Cold Justice

by Rayven T. Hill

  “Yes, Miss Cobblestone,” Matty said.

  Kevin glared at Matty. “Yeah, ok.”

  “Will the two of you shake hands, please?”

  Matty slid off his chair and approached Kevin, offering his hand. Kevin reluctantly shook hands, and crossed his arms again.

  Jake stood and offered his hand to Jordan, who ignored him and stood and turned toward the door. As the three of them bustled out, Mrs. Jordan looked back at Annie, a faint smile of apology on her face, and then turned and followed her husband.

  “I think that went well,” Jake said.

  Chapter 13

  Wednesday, August 17th, 7:22 PM

  WHEN THE LINCOLNS arrived home there was a message waiting on the answering machine. Annie sat in the swivel chair and touched the ‘Play’ button. It was Philip Macy. Could they please call him? He would like to speak to them urgently.

  Jake dropped into the guest chair. Annie returned the call and put it on speaker.

  “It’s my wife,” Philip said. He sounded broken. “She’s dead.”

  Annie’s mouth dropped open. She stared at the phone, not knowing what to say. She said, “Ohhh.”

  Jake looked at Annie, and then at the phone. “What happened?” he asked.

  “I... I don’t really know... they say suicide, but I don’t think so. Can you drop over here this evening?”

  “We can come right now,” Jake said.

  Annie ran from the office and called Matty. She would ask Chrissy to watch him for a while. She ran next door, Matty followed. Chrissy was home and eager to help.

  “We shouldn’t be long,” Annie said.

  “Any time. We love having him here.”

  Annie hurried back. Jake tossed her handbag to her and they jumped into the already running car.

  The tires smoked a bit as Jake swung from the driveway and roared down Carver Street.

  Annie found a brush in her purse and touched up her hair, freshened her light pink lipstick, and then sat back as Jake steered onto Silverpine and approached the Macy home.

  They spun into the driveway, stopped behind Philip’s Lexus and stepped out, hurrying up the steps to the front door. As Jake reached for the doorbell, the door swung open.

  Philip greeted them and showed them to the living room. He motioned toward the couch by the front window. They sat as Philip pulled up a chair that seemed to have been brought from the kitchen. The overstuffed armchair remained conspicuously empty.

  Annie crossed her legs and studied Philip. His young face was haggard and appeared ten years older. She could see he had been crying.

  His voice was hoarse. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”

  Jake nodded and forced a polite smile.

  “We’re very sorry to hear about Mrs. Macy,” Annie said.

  Philip sighed. “I realize you didn’t have a chance to talk to my wife,” he said. “But she would never have... done this to herself.”

  “Can you tell us what happened?” Jake asked.

  “I came home after work today, maybe around five thirty or so. My wife was lying there... not moving.” He motioned toward the stuffed armchair and continued. “I tried to revive her, but she was... already gone. I called 9-1-1 immediately, but she... it was too late.”

  “How did it happen?” Annie asked.

  Philip looked at the stand by the chair. “There was a bottle of alcohol on the table. Half full. And her bottle of pills was there too. Almost empty. It appears she had been drinking, and took an overdose of pills.” He looked back at Annie and shook his head. “But she would never do that.”

  Annie reached into her handbag for her notepad and pen. She flipped it open and asked, “What pills was she taking?”

  “Lorazepam.”

  She wrote in her notepad. “What kind of alcohol was it?”

  “Vodka. But the police took it. They took the pills as well.”

  “Was there a note of any kind?”

  “No.” Philip shook his head.

  “Had you talked to your wife today, at any time before that?” Jake asked.

  “I talked to her this morning. She appeared fine and in a much better mood than she was in the last couple of days.”

  Annie consulted her notes and frowned. “You mentioned before that she would occasionally go out for a drink. A place called Eddie’s. Did she drink at home as well?”

  “I have never known her to. And the last time she went to Eddie’s was on Sunday night. The night she saw the murder.”

  “When was the last time she had been to see her psychiatrist...” She flipped through her notes. “Dr. Hoffman?”

  “I believe the last time she saw him was last Friday afternoon. She may have had an appointment today as well, but I don’t know if she went. Perhaps she did. I was unable to reach her by phone this afternoon.”

  “Did she keep a schedule here anywhere?” Jake asked.

  “I believe so,” Philip said as he stood up. He went into the adjoining office and returned in a moment with a calendar. He was studying it. “She had an appointment today at one o’clock. She may have gone.”

  “We’ll check with Dr. Hoffman,” Annie said. “At this point, we don’t know the time of death, but after we know that, and then talk to Dr. Hoffman, we may be able to piece together her day.”

  “Please find who did this.”

  “We’ll make it our top priority,” Annie said.

  “We’ll get the police report as soon as possible,” Jake said. “And that will help us. We will approach this with the assumption this was... not of her own doing. We’ll get him.”

  Annie looked at Jake and back at Philip. “We can’t actually promise we will succeed, only that we will do our absolute best.”

  Philip nodded.

  Annie stood and went over to the small table beside the chair where Abigail had been found. There wasn’t much to see. Everything had been removed by the investigators, leaving only a dusting of fingerprint powder behind.

  “Do you mind if I look around a bit?” she asked Philip.

  Philip made a sweeping motion. “Please do.”

  Annie wandered into the kitchen, trying to get a feel for things. The kitchen was tidy. Better than it was last time they were here. Had Philip been cleaning up? Or was Abigail feeling more up to doing it herself? She checked the door leading from the kitchen to the back yard. As well as the regular keyed lock, it had a sliding deadbolt on it, fastened securely from the inside.

  She noticed a handbag on the end of the counter. Had the police missed that? She opened it up and dumped its contents on the kitchen table. A pair of sunglasses, a wallet, some lipstick and a small compact. Not much else. A cash register receipt. She looked at it. It was for a bottle of vodka, purchased that morning. The timestamp on the receipt said 10:23. She stuffed it between the pages of her notepad and continued looking.

  There was a pot of brewed coffee in the coffeemaker. She examined it closely, frowning. There seems to be two cups used. She looked in the sink. No cups there.

  She went back to the living room and stood in the doorway. “Philip, did Abigail drink coffee?”

  “She would have the occasional cup. Maybe every couple of days or so.”

  “And you?”

  “I would drink coffee here in the morning before work, but lately I have been stopping at a coffee shop on the way to work.” He smiled. “I drink too much coffee.”

  Annie thought a moment and then said, “There’s a pot of coffee in the kitchen. Did you make that?”

  “No, I haven’t had anything to eat or drink since I got home, about an hour ago.”

  Annie nodded. “Is there anything else you can think of that may help us?”

  “Actually, yes. Abby always puts the chain on the door when she’s here alone. But today when I came home, it wasn’t on. It was locked, but no chain.”

  Annie made a note in her pad. She twiddled with the pen a moment and then asked, “Philip, what was your wife wearing when you came home?” />
  “She was wearing her housecoat.”

  Annie made another note and paced the living room floor, thinking. Finally she said, “That’s all I can think of now.” She looked at Jake.

  Jake shrugged. “I can’t think of anything else.” He stood and followed Annie to the door.

  Philip saw them out. “Please let me know if you find out anything.”

  “We will,” Jake said.

  Chapter 14

  Thursday, August 17th, 9:00 AM

  “CAN I SEE YOU a minute, Captain?”

  “Sure. Come on in.”

  Detective Hank Corning stepped into the office, pulled back a chair and dropped down. He glanced across the desk at Captain Alano Diego and waved some papers in the air.

  “Captain, I just have a gut feeling there’s something more going on here.”

  Diego dropped his pen and sat back, “Listen Hank, I know what you’re saying. You’re the best detective I have and I respect your gut, but it’s all there in black and white.” He was a few pounds overweight, and his jowls quivered as he talked.

  Hank frowned and pointed at the papers he was still holding. “But there’s more to it than this. And they didn’t do a full autopsy.”

  He watched as Diego reached to the side of his desk for a manila folder, dropped it in front of him and flipped it open. “The coroner didn’t think a full autopsy was necessary,” he said.

  “I believe there’s more than just what’s in the report,” Hank said.

  Diego shrugged his shoulders and brushed down his bristling mustache with his finger. “Maybe. Maybe not. But I can’t justify keeping you on it.” He looked down at the open folder. “The drug screen came back positive for Lorazepam. The coroner’s report labeled the cause of death as suicide, and the investigators at the scene found no evidence to the contrary.”

  Hank stared at him.

  Diego continued, “Add that to the fact Mrs. Macy was experiencing mental and emotional problems at the time. Her psychiatrist said she might have been suicidal.” He paused and looked up. “There’s just nothing to go on. Except your gut.”

  “My gut is telling me there’s something here.”

  Diego continued, “Even the manner of death is consistent with suicide. I think the figure is something like, thirty-eight percent of women who attempt suicide, do it with something toxic. Usually an overdose.”

  “If this was a homicide,” Hank said, “the killer may have known that figure, and knew an overdose was the best way to avoid suspicion.”

  Diego ignored the assumption. “Hank, we’ve known each other for a long time. I know you’re a good cop.” He leaned forward. “What you do on your own time is up to you, but officially, this file is closed.”

  “The Lincolns are looking into this. If they, or we, come up with something solid, can we take another look?”

  “Not meaning to disrespect the Lincolns in any way, but they’re looking into this because they’re paid to look into it. Not because they necessarily think there’s anything to go on.” He paused. “However, if they come up with something solid. I mean solid. Real proof a crime has been committed here. Something that will stand up in court, then we’ll take another look. But until then...” He closed the file folder in front of him with a swish, sat back, adjusted his navy blue tie, and looked at Hank.

  Hank studied Diego a moment, and then finally stood. “All right. Thanks Captain,” he said reluctantly as he turned and left the room.

  Hank knew Diego had done the logical thing. As head of Richmond Hill Police Department, Captain Diego had worked his way up through the ranks and was well respected by the men under him. That’s not to say Diego was always right, of course, but he is the Captain.

  He sighed and stabbed speed dial on his cell phone.

  “Jake here.”

  “Hey Jake, the captain closed the file. Mrs. Macy’s death is officially labeled a suicide by the coroner.”

  “So the investigators found nothing either?” Jake asked.

  “Nope. I have all the reports right here. If you guys are going to be home for a while, I’ll drop them over.”

  “Sure,” Jake said. “We’re here now. Come on over.”

  “Be right there.” Hank touched the cell phone and ended the call, shoving it into his pocket. He made photocopies of the papers, went to his desk, and slipped them into his valise.

  Before leaving, he poked his head back into Diego’s office. “Can we at least have an autopsy done?” he asked.

  Diego sighed. “All right. I’ll get the coroner to do a full autopsy. Then we’ll close the case.”

  “Thanks Captain,” Hank said. He turned and left the precinct.

  Thursday, August 17th, 9:22 AM

  JAKE SWUNG the front door open when Hank knocked. “Come on in. We’re in the kitchen. There’s some fresh coffee on.” He led the way and Hank followed.

  Annie was in the kitchen and greeted Hank with a smile. Hank and Jake dropped into chairs at the kitchen table. Jake slouched back, utilizing another chair to prop up his feet, while Annie poured three steaming mugs of coffee. She set them on the table with cream and sugar, and sat at the end.

  Hank opened his valise and removed the folder of reports. He dropped them on the table in front of Annie. “It’s all here,” he said. “Police report. Coroner’s report. Doctor’s report. Drug screen.”

  Annie flipped open the folder and browsed the papers while Hank and Jake prepared their coffee. Lots of sugar in Hank’s. Not too much cream.

  Jake looked at Annie, “Hank said the investigators found nothing suspicious.”

  Hank nodded. “That’s what they say, but...”

  Annie looked at Hank. “You don’t think it’s a suicide either, do you,” she stated.

  Hank shook his head. “I’m not sure, but the captain closed the file. He said he had no choice as there’s nothing there to indicate it was anything other than suicide.” He shrugged and took a gulp of coffee. “But, I was able to convince him to do a full autopsy first.”

  Jake sat up and picked up one of the reports. He browsed the pages, sipping thoughtfully at his coffee.

  “Outside of these reports, there’s a lot of little things that don’t make sense, “Annie said.

  “Such as?” Hank asked.

  “For starters, Philip Macy said his wife would always keep the front door chained when he’s not home. But today, when he came home, the chain was off. The door was locked, but the chain was off.”

  “That’s a little slim,” Hank said.

  “Not to me it’s not,” Annie said. “We know how afraid she had been the last few days. She didn’t even want to leave the house. The back door, leading from the kitchen to the back yard, had a manual lock on it, as well as the regular lock. Both were secured. And yet, the front door was not so secure. That doesn’t make sense to me, considering Mrs. Macy’s state of mind, and the fact she always kept that door chained.”

  “OK, that’s a good point,” Hank said. “But she could have just forgotten to chain it.”

  Annie shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  Jake said, “I was wondering why she would sit in the chair. It just seems to me if she was going to kill herself, she would more than likely lie down on the couch.” He shrugged. “It just makes sense to me.”

  Hank nodded dubiously. “Perhaps, but I don’t know how much weight I would give to that assumption.”

  Annie looked at Hank, “From a woman’s point of view,” Annie said, “that makes a bit of sense. Woman commit suicide differently than men. They never shoot themselves, and rarely hang themselves. They do things nice and neatly. Jake may have a point there. I think she would have taken the pills, and then lie down on the couch or perhaps in bed.”

  Hank squinted, looking thoughtful, and nodded slowly.

  “And I have a problem with the coffee,” Annie said.

  Hank raised his cup. “Mine’s ok,” he said, taking another gulp.

  Annie laughed. �
�Not that coffee.”

  Hank cocked his head.

  Annie continued, “The coffee at Macy’s. There was a pot of coffee in their kitchen, in the coffeemaker. It was turned off, but it smelled fresh.”

  “So?”

  “I looked at it carefully. There appeared to be two cups missing. Philip said his wife rarely drank coffee, and yet there were two cups gone.”

  “So you think the killer made some coffee and drank it?” Jake asked.

  “No, but maybe Mrs. Macy made a cup of coffee for him, or her.”

  Jake frowned. “So that means she knew who he was, let him in, they drank coffee together and then...”

  “And then he killed her, and left,” Annie said.

  Hank looked at her. “Makes sense,” he said, “but don’t forget the alcohol. The tox screen showed a high level of alcohol in her system. When and how did that get there?”

  “Maybe before the killer came, or perhaps she was drinking while he was there,” Annie replied.

  Hank shrugged. “So, how did he get the pills into her system?”

  “In the coffee,” Jake suggested.

  “Maybe.”

  “Granted,” Annie said, “all of these things out of place don’t mean a lot individually, but taken all together, it makes me suspect something happened we can’t prove. At least, not yet.”

  “My big problem is with the note,” Hank said, “or lack thereof.” He guzzled the rest of his coffee and pushed the cup away.

  “What about it?” Jake asked.

  “Suicide victims almost always leave a note. Occasionally they don’t, but with a suicide note the person who is committing suicide has the last word, explaining why they felt they had to end their life, and to bring closure to others, especially their loved ones, so there’s no guilt. And usually there’s someone they want to forgive, and someone or something they want to blame.”

  “Knowing what we do about Abigail Macy, I’m sure she wouldn’t want her husband to feel at blame,” said Jake. “I have to agree with you Hank, it seems out of character for her.”