The Silent Boy (Emma McPherson Book 1)

by A. J. Flynn

  His mind was in turmoil. Would the doctor report what he discovered? He struggled to think, but he couldn’t be sure how much he’d hurt her. He didn’t know anything.

  Colleen had everything spread out on the table by the time he returned to the kitchen, and they took their seats. After a brief pause she interrupted his thoughts by saying, “You’re not eating your soup. I thought it was one of your favorites.”

  For a second he thought she had lost her mind, then he remembered that she still didn’t know.

  “Are you feeling okay?” she persisted.

  “Just tired with a little headache. If you don’t mind I think I might lie down for a while. Maybe once I’m back up you can warm my soup for me.”

  “Okay. Would you like some aspirin?”

  “No. Just a bit of rest. I’ll head off to my bedroom.”

  He’d reached the bedroom door when he heard a siren in the distance.

  He clung to the door, not wanting to believe his ears as the wailing grew louder and louder. Sweat broke out all over his body, and he began to shake.

  “Robb,” Colleen shouted, “there’s an ambulance coming down our street. You don’t think there could have been another murder, do you?”

  He wasn’t able to answer. What if he’d killed her? What if she had been badly injured and died soon after he left?

  “Robb,” Colleen’s shrill voice piped again, “there’s an ambulance, and it’s stopped outside the Valentines. Oh, I told you I should have gone over there.”

  He heard the front door open and shut, and nobody answered his anguished cry when he shouted, “Colleen, come back here.”

  He stumbled to the window and watched Colleen follow the medical attendants to the house where Dr. Blackwell stood waiting. The men in the white uniforms spoke briefly with the doctor, then rushed inside. Colleen and the doctor stayed outside talking. In a matter of minutes the men had Hayley loaded into the back of the ambulance, and were gone.

  Colleen watched until they were finally out of sight, then turned and slowly walked back home.

  Robb thought his heart might be stuck in his throat as he waited for her return. When she did, he asked her in a thin voice, “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. The doctor didn’t tell me anything except that it was an emergency. He looked worried though—not like his usual self.”

  “Did Mrs. Valentine talk to you?”

  “It seemed like she was unconscious. Poor woman. Losing her husband like that must have been too much for her.”

  “That must be it,” he agreed, then returned to the bedroom to think. There was a lot he had to think about.

  He fell onto the bed like a man who had gone days without rest. He could hear Colleen in the other rooms of the house. She was drifting about, talking to herself, and he could occasionally hear her mutter something about that poor woman. She was always eager to feed on other people’s troubles.

  His own predicament had nearly disappeared from his mind when it all came rushing back like a heavy tide.

  Had she told anyone? Even if she hadn’t yet, the odds were high she would later on, but at least he didn’t have to worry about her husband. That was at least a break. Husbands were known to wield guns after something like that happens to their wives.

  Even if she’d given them his name, maybe they would just shrug it off to her condition. He had heard of people losing their sanity when they were in great emotional shock. She could have done that.

  As he lay there rationalizing, his actions began to lose some of their loathsomeness. He could almost believe that Colleen and their circumstances in general were just as much to blame as he was. Hell, he didn’t even have a record; there was no reason for them to think he’d changed all of a sudden.

  Having reached this point of view, he began to feel more calm until he finally drifted off into a troubled sleep.

  XXI

  The office was fairly full when McPherson got back. There was a suppressed sense of excitement in the room, a lot like the last few minutes before a horse race.

  She had spent the last few hours talking with garage owners and learned exactly nothing. She was hoping Garret and Fichte may have had better luck with their photos.

  There wasn’t any mistaking the feeling of joyousness in the air was she walked through the door. Garrett spotted her first and said, “Here she comes now.”

  “What is it?” McPherson asked as she joined the group.

  “We think our man bought himself some tires,” Fichte said in his soft voice. “At least this guy matches our description. The State Patrol found the spot where he bought them out in Helter.”

  “Did the man who sold them identify the photo?”

  “They’re showing it to him as we speak. We’ll hear back before long, but it looks fairly certain.”

  “How about the shoe repairman? Did he recognize him?”

  “He thinks so, but he’s not one hundred percent sure. Says the photo must be real old, and after all, Lieutenant, we need to obtain positive proof.” It was Garret who spoke, of course, but McPherson let the sarcasm slide.

  “I bet he’ll remember him when he sees him, but he wants to be sure before he commits himself,” Fichte added. “I figured once we receive confirmation from Helter and make the arrest, he’ll be sure enough.”

  “You ready to go get him?” McPherson asked.

  “The tax payers will love us tomorrow. They’ll put us up on a pedestal for at least an hour.”

  Nobody bothered to answer Garrett’s remark. Every other line of work had at least one person like him lurking around, and there wasn’t any good reason why the police force should be an exception.

  “We’re going to have one hell of a time proving he had a reason for being out in South Pines,” Fichte observed.

  McPherson’s forehead furrowed. “Yeah,” she agreed. “Everything we have on him is circumstantial. We’ll likely need a confession.”

  “You could ask him politely,” Garrett sneered.

  “Did Aiden report on the caller at the Johnson’s yet?” McPherson asked. Ignoring Garrett was growing into a habit.

  “He talked to Mrs. Johnson. She denied anyone ever came to her house, but doesn’t seem like the woman across the street would be lying. She didn’t say Mrs. Johnson had a boyfriend, she said Johnson came home. The way it sounds she was expecting company around that time, so it makes perfect sense that she would be looking out the window,” Fichte answered.

  “The way Aiden tells it, the woman was under the impression that she was giving Johnson an alibi,” Garrett added.

  “It had to have been him. I try my best to keep an open mind, but I feel like I could believe anything about that Johnson woman,” McPherson admitted, then continued, “and he’s not a heck of a lot better, but maybe we can use their personalities against them.”

  The detectives looked confused and waited for her to explain.

  “Instead of arresting him, why don’t we have someone go out and ask him to come down to headquarters. Tell him we need his help. No doubt he’s conceited enough to believe it. Once he’s on his way, have someone stop by with a search warrant to give the house a good shake through. You’re sure to find something.”

  “All right. So who does what?” Garrett asked.

  “You and Fichte take the search. You two have had more experience, and, besides, think how pleased Detective Aiden will be when he books his first murder.”

  Their talk was interrupted by an abrupt summons from the desk office. They all hurried over.

  “What is it now?” Garrett asked.

  “Another assault out in South Pines.”

  “My God,” Fichte sighed, “who now?”

  “Mrs. Hayley Valentine. Someone beat her up. A Dr. Blackwell posted an emergency call for an ambulance and rushed her out to the county hospital. The first report says she’s in bad shape.”

  McPherson turned to Fichte, her face expressionless. “You and Garrett take care of the ide
ntification and warrant. I’m going to see about Mrs. Valentine.”

  It was a direct order, and nobody dared to question it.

  McPherson jogged to the garage. Taylor was chatting with a mechanic, but cut it short. One look at Emma’s face told him something was going on, and within a few seconds he was in the car and ready to take off.

  “The county hospital emergency entrance, and make it fast.”

  Taylor wasted no time on questions. He was never asked to speed unless it was necessary.

  The lights and sirens helped, but there was always a field of heavy traffic in the downtown area. Most of the cars made their best effort to pull to the side, but sometimes it just wasn’t possible, so it took a lot of skill to weave in and out without mishap.

  Near the outskirts of the business district, traffic was starting to thin out, and Taylor began to relax a little. “What happened?” he asked.

  “Someone assaulted Mrs. Valentine. It sounds like she’s in bad shape.”

  Taylor’s face hardened.

  “Bastard,” he muttered under his breath.

  Nothing else was said, and when the sign marking off the hospital zone entered into view, Taylor turned off the siren, but left the lights flashing. He pulled up sharply along the emergency entrance, and McPherson was out and running before the car had even stopped.

  She flashed her credentials at the front desk and was referred to Dr. Blackwell, on the third floor.

  The elevator was slow, like most hospital elevators. They made them that way because of the heart patients, she had been told. Heart patients or not, she still wished she would have taken the stairs.

  When the elevator finally made it to the third floor she made her way down the quiet hallway, where the nurse on duty was sitting.

  “I’m Lieutenant McPherson, police. Where can I find Dr. Blackwell?”

  “He’s just coming out of that room,” she said, pointing to the right. “He’s the taller gentleman with the grey hair.”

  The man was speaking with a nurse and a white-clad young man, whom McPherson took to be an intern. They were walking toward her, so she waited. Dr. Blackwell had apparently issued some instructions because, when he stopped talking, the nurse went back to the room and the young man left down the hall.

  McPherson approached the grey-haired man with the tired face and said, “Dr. Blackwell?”

  “Yes.” It was only one word, but it was laced with exhaustion.

  “Lieutenant Emma McPherson, police.” She held up her identification again. “I’ve come about Mrs. Valentine. How is she?”

  “Not good. Come step into my office. I need to sit.”

  Dr. Blackwell must have been a permanent staff member, because he had a private office on the floor below. It wasn’t very large, but it contained a desk, a large filing cabinet and three chairs.

  “Take a seat, McPherson. I’ll see if I can round up an orderly and get us some coffee.”

  McPherson nodded and sat down. There was an ashtray sitting on his desk, so she assumed it was fine to smoke.

  The doctor wasn’t gone long, and when he returned, he sat at the desk and offered Emma a questioning look.

  “I thought you were in homicide. Mrs. Valentine was an assault.”

  “Mrs. Valentine lives next door to my homicide. You mentioned her condition wasn’t good. Just how bad is it?”

  “The physical injuries appear to be minor, but the shock is dangerous. I’m most worried about her emotional state.”

  McPherson nodded, and was ready to ask another question, when there was a knock at the door. It was the orderly with their coffee.

  “They were all out of cream, Doctor, but I brought along some sugar.”

  “Thanks, Andersen. I think we can manage.”

  Blackwell poured his coffee out into a thick cup and handed the other one to McPherson. “Help yourself to some sugar.”

  “No, thanks. Never use it.”

  They both sipped at the hot liquid, then the doctor asked, “What the hell is going on, Lieutenant?”

  “What do you mean, Doctor?”

  “I mean with these people in South Pines. I’ve got an office down there, so I’ve known most of them for a quite some time now. Nice, good people. Average, pleasant, well-behaved, and then all of a sudden stuff starts happening that would be shocking even on skid row. A child murder, an assault on a sick old man, and now this atrocity against Mrs. Valentine. You don’t associate behavior like that with people like the Fitts or the Rogers. Just what in the hell is going on?”

  “Chain reaction. It usually follows a major crime. Speaking of Rogers, I was meaning to ask about him. How badly was he hurt?”

  “Not as bad as they feared. I wasn’t assigned the case, but I asked about him. He received a severe concussion, not a fracture. His left leg was snapped, of course, but with the added complication of his spinal condition, I doubt he’ll ever walk again. He’ll live, though.”

  “I suppose that’s something.”

  “Whatever happened to Fitts?”

  “He’ll have to answer to an assault charge. What comes of that will depend on how the judge decides to take it. He doesn’t have a record, and, in light of the circumstances, he might be able to get a suspended sentence.”

  “He’ll have a record now, though?”

  “Yeah,” McPherson agreed. “That much is for sure. How did you happen to find Mrs. Valentine?”

  “Over the phone. Somehow she made the operator know she was in trouble and needed my help. When I took the call, all she was able to tell me was her name, and that it ‘hurt, bad.’ Her voice sounded distant, like it was coming from outer space, and so I hurried over. She wasn’t able to answer my knocking, but the door was left open, so I was able to get inside.”

  “Did she tell you anything that might point to who was responsible?”

  “No,” he said slowly, “nothing like that. In fact, it took her a while to even realize someone was there, and once she did, all she was able to say was, ‘Please, not today.’ I couldn’t make much sense of it. What difference would it make what day it happened?”

  McPherson took a deep breath. She wanted to strike someone, but there was no one to strike.

  “Her husband died today. Car accident. I guess she must have felt enough had already happened to her for that day.”

  “Good God,” the doctor said, shocked. “That poor woman. No wonder she’s in such a state.” Then his expression morphed from compassion to disgust. “Do you think the perpetrator knew about her husband’s death and thought she might be defenseless?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me these people have been your patients, and that they’re good people. But judging by the way they’ve been acting, they’re not very different from an everyday criminal. The only one without an ax to grind is Mrs. Shepherd, and I expect her to hop on the bandwagon any time now.”

  “They’re all frightened,” Blackwell said reflectively. “The murder stripped them of their rose-tinted glasses, and now they don’t know how to cope living without the rules.”

  “The bastard who got Mrs. Valentine didn’t give a damn about the rules, and as soon as I get my hands on him I’m not so sure I will either. Can I see her?”

  “You can see her but I don’t think it will do any good. She’s heavily sedated and won’t be able to talk at least until tomorrow, if even then. Her physical injuries are painful, but not dangerous. I’m most afraid for her mental health. I can’t allow anything that might upset her.

  “I still can’t understand the beating. I don’t think the motive was robbery. I took a look around while I was waiting for the ambulance and the house was undisturbed. Other than several blows to the head, she wasn’t touched. I haven’t ever heard of anyone breaking into a house just to beat up a woman.”

  “I know, Doctor. But I would still like to see her. I want to see for myself how bad it is.”

  “All right, come on. I want to check and see how effective the medication is anyway.
”

  They made their way upstairs into the sickroom. As they entered, the nurse stood up from the chair at Hayley’s bedside.

  “Any changes?” Dr. Blackwell asked in a low voice.

  “No, Doctor. She’s been quietly sleeping.”

  “Well, she should after all I gave her, but she’s been through the wringer so she still may have some reaction even with the drugs. Be sure to watch over her carefully.”

  “I won’t leave her,” the nurse assured him.

  The doctor got busy with the usual things that bedside doctors do, but McPherson’s gaze never strayed from Hayley’s face. Her left cheek was dark and swollen, and her lips were puffed up to twice their normal size and deeply cut where the blows had mashed the skin into her teeth.

  Rage rose up inside her until her hands were shaking. Allow one murder to happen, and suddenly others feel like they have a right to follow it up with crimes of their own.

  The doctor finished up his examination and motioned for McPherson to follow him out. Once they were in the hall the man remarked bitterly, “Beautiful, isn’t it? Really makes you proud to be human. As a doctor I’m trained to be objective, but when you catch him my vote will be that we hang him.”

  “Then I’d have to cuff you just the same. I better get going, and thanks for your help. I’ll check back in with you tomorrow.”

  Blackwell shook her hand with a hearty grip. “You’ll let me know what you find?”

  “Once there’s something to tell, you’ll know.”

  On her way back down, McPherson’s mind was busy sifting through the men that could have been responsible. When she got to the car, she was surprised to see Taylor. She had completely forgotten the officer had come along.

  “I think you’re losing your charm,” she said as she stepped in. “I’d forgotten you were here.”

  Taylor joked about women a lot, but he hated seeing them mistreated. He was one of the few lucky men who loved his wife, mother, and mother-in-law and, because of that, had a great respect for women.