Cold Justice

by Rayven T. Hill

  She didn’t know what else to do. Perhaps she should have told the police. She still can, but then they didn’t believe her when she told them what she saw, so why would they believe her now.

  Suddenly she thought of an idea. Not to save herself, but if anything happened to her...

  She went to her writing table in the den, got a piece of paper and composed a note. She signed it, folded it neatly, and then tucked it into an envelope, addressed it, and pasted on a stamp.

  She hurried outside. Just down the street, two or three houses away, she stopped at a mailbox. She hesitated a moment, and then dropped the envelope in. It would be picked up that afternoon, and probably delivered tomorrow.

  The police would be sure to see it, if...

  Wednesday, August 17th, 1:11 PM

  ANNIE WAS THINKING about Abigail and Philip Macy, and the death of their child. She hadn’t asked them what had been the cause, but was curious to know.

  She leaned forward to her keyboard, and googled ‘Abigail Macy’.

  There were several hits. They appeared to be women with the same name who lived in other cities and towns.

  She tried ‘Abigail Macy Richmond Hill’.

  She saw it. The first result. ‘Tragic Death Claims Toddler’.

  She clicked on the link. It was from the Richmond Hill Daily Times. When the page loaded, she saw a photo of a happy and proud Abigail, holding a small child. A boy. He was grinning and waving at the camera.

  She read the news story under the picture, dated July 3rd.

  Tragic Death Claims Toddler

  Richmond Hill was shocked today to hear of the untimely death of a toddler, three-year-old Timmy Macy, the victim of a tragic accident.

  According to his mother, Abigail Macy, the two of them were outside on the front lawn when Timmy wandered into the open garage. He pushed the button that closed the automatic door, and then tried to make it through, but was pinned by the door as it closed.

  The cause of his death was listed as asphyxiation, when the heavy door crushed down onto his back, shutting off his air supply so he couldn’t breath.

  Despite his mother’s efforts to save the boy after hearing the door close, the child was found dead when police and paramedics arrived.

  Investigators said there was no garage door sensor installed, and are warning the public that sensors are important, and should be installed on all garage doors to prevent such an accident.

  The death was ruled accidental and not due to the negligence of his mother. There are no charges pending.

  It was not hard to understand now why Abigail had been so depressed. She probably felt fully responsible.

  Annie was saddened to hear of such a tragic death. She closed the browser window and sat back, pondering the senseless death of one so young, realizing it could have been Matty, and thankful it wasn’t.

  Chapter 8

  Wednesday, August 17th, 2:30 PM

  THE MAN WALKED slowly and warily down the sidewalk toward the Macy home.

  Each time a car passed, he would turn his back, pretend he was talking on a cell phone, and then continue on when the way was clear.

  Once he had to duck behind the wide trunk of a Maple tree and wait until a pair of women walked by. One was pushing a baby carriage, the other talking incessantly. He waited until they were safely past before stepping back onto the sidewalk and continuing.

  At the edge of the Macy property, he stopped and looked around. All clear. He walked along the hedge to the side of the house and peeked in a window. He could see Abigail sitting in the living room. She appeared to be reading. No one else was in the room.

  He dropped down and continued to the back of the house, being careful not to be seen by any of the neighbors. He climbed the deck quietly and looked into the window. It led to the kitchen. No one there. He smiled grimly.

  At the other side of the house he peeked in another window, same result, no one else around. He continued to the front of the house, watching carefully for cars or pedestrians, then boldly approached the front door.

  He rang the bell.

  Abigail removed the chain and opened the door. She gasped and stepped back, her hand to her mouth.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I just want to talk to you.”

  She hesitated, so he smiled the gentlest smile he could, and stepped inside.

  She backed up a few more steps, and stopped with a jolt as she hit the bannister of the stairs leading up.

  “May I come in and sit down?”

  Keeping her eyes on him, she motioned toward the living room. She didn’t know what else to do.

  He went in and turned to face her. She followed him, terrified.

  “Please, sit down,” he said.

  She tightened the belt on her housecoat and sat on the edge of the padded chair, gingerly, watchfully, frightened.

  He sat on the couch, and leaned back, relaxed. “Please,” he said. “I can see you are afraid. There’s no need to be. You must understand, I couldn’t say anything to you when you called me, but it’s ok now. I believe you when you say you won’t tell anyone.” He smiled tenderly, his eyes appeared kind, gentle.

  She relaxed a bit.

  He spread his hand out, palms up, to appear non-threatening. “I trust you,” he said. “Can we talk?”

  She nodded.

  “That woman you saw. I didn’t hurt her. She was just a crazy I met on the street. She was being rude, and when I tried to walk away, she began to be violent toward me, so I chased her. I just wanted to scare her a bit. I let her go and she ran away. She wasn’t harmed, just afraid. I haven’t seen her since.”

  Abigail stared, thinking. Is it possible he’s telling the truth? I was drinking and maybe I imagined it to be more than it was. She relaxed a little more.

  He smiled at her. “Would you have any coffee?”

  She got up carefully and went to the kitchen. She thought about running out the back door, or maybe calling 9-1-1, but as she turned, she saw him standing in the doorway watching her. She made a pot of coffee, returning in a few minutes with a tray containing two steaming cups, along with cream and sugar. He sat back down, and she set the tray on the coffee table between them, and dropped into her chair.

  “Sorry to bother you again,” he said, “but would you have just a couple of cookies, or a cracker or two.” He grinned. “I missed lunch today and my tummy needs something small. I would appreciate if you could be so kind.”

  She nodded and headed back to the kitchen.

  He had but a few seconds to get this done. Slipping his hand quickly into his jacket pocket, he removed a small bottle. He twisted off the lid, and poured its contents into her cup. Then he stood up, dropped the bottle back into his pocket, and went to the doorway. Abigail was on her way back with a plate. She handed it to him, and they sat down.

  “Ah. Chocolate chip. My favorite,” he said with another forced smile. He took a bite and munched it slowly, then leaned forward and prepared his coffee. He took a sip and set the cup back down.

  He looked up at her. “How do you take your coffee?” he asked.

  “Just a bit of cream.”

  “That’s smart. I should cut back on sugar too.” He rubbed his belly and laughed as he dumped a few drops of cream into her cup. He stirred it, and leaned forward, handing it to her.

  She took it from him and sipped at it, watching him.

  “Now Abigail... Abby, I hope you know now you have no reason to fear me.” He took another bite of his cookie. “Mmm. Very nice.”

  He sipped his coffee and watched as she sipped hers.

  There was silence for a few minutes. Then she heard him talking to her, but she was unaware of what he was saying. She couldn’t connect the words together. She felt tired, so tired. She slumped.

  He got up quickly. He dug a pair of surgical gloves from his side pocket. He put them on, and then going to her limp body, he pushed back her eyelids, checking her eyes. They were hazed over, unseeing.

&nbs
p; He smiled and removed a 16 oz. bottle of vodka from an inner pocket. He twisted the top off and put it carefully on the stand beside her. Lifting her by the back of the neck, he forced her head back, her throat open. He slowly poured the alcohol down her throat. She choked on occasion, but he covered her mouth, let it pass, and then poured a little more. He patiently continued the process until the bottle was half gone, then satisfied, he wrapped her right hand around the bottle, being sure her fingerprints were on it, then set it on the stand beside her.

  He took the tray with the coffee cups and plate of cookies to the kitchen. He carefully washed and dried each item, finding where they belonged, and putting them away.

  Looking through the cupboards, he found a small glass. He brought it into the living room, poured a few drops of vodka into it, swished it around, and put that into her hand as well. He raised it up and looked at it. Her fingerprints were clearly visible on the glass. He set the glass on the stand.

  Next, he hurried up the steps to the second floor. He knew where her room was. Her bottle of pills was on the stand. He grabbed the bottle and looked at the label. Lorazepam. He hurried downstairs, and popped the top off. He placed the lid on the stand, then counted out some pills, and dumped them in his pocket. He put the now nearly empty bottle of Lorazepam on the stand beside the glass.

  He reached into another inner pocket and withdrew a cash register receipt. The receipt was for a bottle of vodka he had purchased that morning from a nearby store. He hurried to the kitchen. Her handbag was in a basket on the kitchen counter. He snapped it open, dropped the receipt in, snapped it shut again, and carefully put the handbag back into the basket.

  He stopped and thought for a minute, looking around. Everything seems to be fine. He went and checked her pulse. It was getting weaker. Satisfied, he moved quickly to the door. He opened it a bit and looked out. All clear.

  He turned the lock on the doorknob so it would lock when closed, and being extra careful now, he stole out the door, shutting it firmly behind him. He strode quickly to the street. Again, he avoided passing traffic once or twice, and before long, he was safely gone.

  Chapter 9

  Wednesday, August 17th, 5:15 PM

  PHILIP MACY closed the ledger and gathered up the loose papers on his desk, stuffing them into a file folder. He dropped them into a drawer and pushed back from his desk.

  He had tried to reach Abby a couple of times that afternoon but she wasn’t picking up the phone. He tried once more now, but got the same result. No answer. He dropped the phone back into its cradle.

  Samantha had already gone home for the evening, and the office was empty except for him. He sighed wearily as he stood up, grabbed his briefcase, and left the suite of offices, locking up behind him. He hurried down the two flights of stairs to the underground parking.

  He tossed his briefcase into the back seat of his Lexus and headed for home. He tried again to call her from his cell phone. Still no answer. This is not like her. She always answered the phone if the caller ID showed it was him.

  He spun into the driveway and threw the gearshift in park. Forgetting his briefcase, he jumped from the car and sprinted up the steps to the front door.

  As he pushed the key into the lock and swung it open, he knew something was wrong. The door wasn’t chained the way Abby had always left it lately when she was there alone. Perhaps she had gone out for a walk.

  “Abby?” he called. “Are you here?”

  No answer.

  He stepped inside the lobby and dropped his briefcase onto the floor, walking into the kitchen.

  “Abby, are you here?”

  No answer. Probably up in her room.

  He ran up the steps and into the guest room, calling her name. The room was empty. He was sure he would find her here. He walked back down the stairs.

  It was when he went into the living room he saw her. She was slouched back in the stuffed chair in an unnatural position.

  He dashed over to her. Something didn’t seem right. Frightened now, he shook her gently, trying to wake her. There was no response.

  “Abby. Honey. Wake up!” He shook her more, almost violently now.

  Her eyes were closed. She looked to be sleeping peacefully, but still no response to his pleading.

  He checked her pulse. On her arm, then her neck. Nothing. She didn’t appear to be breathing. Her skin felt cool.

  Panicking now, he dug furiously into his pocket. Found his cell phone. He dialed quickly, his hand shaking. His whole body shaking.

  Two rings, then, “9-1-1. What is your emergency?”

  He spoke rapidly. “It’s my wife. She’s unconscious. I can’t revive her. Maybe she’s dead.”

  “I’ll send an ambulance right away. What’s your address, sir?” The operator spoke calmly.

  “88 Silverpine Street. Please hurry.”

  “It’s on its way now. Sir, is she breathing?”

  “No, she doesn’t seem to be.”

  “Do you know how to perform CPR?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’ll try.”

  He dropped the phone onto the coffee table, leaving the speaker on, and carefully lifting Abby from the chair, he laid her on the floor. He forced her head back and her mouth open, blowing his own air into her lungs, over and over again.

  He tried to get her heart pumping. Working furiously. Her heart didn’t respond. She didn’t breathe. He wasn’t getting any sign of life.

  Again, he forced air into her mouth. Into her lungs. He begged her to answer him, as he pumped furiously at her heart, again and again.

  The awful truth finally crashed into him, and he stopped. He rose from his knees and sat on the edge of the chair, his face in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably.

  “Abby,” he wept. “My Abby.”

  Finally, he sat back, trying to gain some control of himself. He wanted desperately to make some sense of this. It was then he noticed the half-full bottle of vodka and the nearly empty bottle of pills on the stand beside the chair.

  He was bewildered. Had she done this herself? Had she overdosed? He blamed himself. He should never have left her alone. He dropped his head and wept again, in shock and disbelief. “It can’t be. It can’t be,” he said, again and again.

  He fell to the floor, holding her in his arms, “Abby,” he moaned. “Oh, Abby. My Abby.”

  He could hear the sirens in the distance now. He looked up and listened. The ambulance was coming. He prayed they would know what to do. Maybe she’s not dead. Maybe just sleeping. Unconscious.

  He lay her back down gently, and then stood and ran to the door. He had locked it again when he came in, so he unlocked it and swung it open, begging for them to hurry.

  The ambulance screeched to a stop in his driveway. The doors opened and two paramedics climbed out carrying some equipment. As they hurried up the steps and through the open door, he motioned toward the living room.

  “In here,” he said.

  They rushed in, one paramedic kneeling down beside her. He checked her pulse. He checked for signs of breathing, and then sat back. He looked at Philip and shook his head slowly.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “She’s gone. There’s nothing we can do.”

  “She can’t be,” Philip’s voice was frenzied. “She can’t be. Try again.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. There’s no pulse. She’s gone.”

  Philip dropped to the couch and wept in despair as the paramedics went back outside, returning in a moment with a gurney. He watched as they lifted his wife’s body onto the gurney, covering her face with a snow-white sheet.

  One at each end, they carried her out the door, and loaded her into the vehicle.

  Philip stumbled into the back of the ambulance and it sped away. The lights flashed and the sirens screamed, drowning out the sound of Phil’s own wailing, as he knelt on the floor of the vehicle, holding his wife’s cold dead hand.

  Chapter 10

  Wednesday, August 17th, 5:32 PM

  THE DOOR LEADIN
G from the garage to the kitchen slammed. Jake walked in. Annie slouched sideways at the kitchen table reading a book on police procedure. Her feet were propped up onto a chair beside her, a half finished cup of coffee at her elbow. She looked up as he came in.

  “Did you get the oil changed?” she asked, as he went to the sink to wash his hands.

  “Yup,” he said, and then, “Where’s the grease remover?”

  “Under the sink,” she said, gulping down the rest of her coffee.

  “How was the visit with your mother?” Jake asked, scrubbing at the grime on his fingers.

  Annie dropped her feet and sat up. She tucked the bookmark into the book and closed it, sliding it away. “The usual.”

  Jake grinned over his shoulder at her. “Any gossip?” he asked.

  Annie laughed. “No. Thankfully, she had to get to work and didn’t stay too long.”

  “Hey Mom. Hey Dad.” Matty gave the usual greeting. He had been next door playing with Kyle since he came home from school.

  Annie caught him as he went by and gave him a hug. Jake turned and said, “Hey Mat.”

  Matty went out the back door onto the deck. They could hear him kicking around a soccer ball.

  “I checked out Timmy, the Macy’s little boy,” Annie said. She told Jake about the news story she had found online, and the tragic accident that had taken his life.

  Jake whistled, “Wow. That’s a nasty thing to have happen.”

  Annie nodded and sighed, thinking of Matty, and then asked, “Did you get those papers served ok?”

  “Yeah, no problem.” Jake grinned. “I could hear him cursing all the way back to the car. He wasn’t too happy about it.”

  Annie laughed. “They never are.”