by CJ Lyons
He arrived at Cochrane’s address, a dilapidated bungalow that sported roofing shingles for siding. Luka drove past, noting a surprisingly new Mustang that sat in the carport, with no sign of any motorcycle. A quick double check of the list Harper had emailed confirmed that there was no Polaris Victory Hammer 8-Ball registered under Cochrane’s name. Although, of course, that didn’t mean Cochrane didn’t have access to one. Borrowed or maybe paid for in cash, unregistered. Luka spotted Ray parked in the gravel driveway of the trailer court opposite.
As he pulled off the road, parking about twenty yards down from Cochrane’s address, an old Ford F-150 with more rust than paint pulled into Cochrane’s drive behind the Mustang. The man who emerged matched Cochrane’s description.
Luka waited for the man to go inside then got out of his car. Ray met him at the side of the road. As they walked toward the dilapidated bungalow, Ray told him about the lead at the college. “Grad assistant or assistant professor, not sure, he talked so damn fast, but young, eager, and pissed off because Ian Wright insulted his research. Anyway, got a bone to pick, but dangled an interesting rumor. Seems Wright refused to contribute to a project Cyber Command wanted him in on. He didn’t think it was ethical and the government suspended his consulting contract.”
They stopped, supposedly admiring the view—despite the fact that it consisted of the trailer park, a vacant lot filled with weeds and trash, and Cochrane’s house. Ray’s hand rested on his weapon as they approached the house. “You want point?”
Luka nodded and they split up, Ray moving to cover both the carport entrance and the front door from the driveway while Luka rang the bell. He stood to the far side of the door and listened. It wasn’t difficult, the walls were that thin. If he needed to, he could probably kick through the exterior layer of roofing shingles and the interior drywall faster than he could break down the door. He would prefer not to do either.
“Mr. Cochrane? It’s Detective Sergeant Jericho, Cambria City Police. We’d like your assistance on a case. If you could open the door.”
He heard the sounds of cabinets and drawers being closed.
“Mr. Cochrane? Are you all right, sir? Do you need assistance?”
“No!” came the rapid shout back. “I’m fine. Hold on. Let me—er, let me get some pants on.”
As if Luka hadn’t seen the man not two minutes ago fully dressed. He waited for a short ten count. “Sir, we really need—”
The door popped open and Cochrane stood, blocking Luka’s view inside. He made a show of buttoning his jeans—the same pair he’d been wearing when he left the Mustang. A bulky dressing was wrapped around his left wrist and hand. “What’cha want?”
“Sir, are you alone?”
“Yeah, what business is it of yours?”
“We’d like to discuss a private matter. Seeking your cooperation, you understand. Sensitive case, we wouldn’t want word to get out…” Luka let it dangle like catnip. It was amazing how often people—even hardened criminals—jumped at the chance to get the inside scoop on a case if you worded your request correctly, made it clear you weren’t asking them to snitch.
“Really? You need my help? What for? There’s a reward? I’m not talking to no cops unless there’s a reward.” He eyed Ray, who approached from the driveway. “Who’s he?”
“This is Detective Acevedo.” Luka held his ID up for Cochrane to see. He glanced over his shoulder at the cluster of single-wide trailers across the street. “Maybe we should talk inside?”
Cochrane narrowed his eyes at the photo ID, pursed his lips, then blew his breath out. “Not sure what I can help with, but if there’s a reward… Yeah, c’mon in.”
He stood aside and ushered the detectives in as if he was a butler at Buckingham Palace. Luka went first, comfortable with the knowledge that Ray watched his back, and scrutinized Cochrane’s home. Palace wasn’t as far off as he’d imagined, despite the humble exterior. The combination living room/dining room had no formal tables or chairs but did sport a massage recliner along with two fancy leather gaming chairs in front of a TV as wide as Cochrane was tall, complete with the latest Xbox system and surround sound. An old sofa was pushed back against the corner to make room for sparkling stainless steel workout equipment that would have been at home in any upscale gym.
“What’cha do, win the lottery?” Ray joked.
“Yep. Fifty grand.” Cochrane pointed to a small framed photo near the window that showed him accepting an oversized check from an official. He turned to them. “But that’s not why you came, is it? You said you need my help. Before I tell you anything, what’s the reward?”
Luka glanced at Ray, saw him squaring his shoulders, ready to wind up for his version of bad cop, but then he spotted a makeshift shrine set up in the far corner of the dining area, complete with candles and a framed photo draped in a black silk scarf. The woman in the photo was laughing, sun dancing off her sunglasses. Beside it was a framed photo of Cochrane along with the woman and a young boy, maybe two or three years old.
He gave Ray a slight shake of his head and edged toward the shrine, Cochrane following. “Is this your wife?”
“Was. Well, technically, common-law.” Cochrane sidled between Luka and the shrine as if protecting the photo—and his memories—from the detectives. “She was killed.”
“Actually, Mr. Cochrane.” Luka colored his tone with respect. “That’s why we’re here. We think you can help us—”
“Put the bitch behind bars? The one who killed my Nikki?” Cochrane’s voice raised, reverberating through the space, fueled by fury. “If it’s Leah Wright you’re going after, damn right, I’m in.”
Luka motioned to Cochrane to sit. The man plopped himself into the recliner. Luka wasn’t about to lower himself into one of the gaming chairs—both of which still had their plastic coverings on, as if Cochrane thought buying them would somehow magically also bring him friends to occupy them. Instead, Luka leaned back against the wall while Ray moved to the side, out of Cochrane’s sightline, casually wandering toward the hall to take a look around.
Luka held out his phone. “All right to record?” Technically he didn’t need permission, but he liked to get it when possible.
“Damn right, record. I want all this on the record.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cochrane. First of all, just a formality—where were you last night?”
“Last night?” Cochrane narrowed his eyes. “Oh right. When her husband got himself killed. You want my alibi. No problem. I was at work until eleven—my PO just got me a new gig driving a delivery truck evenings. You can check my timesheet and they’ve got cameras all around. Takes me about forty-five minutes to get back home after my shift, but I’m always too wound up by then, so I stopped at Roadie’s for a few beers. They can vouch for me, too. Finally made it home around one.”
“Okay. Thanks. Now, tell me about your wife, Nikki.”
Cochrane’s entire body slumped as he sighed. “She was everything. Beautiful and smart—too damn smart for her own good half the time. It’d get her in trouble, mouthing off at me.” His voice grew sharp and Luka remembered the domestic violence beefs on Cochrane’s record—the ones that had resulted in police intervention. Probably the tip of the iceberg. “We had our ups and downs like any couple,” Cochrane added, his tone softened with regret, “but we always came back together, stronger than ever. Until Leah Wright, that was.”
“When did Nikki first see Dr. Wright?”
“Nikki, she’s clumsy, you see. Always walking into walls and falling downstairs.” He gestured toward the hallway. “So she was in the ER a lot. Dr. Wright, she saw her a few times when she got banged up—somehow twisted Nikki’s mind around that I was the problem, got her to leave me, take our kid, too, and press charges.”
“So that’s why you blame Dr. Wright for Nikki’s death?”
Cochrane frowned. “Hell, no. I blame her for being a busybody, sticking her nose in people’s business where it don’t belong. Our love was too str
ong for her meddling, Nikki always came back. She couldn’t live without me.”
“How did Nikki die?”
“We’d been apart for a while—I had to do a few days in lockup,” he admitted sheepishly. “I’ll never forgive myself for being gone when she needed me. But she was here, waiting for me when I got out and she looked awful. Pale, too skinny, bruises under her eyes. I was furious, thought someone had done something to her, but she said no, it was all from worry about me. But then she got a nosebleed while making dinner and it wouldn’t stop bleeding, so that night I took her to the ER.” He stopped, his right hand bunched into a fist, drumming against the arm of the chair. “Should’ve known better, should’ve kept her here with me.”
Luka allowed the silence to grow, but Cochrane said nothing, just kept staring past Luka at Nikki’s shrine. “Dr. Wright, she was the doctor Nikki saw that night?”
Cochrane nodded, obviously straining to hold back tears. “Before she went in, I told the doctor that I was in lockup, I didn’t have nothing to do with what was wrong with Nikki. I told her Nikki was scared and if it was anything bad, that doctor had to tell me first. I’d decide how to tell Nikki. But that damn bitch, she didn’t listen.”
“What was wrong?”
“Cancer. Bad. So bad that they wanted to keep Nikki in the hospital, start treatment right away.” He knuckled both fists against his eyes and sniffed. “They told Nikki—that doctor, she knew I was just out getting coffee, but she didn’t wait, she marched in and gave Nikki a death sentence like some Gestapo killer. I didn’t even find out, not until it was too late. If I’d known, I would have never told Nikki, would have taken her away from that hellhole. We could’ve gone to Niagara Falls, or maybe down to the beach, seen the ocean, gone anywhere, made good use of the time we had left. But that doctor, she stole it all. Took everything from me.”
“Was she wrong? Did Dr. Wright get the diagnosis wrong?”
Cochrane shook his head. “No. Bitch was right.”
“Then help me understand—”
Cochrane sat up—not an easy feat given the recliner’s zero gravity position—and glared at Luka. “She told Nikki. I told her not to. I told her to tell me first, let me handle things. Didn’t matter that Nikki and me weren’t married on paper. She was mine, it’s my job to take care of her. Not some meddling doctor.”
As if any physician would have followed Cochrane’s orders. Not only was it patronizing and unethical, Luka wasn’t even sure if it was legal to withhold a diagnosis from a patient. Ray reappeared at the hallway, jerked his head toward the front door. Luka gave him a small nod. “When was all this, Mr. Cochrane?”
“Few months ago, right before I won the lottery. She missed that—Nikki would’ve loved it, getting her picture taken and all. She’d still be here if it wasn’t for that doctor.”
“How many times have you seen Dr. Wright since Nikki’s death?” Luka wondered exactly how Nikki died—suicide brought on by her diagnosis, maybe? Or had the cancer gotten her? But that could wait.
“I’ve been there, to Good Sam a few times since. My kid’s sick a lot, so we’re there all the time. Sometimes it’s me. I always ask for her, the bitch, but they never give her to me. Keep thinking maybe I’ll finally be able to give her a piece of my mind, let her know what she stole from me, make her see what she’s done to us.”
“And today—”
“Today I finally see her. Told her how she killed Nikki, right to her face.” Cochrane’s hand fisted, his bandage tightening over his knuckles. “Would’ve done more if that guy hadn’t pulled me away. What do I care? With Nikki gone, what does anything matter? Who’d care if I went to jail? At least that bitch would’ve gotten what she deserved.”
“And what exactly is that?”
Cochrane’s gaze was cemented to Nikki’s shrine. “You know the way to hurt someone real bad, make them suffer the most? You don’t go after them. You take away everything they love. That’s what Leah Wright did to me. That’s what I feel every day. When she killed Nikki, she as good as killed me, too. Only reason I got to live is my boy. I almost lost him, too—all because of Leah Wright getting me thrown in jail. But he’s mine and no one’s ever going to take him from me. No matter what.” He glanced up at Luka. “You’ll see to it that they do something, right? Make her pay for what she did.”
“Thank you, Mr. Cochrane. You’ve been very helpful.” Luka pocketed his phone as Ray joined him. “I don’t suppose you’d like to join us down at the station, go ahead and make your statement formal? It’d be a big help.”
Ray raised his eyebrow at that, but Luka had a feeling about Cochrane. Man was unstable to say the least. He made a note to call Children’s Services, make sure Cochrane’s son was all right and that all those ER trips hadn’t been the result of any abuse. A little boy made for an easy target now that his mother was no longer around to protect him.
Cochrane twisted his lips, considering it. “Can’t today. Gotta pick up my kid. But tomorrow—his grandparents have him.”
Luka handed Cochrane his card. The man was on parole, so he had other ways to get Cochrane off the street. “That will be perfect. Thanks.”
They were already at the front door before Cochrane hauled himself free of the recliner. “Wait, what about the reward?” He jogged after them.
“We’ll call you if you qualify,” Ray told him. Cochrane slammed the door so hard the entire house shuddered.
“What’d you find?” Luka asked as they walked to the cars.
“Weed, a few oxys, handgun on the back of the toilet, shotgun beside the back door. Everything in plain sight. Can’t believe they let a kid live there, but Children’s Services doesn’t have any complaints on him. Called his parole officer, he’s coming over for a surprise visit. Ready to revoke. Next time we see Cochrane, he’ll be back behind bars.”
“Good. We don’t need him running free, going after Leah Wright or her family.”
“You really think a guy like him could’ve pulled this off? There was no sign of any designer drugs. And let’s face it, he’s not exactly the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree.”
“He’s got the passion and anger, that’s for sure. Maybe he thought using medicine to torture her husband was the ultimate way of getting revenge?” It felt weak, but they had no other viable suspects—other than the widow herself. Luka buttoned his coat; the wind was picking up, smelled like snow coming sooner than what the weatherman had predicted. “We need to check out his alibi before we talk to him again. And see if he has any access to a Polaris motorcycle or the designer drugs used to torture Ian Wright.”
Ray shrugged one shoulder—his version of an eye roll, but Luka didn’t disagree with the sentiment. Cochrane wasn’t an ideal suspect, but neither could they ignore him.
“While I was at it,” Ray gestured with his phone, “I also pulled up the report on his wife’s death. She bled to death. Nosebleed. Two days after the ER visit with Wright. Maggie was on the case, said it looked like she’d been hit a few times, had multiple contusions and such, but with the cancer her platelets were so low she couldn’t clot her blood, so a slap across the face and a nosebleed—”
“Became a death sentence.” Luka glanced back at the lonely bungalow. “They didn’t press charges because of the underlying cancer diagnosis?”
“Exactly. DA couldn’t make a case that Cochrane touched her—she could’ve gotten those bruises doing almost anything, bad as her cancer was. Maggie said without treatment she wouldn’t have had more than a few weeks at best. Said even with it, the odds were against her, the cancer was too advanced.” Ray focused on his phone. “Cochrane’s company does hauling for pharmaceutical companies. Who knows what could have fallen off one of their trucks while he was loading it.”
“Follow up on his work and alibi.” Luka glanced at the house where Cochrane glared at them from a grimy front window. “Have patrol sit on him until his PO can make the surprise visit and revoke his ass, do a more thorough search of the
house. Then we can question him more. But, you’re right, if he’s our guy, he’s a lot smarter than he acts.”
“Could’ve learned forensics and how to cover his tracks while doing time. Cons love to share helpful little tips like that.”
“Maybe,” Luka allowed, glad he’d insisted on a guard to watch over Leah and Emily Wright.
“What’s your next move?”
Luka was scrolling through the messages he’d missed while interviewing Cochrane. “Katrina Balanchuk, the possible love interest. Then, CSU has cleared the scene for us to go through. I want to get there before those damn feds.”
“I’m surprised they haven’t snatched the body yet.”
“Radcliffe’s not the type to get his hands dirty.”
“You know,” Ray said. “Screwy case like this, if Cochrane’s not our actor, it might not be so bad, letting the feds take it all. Get it off our balance sheet, you know?”
Luka didn’t answer. Instead, he got into his car and slammed the door. He remembered Ian Wright’s body, propped up against his daughter’s bed, fighting to the end to save her. The same way Leah Wright was fighting still, despite her own pain. No way in hell was anyone taking this case, burying it, stealing justice from that family.
Not if Luka had anything to do about it.
Twenty-Two
By the time Leah and Emily arrived back on pediatrics, Emily was asleep on Leah’s shoulder, drained by Jessica’s lengthy interview. The clerk, Arthur, flagged her down as she carried Emily past the nurses’ station.
“Dr. Wright. Dr. Kern just called. Said she needs to speak to you as soon as possible.”