Silent Justice

by Rayven T. Hill

“I … I don’t know. What’s this all about?”

  Hank paused and looked at the distraught woman. “Your son is suspected of murder.”

  She gasped and a hand went to her painted mouth. “It’s not possible,” she said. “Adam would never hurt anyone.”

  “Does your son work?”

  “Yes … sometimes, but I don’t think he went in today.”

  “And you don’t know where he is?”

  She shook her head.

  A search team had moved into the house. They would look for weapons as well as anything connecting Adam Thorburn to the crime.

  Mrs. Thorburn dropped into a chair at the table, lines of worry now on her brow, her hands in her lap as she watched the proceedings. She looked at Hank as he sat at the other end of the table and removed a pad and pen from his pocket.

  “Where does Adam work?” Hank asked.

  “Mortino’s.”

  “What does he do there?”

  “He brings in the grocery carts people leave outside.”

  “Do you work, Mrs. Thorburn?”

  She nodded. “I’m a waitress. I work evenings, four days a week at a bar two blocks away.”

  “Did you work last night?”

  “Just Thursday through Sunday.” She shrugged. “The place isn’t busy enough the rest of the time.”

  Hank made a notation in his pad then pulled out his phone. He found the number for Mortino’s, called the store, and was notified Adam Thorburn was not at work today. He was assured by the manager Hank would receive an immediate call if Adam was heard from or came into work.

  Hank hung up and looked at Mrs. Thorburn. She was watching the search team as they browsed through cupboards and rifled through drawers.

  “Mrs. Thorburn,” Hank asked, “did Adam go out last night with the car?”

  She turned back, leaned in, and clasped her hands in front of her on the table. She dropped her eyes a moment, then raised them toward Hank, nodding her head briefly. “I was next door and came home late. But this morning, I saw Adam had taken the car out while I was away.”

  “You noticed it was smashed up on the front?” Hank asked.

  She nodded. “Yes. That’s how I knew Adam took it.”

  “Does he drive it often?”

  She shook her head. “No. He doesn’t have a license anymore. They … took it away from him.”

  Hank leaned in. “Who took it away?”

  She took a deep breath. “His doctor notified MOT that Adam has schizophrenia and it’s not safe for him to drive.”

  Hank sat back and narrowed his eyes. “Why is it not safe?”

  “He has delusions and hallucinations on occasion. And lately, periods when he blacks out entirely and doesn’t remember anything.” She frowned deeply. “Did Adam have an accident?”

  “We believe he ran over someone. A woman.”

  She tilted her head slightly. “But you said murder?”

  Hank looked at the woman, distraught, worried, and fearful for her son. “It looks like he might’ve done it on purpose.”

  She shook her head adamantly and spoke in a firm voice. “Never.”

  “Perhaps there’s another explanation,” Hank said. “But it’s important we find him.”

  She nodded and dropped her eyes toward her fidgeting hands.

  Hank stood and went outside where CSI was examining the Honda. He approached an investigator who crouched by a front tire, scraping at a tread with a special tool. The investigator looked at Hank and said, “There appear to be traces of blood between the treads.”

  Once the blood was examined, Hank was certain it would prove to be that of Nina White. “Do the treads match up with the track at the scene?” he asked.

  “A visual examination tells me they’re similar, but I can’t tell for certain yet, Hank. Once we get the vehicle back and do a computer analysis of the tire, I’m betting we’ll find it’s the right car.”

  The vehicle would shortly be transported back to the lab for further examination, carried on a flatbed truck to avoid disturbing evidence. But Hank felt certain they had the right vehicle and the right man, and he hoped the BOLO he’d issued on Adam Thorburn would soon bring him in.

  He turned and walked around to the back of the dwelling and stopped short. He wasn’t a botanical expert by any means, but the red rosebuds on the plants along the rear wall of the house looked like the one found in Nina White’s mouth.

  He plucked off a bud and tucked it into an evidence bag. The lab would know whether or not the two buds were the same species.

  But even without that comparison, Hank knew they had more than enough evidence.

  Now all he needed to do was find Adam Thorburn.

  Chapter 11

  Tuesday, 1:55 p.m.

  ANNIE HAD CALLED Crystal McKinley on her cell phone as soon as they arrived home. The woman was out, but she arranged to meet Annie at a small cafe off Main Street at two o’clock.

  Annie printed out several of the most incriminating photos and tucked them inside a manila envelope along with the flash drive containing the video. She grabbed her handbag and poked her head into the kitchen, where Jake sat at the table, browsing the newspaper.

  “I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” she said, holding up the envelope. “I’m going to give this to Mrs. McKinley.”

  “What about a refund?” Jake asked. “It didn’t take us all that long.”

  “We’ll see,” Annie said. “I’ll offer most of it back.” She turned her head as the office phone rang, then looked at her watch. She was running close on time. Maybe she should let the call go to voicemail. She changed her mind and dashed into the office, answering the phone.

  “Lincoln Investigations. This is Annie Lincoln.”

  “Ms. Lincoln. Hello. My name’s Teddy … Teddy White.”

  Annie sat and pulled her chair in to the desk. “Yes, Mr. White. How can I help you?”

  “My wife was … killed yesterday. Murdered. I’ve talked to the detective several times. He said they have a suspect.”

  “You would be better to let the police handle it, Mr. White. If they have enough evidence, they’ll make an arrest.”

  Teddy White sighed and his voice shook as he talked. “The murderer has disappeared, and I don’t think they’re doing enough to find him. At first the detective wouldn’t tell me who it was, but I persisted, and he gave me the man’s name.”

  Annie hesitated. She knew most victims are content to wait until the police have done all they can, but occasionally, there are those who are unsatisfied, don’t trust the police, or just can’t wait. That’s when Lincoln Investigations often got a call.

  “I’m sure they’re doing everything they can to find him,” Annie said.

  “Perhaps they are,” Mr. White said. “But there’re only two detectives on the case and I don’t feel confident.” He paused. “Can you help me?”

  “Was the detective you talked to named Hank Corning?”

  “Yes. Detective Hank Corning. That’s what his card says.”

  “He’s very capable,” Annie said. “My husband and I have known him a long time.”

  “Nonetheless, can you help me? Are you too busy?”

  Lincoln Investigations had nothing pressing at the moment, but she didn’t want to interfere when she knew Hank would have everything under control.

  She hesitated, then said, “We’ll come and see you before we decide.” She jotted down Mr. White’s address, looked at her watch, and agreed to meet him at home by 2:30 that afternoon.

  She told Jake about the call, then hurried out the door, making it to the cafe a few minutes late. Mrs. McKinley sat at a table on a small patio out front and Annie sat opposite her, declining her invitation for a drink.

  “I’m afraid your suspicions were correct,” Annie said, pushing the envelope toward her.

  Mrs. McKinley opened the envelope and removed the photos, running through them slowly. Her face grew sadder with each shot. When she finished, she sighed a
nd looked at Annie. “Thank you,” she said, her voice weak and lifeless.

  “I’m sorry,” Annie said. “It must be hard.”

  Mrs. McKinley smiled feebly. “Now I have to decide what to do with these.”

  “The video is more of the same,” Annie said.

  The woman nodded and tucked the photos back into the envelope.

  “It didn’t take us more than a few hours,” Annie said. “I’ll give you a refund for the extra.”

  Mrs. McKinley shook her head. “You earned it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” She picked up her small Prada handbag and removed a twenty, tucked it under her coffee cup, then stood and picked up the envelope. “I have an appointment,” she said. “I must go. Thank you again.”

  Annie watched her leave, wondering what would become of the woman’s marriage. Whether they got divorced or not, she was afraid Mrs. McKinley was in for some more heartache, and all the money in the world couldn’t heal a broken heart.

  Annie called Jake and told him she was on her way back, and he promised to meet her outside. He was sitting on the curb when she pulled up and he hopped in.

  On the way to Teddy White’s house, she filled him in on her meeting with Mrs. McKinley. He didn’t say much, but Annie could tell Jake felt sympathetic toward the woman.

  The White residence was a beautiful, well-kept home in a middle-class subdivision. The immaculate lawn was framed by an abundance of flowers and colorful shrubs. Still more lined the front of the house and ran along the pathway toward the front door.

  Jake rang the bell and waited. The man who answered the door a few moments later forced a weak smile, and after introductions, invited them into the front room.

  Jake sat on one end of the couch, Annie the other. She glanced around the pristine room, sparsely furnished with modern furniture, everything in its place and neatly arranged. A huge spray of fresh flowers filled a vase on the coffee table, another on a stand by the doorway. It gave the room a beautiful smell unmatched by artificial sprays and deodorizers.

  Mr. White dropped into a straight-backed chair with a sigh and leaned forward slightly. The smile had been replaced by a downcast expression, his voice quivering as he told them about his wife and how she had been killed. He paused often to look down and regain his composure before he was finished.

  Annie had a notepad out and she wrote down the important points. “You said you knew the name of the suspect?” she asked.

  Mr. White’s lips tightened, anger in his eyes. “Adam Thorburn,” he said, almost spitting the name out. “And he’s run off somewhere. His mother, Virginia Thorburn, claims not to know where he is.”

  “And you want us to help look for him?” Jake asked.

  Mr. White nodded, his brow wrinkled. “Yes. I want him found. He’s a maniac, and if he hurts someone else, I couldn’t live with myself if I hadn’t done everything possible to stop him.”

  Annie watched the despondent man a moment as he wrung his hands, his shoulders slumped, pleading to them with his eyes. She looked at Jake. He nodded slightly and she turned back to Mr. White.

  “We’ll look into it,” she said.

  Teddy sat back and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, a look of relief on his thin face. “Thank you. I expect you can reach me here at any time. I don’t have plans to go out in the near future.” He dropped his head. “At least, not until they release my wife’s body.”

  “I’ll keep you up to date,” Annie said. She hesitated, watched the mournful man, then added, “The police department offers a grief counseling service if you’re interested.”

  Mr. White nodded and didn’t answer. He stood. “I assume you’ll need a retainer.”

  Jake nodded, stood, and followed the man to a small office.

  Annie rose from the couch and went to the fireplace. She glanced at a recent picture of the smiling couple and another one taken many years before on their wedding day. They looked as happy together in the recent one as they had back then, and her heart broke for the despairing new widower.

  The two men returned and Jake handed her a check. She tucked it into her handbag along with her notepad and turned to the grieving man. “We’ll look into this immediately. Please call if you have anything else that might help us.”

  Mr. White promised he would, then thanked them and saw them out.

  They went to the car and got in. Jake turned to Annie as she started the car. “Where do we begin with this one?”

  “I think we’ll have to give Virginia Thorburn a visit,” Annie said. “It seems like the only logical place to start.”

  Chapter 12

  Tuesday, 2:44 p.m.

  ADAM THORBURN walked with slumped shoulders, plodding down the sidewalk toward the place he had always called his home. His long afternoon walk had helped clear his head as he fought to make sense of his illness and why he was cursed with an unstable mind. Though he didn’t make any headway in understanding himself, he was more optimistic, ready to face another weary day.

  Most of the time, he was perfectly fine and able to function like anyone else. But at other times he heard voices and saw things that didn’t exist. That’s what held him back and convinced him he would never be like the rest. Life had thrown him a curve ball and it sucked to be him.

  He kicked at a soda can, sending it whirling into the street. A squirrel raised its head and was gone, frightened into a tree, darting away from an imagined threat. That’s what he was—an imagined threat, outcast and shunned. But after last night’s events, he feared he was no longer harmless—he was dangerous.

  He stopped short and ducked behind a tree. It was unusual for outsiders to visit this neighborhood, and even more peculiar for anyone to park along the street when most driveways had parking space to spare for any visitors who might happen by. And the vehicle parked in front of his house was unusual indeed.

  An unmoving figure sat in the driver seat and Adam waited. The person remained still, like they were watching, waiting. Were they waiting for him?

  He glanced toward the house. His mother’s car was gone. She must’ve left already, but that didn’t make a lot of sense. She wanted him to fix up the fender of the car first. And it wouldn’t be in the garage; there was too much junk in there. Perhaps she had driven the vehicle the way it was; he had been away awhile.

  Or maybe he was being paranoid again. He often found it difficult to separate his unwarranted paranoia from reality.

  He stepped from his hiding place, then ducked back quickly. He saw his mother through the kitchen window above the sink, doing dishes, or cleaning up.

  So where was the car? Something didn’t make sense. Perhaps he’d caused some damage to another vehicle during the accident and they had tracked him down. They must be waiting for him to return. That was the only answer.

  He turned and dashed back down the street a short distance, cut across an empty lot, then crossed the neighbor’s back lawn. He would approach his house from the rear, then go in the back door and talk to his mother. He needed to find out what was going on before he came clean and gave himself up.

  He dropped over a scraggy shrub, ducked behind the garage, and peered toward the road. He couldn’t see the visitor’s car from here, and that meant the watcher couldn’t see him.

  Streaking across the lawn, he climbed onto the small porch by the back door. The spring sang as he pulled open the screen door. He twisted the knob; the door was locked. He tapped gently and peeked through the window leading into the mudroom.

  In a moment, his mother appeared, her eyes widening when she saw his face. She raised a finger to her lips in silence, then glanced behind her and crept to the door.

  She eased it open carefully, quietly, and he moved back as she stepped out onto the back porch, closing the door gently behind her.

  “They’re waiting for you,” she whispered.

  He stared at his mother a moment, unsure what to say, then, “I saw a car at the road.”

&nbs
p; She touched his shoulder and leaned in. “There’s a cop in the house too. It’s not safe.”

  “Where’s your car?” he asked.

  “They took it away. They said it’s evidence.”

  “Evidence? What’s this all about?” he asked, confused, afraid, his paranoia growing.

  His mother glanced toward the door, then turned back and put a hand on each of his shoulders. She leaned in close, her eyes anxious as she gazed into his. “They said …” She paused and stood straight. “They said you killed a woman.”

  His eyes widened, his mouth fell open, and he took a sharp breath, unable to move or think.

  “You can’t stay here,” she said.

  Adam found his voice. “But how? Why? Why would I kill anyone?”

  “It must’ve been an accident,” she said, glancing toward the door. “They said you ran over her.”

  “If it was an accident … then it’s not my fault.”

  She whispered, “They said murder. They said you did it on purpose and they came for you.” Her face flushed with anger. “They had a warrant and they searched the house and took the car.”

  “But I wouldn’t—”

  His mother put her arms around him, rocking him gently back and forth. He felt her breath in his ear, and she spoke in a soothing voice. “I know you wouldn’t do it on purpose, but you weren’t in your right mind.”

  More paranoia, along with panic and desperation, gripped his mind. He hated violence and would never hurt anyone. But this wasn’t the first time he’d done something so out of character, nor the first time someone had witnessed his ferocious antics and turned him in. And each time, the solution had been to change his medication and the madness had subsided. For a while.

  “You have to leave here,” his mother said.

  “Where … where’ll I go? I have no place to go.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’ll think of something later, but right now, it’s not safe here. If they put you in prison, you’ll die there. They won’t help you.” She moved back, her hands on his shoulders, and shook him gently. “You have to go.”