Justice for Hire (12 page)

Harold wasn’t outside.

Worried now, she went back through the kitchen to the office. She peeked inside the doorway, still calling Harold’s name.

There was no answer, and the office appeared to be empty.

She ran upstairs and checked the bedrooms, and then down to the basement. Perhaps he may be in the garage, looking for a box to gather up the broken glass, but her search came up empty, and she received no reply to her calls. Her husband was nowhere to be seen.

Unsure of what else to do, she went back to the kitchen table and sat.

She stared at his half-finished donut, and touched the cup of coffee. The drink was cold. Where could he be?

She jumped to her feet and reached across the table and grabbed her handbag, which she had tossed there earlier. She snapped it open, felt inside, and came up with her cell phone.

She hit speed dial one, Harold’s number.

She heard it ring. Once. Twice. No answer. She let it ring as she stood and anxiously wandered from the kitchen to the front room.

It was then, she heard Harold’s cell phone ringing, and the sound came from his office.

She hurried to the office and stepped inside. She heard the ringing louder now, from across the room.

She eased toward the desk, and gasped as she saw her husband, lying on the floor in an unnatural position. She thought at first he may have had a heart attack, but as she hurried around the desk, she stopped short and screamed when she saw a second body, the body of a young man, on the floor beside her husband.

When she saw the bullet wounds on her husband’s face, and the stream of drying blood, she felt her legs grow weak, her heart pounded, and she began to tremble. She felt faint, and nearly stumbled as she crouched beside her husband’s still form.

“Harold,” she said, anxiously, fearful.

She could tell he was dead, but she called his name again and shook him, hoping there was some mistake. He didn’t respond to her hysterical plea, and his face was cold as she touched it with the tips of her fingers. Her tears came freely, falling on the face of the man she loved so much.

She knelt awhile, weeping, and moaning his name, unmindful of the dead boy who lay at her husband’s feet.

The cell phone continued to ring, but overcome with grief, she didn’t hear it.

Eventually her uncontrolled frenzy subsided, and she could think clearer. She straightened her back and turned her head toward the dead boy. She didn’t recognize him. She saw the gun in his hand, and in confusion, staggered to her feet and dropped into a chair in front of the desk.

She leaned forward and mourned her husband, her face in her hands, crying, bewildered, and afraid.

In a few minutes she stopped weeping, sat back and took a deep breath. In her confusion, she had dropped her cell phone beside her husband’s body, so she retrieved it and finally silenced the ringing phone.

Then, she dialed 9-1-1.

Chapter 22

Wednesday, August 24th, 12:31 PM

ALWAYS QUICK TO respond, the forensic unit was already at the Garrison house when Hank arrived. He pulled his Chevy up behind it, swung from the vehicle and ducked under the yellow tape cordoning off the property. The forensics team, in their white coveralls, unloaded equipment from the van, streaming in and out of the house.

He made his way up the path to the front door. A uniform was leaning against the doorframe and greeted Hank as he climbed the steps.

“Another lovely day, Hank,” the cop said, handing Hank a pair of booties.

“Yeah, beautiful,” Hank replied as he slipped the shoe covers on and stepped inside the foyer. “Just beautiful.”

An investigator was cleaning up some shards of glass inside the doorway and placing them in an evidence box. Hank stepped carefully around him and into the front room. Other investigators were busy conducting a rigorous examination. Hank spied lead crime scene investigator, Rod Jameson, and approached him.

“Afternoon, Hank,” Jameson said.

Hank nodded hello. “Where’s the victim?”

“Two of them,” Jameson replied, waving toward the office. “In there.”

Hank crossed the front room and stepped inside the office. Investigators were going over the room, fingerprinting and snapping photos. Hank saw the photographer across the room, on the other side of a desk. As he came closer, he saw the bodies on the floor. No matter how often he was called to scenes like this, he never got used to the sight, and was overcome by the senseless tragedy before him now.

He shook it off, stepped closer, and crouched beside the bodies. He saw the 9 mm Glock in the hand of the young boy, the bullet wound in his temple, and the other victim beside him with two bullet wounds in his head.

It looked very much like another murder/suicide.

He sighed and checked the pockets of the boy and found what he expected. Nothing. No identification of any kind.

He stood and turned to see the medical examiner, Nancy Pietek, come into the room. He greeted her with a nod.

“Hello, Hank. What have we here?”

Hank motioned toward the bodies. “Looks like a repeat of yesterday. Another murder/suicide.”

Nancy approached the bodies, bent over and examined them a moment before standing again and turning to Hank. “An exact repeat,” she said. “The wound on the boy’s temple indicates he shot himself. I presume he killed our first victim, and then killed himself.”

Jameson came in the room and touched Hank’s arm. “The victim’s wife is in the kitchen if you want to talk to her.”

Hank nodded. “I’ll be right there. Was she a witness?”

Jameson shook his head. “No, she came home and found them here and called 9-1-1.”

“I suppose there were no witnesses?”

“Nope. And their kids are still at school.”

“Kids?”

“Two.”

Two children, now fatherless. Hank sighed deeply. “I’d better go and see her now.”

When Hank stepped into the kitchen he saw a female officer sitting at the table, talking softly to a woman who he knew must be Mrs. Garrison. Her eyes were red and she clutched a tissue in a trembling hand. The officer stood and left the room as Hank entered. He pulled back a chair beside the overwrought woman, sat and faced her.

“I’m Detective Hank Corning,” he said, his voice gentle, soothing.

The woman turned in her chair and smiled weakly.

Sometimes Hank hated being a detective. His heart was breaking for this distraught woman, and for this broken family. His satisfaction came when they were able to track down the evil people who cared little for others, and finally bring them to justice. That was the only thing that drove him on and allowed him to face this job day after day.

He touched the woman’s hand. “I have a few questions, Mrs. Garrison. Is that all right?”

She nodded.

Hank cleared his throat. “Tell me about how you came to discover . . .”

“I was at school . . . I’m a teacher, and I came home to have lunch with my husband as I often do if he’s at home. And when I came in, I saw the broken glass in the foyer. I searched for him, and finally found . . .” She dropped her head, her shoulders hunched, and sobbed.

“The young man . . . did you know him?”

She looked up and shook her head.

Hank remained quiet, observed her grief, and fought to squelch his rising anger. He had to separate his feelings from his job.

“My children,” she said. “They’re still at school.”

“I’ll send an officer to get them,” Hank said, and then added. “Maybe you’d better go with him.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Garrison said, as she turned her head and blew her nose. Hank handed her another tissue from the box on the table. A bag from a sandwich shop down the street was on the table along with a handbag Hank assumed was Mrs. Garrison’s.

He asked her a few more questions, such as her husband’s name, her name, and the names and ages of her children. He jotted the information in his notepad and tucked it into his pocket.

“We’ll get your children now,” he said, as he pushed back his chair and stood. He went outside where a couple of the first responding officers lounged about near the front door. He arranged for one of them to take Mrs. Garrison to the school and retrieve her children.

The investigators waited until Mrs. Garrison was gone before carting a pair of loaded body bags to the waiting ambulances. The vehicles drove away, taking their burden to the city morgue.

Hank wandered back into the office. Nancy was talking to Jameson and turned toward Hank as he asked, “Can you tell me anything other than what we suspect?”

“It doesn’t look like it, Hank. I’ll let you know.”

Hank nodded. He hoped she would find something. He needed anything that would give him a break in this puzzling case. Anything at all.

Chapter 23

Wednesday, August 24th, 1:54 PM

LISA KRUNK SAT BACK in the passenger’s seat of the news van as it sped across town. They’d come from the latest crime scene and she was fuming because she hadn’t been allowed access to the actual scene and the cops hadn’t so much as given her the time of day.

She’d tried to corner Detective Corning on his way from the house, but he’d avoided her. All she had to show for her time was a few shots of the nonexistent action from outside the house.

She suspected this latest murder was related to the two recent ones, and had a suspicion the Lincolns were involved. She had to get a statement from someone, which she could edit into the footage from the scene. At least she would have something.

As Don wheeled the van onto Carver Street, she smiled with satisfaction when she saw Annie’s Ford Escort in the driveway. The garage door was up, and the Firebird was plainly visible, parked inside.

The Lincolns were at home.

She made it her business to know where people lived, what they drove, where they worked, and how they spent their time. It was necessary if she was going to be able to get the stories she needed.

Lisa pointed toward the curb, just before the driveway. “Pull over here.”

Don touched the brakes, twisted the steering wheel and the van pulled over and stopped.

“Let’s go,” Lisa snapped, as she pushed the door open and stepped out.

Don popped open the driver’s door, swung out from behind the wheel and slid open the back door. He retrieved his camera and hoisted it onto his shoulder. He hurried to catch Lisa, who was already heading up the driveway toward the open garage.

Jake had the hood of the Firebird up and was fiddling around with something. He straightened his back and turned as Lisa reached the door of the garage.

“Jake Lincoln, I’m . . .”

Jake frowned. “Yes, I know who you are.”

“Uh . . . I would like to ask you a few questions if I may?”

Jake pulled a rag from his back pocket and wiped his hands. He looked at the camera with its red light glowing, and then back at Lisa and remained silent.

Lisa began, “Mr. Lincoln, as you know, there have been three murders in the last three days . . .”

“Three murders?”

Lisa smiled. She knew they were pretty cozy with Detective Corning, and seemed to always be up on the latest news, but for once it seemed she had some information before Jake did. All she knew was what she’d heard on the police scanner, so she’d have to wing it.

“I just came from the scene of a double homicide,” she said. “It appears to be related to the previous two. Can you tell me about that?”

Jake frowned as Lisa shoved the mike under his nose. “I am unaware of the details. Perhaps you should speak to the police about it.”

“I spoke to the investigator in charge,” Lisa lied, “but I was hoping you would have something to add.”

Jake shrugged. “Nope.”

Lisa hesitated. “What can you tell me about yesterday’s murder of Bobby Sullivan? Are you investigating that case as well?”

“There’s nothing new to add. Yes, we’re working on it and so are the police. Again, maybe you should speak to them.”

She wasn’t getting anywhere. Time for a new approach. “Perhaps your wife, Annie, might have something to add?”

“I doubt it. She doesn’t know any more than I do about this. And now, if there are no more questions, I have work to do.”

“Thank you, Mr. Lincoln,” Lisa said, faking a smile.

Jake grunted, stuffed the rag into his rear pocket, and turned back to the car.

Don aimed the camera toward Lisa. She said, “We will bring you breaking news as it happens. In an exclusive report, I’m Lisa Krunk, for Channel 7 Action News.” She motioned for Don to shut the camera down.

Lisa spun around and headed to the van, Don trailing behind. She wasn’t satisfied, and couldn’t understand why nobody wanted to talk to her.

~~*~~

JAKE TURNED AND watched Don and Lisa climb in the van and drive away. She was getting to be a severe pain in the neck.

He closed the hood of the Firebird and put away the tools he’d been using, shut the garage door and went into the kitchen through an entrance door. After washing the grime from his hands he went into the office where Annie was at the desk, poring over some paperwork. She looked up when he entered.

Jake dropped into the guest chair and folded his long legs under the seat. “I just got a nice visit from our good friend, Lisa Krunk.”

“Oh?”

“According to her, there’s been another murder.”

Annie dropped the papers and sat back. “Did she give you any details?”

“Not really. Maybe you should call Hank.”

Jake leaned forward, pulled his chair a little closer to the desk and slipped his iPhone from his pocket. He set it between them, hit speed dial, and put it on speaker.

“Detective Hank Corning.”

“Hank, it’s Jake. What’s this I hear about another murder?”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Lisa Krunk.”

Hank chuckled. “So she tracked you down, did she? I doubt if she had much information.”

“Can you fill us in?” Jake asked.