“OK by me,” Paula said. As she turned in the direction of Hansen’s office she winced, and grabbed her injured right side with her left hand. I wished I could help her, but knew that rest and time were the best treatments. A rib belt, for example, could reduce her pain by restricting rib cage motion, but would also restrict her breathing. She’d already rejected narcotic medication.
Lieutenant Hansen was, indeed, free to meet with us. “Come in, ladies and gents,” he said, ushering us into his office. He motioned us into the two seats on the opposite side of his desk. I hardly recognized him in his short-sleeve dress shirt and slacks. But the slacks were an indeterminate black-brown-blue color, apparently made of some kind of indestructible fabric. And his ten-gallon hat, I was reassured to see, was resting on the flat top of a coat rack in a corner.
“Take a load off,” he said. “There's always a kind of vacuum in my schedule after an arrest is made and the paperwork’s done. It's in the DA's hands now.”
He sat in his seat behind his desk. His chair was wood-framed, cushioned, and, as he demonstrated, able to recline and roll. I was jealous. “Not that I have all day to give you, either,” he added. He must have remembered, just in time, to reassert his superior status.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with us,” I hastened to say. He was holding his neck stiffly, at an angle. “I usually recommend that my patients wear a soft neck collar in bed, while they're sleeping.”
“What? Oh, you're doing it to me. What's your diagnosis, doc?”
“Where's your pain?”
“How-? Never mind. I've got this pain-”
“In your shoulder blade,” I said, as Hansen mouthed “shoulder blade.”
“Hey!” he said, and looked at Paula.
“Might as well let him finish,” she said.
I smiled, and swept my hand in a backhanded arc. “Thank you, folks, for being such a good audience. In my experience, the pain you're feeling is often due to a pinched nerve in the neck, called cervical radiculopathy. Which is often due to arthritis or a slipped disc. Since it's commonly aggravated by certain head positions, it's natural to hold your neck in a stiff position, to avoid pinching the nerve further. Turning side-to-side is typical while sleeping. So wearing a collar in bed, because it restricts head motion, sometimes helps.”
“Is this how you solved that other murder back home?” Hansen asked.
Paula looked at me. What should I say? I opened my mouth to protest, but Hansen raised his hand in “stop sign” position. “No. Don't answer that, Doc. You were just trying to help me, and I appreciate it. I'll consider trying that collar thing. I'm glad to see that not all doctors are about drugs and surgery.”
“I try, Lieutenant. I am often about drugs, but I'm also well aware that it's always important to weigh their risks and benefits. You should discuss all this with your own doctor, and maybe get chest as well as neck x-rays, to be sure there's nothing unusual going on inside.”
Time to press my advantage. “Would you mind talking about the Singer case?” I asked.
His smile disappeared. “I figured that your so-called investigation was over, now that your father's off the hook.”
“Well, we certainly appreciate that-”
“But you've got the wrong man again,” Paula interjected.
Hansen turned his attention to Paula. “Begging your pardon, Ma'am, but we've got ‘im dead to rights.”
“Please, Lieutenant. No more ‘Ma'am.’ Call me Paula.”
“Can't do that, little lady. Sorry ‘bout that. I'll call you doc. No, wait. That'll be confusing when you're with your boyfriend here. Got it. He's Doctor Sherlock, you're Doctor Jane.”
“As in Tarzan, or Ms. Marple?” I asked.
“Come on. What do you think?”
“So our down home detective reads mysteries,” Paula said.
“Don't tell anybody,” Hansen said. “It'll be our little secret. Everyone thinks I'm all about Westerns, the Duke, and Clint Eastwood. Not that there's anything wrong with them.” This time we all smiled.
“Why do you think you have Mitchell dead to rights?” Paula asked.
“Think? He's got the big three, in spades. Means, motive, and opportunity. We've placed him on the deck with his father at the right time, and he hated his father for stealing his wife away.”
“How do you know that?” Paula asked.
“There's plenty of evidence that he was very upset, to say the least, at the time of his divorce.”
“But that was years ago,” I said. “They made up.”
“Maybe so, and maybe not. And he still has feelings for Ms. Carstens.” I thought he was probably right about that. “He must've bided his time,” he continued, “’til the time was right. Maybe something to do with taking over the Singer Institute.”
“But that's all circumstantial,” Paula said.
“So what?”
“And other people have means, motive, and opportunity, too.”
“Maybe. But nobody fits the bill as well as Mitchell Singer.”
Hansen smiled, with a “take that” look. Paula didn't smile. Instead, she gave me a “say, something, David” look.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
“Let me tell you everything we've learned,” I told Lieutenant Hansen, and then did. When I reached the part about Paula's episode in the hotel gym, Hansen's eyes narrowed. He addressed Paula.
“You're a trouper, Doctor Jane. I hadn't heard about your accident, and didn't suspect that you were in pain. Are you all right?”
“You know.”
“Can I get you a pillow? Or a Tylenol?”
“No, thanks. David, go on.”
“We have a theory, Lieutenant, about how the crime was committed. We think it was thoroughly premeditated. Someone knew about the conference and the conference schedule, including the pre-conference party on the boat. That person arranged to meet Dr. Singer at a particular time and place, to throw him overboard while everyone else was partying. Perfect timing for including a lot of other suspects on the scene.”
“With you so far,” Hansen said.
“Also good timing,” Paula said, “if someone wanted to prevent Singer from saying or doing something at the conference-”
“Like the announcement he told us was coming,” I said, “before he was thrown off the boat! Good point, Paula.”
She looked at Hansen, and I followed her gaze. “Which is a point against Mitchell as suspect,” Paula said. “Because if Jonathan Singer was attacked to pre-empt his announcement of Mitchell as his successor, it makes no sense for Mitchell to have done it. Rather...”
She stopped speaking and looked away, but not before I read her mind. She was incriminating Tracey, Jonathan Singer's previously presumed successor. Which I felt certain was not Paula's intention. On the other hand, if Jonathan were going to anoint Tracey, after all, then Mitchell, and maybe Stephanie, and maybe Judith, would be the ones with motives. Still too many ifs.
I'd noticed Paula's pause, but Hansen apparently hadn't. “Theories within theories within theories,” he said. “Perfect for a Jane Marple mystery, but in the real world...”
No, no, no. If Paula were Jane Marple, then one of our suspects would have reminded her of someone shady back in Centreville. But Hansen did have a point about theories within theories. Paula looked back at me, and winced in pain again.
“Anyway, Lieutenant,” I said, “we were saying that this crime was planned out in detail. Whoever did it stole Singer's medication, his Mestinon, at precisely the right time. The idea was to weaken him when it was time to throw him overboard. And then replace the medication.”
“Your story hangs together, and I give you both credit for dreaming it up. But for now, that's all it is. A nice story. Some or all of it may be true. Either way, it fits Mitchell Singer to a ‘T.’”
I tried to ignore his point. “We've been working on finding tangible evidence. We couldn’t figure out who stole the Mestinon, so we're now working on who made th
e appointment on the deck.”
“Maybe that's what was on the papers torn out of Jonathan Singer's diary.”
“What?” Paula exclaimed. At least he's been listening, I thought.
“Yeah. That's what we found in Mitchell Singer's bedroom. Another piece of the puzzle.”
“He was framed,” Paula said. “Isn't it obvious? Why would he keep the diary in his bedroom, where it would incriminate him?”
“Well, not so much if he got rid of the incriminating pages.”
“We even thought about a trail of e-mails about the appointment,” I said. “But we've learned that that doesn't exist.”
“Ah,” Hansen said. “I've got you there. There are e-mails about the appointment, and they're between Mitchell and Jonathan Singer.”
Paula and I looked at each other. Help, David, her eyes said. My mouth was dry, but not from over-speaking this time. “How can that be?” I asked. Paula was clearly concerned about the accumulating evidence against Mitchell, but I was equally interested in why Judith had told us that such e-mails didn't exist. Lies are fodder for a detective--when they're exposed, that is.
“Maybe your problem is that the e-mails were deleted,” Hansen said.
“So how-” I started, but caught myself. “I know. I have a ten-year-old cousin who explained to me that deleted doesn't mean gone. An expert can retrieve what's been deleted.”
“Exactly. We now have Jonathan Singer’s and Mitchell Singer’s computers. We even got a warrant to search Jonathan Singer’s computer, at the Singer Institute in Princeton. In case the hard drive there had secrets beyond the e-mail accounts.”
Dramatic pause--Hansen must’ve watched as well as read plenty of mysteries.
“Do they know when it was deleted?” I asked, breaking the silence.
“They said yesterday afternoon-”
“But that means-” I looked at Paula.
“-that Mitchell Singer could've done it before we arrested him,” Hansen finished.
“Do you know for sure that it was Mitchell who did the deleting?” I asked.
“No. They're still working on that. And they told me they may not be able to pin that one down.”
I wanted to talk to Paula, but wasn't ready to share my ideas with Hansen. “What about my theory that the murderer is also responsible for breaking Paula's rib, to stop her from investigating?”
“Nice theory.”
I wasn't at all satisfied, but it felt as though we'd reached an impasse. I thanked Hansen for his time and promised to keep in touch. When I stood up and started to walk to the door I noticed that I was leaving by myself--until Paula joined me, with a big sigh.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
As soon as Lieutenant Hansen's door closed behind us, I forgot myself and grabbed Paula's arm.
“Ouch!” she yelped, and pulled away.
“I'm sorry, but-”
“I know, I know. Judith Klansky may have lied, but-”
“Right! This is our first break-”
“Slow down, David. Let's talk about this. Maybe she checked the computer after someone else deleted the e-mails. So she wouldn't be lying at all.”
“Could have happened that way, but maybe not.” Brilliantly reasoned argument, David.
“She wasn't at the gym this morning.”
I stepped back. “Hmm, good point. She's also the one who's trying desperately to keep Jonathan Singer alive. But maybe that's a cover.”
Paula shook her head. “I don't know. I don't think she did it.”
“Wait a minute. You can't eliminate everyone you like. Someone did it.”
Paula laughed. “I feel like a vigilante cop, whose brand of justice is to pick a bad guy and pin the nearest crime on him. I pick Thomas Haydock.”
“I guess we should wait before confronting Judith. Gather more evidence. Anyway, Mitchell's next.”
“Après vous.”
#
We were led to an empty room, furnished with only a rectangular table and two facing chairs, all visibly bolted to the floor. When I walked in I felt as if I were entering the inside of a gray-painted cement cube. The officer accompanying us left, and returned a minute later with a folding chair, which he set up next to the nearest fixed one.
“Have a seat,” he said to us, gesturing toward the side-by-side pair of chairs. “When the prisoner is brought in he'll sit over there.” (He pointed at the solitary chair). “You can talk to him, but avoid any physical contact, including passing any objects. And I mean any. I'll be standing in the corner. You'll have ten minutes to talk to him.”
Mitchell Singer appeared in the open doorway. He looked in our general direction, glassy-eyed. Another officer, behind him, prodded him into the room. When Mitchell was seated opposite us the two officers nodded to each other. The female one left, and the male one stood in a corner in an at-ease stance.
Mitchell's bright orange fatigues clashed with his gray complexion. He wasn't wearing handcuffs, which I was pleased to see, but with his paucity of movement he might as well have been. I kept expecting him to reach for his pipe--maybe his enforced abstinence from smoking would last.
“How're you doing?” I asked, realizing too late that my question was rhetorical.
“How's my father?” His voice was soft, in contrast to his usual booming.
Paula and I looked at each other. I felt guilty. “We haven't seen him yet today,” I said. “But so far as we know there's no change.” It didn't seem possible, but Mitchell sagged even more, his back sinking, his shoulders reaching for his knees. “We hope to see him later,” I added.
Paula gave me a quick look, then turned away. Visiting his father was important to us, but not our present priority.
Maybe small talk could spark our conversation. “How's the food?” I asked. Paula gave me the kick I deserved. Mitchell didn't respond.
“What does your lawyer say?” Paula asked him.
He turned, and focused on Paula, with obvious effort. “He said that they have a strong case against me, but that it's all circumstantial.” I agreed with that. “I'm in a nightmare,” he continued. “Who could have imagined a week ago that my father would soon be at death's door, and that I'd be in jail, accused of trying to kill him?” He shook his head and covered his tear-stained eyes.
The murderer could have imagined such things, I thought. The edge of an idea scratched my mind.
“We're working hard to free you,” Paula said.
“Thanks.”
“Are you up to answering a few questions?” I asked.
“Why not? Just keep in mind that I'm not my usual self.”
“Of course. We understand. Do you have any ideas about who might've done it?”
“No. Not at all. It still seems completely unreal.”
“How about Judith Klansky?”
“Judith?” He burst out laughing, approaching his usual animation. “For a second you almost made me forget. It's ridiculous to consider her as a suspect.”
“It's ridiculous to consider you, too,” Paula said.
“True.” We were all quiet for a moment. “I just don't see it. She loves my father too much. Since forever.”
“Many murders are committed by loved ones,” Paula said. Another brief silence.
“What do you think of her?” I asked Mitchell.
“I love her...but with a tincture of fear. She's formidable and brilliant. But she's family. Did you know that she's the one who brokered my reconciliation with my father? I owe her the world.”
Mitchell said he was defending Judith, but by calling her brilliant and formidable he was making her sound like more of a suspect. “Would you call her an honest person?” I asked him.
“What a question! I've never heard her lie.”
“That's interesting. Have you exchanged e-mails with your father about meeting him Sunday night on the boat?”
Paula looked at me. Should I have asked that question so directly?
“No-”
“Are yo
u lying now? Lieutenant Hansen said that such e-mails do exist.”
“David!” Paula exclaimed.
“It's OK, Paula,” Mitchell said, sounding calmer, more like his usual self. Maybe my shock therapy was working. “He's detecting now. Doing good guy, bad guy, all by himself. Although not very well, because he didn't let me finish my sentence.” He turned back to me. “What I started to say was, no, we didn't exchange such e-mails-”
“But-”
“-but such e-mails do exist. Because I received his, and he received mine.”
“What are you saying?”
“Think, David,” Paula said. “He's saying that someone else sent those e-mails.”
“Yes,” Mitchell nodded.
It sounded far-fetched to me. E-mail accounts have passwords. Only someone on the inside could have sent e-mails from their accounts. But come to think of it, an inside job was my theory.
“When we met on the deck,” Mitchell continued, “we each asked why the other had wanted the meeting, and we each denied initiating it. So someone else had arranged the meeting.”
If Mitchell wasn't lying, that is. “OK, I can see that,” I said. “But how do you explain this? When we asked Judith to look for evidence of an appointment for your father on the deck, she denied seeing those e-mails.”
“Must be some kind of mistake,” Mitchell said. “Although that's not like her, either. I don't know. We'd have to ask her. I'm sure there's a simple explanation.”
Another silence followed. Someone was lying, I thought. Or making a huge mistake at a very inopportune, if not suspicious, time. When I looked at Mitchell again his mask-like face and sagging posture had re-descended on him. And when I looked at Paula, she seemed to have caught Mitchell's disease.
“Time's up,” the police officer said, and walked to Mitchell's side.
“Is there anything we can get for you, or do for you?” Paula asked.
Mitchell's eyes re-focused on both of us. “Help my father. And next time, bring me some information about him.”
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