Silent Justice (12 page)

Lisa turned off the mike and flashed a polite smile. “Thank you, Detective,” she said and turned to Jake. “Thank you, Jake.”

Jake and Hank turned away and went to join Annie. She gave a weak smile as they approached. “I just didn’t have any patience for that woman today.”

“That’s understandable,” Hank said, shrugging. “I wouldn’t talk to her either if I didn’t need to.” He paused, glancing toward the school. “Right now I have to find the victim’s next of kin and make a visit.” He looked at his watch. “Can I meet you guys at the precinct in about an hour to get your statements?”

Annie nodded. “We have a few things to take care of this afternoon, but we can work that in first.”

“See you then,” Hank said. He turned, walked toward his vehicle, and disappeared inside.

Jake turned to Annie. “It looks like we’re going to have a busy day.”

“That’s fine by me,” Annie said. “As long as it leads us closer to Adam Thorburn.”

Chapter 21

Wednesday, 10:31 a.m.

HANK ALREADY had Raymond Ronson’s address from his driver’s license, but he wanted a little more information on the man before proceeding with the uncomfortable task he now faced. He gave Callaway a call and waited on the line while the cop looked up the information on Raymond Ronson.

He wondered if he would ever get used to being a homicide detective. Many years ago, he’d been taught never to get emotionally invested with the victims, just do his job and get on with it. But he’d never been able to do that. He took the murder of innocent victims personally, and he knew if he stopped caring, he wouldn’t be able to do his job effectively.

His heart sank when he heard the news from Callaway. Raymond Ronson had a wife. Her name was Eunice and she was sixty-seven years old. Probably married to the same man all of her life, and now the news was going to tear her apart.

“She lives at 827 Flamingo Pond Road,” Callaway continued. “No kids. No driver’s license registered in her name. I checked missing persons reports, and even though her husband never come home last night, she didn’t report it yet.”

“Thanks, Callaway,” Hank said. He hung up the phone, took a deep breath, and started the car, pulling from the lot. He knew exactly where he was headed, and knew the area well.

Fifteen minutes later, Hank turned onto an old winding road and descended into a valley. Flamingo Pond Road was in a picturesque part of the city, like a small, peaceful village secluded from the madness surrounding it. Flamingo Pond lay quietly at the heart of the community, with small houses on large lots in all directions. The waters of the pond sparkled in the midmorning sunlight, large, shady trees dotting the parklike area.

Number 827 was similar to the houses surrounding it. Set on a half acre of land, the century-old dwelling backed onto Flamingo Pond. Mature trees lined the driveway, with manicured dark green grass on all sides of the well-maintained house. Flowers bloomed in abundance along the front of the building, more in a handful of flowerbeds scattered throughout the property.

Hank pulled into the long driveway and stopped in front of the garage, painted white with dark gray trim to match the rest of the house. Raymond had taken loving care of the entire property, and Hank wondered what would happen to the maintenance of this beautiful little place now.

He grabbed his briefcase from the passenger seat, climbed wearily from the vehicle, and walked up the flagstone walkway to the large front verandah. He hesitated a moment, his hand on the brass knocker, and then clanked it three times and waited.

In a few moments, the door swung inward and a little woman stood in the doorway. Not more than five foot two, with beautiful gray hair, a slightly rounded face, and a pleasantly plump build, she was the picture of everyone’s grandmother.

“May I help you?” she asked. Hank saw apprehension on her face as she waited for him to speak.

“Eunice Ronson?” Hank asked.

“Yes, I’m Eunice Ronson.”

Hank cleared his throat. “I’m Detective Hank Corning.”

The woman gasped and her hand shot to her mouth, her brown eyes widening.

“May I come in a moment?” Hank asked.

Eunice remained frozen a moment and then slowly lowered her hand, her eyes still wide. She spoke in a hoarse whisper. “Is this about Raymond? My husband?”

“I’m afraid so, ma’am.” Hank took a breath. “May I come in?”

Eunice stood back and Hank stepped inside. She closed the door and motioned toward the front room.

Hank walked into the room and sat uneasily on the edge of the couch, putting his briefcase on the floor beside him.

Eunice sat in a matching chair and faced him, her back straight, her hands gripped tightly together in her lap. “He didn’t come home last night,” she said softly, her aging face now lined with worry and fear.

Hank took a deep breath. “Mrs. Ronson, I’m sorry to tell you, your husband was … killed last night.”

Eunice took a sharp breath and held it, her wide eyes drilling into Hank’s. She breathed again, rapidly, then one word came out, spoken in disbelief. “Killed?”

Hank nodded. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“How? What happened?”

This was going to be the hard part. Death of a loved one was always impossible to take, but an untimely death at the hands of another was almost unimaginable.

“I’m afraid he was murdered, Mrs. Ronson.”

Eunice took another sharp breath and shook her head rapidly. “No. No. It can’t be.” She paused, frozen, her hand over her mouth, and then her shoulders slumped and she dropped her head.

Hank remained still, watching her grief, his own heart breaking.

Then she raised her head, lifted her chin, her eyes filled with anger. “Who did it? Who killed him?”

“We aren’t sure yet, ma’am. Mr. Ronson’s body was found this morning. We have a suspect, but the investigation has just begun.” Hank explained where the body was found and how her husband was killed.

When he was finished, tears were rolling down her cheeks. She found a tissue in the pocket of her dress and dabbed at her eyes. “Raymond loved that school,” she said quietly. “He worked there for many years and loved his job and the kids.” She sighed, her whole body slumping.

Hand picked up his briefcase and put it on the couch beside him, flipping it open. He removed a photo of Adam Thorburn and held it up for Mrs. Ronson to see. “Do you recognize this man?”

She leaned in and shook her head. “Is that the man who killed my Raymond?”

“It’s possible,” Hank said. “His name is Adam Thorburn. Does that name sound familiar? Perhaps Raymond might’ve mentioned it?”

She shook her head again. “I don’t recall hearing the name.”

“Would you know of anyone else who might’ve wished your husband any harm?”

“Oh, no. Nobody would want to hurt Raymond. He was loved by everybody. We’ve been married for fifty-one years, Detective.” Her fingers went to her wedding ring, twirling it while she spoke. “We were just babies when we got married, but I don’t regret a day of it. My Raymond was the sweetest man I’ve ever known.” Her eyes roved around the spotless room. “We’ve lived in this house since we got married.”

“It’s a beautiful house,” Hank said. “Well taken care of.” He paused and looked intently at Eunice. “Can you think of anything else that might help us?”

She blew her nose gently, then looked at Hank and shook her head. “Did this Adam not admit to it?”

“We’re unable to locate him at the moment,” Hank said.

She took a quivering breath and leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes. When she opened them, she whispered, “May I see my husband?”

“Soon,” Hank said. “The medical examiner is taking good care of him, and I’ll let you know as soon as you can see him.”

“Thank you, Detective.”

“Mrs. Ronson, do you have anyone who can stay with you for a while?”

She nodded and forced a weak smile. “I have a sister close by. She lost her husband a few years ago and lives alone.” She glanced around the room, her eyes resting on a photo perched on the mantel of a fireplace. It was a faded photo of a happy couple on their wedding day. “Perhaps I’ll stay with her awhile.”

“Let me know if you do,” Hank said. “We’ll need to keep in touch with you.” He handed her a business card, snapped his briefcase closed, and stood. “I’ll see myself out. Please call me if you need anything at all.”

She nodded. “I will.”

Hank left the heartbroken woman alone in her empty house as he left quietly and made his way back to his vehicle. He got in and drove away, more determined than ever to find her husband’s killer.

Chapter 22

Wednesday, 11:37 a.m.

THE LINCOLNS stopped at a deli for an early lunch before heading to the precinct to meet Hank. When they arrived, they parked behind the building and went inside. Hank wasn’t at his desk, and they were informed Detective King hadn’t been in all day.

Annie left Jake chatting with Officer Spiegle at the front desk and wandered back to talk to Callaway. The cop looked up from his monitor, rocked his chair back, and grinned at her when she approached his desk.

“Hi, Annie. What brings you here?”

“Oh, nothing much. Just the usual murder and mayhem.”

Callaway gave a short laugh, his face quickly turning somber. “Yeah, it’s sad when this happens. From what I understand, both victims were great people.”

“That’s the worst thing about it,” Annie said, then asked, “Has Hank shown up yet?”

“He went to see Ronson’s wife out by Flamingo Pond. He should be here soon.”

Annie was unaware of Raymond Ronson’s domestic situation. She wasn’t surprised to hear of his wife, but it saddened her. She would make a point of visiting the woman soon. A friendly word always went a long way in a heartbreaking situation.

“I traced the email back to a computer in the main office of the school,” Callaway said. “Lots of people had access to it, and according to forensics, there’re a lot of fingerprints.”

“Any from Adam Thorburn?” Annie asked.

Callaway shook his head. “Forensics lifted Adam’s prints from his mother’s house, so we have something to compare them to, but no match.”

“Any word yet if they found his prints anywhere else? Like on doorknobs or on the murder weapon?”

“Forensics is still processing the scene, and we don’t have anything back from that end of things. Shouldn’t be much longer. I guess Hank’ll be the first to know.” He cocked his head toward the front door. “Speak of the devil.”

Annie followed Callaway’s gaze. Hank was stopped at the front desk, talking to Jake. They looked her way and Hank gave a quick wave.

“Thanks, Callaway. I’ll talk to you later,” Annie said. She went to Hank’s desk and sat in a guest chair. Jake and Hank came over and took seats.

“I left King at the scene,” Hank said. “He’s talking to some of the staff, but I don’t expect much from them.” He pulled his chair in and reached into his drawer for a pad of blank police reports. “Let’s get to it, shall we? It’s just for the record. You’ve done it before and I’m sure you’ll do it again.”

They spent the next few minutes filling out an official report outlining the details of how they came to visit the school that morning and the events surrounding their discovery of Raymond Ronson’s body.

When Annie finished, she signed the report and handed it to Hank. “Tell me about Raymond Ronson’s wife,” she said, sitting back.

Hank sighed, tucked the paper into a folder, and leaned back. “Eunice Ronson. She seems like a sweet old woman. Madly in love with her husband and completely torn up about it. Understandable, of course.”

“And she’s alone now?”

“Says she has a sister close by.”

Annie was relieved to hear the woman had family, but decided she would visit Eunice anyway.

Jake spoke up. “Hank, was there anything at the scene that might lead you to believe the killer was anyone other than Adam Thorburn?”

“I don’t have much back yet, but from what I saw, it all points to Thorburn. There were footprints in the blood, tracked into the school. Probably on his way to the computer. Size eleven shoes. Same as Thorburn’s.”

“And the rose in the victim’s mouth,” Jake said. “That sets a pattern.”

Hank nodded. “That’s the most telling fact. It’s like a signature. Serial killers often leave a message of some kind.” He shook his head and frowned. “I hope that’s not what we’re dealing with here.”

“It’s starting to fit the pattern,” Annie said.

“I hope you’re wrong.”

“So do I.” Annie leaned forward. “Callaway said Adam’s prints weren’t on the computer the email was sent from.”

“Probably wore gloves,” Jake put in.

Annie looked at Jake. “If he did, he probably would have had to take them with him when he ran. I’m not sure that would be on his mind at the time, and it’s doubtful he would’ve picked them up later.”

“He might’ve pulled his sleeve over his hand,” Hank said. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“It strikes me as unusual both murders took place at a school,” Jake said. “And both were schools Adam attended.”

“And he would’ve known of Raymond Ronson,” Hank added. “Ronson has been the janitor there for the last thirty years.”

“But what’s the significance of the schools?”

“We know he had a hard time at school,” Hank said. “He was bullied and misunderstood. And he dropped out after two years of high school.”

“If he was bullied, why not go after the bullies?” Annie asked. “Why the guidance counselor and the janitor?”

“I don’t know,” Hank said, shaking his head. “After all these years, I still don’t understand a killer’s mind. I only know enough to expect the unexpected.”

“Wherever he is,” Jake said, “he came out of hiding long enough to kill and then hid again.”

“And that’s why I would love to be able to forecast his next move, but he’s unpredictable. We have officers watching both schools round the clock in case he shows again. And cops are on the lookout city wide.”