Collateral Damage

by Austin S. Camacho

  “That thing couldn’t be his,” Bea said, her whining reminding Hannibal that she was there. He moved to the couch and put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “I swear I’ve never seen that knife before,” Bea went on.

  “Just try to relax,” Hannibal told her. “This is all circumstantial.”

  “Give it up, lady. Your boyfriend’s cooked.” Thompson had moved unnoticed to stand over them, staring down like a judge. Hannibal released Bea and stood slowly, so that he was nose to nose with Thompson. The bigger man took a small step back. Hannibal advanced, keeping his voice low.

  “That woman’s suffering right now. Part of the collateral damage that surrounds every murder. There’s no good reason for you to be rough with her. Unless you think she had something to do with Oscar’s death?”

  Thompson took Hannibal’s arm and guided him into the bedroom. Hannibal thought for a moment he would get the chance to get physical with the detective but once out of Bea’s sight Thompson dropped his arm and spread his hands wide.

  “You’re right,” Thompson said in a harsh whisper. “You’re right and for what it’s worth, I apologize. I know what you’re talking about. I saw what Grant Edwards’ death did to my good friend Ursula Voss.” Something in Thompson’s eyes said that he and Ursula were more than friends.

  “She seems, on the surface, to be a pretty tough woman,” Hannibal said. “Wouldn’t think her grief would show.”

  “You don’t know,” Thompson said, dropping on to the bedsprings. The mattress stood on edge against the wall, one result of the search, Hannibal assumed. “Cancer took her husband, not three years after the wedding, and she never married again. She had a big hand in raising her little brother and always felt protective toward him.”

  Hannibal sat beside Thompson. “Look chief, it’ll kill her if her nephew gets dragged into a murder trial.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?” Thompson asked. “But what can I do? This is certainly enough to warrant my demanding Dean be taken into custody. I mean, this isn’t just some forensic indication here, it’s almost certainly the murder weapon, hidden in his home.”

  “Okay,” Hannibal said, standing. “Where’d you find it?” Thompson pointed at the mattress. A slit had been cut into the middle of it, just about a foot long.

  “One of my men turned the mattress over and found that. And when he stuck his hand inside, he pulled out that knife. You can see dried blood on it, up by the hilt.”

  “Yeah, and I can name a dozen people who could have put it there since the murder, including me.”

  Thompson stood, smiling. “You know I’ve got enough to question him.”

  The stale smell of the room seemed worse than before. “If you were at his mother’s trial, then you’ve known Dean Edwards for a long time. You think he’s a killer, chief?”

  “Frankly I don’t think he’s got it in him,” Thompson said, staring out the window. “But I think if I sweat him a bit I can get him to give up the real killer.”

  Hannibal wandered over next to Thompson, staring down at the same wide, well-kept lawn. “And that would be?”

  “His mother. A known killer. I checked. She’s out of prison already.”

  “Motive?” Hannibal could see the main house from there and wondered where the Kitteridges were during all this investigating.

  “Well there’s plenty of evidence Oscar Peters was gay. And witnesses tell us he and Dean were close. Maybe mama didn’t approve.”

  Hannibal watched Langford Kitteridge step out of his house, wearing a jogging suit, and begin a series of slow stretching exercises on the lawn. Then his attention returned to Thompson. “Because the murders look the same, you think maybe they were done by the same person, eh?”

  “Let’s just say I’m getting the blood on the knife tested against two different samples,” Thompson admitted.

  Hannibal didn’t want to obstruct the investigation, but he sure wanted to protect Dean from being hauled in as a suspect. And maybe, he realized, he could forestall it. He moved off to the living room, followed closely by Thompson. He sat beside Bea, pulled his telephone from his jacket pocket and looked up at Thompson as he dialed.

  “You don’t want the cops to pull Dean in just yet, chief. It’ll look like a helpless, emotionally wrecked man being persecuted.”

  Hannibal ignored the puzzled looks on Bea’s and Thompson’s faces while he listened to the ringing sound, grateful when the right person answered.

  “Hi, this is Hannibal.”

  “Hannibal? Hannibal Jones?” Kate Andrews asked.

  “How many Hannibals do you know?”

  The pleasant voice at the other end changed, and Hannibal could imagine her eyes narrowing. “What’s up? You got something for me? Something bankable before the 6 o’clock cast?”

  “I keep my promises, Kate,” Hannibal said. “This case is about to become news, and you’ve got it exclusively if you move. Remember where we went together last night?”

  Hannibal could hear Kate shuffling papers, perhaps taking hasty notes. “Sure, Dean

  Edwards’ place. Is there a serious development?”

  “I’m there now. I’m looking at Dean’s fiancée, the investigating detective on the case and what is almost certainly the murder weapon. But your story is that Dean is under a psychiatrist’s care, hospitalized, and the police want to drag him downtown. Bea can give you all the details and if you hurry, the police are still searching the place. Lots of nice B-roll of cops dusting and searching and....”

  “Jones, I owe you a big kiss! Be there in twenty minutes!” In this case, Hannibal understood being hung up on without so much as a good-bye. A glance at Bea told him she understood what was happening. One look at Thompson’s face told Hannibal that he did not.

  “Were you just talking to the press?”

  “That’s right,” Hannibal said. “Have a good rundown of the case ready when they get here. Bea’s going to tell them all about Dean’s condition and how unfair it would be to haul him out of the hospital.”

  “Under these circumstances,” Thompson said, as if already speaking to a reporter, “taking him into custody will be out of the question until we’ve definitely confirmed that this is the murder weapon.”

  “Buys me a little time,” Hannibal said, moving for the door, “so I better make the most of it.”

  Hannibal was down the stairs before anyone had a chance to ask more questions, jogging lightly to the main house. He pulled up in front of Langford Kitteridge who stood touching his forehead to his knees. When he straightened his tall slim form he smiled a greeting at Hannibal, then became more serious as his eyes strayed to the garage.

  “Nasty business over there,” Langford said. “They tried to keep me out of it but it’s my property, you know. Joanie told me all about it. Nasty business.”

  “Yes,” Hannibal agreed, noting the impatience in Langford’s hopping from one foot to another. “I’m surprised she’s letting them tear around in that place without her here.”

  “Oh, Joanie’s out of town,” Langford said, beginning to swing his arms and twist from side to side. “Big trade show. Had to leave last night.”

  “Really? Rather sudden decision, eh?”

  “Oh, no,” Langford said. “This thing was planned months ago. She’s a featured speaker I think. But I am surprised she didn’t cancel. I mean, I thought she really liked that Oscar. Dated a couple of times I believe. But sometimes, she’s a little too much business first, if you know what I mean. And for the computer industry, the shows in Las Vegas are critical.”

  “Las Vegas?” Hannibal repeated. “Yes I think I do know what you mean. And I think I’ll stop by her office and see just what was so important about this trip that a murdered friend didn’t make her change her plans.”

  -15-

  The same thoughts cycled and recycled through Hannibal’s mind during the drive to Kitteridge Computer Systems and all the way up in the elevator. Considering the degree of responsibili
ty Joan showed toward her employees, how could she fly across the country the day after one of them was murdered and another was about to be accused of that murder? And what of the Nevada license plate on the fugitive’s car? Hannibal didn’t believe in coincidences.

  Mark tried to make Hannibal feel welcome in his office, but he was clearly distracted. While Hannibal watched, he labored to put stacks of paper in some sort of order.

  “Yes, Mister Jones, the software expo this week is one of most important events of the year in our industry. It would have been very bad for our business if Joan wasn’t there. In fact, I believe she’s giving a talk.”

  Hannibal wondered briefly how this guy found his way into the computer business instead of standing on runways in Tommy Hilfiger’s latest gear. “I see. You say this thing goes on all week. Any way I can get in touch with her?”

  “I can give you a phone number,” Mark said, not looking up. “I should have been able to give her a message tomorrow when I went, but....”Mark shuffled papers harder, and turned to his computer to tap information into a form. Hannibal felt forgotten.

  “Change of plans?”

  Eventually Mark said, “Well, yes. I would have followed Joan... Miss Kitteridge... this evening. But I’ll be at Reagan National tonight instead. Oscar’s mother is flying in from Germany. I’ve been tasked to pick her up. Not that I mind doing it, it’s just...” Mark looked up at Hannibal for sympathy.

  “His mother? Not his parents?” Maybe his father was ill. Or perhaps the feud he had read about in her letter to him was more serious than he assumed. “When does Mrs. Peters arrive?”

  Mark looked chastened, and his next words stumbled over each other coming out while his hands wandered through drawers, finally producing a flight itinerary. “I didn’t mean it like that. Of course it’s our duty to host the lady while she’s in town. Joan would have done it herself but for, you know, the importance of this expo. And she’s getting here this evening. Nine oh-seven to be precise.”

  Hannibal stood, pushing his hands into his pockets, curling them into fists there. He imagined a woman in her late forties or fifties, alone, stepping into a strange city in the middle of the night after eight hours in an airplane. She deserved to meet a sympathetic face. And he owed her something, somehow. Maybe just because he shared the guilt in Oscar’s death.

  “Look, why don’t I meet her at the airport,” Hannibal said.

  “Really? I mean, would you?” Mark flashed his fashion model smile while his flustered hands gathered papers to hand Hannibal. “I can give you her hotel reservations and everything. You’re a lifesaver.”

  No, Hannibal thought. I’m not. That’s why she’s coming here.

  * * *

  It was a bone weary Hannibal Jones who returned to the Charter facility to meet with Bea and Doctor Roberts that night. He had watched the touching news piece on Channel 8 at six o’clock that portrayed Dean Edwards as another victim of Oscar Peters’ murderer. Stan Thompson had done his best, but still came across as the hard-bitten detective determined to bring in his man. The camera treated Bea well, her courage and love projecting right into the screen. To any viewer, she would be the heroine of this drama as it played out. Hannibal wanted to hear first hand about her television interview.

  The nurse at the reception desk was pleasant and so soft spoken, Hannibal wondered as he had on earlier visits if she thought he was a patient. Or maybe she could not tell patients from visitors, so she treated everyone the same. She looked up from her computer screen with the same frozen solicitous smile worn by every woman he had ever seen in that chair, as if it were issued to them when they came on duty. She apparently had his name on a list of acceptable visitors because she directed him to Dean’s room as soon as he identified himself.

  Bea greeted him with a hug so intense he was glad he decided not to bring Cindy along. Dean even mumbled hello, but he seemed to be looking through them. Hannibal reassured Bea that Dean would be safely hospitalized for a few days while he, Hannibal, searched for Oscar’s real killer. They talked briefly about her experience in front of the camera. Apparently Kate had led her gently with the right interview questions, soliciting the answers she wanted without actually putting words into her mouth. Then Dean moaned, Bea turned to hold his hand, and Hannibal eased Quincy Roberts out of the room. Hannibal said he had three questions for him, which he asked while they slowly strolled the antiseptic hallways, amid the murmurs and moans of the discontented residents.

  “If the police could get through the proper channels they might get a writ of habeus corpus in three or four days. Will Dean be fit to be questioned by then?”

  “Perhaps,” Roberts said. “At his present rate of progress it’s possible. Can’t be sure, you know. It’s not an exact science. He has a lot of issues to deal with.”

  “One of those is his mother’s guilt,” Hannibal said. “Dean told me Oscar’s murder looked just like his father’s. Do you believe there’s any chance Dean’s mother did kill again?”

  Roberts dragged his fingers through his beard and his voice wandered from its usual even timber. “Mister Jones I’m still not convinced Mrs. Edwards killed anyone. And if she did, to imagine she would repeat her crime within a year of release from prison is the merest fantasy.”

  Hannibal nodded. “Doctor, do you have any reason to believe that Grant Edwards had another woman when he lived in his sister’s house?”

  “Oh, I for one am quite sure he did.” Roberts stopped walking and looked around as if he might be overheard. Hannibal guessed he was wondering how far into client confidentiality he would allow himself to be pushed. “That is another issue Dean has to resolve, Mister Jones. A part of him feels his father deserved to be punished. You see, he was aware of his father’s affair with his baby-sitter.”

  -16-

  It wasn’t that often that Hannibal wondered just what he was doing or why. Most often his professional work involved some variation of protecting a sensible person from a bully. A person is threatened, something very dear to them is stolen, or a child is involved with a gang and parents don’t know what to do. Other people’s troubles became his own. That was how he made his living since he resigned from the Treasury Department.

  The sequence of events that lead him to an uncomfortable seat in the customs area of Reagan National Airport at ten in the evening was not so clear. It really had nothing to do with Dean Edwards, the man he was being paid to help out of a terrible situation. Nor did it have anything to do with the murder of Dean’s father. That wasn’t his job, but the news about Dean’s baby-sitter did provide another suspect for that killing. Another jealous woman may be lurking out there. And if Grant Edwards’ death and Oscar’s were related, clearing Dean’s mother of the earlier murder would help clear her of the second.

  The twin doors popped open and Hannibal stood with the rest of those lining the velvet ropes that formed a chute for the international travelers to flow through. First out were the families pushing mounds of luggage stacked on carts, all military from the men’s haircuts, arriving at the end of a permanent change of station. Then came a few European tourists, just as easily identified by their clothing and an air of unfamiliarity. A few vacationers followed, looking exhausted, as if they had tried to see all of Europe in their few days off.

  Among the last to enter the cool but brightly lit cavern was a lone woman carrying a single suitcase. Florescent lights gave her hair a bluish tint. Her slightly bent posture and slow shuffling gait made her appear older than Hannibal thought she must be. But something in her soft, warm features told him this had to be Oscar’s mother.

  “Mrs. Peters?” he asked to be sure. When she nodded with a numb smile he took her suitcase.

  “Thank you, young man,” Mrs. Peters said. Her makeup had almost worn away during the long flight. “And thank you so much for meeting me like this. I haven’t been in my own country for almost twenty years. I’ve been moving for more than thirteen hours and I’m just about all in. You work
with, I mean, you work for the company my Oscar...”

  “No ma’am,” Hannibal said, not wanting to make her finish the sentence. “I’m Hannibal Jones and I’m involved in the investigation. The people your son worked for asked me to meet you and get you to your hotel. I had no idea your trip was so long.”

  Mrs. Peters shuffled along sticking close to Hannibal as they headed out into the parking lot. “Oh my, yes. Crossing the Atlantic was more than a ten-hour flight because from Frankfurt they don’t fly into New York, but rather go straight to Atlanta. Then you sit there for a couple of hours before the final hour and a half flight here, and then there’s the customs nonsense, like I was some kind of foreigner. Although after twenty years, maybe I am.”

  “I flew out of Templehof when I left Germany for the last time,” Hannibal said as he pushed her suitcase into his trunk. “We lived up in Berlin.”

  The night sky was unusually clear and a mass of stars crowded together to comfort one another over the river. It appeared that there was no one to comfort Mrs. Peters. She seemed very alone, but then she looked as if she was used to it. Hannibal thought his charge should be in her mid-sixties at most, but everything about her seemed from the previous generation. Hannibal waited until he had his passenger settled in his car and belted in place before he broached a new subject.

  “Tired, ma’am?”

  Ruth Peters looked at her watch, a diamond studded lady’s Waltham that might have been there for the whole twenty years abroad. “A bit. I guess my body thinks it’s about three a.m.”

  “I was surprised to learn you were traveling alone.” Hannibal said while she reset her watch. “Your husband is ill?”

  “Yes, but that’s not why he didn’t come. My husband hasn’t spoken to Oscar since our son ran away from home. He couldn’t face this.”

  Hannibal guided his car down the darkened tunnel that was the tree-lined George Washington Parkway into Alexandria. “Must have been some disagreement to last all these years. I’m sorry.” He decided not to pry further.