Imperfect Defense

by Gregg E. Brickman

  In a file folder titled investments, Ray found correspondence with an annuity advisor in New Jersey. The man wanted to know why Millie was moving her accounts to another representative and claimed he could provide service from afar. Millie responded that she liked to meet face-to-face—he should know that since he came to her house. She felt more secure that way. Following several such exchanges, he agreed to help her find a new agent and supplied the necessary change of agent form.

  "Deg." Ray waited for him to look up from his work. "Have you found any paper about her investments? She apparently switched advisors when she came to Florida, but there is nothing here to tell me when that happened and to whom the transfer was made—if it was made."

  Deg shuffled through several manila folders, selected one, and passed it to Ray. "I saw a couple things in here."

  "South Florida Secure Financials, Inc." Ray sorted through the file, then held up a letter. "Never heard of them." He tapped the page. "Guy's name is Rodney Dyer. He took over Millie's investment accounts, promised to meet with her personally and arrange for the steady flow of cash she wanted."

  "Stick him on the interview list. It might be enlightening."

  "Down toward the bottom. There's a couple of documents in here suggesting he was making money for her and meeting her needs."

  Deg twirled a hand in the air. "We'll see what we see. With all the bad publicity some of these advisors and investors have gotten, it never hurts to include financial fraud as a possible motive."

  Ray wrote a note, then got up to make a copy of a letter with contact information in the footer. "I'd like to visit the school where she volunteered, too."

  "Why? You don't have enough to keep you busy? The captain told us to get this done and move on. We've got a big book of business at the moment." Deg poked at a stack of open cases sitting on the two-drawer file separating their desks.

  "Being thorough," Ray said. Sophia was vested in the case and so was he. He knew he needed to find the killer, or she would be more distressed. Getting justice for Millie would go a long way in helping Sophia feel better.

  "Anything else of interest on her computer?"

  "I've only just begun." He looked at his watch. "Before we head to the ME, take a look at this."

  Ray pivoted his computer monitor so Deg could view it. "She has a couple of emails with her sister where she appears annoyed with the volunteer coordinator—Tracey Ironmonger—at the school. Millie complained that Ironmonger was asking for a donation again, except she put the word donation all in caps."

  CHAPTER 5

  Ray

  At the Broward County Medical Examiner's office, Ray and Deg stood three feet from the gleaming stainless steel table supporting the body of Millie Peers.

  Ray viewed the distance as close enough to see and far enough away to remain unscathed. The smell—early decay mixed with the odor of blood—settled into the back of his throat. He had a particular distaste for autopsies and morgues, especially the smells, which even the arctic-level air-conditioning couldn't dispel.

  Dr. Kasper, the mild-mannered Canadian-born ME, pointed to a dent in Millie's skull. "This is the killing blow." He lifted the scalp, which he had removed earlier, and pointed to evidence of bleeding into the brain. "She gradually lost consciousness from the bleed." His soft voice contrasted with his brutal findings. "Based on the shape of the depression, it could have been caused by a large wrench. I need the murder weapon to match to the wound for confirmation."

  Ray made a note, feeling disgusted at the thought. "We'll check the garage and house again for tools. The yard, shrubbery, and adjacent lots, too."

  "Agreed. So," Deg said, "she could have covered herself with the bedspread because she was cold."

  "Perhaps, yes." Kasper raised an arm and pivoted his hand back and forth at the wrist. "Or the suspect could have covered her. But it is possible she did it herself."

  "Time of death?"

  "Between mid-morning and early afternoon. She didn't eat the dinner found in the kitchen. Stomach contents look like a late breakfast or early lunch."

  "What else?" Ray ignored his queasy stomach.

  "I took scrapings from under her nails. Looked like tissue. I'd say your perp has scratches." He appeared thoughtful. "The other finding is she's had multiple traumas in the past. The earliest injuries appear to be a fractured pelvis, left femur, and left ankle. That would be consistent with an auto accident, I believe. Then she has a more recent fracture line on her left jaw and another, still newer, to her left humerus."

  "Elderly people fall," Deg said.

  "They also get the shit beaten out of them—be it by children, spouse, or caregiver." Kasper pulled a sheet up to cover Millie's body. "For the record, she also has the usual assortment of eighty-year-old findings. A little liver disease, some heart disease, vascular problems. It will all be in the report."

  "Anything else?" Ray said, recalling how Sophia spoke of her friend with appreciation and respect. The crime made him angry and annoyed.

  "None of the diseases would have killed her for a good many years. Her life was cut short by a vicious blow to her skull."

  "What about the scar on her right hip?" Deg said.

  "Like I thought yesterday, laser removal of a tattoo," Kasper said. "Looks to be recent. Which is unusual. Why would an older person decide to remove her ink?"

  "Don't know, but we'll inquire," Ray said.

  Ray and Deg thanked Kasper for performing his part without the usual delay and left the building. Ray climbed into the passenger seat of Deg's assigned Taurus.

  Deg pulled onto the access road and headed east, taking their usual route to Interstate 595, the Sawgrass Expressway, and Coral Bay. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. "So what we have is an elderly woman who was beaten to death, the coup de grace being the blow to the skull. Plus, the woman has a history of suspicious injuries."

  "I'll put it on the list for the sister's interview tomorrow." Ray scribbled in his notebook, remembering an earlier conversation. "Points to a family member as the perp. Sophia commented that Millie seemed glad to be a widow. I found the comment odd at the time. She said Millie didn't say anything specific, only that her husband was a hard man to live with."

  "Maybe he beat her. Maybe that's where the son learned the behavior."

  Ray made more notes, then slipped his phone from his shirt pocket and glanced at the screen. "Nothing from the former employers. I hoped Peers would be looking for work."

  "With his mother lying dead in the morgue?" Deg said.

  Ray shrugged. "We saw it happen before. Nothing surprises me."

  The detectives continued discussing the case, rehashing known information, and speculating on future events. When they exhausted the small amount of known data, the conversation shifted to the Heat's contractual issues with their star basketball players, which kept them involved until Deg parked in front of Millie's house.

  A patrol vehicle sat across the street. Ray exited the car and crossed to speak with Officer Taylor, who lounged behind the wheel.

  "Good afternoon, Detective," Taylor said.

  "Been here long?"

  "Since seven. Boring damn day."

  "Stakeouts are that way. Anything happen?"

  The guy grinned. "Sure. Children played. Dogs walked. Retired ladies stopped to ask questions. No Wayne Peers, however."

  "Have you checked the back of the house?"

  "Every thirty minutes. Gives me an excuse to move."

  "Thanks. I hope this doesn't last for very long."

  "I'm done at three. The sergeant decided to divide up the duty, spread the boredom among the troops."

  "That's good." Ray, thinking the son had evaporated, joined Deg at the front of the house.

  They lowered the crime scene tape and entered through the front door. A quick tour of the house confirmed that everything was as they left it. There was no sign the son had entered the premises.

  In the garage, they found a toolbox sitting
on a cabinet near the door to the house. A few small tools suitable to a woman's hand lay in the box along with a tape measure, an eight-inch level, and a variety pack of picture-hanging devices. The cabinet drawers contained light bulbs, clothespins, masking tape, and other common supplies. Nothing pertaining to large jobs requiring a heavy wrench.

  "Looks as if the killer came prepared." Ray rubbed his beard. "I can't imagine a son stopping on the way home to buy a wrench just in case he wanted to murder his mother."

  "Maybe he has other tools he uses for work, and the wrench was on the top of the box."

  "He's a painter. I've never had one show up with a pipe wrench."

  "It's an odd choice. Reflects convenience and not pre-planning in my opinion." Deg opened the door to the house and entered.

  Ray followed, turning off the garage light on his way. "That it does."

  Next, they searched the home, focusing on any place—laundry room, kitchen, broom closet, hall closet, son's bedroom—that would logically hold more tools. Again, they found nothing, not even a screwdriver.

  When Deg went out the front door, Ray did as well, stopping to engage the lock and replace the crime scene tape. "Let's ask the neighbors if they saw something they didn't mention yesterday."

  Deg motioned left. "Split it up. Text me if you find anything interesting."

  Ray chuckled. Deg embraced the computer age. The latest thing he wanted was to work from one shared electronic notebook file for their active cases. Even though the techies had assured him the documents would be secure, Ray resisted, liking the process of writing a comment, reviewing it on paper, then comparing notes with Deg as the case progressed.

  A man in his late seventies, Clarence Poser, answered the door of the third house Ray approached.

  After introductions, Ray said, "You're aware your neighbor, Millie Peers, was killed in her home yesterday?"

  "Terrible thing. Simply terrible. She was a good woman. Stopped to visit my wife now and then. My wife is sick. I sit with her on the porch sometimes to get the air. Millie would bring the dog and pass the time, and frankly, give me a little break."

  "How so?"

  "My wife is confused, so I have to keep an eye on her." Poser frowned. His eyes showed suppressed grief. "When Millie came by, I'd run to the store or maybe take a leisurely shower."

  "Did you notice anything unusual yesterday? Anybody draw your attention?"

  "Nothing. A black Camaro was parked near Millie's house in the late morning. I've noticed it in the area before."

  "A visitor to Millie's?"

  "I don't know. I didn't see it come or go. I saw it there when my wife and I came home from the doctor."

  "Anything else?"

  "We have a bunch of kids in the neighborhood."

  "What ones are you talking about?"

  "They're junior or senior high school age maybe, rough looking, baggy pants, unshaven. But most boys are nowadays, I think. They gather by the apartment building." Poser motioned to a three-story building a block north. "Sometimes, they walk the neighborhood."

  "Have they bothered you or your neighbors?"

  "No, the opposite, in truth," Poser said. "One helped me a time or two when I didn't have the strength to do something—like open a jar. Or he carried in the groceries so I could deal with my wife."

  "So why do you bring them up now?"

  "There are a couple of new faces who aren't as friendly. They shoot their mouths off. Act threatening. Also, there is one in particular who likes to walk too close to the older people along the street."

  "Happen to have a name?" Ray said.

  "No. I don't know any of their names, not even for the one who helps me."

  "Describe the threatening one."

  Poser closed his eyes and bit his lower lip. "Tall and skinny, but a couple inches shorter than you. Black. Dark skin. He has those braids."

  "Dreds?" Ray said.

  "Yes, dreds. His pants are so low he shows his boxers. Rough looking." Poser paused. "Don't get me wrong. I know kids look like that, then go home and study for medical school. It's a phase. But this guy, he has something about him that seems mean, and like I said, he gets too close."

  "Describe how that happens, please."

  "Last week, maybe on Saturday, I brought my wife outside to sit. Took a chair for myself, too, hoping Millie would stop by because I'd forgotten milk at the store."

  "And?"

  "The kids came down the street. The one with the dreds came up the driveway, got to within two feet of my face, then said, 'How's it hanging, old man?'"

  "Anything else happen?"

  "Nah, the boy who helps me said, 'Hey dude, leave Mr. Poser alone.'"

  "Can you describe him?"

  "Sure can. Big, like you. Black, but light-skinned. Shaved head. Big pants. Wears a belt to hold them up. Face is round. Looks like he carries a bit of weight in his middle section, too." Poser patted his own belly.

  Ray asked a few follow-up questions, handed Poser his card, and left. He caught up with Deg, who'd gathered similar information from an elderly woman.

  After moving the car to the parking lot of the apartment building, they sought out the manager who lived on the premises. The manager supplied names—Ricky Agar for the big, friendly kid, Leon Putt for the skinny, threatening one.

  There was no answer in the apartment where Agar lived with his mother, nor where Putt resided with his big sister, though Ray was certain he'd seen movement through the partially opened vertical blinds.

  CHAPTER 6

  Sophia

  Sophia transferred Ralph to his room upstairs in the Coral Bay Medical Center where he'd await the attention of an orthopedic surgeon to deal with his fractured hip. The other films were negative. A stroke hadn't caused the fall.

  As promised, Ralph's medics returned every hour with more patients, and in between, other units did the same.

  "Hey, Sophia, we said we'd be back." Stephanie, the paramedic who'd brought Ralph in earlier, laughed. She asked about Ralph, and Sophia told her about the hip fracture.

  Sophia immersed herself in her duties and missed lunch. She was exhausted, her hip hurt, and she needed a break. When an RN for the three o'clock shift arrived a few minutes early, Sophia gave her a quick report and headed down a hall to the cafeteria. CBMC isn't very big, with the exception of the emergency department. She didn't walk far.

  After glancing around the almost empty dining area to verify Connie hadn't arrived—she had opted to wait so they could lunch together—Sophia entered the food court, which was located in a large side room. She grabbed a pre-packaged salad, a tuna sandwich, and a plastic cup for water. When she emerged, Connie flagged her over to a high-top table near the windows.

  Sophia climbed onto a stool.

  "How are you doing?" Connie said, opening her bagged lunch.

  "I'm having a hard time believing Millie's dead. She was a sweet lady—feisty, in truth—but kind, and she loved her dog to distraction." Sophia sipped her water and took a bite of salad. "I've always operated on the assumption that people who love dogs and are loved by dogs are basically good folks."

  "Tell your theory to the thug with the pit bull the next time you see him on your street."

  "There is that. I make an exception for people who select animals with bad-dog reputations. I mean, what's the point?"

  "Image? Wanting to show how tough they are?"

  "I suppose. Anyway, Scruffy was loose in the street." It took Sophia about five minutes to give Connie the details. "I don't get beating up old people, either. It breaks my heart."

  Connie looked thoughtful. "There is more elder abuse going on than any of us suspect. The old people are dependent on their families and caregivers and don't, even if they are able, feel they're in a position to protest."

  "I think it's incredibly sad." Sophia ate more salad, then started on the sandwich. She was hungry in a physical sense, but had no appetite. She forced down a few bites and shoved the sandwich aside. "This mor
ning a man came into the ED. His son-in-law said he fell down the steps. The guy agreed with no further comment and never gave his own story."

  "You're talking about Ralph Hoffman?"

  "How did you know?"

  "I saw him in radiology on a stretcher. We spoke for a minute before I took the child I was monitoring in for her films."

  "What did he tell you?"

  "The same. He fell. But he didn't act like his usual self." Connie wrinkled her forehead.

  "You know him? How?"

  "I've known Franco Silebi, his son-in-law, for years, and his wife, Melinda, is a dietician here. She works part-time."

  Sophia imagined the woman wearing a white lab coat. "I thought I recognized her." She looked at Connie, raising an eyebrow to encourage her to continue. When she didn't, Sophia said, "How do you know them?"

  "Darrell works for Silebi Mortgage. Remember?"

  Sophia didn't. Connie's husband, Darrell, changed jobs every couple of years. She'd lost track, but nodded anyway.

  Connie continued, "They have a holiday event every December for employees and spouses. They combine many of Silebi's businesses together for it. His wife, Melinda, remembered I worked here. When her mother was admitted a few months ago, she called me."

  "Lorraine was her name," Sophia said.

  "Right."

  "Ralph mentioned that she died after falling down the same steps." Sophia tried another bite of sandwich. "Could be more than coincidence."

  Connie shook her head. "Franco and Melinda are good people." She paused, frowning. "At least, I think so."

  Connie was a dear friend, several years Sophia's senior, and a surrogate mother to her. They met when Sophia joined the emergency department staff at CBMC. Connie worked in the Pediatric ED at the time and took charge of Sophia's orientation. Connie's been there for Sophia since they met and was always supportive. Connie did, however, tend to get over-involved and sometimes jump to judgment.