by Gary Starta
Carter was curt, “I’m here to find out.” He had showed her a picture of Dan used in newspapers to promote his real estate firm. The much more gruesome picture of Dan, the one detailing his multiple stab wounds, sat beneath the glossy head shot photo.
The blond woman’s eyes teared as she grabbed a tissue. Carter surmised Dr. Wong kept her affair a secret from her employee. As Wong approached, he wondered if Wong would cooperate and answer questions. Jamieson nodded toward Carter and he locked eyes with the officer for a moment. Information gathered here might be essential.
Carter had no reason to flash his badge around, or scare away any clients. The two men followed her as if they had an appointment. She showed them to a room for privacy, but did not sit. He doubted the doctor had lost control in a fit of passion. Would she really incriminate herself by using needles? Wong stood before him, focused, professional. No jewelry or makeup to enhance her beauty. Thick black frames accentuated her intense gaze—quite possibly the gaze that got Dan Collins killed. Carter knew the importance of this initial interview. He must glean how susceptible the doctor might be to emotion. It might tell him if she were passionate enough to use the very needles she healed with to take a life.
Officer Jamieson began the questioning. “Can you tell us how long Mr. Collins was a patient here?”
“First, can you tell me how you knew he was my patient?” She hesitated a moment, then answered her own question.
“Oh, Ms. Collins must have told you about Dan’s back problems.” Her lips trembled.
“We’re unable to discuss that,” Jamieson parlayed, preparing for an interrogation. Carter observed, wondering if Wong had rehearsed this response. Dan Collins most likely informed her that a PI had been watching them. Most likely it was the reason Dr. Wong refused to offer Dan shelter last night. She must have realized the futility of denying the affair at this juncture. But an attempt at subterfuge might implicate her in Dan’s death. She could be desperate. And if so, she might break under questioning. He gauged this to be an appropriate point to intervene.
“We have learned about your relationship with Dan Collins.” Per protocol, Carter would not offer more details. He wanted to gauge the doctor’s reaction. She inhaled sharply.
“I may have slipped up, given in to vulnerability. I recently separated from my husband.” A tear rolled off her cheek. “Dan comforted me. Oh, God,” she paused to gasp. “How did he die?”
Carter held Wong’s gaze for a long moment, attempting to judge if the woman had shifted gears now that he had the upper hand in the interview. Maybe she would feign grief, ignorance—or quite possibly both. “We cannot discuss that. But,” Carter said holding up a headshot of Dan Collins, “is this the man you treated?”
She sobbed, one hand on her chest, the other on her forehead. “Yes, it is.”
Quite capable of emotion. Now is she upset that Dan is dead, or more importantly, upset because she’s the one who did it? Carter knew crimes of passion often came with a hefty side order of guilt. Wong removed her glasses to wipe her eyes. Jamieson fumbled around the counter area until he found tissue and handed her the box. Carter admired the newly-transferred officer’s technique. His gesture signified empathy for what she was saying.
“Dr. Wong, when was the last time you saw Dan Collins?”
“Oh, God,” Anna Wong cried. “I didn’t have anything to do with this.” Carter pursed his lips. He was wondering if the doctor might dig herself into a hole on her own. He had never announced Dan Collins’ death. She either assumed it from their visit or saw it on the news.
“Can you tell us where you were between 7 p.m. and 6 a.m.?”
“Uh, oh no. This can’t be. It’s like a nightmare.” She struggled to control her breathing. “I was out of the area.”
“Take deep breaths, Ms. Wong. Please focus. Now can you tell me what you’re thinking? You said this is like a nightmare.”
“It can’t be. It’s so sick. I—uh—I discovered a box of my needles went missing from my home yesterday.”
“Ms. Wong, can you be more explicit? Are you telling me someone may have taken needles from your home?” Jamieson scribbled notes.
“Yes. I just thought it to be a simple mistake. But now that I think about it, I’m sure. Someone removed a box of needles from my porch. I had been leaving. Dan and I . . .” She stopped to inhale. “We were leaving my home and a delivery van pulled up to leave a package. I waved at the man. He acknowledged our agreement. I waived all rights for signatures so deliveries can be left.”
“Ms. Wong, why wouldn’t you have your needles delivered here, to your office?”
“I do inventory and accounting myself. It’s easier for me to keep track if I stock those supplies. Anyway, I received the confirmation email from the supplier. It contains a tracking number, and the online record showed the package was indeed left at my residence early afternoon yesterday.”
“You’re still not fully explaining the situation, ma’am. If you saw your needles being delivered, then why didn’t you stop for them?”
“Because I was in a hurry to run an errand. When I came back, I didn’t even think to look for the package. It slipped my mind, until this morning when I checked my emails.”
“Have you contacted your supplier?”
“No, I’m not going to dispute this. The package was definitely left off. I’ve never had any problems before. I don’t know what to think. Would someone have stolen the needles? Could this be connected to Dan’s death?”
Carter again pondered the PI’s involvement. He could have been watching Wong’s house at the time of delivery. He could have had access to a parcel left on a stoop.
“We can’t discuss that, Missus Wong. Did you see any strange cars parked in the vicinity of your house when the delivery was made?”
“No. I can’t recall. I only remember hurrying to run an errand, so I could return to my office for my afternoon appointments.” She paused to scratch her neck. “Do you think Ms. Collins might be involved? I can’t say how sorry I am about my negligence. I should have immediately retrieved my package and secured it in my house.”
Noticing how quickly Wong redirected the investigation, Carter waited a moment to answer. She was as quick to point fingers as Therese Collins had. He still couldn’t be sure she was innocent. He would not press the issue further until Tony Gelder could confirm her brand of needles was used in the killing. For now, Carter would try to ascertain the brand she used.
“Would you be able to supply us with the brand name of your needles?”
Wong stuffed her hands into her pockets. “I often change brands for expense purposes. But I will happy to provide you with a copy of my order requisition and bill. The brand should be detailed.” Jamieson nodded.
Carter resumed the questioning. “You said you were out of the area. Can you tell me where you spent last evening?”
“Visiting my aunt in Weymouth; I stayed the night to keep her company because my uncle, her husband, went to New Hampshire to fish.”
“Ms. Wong, some forensic employees will be stopping by to collect a DNA sample from you. We need it to rule out your involvement in this crime.”
Wong did not argue and Carter did not press. If she refused the test, he would have had her transported to the crime lab for questioning and processing. He was not concerned about her cooperation. The fact her brand of needles may have been used in the killing inarguably made her a prime suspect.
“Ms. Wong, I’ll also ask your voluntary cooperation for a search of these premises as well as your home in Lynn. I’ll also need your aunt’s name and address—and one more thing—I would appreciate a copy of the invoice and the confirmation email from your vendor before we leave.”
Wong nodded, demurely. No confrontation.
“If you’ll excuse me, detectives, my patients need me.”
Carter left wondering whether Ms. Wong was immersing herself in work to alleviate guilt; or was she truly a caring person—the one in t
he white, clean and neat doctor’s garb—incapable of murder, simply fallible, despite her degrees, to succumbing to the need for companionship. A conversation with PI Jay Fishburne might shed some light on the issue. Jamieson excused himself to begin corroborating Wong’s story, notably the courier’s delivery and the doctor’s alibi.
Carter parked, shed his jacket and tossed it into the backseat of his car. Tall buildings surrounded him. A mixture of offices and condos, they reached up toward the oppressing summer sun of a July day. Fishburne resided in Charlestown—not very far away from the crime scene.
A doorman greeted Carter upon his entrance to the lobby. “Yes, Detective Carter, is it?” Carter nodded.
“Mr. Fishburne is expecting you. He said to be sure to accommodate you right away. He knows how important a detective’s time is.” The doorman paused and smiled. “I bet you’re working on one of those ‘hot’ cases. I always ask Mr. Fishburne about his work but he says he’s not at liberty to discuss.”
“I would say Mr. Fishburne is a very smart man,” Carter answered, a derisive tone slipping into his voice.
Carter didn’t care how smart Fishburne might think he is. He was definitely connected to Dan Collins. Not a cloud to hide behind, Carter mused, taking the elevator to the PI’s 15th floor condo.
Carter pasted on a smile as he waited for Fishburne to answer the door. Maybe he could use Fishburne’s foolhardy attempt at camaraderie to his advantage.
When he opened the door, Carter noticed the red, sunburn like coloring of Fishburne’s neck. “Enjoying the summer sun?” Carter asked, flashing his badge and ID. “I’m here concerning the death of a man you had been investigating.”
“Ah, what? What did you say about my neck?”
“I see you’ve been burned,” Carter said. Hopefully, his playful accusation might unnerve the average-built man standing before him. Not remarkable. No standout features. Perfect camouflage for a detective’s life, Carter assessed.
Carter pointed a hand at Fishburne’s neck.
“Oh, this. I can explain. I’m allergic. My housekeeper used a new brand of detergent.”
Carter smiled back at Fishburne, but Stanford’s eyes held a strange gleam. He digested this man’s strange behavior. Looks like sunburn to me. If he feels the need to explain it with an allergy, what might he say if I accuse him of murder?
Fishburne invited Carter in. The detective stepped into a large kitchen and took a seat in a white-cushioned chair before a gleaming glass table. Fishburne positioned himself between Carter and a glass table. His reflection shone in it. Carter mused over Fishburne’s features as he stared into the glass. Jay Fishburne had a young face, quite possibly the only memorable attribute someone might recall about him. Carter lifted his eyes to peer into the living room. It was immaculate, almost overly so. Antiseptic. Few decorations. No paintings. One picture—possibly of Fishburne’s mother—hung over the TV—and the entire room was clean in an obsessive-compulsive way. Nearly every object shined.
“Mr. Fishburne, I have been made aware of your investigation of Mr. Collins. I recently spoke to the deceased wife’s Therese and . . .”
Fishburne interrupted.
“Ah, sorry, Detective Carter.”
“Dan Collins died last night. Please tell me if this was indeed the man you were investigating.”
Fishburne perused the picture, the headshot of Dan Collins.
“That’s him. How awful. Well, that’s the first I heard about it. I was working a new case last evening. I haven’t even slept. But I’m not complaining. I love this work. It’s in my blood. I bet you understand, Detective Carter. Can I get you a drink?”
“No, I’m good. So, can you tell me where you were last evening?” Carter took note of how Fishburne was redirecting the conversation. The PI had been quick to change the subject, possibly in an effort to conceal his true reaction to the murder. Yet his fidgety body language told Carter the photo might have struck a nerve. “Please take a seat, Mr. Fishburne.”
“Uh, yeah I will. I just need a drink, non-alcoholic of course. If you’ll excuse me...” Fishburne opened the freezer and ice clanked into a glass. Carter observed the delay tactic. The PI was probably accustomed to asking questions, not answering them. Fishburne wiped his hand on his shirt, his eyes focused away from Carter. He is either feeling cornered and very nervous or simply juiced up on too much caffeine.
“Let’s see, I was jonesing for a good caffeine fix.” He turned from the fridge and fumbled with the buttons on the cuffs of his orange, long sleeve shirt. “Ah, yes. Having coffee at Max’s Place. It’s a great little nook and cranny to get some Joe and donuts. Ever been there, Detective Carter?” He smiled sheepishly.
“Never had the pleasure. But I do admit it. I’m a coffee addict. Anything else, you care to admit—I mean tell me—about your whereabouts?”
“I had three lattes—grandioso, of course. Settled my bill with Doug, the owner. Then I hit the road for Lowell.”
“I can empathize with your travel expenses, Mr. Fishburne. What with the price of gasoline and all.”
“Oh, it’s not too bad. I have an Accord—hybrid model.”
Carter made a mental note. He now had a vehicle to jog the memory of Ms. Wong. Perhaps she had noticed his car.
“Well, that’s about it. I was out of the shop and on the road between those hours. Just to clarify, I was officially off the clock regarding the Collins case, Detective. I settled up the bill with Mrs. Collins at approximately 8 p.m.”
“I understand. Just curious, Mr. Fishburne . . .”
“Oh, please call me Jay. You know, I bet you’re the Detective Carter that Sgt. Auerbach always talks about. Auerbach and me, we’re tight.” He clasped his hands together for emphasis, smiled, trying to impress but only reminding Carter of an adolescent seeking approval.
“Yes, I’m familiar with the sergeant. Were you with him?”
“When?” Fishburne’s eyes darted from side to side, reminding Carter of a fish. Maybe an adolescent fish.
“Between 8 and 10 p.m.? You said you were gearing up for a case. I imagined you concluded business with Ms. Collins long before 10 p.m. So I imagine you had some time on your hands—being between cases . . .”
“Oh, yes, now I remember. No, I wasn’t with the sergeant, most definitely not. I ran a few errands. Got my dry cleaning.”
Carter’s curiosity continued to peak. For a detective, the man seemed hard pressed to recall recent events. Furthermore, if he had a housekeeper, he or she might have been asked to retrieve the dry cleaning; and even if he was telling the truth, that still allotted quite a chunk of time. One errand certainly could not have eaten up two hours of time. Ultimately, how late would a dry cleaner stay open in the evening?
“You know,” Fishburne said—awkwardly changing the subject—“I am sorry Mr. Collins was murdered. But I feel a whole lot sorrier for his wife. She was real upset about his affair. I can empathize. The betrayal, by someone you spent your life with. It’s a rough thing. But she told me she was glad to be rid of him. So how did she take the news about Dan?”
“As a fellow detective, you can understand I’m not at liberty to discuss an ongoing investigation.” As Carter said this, he wondered if Fishburne was deliberately incriminating Therese Collins. After a pause, Fishburne spoke.
“Of course, Detective Carter. Sure you haven’t changed your mind? This here is some pretty fine lemonade.” He jiggled a pitcher he had just removed from the fridge.
“No, but you go ahead and help yourself.”
Turning his back to Carter, Fishburne opened a cabinet door to retrieve a glass. Carter moved his hand, felt for his weapon.
“You know I always wanted to be a cop.” Fishburne said, pouring the lemonade. “Ever since I was a kid. But too short, couldn’t make the height requirements.” He turned to Carter and tasted the lemonade—the bitterness of either his failure at becoming a cop or the tanginess of the drink made him grimace. Carter couldn’t discern. Ca
rter was too preoccupied with an epiphany. He recalled how he was familiar with the PI’s name, but not his face. The PI’s name had come up in conversation.
Carter overheard two officers recounting a heated argument from the squad room possibly a few years ago. One of them was Sgt. Auerbach and the other had since transferred. Auerbach was nothing short of livid about how the other officer taunted him. Carter recalled the conversation. “It looks like you’re the second coming of Red Auerbach according to your PI friend.” Carter found it odd such a taunt about the late Celtic’s general manager would fuel such anger. It was hardly the worst putdown. Carter recalled Auerbach storming out of the squad room where he nearly collided with Captain Eldridge. Body language between the pair told Carter this kind of taunting was nothing new. Perhaps, Auerbach was upset about a whole laundry list of items. He recalled Eldridge shaking his head and smirking. The taunting officer peered out of the squad room door at Eldridge. They nodded to each other as if speaking some non-verbal code.
Most people in law enforcement learned to take ribbing. Officers sometime needed to release the stress of their jobs by ragging a colleague. Usually, it’s done good-naturedly. Carter recalled he even suffered some name-calling as a rookie. But he never became angry enough to respond. Sid Auerbach had essentially had a ‘sissy fit. Carter concluded Fishburne was a wise ass, someone who knew how to press people’s buttons. It was fortunate for Carter that he had been lingering around the room waiting for his partner at the time. He could now assume Jay Fishburne was bitter about his failed career and retaliated at the department via Sid.
“Uh, I’m sorry, Jay. It was a shame you didn’t make the force.” Carter wanted to take advantage of what Fishburne apparently interpreted as a mere fact finding session.
“Oh, don’t concern yourself. Your mind is probably too immersed in your case. That’s my detective’s observation.” He raised the hand with the glass at Carter as if in a toast, only his index finger was pointing as if it were a mock gun. Fishburne grinned, boyishly. Carter decided to take advantage of the man’s attempt at charm. He wanted to know more about Fishburne’s relationship with Mrs. Collins. He doubted Fishburne would have anything poignant to say about Dr. Wong. He probably observed her from afar with field glasses and recorded her conversations with some sort of high tech surveillance mike.
