Det Annie Macpherson 01 - Primed By The Past

by Speake, Barbara Fagan

  ‘Can’t enlighten you too much just yet, but if there is anything in these sheets we’ll find it in the lab. I’ll make a list when we’ve processed everything and then you’ll know what we’re examining.’ It was clear that Heaviley now wanted to continue, free from distraction.

  The rest of the house hadn’t escaped attention. There was paint in the kitchen, dining room, and the two spare bedrooms, each room a different colour, including black. Annie knew that paint samples could be analysed to reveal the brand. Even so, if it were a common one, they wouldn’t find out a lot from this. The perpetrator wouldn’t have been stupid enough to buy them all at once from the same store. More likely, this was planned and the paint collected over weeks, months, or even years: any follow up would probably be a waste of resources.

  Annie also considered that the perpetrator would have had to carry a number of paint cans into the house. She mentally reviewed the rooms again. There were at least five different colours. So even if they were small cans, the perpetrator must have been in the house for quite a while after the assault to carry out the vandalism. And could he, or she, have managed to carry all the paint cans into the house in one trip? What about levering them open? The perpetrator would have had to bring something with him to do that.

  She nipped back into the bedroom and mentioned this to Glen Heaviley.

  ‘Good point Detective, we’ll check to see if there is anything still in the house that might have been used.’

  Bronski was waiting for her to finish off the inspection. Perhaps the most significant thing they’d confirmed was that no one had forcibly entered Angela Goodman’s house. Either she’d let them in or whoever attacked her had a key or knew how to pick a lock. Annie’s instinct convinced her that Angela Goodman knew her attacker and that there was some kind of personal vendetta going on. But she had to keep an open mind at this stage of the investigation. Still, it was becoming more imperative to locate the husband.

  6

  The two detectives had been at the house at least an hour. As they walked out they spoke to the rookie cop, Frank Petersen, again. While they were in the house, another patrol car had shown up, at Bronski’s request, and the two cops had started interviewing the neighbours. Petersen nodded across the road and they turned to see an officer crossing over to them. Annie recognised him from the station but they’d never been introduced. The man was built like a Welsh rugby player – solid, broad shoulders, square neck – the kind of player you want on your side.

  ‘Detective Bronski,’ he said, before hesitating for a moment, ‘and you must be our illustrious exchange detective I’ve heard all about.’

  Annie shook hands with Officer Driscoll, his handshake matching his frame.

  ‘So far, we’ve covered the right hand side of the road except for the people not at home and we’re making our way down the other side now. Only thing so far is the report of a car around midnight. Apparently music was blaring as it left the house. No idea of make or licence plate, but you’ll need to eliminate it. Maybe someone we haven’t questioned yet has got more detail. The neighbours either side of her are out but they might recognise the car if it’s been here before. Anyway, we’ll finish what we can for now and come back later.’

  ‘Thanks, Driscoll, see you back at the station,’ replied Bronski.

  The two detectives headed for Bronski’s car. ‘So, it’s the hospital next. Let’s hope that couple …’

  Annie had her notebook open and filled in the sentence. ‘Jim Moorcroft and Jackie Winters. Didn’t Franconi say they telephoned it in, so they must have a key, mustn’t they? Someone had to let the paramedics in. There was no forced entry.’

  ‘Right, maybe we can account for one set of keys. Hopefully they knew her well enough to fill in some details. We’ll also need to eliminate them as it sounds like they were first at the scene.’

  As Annie reached for the door handle on her side, she had a sudden thought: ‘Why would they return to the crime scene if they were involved?’

  ‘Might be a good tactic – you know, to take suspicion off them – what we call the ‘Good Samaritan’ routine. I’m not saying that’s what it is. Let’s see what they have to say first. We’ll need to interview them, just to eliminate them. Get back on to dispatch. We still haven’t heard anything about the husband.’

  Bronski was concentrating on the road, as traffic was building up now. Annie had to smile when Americans talked about traffic. None of them had experienced the M6 on a Bank Holiday weekend or the M6/M5 interchange. Now that was traffic.

  Annie identified herself to dispatch and the message was negative. Mr Goodman hadn’t returned as far as the building superintendent was aware. Mail was still piling up for him. The beat cop had left a report for them, including Mr Goodman’s work address, car make and licence plate.

  ‘Let’s hope we get a break and someone noticed more detail of the car from last night. Could be his. We better also pay a visit to his work address, see what they know.’

  God, I hope it’s not his, thought Annie. Then it would be our fault for not having located him in time. It was crucial either to get him eliminated or not. Right now he seemed as good a candidate as any. Annie reviewed the scene in the house again in her mind. The pink walls in the bedroom, they bothered her more than the rest of it.

  Westford Hospital was busy. After showing their badges at reception, the two detectives were told that Angela Goodman was in surgery and they were directed to the waiting area outside the main operating room. Bronski wasn’t prepared to waste time. ‘Look, I’m sure the surgeons are too busy operating to take any notice of us waiting, so how about we speak to the admitting doctor in charge of the ER? It would help us to find out what their assessment of her condition was.’

  ‘Hold on a minute.’ The receptionist typed in a number and then suggested they take seats in the waiting area to the right of the reception.

  They hadn’t had time to sit down when a tall, black haired woman, dressed in a white coat and looking harassed, approached the desk. She nodded as the receptionist pointed out the two detectives. Without the hint of a smile, the woman approached them, hands in the pockets of her white coat. Annie noticed the dark circles under her eyes and wondered when this doctor last had a break. ‘I’m Dr Cooperman, mind if I answer your questions in the canteen? I’m desperate for a coffee.’

  The canteen had a Starbucks concession tucked away in a corner. Bronski stepped ahead as they entered. ‘I’ll get these, what do you want?’

  After giving their orders, Annie pointed to a table away from the main crowd of staff that would afford them some privacy. The two women sat down.

  ‘I’ve been on all morning without a break. Hope you don’t mind talking here. We’ve had a really busy morning, which is unusual for a Monday. Caffeine keeps me going.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’

  The small talk ended when Bronski placed the tray on the table, together with three almond croissants, in addition to the coffees.

  ‘Detective Bronski, you are a man after my own heart. Are you married?’ But it was obvious to Dr Cooperman that she’d embarrassed the detective and so had to recover the situation. ‘Sorry, just my sense of humour: take no notice. You have to have one to work in a place like this. So, how can I help you?’

  Annie got out her notebook. ‘Angela Goodman, 39 year old woman, came in a few hours ago, appears to have been the victim of a vicious assault. Can you tell us about her injuries, and more importantly, if she was conscious and said anything?’

  Elise Cooperman sat back cradling her coffee cup, saving the croissant just for the moment. ‘Vicious is a good word for it, and no, she wasn’t conscious. She had multiple bruising all over her body, a broken arm, severe facial injuries, broken cheek bone, black eyes, cuts, internal bleeding and the scan showed a blood clot in her brain. The best descr
iption I can give is that someone used her as a punching bag. Amazing that one human being can inflict that much injury on another, especially on a woman.’ The pause allowed her to pick off a piece of her croissant, although it seemed to Annie that the doctor was just going through the motions of eating.

  Annie was recording what Dr Cooperman was saying in her notebook. ‘So, the operation she’s having now?’

  ‘To stop the internal bleeding, assess what damage there is to her organs: the spleen’s probably shot. The head injuries will be assessed again in a few hours. She may be back in the operating room before the day’s out, but the surgeons can give you more of an update. I wouldn’t put my money on her making it, if you want the truth.’ Just as she finished the sentence and lifted her coffee for another sip, her pager went off. ‘I’m sorry, I’m needed back in the ER. Are we finished?’

  ‘Just one more thing, was there any evidence of a sexual assault?’

  ‘There were multiple contusions around the groin area and evidence of vaginal penetration. We used the standard rape kit. Sorry I should have mentioned that at the outset, so there will be samples of vaginal fluid, but if the attacker wore a condom, there might not be any seminal fluid. So I’m not sure how much help that will be for you. From a medical point of view, apart from the psychological impact of a rape, and I wouldn’t minimise it by the way, her other injuries are what is life threatening. This may sound harsh, but a rape would be the least of her problems.’ The bleep sounded again. ‘Now, I really must go. Thanks for the coffee.’

  The waiting area outside the surgical suite was surprisingly crowded. A middle-aged couple were sitting comforting each other, the woman periodically wiping away tears. An elderly gentleman sat quietly reading a paperback book. Annie couldn’t see what it was, but he was absorbed. In the far corner, two women talked in whispers. Another woman sat opposite. The man she was with was quietly pacing between the drinks machine and the far seating. He had a stocky build, about 5 foot 7, early to mid thirties, and receding hairline. Annie’s bet was on these two.

  ‘Excuse me, but are you Jackie Winters?’ The woman nodded as Annie and Bronski pulled out their IDs. Annie guessed that she was in her early to mid twenties, with one of those slightly pointed faces, brown wavy hair and no make-up. She wasn’t stunning, but attractive nonetheless. By now Jim Moorcroft had approached and confirmed his identity.

  ‘Any news on how Angela is doing?’ was the first question he asked.

  By the time Annie and Bronski got back to the office, tiredness had set in. They had visited the crime scene followed by the hospital, interviewed Jim Moorcroft, Jackie Winters, George Goodman’s employer and the apartment house superintendent once again. Franconi had left for the day with a message that he wanted an update first thing in the morning. They’d also spoken to Angela Goodman’s employer and verified that Jim Moorcroft, Jackie Winters and Angela Goodman all worked together and were friends outside the office.

  Even Dave Ellison had called it a day. Bronski offered Annie a ride home but she was happy to catch the bus, allowing some moments of normality in what had been a difficult day.

  7

  As Annie unlocked her apartment door, all she wanted was a long hot soak in the bathtub, followed by a glass or two of red wine and some food. There was at least a portion of tomato sauce and meatballs left over from Sunday, when she’d made enough for several meals. Cooking for one was boring at the best of times and somehow didn’t match cooking for two, so her policy was to make enough for leftovers and for the freezer.

  It had been a good few months since she’d cooked for two and this exchange programme was a kind of healing process for her – six months away from the comments, the guilt and the hurt on both sides from the broken engagement. There had been a lot to sort out, or more precisely to cancel: the house purchase, the wedding, and people making arrangements to travel up to Scotland. Yet that was the least stressful part of the whole thing. She couldn’t think of Paul without picturing his face when she’d told him it was off, nor could she give him an explanation. She’d just known it wasn’t right and that she couldn’t go through with the wedding. She’d loved him, but not enough.

  Just when it had become unbearable to be around everything that reminded her of the hurt she’d caused, her colleague Kim Littlemore found out that she was pregnant and the exchange she was due to go on was up for grabs. It had been a blessed relief at the time. Annie wondered if she would still feel the same in the next few weeks, especially with this case.

  The scent from the candles was filling the bathroom, the bubbles from the bath inviting, but just as her toes were halfway in, her cellphone rang. Luckily it was within reach.

  ‘Macpherson.’

  ‘Scotty, hope I haven’t caught you at an inopportune moment.’

  Annie had to smile in spite of her annoyance. ‘Inopportune’ wasn’t a word she expected to be in Franconi’s vocabulary. But she daren’t say she was just about to get in the bath; no telling what kind of remark she might get out of him.

  ‘No, sir, I’m sorry we missed you. We got your message that you wanted to see Detective Bronski and myself in the morning. Did we miss something?’ Annie shifted the phone to the other ear while she reached for her bathrobe, which was hanging on the back of the door. Somehow it seemed inappropriate to be speaking to her boss naked.

  ‘No, I’m not calling about the case. I’ll get briefed in the morning. There are some people I want you to meet. They live in your area back in England. How about I pick you up in an hour? I’m taking them to a little Italian restaurant, Mario’s.’

  Annie was too taken aback at the invitation to think of an excuse. An hour gave time for a bath and she’d find something in the closet to wear. Real food, how bad could it be? ‘An hour is fine sir, I’ll be out front.’

  Franconi was as good as his word. In one hour sharp he pulled up in front of her apartment house, on his own. The July evening air was just slightly cool and Annie had chosen a black skirt, black sandals, and a smart white blouse with a purple fitted jacket. The outfit would do for informal or smart casual and set off her long blond curls. It was enough of a contrast from her black trousers and jacket – her staple outfits for work. Franconi leaned across the car and opened the passenger side.

  ‘Evening, sir, the others meeting us there?’ Annie realised she’d no details of whom it was that Franconi was so anxious for her to meet: a man, a woman, a couple?

  Franconi signalled and pulled out. The car was moderately tidy. Once he was on the main road, he glanced over at her. ‘Dr Christine James and Michael Turner. They’re a couple, but not married, although I’m thinking that part is only a matter of time. They’ve only been back in Connecticut a few weeks. She has a place near Manchester, England. I think it’s called Didsbury. Starts with a ‘D’ anyhow.’

  ‘I know Didsbury well. It’s part of Manchester: a nice suburb, as suburbs go, full of students in big Victorian houses turned into student flats, good pubs and restaurants. In fact, I rent a flat in the next village, called Withington. She’ll know it.’

  ‘Good, so you should be able to relate to them.’

  If only life were that simple, thought Annie: being able to relate to people just because you knew a restaurant or a pub or happened to live in the next village, but musings like that only brought her back to thoughts of Paul. They’d had a lot more than a shared love of food in common. They’d grown up together in the wilds of Scotland. He’d taught her to fly-fish for salmon near Huntly. They’d trained together at the Police Academy. So much in common, more even than most married couples, so why wasn’t it enough?

  Franconi broke her reverie. ‘I’ve known Michael Turner for a long time, used to be a cop, but he retired six, no seven years ago, after getting shot working undercover. But he’s done OK for himself, runs Turner Security in downtown Westford. Divides his
time between here and England now.’

  Annie was intrigued; ex-cops always had some sort of story to tell. ‘So what about the woman and the connection to England?’

  ‘Yeah, well that goes back to a year ago last May. The body of a bag lady, that’s a homeless person to you, was found behind one of the buildings covered by Turner’s business. Turner came to the scene and we got reacquainted, let’s just say. A few months later he meets Christine James through some friends of his and meeting her triggers a memory.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Christine James and the bag lady who, thanks to Christine, was later identified as Maria Moretto, were best friends in high school. You don’t have high school in England, do you?’ Franconi glanced over at her again, as he prepared to pull into the parking lot for the restaurant. ‘Let’s get inside and order some wine and I’ll finish the story. They should be arriving in about ten minutes.’

  The description of the restaurant as ‘little’ was apt, thought Annie, but the atmosphere was fantastic. The smell of fresh Italian cooking permeated every inch of the place and the waiter greeted Franconi as a long lost friend. Even Annie got introduced, a first for her being introduced to a waiter in a restaurant. Along one wall was a set of booths while the rest of the restaurant had tables laid out in fours and sixes. Without a blink, the waiter led them to the furthest booth from the door. Annie got the feeling that this was Franconi’s spot.

  ‘Red wine OK for you?’