walked over there and bought some basics and also what Detective Savage called a burner phone since you people still have both my cell phone and tablet.”
“Can I have the number of the phone?”
Rachel gave it to him. “What else? Oh, yes. I bought some more stuff at a place called Fleet Feet. Running shoes. Some tights and tank tops and sweatshirts and a Gore-Tex jacket.”
“What did you do then?”
“Changed into the running clothes and went for a run.”
“What time?”
“Six . . . six-thirty.”
“It would have been dark by then.”
“I’m not afraid of the dark and running is what I do when I’m feeling tense or depressed. And at the time I was feeling both. Josh says I’m a little obsessive about it. Actually, I’m a lot obsessive about it. I run for pleasure as well as exercise. I’ve run a bunch of marathons including New York and Boston. I’ve been planning on running London this year at the end of March but what with Josh’s death I guess that’s off.”
“What’s your best time?”
“Is that relevant?”
“Just curious. I’m a runner myself.”
“Two fifty-seven and change.”
“Pretty good. How far did you run last night?”
“I did about ten miles. Maybe a little more.”
“Where?”
“I ran from the hotel down to the trail that starts at the ferry terminal and ran east all the way past East End Beach, followed the trail up to Back Cove, went around the cove and then on some streets in that neighborhood for a while. I don’t remember the names of the streets but they were mostly quiet residential streets and then I doubled back, ran around the cove again and then back here.”
“Was one of the residential streets called Hartley Street?”
“I have no idea.”
“How did you know where to go?”
“They gave me a trail map at the front desk.”
“Did anybody see you while you were running?”
“Quite a few people considering the lousy weather. But nobody I know or could identify. The
woman at the reception desk saw me return.”
“What time did you get back to the hotel?”
“Quite late. Ten o’clock or thereabouts.”
“More than three hours for ten miles? You’ve done twenty-six miles in less time than that.”
“I wasn’t pushing myself and I walked part of the way.”
“Really? I thought the running was what relaxed you.”
“It wasn’t a race. I walked when I felt like walking.”
“Fair enough. And then what?”
“I went back to my room. Lay down for a little while. Took a nap actually. I hadn’t slept a wink worrying about Josh the night before. When I woke up I took a long, hot shower. After I got out of the shower is when Sergeant McCabe arrived and told me that Josh’s body had been found.”
“And what time was that?”
“I don’t know. Sometime after eleven. Can you tell me anything more about the murder?”
“No more than Sergeant McCabe could. How long was he with you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe half an hour. It was around eleven-thirty when he left.”
“What did you do then?”
“I drank. I forgot to mention I also bought a bottle of Scotch when I was shopping. I was very upset with the news of Josh’s death and I thought the booze would help. I had about three stiff drinks, which both relaxed me and made me a little drunk. Then I called my brother and told him about Josh. Asked him to let our parents know. And Josh’s mother. I didn’t think I could handle those particular conversations. I’m assuming the police have told Josh’s clients here in Portland and his office in New York.”
“We have. What did you do after that?”
“I went to bed but I couldn’t sleep. I just kept imagining the pain Josh must have gone through before he died. So I got up and tried to read.”
“Yeah? What were you reading?”
“A murder mystery. Bad choice, I suppose, under the circumstances. Didn’t matter. I couldn’t focus on the story anyway.”
Cleary let a minute pass in silence to see what Rachel might bring up. She said nothing.
“Do you own a gun, Rachel?” he asked. “A small caliber handgun?”
Rachel looked surprised. “No. Not my thing.”
“Does Josh own a gun?”
“Yes. A couple of them. I’ve always thought men liked guns because they’re sort of like penises. What do you think?”
Cleary ignored the remark. “He owns handguns?” he asked.
“Yes. Two.”
“What kind?”
“I don’t know. Guns don’t interest me all that much.”
“Have you ever fired one?”
“Yes. Josh has taken me to a gun range a couple of times.”
“Are you a good shot?”
“Not bad. I have good eye-hand coordination. I played tennis in college. Coach tennis at Charlton.”
“Rachel.” Cleary let a pregnant pause go by before continuing in an offhand manner. “Rachel, did you, by any chance, kill your husband?”
“I won’t dignify that question with a response.”
“Did you also kill the woman we’re calling Norah Wilcox?”
Silence.
“Well, did you? While you were out on your run did you somehow track your husband to a small house on Hartley Street? Break in and kill both him and the woman he was having sex with? The woman first with a shot to the head? Your husband next, castrating him with a butcher knife before cutting his throat?”
“I’m afraid this conversation has come to an end.”
“You might get away with it, you know. Or at least have charges reduced to manslaughter. Catching your husband having sex with another woman. Crimes of passion and all that.”
“If you have any further questions, you little pint-sized prick, you can refer them to my attorney.”
“Who is your attorney?”
“I’ll let you know when I choose one. Goodbye, Detective.” Rachel got up and walked out of the room.
Chapter 35
“MIND IF I have a look around?” McCabe asked Fischer.
“Not much to see except books and magazines, but help yourself.”
The cabin was small and simply furnished. There was a main room with a wood burning stove plus a small kitchen and dining area. A couple of chairs. A sofa. A few tables and lamps. And, as Fischer had said, books and magazines everywhere, covering pretty much every available surface. Hundreds or maybe thousands of them stuffed into rows of homemade bookshelves lining the walls, nothing more than pine planks held up by cinder blocks. More books were piled up in the corners and wherever space allowed on the furniture. In addition to the books, there were a number of psychology journals visible. Literary journals as well. Some of the names were familiar to McCabe. Ploughshares, The Kenyon Review, The Paris Review. But there were none he’d ever actually read.
An open door led to a bedroom. Standing in the doorway McCabe could see an unmade queen-sized bed, a pair of side tables and a dresser. In addition to its own share of books and magazines, the bedroom was covered with piles of clothes all over the floor. A dirty and mostly empty whiskey glass sat on one of the bedside tables. A half-empty bottle of Dewar’s next to it. Another Scotch drinker. Like the third drinker at Hartley Street. Looking at the mess McCabe wondered if Fischer was simply a congenital slob who needed a living as well as a loving wife to pick up after him or whether the mess was more a result of depression brought on by Hannah’s suicide. A second door from the main room led to the bathroom. McCabe looked in. Again small, plain and functional. Sink, toilet, some shelves to hold toiletries and a metal shower enclosure.
“You and Hannah live out here most of the time?” he asked.
“Yes. She liked the isolation. I think she felt safer out here alone than being surrounded by people in our apartment in town. When she was there she always imagined someone climbing in the window or picking the lock on the door or grabbing her while she took out the garbage. Here, let me make some space for you to sit down.”
Fischer started moving piles of papers and magazines off the sofa and one chair and laying them on top of some other piles that occupied the floor. After a couple of minutes Maggie and McCabe were able to share the sofa. Fischer sat opposite them.
Maggie told him since this had to be considered an official police interview, she was going to record the conversation. He nodded indifferently. She flipped on the recorder and went through the required preliminaries. Date. Time and place of interview. Names of those present. Then she asked a few general questions designed to make Fischer forget he was being recorded. How long had he owned the cabin? How did he like living out here in the woods? How much time had he and Hannah spent here as opposed to the apartment near the campus?
“I tried to talk her into staying in town except for weekends. But she preferred staying here.”
“Why so?” she asked, wanting him to repeat for the record what he had told them a little earlier.
“Like I told you, she didn’t think some random rapist would wander all the way out here searching for prey.”
Sexual safety in the woods? McCabe wondered if either Fischer or Hannah had ever seen Deliverance. He didn’t ask.
“It seemed to her much more likely to happen close to campus where the apartment is. I think all those horny young college guys made her nervous. She was still an attractive, even beautiful woman. Even if she was a little old for them.” Fischer handed them his phone with a photo on the screen. “This is her about a year ago.” The picture showed Hannah seated on one of the chairs in a much neater version of this room. She had a round face with intelligent brown eyes and long dark hair that hung straight down. More than pretty enough to have attracted the likes of Joshua Thorne. Or some college kid in Durham.
“Being on campus reminded her too much of what happened at Holden. And that’s in no way irrational. I mean, have either of you read the statistics on sexual assaults on college campuses these days?”
“We both have,” said Maggie. “And they’re appalling.” The last numbers she had seen said over twenty percent, more than one in five female students, were victims of some level of sexual assault in college and nearly two-thirds of those attacks went unreported.
“Okay, so Hannah preferred living out here and you mostly stayed with her?”
“Yes. I didn’t like leaving her here alone. She was intermittently suicidal. She’d tried to kill herself twice before it actually happened. Once with pills. Once by slitting her wrists in the bath. I managed to get her to the hospital in time to save her both times. I was constantly on guard for a third try. I was as much her guardian in this house as her husband. I was always concerned what might happen when I had to be on campus and she was here alone.”
“And yet you left her here with a loaded gun.”
“I told you why.”
Maggie pointed to a laptop open on a desk, which was really just a rectangle of plywood supported by a pair of metal file drawers. “That computer yours?” she asked.
“No. Mine’s in my briefcase. That’s Hannah’s. She used it for her writing on the days she could bring herself to work. I don’t know if you knew she was a writer. Good one too. Published some wonderful short stories. She also made a little money writing pieces about gardening and house design for glossy magazines. She was nearly finished with a novel that she’d been working on for about five years now. Semiautobiographical. About a young woman who was raped in college and who, years later, hunts down her rapist and kills him.”
“With a kitchen knife?” asked Maggie.
Fischer looked at her curiously for a second and then simply nodded. “Is that what happened to Thorne?”
Maggie didn’t respond.
“I’m guessing from your silence that it is. Strange. Life imitating art.”
“You’ve read Hannah’s book?”
“Of course. A number of times. In a number of iterations. It was never quite finished but she almost got there. I may try to finish it myself and get it published anyway. More than anything else it represents her legacy.”
