“What did he look like?”
“Not too tall. Sort of slightly built. Pale complexion. Long, dark hair that looked overdue for a cut.”
“What about his face?” Steve asked.
“He wore sunglasses, but I got a good look at the rest of his face. I’ll work with a sketch artist if you want me to.”
“We’ve advanced past that,” Callaway said. “We do it on a computer now. The expert guides you through the process, and we usually turn up with a pretty good likeness.”
“What about the man’s voice?” Shannon said. “Could you input ‘raspy voice’ or something like that into the computer and get some names?”
Steve knew he had to walk a fine line so as not to spook Shannon. They needed to get information from her about her attacker, but they also had questions for her and Megan about their fingerprints on a murder weapon. “It’s not quite that simple, but we’ll see what we can get from the information you’ve given us.” Steve looked at his watch. “The technician should be at your house soon to install the equipment on the phone.”
“I’ve asked Megan to call my cell when that’s done,” Shannon said.
“After that you can coordinate with your attorney. No matter how late it is, we want you and Megan down at headquarters.”
Shannon looked at her watch. “I need to get to work. Am I free to go now?”
“Yes, but be careful. Keep your car doors locked. If someone threatens you, run them over,” Callaway said.
“Don’t worry,” Shannon said. “I won’t take any chances.”
“Is there a guard in the medical center parking garage?” Steve asked.
“We have security officers all over campus,” Shannon said.
“Call the security office. Have someone meet you in the parking garage and walk you inside. When you get ready to leave, get an escort.”
The detectives sat in their car until Shannon pulled away. Steve turned to his partner and asked, “What do you make of this?”
“I’m not sure how the two cases tie together, but somehow I think there’s a connection. It makes no sense . . . yet. But when we find the right end of the string and pull on it, I have a hunch it’s going to unravel.”
Steve agreed. He just hoped that when things unraveled, Shannon Frasier wouldn’t find herself holding the short end of the string.
ELENA WAITES TAPPED A PEN AGAINST HER FRONT TEETH AS SHE LEANED BACK in her desk chair. She wiggled the toes of her stockinged feet beneath the desk, happy to have them free from her very stylish but uncomfortable shoes. She wished she could go back to her law school days, when being stylish meant that the bare places in your jeans didn’t show too much skin and the soles of your Reeboks weren’t held together by rubber cement. Now, as one of the partners in the firm of Gilmore, Chrisman, and Waites, she followed a stricter, although self-imposed, dress code.
She closed her eyes and thought back over the phone conversation she’d just completed. Detective Jesse Callaway told her quite simply that the fingerprints of her two clients had been found on the gun that was the weapon used to murder Tony Lester. How those prints came to be on that particular Smith & Wesson .38-caliber Airweight revolver was the focus of the questions Callaway and his partner wanted to ask Shannon and Megan Frasier. The two women were considered “persons of interest” in the investigation. The detective wasn’t prepared to say more.
Although Callaway had been cool, she didn’t find that unusual. The police often had little use for lawyers. She’d heard one veteran detective complain, “The lawyers get them out faster than we can put them in.” Elena knew what she was getting into when she chose a criminal defense practice. The right to due process of law antedated the Constitution, going back to English common law, and she was proud to be part of the system, especially when she was able to prevent an innocent client from going to jail.
Elena dialed the number of Shannon Frasier’s cell phone, which rang six times and then went to voice mail. She wasn’t surprised. Her husband had told her that he generally turned off his cell phone before going into surgery, and she suspected that was the case with Shannon as well. However, in less than five minutes she received a return call.
“Sorry,” Shannon said. “I was with a patient. I’m in clinic this morning.”
“No problem. Have the police installed their equipment on your landline yet? Once that’s done and Megan’s free to leave your house, I need to arrange to meet the detectives and get this questioning out of the way.”
“Oh,” Shannon said. “You . . . you don’t know what happened this morning, do you?”
“Apparently not. Why don’t you tell me?”
As Shannon related her story, Elena reached into her desk drawer and pulled out a fresh legal pad. By the time Shannon finished, Elena had filled a new page with notes and questions. “Are you safe now?” she asked when the recital ran down.
“I think so. I don’t think the man would try to attack me while I’m here at the medical center. I was going to ask one of the security guards to walk me to my car when I leave, but as soon as I told Mark what happened, he said he’d do it. Matter of fact, he sort of insisted.”
“Well, take him up on it. The main thing is to keep you safe,” Elena said. “Can you arrange to get away this afternoon? I’d like to meet with you and Megan before the questioning, and I’m guessing you’ll also need to spend some time with the composite system to help the police identify the gunman you encountered this morning.”
“I’m pretty sure I can free up my afternoon. As soon as I hear from Megan, I’ll get back to you and we can arrange the time for all this.” She cleared her throat. “I’ll be so glad when this is over.”
“Me, too.” And my job is to keep you free until then. I hope we can keep you alive as well.
SHANNON RECOGNIZED THE ROOM WHERE SHE SAT. SHE’D SEEN IT or variations of it dozens of times on TV. The scarred table obviously predated the current no-smoking regulations in the police station, and bore multiple scars from cigarettes laid down and ignored. The straight chairs she and Megan occupied were lightly padded but not really comfortable. She and her sister were seated facing what she figured was a two-way mirror.
All that’s missing is a bright light in my eyes and a rubber hose. Shannon stifled a grin at her jailhouse humor. This was no time to smile—this was dead serious. She dried her wet palms on a tissue she took from the pocket of her slacks and tried to slow her breathing.
Shannon had no illusions that, despite Steve Alston’s attentive manner when he’d directed them to this room, she and Megan were both suspects in Tony Lester’s murder. She wondered how hard the police were trying to find out who shot Barry Radick in her front yard. Although there were three solid witnesses who could attest that she was inside the house when that shooting took place, Megan had no such alibi.
She’d passed on lunch, and although even the thought of food made her nauseous, Shannon wondered if hunger was the cause of the queasiness she felt in her stomach, the weakness and cold sweats. No, she knew the reason for those feelings. And food wouldn’t cure them.
Jesse Callaway preceded Steve into the room. The two detectives sat facing Shannon and Megan. Elena Waites was at the head of the table, almost like a referee with the two factions to her right and left. “If you don’t mind,” Callaway said, “I’ll record this interview.”
Shannon looked at Elena, who nodded. She and Megan exchanged glances. “Okay,” Shannon said.
Callaway turned on a recorder sitting in the middle of the table. He checked the recording level, said the words that made everything official, then leaned back and cleared his throat. The corners of his mouth turned up for a fraction of a second, but it was more a look of anticipation than a true smile. His eyes were like two cold, black marbles as they flickered between the two women across the table from him.
“Dr. Frasier, Miss Frasier, we’ve identified the weapon used to kill Tony Lester as a .38-caliber Smith & Wesson Airweight revolver.” Cal
laway reached into the briefcase at his feet and pulled out a plastic bag holding a gun. “Do either of you recognize this?”
They’d discussed this with Elena, who’d advised Megan and Shannon to tell the truth about the gun—how Megan came to have it, how Shannon took it from her, and its subsequent disappearance. So that’s exactly what they did, not waiting for Callaway to ask the expected questions—“How did your fingerprints get on the gun?” or “Did you use this gun to kill Tony Lester?”
The two sisters tag-teamed their story, with Megan telling how she got the gun. “I probably should have had a license or permit or whatever for the weapon, but I only kept it in my car for self-defense.”
“I trust the detectives won’t pursue that, given how cooperative Miss Frasier is being,” Elena said.
Callaway brushed past that. “So, Dr. Frasier, after you took the gun from your sister, what happened?”
Shannon told about putting the gun in a drawer and forgetting about it. When she found it was gone, did she report its disappearance to the police? No. Did she know who might have taken it? No. Was there evidence of a burglary? No. Did anyone else have keys to her house? Yes, several people: herself, Mark, Megan. Had others been in the house? Yes, the police.
Callaway frowned at that last statement, but Steve Alston touched his arm. “So you deny any knowledge of the shooting of Tony Lester.”
“My clients deny it categorically,” Elena said. Both women nodded their assent. “Now, what other questions do you have for them?”
There were other questions, but none that made Shannon feel uncomfortable.
“So, to summarize,” Elena said, “we’ve explained how the fingerprints of both my clients came to be on the gun. Obviously someone took it from Dr. Frasier’s home and, while wearing gloves so as not to leave his or her own prints on the gun, used it to kill Tony Lester.” She paused, as though to emphasize her next question. “Do you intend to charge my clients with a crime?”
Neither detective said anything, so the attorney continued, “Although Shannon has some unfinished business here, Megan, I believe you’re free to go.”
“I think I’ll head to my new job.” Megan shot a defiant look at the detectives. “Assuming I can get in a few hours without being interrupted by the police.”
Elena turned to Shannon. “Do you want me to stay with you while you try to help these gentlemen identify the man who attacked you—the man who’s been terrorizing you with phone calls and threats despite whatever efforts they may have—”
“Counselor, that’s enough,” Callaway said. “We’re working the homicides involving these women as hard as we can. Patrolmen have been knocking on doors in both neighborhoods, canvassing the occupants to see if anyone saw anything at the time of either murder. If Dr. Frasier can help us make a positive identification, I’m hopeful that we’ll have the man who threatened her in custody by the weekend.” He paused to gather himself. “And if you’re asking if you need to babysit your client while we piece together an ID of her attacker, I promise we’ll behave ourselves and not ask her to incriminate herself.”
“If you do, she’s been instructed to call me immediately, then not say another word until I get here.” Elena gathered her purse and briefcase. “Shannon, will you be okay?”
“I’ll be fine,” Shannon said. “Megan, take the car. I’ll call you to come back for me when I’m finished.”
“No need. I’ll see that you get home safely,” Alston said.
Shannon wasn’t sure whether the detective was protecting her or using the opportunity for some alone time with her. But she certainly wasn’t about to turn down his offer.
STEVE ALSTON STRETCHED AND HEARD A SATISFYING POP FROM his back and shoulders. He’d been hunched over a computer monitor for what seemed like a year. The specialist in use of the facial reconstruction software had been very patient with Shannon, and she assured him that the picture that now filled the screen was an accurate likeness of the man who’d held her at gunpoint.
While this was going on, Callaway had been poring through the files of “known dirtbags,” as he put it, looking for any notes pertaining to the unusual voice that Shannon described. Now he made his way through the warren of desks and filing cabinets to where his partner sat. “I’ve gone through the files twice. There’s no one with the abnormal voice the doctor describes.”
Steve pointed at the computer screen. “Does this bring anyone to mind?”
Callaway looked, then did a double take. “It certainly looks like him. Take away the dark glasses, make the eyes like two lasers, and that’s him. But that’s impossible.”
“I know,” Steve said. “Unless he’s got a twin—or had one . . .”
“What? Don’t talk over me. Tell me what you mean,” Shannon said.
The two detectives looked at each other. Callaway shrugged. Steve turned so that he was facing Shannon. “Are you sure this is the man?”
“Positive,” Shannon said.
“Then we have a miracle on our hands.” Callaway hit a few keys on the computer and the display changed to a picture matching the composite the computer artist produced from Shannon’s description. At the top of the page was the name Walt Crosley, followed by several aliases. Beneath that were the words “Presumed dead.”
THIRTEEN
MARK WAS GLAD TO GET AWAY FROM HIS MICROSCOPE, EVEN IF IT meant attending a department faculty meeting at the end of the workday. He came out the door of his office and almost collided with Shannon. “Hey, nice running into you,” he said with a smile.
“Sorry. My mind was elsewhere.” She touched his arm. “I’ve been at the police station most of the afternoon. There’s been a new development in the case, but I can’t stop now. I’m due in the OR.”
Mark didn’t have to ask which case Shannon meant. “Sure, anytime. You can’t take a second right now?” He inclined his head toward his office, just behind them.
“Sorry. Got to run,” she said. “Come over tonight about seven.” She mimed a kiss with pursed lips. “See you then.” And with that Shannon was off, the tail of her white coat billowing behind her, rubber soles squeaking on the waxed floor.
Mark stood for a moment pondering what this “new development” could be. Oh well. He’d know in a few hours. Meanwhile, he had a faculty meeting to attend.
He managed to get through the balance of the afternoon, and at exactly seven, Mark stood on the porch of Shannon’s home and pressed the doorbell.
Megan answered the door wearing a tailored navy skirt, topped by a pale blue sleeveless blouse. “Hey, Mark. How’s the head?”
Mark touched his temple. “Pretty much back to normal.” He moved through the door. “You look nice.”
“Thanks.” She ushered him into the living room. “Make yourself comfortable. I’m going to change. I’ll let Shannon know you’re here.”
He’d hardly had time to sit before Shannon came into the room. Mark rose, kissed her, and enfolded her in a hug. “Sorry we couldn’t talk earlier today,” he said. “Did your time with the police throw you behind?”
She eased onto the sofa and gestured for him to follow suit. “It both threw me behind and threw me for a loop.”
Mark listened as she told him about her identification of the man who was so intent on learning Barry Radick’s last words. “So if you identified him, won’t that make it easier for the police to find him?”
Shannon shook her head. “Ordinarily, I guess it would. But in this case, maybe not. You see, according to their records, he’s dead.”
Before Mark could comment, Megan came into the room and sank into an easy chair. She now wore jeans and a T-shirt, and her face had been scrubbed free of makeup. “I guess she’s been telling you about the ghost who held her at gunpoint.”
“Megan, it’s not funny,” Shannon said. “You weren’t the one looking down the barrel of a gun.”
“Sorry. I’m sure it was bad enough to sit there with a gun aimed at you, much less to be held at gunpoi
nt by a supposedly dead man. Did you tell him the rest of the story?”
“I was getting to that.” Shannon turned back to Mark. “The last information our police had was that this guy, Walt Crosley, was involved in drug smuggling down at the Texas-Mexico border. The policia caught Crosley and his partner in a sting in Matamoros. In the shoot-out that followed, he was hit. The authorities were sure the wound was fatal, but since his accomplice managed to drive away with Crosley’s body in the car, there was no confirmation.”
Mark shook his head. “In forensic pathology, if there’s no body, it’s very difficult to be certain a person is dead. You see stories all the time of people faking their own death. True, some of those are probably just concoctions, but it can be done. Who’s to say that Crosley didn’t spread some pesos around to get the authorities to swear to his death? If he was wanted in the US, that makes sense.”
“Or what if he was shot, say, in the throat,” Shannon said. “There’d be blood gushing everywhere. An observer would swear the wound was fatal, but suppose Crosley’s buddy got him to a doctor who managed to save him.”
“And if the gunshot wound fractured his larynx—” Mark began.
“He’d have a rough, weak voice,” Shannon finished. She rose. “Just a second. I had the police print out a copy of the computer sketch we came up with.”
Megan shook her head. “This is getting weird.”
“More than weird,” Mark said. “If this is the guy who’s after Shannon, she’s in real danger. I’m going to advise her—”
Shannon hurried back into the room holding a folded sheet of paper. “Here he is,” she said.
Mark took the computer-generated drawing from her, unfolded it, and studied the face. The artist had added the eyes hidden from Shannon by sunglasses, and they seemed to match the rest of the man’s expression. The word that came to mind was evil. This was a man who didn’t care who he hurt so long as he got what he wanted.
Critical Condition Page 12
