Patricia Dusenbury - Claire Marshall 01 - A Perfect Victim (22 page)

"Do you have any idea who?"

"Not a clue." Melissa pushed her cup aside and stood up. "I'm open until five. After that,
slide the key under the door. Hatch gets out tomorrow morning or this city is looking at a
lawsuit."

Claire took a cab from the café to the zoo, entered through one gate and minutes
later, exited through another. If anyone was following her, she'd lost them. With Hatch in jail, the
police had no reason to keep watching his apartment, but she wasn't taking any chances there
either. She walked past on the opposite side of the street, checking the parked cars. None were
occupied. Reassured, she crossed at the next corner and backtracked.

The parking lot was full, and a black SUV sat in the space marked 209. Either the police had
let Hatch drive his car home, or someone else had parked in his space, or... Claire hesitated. What if
he was here? No, Melissa had been positive he was in jail until Monday morning, and she'd
know.

A solid looking woman swept the sidewalk, vigorously swinging her broom back and forth.
A man, wearing a baseball cap and a windbreaker despite the balmy temperature, descended the
back stairs and hurried away, taking a short cut behind the building. He looked familiar, but no
name came to mind. Claire made an innocuous comment about the nice day to the woman, who
grunted and continued sweeping. Then she headed for the back stairs, telling herself to act as if she
had every right to be there. Just in case Melissa was wrong, she rang the buzzer. When no one came
to the door, she opened it.

The apartment smelled of cigarette smoke. A man's arm dangled beside the recliner, inches
away from a beer can that sat on the floor. Hatch? Flickering light said the television was on, but
there was no sound. Opening the door had let in more light, but the arm didn't move. Its owner
must be asleep.

Claire stepped back, ready to close the door and sneak away. Below, the rasp of
broom-straw against cement ceased. She felt the woman watching and knew her only option was to brazen
it out. She knocked on the open door and called hello.

The man made a noise somewhere between a snore and a gurgle, but his arm didn't
move.

"Are you all right?" she called.

He gurgled again, louder this time, a terrible noise.

She hurried inside. "Hello?"

Hatch looked at her through glazed eyes. Bright red blood pulsed from holes in his chest,
three circles spread across the front of his shirt, merging to form one big bloodstain.

She ran outside and yelled to the woman below, "Call an ambulance! Hurry!"

She raced back in, grabbed the pillow from the bed, and knelt next to the chair, pressing the
pillow against his chest, trying to staunch the bleeding. "Hang on, Hatch, please hang on. Help's on
the way. They'll be here soon."

Any response was lost in the awful sounds of his struggle for breath.

* * * *

Soap and water cleansed Claire's arms and hands, but dabbing at her clothes made little
difference. "Do you have something I can put on?" she asked the police matron, who stood beside
the door, arms folded across her chest, watching. "My clothes are soaked with blood. The smell is
making me sick."

"If you don't like the smell of blood, you shouldn't go around shooting people."

"I didn't shoot anyone. I tried to help a man who'd been shot. Please, the officers took my
sweater. I'd like it back so I can at least take off my blouse."

"Captain Robinson is waiting to talk to you. Ask him about your sweater."

Claire remembered Felix's admonition about talking to the police. "When can I call my
lawyer?"

"Ask Captain Robinson."

There was nothing to do but wash her blouse in the sink. She rinsed it until the water ran
clear, wrung it out as best she could and put it back on, soaking wet. She did the same with her
slacks. The matron watched without comment.

"I'm ready." Claire shivered in her wet clothes. She could still smell Hatch's blood.

Mike Robinson stood with his back to the door, looking out the window. The matron
rapped her knuckles against the doorframe, and he turned around.

"Come in." Before she could ask about her sweater, he told the matron to fetch a blanket,
"Quickly."

"Thank you," was all Claire could manage. She'd been fighting back tears ever since the
police bundled her into a squad car, and this small kindness almost put her over the edge. He
helped her wrap the blanket around her shoulders and held the chair while she sat down.

"How about coffee? Hot with lots of sugar. You've had a shock."

"No thank you. I'm okay, just cold and wet." If she ate or drank anything, she'd throw up.
"I'd like to call my lawyer." She wanted to lay her head on the desk and go to sleep.

"Of course. But first I want to clarify that you're not under arrest."

"I'm not?" That's not what the uniformed officers had told her. Two of them had escorted
her past a crowd of gawking people and put her in the back seat of a squad car. She'd seen scenes
like that on TV when the police were arresting someone who'd held up a convenience store or
murdered his wife. "They tested my hands for gunpowder residue."

"There's a witness, who is adamant that you couldn't possibly have shot Hatch. She
mentioned a man who left just as you arrived."

Claire said a silent thank you to the cranky woman with the broom.

"She was watching you the whole time. Her story and the physical evidence support
everything you told the responding officers."

"Did he make it?"

He raked his fingers through his hair. "Hatch died on the way to the hospital."

"I couldn't stop the bleeding. He was drowning in his own blood. I could hear it." She pulled
the blanket tighter.

"You did all you could."

"When can I go home? And please sit down. You're making me nervous."

He leaned back against the desk so that he was no longer standing over her. "You're free to
go, but I'd like to get your statement as soon as you're up to it. We're especially interested in the
man leaving the premises. Did you see him?"

"Only from a distance."

"Can you describe him?"

"That other woman was closer. I want to go home and get clean."

"I'll have a squad car take you."

"Thank you."

"But I still need a formal statement."

"Can I call my lawyer?"

He slid the phone over to her.

* * * *

Three hours later, Felix Moreau picked her up at the carriage house and drove her to police
headquarters. Captain Robinson, Superintendent Vernon, Lieutenant Breton, and Deputy Corlette
waited in a conference room. No one smiled when she and Felix walked in. She stopped in the
doorway, ready to turn around and leave.

"You'll be fine," Felix murmured in her ear. He took her arm and guided her toward a chair.
Then, he spoke to Superintendent Vernon. "You know the rules, Henry. My client will not be
badgered. One person asks questions, not one person at a time, one person period."

Mike Robinson volunteered. He asked if she was comfortable and then began questioning
her about the man who had been leaving the apartments.

"I told you, I barely saw him. He was never close."

"Close your eyes, Claire," he suggested, "and picture him coming down the stairs. What do
you see?"

She did as he suggested and was surprised by how well it worked. "He's a big man, tall with
broad shoulders, not fat but maybe a little stocky. He's moving quickly down the back stairs. His
hand is sliding along the banister. I can't see his face, because he's looking down, and he has on a
baseball cap and sunglasses, the wrap-around kind. He's wearing faded blue jeans, and a light tan
windbreaker partly zipped. I can't really see the shirt underneath--maybe a white tee shirt."

"Was he wearing boots or shoes?"

"I didn't notice them." She pictured him again. "I think shoes, brown, maybe."

"And when he gets to the bottom of the stairs?"

"He turns away from me, toward the back of the building. He goes around the corner and
he's gone. He seemed in a hurry, but nothing furtive--not like he'd just shot someone."

"About how old would you say he was?"

"I don't know. Not young but not old either."

"You told the officers he looked familiar."

"I don't know why I said that." Too much had happened for her to recall feelings. "I'm sorry,
but--"

"Don't apologize. You're doing very well. Do you have any other impressions of him?"

"I wondered why he was wearing a windbreaker. It was warm out."

He asked if she'd like a break, but she declined. She only wanted to get this behind her.

After a series of questions about what she saw and did in Hatch's apartment, he asked, "Can
you describe your trip from the café to Hatch's apartment?"

The change of subject took her by surprise. "I cut through the zoo."

"Why? You said you were in a hurry to get your sweater. The zoo was a side trip."

She buried her face in her hands.

"My client has been through enough," Felix said. "I'm taking her home."

"Before you leave, one more thing." He said that she was being put under protective
surveillance and explained what that meant. He her gave her his direct number, and told her to call
anytime something seemed out of line. "I'm concerned about your safety."

Felix held her arm as they walked back to the parking lot and helped her into the car. She
waited until they were out of the parking lot and then apologized. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about
the zoo, Felix. I forgot." The horror of finding Hatch had erased everything else from her mind.
"After Melissa left the café, I took a cab to the zoo. I walked in one entrance and out another
as quickly as I could without attracting attention."

He gave her a sideways glance.

"I thought the police might be following me, and I didn't want them to know I was going to
Hatch's apartment. Mike Robinson told me not to go back there."

He pulled over and turned to face her. "So did I, Claire. And I can't help you if you don't take
my advice. You and I both need to give this situation some serious consideration."

"I need your help, Felix. They said I wasn't a suspect, but that's not true, is it?"

"The police believe they're looking at a conspiracy that involved Hatch. Going back to his
apartment makes you look like part of it--whether or not you fired the shots that killed him. If I
were you," he continued, "I'd leave town before the police told me not to. And I wouldn't let anyone
except my long-suffering lawyer know where I was going."

"You want me to run away?"

"I want you to go to a secure location. If you saw the killer, he saw you." He touched her
arm. "Mike Robinson isn't the only person concerned about your safety."

Mike skimmed the weekend report: two homicides on Friday, two on Saturday and one on
Sunday. The bloodshed began Friday evening when a domestic dispute left the wife dead, stabbed
multiple times with a large kitchen knife. Detectives were looking for the husband, who was
thought to be hiding at the home of a relative. Several hours later, a poker game ended with a
gunshot. Responding officers found the remorseful killer standing over the victim, apologizing to
his best friend and drinking buddy, who was beyond hearing anything.

Saturday night, gang violence claimed another victim, ambushed when he crossed the
wrong street. Police had been nearby, not close enough to prevent the killing but close enough to
apprehend the shooter. An hour later, a convenience store clerk was killed during a robbery. The
incident was captured by the store's security system, and detectives would be circulating the
gunman's picture. He looked about fifteen. They'd probably find him at the local high school. And
then there was Hatch, the last victim, discovered about noon Sunday, when Claire Marshall went to
his apartment, she said, to retrieve her sweater.

Barring unforeseen complications, the first four would be wrapped up quickly, one-day
sensations on the local news that left barely a ripple in the lives of all but those directly involved.
Media attention would stay focused on Hatch's death, which reflected badly on the police
department and very badly on Assistant Superintendent Henry Vernon. The Super had ordered
Hatch's release after Ben Patterson called him at home, furious that his client was still in jail after
the judge said to let him go.

Vernon had acted on his own, and he'd failed to inform anyone working the case. If he had,
Hatch would have been under surveillance and might still be alive. The man who held the key to
solving Frank Palmer's murder walked out of jail at nine o'clock Sunday morning. Three hours later,
he was dead.

Mike ran his fingers through his hair. Yesterday afternoon, when he told Corlette what had
happened, the deputy had been incredulous, and rightly so. It would be interesting to see how
Vernon handled the issue at the staff meeting. The senior homicide staff usually met downstairs, but
today they would be meeting with the Super in his conference room. Time to go.

Breton was waiting for the elevator. "Did you see the paper?" Without waiting for an
answer, he said, "A reporter chased the ambulance to Hatch's apartment. There's a front page
exclusive, complete with picture of Claire Marshall being escorted to a patrol car. It makes the
connection to Palmer's murder and hints that she's a suspect in both deaths."

"Did they talk to anyone here?"

"Vernon, who said no one had been arrested. Otherwise, no comment."

Mike remembered Corlette's remark about karma. He waited until they were alone in the
elevator to ask, "Did they run any of Vernon's quotes from his press conference? You know, having
a suspect in hand, being on the verge of an arrest."

"One sentence at the end of the article says Hatch had been held and released."