“Yes, you told me about the drive, but you didn’t tell me what information was on it.”
“The drive contained a database of customers who had purchased expensive jewelry from Stanton’s. Banks must have gotten access to the database and used it to plan the robberies. I believe that Sylvia discovered Banks was using her database, and he killed her to keep her quiet.”
“But how would Banks have gotten access to the list in the first place? He stole the flash drive after Sylvia was dead.”
“Hold on, I was getting to that,” Sam said. “It turns out that Mortimer Banks was Henrietta Radcliffe’s, Sylvia’s mother’s, boyfriend.”
“So you think Sylvia’s mother somehow copied the information or gave Banks access to Sylvia’s computer,” Ruth interrupted.
“Well, yes, that’s one way it could have happened,” Sam said.
“And,” Ruth continued, “Mortimer Banks murdered his girlfriend’s daughter because he was afraid she might find out about the burglaries?”
“When you say it that way, it does sound a little farfetched.”
“No, no, that sounds like a good theory,” Ruth said. “Why don’t you pick up Banks and ‘sweat’ him until he talks. Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot—he’s dead.”
“You’re right, we can’t question him, but we found some of the stolen jewelry, and he had the flash drive and a stocking mask in his pocket.”
“So you can prove he was a burglar, but you can’t prove he was a murderer.”
“Not so fast,” Peirce said. “We can’t prove he killed Sylvia, but we have evidence that he killed Michelle Ackerman, Dr. Green’s dental hygienist.”
Ruth looked puzzled.
“I know it sounds a little unlikely, but we believe that Ms. Ackerman was killed when she discovered Mortimer Banks burglarizing her home. Let me explain…”
Sam Peirce folded his arms across his chest and began to tell Ruth all the details associated with the break-in and murder at Michelle Ackerman’s house. He wasn’t sure why he was telling her. Maybe he felt guilty for having yelled at her, or maybe he just got caught up in the moment and wanted to please her in some way.
Sam told her about the police burglary unit trying to catch the local jewel thief with no success. The burglar never seemed to leave any evidence behind. The crime scene was always free of fingerprints or fibers or anything that would give them a clue to his identity. The burglary detectives were sure that the thief vacuumed the crime scene before he left.
“After the murder, though, he slipped up,” Sam explained. “We found not only hairs with roots attached, making DNA analysis possible, but he also left a plastic card he used to jimmy the door. It contained fingerprints clear enough for a positive identification.”
“Wait, wait. Are you telling me that he never left any evidence behind during more than a year of burglaries? That he was very careful, and then, when he commits a murder, a really big crime, he gets sloppy?”
“It certainly looks that way,” Peirce said.
Sam went on. Now Ruth was hanging on every word Sam uttered. He strutted around the office, explaining how Sylvia’s death was very violent. It was the act of someone who knew and hated her for some reason, and Michelle’s death had come from a single blow. The murder was probably unplanned, the result of a burglary gone wrong. They were two murders for different reasons, but both committed by the same criminal.
Halfway through his interpretation of the evidence, Ruth’s eyes glazed over. She wasn’t buying any of it. Ruth had her own thoughts about who killed Sylvia Radcliffe, and she wasn’t about to give up investigating just because Lieutenant Peirce didn’t agree with her.
In her mind, there were three possible killers, and Peirce hadn’t even begun to investigate the other two. She had mixed feelings about the possible guilt of Franklin, but she couldn’t see how Lieutenant Peirce could ignore the facts.
“What about Franklin Jameson?” she asked. “He knew all the details of Sylvia’s murder, details that for the most part were unpublished. His weekly appointment followed Sylvia’s appointment, so he could easily have met her or at least seen her in the building. Franklin was a patient of Dr. Green’s for years; I would expect that Michelle Ackerman cleaned his teeth on many occasions. He knew both of the victims. He made the 911 call. You arrested him, for God’s sake. How can you ignore all these facts?”
“Franklin told us he made the 911 call. That was why we arrested him. I think he claimed to make the call because he wanted to prove that he knew more than he really did. A voiceprint of the 911 call was too muffled to definitively conclude that the voice on the call belonged to Franklin. He claimed he had a premonition. He didn’t say he killed anyone, and we don’t have any evidence that he did.”
“Isn’t his claim to have made the 911 call a confession?”
“First, I don’t believe him. Second, he made the claim before he was read his Miranda rights. We couldn’t use it if we wanted to. We released him this morning.”
“You just put him back on the street?” she asked rhetorically. “He needs psychiatric care.”
“He’s your patient,” Peirce said. “You convince him that he’s a nut. That’s not my job.”
Ruth looked at Sam Peirce through squinting eyes, her red complexion no longer a question of a skin irritation or a blush. Now it was clearly flushed from anger.
“What about Hyrum Green? Sylvia was his lover, and Michelle was his employee. He was involved in some way with both murdered women. He could have had a reason to kill both of them. Don’t you want to find out exactly what his involvement was?”
Sam rubbed his forehead and closed his eyes for a moment. Ruth rocked in her seat, waiting for his answer. Sam opened his eyes and was just about to speak when he noticed a shadow on the wall across the corridor. Someone was standing in the hall just outside Ruth’s waiting room. Ruth turned to see what he was staring at. Sam sprang forward just as the shadow disappeared from the wall. Ruth marveled at how fast his two-hundred-pound bulk could move. He ran with catlike speed, but not fast enough to catch the eavesdropper.
Ruth hurried to join Sam in the hall. “Where does that door go?” he asked, pointing at the door to the basement.
Not again, Ruth thought. “It’s the basement,” she whispered. “Two weeks ago someone tried to attack me in that basement. I barely got away. I thought it might have been the killer. Maybe he thinks Sylvia told me something that might identify him.”
“And you reported this to the police,” Sam said. Ruth looked at the floor and folded her arms across her chest.
“I wasn’t sure; I thought it might just have been my imagination.”
“Stay in your office and lock the door,” Peirce said. “I’m going to find your imagination.”
The door to the basement swung wide open. Sam quickly stuck his head through the door and then just as quickly withdrew it. He slipped into the stairwell and flattened out against the wall as he listened to footsteps receding into the boiler room. He heard two loud pops as the eavesdropper ran through the boiler room, smashing the light bulbs in the low ceiling as he ran. The light coming from the open boiler-room door went out. When Sam reached the boiler room, he heard footsteps from somewhere in the darkened basement. He eased himself into the room.
Sam waited, staring into the darkness. His eyes should adjust soon. In the movies, the detective always reached into his pocket for a flashlight when he chased someone into a dark space. Not a bad habit to adopt in real life, he thought.
Sam crept along the wall, moving ever deeper into the room. Now he could make out a figure standing against a row of steam pipes. Come just a little closer, he thought. He readied himself for the attack. Perspiration dripped from his brow. The salty sweat burned his eyes, but he remained focused on his target. The shadowy figure slowly approached, slightly hunched over and moving close to the wall. One more step, Sam said to himself. Now Sam knew he hadn’t identified himself as a police officer before beginning his purs
uit, but Ruth said she had been accosted in this building, and since this person ran, Sam felt he had probable cause to tackle the bastard. He leaped from the wall and wrapped his arms around the suspect. The force of his attack caused them both to topple over. Sam held on tight to keep the suspect under control. The suspect began to scream, “Sam, help, he’s got me!”
Sam could hear the door at the far end of the basement slam and the sound of footsteps on the stairs.
“Help, he’s got me!” Ruth screamed.
“No, I’ve got you,” Sam said. “He’s gone, thanks to you. I told you to lock yourself in your office.”
Sam rolled off Ruth and began to help her to her feet.
“Are you OK?” he asked.
“I’m fine, Sam,” Ruth said. “Did you see his face? I came down the front stairs to try to head him off, but he must have gotten past me.”
“That was very brave, but very stupid, Dr. Klein.”
“Ruth,” she said. “You’ve humiliated me in my office with sarcasm about my efforts to help with the investigation. You washed ink off my face, you tackled me and threw me to the floor, and now you’ve called me stupid. Don’t you think it’s about time we were on a first-name basis?”
“OK, Ruth, I didn’t see him. Did you?”
“No, but I know who it wasn’t. It wasn’t Mortimer Banks.”
There was no connection between Mortimer Banks and Michelle Ackerman that Ruth could see. True, he may have known Sylvia Radcliffe, and he may have believed she was a threat to him. That could explain her murder, but choosing Michelle’s home to rob and then killing her when she stumbled onto the scene was just too much coincidence for Ruth to accept.
The person who shared a relationship with both women was Dr. Hyrum Green. Whether the relationship was just business remained to be seen, and Ruth was anxious to find out the truth.
Part 4
A vacation is what you take
when you can no longer take
what you’ve been taking.
‒Earl Wilson
27
The rabbit ran left and then right, using his agile hind legs and swift maneuverability to affect his escape. Fear caused his heartbeat to be almost a buzz as his tiny feet fought for purchase on the smooth black surface. He cut to the right and stopped short, trying to make his pursuer overshoot and not recover until the little fellow was well off the road and into the thicket. A roar filled his long ears. It wasn’t going to work. His pursuer wasn’t dodging or weaving in response to his maneuver—just barreling forward directly at him. All seemed lost for the little fellow. He tucked his head down and squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the jaws of the predator to close around his neck and shake the life from his body. Then came a loud screech and a dark shadow, and a foul-smelling wind that rumpled his fur passed over him, leaving him unscathed.
Ruth put out her hand to brace Emma as the car decelerated under heavy braking. Emma opened her eyes and lurched forward to the limit of her seat belt. She grabbed Ruth’s restraining hand and hugged it to her chest.
“What happened?” she said in a startled but groggy voice.
“That’s the third animal that tried to commit suicide in the last hour. Maybe they know something about the future that we don’t.”
“Yeah, they know that there’s no television at this cabin,” Emma said.
“I think we can survive without mind-numbing reality shows and totally depressing news for a few days,” Ruth said over her daughter’s objections.
Emma frowned and settled back into her seat and to her nap. This was the first week away from home that Ruth and Emma had taken for longer than either could remember. The big SUV accelerated back to highway speed as Ruth scanned left and right, waiting for the next depressed creature to choose to end it all rather than make an appointment for therapy.
“Turn left in three-quarters of a mile onto Destiny Road,” said American Jill, the voice on Ruth’s GPS. Ruth thought about turning back to the city. Being forced to leave while Sylvia Radcliffe’s murderer was still at large was making her angry, but Lieutenant Peirce had made it clear that the case was closed and he wouldn’t reopen it in spite of her convincing argument. At least she was sure her argument was convincing. She thought about Peirce’s reaction to her theory of the crime. Was he exercising his authority as a police officer by dismissing her opinion, or was he simply protecting his ego as the knowledgeable male in charge? After all, what did she know about human interaction and motivation for hostility? She was only a trained psychologist with a doctoral degree in clinical theories and interventions.
“Turn now!” Jill said as Destiny Road passed to the left. “Recalculating!” Ruth kept driving and waited. “Recalculating!” Ruth drummed her fingers on the steering wheel.
“Turn left in two miles,” Jill said after a very long moment. Ruth was relieved to finally hear the revised directions to the cabin, but she sensed a slight condescending tone in Jill’s voice.
***
The road degraded into a dirt-and-stone path not more than one lane wide, which jostled Emma awake. The evening sun shone through the trees at a low angle, turning the fall foliage to gold. Emma raised her hand to block the glare. “How soon will we be at the cabin?” she asked.
“I’m not sure,” Ruth said, tapping on the GPS screen with her index finger. “Jill went to sleep a while ago. I think we’re on our own for the rest of the trip.”
Ruth had rented the cabin by responding to an ad placed on the bulletin board in her office building. It was an old hunting cabin, but the real estate broker said it had recently been remodeled and had all the comforts of a resort, including a hot tub and a screened-in patio. There was even a lake with a sand beach that was within walking distance.
The road curved up a long hill and eventually ended in a clearing surrounded by oak and maple trees almost bare of their leaves. Rough stones and pebbles gave the illusion of a parking lot sculpted out of the forest. Ruth sat looking at the log barrier signifying the end of the parking area and hopefully the end of their journey. Off in the distance, down a path lined with mountain laurel and wild fern, a light shone through a large plate-glass window. Either this was their cabin or some local resident was getting two overnight guests.
The sun set quickly as they removed their suitcases from the back of the SUV and dragged the roll-aboard cases over the rough stone path. The cabin was more than Ruth had hoped for. Large picture windows had been installed, updating the old Appalachian-style hunting cabin to a contemporary log home. Smoke was rising in soft curls from the gray stacked-stone chimney towering high above the roofline. A flagstone walk bordered by a hedgerow on each side led to natural stone steps and a long covered wooden porch. Emma dropped her suitcase at the base of the steps and ran to the oak porch swing suspended from the ceiling by heavy ropes. The swing creaked and groaned as it responded to the young girl’s effort to pump it forward. “Can I sleep out here?” she asked.
Ruth stood at the front door and swatted a mosquito from her forearm. “No,” she said. A note taped to the door read: Dr. Klein, I made a fire to welcome you. I trust my directions helped you get here without incident. Enjoy your vacation. Clair, Northwest Realty.
“Emma, get your bag. Let’s see what the inside of this place looks like,” Ruth said as she pulled the note from the door.
Ruth had been told that the cabin had “rustic charms,” but the interior far exceeded her expectations. The fire glowed, projecting a shimmering yellow cast on the overstuffed furniture as the shadows danced about the room with the flickering of the flame. The hearth was made of thick gray slate protruding from a smooth river-rock fireplace supporting a rough-hewn oak mantel. On the wall over the mantel, a well-polished double-barrel shotgun was suspended on a rack made of short deer antlers.
Ruth lifted the hammerless shotgun from the wall and pushed the lever on the stock to break the action and ensure that there were no shells in the weapon. She raised the shotgun and peered into the
barrels through the breach to inspect their condition and then snapped the action closed and set the safety. The ease and confidence with which Ruth inspected the gun shocked her young daughter.
“Where did you learn how to do that?”
“When I was born. I think Grandpa Joe really wanted a son,” Ruth said as she slowly turned the shotgun in her hands. “He seemed happy enough. I mean, I’m sure he loved me, but I think he wanted someone to hunt and fish with and to play ball on Saturdays. Most of his friends had sons in Little League, and I guess he felt left out. Once Grandma Ellen was gone, and he had to raise me all by himself, I guess he reverted to what he knew best. He asked Aunt June to help out with the things a girl should know that he wasn’t comfortable with…”
“You mean like about boys and stuff,” Emma said with a slight giggle.
“No, I was just about your age.” Ruth tussled Emma’s hair. “Boys were off the menu for at least another few years.” Emma looked at the floor and frowned.
“Soon enough, sweetheart, soon enough.” Ruth placed the shotgun back on the deer-antler gun rack. She sat on the couch and clasped her hands in her lap. “I’m sure it wasn’t easy for him, trying to raise a young girl all alone. He spent a lot of time with me, even if it was while hunting—”
“You mean you actually killed animals,” Emma said.
“Not if I could help it. He would say, ‘How come you’re Annie Oakley on the target range, but you can’t hit a deer as big as a horse just fifty feet away?’ I wanted to please him. I don’t know why I always missed.”
While Ruth was talking, Emma sat in the chair across from the couch, put on a pair of her mother’s glasses, picked up a notepad from the coffee table, and began to take notes. “Why do you think you couldn’t hit the deer?” Emma said. “Is it possible that in spite of your desire to please your father, your own personal code of ethics wouldn’t allow you—” Emma’s analysis was cut short by a pillow from the couch striking her in the face.
(Un) Sound Mind Page 24