Cold Justice

by Rayven T. Hill

  “Franklin & Franklin is a pretty large firm. I hope they can send some more work our way.”

  The jangling of the phone on the kitchen wall interrupted them. Annie scooped it up. “Hello?”

  “Mrs. Lincoln, it’s Matty’s teacher, Beth Cobblestone.”

  Annie covered the mouthpiece with her hand and whispered to Jake, “It’s Matty’s teacher.” Then into the phone, “How are you, Miss Cobblestone?”

  “I am well, thank you,” Annie heard, then, “I was hoping you could come to the school and see me this evening. It’s about Matty. He’s been in an altercation with another student, and I’m quite concerned.”

  Annie frowned, worried, “What kind of altercation?”

  “I’m afraid he’s been in a bit of a fight with another student.”

  Annie looked at Jake, an anxious look in her eyes. “We’ll talk to him, Miss Cobblestone,” she said.

  “Can you come at six-thirty, please? The other boy’s parents will be there as well.”

  “I’m very sorry. Yes, yes, we’ll come at six-thirty.”

  She hung up the receiver and studied it for a moment before turning around. “Matty’s been in a fight,” she said, as she went to the back door and opened it. “Matty,” she called, “will you come in here, please?”

  Matty could tell by the tone of his mother’s voice he had better hurry. He gave the ball a good kick. It jumped and tumbled across the deck and rolled onto the lawn. He came inside, and sat at the kitchen table. He looked meekly at his parents. He knew what was up.

  His father finished drying his hands on a paper towel and tossed it into the flip-top garbage can. He came over and sat across from him.

  Annie stood beside Matty, and put her hand gently on his shoulder. She leaned over and looked him in the eyes. “Matty, your teacher called. What’s this about a fight?”

  He looked up. “It wasn’t my fault, Mom.”

  Annie waited. Jake said, “What happened, son?”

  Matty played nervously with his fingers. “It was Kevin. Kevin Jordan. He was pushing Kyle around. I told him to stop, but he didn’t.”

  “And?”

  “And so I pushed him away.”

  “And that’s all?”

  Matty looked at the table, now playing with a placemat. “He wouldn’t stop,” he said.

  They waited for Matty to continue.

  He looked up at his dad. “He tried to punch me.”

  “And?” his mother asked.

  “He missed. But I didn’t.”

  “You punched him?”

  Matty gave his mother an uncertain frown, shrugged his shoulders, and then nodded.

  Annie and Jake looked at each other, and then back at Matty.

  “Is that the whole truth, Matty?” she asked.

  “Yes, Mom. That’s all that happened. I just hit him once and he ran away. He ran into the school and told the teacher. He’s just a mean kid and he’s always bullying the little kids there. He started it.” He paused for a minute, and then looked bravely at his mother. “I’m sorry Mom, but he really deserved it, and I would do it again if I had to. There were a lot of other kids there and they all saw what happened. Maybe he’ll stop bullying now and leave them alone.” He looked down, and then continued, “I feel sorry for him, though. He has no real friends, except for one kid that lets him boss him around all the time.”

  Annie studied him thoughtfully for a minute, and then stood and said, “Ok, Matty. You can go back outside now. But stay close by. We have to go and see your teacher this evening.”

  “Yes, Mom,” Matty said, as he dropped from the chair and sauntered back outside.

  Annie sat down and leaned into the table, looking at Jake. “What do you think?” she asked.

  “I think he’s telling the truth,” Jake said. “We’ll see what this Kevin brat has to say.”

  Chapter 11

  Wednesday, August 17th, 6:02 PM

  ABIGAIL MACY had been pronounced DOA at Richmond Hill General Hospital. Hank had been watching a distraught Philip Macy trying to control his emotions. He seemed to be well past the denial stage, and was flip-flopping now between despair and anger. At times, he was pacing up and down the long sterilized corridors, and then back to the waiting room.

  Hank spoke briefly with the doctor. He had pronounced Abigail dead, a necessary formality, and her body had been taken down to the hospital morgue, located somewhere in the bowels of the massive building. An autopsy would be performed if the coroner thought it necessary, generally mandatory if a death occurred outside of the hospital.

  Philip had stopped pacing now and was sitting slouched forward, head in his hands. Hank sat down beside him. “I can take you home,” he said gently, putting his arm around his shoulder. “There’s nothing more we can do here. I expect they will release your wife’s body tomorrow.”

  Philip looked up and nodded. “Ok,” he managed.

  Hank would have to wait for the autopsy report, but he knew Mrs. Macy’s death was likely going to be labeled as a suicide. But he wasn’t so sure. Something just didn’t add up. It was too convenient. She claimed to be a witness to a murder, and now she was dead. Coincidence? Maybe. He also knew it was important to get statements as soon as possible, but Philip was as yet unable, or unwilling, to speak.

  Philip followed Hank to his car parked out in the emergency area’s parking lot, and they drove away. He stared quietly out the side window as Hank weaved through the north end traffic, his faltering old Chevy finally making it to the Macy home on Silverpine Street.

  There was a cruiser, lights still flashing, parked by the curb alongside a couple of unmarked vehicles belonging to investigators. He saw curious neighbors across the street, gathered to see what was going on in this usually quiet neighborhood. One guy was sitting comfortably in a lawn chair, as if waiting for a big event. Three or four more were standing on the sidewalk, or on their front lawns.

  As he pulled in the drive and squeaked to a stop behind Philip’s Lexus, he saw a uniformed cop at the front door. The cop watched as they climbed from the vehicle and approached the house. He nodded at them and mumbled something as he opened the door for them.

  As they stepped inside the lobby, Hank turned to Philip. “They are still processing the scene, Mr. Macy. If you could wait here until they’re done.” He motioned toward a bench in the lobby, and Philip nodded and slouched down, closing his eyes.

  Crime scene investigators were there, making notes, taking prints, and snapping photos. Lead crime scene investigator, Rod Jameson was directing operations. Hank had asked for a thorough job, the scene to be treated as if it were a crime scene.

  As Hank stepped into the living room, he approached Jameson. “How’s it going here?” he asked.

  Jameson looked up from his clipboard and glanced around. “Just about done here, Hank. We’re waiting for you to take a walk-through and then they’ll bag the evidence, and we’ll be out of here.”

  “Did you find a suicide note?”

  Jameson shook his head.

  “Thanks, Rod.”

  Jameson grunted and went back to his clipboard.

  Hank looked around the room. He unfolded a paper from his pocket, the report from the responding paramedics. Apparently, Mrs. Macy had been on the floor when they arrived, where her husband had laid her before trying to revive her. He saw the chair where she had been slouched over. He noticed the stand containing the bottle of vodka, the glass, and the pills. Lorazepam and vodka. Not a good combination. He picked up the glass and smelled it. Alcohol.

  He spent several minutes taking in everything in the room, and then into the kitchen, looking for anything out of place. He looked in the fridge, in the garbage bin, checked the door to the back yard. Locked and bolted from inside. He noticed the nearly full pot of coffee. He scrutinized everything, taking in all he saw.

  He went upstairs and took a look around the guest room, checking in drawers, in the closet, under the bed, on the floor. The room had alrea
dy been fingerprinted, leaving traces of dust on the stand and the doorknob.

  The upstairs bathroom got the same inspection. In the medicine cabinet. In the bathtub. Towels are dry, window closed and locked.

  Back downstairs he examined the rest of the main floor, checking windows, doors, studying the floor, even the walls and ceiling.

  There was a small office off the living room. He peeked inside and saw a desk, a few bookcases half full of books, a printer, computer, a couple of chairs, some other office furniture. He rummaged through the desk, looking for a note. Nothing. The computer was off. He left it.

  Finally, he approached Jameson. “You can clean up here now,” he said.

  They bagged and tagged, and in a few minutes, the investigators were gone.

  Hank found Philip still waiting. They went into the living room and sat on the couch. Hank had a notepad in his hand, his pen ready. Philip slouched back, his eyes closed.

  Hank turned sideways and looked at Philip. “I realize how hard this is, Mr. Macy, but I need to ask you some questions, if you are up to it.” Hank hated this part. Hated questioning someone who was obviously grieving so much. They just want someone to share their pain, or perhaps just be left alone, not to be interrogated. He had seen so much grief in the almost twenty years as a cop, and it never got any easier for him, or for them.

  “Mr. Macy, I’m sorry, but I must ask, did your wife ever talk about ending her life?”

  Philip opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling. “No, no. Never.” He seemed to be pleading. “She never would. She may have had problems lately, but she wasn’t suicidal.” He turned and looked earnestly at Hank. “I know she didn’t kill herself. She just wouldn’t.” His voice shook, his hands working nervously.

  Hank nodded. He didn’t know what to say to that. He was thinking about the murder Abigail had stated she witnessed. “Did your wife ever tell you if she had any idea who was involved in the murder she saw? Who the killer is, or the victim?”

  Philip shook his head. “No, I don’t think she saw them clearly. She didn’t like to talk about it, but she was obviously fearful.”

  “Mr. Macy, when you came home and first found your wife, did you touch anything? Or move anything?”

  “Nothing. I just tried to revive her, and then called 9-1-1.” He glanced over to the chair where he had found his wife’s body, and looked away quickly.

  “Had you been in any contact with her throughout the day? On the phone, or otherwise?”

  “I had called and talked with her briefly this morning. She appeared to be fine. I tried again a few times this afternoon, but got no answer.”

  “When was the last time you spoke to her?”

  Philip looked up and thought a minute before answering. “Probably around noon. Maybe twelve-thirty.”

  Hank scribbled in the notepad. He needed to ask for an alibi, but wanted to be careful how he framed the question. “And you were in the office all day?”

  Philip nodded. “Yes, all day. My assistant, Samantha, was there. She left for lunch about twelve, and came back a few minutes after one. Other than that, she was there all day.”

  “And until recently, your wife worked at the office with you?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, I take it she knew Samantha?”

  “Yes, very well. They didn’t socialize outside the office, but they went to lunch together a lot. Things like that.”

  Hank nodded, scribbled, and then, “What’s Samantha’s last name?”

  “Riggs. Samantha Riggs. I can get you her address and phone number if you’d like.”

  “Yes, I would appreciate that. I need to talk to anyone who knows Abigail.”

  “I’ll make you a list as soon as I can and get it to you,” Philip said.

  Hank consulted his pad, made a couple of quick notes and then stood. “I think that’s all for now Mr. Macy, but I may have more questions later.”

  Philip stood, and they shook hands. As he showed Hank to the door, he stopped and looked earnestly at him. “Detective, my wife would never kill herself. I know she’s been murdered. Please find out who did this,” he asked, pleading.

  “I’ll do everything I can,” Hank said, as he left and made his way down the steps to his vehicle. He climbed in and sat there for a moment. He would have to wait for the autopsy report, but it sure looks like suicide.

  Chapter 12

  Wednesday, August 17th, 6:28 PM

  JAKE SWUNG the Firebird into the guests’ parking lot of North Richmond Public School. In the three years Matty had been attending, they had been here several times for parent/teacher meetings and special occasions, but never before had they been called in because of a problem with Matty.

  As they crawled from the vehicle, Jake looked up at the sprawling school. When he had been a student here uncountable years ago, it was just a small square cube of ugly red brick, but now had wormed its way around the lot with three additions jutting out at awkward angles, threatening to devour the entire property.

  Jake and Annie followed Matty down the weathered concrete walkway to the front of the building, and through the doorway of the latest wing. The drab green walls were covered with posters and announcements. Except for the odd teacher, or perhaps a parent or two scurrying to appointments, the place was deserted and quiet.

  Around the next corner, a pair of teachers overloaded with books and teaching manuals were huddled in urgent conversation. A student scurried by, a violin case tucked under his arm. As he slid through a door at the end of the hallway, the uncertain sound of a student orchestra wafted out.

  Matty stopped in front of room 104 and looked at his father. Jake opened the door and went in first. The far wall of windows let the early evening sun in, flashing off the rows of deserted desks. The square room was colorfully decorated with student masterpieces. A+ test results of accomplished students were tacked proudly onto a corkboard.

  Miss Cobblestone looked up from her overloaded desk at the front of the room. She appeared to be in her late thirties, nice enough looking, but more dedicated to her students than to a social life, and by choice, destined to be called Miss Cobblestone forever. Her tight black hair culminated in a stern bun at the back of her head, her reading glasses slouched on her nose, contrasting with her smiling eyes peeking out above the black frames.

  She stood and smiled as they approached, motioning to a group of three hardback chairs to the right of her desk, strategically placed a safe distance away from the three to her left.

  “The Jordans should be here momentarily,” she said.

  They sat down and waited, discussing the weather and exchanging mandatory pleasantries. Matty fidgeted with his hands. He didn’t appear to be nervous, maybe just bored.

  The schoolroom door opened again. Jake looked up. Mr. Jordan was in his early thirties, short scruffy hair, with a round face and a body that had consumed a few too many calories. He held a smaller carbon copy of himself firmly by the wrist as he blustered into the room. They were followed by a more sedated Mrs. Jordan. The teacher greeted them and motioned toward the remaining chairs.

  “Let’s get on with this,” Jordan said. The feet of his chair squealed on the tile floor as he pulled it a few inches closer, dropping his bulk into the seat. He leaned forward as Kevin and his mother took a seat beside him. He stared at Matty, his eyes small, and then at Jake, sizing him up.

  Jake stared back.

  Annie crossed her legs and looked at Miss Cobblestone.

  Mrs. Jordan sat timidly, her hands quietly in her lap.

  “Thank you all for coming.” The teacher spread her smile around. She seemed at ease. Probably done this many times before.

  Jake and Annie acknowledged her with a smile and a nod. Jordan grunted.

  “We’ll keep this short,” the teacher said. “As you know, we have a no fighting policy in this school. We like to encourage our students to get along together, and to understand each other’s differences. We also realize at times things can
get out of hand. Tempers flare, and children argue on occasion...”

  “This was more than an argument,” Jordan interrupted, “Look at Kevin’s face.” The side of his face had a dark spot, a welt forming below his left eye. Jordan waved a finger at Matty. “That little brat over there did that.”

  Jake moved forward in his seat. He glared at Jordan and opened his mouth. Annie cleared her throat. Jake leaned back again and crossed his arms.

  Annie spoke, “Mr. Jordan, apparently, your son started the fight.” Her voice was calm, polite. “Matty was protecting a friend your son was bullying.”

  “He punched my boy!”

  “Yes, and your boy tried to punch my son.”

  Jordan pointed at Matty again. “It’s hard to believe that. Look at him. Not a mark on him.”

  Jake had to speak. “Look Jordan, just because your son can’t land a punch doesn’t mean he didn’t try. It just means he’s a lousy fighter.”

  Jordan’s eyes narrowed.

  Kevin looked at his father. “Dad, you can’t let him say that to you.”

  Jordan waved him off. “Hush,” he said. Kevin sat back and folded his arms, a hostile look on his face.

  “We’re not here to cast any blame,” Miss Cobblestone said. “But rather to ensure this doesn’t happen again in the future.”

  Jordan’s finger waggled again. “It wouldn’t happen if that boy would stay away from my son.”

  “Mr. Jordan,” the teacher spoke sharply. “Can we please keep this civil?”

  Jake held back a smile as Jordan sat back and grunted, folding his arms.

  “Miss Cobblestone," Annie said. “We have had a talk with Matty about this, and you can be sure we will talk to him again. If Mr. Jordan would do the same with his son, I’m sure this can be prevented in the future.”

  The teacher looked at Jordan and raised her brows, waiting for his response.

  “I’ll talk with him,” he said reluctantly.

  Jake doubted it would be much of a talk.

  Miss Cobblestone looked back and forth from the two boys. “From now on, if there is any bullying or fighting, you must tell one of the teachers and let them handle it. No more fighting, understood?”