Maggie stays outside. “Maybe you oughta do this alone, Hank.”
I nod in agreement.
“I’ll be over by friendly George.”
I watch Maggie leave, then open the cabinet closest to the door. Inside the top drawer, I find an alphabetical listing of Hunter’s patients. Judging by the number he had on the list, I’d say he had a pretty impressive practice. Carol Warner’s name appears at the bottom of the fourth page. I smile to myself, then search a few drawers, thumbing through beige manila folders before arriving at the Ws. Her file should be sandwiched between Paul Verity and Joanne Williams, but it’s missing. I guess that shouldn’t surprise me. Hunter probably destroyed it like she destroyed him.
Disappointed, I return to the first drawer and thumb through a few patient files. Hunter was meticulous and consistent in his format. Each file contained a detailed history of his client, which is how he refers to them, starting with their prognosis. Straightforward, yet interesting stuff: phobias, neurosis, compulsive behaviors, sprinkled with strange dreams and weird fantasies.
John Hunter explored the inner world, the psyche most people don’t understand. And he was apparently good at it. At least the progress on his analysis sheets suggested as much. I’m looking for a pattern, but also a connection, something in his writing that might reveal Hunter’s own psyche. And, of course, a possible link to his murder.
I exhaust the first cabinet with little more than a sense of the profession. Other than proving that mental illness exists, I find nothing unusual about Hunter, the man or psychologist. Nor do the files offer me any leads to a suspect.
I drum the top of the second cabinet with my fingers a few moments before opening the next drawer. After flipping through a few more patients’ files, I come across an untitled folder. I remove it and slide myself into the hard metal chair. As I begin to read, I get a picture of a more intriguing and colorful character. Apparently, John Hunter liked writing journals.
The professional life of John Hunter began shortly after he received his PhD in psychology. He took a much-needed vacation to San Juan, Puerto Rico, staying at a local hotel, then returning to New York City two weeks later. He worked six stories above Madison Avenue and Thirty-first Street with a group of psychologists.
At the time, Hunter’s diary consisted of dates with brief notations. His mind was clear; an idealist at heart, he had high aspirations of becoming a worthy therapist. I scan through the pages and decide that Hunter was in control of his life back then.
The next journal picks up a few years into his practice. Hunter’s expectations had begun to diminish: dollars per session, number of clients per week, less on ideology, more on the American way. By then, he and Maggie had married, she moving into his Manhattan apartment. He wrote about their love and devotion toward each other. I suddenly feel like a voyeur and glance over to the door.
I skim through the journal and stop somewhere in the middle. Hunter’s once tender and passionate voice gets lost as though another author had taken over. He writes about his sudden insatiable sexual appetite. His once brief and tender comments are now graphic, similar to his columns. Words describing their acts are no longer dictionary friendly and are commonplace. His bedroom becomes a sexual gutter; he and Maggie explored every inch of their apartment, Maggie reluctantly becoming a willing participant. “Maggie’s sexual repression has been lifted; she is finally liberated,” Hunter writes like a conquering warrior.
My heart pounds from a mixture of excitement and jealousy, yet I feel guilty for entering their most intimate life.
“I got bored.”
My head snaps up. “Hi.”
“Sorry. I have a habit of doing that. How’s the reading coming along?”
My hand attempts to cover the page. “Okay.”
“I’ve been chatting with our friend out front. He tells me the last time John checked in was the day before he was killed.”
I ease out of my chair. “Really? He was here?”
She nods. “But before that, he hadn’t been here in over a year.”
I smile. “Remind me to pin a detective’s badge on you later.”
She returns the smile. “Maybe over dinner.”
I check my watch. “I’m sorry, Maggie. I hadn’t realized how late it was.”
I start returning a few files when Maggie says, “Our friend told me about a woman they found snooping around outside trying to get access to John’s storage room.”
I turn. “When was this?”
“The day before John was here. The guard wouldn’t let her in because she wasn’t listed as an authorized person.” Maggie pauses. “She claimed to be John’s wife.”
“Carol Warner?”
She nods repeatedly. “Has to be, according to the guy’s description of her. Remember, she was stalking him.”
I thumb back to the cabinet. “Her patient file is missing.”
“I’m not surprised, Hank. It was a very painful time for John. He probably destroyed it.”
Maggie’s sullen expression is obviously a painful reminder of the past.
“You hungry?” I say, changing the subject.
She smiles tentatively. “Famished.”
“Give me a few minutes to wrap up, okay?”
Her eyes stray to the open file cabinet. “Sure.”
I close Hunter’s journal and place it on top of the cabinet before thumbing through the rest of the file, when my eyes catch a folder titled “Miscellaneous.” As I remove it, several photographs drop to the floor and scatter about. I glance down, then over at Maggie, whose eyes are glued to the glossies. Before I have a chance to retrieve them, she scoops a few up.
Evidently, Hunter had an interest in photography and was adept at using a self-timer; one photo showed Carol Warner lying on her back smiling for the camera while Hunter’s hard dick was about to enter her. I can only imagine what Maggie was looking at.
“You shouldn’t be looking—”
She waves me off. “It’s okay,” she snaps.
But it’s not okay, and I can’t help her. I give her time to let loose whatever emotion she needs to release and thumb through the last of the files, checking the likes of a legal document that closed down Hunter’s passion for therapy and a copy of his restraining order against Warner.
I close Hunter’s past, scoop up the files I’m interested in, take Maggie by the arm, and lead her out the door.
“Sorry you had to see these,” I say, removing the photos from her clenched hand.
She shakes her head. “Just another reminder.”
I return the key back to “Hi, I’m Mr. Personable,” who must be a slow reader because he’s still nosing through the sports section. “You need a release for these?”
Without glancing up, he says, “Just send a check by next week.”
Right.
Maggie and I cross the Fifty-ninth Street bridge in silence, the city now feeling dirty, drab.
“Still hungry?” I ask, turning to her.
She shakes her head slowly. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take a rain check.”
“I understand. I really should be getting back anyway.”
“I appreciate the lift,” she says, touching my shoulder softly.
“Hey, I really enjoyed the company,” I tell her, my voice giving way to disappointment.
I pull up in front of Maggie’s apartment, shove the car in park, and start fidgeting with the wheel. I’m afraid to turn to her. Afraid she might see disappointment on my face.
“Would you like to come up for a while, Hank?”
My eyes turn to meet hers. My marriage is in the garbage can, and I’m vulnerable right now. Maggie’s hand is inching toward mine, which is still holding on to the steering wheel for support. When she touches me, the familiar warmth returns, relaxing my hand. She smiles. I can’t tell if the smile is friendly or seductive. I’m trying to resist the temptation, trying hard to stay focused.
This could get complicated, Hank. The investigat
ion is a priority. Or is it?
I turn to Maggie’s hand, her fingers sliding playfully up and down, causing my heart to pump faster. I focus on her nails and for a split second I’m thinking fire-engine red.
A quick blast of radio static fills the car, killing whatever decision was in my head.
I scowl and pick up the receiver. “What’s up?”
“It’s Peter Hopkins,” Wayne answers in a rush.
“What about him?”
“He’s dead.”
“Hold on, Wayne.” I place the receiver on mute and glance back at Maggie; her hand is no longer on mine. “I better go.”
She nods slowly, her lips pressing against each other, then reaches for her overnight bag from the back seat and opens the door. She offers a thin smile. “See you, Hank.”
The fragrance of Maggie’s perfume stays with me, and I take a deep breath to keep my day with Maggie alive. I watch her walk slowly, her eyes settling on the ground. I press the talk button. “How?”
“He killed himself.”
“Oh, Peter.”
“There’s more, Hank. We found a suicide note near his body. Peter confessed to killing Hunter.”
Peter Hopkins’ young widow, Jackie, hasn’t responded to any of my questions; she barely recognizes my presence. Her glazed eyes have settled on the tube, where a talk show host was sitting between two women who had undergone sex change operations. The significance of this segment was the similarity of their faces. They’re identical twins, separated at birth, who later discovered each other after their sex changes. It’s enough to make me want to join Jackie with whatever she’s on.
“Did you see Peter take the pills?” I ask, tapping Jackie’s shoulder for the third time.
Her eyes remain on the tube, but she manages to shake her head slowly. I gather that’s a no, but it’s an improvement nonetheless.
I’ve been standing in Jackie’s living room for the last fifteen minutes, five of which were trying to wake her up. She’s wearing wrinkled jeans and an equally wrinkled t-shirt that reads, “Smile If You’re Horny.”
“Wayne told me you called the stationhouse around eight. Is that when you found Peter slumped over on his desk?”
She blinks several times, sniffles.
“I gather you didn’t see him write the suicide note?”
A few tears form. “He killed ’im, Hank.”
“I know, I read the note. Did Peter tell you he came to see me yesterday?”
She turns, looks through me.
“It had to do with Hunter,” I tell her.
Jackie blinks a few times. “Peter thought you were gonna arrest me.”
“He took the rap for you, Jackie. We both know you killed Hunter—”
Jackie shakes her head violently. “That’s not true!”
“Settle down, Jackie. I needed to ask for the record.”
She begins to weep softly.
“Peter found out about your affair and killed Hunter, then killed himself. Does that about sum up the story, Jackie?”
I give her time to wipe her eyes before continuing. “The investigators found a prescription near Peter’s body, Celebrex, for his arthritis. We don’t know yet how many he took or if it killed him, but the lab didn’t find poison in the remaining pills.” I pause. “And since Peter didn’t have convulsions like Hunter did, we know he didn’t taint the pills with rat poison. That would make sense since Peter didn’t need rat poison to die.” I stop. “Unlike Hunter.”
Jackie sheds a few more tears, only this time I’m not sure which deceased she’s crying over.
I rub my temples. “You have to help me here, Jackie. Why would Peter kill Hunter now? I mean, you told me yesterday your affair ended six months ago.”
Jackie’s silence tells me otherwise.
“For Chrissake, were you still sleeping with Hunter?”
Her limp arms flap in the air. “A few times, Hank. Please don’t hate me.”
Fucking Hunter had a revolving door to his stud farm. “Even though he was screwing half the town?”
“He said he needed me.”
“Oh, he needed you, all right,” I say. “You were his delivery girl.”
“That’s not true!”
“Think about it, Jackie. Hunter didn’t need a prescription. He had you. And sex was your reward.”
Jackie starts to protest, then stops.
“Face it, Jackie, Hunter used you.”
She wipes her pasty mouth. “He needed them. Needed me.”
“Right. And Peter found out.”
Jackie pulls at her hair. “It was Peter’s fault,” she cries. “He surprised me at the store so I had to lie, tell him I needed something to help me sleep.”
“This happened the night of Hunter’s murder,” I say, completing the picture.
She nods. “He gave me that look, like he knew I was up to something and told me to come back later.”
“And?”
She shrugs. “When I returned, he handed them to me.”
“How many pills?”
She thinks a moment. “Just two. He said it was plenty for the time being.”
Peter wasn’t kidding, especially if they were loaded with rat poison. But if only the bourbon was laced with strychnine as Gloria suggested, Hunter probably wouldn’t have died on two pills. And Peter’s suicide note never revealed how he killed Hunter. He kept it open-ended, simple, like Hunter had done—or, that is to say, the suicide scribe did. I can only guess that Peter wasn’t specific because he didn’t kill Hunter. If his note described the crime, and he was wrong, then Peter’s suicide would have been executed needlessly. I sigh. Peter’s admission to Hunter’s murder was his final gift to Jackie and the town he loved, to spare them further humiliation. He knew I couldn’t stop the investigation without finding the killer and so he decided to take the fall.
I smile sadly. I knew better, of course. While I know Peter to be an honorable person, his suicide was actually his last gift to himself. He was dying. Only a few intimate friends, including me, knew that he had a brain tumor. He hadn’t even told Jackie. So suicide wasn’t a leap for Peter. It was a blessing in the long run.
Nevertheless, I ask Jackie, “How did Peter convince you to take a bottle of Jack Daniel’s over to Hunter’s place that night?”
“Bourbon?”
I nod. “We found an opened bottle in Hunter’s living room laced with rat poison.”
“Poison in the bottle?”
“Yup.”
She blinks hard, but my comment doesn’t register.
“Peter must have wanted you to watch your lover die a slow, painful death. Some kind of morbid penance for your sins.” I pause. “What about you, Jackie? Do you drink bourbon?”
My meaning finally hits her. She glares. “That’s not funny, Hank.”
“No, but if Peter killed Hunter, how did he manage to get the bourbon over to his place if you didn’t bring it?”
“Hank, I swear, it wasn’t me.”
“Damn it, Jackie, you delivered the pills!”
“John couldn’t sleep.”
“He can now, honey!”
Jackie holds her head in her hands, mumbling something about her professed love for Hunter. I roll my eyes. Sick puppy.
“Are you gonna arrest me, Hank?” she asks, peering up at me.
Jackie’s histrionic skills appeared to have worked for the moment. “Not if you’re telling me the truth,” I tell her. But to put the fear of God in her, I warn Jackie that I won’t tolerate lying, that jail time is one lie away.
“What about the painting?” she asks innocently.
I wave a hand. “If I don’t need it, it’s yours. Hang it up on your wall for all I care!”
“And the others?”
“I’ll carve them up into little pieces.”
“Including Susan’s?”
I freeze.
“I’ve seen them all, Hank.”
I remain silent, calculating.
“
It was his last,” Jackie says, her voice turning cold.
Maybe the fear of God is working. Jackie claims she found it by accident the night of the murder.
“After you delivered the pills and had sex?” I say disapprovingly.
“We didn’t make love that night,” she insists. “I was upset and left after seeing the painting.” She looks at me sympathetically. “I didn’t wanna have to tell you, Hank.”
I give my forehead a good wipe with my hand. I ask Jackie what condition the painting was in.
Her expression changes, shows confusion. “Like the others. Why?”
“Susan’s painting wasn’t…tampered with?”
Jackie shakes her head. “Susan was on her knees—”
I put a hand up in protest. “Please, spare me the details.” My mouth is dry but I force out, “Did you ever see them together?”
Jackie shakes her head slowly. “That’s why I was upset. I didn’t know. I figured he was still with her.”
“Sheryl?”
Jackie waves a hand. “He was bored with her.”
Jackie notices my confusion. “Because of the painting, Hank. Every time John took a new lover he’d do a portrait of her.”
I bow my head, stare at the dark parquet floor. Suddenly I feel Jackie’s warm breath on me, her hands stroking my hair. “I know how you feel, Hank.”
I don’t answer her.
“Whaddaya gonna do?”
“I really don’t know,” I answer truthfully.
“You can always stay here.”
My instinct tells me Jackie is just being neighborly, but I don’t need another scandal on my hands. “Thanks, but I’m gonna stay with Wayne a while.”
“Oh. That’s nice.”
Nice is a Corvette Stingray. Staying with Wayne isn’t what I’d consider nice. “I appreciate your offer anyway.”
We remain silent for a moment. “I gotta pee, Hank.” Jackie excuses herself, giving me time to clear my head. When she returns, her eyes are more focused.
I study her for a moment. “Any idea on how Peter wrote Hunter’s suicide note?”
She shrugs. “I really don’t know, Hank.”
The Art of Murder (A Hank Reed Mystery, Book 1) Page 8