Cold Justice Page 18

  Lisa Krunk tried to pursue, but a uniform stepped up, cautioning her back.

  “Detective Corning,” she called. “Can you tell me who discovered the body?”

  Hank disregarded Lisa and went over to Pierre, touching him on the shoulder. Pierre looked up. “Could you come with me?” Hank asked.

  Pierre stood and followed.

  Hank looked back at Lisa, and then led them to a spot where she couldn’t overhear, out of the way of the investigators. He turned to Pierre.

  “I’m Detective Hank Corning. I understand you found the body and reported it?”

  “Oui. Oui.”

  Hank frowned. “Do you speak English?”

  “Oui. Little bit. Yes.”

  “Your name is Pierre Boutin?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me how you happened across the body?”

  “How I find?”

  “Yes.”

  “I run in park. Saw le rouge, red in bush. I move bush and find woman.”

  Hank studied Pierre for a moment, and asked, “Are you a tourist? Visitor?”

  “Oui. Visitor. Nice city.” He frowned and glanced toward the evergreens. “Not nice that.”

  Hank nodded. “It sure isn’t. Pierre, where are you staying?”

  Pierre pointed toward the street. “Hotel.”

  “The Hilton?”

  “Oui. Hilton.”

  “Are you staying there for a few days?”

  “Yes. One week.”

  Jake smiled. He knew Hank would need to get an interpreter to finish this.

  “Someone will come to see you later. They will speak en Français, OK?”

  Pierre nodded his head vigorously. “Yes. I wait.”

  Hank walked him to the tape, lifted it, and Pierre jogged away.

  Jake watched as Lisa Krunk ran up to him, cutting him off. She shoved the mike at him, asked him a question, and frowned at his reply. Pierre shrugged, and Lisa watched him jog away again.

  Hank laughed. “Lisa won’t get much out of him?”

  Jake watched Lisa circle around, Don following, trying to get a better camera view of the victim. Trying to find another juicy tidbit.

  They turned as the medical examiner, Nancy Pietek, approached. She greeted them and turned to Hank. “Looks pretty straight forward. I can’t tell for sure yet, but it appears the cause of dead is exsanguination. Basically, she bled to death.”

  “Any sexual abuse? Rape?” Hank asked.

  Nancy shook her head. “I haven’t checked her thoroughly, of course. I’ll know when I get the body back to the morgue, but her clothes were intact, a few defensive wounds are visible, but otherwise it seems to be just as it appears.”

  “And the time of death?”

  “Last evening, looks like it happened somewhere between eight and eleven pm.”

  Hank nodded. “Thanks, Nancy,” he said, as she turned and headed toward Jameson.

  Hank sighed, letting the air out slowly. “I will have to talk to Philip Macy, as well,” he said, thinking out loud. “Let him know about Samantha Riggs. Maybe find out a little bit more about her. Her family, etcetera. I need to see how Philip is doing, anyway.” He shook his head. “It’s been tough on him.”

  “And now he’s lost his only employee,” Annie added, and sighed. “What more can happen to this poor man?”

  Chapter 40

  Friday, August 19th, 10:59 AM

  DR. BORIS HOFFMAN showed the weird little man out of his office and shut the door. He had seen some strange patients, but this guy fidgeted and squirmed for the last half hour, and was really starting to get on his nerves.

  He wondered why he had ever gotten into this business. He knew he wasn’t a very good psychiatrist. He just pretended to listen to the lunatics as they ranted, then offer some useless advice, and prescribe some medicine. And for that, he got paid.

  The thought was rather funny, but he didn’t feel much like laughing right now. He had other things to think about. More important than the retards he had to see every day.

  That nut-job was his last patient for the morning, so he dropped on the couch and flicked on the small overhead television.

  Channel 7 Action News was just coming on.

  The barbie-doll news anchor said, “The body of a woman was discovered this morning in Richmond Valley Park. Here’s Lisa Krunk with the story.”

  Hoffman’s attention was caught.

  The view switched to a close-up of Lisa Krunk.

  “I’m standing here in Richmond Valley Park where a woman was found murdered, her throat slit.”

  The camera panned across the park and zoomed into an area near the wading pool. Lisa continued talking. “Police have cordoned off the crime scene and are currently investigating.”

  Hoffman sat forward, intensely interested now.

  Lisa continued, “I talked to Detective Corning who said police had little information at this point, and the victim has yet to be identified.”

  The camera view now showed a different angle. The body could be seen from a distance of about twenty feet. Hoffman could see a red floppy hat on the ground near the victim. She was also wearing a red jacket.

  Hoffman swore, and cursed Tommy Salamander.

  The camera back on Lisa, she said, “Sources have indicated to me there may be a connection to the murder of Vera Blackley, the woman whose body was discovered in a dumpster yesterday afternoon.”

  Hoffman recognized Jake Lincoln when the camera showed his face. Jake said, “It’s too early to tell. There may, or may not, be any relation to something we are working on now.”

  The camera view switched, and Lisa’s wide mouth flapped again, “The body was discovered by a French tourist, apparently staying in the city for a few days.”

  A view of a man in a jogging outfit. “Sir, I understand you found the body?”

  The man shook his head. “No English,” he said, as he turned and jogged away.

  Hoffman was on his feet now, angry.

  Lisa Krunk said, “We will bring you breaking news as it happens. In an exclusive report, I’m Lisa Krunk, for Channel 7 Action News.”

  Hoffman switched off the TV and paced the floor, back and forth, cursing and thinking. What had that idiot done? Things were bad enough now, and this would only make things hotter.

  He went behind his desk and swept up the telephone. He dialed, it rang, and in a moment, “Yeah?”

  “Tommy, what did you do, you idiot?”

  “Hey Unc. What’s up?”

  Hoffman raised his voice. “You fool. Why did you kill her?”

  “Relax Uncle. They’ll never figure out who did it. Besides, I was just protecting you. She was a threat to both of us.” Tommy laughed. “And now, she’s not.”

  Hoffman lowered his voice. His secretary was in the outer office. It wouldn’t do to have her hear. “I told you to just get the note, and then scare her.”

  “Oh sure, Unc. And then she would have gone straight to the police. With the letter. She was a little smarter than she seemed. That’s why she just brought a photocopy. She was up to something.”

  Hoffman hesitated. Tommy may be right. At least, Tommy was the one who killed her. If investigators were able to find any evidence, then Tommy was the one it would lead to, not him.

  Hopefully, he would be in the clear. And with the real note destroyed, there was nothing to link him to any of this.

  “Tommy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Keep your mouth shut about this.”

  “No probs.”

  “I mean it. Don’t tell a soul.”

  “Of course not. Why would I?”

  “Because you’re an idiot.”

  Tommy was quiet for a moment. The line hissed, and then he said, “I’ll see you this afternoon for my payment.”

  “Hoffman sighed. “All right.” He slammed the phone down and cursed again.

  Friday, August 19th, 11:03 AM

  HANK STEPPED from the crowded lobby, into the
elevator, and pressed the button for the second floor. The door hissed, his stomach jumped, another hiss, and the elevator dropped him into a quiet hallway.

  He moved down the passageway and stopped in front of a door. A sign said, ‘Ring and Come In’, so he depressed the buzzer and opened the door.

  Philip Macy stepped out of an office behind the reception area and came toward him. He looked haggard, his face showing the strain of the last few days.

  And now, he will hear more bad news.

  “Good morning, Detective,” Philip said in a lifeless tone.

  They shook hands and Hank asked, “Can we sit and talk a moment?”

  Philip turned, beckoning Hank to follow, and they went into Philip’s office. Philip dropped into his chair behind the desk, as Hank sat in the guest chair, leaning forward, his arms resting on the desk.

  The room wasn’t exactly a mess, but things seemed to be uneasily disorganized. Work piling up and abandoned, bits of dust beginning to gather, with a stale smell of not enough fresh air.

  Hank looked carefully at Philip. His arms were resting on the armrests of his chair, his hands clasped together, fidgeting restlessly with his fingers. He looked tired, and needed a shave.

  “I’m afraid I have some more bad news,” Hank said.

  Philip’s expression didn’t change as he waited for Hank to continue.

  “It’s about Samantha,” Hank said. “I’m afraid she has been found... dead.”

  Hank studied Philip Macy. Philip stared back as if he forgot Hank was there, and then dropped his head, his breath shooting out. He fell forward onto the desk, his head in his hands.

  “I’m very sorry,” Hank said.

  Philip didn’t move. The sound of his rapid breathing was all that could be heard. Finally, he lifted his head and looked blankly at Hank. “What happened?”

  “She was murdered.”

  “Murdered?” Philip groaned. “Murdered?” The color drained from his face.

  Hank nodded.

  “Do you know who did it?” Philip asked as he sat up. His hands were shaking.

  Hank shook his head. “Not yet.” Jake always hated this part. Hated having to be the bearer of bad news. Samantha Riggs and Philip Macy weren’t related, but she had worked for him for some time. “Do you know if she had any family?” he asked.

  “I don’t believe there’s anyone locally. She has a mother she had mentioned from time to time. I believe she’s out west, but that’s all I know.”

  “Would you know how I could contact her?”

  Philip shook his head. “I don’t have any information on her.”

  “It’s alright,” Hank said. “I can find it.”

  Philip Macy spoke, his eyes on the ceiling. “Her and Abby... were very close.” When he looked back down at Hank, a tear or two escaped. He wiped them away and cleared his throat.

  “Mr. Macy, do you have Samantha’s address?”

  Philip turned toward his monitor, and his shaking fingers tapped a few keys on the keyboard. “33 Albert Street, apartment 202.”

  Hank found his notepad and pen in an inner pocket and jotted the information down. “I’ll need to check her place, just in case.”

  Philip nodded.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” Hank asked, concern in his voice.

  “Just find out who did this,” Philip said. His voice was weak. He appeared about to collapse as he swung around and slid open a door in the wall unit behind him. He removed a bottle of Scotch whisky and a glass, turned back and set them on the desk. He smiled weakly. “I keep this for clients, but...” He poured a double and gulped it, catching his breath. He poured another and sat back, closing his eyes.

  Hank didn’t want to leave him alone. He was in bad condition, and he feared what might happen, or what he might do. “Do you want to come with me to Miss Riggs apartment?” he asked.

  Philip thought a moment before lowering his head and nodding. “Yes. I’m sure I won’t be of much help to you, but I really need to get out of here now.” He downed the rest of his Scotch and set the glass down quietly. “Yes,” he repeated. “I think that’s a good idea.”

  Hank stood and waited, watching Philip as he spun around, put the alcohol and glass back into the unit, and rose to his feet. Philip took a deep breath. “Let’s go,” he said.

  Chapter 41

  Friday, August 19th, 11:45 AM

  ANDERSON BLACKLEY sat quietly in the holding cell beneath the Richmond Hill police precinct. The smell of fear, despair, and stale human sweat surrounded him. He was tired, and he needed sleep. The iron bench in his small cage was cold, and the occasional curse, or insane yells from adjoining cells, hadn’t allowed any sleep.

  He was scheduled to be arraigned this morning. His lawyer had been to see him, and had no good news. The crown was going ahead with the arraignment as planned, and he had been told by Shorn not to expect the judge to allow bail.

  He’d had a lot of time to think. About Vera, his so-called marriage, and the events that led to his incarceration. He had been set up pretty good. Whoever had killed Vera, and framed him, was out there somewhere, and his only hope now was the Lincolns.

  He looked up as he heard footsteps approaching his cage. It was Shorn accompanied by a deputy. They were taking him to see the judge now. He stood slowly to his feet, fearful and uneasy about his future.

  The door buzzed, and the deputy squeaked it open.

  Shorn was smiling faintly as he stepped in. “You’re free,” he said.

  Blackley raised his brows. All he said was, “Free?”

  Shorn nodded. “The crown has withdrawn the charges. You’re free to go.”

  Blackley’s mouth fell open. He stared in unbelief, and then a wide grin split his face. He threw his arms around Shorn, and then stepped back and pumped his hand.

  “You have a few papers to sign first,” Shorn said, “and then we can leave.”

  Blackley stepped from the cell and followed Shorn and the deputy to the central control room outside of the holding area.

  “Sign here, and here,” a deputy said, pointing to a pair of x’s on the bottom of two sheets of paper. Blackley signed and the deputy dumped out a bag in front of him. It contained his wallet, belt, cell phone, watch, and a few coins.

  He slipped his belt and watch on, stuffed the rest in his pocket, and turned to Shorn. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “You’ll need this too,” the deputy said, handing him a piece of paper. Blackley glanced at it. It was a release form for his vehicle, allowing him to pick it up at the pound. He took the paper, folded it, and tucked it in his breast pocket.

  Suddenly moving from despair and uncertainty, to freedom, filled him with a strange elation. Like he had a whole new life. He took a deep breath of the warm fresh air as they stepped outside the front doors of the building. He turned to Shorn. “So fill me in. What’s going on?” he asked.

  Shorn looked at him with a smile. “The thing that was going to condemn you, is the thing that set you free.”

  “Oh?”

  “The hammer. The most damning piece of evidence suddenly became irrelevant. Since there was no evidence it had been used on Vera, there was zero proof it was even involved. The rest was circumstantial, and the crown determined it was not enough to prove guilt.”

  “The wine splatters in the house?”

  Shorn shrugged. “They could have been there for a while. They would have a hard time proving they weren’t. And even it they could, it wouldn’t indicate you were involved.”

  “So what’s our next step,” Blackley asked.

  “We get your car and you go home. Or back to work, or wherever you want.” Shorn smiled. “You’re a free man now.”

  “But I still want to find out who killed Vera.”

  “That’s up to the police now.”

  “Or the Lincolns.”

  Shorn nodded. “You better let them know you’re out.”

  Blackley found his cell and dialed. Annie answe
red.

  “Annie, it’s Anderson Blackley. They let me out.” He couldn’t hold back the overwhelming elation in his voice as he filled her in on the events, and explained why they had released him.

  “Wow! That’s great news,” Annie said. “I’d like to come and see you. What time will you be home?”

  Blackley looked at his watch. “I just have to pick up my car. I should be home by one, or shortly after.”

  “See you then,” Annie said.

  He stuffed the phone back in his pocket and turned to Shorn, “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  Friday, August 19th, 12:03 AM

  HANK CRUISED slowly down Albert Street. Philip Macy sat in the passenger seat, eyeing the building numbers.

  “There it is,” Philip said, as he pointed to an ugly brick and concrete apartment building.

  Hank found a parking spot across the street from number 33. He shut down the engine, checked his service weapon, and slipped the keys from the ignition. “Let’s go, Mr. Macy,” he said, pushing his door open.

  Philip turned to him. “Please, call me Philip.”

  Hank grinned. “Ok, and you can call me Hank,” he said as he stepped from the vehicle. Philip climbed out and they walked across the street to the building.

  Hank stepped up to the front door and held it open for an elderly woman coming out, struggling to open it. She mumbled thanks, and worked her cane, puffing as she labored down the path to the sidewalk.

  They stepped inside and looked at a hand-written sign on the wall. ‘J. Busby, Superintendent, Apt.101’. They went down a short hallway, stopped in front of the first door and rang the bell.

  The door popped open a few inches, clunking when it reached the length of the security chain. A thin man peeked through the crack. He was probably mid-sixties, with a gray mustache and a few days of stubble on his gaunt face.

  Hank showed his badge. “Mr. Busby?”

  “Yup.”

  “Can I speak to you a moment?”

  “What’s this about?”

  Hank frowned. “Will you open the door?”