by Lee Perry
“Who’s Doctor Voger?” Jordan asked.
“She means Patrick Vogel,” the lawyer clarified, “He’s the chief administrator at Manhattan Dominican, my client heard him speak to Miss Lynch on several occasions about bequeathing the hospital a hundred and fifty million in her will.”
“But she didn’t!” Hannah added, vehement, “She pay that hospitar four hundred thousand every year for her small loom! That was enough!”
Jordan nodded while she made notes, noting how Hannah’s Japanese accent became more pronounced as her stress level rose.
“How many homes do you own, Hannah?”
The question seemed to catch her off guard and she stammered, “How many… house?”
“According to what I’ve uncovered so far, it seems Helga gave you four houses and five apartments in…” she consulted her notes, “New York, California, Long Island, Massachusetts… and Florida.” She rechecked her notes, “I mean, Marcos Island, on the southern tip of Florida… that home is worth nearly a million dollars.” She arched her brows, “At least you can go on vacation now.”
“My children went to college,” Hannah ignored her; “they need a place to stay.”
“So Helga bought them apartments?”
“Yes, Madame was…”
“Very generous.” Jordan finished drolly. “I know. You have three children?”
“Yes.”
“She paid for their private schooling…”
“Yes.”
“And their college tuition too?”
“Yes.”
“She wrote checks to you, your children, but not your husband?”
“He quit his job for taxes… he was sick. He die.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Jordan hoped she sounded sincere, “When did he die?”
“Year ago, diabetes.”
“Helga bought you a house in Queens for nearly nine hundred thousand dollars...”
“Yes?” Hannah sighed, sounding bored.
“She bought you this house so your husband’s family would have a place to stay when they visited?”
“Yes.”
“But then when they moved to Nevada they never returned.”
“What is the point, Agent Hawkins?” The lawyer wearily asked.
Jordan ignored him, “That house has been vacant ever since and is worth a million and a half today.” Hannah only stared at her and she snorted, amused, “Just like Madame, you have your own empty mansions, don’t you?” Hannah and her lawyer were silent and Jordan shook her head, returning to her notes, “Concerning the back taxes you owed; Helga wrote a check to the IRS for you in excess of four hundred thousand dollars to pay it off?”
“She did not ask Miss Lynch for that money,” the lawyer held up a hand to stop her, “she offered to pay it herself.”
“Unless you have a recording of that, Mister Stockwell, we’ll never know will we?” Jordan sighed, flipping through her notes, “As I said; it’s now my job to find out who manipulated Helga Lynch for her money…” she locked eyes with her, “And who just stole if from her….” Her smile was pleasant, “Thank you for coming in today. I’ll contact Mister Stockwell if I need to speak to you again.”
Millburn, NJ
Catherine emailed the massive file to Mattie Hargrove and emitting a huge yawn, stood and stretched her arms over her head before wandering over to the window to look out at their snow-covered backyard. After watching the weather news the night before, Jordan had called Stewart to let him know they would be working from home again rather than risk driving in the snowstorm that was due to arrive in the early morning hours. After building a snowman in their backyard that morning, Cameron fell asleep on the couch and they got to work; Catherine sat with her laptop at the dining table while Jordan stood at the kitchen counter and spoke to the assistant district attorney in charge of Jeffers’s murder trial in Florida. She listened as Jordan patiently explained some of the finer points of the evidentiary case to him, grateful she would not have to testify in any of the trials. I wonder if we could take some time and stay in one of those Disney resort hotels after she testifies… Cam could play and Jordan could relax…
She had finished cataloging over forty years of Helga’s bank statements, trying to anticipate the needs of Jordan, Mattie Hargrove, the surrogate and the district attorney. She expanded her program to be more interactive and it was now capable of creating dozens of separate lists and tables. I kinda’ miss deciphering code… she thought and yawned again. Bea was also out of the office for the day and Catherine sat back down at her laptop, There must be something I can find online to help Jordan… She opened a browser and began entering names of the known actors, as Jordan officially referred to them, from the Helga Lynch case. There was little the web had to offer on Helga’s two lawyers she didn’t already know so she cleared her search parameters and entered Helga’s accountant, the registered sex-offender, Carroll Campbell.
She stared at the only result pertaining to the man she was searching for and frowned at a listing for an accountant’s blog; the entry was entitled, “Estate Tax: Thinking Outside the Box.”
She clicked the link and watched as the page redirected to a blog maintained by Suzie Brenner of the Eiger & Todi Accounting Firm. She read the entry posted in 2009:
“We are all too familiar with the joke right now; 2010 is the perfect year to die. The estate tax is set to expire this year, and if congress fails to intervene, our clients who stand to inherit from rich relatives who die this year will be hit with a top tax rate of 45%.
With that in mind, I was speaking recently with a good CPA friend of mine, Carroll Campbell, and he told me about some out-of-the-box ideas he had for a client. He believes the estate tax is in flux, and if the wealthy client could hold out until 2010 before expiring, the estate could conceivably pay nothing. Carroll believes part of the planning process should include encouraging clients to amend their health care directive (living wills) to insure the client be kept alive by any means possible so assets appreciation would not be included in the estate, then clients could realize maximum estate tax savings. Keeping clients alive until at least a few days into 2010 would be necessary for those expected to pass away this year.”
Her brows alternately rose in shock and frowned at the text, My god… what kind of financial advisor comes up with a strategy like this? Her cell phone rang and she checked the caller ID before answering, “Mattie?”
“Catherine? Hi, uh, Mattie… Hargrove here, got a minute?”
“Sure, finally back from California?”
“And missing the sunshine already...” she moaned drolly, “Thanks for the Lynch financial program, I think I understand how it works.”
She snickered, “I’m happy to give you a tutorial anytime.”
“I may need one. I’m hoping to schedule some time with you and Jordan this week so we can review the Lynch case together, compare notes and everything.”
“Okay, we’re working from home ‘til the snow lets up, can I call you back?”
“Yeah, just call, email or text me.”
Jordan sat down at the table as she hung up, “That was Mattie, she wants us to compare notes on everything, when would you like to do that?”
“Well, not tomorrow.” She shook her head, looking to make sure Cameron was still asleep. “Stewart just called, a body was found dumped on Helga’s property in Westport, Connecticut. The medical examiner says it’s Hannah Babcock.”
PART 2
“Love is always a stranger in the house of avarice.”
- Andreas Capellanus
Farmington, CT
Jordan still felt guilty for making Catherine and Cameron get up early so they could get to the bureau by seven. Kissing them goodbye in the garage, she went to the carpool level and checked out a car, making the two hour drive to Farmington, Connecticut, home of the state’s medical examiner’s office. The vehicle had snow tires and she drove at the speed limit on the freshly plowed highway, anxious to arriv
e at the central facility where Hannah Babcock was in cold storage before her three grown children arrived to escort her body back to New York.
The 911-dispatch center in Westport had received a call from the caretaker at Helga’s mansion reporting a dead body. The shift supervisor sent Jordan an email with an audio file of the call and Jordan had shaken her head in sympathy when she heard an older man’s voice, clearly shaking as he reported what looked like a child’s body, flung over a collapsed section of the stone wall that shielded the property from the road.
“Poor kid,” she heard his voice waver, “he musta’ got hit by a car.”
She pulled off Farmington Avenue, turning right onto Main Road. She followed the vehicle’s GPS instructions to veer left onto Circle Road before turning left again onto Shuttle, a road that ended at the medical examiner’s complex. She got out of the car, dragging her shoulder bag out with her. She locked the door and after slipping the keys in her jacket pocket, absently patted her hands over her pockets and waistband, Gun, phone, keys, wallet… she sighed, okay.
She identified herself at the reception area and after only a minute, a slim man in his fifties came out to greet her, “Agent Hawkins?” His smile was warm, “I’m Isaac Kader, one of the associate medical examiners here.” They shook hands and he gestured down the hall, “If you’ll come with me I believe we can take a few minutes to chat first.”
“Are any family members here yet?”
“One,” he nodded and his voice dropped discretely, “he identified himself as her son, Claude.” He slid a magnetic keycard into a scanner and opened a door labeled Staff Only. “We have Missus Babcock in here for the family viewing, but I knew you’d want to see her first.”
He led her to a table with a draped figure and Jordan noted the very small form beneath the pale green sheet, No wonder that poor guy thought it was a kid… She gave a small shudder, subconsciously recognizing how similar in dimensions Hannah Babcock was to Catherine.
“I performed the autopsy,” he pulled the drape from the Hannah’s face and folded it discretely across her upper chest, “as you can see we shaved the back of the head so we could make a photographic record the trauma…” He retrieved a tablet from the counter, tapping the surface while he spoke, “These pictures show blunt force trauma… She was struck, just once, on the back of the head with something very hard.” He said, handing her the tablet, “She was not killed where she was found; she was killed elsewhere and dumped behind that wall.”
Jordan gazed from the photo of the back of Hannah Babcock’s shaved, caved-in head to her still, pale features, “And the injuries to her face are from falling forward?” She pointed to the flattened nose.
“Yes. It would seem she was struck from behind so hard it caused a massive intraparenchymal bleed within the medulla oblongata. Generally speaking, and in this victim’s case specifically, these bleeds are always fatal because they cause damage to the vagus nerve, which is largely responsible for blood circulation and breathing.”
“So was death instantaneous?”
“No, but she would have been unconscious while the signals from her brain to breathe and keep her heart beating stopped.” He motioned for the tablet again and swiped through more photos, “So when she fell forward her nose broke and bled, likely stopping as soon as her blood pressure dropped, but I did find evidence of carpet fibers, stuck in the dried blood on her face.” He handed her the tablet again and she frowned at the magnified image of small dark-colored bits of fuzz stuck in dried blood on Hannah’s mashed nose.
“And that’s carpet fuzz?”
“Yes.” Reaching over the screen, he swept to another image, “After cleaning it we ran it through our mass spectrometer and determined it is a match for carpet fiber, red in color.”
“So she was struck, fell face first on a red carpet and her nose bled on it.”
“Exactly.”
Jordan flashed him a smile, “Excellent… and when was time of death?”
“She was killed night before last, the fatal blow being delivered between nine and eleven o’clock.”
“Well,” Jordan gave a half shrug, “there are worse ways to go.”
His phone vibrated in his labcoat pocket, “I’m sorry…” he pulled it free and answered, “Kader.” Jordan could hear a woman talking distantly and he nodded, “Yes, thank you, I’ll be right out.” He hung up, “The other two children have arrived, they’re waiting in one of our family rooms. If you like, you can observe discreetly from the observation room.” He pointed at the grayish mirror.
“Yes, thank you.” Jordan added silently, That’s really the only reason to come all this way.
He showed her to a small room with a one-way mirror and she sat until Dr. Kader returned with Hannah Babcock’s three grown children, standing when the door opened and they entered single file.
Richard Babcock, Hannah's husband, had died from diabetes complications, and Jordan wondered idly if he had been a short or tall man as Dr. Kader appeared to tower over the three petite individuals. One of these guys is the eldest son, Claude, the middle child is daughter Chloe, and youngest, Henry. Hannah’s three children ranged in age from twenty-six to thirty-two, And she wasn’t home enough to raise any of them… she mused, her husband had to do it. Her brows knit in both bemusement and sympathy for the mourners viewing their mother’s dead body, Why didn’t she say her husband quit to raise the kids rather than blame it on his diabetes and their tax situation? She folded her arms across her chest and watched as the trio stood with their heads bowed. No one approached or touched the body and after several long seconds, Hannah’s slightly taller son turned to his weeping brother and sister and wrapping his arms around their shoulders, led them to the door. Alright, she turned and headed for the door leading into the hallway, let’s do this. She slipped into the corridor just as the door opened and Dr. Kader and the three Babcock children emerged.
“This is Agent Hawkins of the FBI,” Dr. Kader introduced her; “she’s in charge of your mother’s case. Agent, this is Claude…” The taller of the two sons stepped forward and briskly shook Jordan’s’ hand.
“How do you do…” Jordan murmured.
“This is Chloe…”
Jordan took the tiny clammy porcelain hand in hers, “How do you do…”
“And this is Henry…”
Jordan shook the young man’s cold and clammy hand, “How do you do,” she repeated. “Doctor Kader, is there a private room where we could speak for a few minutes?”
“Of course.”
He led them back to the family room and once inside, Jordan urged them to sit. She sat on a couch opposite and took out her phone, “I’m so sorry for your loss…”
“Are you?” Hannah’s youngest glared at her, “You accused our mother of stealing from Madame Lynch.”
Jordan had already begun recording and she held up the phone briefly before setting it on the cushion next to her, “Before we begin, I need to inform you I’ll be recording this so I don’t have to take notes.”
“For god sakes, Henry,” Claude hissed under his breath, “just shut up.”
Jordan stated the time, date and their location then identified the individuals present while she watched the daughter dab with ineffectual delicacy at the tears that streamed from her eyes. “I was initially asked to assist the New York State District Attorney’s Office in an investigation of the Helga Lynch estate,” she pulled a notebook from her briefbag, “but since your mother’s death has been ruled a homicide I’ll be investigating that as well. Now…” She drew a deep breath in through her nose, “Since you brought up Miss Lynch,” she turned neutral eyes to Henry, “I understand her generosity to your family was quite extensive…” They were silent and she continued, “She paid college tuition for all of you?” They were still unresponsive so she pressed, “So tell me what college degrees you graduated with.”
Chloe murmured tremulously, “I have an MBA.”
Henry folded his arms angrily acro
ss his chest and Claude answered, “We all have MBA’s, Agent Hawkins, our mother was determined we learn how to succeed in the business world.”
Jordan only nodded, pausing a moment before she continued, “I’m sorry, but I need to ask each of you where you were night before last, between nine and eleven o’clock.”
“Unbelievable!” Henry shot to his feet, “You cannot be serious!”
Claude grabbed the sleeve of his jacket and yanked him back onto the couch and Jordan watched impassively as the red-faced young man sat abruptly. “Calm down and answer the question…” He glared at him, “As soon as we give our alibis she can start looking for the killer.”
Chloe sobbed into her wad of wet tissue and Jordan grabbed the nearest box and passed it to her, “That’s true; I have to begin with family members.” Leaning close to the daughter, she peered sympathetically into the young woman’s swollen eyes, “Can you tell me where you were, two nights ago?”
“I wa-was at home…” she stammered, “I live with my boyfriend, he can vouch for me.”
“Oh, that’s no alibi!” Henry grumbled, “She’ll never believe either you or Owen!” He folded his arms tensely over his chest and Jordan turned to him.
“And where were you?”
“I was at home, I live alone.” He glared challengingly and she nodded, turning to Claude,
“And you?”
“I was at home.” He shrugged, “I live alone too.”
“Okay,” Jordan pulled a pen and notebook from her bag, “I will need your contact information; write your name, address, phone numbers, email and employer name and any other contact information.” She handed the items to Chloe, “And be sure to include your boyfriend’s information too.”
“I live with my boyfriend,” she repeated while she wrote, “and I work part-time as a real estate agent.”
“Owen wasn’t able to come with you today?”
“No, he had to work.”
“I was a trader on Wall Street,” Claude lifted a shoulder in a shrug, “and I’m between jobs right now.”