The Hanging Time

by Bilinda P Sheehan

  Was he laying a guilt trip on her in order to ensure she agreed to the drink with him? After all, when he put it like that, how was she supposed to turn him down?

  “What time did you have in mind?”

  “Does eight suit you? I can pick you up and—"

  “No, I’ll meet you,” Harriet said. “I don’t know what time I’ll be finished in the office so this way I can go straight from there.”

  “It sounds like they’re working you too hard up in the university,” Jonathan said. “All the more reason I think you should come back to clinical practice. I’m sure we could find a place for you—"

  “As enticing as that sounds, we both know it’s impossible. You know my personal relationship prohibits me from working in the same hospital with her.”

  “It always seemed like such a pointless rule to me,” Jonathan said. “I mean why make our hospital suffer just because you happen to be related to a current patient?”

  They’d had the same conversation a number of years before when Harriet had said she was searching for a position in clinical practice. As far as she was concerned even discussing the matter was an exercise in futility.

  “Oh well, I don’t suppose my hoping and wishing it were different is going to change anything.”

  “If wishes were horses,” Harriet said automatically. It was something her mother used to say when she was a child. Why had she thought of it now?

  “Well if you won’t let me pick you up. How about we meet at Daphne’s at eight?”

  Harriet’s stomach lurched uncomfortably.

  “I thought it was just a drink?”

  “We’ve all got to eat too,” he said amicably. “Why not discuss your mother’s case with a good meal?”

  “Eight o’ clock is fine,” Harriet said, suddenly wishing she had let the answering machine pick up the call, that way she could have pretended ignorance about it all. “I’ll see you there.”

  “I look forward to it.” Jonathan said before the line went dead.

  Harriet settled the phone back on the cradle before dropping back against the cushions.

  “Well, shit,” she swore aloud.

  She stared down at the pile of grapes and cheese she’d placed on a plate, her appetite now dead. Was she reading too much into Dr Connor offer? It was a professional risk to do just that and it wouldn’t have been the first time she’d foolishly thought there was more going on than there really was.

  But as much as she wanted to believe that it was all in her mind, she couldn’t help but feel like Dr Connor was slowly manoeuvering her into a position she didn’t want to find herself in. She might have enjoyed the idea of finding him attractive when she was younger. Maybe even indulged her thoughts of letting him sweep in and protect her from all the terrible things her mother had done but that was a long time ago. And she was certainly no longer the impressionable teenager she had been then.

  No, she had moved on since then and now she only regarded the good doctor in terms of the care he could provide for her mother or the potential mentorship he offered her.

  There was nothing more between them.

  Or at least that was how she hoped he saw it too. If he didn’t it was going to make for a very awkward situation between them and Harriet couldn’t bear the thought of that kind of friction. Visiting her mother was already painful enough as it was, without adding another layer of salt to rub in the wound.

  As she sat on the couch, she allowed her eyes to slide shut. The room was warm and for the first time in a long time Harriet actually found herself somewhat exhausted.

  Sleep hadn’t been her friend in so long that she didn’t expect it to creep up on her now and when it did it took her completely by surprise.

  Her last thought as she let herself drift off into the oblivion that sleep provided was of the trees that swayed outside Sian Jones’ house, the limbs reaching toward the sky like skeletal fingers that threatened to choke the life out of anyone who got too close.

  Chapter Twenty

  “I know you told me this already,” Drew said, trying to keep his temper in check as he faced Dr Jackson, the coroner, in his tiny office. “But I’m re-visiting the evidence and I’ve got a couple of questions I’d like to ask you.”

  “Do you think I enjoy writing reports, detective?”

  “I don’t think anybody enjoys writing reports,” Drew said, flexing his fingers.

  “So what makes you think I wrote that one for the sheer hell of it?”

  Drew shook his head. “That’s not what I’m saying here. I just have a couple of follow-up questions.”

  “Well you can ask but everything I’ve got to say on the matter is in the report I sent over to your department.”

  “The necklace wrapped in Sian’s hand—"

  “The body is my area of expertise,” Dr Jackson interrupted him with an exasperated tone. “Anything pertaining to physical evidence such as jewellery is up to the SOCOs and forensic officers to catalogue and index.”

  Drew did his best to ignore the interruption and plowed on with his question. “I noticed the clasp was broken on the necklace. Is there any evidence to suggest it was ripped off her?”

  Dr Jackson dropped back in his high-backed leather chair and propped his hands behind his head. “It could have been.”

  “Could she have done it herself?”

  “She could have.”

  Drew sighed. “Would there be anything on the body to support this?”

  Dr Jackson grimaced. “The bruising and contusions around the neck and throat area due to the nature of her death was significant that any injury caused by the forceful removal of the necklace wouldn’t show up.”

  Drew shook his head and stared down at the list of questions.

  “What about defensive wounds?”

  “She had none.”

  “I know that,” Drew said. “I meant—"

  “Good to know you actually read the report. I thought for a moment there that you were here to waste my time.”

  “Look. I get it. You don’t like me but I’ve got three dead kids and three grieving families. If I could answer these questions without your help then I would do it in a heartbeat but as it is you’re the expert and I’m asking for your help.”

  Dr Jackson peered down his hawkish nose reminding Drew of a large buzzard he’d once seen.

  “No. There were no defensive wounds on any of the bodies.”

  “And in your opinion, is that unusual?”

  Dr Jackson sat forward as he drew his hands together and leaned his elbows on the desk in front of him.

  “It is a little unusual, yes. Not entirely uncommon. Some people lose consciousness very quickly when their vagus nerve is compressed which often happens during hanging. However, I would still have expected some injury due to reflexive convulsions.” He smiled thinly. “Many people tear at their throats once the process begins.”

  “What could account for this?”

  Dr Jackson closed his eyes. “I can see where you’re going with this, Detective, and I can’t say I agree with you.”

  “But you couldn’t rule it out?”

  Dr Jackson shook his head. “No. I couldn’t categorically rule it out if you had evidence to back up your theory because that’s all it is. A theory.” Dr Jackson uttered the last word as though it were something truly abhorrent to him.

  “Why are you so determined to believe that this is a straight-forward suicide?”

  “Because that’s what I do, I follow the evidence presented to me and I make an assessment based on that. I do not allow my feelings to colour the process because to do so would be a disservice to the body in front of me.”

  “But by being so rigid isn’t it a disservice to the victim all the same? What if I’m right in this instance and someone murdered all three and your determination to look at this with tunnel vision allows a killer to do it all again?”

  “Why would anyone commit a murder but make it appear as a suicide?”

>   “I can think of several reasons,” Drew said. “But the most obvious is to avoid detection which from where I’m standing, they’re doing a damn good job of it.” Drew cut off in frustration and jammed his hand into his short hair.

  Dr Jackson nodded. “Touché, detective.”

  “Does that mean you’ll review the bodies again?”

  “The first two bodies have already been released back to their families and I would imagine they have been buried.”

  “And Sian Jones?” Drew said, no longer caring that his voice was sharp. As far as he was concerned if he could have arrested the asshole sitting in front of him for obstruction of justice he’d have done just that. But that wasn’t how the system worked and unless he got Dr Jackson on side then no amount of pleading with the Monk would see him keep this case.

  “I’ll take a second look,” Dr Jackson said, and Drew let go of the breath he’d been holding onto. “But what exactly am I looking for?”

  Drew glanced down at the notes made by Harriet and decided to discard them. He’d been a detective long enough that he didn’t need to follow a script.

  “Supposing this is a murder and not a suicide.”

  “Hypothetically speaking?”

  Drew nodded. “Yeah, hypothetically. At least until my theory has some concrete evidence to back it up.”

  Dr Jackson shot him a predatory smile. “You’ve got three teenagers. Two of them strapping, fit blokes.”

  Dr Jackson nodded. “They were indeed fit and healthy,” he said. “Both of them quite athletic judging by the muscle tone and lack of fat.”

  Drew pushed the image the coroner’s words had conjured from his mind. Despite not eating anything for breakfast, he’d downed enough coffee to sink a battleship and he didn’t fancy losing it all over the good doctor’s immaculate desk.

  “And Sian was no slouch either. She was on the hockey team according to her mother.”

  “Where are you going with all of this?”

  “Three fit teenagers and you’re going to hang them without them fighting back. How do you do that?”

  Dr Jackson shook his head. “You don’t. Human nature would force them to fight for their lives. They would not go gentle into that good night.”

  “But our killer manages it. How would he do it?”

  Again, the coroner shook his head. “Like I said—"

  “Hypothetically speaking?” Drew’s question brought the coroner up short. He pursed his lips and dragged his keyboard toward him. A couple of clicks of the mouse and his fingers flew over the keys, his eyes rapidly darting back and forth as he read whatever had popped up on the screen.

  “There was a toxicology panel taken and nothing turned up, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “But there are plenty of drugs out there nowadays that can slip under the wire. We both know not everything shows up in bloods.”

  Dr Jackson nodded. “It’s possible they were drugged before they were murdered. It would account somewhat for the lack of defensive and self-inflicted injuries I would have expected to see in cases such as these.”

  “Is there any other tests you could run on Sian to see if there was anything given to her?”

  The coroner sighed and slipped his glasses off his hooked nose. Drew sat impatiently and watched as the other man scrubbed at his eyes before replacing the glasses.

  “I will take another look detective. Not that I expect to find anything but you’ve managed to insert enough doubt into my solid conclusions that I feel it’s my duty to take a second look.”

  Drew pushed onto his feet and held his hand out. “That’s all I ask.”

  The other man stared at Drew’s hand as though it were a foreign specimen that needed intense scrutiny. He let his hand fall back to his side and turned toward the door.

  “Detective, why is this so important to you?”

  The question brought Drew up short. It was the same question he’d asked himself often enough since all of this had started and he was no closer now to an answer than he had been then. There was no definite answer. At least not one he wanted to admit to himself, never mind to someone like Dr Jackson who would rather see him on the moon than anywhere near his office.

  “It’s my job, I suppose,” Drew said. “If I don’t ask the right questions and ensure every stone is turned over then how can I call myself a detective?”

  It was a non-answer and Drew knew it but he didn’t care. Without waiting for a reply, he tugged the door open and stepped out into the hall, leaving the coroner behind at his desk.

  Once he was outside in the fresh air, Drew pulled a packet of cigarettes from inside his coat and tugged open the top. The packet was empty, just like it always was.

  Crumpling the plastic-coated cardboard in his fist he contemplated tossing the box and buying a new one. It would be so easy to do it and in his current state there was nothing he wanted more than to jam a nicotine-fuelled stick into his mouth and inhale the richness of its flavour.

  Just thinking about it was enough to make him clench his jaw. If he gave in it would be just like everything else in his life that he gave up on. And it would too much like letting go.

  Instead of tossing the packet the way he wanted to, he smoothed it out, forcing the box back into some semblance of the shape it had before he’d taken his frustration out on it. Satisfied that it was as perfect as he could make it after initially destroying it, he slipped the empty packet back into his inside pocket.

  Sucking in a deep breath, he closed his eyes. “That’s as good as it’s going to get,” he said to no one in particular.

  With his eyes shut he expected to see Tasha, she was never far from his thoughts especially since he’d picked this case up. The constant reminder of suicide had opened old wounds he’d thought long closed. Clearly, he wasn’t as good at figuring out his own mental state as he’d initially thought.

  But this time it wasn’t Tasha that came to mind but Harriet. When she’d sat at the desk the night before, there had been something so terribly familiar about it all. As though he’d been there before. It was impossible of course and deja-vu was just the brains way of sending the same message twice. It was after all just a computer and like all machines it could get screwed up.

  But as much as he tried to shake the feeling he couldn’t. It had unnerved him the night before, not that he would admit it aloud.

  Shaking his head, he pushed the thoughts aside. He needed to concentrate, especially if he was going to get to the bottom of the mystery he found himself embroiled in.

  “Get a grip,” he said. “Or you’ll be talking to yourself just like the good doc.”

  Fishing his keys from his pocket he headed for the car with a grin on his face.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Harriet stood outside the station, waiting for Drew. Glancing down at the watch on her wrist, she tried to keep her frustration to a minimum. He was only running a little late but Harriet was impatient due to her desire to know what the coroner had said in answer to her questions.

  A flash of silvery light caught her eye and she glanced up in time to see Drew’s car draw into the car park.

  Before he could get out of the car, she was halfway across the path to him.

  “Well?”

  “Jeez,” he said. “Let a man get his bearings before you accost him.”

  “Sorry. It’s just I’ve been here for thirty minutes and I’m not very good with the whole ‘patience’ thing.”

  “Clearly,” he said, but there was no malice in his voice. “I don’t suppose you want to let me grab a coffee before we go badgering these poor families again?”

  Harriet knew her emotions showed in her face and he sighed. “Fine, hop in. I’ll get something later.”

  She moved around to the passenger side and slid in. The inside of the car was warm. Heat blasted out through the vents and she pressed her frozen fingers against them in an attempt to get some of the feeling back. From the corner of her eye she caught Drew wa
tching her and she paused.

  “The coroner doesn’t agree with us, then?”

  “What?”

  “Your expression says it all. The coroner is not on our side in all of this.”

  Drew shook his head and stared down at his hands. “He doesn’t agree with us, no. However, he’s willing to take another look at Sian’s body.”

  Harriet felt a clench of excitement and joy thrill in her veins. It was an emotion she hadn’t felt in quite some time and it took her by surprise to experience it over something as simple as this.

  “So, your boss will let you keep the case open now?”

  Drew grimaced. “It’s not a sure thing. Until we get something concrete, we’re still on rocky ground. I mean Dr Jackson only agreed to have another look at the body because I created enough doubt in his mind. He could just as easily call me up and tell me he’s standing by his initial assessment.”

  Harriet’s happiness was short lived. Drew was right; it would be all too easy to dismiss everything they’d come up with so far. They needed proof that what they were saying was right and she had a feeling that they only way they would find it was by talking to the families.

  “I guess we should get going then.”

  Drew nodded. “Fine. But I can promise you this, it won’t be pleasant.”

  Harriet turned her head away and stared out the window. “I’ve dealt with grieving families before, Detective Inspector. There is nothing about death that’s easy.”

  If he thought she was afraid to face the grief of Jack’s and Aidan’s families, then he was in for a bitter disappointment. While it was true that most of her time had been spent working with those whose minds functioned differently to what was considered, ‘normal’—whatever that was—she’d done enough time in the trenches with their loved ones too.

  She’d broken the terrible truth about a loved one’s passing before; watched the shock and denial as it registered in their eyes. And as for the hospital’s directions to cut ties with them once the deed was done, Harriet had always found it impossible to just walk away. Her desire to heal was just as strong as those who worked in a more general practice setting.