Justification for Murder (25 page)

Saturday

T
yler Warren tossed one more time in his huge bed. The Tempur-Pedic mattress followed his body, making him feel as if he hadn’t moved at all. His eyes were dry. He hadn’t been able to sleep, even though he had taken a large dose of Ambien.

Harper Johnson was dead. Tyler traced all of his steps, all of his meetings with him in his mind one more time. The prepaid phones. The only two places they had normally interacted were the support group and the shooting range. Both inconsequential enough, he thought. He decided to not worry about anybody remembering him at the dive bar, where he had made Harper the proposition.

The money he’d given him couldn’t be traced to any of his accounts, as he’d used the cash he’d withdrawn from his account in the Caymans months before this whole thing had started. He didn’t know how much the police knew. He wished he knew somebody in the department or at least the news would share more.

He turned around one more time and heard the phone rang.

“What’s up, sis?” His voice was hoarse. He swallowed hard. He didn’t want to deal with her but knew it would be worse to avoid her.

“Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with that.” she yelled into the phone.

He almost dropped it, startled by her intensity.

“With what exactly?”

He sat on the bed, suddenly feeling the heat of the morning sun coming in through the blinds.

“The massacre at coffee shop!” Her shouts pierced his eardrum.

“Please calm down.”

He got out of bed and put on a pair of black light wool pants.

“You told me you were dealing with a guy named Harper. The asshole who killed all those people is also a Harper. Is it the same guy?” she asked, but her voice had lost its force.

Tyler figured she probably didn’t want to know. “Yes.”

“Oh my god, Tyler. What have you done?”

“Nothing has changed. Do you understand me? We’re working really hard to find the cure for cancer. We’re very close and nothing can stop that, or many more people are going to die.” He paused but realized he needed to hammer the point home. “Remember how much Anne struggled? Think of everybody you see coming through your office every day, how much they suffer, how much their loved ones suffer because of this disease.” He heard her cry on the other side. “Sis, we’re going to find the cure, I swear to you. We just need a little bit more time. And I need your help.”

She still didn’t say anything.

“Let me come over. I’ll make you grandma’s blueberry pancakes.”

She didn’t say no.

D
arcy woke up to the sound of the alarm clock. He had fallen asleep with the phone by the pillow in case Saffron called asking for a ride back to his place. But she hadn’t called. Not once since he left her with that loser ex-boyfriend.
Or maybe boyfriend again
, he thought.

After the shower and a strong cup of coffee, Darcy headed to the office and was surprised to find both Jon and Sorensen already there, even though it wasn’t eight in the morning yet.

“Did you guys work all night?”

“No. Dr. Leavenworth is coming this morning to answer more questions,” Jon said, not raising his eyes from the computer screen.

“That easy?” Darcy asked, surprised.

“With her lawyer,” Sorensen added.

“Ah.” Darcy sat on Sorensen’s visitor’s chair. “Is she good for this?” he asked, looking at the whiteboard.

“She’s the best we’ve got so far.”

“But that doesn’t make her guilty,” Darcy said.

“I know,” Sorensen conceded, and Jon looked up and watched both detectives.

They all fell silent.

“So this is where the party is, then?” Rachel said, leaning on the doorframe.

A few other detectives walked in behind her. It was going to be a busy Saturday.

“Always.” Sorensen’s voice was flat. “Give us some good news,” he pleaded.

“I have confirmation that Harper Johnson’s DNA matches the DNA on the gloves you found in his car, and the pleather pieces we found under the car of Jacqueline Pritchard and between Emma Hughes’ teeth seem consistent with pieces missing on the gloves.”

“Yes.” Darcy punched the desk with his fist.

“Consistent?” Sorensen asked, pooping the party.

“That’s the best I can do. They look very close, but I can’t be a hundred percent sure, as there is a small section that is missing from the Hughes’ piece, and the gloves have more wear, so the edges of the missing pieces on the gloves have softened a little.” She pulled out the photographs she’d brought to show them.

“They look close enough to me,” Sorensen said, pushing away the photos. “We still don’t know why he did it,” he added.

“I have something else,” Rachel said.

“This good?” Darcy asked.

“Maybe.” She flashed a coy smile. “Mauricio confirmed that the rifle our guys found in Johnson’s car had been fired in the last twenty-four to forty-eight hours, and the caliber is consistent to what was used to kill David Jameson at the hunting park.”

“No fucking way,” Sorensen said. “So you’ve now closed all of your cases?”

He slouched in his chair, defeated.

Darcy looked at his board. “Yep,” he said, satisfied. To hammer the pointe, he said, “I keep telling you, Rachel, you’re the best.”

She beamed.

“Do you have anything for me?” Pouting as a little kid who didn’t get picked to play dodge ball, Sorensen squeezed his stress ball and looked at her.

“Unfortunately, that’s all I’ve got today.” She looked down at her hands, then added, “You know, Detective Sorensen, there’s little I can do with your suicides, because there’s no evidence of foul play.”

When she walked out of the room, her shoulders were a little hunched over, making her smaller than she already was.

“Y
ou know what?” Sorensen told Darcy after Rachel left. “You can keep that smug face all you want, but you still don’t have motive. You’re not done.”

“Why are you so bitter? You should be happy for me.”

“Prick,” Sorensen said under his breath.

“Now I have extra time to help you with yours,” Darcy teased.

“I thought you quit. Shouldn’t you be leaving your badge and your gun with the captain?”

Jon watched them banter from behind his computer screen. Then stood as soon as Dr. Leavenworth and her lawyer walk into the room. Sorensen got up and escorted them to the closest interview room.

Darcy and Jon followed and entered the adjacent room so they could watch Sorensen in action.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked.

They both said no.

“I appreciate you coming back this morning.” His sarcasm was only barely noticeable.

Dr. Leavenworth rolled her eyes, and Wilmore patted her hand before he said, “Detective, let’s get to the point.”

“Mr. Wilmore, there are already thirteen victims in this case, and every hour we seem to find more. They’re all dead but one, and that one’s only alive because of pure luck. I would imagine that you’d want your client to help us solve this case.” The intensity of his blue eyes burnt. “Especially when they are all connected to her.”

“Only because they are, were, my patients,” she protested.

“So what were you doing to them?”

“Nothing.” She raised her voice and her body stiffened. “How many times do I have to tell you?”

“Where did you meet Harper Johnson?” Sorensen said, changing the subject.

“I don’t know this man.”

“Don’t lie to me. I know you do. He’s personally responsible for killing Jacqueline Pritchard, Emma Hughes and David Jameson and for trying to kill Saffron Meadows. And we are close to connecting him to a few other homicides.”

“I’m very sorry they are dead, Detective, but I don’t know why they are dead, and I certainly don’t know who Harper Johnson is.” Her voice was low now, almost apologetic.

“Why did you want these people dead?”

“Detective, please stop. Either you treat my client with the respect she deserves, or we walk out of here until you have an arrest warrant.”

Sorensen pushed his chair away from the table, then said, “I’ll be right back. I need some coffee.”

He left the room and walked next door to see Darcy and Jon.

“I need something to rattle this woman.” He passed his large sweaty hand over his face, and left.

With a full, steaming cup, he came back to check. “Anything?”

Darcy shook his head.

Jon, with his typical shy voice, said, “I’m not sure this would help, but I’ve been reading a lot about doctors.”

Both detectives stared at him.

“Maybe she was volunteering her patients to some start-up with an experimental drug? Not sure how that connects the murder victims, but maybe you can push something on that end for the suicides?”

Darcy looked up at Sorensen and saw his face light up.

Jon took the cue and continued: “Doctors enticing patients to participate in experimental drugs is quite common.”

“Maybe she was getting kickbacks from a start-up?” Darcy suggested.

Sorensen walked toward Jon, who was the only one sitting down and seemed very small against him, then punched his shoulder.

“Dude, you’re truly brilliant.”

He turned to get back to his interview. Before he left the room, he said, looking over his shoulder, “So, what are you doing still here? Go dig into it.”

Jon leaped out of his chair and sneaked through the small opening left between the doorframe and Sorensen’s body.

“You’re going to have to hire that kid full-time,” Darcy said once Jon was out of earshot.

“First thing on Monday, I’ll sit in Virago’s office until she signs the papers.”

Back in the interview room, Sorensen set the cup on the table but didn’t sit. He paced the length of the room without looking at the doctor or his lawyer. Then he stopped right in front of Leavenworth and placed his massive hands on the table, closer to her than to himself. Leaning forward, he asked, “How much are they paying you?”

Doctor Leavenworth looked at her attorney.

“What are you talking about?” he asked for her.

“How much are you getting for using your patients as guinea pigs?”

“I have never!” she said, standing up and crossing her arms, as if that would make her bigger against Sorensen.

“Let me tell you what I know.” He sat down, his eye level with hers. “I know that you convinced Juliette Davis, Taisha Robinson, Sheila Rothschild and Sonia McCarthy to participate in a fucked-up human trial.”

“Detective,” Wilmore objected, raising his hand, as if that would protect his client from foul language.

“You should advise your client that things will go much better for her if she cooperates and tells us what the company she’s in cahoots with is,” he said to the lawyer, never breaking eye contact with Leavenworth.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, still standing up. “This is ridiculous.”

“Doctor, they’re all your patients. You need to stop lying to us.” When she didn’t respond but pursed her lips tighter, he went on: “I know the trial went wrong somewhere, because they’re all dead and they all died the same way. And I know it was easy to convince them to participate in the experimental trial, because they needed a sliver of hope because they all had cancer.”

“You’re wrong, Detective. Sonia McCarthy didn’t have cancer.”

D
arcy called Jon and asked him to bring him the McCarthy file. Less than a minute later he came with it and settled beside Lynch. He continued his research while the detective skimmed through the ME’s report. Darcy couldn’t find anything indicating the victim had cancer, so he called Madison putting the phone on speaker.

“If you do an autopsy on a suicide victim, is it standard procedure to note any findings of cancer?”

“Good morning to you too, Detective Lynch.”

Darcy exchanged glances with Jon.

“Good morning, Dr. Madison. How’s your morning so far?” Darcy asked, trying to hide his frustration.

“Busy, very busy.”

“I have a question for you. We’re in the middle of interrogating a person of interest in the multiple suicide case, and I would really appreciate your help.”

Jon smiled back at Darcy.

“MEs should note everything they find. Including cancer.” Dr. Madison said. “Sometimes it’s easy to miss because it may be really small, but the complete physical state of the victim should be thoroughly described.”

Darcy thought for a few seconds. “But there were no entries about cancer in any of the suicide victims’ reports.” He tried to not sound accusatory.

“That’s because every one of them had essentially performed a self-mastectomy, removing the affected section of the tissue. You have to remember that some of these lumps might only be a few millimeters in diameter. Even if they were a few centimeters in size, if CSU didn’t collect all of the tissue, there would be no way for us to find it.”

“Makes sense. Thank you, Doctor. This is very helpful.”

He hung up the phone and dialed again.

“Hey, Danielson, Lynch here.”

“Whoa, two calls in one week,” the Seattle detective said. “I never knew you missed me so much.”

“You have no idea. You heard of the coffee shop massacre?”

“That you?”

“Yep.”

“I don’t envy your captain. That was some ugly shit there. Anyway, what’s up?”

“Do you remember if Sonia McCarthy had cancer? There’s nothing on the ME report.”

Silence filled the room. Darcy looked at Jon and crossed his fingers.

“It never came up,” Danielson responded.

“Do you think your ME could have missed it?”

“Gabriella Campellini? Are you kidding?”

“She’s still around? Jesus, what is she, about a hundred years old now?” He laughed, remembering his old ME.

“I think she’s probably closer to a hundred fifty. But yep, she’s still around.”

“That woman will never retire,” Darcy said, still smiling.

“Let me double-check with her and make a few calls to the victim’s family, and I’ll get back to you later today.”

“We’re interviewing a person of interest as we speak.”

“Got it. I’ll get back to you in less than thirty.”

“I owe you.”

“You always say that. About time you start paying up,” he said, and Darcy could feel the smile on the other end.

Darcy called Sorensen out of the interview room. Sorensen excused himself.

“Are we close to done, Detective?” Wilmore asked before he left.

“No, we’re not.”

“My client has been cooperating from the very beginning. This is getting really close to harassment,” Wilmore protested.

Darcy watched Sorensen wave a hand in dismissal. The attorney sat back and looked as if he’d been punched in the gut. Dr. Leavenworth whispered something to him when Sorensen turned and closed the door behind him.

“It better be good,” he said, still hoping for a Hail Mary.

Lynch shared his conversations with the ME and the Seattle detective.

“How does this help me?” Sorensen passed a beefy hand over his tired face. Blond strands came lose and dropped back into his eyes as his hand moved backwards. “I really need a haircut.”

Nobody responded. The only noises were the faint humming of the air conditioning and Jon’s fingers tapping the laptop’s keyboard.