The Lab Test

by Chris Taylor

  Lane swung the squad car into Franklin’s street and came to a halt opposite the up-scale building. The carefully tended lawn was green and inviting. The flowers bloomed in manicured beds. The smell of frangipani and orange blossom permeated the hot summer air. Lane stepped out of the vehicle and Jett followed suit, inhaling deeply.

  “I see you don’t suffer from hay fever,” Lane chuckled.

  Jett shook his head. “Never. I love summer with all the trees and flowers in bloom. I don’t even mind the heat.”

  Lane rolled his eyes. “You wax so lyrical, Craigdon. I never pegged you for a poet.”

  Jett stuck up his middle finger in a rude gesture, but Lane merely laughed. The two men fell silent as they approached the complex.

  “How do you want to handle this?” Lane asked, pitching his voice low.

  “Softly, softly,” Jett replied. “Let’s not scare him off.”

  “Do you think he could have done it?”

  “Who knows? Maybe. He’s the husband, after all. Our number one suspect straight out of the gate. After speaking with him the day of the murders, I was convinced it couldn’t be him, but he was almost rude and belligerent the night I came back and asked for his clothing and now he’s lied about a phone call. I don’t know what to think.”

  “Yeah. He said he stayed down here, in the foyer. Too bad the cameras didn’t reach inside.”

  Jett frowned. “What about Roger Barber? If he told us the truth, he must have nearly passed Franklin, and yet, he said he saw no one.”

  Lane nodded, his expression grim. “I guess we should go and see what Mr Cook has to say.”

  As Jett stepped off the elevator at the top floor of the condominium building, he checked his watch.

  “Twenty-one seconds,” he said.

  Lane shot him a curious look. “Excuse me?”

  “I said, twenty-one seconds. It took twenty-one seconds to reach the penthouse floor without a stop.”

  “Okay…” Lane replied slowly, still not comprehending.

  “Barber arrived at the complex at one-twenty. The footage shows him leaving the building at one twenty-seven. Franklin Cook told us he was in the foyer, talking on the phone until one-thirty. If he didn’t stop on the way up to his condo, he must have still been in the foyer when Barber stepped off the elevator.”

  Lane’s eyes lit up with sudden comprehension. “Except Barber says he saw no one.”

  “Exactly,” Jett replied, feeling grim. “I’m very interested to hear what our grieving husband has to say about that.”

  * * *

  Franklin heard the sound of his doorbell and couldn’t prevent the rush of nerves. Detective Craigdon had called earlier and told him they were on their way over. He’d have thought, after all the years he’d come into contact with police officers in the course of his job and met with clients in jail cells, the thought of speaking with a couple of detectives wouldn’t raise a sweat. But it was different when he was the one in the spotlight. Much different.

  The doorbell sounded a second time and he drew in a deep breath and hurried across the polished marble tiles to open it. Some of his neighbors wondered how he could bear to stay in the place where his wife and daughter had been so brutally slain, but he loved the place and couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

  A professional cleaning crew had come through and removed any evidence of the crimes. Though he hadn’t been able to bring himself to enter the bathroom where there had been blood sprayed in every direction, there were many nights he found himself in Marnie’s room, cuddling her favorite soft toy.

  It still smelled of her, her sweet baby scent and it brought back bittersweet memories of his little girl. He often left the room in tears, but somehow, he kept going back. It was almost like he was punishing himself.

  Shaking his head in an effort to dislodge the sad memories, Franklin opened the door. The two detectives he’d spoken to the day of the murders stood side by side, identical expressions of grim expectation on their faces.

  “Mr Cook, do you mind if we come in?”

  It was the younger detective who spoke, the one who’d introduced himself earlier as Detective Jett Craigdon. He couldn’t remember the name of the other one.

  Franklin stood back to allow them to enter. They followed him into the open concept kitchen, dining and living area. Like most guests, their eyes were immediately drawn to the spectacular view, but the visitors remained silent.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” he offered. Both detectives declined. Craigdon cleared his throat.

  “Franklin, we wanted to ask you a few more questions. Do you remember telling me about the phone call you received from your mother?”

  Franklin stared at the detective, his heart kicking up a gear. “Yes, of course. We spoke about it last Friday.”

  “Right,” Craigdon replied. “See, it’s like this. I’m a little curious why you told me she called you that day, given that your mother’s dead.”

  Fear congealed in the pit of Franklin’s stomach, but he steadfastly ignored it. So, he’d made a mistake, a lapse of memory. It wasn’t enough to charge him with a crime.

  “Oh, did I tell you I’d been speaking with my mother?” He managed a self-deprecating chuckle. “I have no idea why I said that, Detective. Of course, my mother’s dead. She’s been dead for years. A car accident. It killed both of my parents.”

  “Yes, that’s what Danielle told me.”

  Franklin was taken aback. Anger and hurt surged through him. He hadn’t expected Sabrina’s sister to betray him like that. He wondered what else she’d told them. Aware of the detectives’ close scrutiny, he forced a smile.

  “Really? How did that come about? Dani and Sabrina didn’t even know my parents.”

  “Yes, that’s what she said,” Detective Craigdon replied. “She attended the office last Saturday. She wanted an update on the case. I think she’s a little frustrated we haven’t arrested anyone, yet.”

  “As we all are, Detective,” Franklin answered in a much less amiable tone than a few moments earlier.

  “So, if it wasn’t your mother you were speaking with, who was it?”

  The question came from the older detective. Heat rushed across Franklin’s cheeks. He forced himself to turn to face him.

  “I… I’d rather not say.”

  His answer was met with a bark of disbelief. “You’re kidding, right?” the detective replied. “You have a forty-seven minute window of opportunity where you could have taken a knife to your wife and child and you’d rather not provide us with an explanation? Are you really that obtuse?”

  Obtuse? Franklin’s anger morphed into fury. He glared at both of them. He couldn’t care less what they thought. He wouldn’t stand for this. He opened his mouth to order them out of his house and then caught the knowing look in the older detective’s eyes. They wanted him to lose his cool. They wanted him to throw them out. It would give them further ammunition against him and that was one thing he didn’t need.

  Drawing in a deep breath, he eased it out between taut lips. Slowly, he regained control of his temper. Striding across the polished tiles, he poured himself a drink. Throwing back the scotch neat, he squared his shoulders and turned to face the detectives, bracing himself for what he was about to reveal.

  “I received a phone call from Angel Lockhart while I was waiting for the elevator. The call was private. I didn’t want anyone to overhear, especially Sabrina. So, I stayed in the foyer until I was finished.”

  “Who’s Angel Lockhart?” Craigdon asked.

  Franklin sighed and walked slowly over to his ten-thousand-dollar couch. Seating himself upon the butter-soft leather, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

  “Angel Lockhart is an escort. I see her a couple times a week.”

  His announcement was met with silence. He opened his eyes and caught identical looks of surprise on the faces of the detectives. Almost immediately, their expressions changed and became grim and calculating. H
e could almost see the questions racing around their heads.

  “You’re wondering why a man married to a beautiful woman like Sabrina would have need of a mistress, right?”

  The older detective remained silent. Craigdon shrugged. “Why don’t you tell us?”

  “Sabrina and I have a good marriage, loving and respectful. We’ve been together since she was eighteen. Barely an adult. I was her first lover. She was sweet and tender and willing whenever we made love, but sometimes, I craved just a little bit more.”

  Another wave of heat rushed up from his neck and turned his cheeks to fire. He averted his gaze from the detectives and stared out at the harbor below.

  “Keep going,” the older detective said.

  Franklin cleared his throat. “The thing is, I have a few fetishes, things I couldn’t share with my sweet, innocent wife. I like certain…things in the bedroom that I wouldn’t expect Sabrina to participate in. So, I found Angel and she fulfilled that need. It worked out well for everyone.”

  Craigdon snorted, his eyes hard. “Well, for you at least. Did Sabrina know you were cheating? And did Angel recognize those boundaries, or had she wanted more?”

  Irritation surged through Franklin. He turned his glare on the detective. “It wasn’t cheating, Detective. Angel filled a void. It was sex. Nothing more. She understood that. It had nothing to do with the way I felt about my wife. We had a good marriage. I loved Sabrina with everything that I was. The time I spent with Angel didn’t change anything.”

  “I wonder if Sabrina felt that way,” the older detective murmured, his expression harsh.

  “You have no right to judge me,” Franklin cried, his anger once again coming to the fore.

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this earlier?” Craigdon asked. “Why give me that bullshit about your mother?”

  Franklin lowered his gaze and shrugged. “Because I knew how you’d react. I’d already told you how much I loved my wife. And I knew you’d wonder how I could be sleeping with another, if that were true. You would have immediately discounted my feelings for Sabrina. It wouldn’t be much of a leap for you to apportion that relationship as a motive for killing my family. I’d have been arrested and your investigation would have come to an end—until the trial, that is, when your sloppy police work would have been exposed and your flimsy evidence tossed out on its ear. But by then, it would be too late. The real killer would have disappeared, along with any evidence. I couldn’t take that risk. So, I lied.”

  His shoulders slumped on a heavy sigh. He bowed his head. “When you first asked me about it, I panicked. Telling you I was speaking to my mother seemed a reasonable thing to do. Most of us take calls from our mothers and most of us are caught talking to them far longer than we want to. I didn’t know you’d talk to Dani about it and I didn’t know she’d tell you different.”

  He suddenly lifted his head and stared at the younger detective. “You’re not going to tell her about Angel, are you? Dani will kill me. She’ll…kill me.” His voice drifted off. A moment later, his lip curled up in a sneer and he added, “As if she has a right to judge.”

  Detective Craigdon tensed and his expression became alert. He moved closer to where Franklin sat on the couch.

  “What do you mean by that?” Craigdon asked, his tone a low rumble.

  “I mean, she’s hardly the perfect angel. She comes across all Miss Goody Two-Shoes, but I know different. Sabrina told me all about it.”

  “What are you talking about?” Craigdon asked.

  “Dani and her dubious past. That’s what I’m talking about. She was a real wild child in her younger days. Fucked anything with a dick. She was even arrested for prostitution. Sabrina filled me in on all the details. It broke her heart to talk about it, but the story had a happy ending. Somehow, Dani pulled herself out of the gutter and made something of her life. Sabrina was so proud.”

  Franklin glanced in Craigdon’s direction. His expression could have been carved from stone. He felt a spurt of guilt. Perhaps he shouldn’t have spoken so meanly about Dani. After all, she’d only ever shown him kindness and acceptance in the past.

  But, it was her fault the police were standing in his living room this time, gazing at him with questions and accusation in their eyes. If disclosing her sordid past was what it took to take the heat off him, then so be it. He’d deal with his guilt later.

  “How long have you been seeing Ms Lockhart?” the older detective asked.

  Franklin paused and then answered. “A few years. Before Sabrina and I were married. I realized I needed to look elsewhere to fulfil some of my…needs.”

  “And Sabrina knew about it?” Craigdon asked, his voice brusque.

  He held the detective’s hard gaze and lied. “Yes.”

  “Tell us about Ben Fitzgerald,” the older detective asked, moving slightly away.

  Franklin blinked at the change of subject and took a few moments to gather his thoughts. “What do you want to know?”

  “He’s known your sister-in-law even longer than you have, right?” the same detective asked.

  Franklin shrugged. “I think so. Like I said, Dani’s life was in a bit of a mess during her teenage years—drugs, sex, alcohol. She was still fairly young when she decided to get help. She met Ben at AA.”

  “He became her sponsor,” Craigdon stated, rejoining the conversation.

  “Yes.”

  “How long were they lovers?” the older detective asked.

  Franklin bit back a sound of surprise. So, the police had already spoken to Fitzgerald. Or maybe Dani had offered that piece of information, too? No, she wasn’t the kind of person to talk freely about her personal life. Too bad she hadn’t been so reticent about discussing his.

  “I’m not sure,” he finally answered. “I’ve only met the guy a few times.”

  “He’s a lawyer,” Craigdon stated. “You ever come across him in court?”

  Franklin suppressed a grin. “No.”

  “Why not? You’re both criminal lawyers working in large city firms. Sydney isn’t that big.”

  “You’re right. Of course, I’ve heard about him through the traps, but let’s just say his usual clientele have budgets far inferior to mine.”

  “You mean he represents your average Joe criminal. Is that what you’re saying?” Craigdon’s expression remained neutral, but Franklin was certain he detected a sneer.

  “He takes on his fair share of pro bono cases, or cases near enough to it,” Franklin said.

  “Unlike you?” the other detective said.

  Franklin’s anger stirred, but he forced himself to keep it in check. It wasn’t wise to antagonize them.

  “I make no excuses for the fact I’m choosy about who I offer representation, Detective.”

  “You mean the very few who can afford to pay your exorbitant fees,” Craigdon replied, his voice dry.

  Franklin shrugged. They could believe what they wanted about the way he ran his practice. He couldn’t care less. The truth was, his hard work and top-shelf pricing had bought him a very comfortable life. He wouldn’t change it for anyone.

  “The day of the murders, while you were on the phone to your mistress, did you see anyone else in the foyer?” Craigdon asked.

  Franklin frowned. Once again, the detectives had changed the subject. He thought back to that day, the day that was forever embedded in his brain. “No.”

  “Are you sure?” This from the older detective.

  He thought about it again and nodded. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “What about in the elevator, on the way up?” Craigdon asked. “Did anyone share the ride?”

  Again, Franklin took a moment to consider the question, but once again, he replied in the negative and once again, the detective asked him if he was sure.

  “Yes, I’m sure. I would have remembered. I saw no one.”

  The detectives shared a look between them and Franklin felt a twinge of concern. What was that all about? Did they know something he didn�
��t? All of a sudden, he felt the need to take control of the questions.

  “How did you do with that letter I received? Were you able to lift any prints?”

  “No,” Craigdon replied. “But we took a guess and checked the television footage taken on the day of the murders. There was an anti-Islamic protest held outside the courthouse. Your client’s matter was listed for mention. Do you remember seeing the demonstrators?”

  Franklin nodded. “Yes. They’ve been showing up every time Bilal’s matter comes to court. It’s a nuisance and quite frightening for my client. After all, he’s just a kid. He shouldn’t be subjected to shit like that.”

  “You’re right, but I guess we live in a lucky country. Freedom of speech and all that,” Craigdon replied.

  “Do you know a man by the name of Roger Barber?” the older detective asked.

  “No, I don’t know him, but I’ve heard him mentioned in the media. He’s the ring leader of that band of thugs, isn’t he?”

  “Well, he’s the self-appointed leader of the group of demonstrators,” the detective corrected. “None of them are actually doing anything illegal.”

  Franklin scoffed. “Does that make it acceptable?”

  Both detectives remained silent. Craigdon wandered over to the floor-to-ceiling plate glass window and stared out at the water below. It was a view Franklin never tired of.

  “I caught up with Roger Barber last Saturday,” Craigdon murmured, keeping his back to Franklin. Franklin’s heart skipped a beat as he waited for the detective to speak again.

  “The three of us had a very interesting conversation, didn’t we, Detective Black?” Craigdon continued.

  “Four of us, actually,” Black replied. “Barber had his lawyer there.”

  “Of course. How could I forget?” Craigdon replied with a derisive laugh. “The man kept advising Barber to keep his mouth shut. He was beside himself when his client paid him no attention and began to talk.”

  Franklin’s breath caught. He leaned forward, anxious to hear what Barber had said. As if sensing his keen anticipation, Craigdon turned around to face him, a wry smile playing around his lips.