Hypocrisy

by D. M. Annechino

  “There it is,” T.J. said, pointing to a beautiful all-brick home.

  After parking the car, they walked up the short flight of stairs leading to the front porch and entrance of Ms. Crawford’s home. Two English Ivy plants hung from hooks on either side of the front door. A wooden bench—similar to those you see in a park—sat in the corner of the porch. She didn’t want to be reminded, but the architecture resembled her mother’s home. The home her mother decided to sell shortly after Dupree, a reckless teen, got pregnant and abandoned all sense of reason. Owning the home free and clear, Dupree’s mom was able to pay cash for a comfortable one bedroom apartment on 5th Avenue in Manhattan.

  Before Dupree could knock, the door swung open. The woman, presumably Dr. Crawford’s mother, was likely in her sixties, but didn’t look a day over fifty. Dupree didn’t know if it was Neutrogena, Nivea, or the juice from aloe vera plants, but whatever regimen Ms. Crawford followed to look so young was working well.

  “I’m Detective Dupree and this is Detective Brown. Are you Ms. Crawford?”

  “My dear husband’s long gone, but I still prefer Mrs. Crawford if you don’t mind.”

  “May we have a word with you?” Dupree asked.

  Mrs. Crawford studied the detectives’ faces with striking intensity. Her eyes darted back and forth as if she were trying to read their minds. “You’re here to deliver some bad news about my daughter, aren’t you?”

  The question caught Dupree off guard. “May we come in and talk?”

  Mrs. Crawford stepped to the side and invited them in. “Please have a seat.”

  Dupree and T.J. sat next to each other on the light brown sofa. Mrs. Crawford sat adjacent to them on a straight back chair. Dupree removed a digital recorder from her purse and set it on the cocktail table. “Do you mind if we record this conversation?”

  “Do whatever you must.”

  Dupree noticed a small table covered with a lace doily. On top of the table she saw about a dozen framed photographs. One of them—a full-face portrait one might have taken for a graduation—caught Dupree’s eye. Dupree pointed at the portrait. “Is that a photograph of your daughter?”

  Mrs. Crawford nodded. “The day she graduated from Harvard with a Ph.D. in physiology. Third in her class. She also holds double Master’s Degrees in chemistry and biology. My Lauren is a real brainiac.” Mrs. Crawford folded her hands on her lap and studied the portrait of her daughter. “How did you know I have a daughter?”

  For an instant, Dupree lost her voice.

  Mrs. Crawford looked at Dupree with troubled eyes. “Say what you have to say, Detective.”

  Dupree eyed T.J. who hadn’t uttered a sound since entering the home. “I’m so, so sorry to have to tell you this, but your daughter was…murdered last night.”

  Dupree expected an explosive response. Most of the time, next of kin reacted with violent outbursts, gut wrenching screams, and uncontrollable sobbing. But everyone processed devastating news differently. One time, a young mother whose daughter had been kidnapped, raped, and strangled, began swearing and swinging her fists at Dupree. But Mrs. Crawford seemed remarkably composed. Too composed. With some people, Dupree had learned, the immediate shock and unwillingness to accept the fact that a loved one was killed suppresses the reality of it all. But then, weeks, sometimes months later, a residual shockwave crashes over the victim’s survivors and the agony begins.

  With her eyes full of tears, hands trembling, Mrs. Crawford asked, “How did my Lauren…die?”

  Loathing the words as they slipped off her tongue, Dupree whispered, “A gunshot wound.”

  “Where did you find her?”

  “In the backseat of her car.”

  “Was she…assaulted?

  Dupree knew what she meant. “We don’t believe she was sexually assaulted, Mrs. Crawford, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “God have mercy,” Mrs. Crawford said. Tears dripped down her cheeks.

  “I am deeply sorry for your loss,” Dupree said.

  Mrs. Crawford’s tears turned to heartbreaking sobs. She covered her face with her hands.

  At this particular point in time, Dupree hated her job. She’d rather be working in a Pennsylvania coal mine or scrubbing toilets—anything other than this. “We don’t have to continue with this conversation, Mrs. Crawford. We can do it another time.”

  “Do you think it’s going to be easier for me in a week? A month? Ten years from now?”

  Dupree and T.J. remained silent and waited for her to regain her composure.

  Mrs. Crawford stood with great effort and shuffled towards the table covered with photographs. She picked up the portrait of her daughter, pressed it to her chest, and eased herself onto the chair. For a few moments, the grief-stricken woman stared at her daughter’s photograph.

  “Now I understand why Lauren was concerned for her welfare,” Mrs. Crawford whispered. “She’d always had the keenest sixth sense.”

  “She knew she was in danger?” Dupree almost shouted.

  “For a while she had this eerie feeling that someone was following her.”

  “Someone in particular?” T.J. asked.

  Mrs. Crawford shook her head. “Not exactly. It was just one of those unexplainable inklings. I told her to leave the research and get a traditional job; something out of the limelight. But that was the shortest conversation in history. I don’t think even a death threat could have stopped her from continuing with her research.”

  “You mentioned that your daughter earned a Ph.D. and two master’s degrees?” Dupree said. “What did she do for a living?”

  “I’ll try to tell you the whole story, but first I need to use the bathroom.” Mrs. Crawford stood, her body teetering slightly. Afraid she might fall, Dupree ambled over to her and held onto her arm. “Are you okay?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Want me to walk you?” Dupree asked.

  “I can manage,” Mrs. Crawford said and shuffled down the hall.

  As soon as the door clicked shut, Dupree could hear Mrs. Crawford’s pitiful sobs.

  “I hate this,” Dupree said. “Really friggin’ hate this!”

  “It’s not the most pleasant part of our job.”

  Dupree listened carefully but could no longer hear Mrs. Crawford crying. She looked around the living room. It so reminded her of her mother’s home. The windows and baseboards were trimmed with thick mahogany-colored gumwood, appearing to be about an inch thick and six inches wide. Hefty beams spanned the ceiling, and exquisite crown moldings trimmed the angle between the ceiling and the walls. The hardwood floors were stained a few shades lighter than the rest of the wood trim and were finished to a lustrous shine. Mounted above the wood-burning fireplace, a thick wooden mantle was covered with what appeared to be antique vases, figurines, and a pendulum clock.

  Mrs. Crawford returned and set a box of tissues on her lap. Her eyes were red and swollen. She removed several tissues and blotted her eyes. “Thanks so much for waiting. My bladder isn’t what it used to be.” She tapped her temple with her index finger; her face had a look of total confusion. “Where were we?”

  “You were going to tell us about your daughter’s career,” T.J. reminded her.

  “Oh, yes, Lauren’s career. She’s worked for several high profile companies doing all kinds of research—technical research that’s way over my head. But a few years ago, my doctor diagnosed me with stage III pancreatic cancer. And the prognosis offered little hope. If you know anything at all about this terrible disease, you know that it’s almost always fatal. I underwent the traditional treatment that included aggressive chemotherapy, which has to be what hell is like. I lost about thirty pounds, had no appetite, spent hours near a bathroom because the waves of nausea were unpredictable and overwhelming. And of course, I lost all of my hair. Even my eyebrows.

  “After all my pain and suffering, the doctors said that the cancer wasn’t responding to the chemo, so they pretty much gave up on me and told me I had a
bout six months to live. To be honest, I actually felt relieved. I had been through so much pain and psychological distress that I welcomed death. I now know firsthand why so many sickly people want to die. You reach a point where your quality of life is so dreadful, death seems a better alternative.”

  Mrs. Crawford paused again and took a long swallow of water. Her eyes glistened with tears.

  The woman’s story mesmerized Dupree. And it brought back painful memories of her own. After a long, agonizing fight with breast cancer, Dupree’s mom had lost the battle. She remembered how her mom had given up, how she’d gone from a vibrant woman to skin stretched over bones, how her face was permanently etched with a look of total despair, how her rosy cheeks were replaced with ash-white skin. During her mom’s long illness, nineteen-year-old Dupree tried to mend their broken relationship, a tragedy for which she felt totally responsible. But her mom was so medicated with morphine, Dupree never knew for sure if her mother comprehended her apology or if she’d earned her mom’s forgiveness. Her mom’s death was the catalyst that had given her the will and desire to straighten out her life. Wide-eyed with anticipation, Dupree waited for Mrs. Crawford to continue.

  “Just at the point where I’d given up all hope, Lauren told me that she’d done a lot of research and discovered that the Century Nutrition Clinic in Tijuana had experienced some remarkable success treating terminal cancer patients with homeopathic herbs and low dose chemotherapy. Now keep in mind that this clinic only treats cancer patients who are incurable and have nothing to lose by trying alternative treatments. Well, to make a long story short, the doctors in America gave me six months to live—and that was nearly three years ago. Bear in mind that more patients have died than survived—I was one of the lucky ones, but all things considered, Lauren believed that Dr. Hulda Clark, the woman who founded the clinic and developed the treatments, was onto something revolutionary. But ironically, Clark herself died from cancer in 2009. Dr. Orlando Garcia, Clark’s second in command, continued her work but with limited funds. Consequently, future advancement of Dr. Clark’s theories would be unlikely.

  “Just before Clark died, Lauren convinced her to let her work at the clinic and learn as much as she could about Clark’s research and treatments, promising Clark that she would work with her to prove her theories. Clark, knowing that she was close to death, didn’t want all her years of hard work to quietly go away. So, convinced that further research along the same path might yield some extraordinary medical discoveries, Lauren persuaded a private investor to fund the project. That’s when Lauren opened the Horizon Cancer Research Center.

  “Clark’s critics—probably 90% of the medical community—believed that she was a quack and a charlatan. Whether or not this is true, only Hulda Clark and God know. If you Google her name on the Internet, you’ll find some terribly disparaging accusations. All I know is that I’m still alive and feel better than I have in years, and that my daughter—one of the most brilliant freethinkers in the world—believed that Clark’s theories were valid. I’m sure you’ll be speaking with Dr. Edward Mason, director of operations for Horizon. He can give you more technical information about the research if that will help with your investigation.”

  When Mrs. Crawford finished her story, Dupree asked, “Do you still go to Mexico for treatments?”

  “Every ninety days. And I have to stay there for six days.” She stared at the floor. A look of deep concern on her face. “Oh, my. I don’t know how I’m going to get to the clinic in Tijuana for my next treatment. It’s not something I can do alone. All those terrible things you hear about Mexico, the killings, drug trafficking. It scares the daylights out of me. In the past, Lauren and I would fly to San Diego and she would drive me to the clinic. That’s the one flaw in this treatment. Once you start, you have to continue for the rest of your life. I guess it’s because it doesn’t cure cancer, it controls it.”

  “There’s no one else that can accompany you?” Dupree asked.

  “I do have a long lost nephew in Long Island. I’m sure I can twist his arm to help his only aunt—especially if I’m picking up the tab.” Mrs. Crawford paused for a minute and looked at the photograph of her daughter. Her eyes again filled with tears. “To be honest, now that Lauren is gone it doesn’t seem all that important that I go for my treatments. She was my…life.”

  The room was so quiet, Dupree could hear the tick-tock of the pendulum clock sitting on the mantle.

  “Is there anything else I can answer for you?” Mrs. Crawford said.

  It was a delicate question but Dupree had to ask. “Did your daughter have any enemies, ex-boyfriends, a colleague at work who might want to hurt her?”

  She thought about the question for a short time. “Well, she was dating a guy awhile back. Jonathan Lentz. But Lauren caught him cheating and broke it off. I can tell you first hand that he was terribly upset.”

  “And how do you know this?” Dupree asked. “Did you see him afterwards, witness an argument?”

  “I never saw Jonathan again, but a few days after she ended their relationship, I overheard a telephone conversation between the two of them. I wasn’t eavesdropping and of course, I could only hear my daughter’s side of the conversation, but it was a pretty heated exchange.”

  “Does anything specifically come to mind that might suggest he threatened her?” T.J. asked.

  “Not really. But there is another thing about their relationship that still troubles me.” Mrs. Crawford sipped a glass of water. “During the time Lauren and Jonathan dated, I noticed some suspicious bruises on her wrists and ankles. Every time I questioned her about the black and blue marks, she’d come up with some cockamamie excuse that really didn’t make sense. One time, when the bruises were particularly pronounced, I confronted her and she really got upset with me, which was so unlike her. So, I let it go and never bothered her again.” She drank a little more water. “There is one more interesting fact. After she ended her relationship with Jonathan, the bruises healed and I never saw them again.”

  Obviously, Dupree thought, Dr. Crawford’s boyfriend enjoyed playing rough. Or maybe it was the other way around? She twisted her head from side to side, trying to get the kink out of her neck. “How often did you see your daughter?”

  “Well, she called me twice a day, at nine a.m. and nine p.m. And twice a week we’d meet for dinner. Sometimes I’d prepare a home cooked meal, but usually Lauren would take me out to a fancy restaurant.” She paused. “When she didn’t call this morning…”

  “Did your daughter ever talk about her research or give you updates on her progress?” T.J. asked.

  “Often. In fact, she was scheduled to make a major announcement to the press.”

  “Do you know what the announcement was about?” Dupree asked.

  “Something to do with clinical trials and the Food and Drug Administration.” Mrs. Crawford hesitated again, her eyes still teary. “I’d like you to know that my Lauren did not decide to open Horizon because she was searching for fame and fortune. Quite to the contrary. She really wanted no part of the limelight, but she knew that if she did, in fact, find a cure for cancer, or at the least, more effective treatments, she’d never be able to hide from the press or medical community. I just want you to know that she was a selfless woman driven purely by humanitarian objectives. She had no ambitions to be a celebrity or line her pockets with hundred dollar bills.”

  Dupree kept asking herself, who had the motive and will to murder Dr. Crawford? Was it her ex-lover? Revenge? A robbery gone bad? Or did it have something to do with her cancer research? Dupree now realized that the possibilities were many.

  “Thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Crawford,” Dupree said. “We’ll be sure to update you on any new developments.”

  Mrs. Crawford’s eyes again filled with tears. “I will keep you in my prayers, Detective Dupree.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dupree did not aspire to breaking the law. However, talking on her cell while driving was a
habit she just couldn’t break. She turned on the speaker so T.J. could hear both sides of the conversation. “Don’t disappoint me, Butler. I need some good news.”

  T.J. had lectured her more than once for not using a hand’s free device. But no matter how compelling his argument, Dupree didn’t care. Maybe, she thought, a hint of her rebellious teenage years still lingered.

  “I hate to ruin your day—I really do,” Butler warned, “but we examined every surveillance tape and there’s not one single frame we can use for facial recognition.”

  “That’s not what I want to hear,” Dupree said. “You’re jeopardizing your rank as my number one go-to-agent. And I know you don’t want that.”

  “Heavens no.”

  “So, now that we know what you don’t have. Tell me what you do have.”

  “If you study the perp’s body language,” Butler said, “it’s obvious that he knew the exact location of every video camera. When he stepped off the elevator, he immediately turned up the collar on his leather coat, stared at the floor, and all we could see was his baseball cap. He turned left when a camera was on the right, and turned right when it was on the left. But it does appear that he’s either bald or he’s completely shaved off his sideburns, which seems a little strange for a guy with hair.”

  “So, the only thing you can tell me is that you think the guy is bald?”

  “When he maneuvered into the backseat of Dr. Crawford’s car, his collar turned down just enough for us to see a small tattoo or birthmark on the back of his neck about the size of a quarter. Unfortunately, the surveillance system in the ramp garage must have been manufactured during the Renaissance, because the resolution is horrible. Even with our sophisticated video equipment, we can’t really get a clear close-up of whatever that mark is on his neck. And once they were in the backseat, the glare from the window made it impossible to see what was going on.”

  “What else do you have for me?”

  “Well, there’s more, but it’s trivial.”