by Harry Kraus
“Fair enough,” the detective responded. “Did Wendi know about her?”
He shook his head. “Only that she was my resident.” He paused, looking meaningfully at the detective. “And I’d appreciate it if it could stay that way.”
Chris shrugged. “Wendi is perceptive, Henry. I doubt much happens around her that she doesn’t see.”
“Not this. It was too recent. It happened so fast.”
“Too fast for Wendi to threaten Cindy?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’ve been asking questions, that’s all. A witness says your wife and Cindy had a pretty heated exchange in this hospital a few days ago.”
The edge of the surgeon’s mouth pulled back again. “Maybe you’d better explain yourself, Mr. Black. Wendi has nothing to do with this.”
The detective watched as Henry pulled his hands together in a tight clasp. Even then, he noticed the tremor.
“We had sex,” Henry said. “I don’t believe that’s a crime.”
“No.” Chris let the silence thicken between them. “But murder is.”
“You’re out of your mind. It was an accident.” Henry shook his head, and Chris noticed a twitch in his jaw. “Maybe she was a bit clumsy. She fell under the car.”
“Did Wendi show up, Henry? Was she in a jealous rage?”
“No!”
“You’d cover for your wife, wouldn’t you, Henry?”
The surgeon’s head snapped back. “Preposterous!”
“Did you know your wife called the medical examiner trying to influence his findings?”
“You’re nursing your old wounds, aren’t you? You can’t believe that Wendi had the guts to testify against your department.” He pointed his finger at the police officer. “You leave my wife alone!”
The detective laughed. “Tsk, tsk. You can’t believe I’d let something from the past bias me in a professional investigation.”
Henry stood up and pointed at the door. “Get out of my office. This is over!”
“Far from it, Dr. Stratford.” He smiled, enjoying the reaction he’d gotten out of the starched professional. “This is only the beginning.”
CHAPTER 22
Chris had spent two hours talking to anyone who might have light to shed on the reason for Yolanda Pate’s untimely demise. He’d looked for anything that might bring him out of the shadows of mystery. Just before he headed back to his office, he stopped in the hospital cafeteria in search of coffee. There, he recognized a nurse who’d been caring for Jack Renner, someone he’d seen when he’d interviewed Jack after his accident.
Chris walked up to the circular table where she sat alone. “Hi,” he said, leaning forward so he could read her name tag. “Brenda,” he said, “I’m Chris Black with the Charlottesville PD. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”
She was nonplussed. “Feel free.”
He sat across from her. “I need to ask you about Jack Renner.”
He noticed a slight shaking of her head. “I’m not able to give out any medical information.”
“I’m not after medical information. I wanted to ask you about his relationship with Wendi Stratford.” He paused, studying her face. Her head pulled back, and he saw the muscles around her mouth cinch up. “You cared for Mr. Renner, did you not?”
“While he was in the ICU.”
“Did Wendi visit while you were there?”
“Yes.”
“How would you characterize her relationship with Jack Renner?”
She seemed to hesitate. “He was her piano teacher.”
“Nothing more?”
“Why are you asking me these questions? If you want to know about Jack’s relationships, why don’t you ask him?”
He shrugged. “Mrs. Stratford is a married woman. He might feel uncomfortable giving an honest answer.”
“I’m not sure I am qualified to answer. Jack didn’t talk to me about Wendi.”
“Did you know Wendi Stratford was having an affair with Jack Renner?”
“How am I supposed to answer that?”
“Is that the same answer you would give under oath?”
“I’m not under oath.”
“I could force you to come downtown for a formal interview. Would you be able to answer me there?”
Brenda Lee pushed away the remains of a garden salad. “Look, I don’t know any details. Yes,” she said. “Wendi indicated that there were . . . feelings involved.”
“Interesting.” He tapped a ballpoint pen against the table. “I guess that must have been awkward for Dr. Stratford, caring for his wife’s lover.”
Brenda shook her head. “He doesn’t know,” she whispered. “Now, Mr. Black, would you mind telling me what this is about?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to tell you that,” he said, standing. “You’ve been most helpful.”
By ten-thirty, I was crossing the parking lot at the local police station on my way to see Chris Black. While he wasn’t particularly talkative to me lately, our last phone conversation twenty minutes earlier was mysteriously succinct. “Come to the station, Wendi. We need to talk.”
When I entered the police station, I walked straight towards Chris Black’s office, but was interrupted by a deputy who led me to a small room with a single white table and two chairs. In a moment, another officer, a man with short-cropped silver hair, entered.
“Mrs. Stratford, I hope you don’t mind if I ask you a few questions.”
My defenses were on alert. “What’s this about? Where’s Chris Black?” I asked.
“We thought it best that I speak to you instead.” He held out his hand. “I’m the chief of police, Ed Mosby.”
I offered him a dainty grip, holding my hand palm down like a lady. “You haven’t answered my questions.”
“I’ll get to that, Mrs. Stratford.” He sat across from me and rested his clasped hands on the table. “Tell me what you were doing last night between seven and ten o’clock.”
I shook my head. “You tell me what this is about. You get nothing from me unless I know what’s going on.” I folded my hands and returned his stare.
“A young woman is dead, Mrs. Stratford. A young woman we know that you argued with in public just this week.” He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. “What were your words? ‘You’ll regret this,’ I believe.”
“This is insulting. I want to talk to Chris Black.”
“He answers to me.”
I wanted to curse, but in spite of my new commitment to an honest expression of my heart, my better judgment intervened. I bit my tongue. “Cindy Swanson died of head injuries sustained in a pedestrian accident.”
“How would you know that, Mrs. Stratford?”
“My husband had the misfortune of running her over. But you know all that, don’t you?” I seethed. “I want to see Chris.”
“You knew all about their little love affair didn’t you, Mrs. Stratford?”
My jaw slackened. “You insensitive — ” I halted and shook my head. “What are you doing? Trying to get me to confess? Confess to what? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Your husband’s lying to you, Wendi,” he said, leaning forward again. “But you’re a smart woman. You know all about him, don’t you?” He paused. “Were you at the Jefferson Hill Apartments that night?”
I snorted. I hated this man. No one had ever talked to me like this before. I twisted so that I didn’t need to face him. But maybe this is what he wanted. My anger. Well, he had it. White hot. “No.”
“You were jealous. That would be understandable.”
“I know nothing of an affair. You’re lying!”
“Am I?”
I found myself whispering under my breath. “Son of a — ”
“Go ahead, Mrs. Stratford. Get mad. But I’m only telling you the truth.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “Painful stuff, huh?”
I stared back at him. The animal in me wa
nted to fight. But my head told me to sit and see what he would give me.
“If someone came in and started seeing my wife,” he said, nodding his head, “he’d have to answer to me.” He looked back at me.
I looked back, unflinching.
“So I could understand if you went looking for him last night. And you knew just where to look, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re telling me Cindy Swanson was murdered?” I shook my head. “Why don’t you talk to the medical examiner? Sig Eichmann will set you straight.”
The captain smiled. The smile of a cat looking at a mouse backed in a corner. “The good doctor says you called him, trying to influence his findings.”
“Ridiculous.”
“You called him, didn’t you?”
I huffed and crossed my arms across my chest again. “I just wanted to find out the results of the autopsy. I’ve known Dr. Eich-mann for years.”
“Professional interest, I suppose?” He tapped his fingers on his desktop as my gut tightened.
I was in complete shock. How this man had come to these preposterous conclusions was way, way beyond me. I studied him for a moment, wondering if another conclusion was possible. Maybe he didn’t believe I was capable of murder, but just wanted to bully me to settle an old score. “I want to talk to Detective Black.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible. Answer my questions and we’ll get this over with in a few minutes.”
I thought about calling my lawyer. I thought about slapping this man who sat smugly across from me. I counted to twenty. “I’m listening.”
“What were you doing last night?”
“My sister and I fixed and ate dinner. Then we sat around and talked until I heard about this tragedy from Chris Black.”
“Names,” he said. “I need the names of the people you were with.”
I stared him down. “Rene Aldridge, my sister.” I paused. “She can verify my whereabouts.” I shrugged. “I was with my sister all day.”
He stood up. “OK.” He opened the door. “I’ll be a few minutes.”
I stood and took a step towards the door.
He held up his hand. “Sorry, Mrs. Stratford. You’ll need to stay here a few minutes.”
“Why? Am I under arrest?”
“Not yet,” he said as the door closed.
I tried the door. Locked. I slammed my fist against the door. “Ugh!”
I paced the small room. Four large steps from the door to a wall. Three steps side to side. Fifteen minutes later, the door opened again. It was the captain. By the time he entered, my anger and frustration had climbed Kilimanjaro. I was ready to spit. He must have seen it in my eyes. In a quiet voice, he said, “You’re free to leave.”
I screamed at him, “That’s it?”
He retreated back into the hall. “Yes.”
I shook my head. “I want to see Chris Black!”
He backed another step, and I followed him into the hall. “You know where his office is.” He shrugged. “Feel free.”
I huffed and stomped down the hall, up the stairs, and straight into Chris’s office. I opened the door without knocking. “What’s this all about?”
“Shall I ask you the same question?”
He looked at me. My expression must have warned of my anger. He slid back his chair. “Wendi, have a seat,” he said. “I’m sorry,” he said, lifting his hands. “I’m sorry this is happening to you.”
I took a deep breath and tried to keep my voice level. “Why has this turned into a criminal investigation?”
I watched as his expression tightened. “You know I can’t discuss that with you.”
“Was it me? Did my call to Sig prompt all of this?”
He sighed. “I’m sorry. You know I’m not at liberty to talk with you about this.”
I shook my head. One, two, three, four, five. I knew he was right. Chris followed protocol, and I knew he wouldn’t give me information because I was Henry’s wife. I would have to find out some other way why this accident investigation had turned its focus on finding a sinister motive. “OK, OK.” I paused, staring at a man I once called my friend. “Why don’t you believe my husband? Have you talked to him?”
He nodded. “This morning.”
“Is my husband under arrest?”
“No.” He squinted at me. “Should he be?”
I thought about telling him about his officer’s mix-up on interpreting the skid marks at Jefferson Hill Apartments, but held my tongue. This investigation had turned weird on me, and I wanted to do a little digging myself. I shook my head. “Of course not.”
He held up his hands in surrender. He wanted a truce. “Fine.” He softened. “Listen, I’m just being complete.”
I was tempted to sneer. His expression had taken on the smugness I’d just seen in his chief.
“I’m sure you’ve heard of Ockham’s razor?”
It was a scientific theory that I’d heard Henry use. In fact, I’d used it myself in accident reconstruction. An uncomplicated solution is better than a complex one. I sat back, mirroring his confidence. “Of course.”
“So how do you explain all the bodies that are suddenly stacking up around the Stratfords? Two in as many nights, at my last count.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“Not yet.”
“Then this conversation is over.” I stood and stomped out to phone Henry from the solitude of my Mercedes.
“Henry, what’s going on? Chris Black said he questioned you.”
“You’ve got me,” he said into my ear. “They seem to have a crazy notion that Cindy Swanson was murdered.” He seemed to hesitate before continuing. “Did you really try to influence the medical examiner?”
I responded in a forced whisper. “Henry! You know me!”
“Do I?”
“Do I know you?” I shot back. “Maybe you should be telling me about Cindy Swanson.”
“I’ve told you how she died. I don’t know why the police are on a witch hunt.”
“I’m asking what Cindy meant to you. Were you having an affair?”
“Is that what they told you? They must be playing games with us. Trying to play us off one another.”
“What did they ask you?”
“They wanted to know about your relationship with Cindy. They know all about your argument with Cindy in the hospital. Is it true you threatened her?”
I felt my defenses rise. “Yes,” I said. “But I only warned her, because I thought she was out of line in disrespecting me. I was referring to her job, not her life.”
“They seem to think I’m covering for you.”
“That’s crazy.”
“I would, you know.”
“Henry! I’ve done nothing. Why would you say that?”
“Only because I would. I’d do anything for you. And for the record, I won’t let anyone come between us.”
I felt my usual guilt. I’d been tempted to believe the allegations about my husband and Cindy, but Henry wouldn’t even lower him self to dignify the accusation with a defense. His whole response was so Henry. He was above all the muck. Now, he was assuring me, but I couldn’t give him a reassurance in return. I’d had an affair of the heart with Jack, and I couldn’t lie to Henry. But I could try not to waste my second chance. I took a deep breath. “Of course not.”
“We’ll talk at home. This whole thing is an attack on us,” he said, emphasizing the “us.” “But we can’t let this destroy what we have.”
I nodded, unsure what I should feel. In spite of my indecision, I was touched by his interpretation of our day. My voice cracked with emotion. “We’re still a team, aren’t we?”
“Wendi, Wendi,” he said softly. “Of course. I’ve got to run. We’ll talk tonight.”
Chris Black chewed the end of a cinnamon stick while he paced his small office. He thought about the trouble swirling around the Stratford family and mentally enumerated the things that bothered him. He sigh
ed. Who was he kidding? The whole case was beginning to stink.
He’d obtained a confession from Henry Stratford that he was having an affair with Cindy Swanson. He’d obtained another from Wendi stating that she had threatened Cindy in the hospital earlier that week for Cindy’s remark about the way Wendi was treating her husband. In addition, Yolanda Pate was dead and the victim’s mother was convinced that Wendi was involved. And now it appeared that Wendi lied to him about an affair with Yolanda’s fiancé, a fact he’d confirmed with a witness other than a suspicious mother.
Why would Wendi lie if she wasn’t guilty? Was she vindictive against a woman sleeping with her husband? Or did she want to eliminate the fiancée of a man she loved?
The whole thing didn’t make much sense. And yet it made perfect sense. He’d known Wendi since college. Yet for years, he’d had the feeling that she’d drifted into living a life of appearances. She seemed to have fallen awake in the American Dream. Outside, the surgeon’s wife had everything. Money. A successful career. Respect. A beautiful home. A husband who pampered her. But every time they’d shared more than a superficial chat in the last few years, she’d grown distant. Superficial. Outwardly, she smiled, but he found himself wondering what was hidden on the inside. He was no psychiatrist, but Chris prided himself with a keen ability to dissect below the surface, a quality that kept him at the top of his game as a detective. And now, as he thought about the way Wendi had been acting, it hit him. She’d been acting this way for years. Guilty.
But he must be careful not to let his own bias take over his thinking. Yes, Wendi had been an old college friend. But a year ago, all of that had changed when she decided to testify for a defendant he was sure was guilty. She’d made him and the whole department look bad, and things hadn’t been the same in their relationship since.
He looked over both cases, combing every page of evidence. Something didn’t add up. Wendi Stratford was lying, covering up. Finally, after an hour, he couldn’t convince himself to look another way. If anything, he thought, he was trying hard not to see her as guilty.