Cold Justice (15 page)

They watched as two officers climbed inside the bin, and
with some difficulty, were able to hoist the body out. It was placed on the
gurney, maneuvered into a body bag, and rolled to the waiting doors of the van.
The gurney was slipped inside, and the doors slammed.

Nancy Pietek climbed into the passenger’s side. The camera
watched as the vehicle pulled away, out of sight.

“Come on, Don.” Lisa hurried over to the group of people
that were watching. Don clicked off the camera and chased behind.

Hank looked at Annie and shook his head. Annie rolled her
eyes. “That woman is a pain,” she said.

Hank laughed. “You got that right.” He looked over to where
Sammy Fisher was sitting, still watching. Better not keep him waiting too long.
Hopefully Lisa doesn’t get to him.

The bin was being emptied now. Everything was carefully
bagged and loaded into the forensics van. It would all be taken back to the lab
and gone over meticulously.

The items on the ground around the bin the evidence markers
were guarding, were bagged, and marked as well. Nothing was missed.

Time to interview Sammy Fisher, but first, a phone call.

Hank hit speed dial one and waited.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Amelia.”

The voice on the other end brightened. He could hear the
smile as she said, “Hi, Hank. We’re waiting for you here.”

Hank hesitated. Amelia had been a victim in a recent case he
had worked on with Jake and Annie. They had become much more than friends since
then. She knew he was a cop, of course, and his work sometimes demanded odd
hours, and forced him to be on call any time, night or day.

“I’m so sorry, Darling,” he said. “I may be a little late. I
have a situation here.”

“We’ll wait for you. I’ll keep dinner in the oven. Do you
know how long you might be?”

Hank thought a moment. “A couple of hours at the most.”

They said goodbye and Hank hung up.

“It’s good to see you found someone that will put up with
you,” Jake said.

Hank laughed. “She’s a keeper,” he said as he turned and
glanced at Sammy. He beckoned to Jake and Annie. “It’s time to talk to Fisher.”

Sammy stood as they approached. “Sammy Fisher?” Hank asked.

Sammy nodded. “Yup.” He bowed slightly toward Annie and
touched his cap. “Good day, ma’am.”

Hank introduced them and offered his hand. Sammy shook it
furiously. He had a good firm grip. Hank studied him a moment, his tattered
clothes, worn-out cap, big bushy beard, but clear, almost beautiful blue eyes.
A rough looking character, but immediately likeable.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Hank said.

“That’s ok.” He beckoned toward the bin. “I know you’re
busy, and I have nothing better to do anyway. And please call me Sammy.” Hank
noticed he was well spoken despite his rough exterior.

“Let’s go around the corner here,” Hank said. He wanted to
be out of sight of Lisa Krunk. She would be sure to interfere if she saw them
talking to Sammy.

They walked around the corner of the building and stopped.

Hank turned to Sammy. “I understand you are the one who found
the body and called it in?”

“Yes, I did. I ran to a pay phone as soon as I saw it. It
took half of my current life savings to make the call.” He laughed. “But that’s
ok.”

Hank smiled, then, “Tell me how you came about discovering
the body.”

Sammy glanced briefly at the sky a moment before speaking. “I
was just gathering up my daily necessities.” He pointed down the row to the
green bin by the restaurant. “Down there. And I checked a couple of the other
bins. You never know what you might find. Anyway, when I got over to that one.”
He nodded toward the taped off area and wrinkled his nose. “Well, I was going
to pass it by, until I caught a whiff. So I climbed up and looked inside, and
voila.”

“I assume you didn’t go in the bin?”

Sammy frowned. “Not a chance.”

“Or touch anything inside?”

“Nope.”

“Did you see anyone around at the time?”

“No, I think everything was closed up by then, and I didn’t
see anybody at all.”

Hank reached into his pocket and pulled out a small roll of
bills. He peeled off a twenty and handed it to Sammy. “Here’s for your trouble,”
he said.

Sammy held up his hands in protest. “Uh uh. No thanks. I don’t
need to get paid for doing the right thing.”

“Take it anyway,” Hank urged.

Sammy stuffed his hands in his pockets and shook his head.

Hank put the bill away and retrieved a business card and a
single dollar. “All right then, here’s my card and enough money for a call if
you think of anything else. You can take that much, right?”

“Yeah, I think that would be ok.” Sammy stuffed the money in
his pocket and glanced briefly at the card before tucking it in his shirt
pocket.

“Is there any way I can get ahold of you if necessary?” Hank
asked.

Sammy laughed. “Nope. I cut my phone service off ten years
ago, and the place where I’m staying has no address.”

“Is there any place we can find you?” Jake asked.

Sammy though a moment. “I’d rather not say. It’s kind of a
secret place, and I wouldn’t want the city to make me leave.”

“Trust me, Sammy,” Hank said. “No one else would know. I
have no desire to cause you any trouble.”

Annie added, “We’re just glad you have a safe place.” Hank
could see she was drawn to this character as well. He had a certain
good-natured charm about him that made him appealing.

Sammy squinted slightly and scrutinized them carefully. “All
right,” he said slowly. “But you gotta promise you won’t say anything.”

They promised.

Sammy paused, pushed his cap back, and scratched his head
before saying, “If you go under the overpass, where Front Street crosses
Richmond River, on the north side of the river, right up the slope until you
hit your head on the bridge. You won’t see it unless you’re right up under
there.” He grinned. “That’s my current residence. It’s not much, but it’s all
mine.”

Jake nodded. “I know the area,” he said.

“Are you sure you don’t want some money? Enough for supper?”
Annie asked.

“Thank you, Detective Annie.” He patted the bag over his
shoulder and smiled. “I have my supper, right here. And enough for tomorrow.”
His smiled turned to a slight frown as he glanced at the bin, and back. “Do you
know who she was?”

“We are pretty sure,” Hank said, “But we can’t say anything
yet until we notify her husband.”

“Sure, I understand.” He looked at Jake. “If you need any
help Detective Jake, just drop by my mansion and I’ll check my calendar. I may
be able to fit you in.”

Jake laughed. “I may just take you up on that.”

Hank said, “Sammy, you’ve been a big help and we appreciate
it.”

“Any time.” He nodded at Jake and Annie. “Goodbye, Detective
Jake, Detective Annie.” Then more seriously to Hank, “I sure hope you find
whoever did this.”

“We hope so too.” He offered his hand. “Take care of
yourself, Sammy.” They shook, and Sammy watched them as they walked away, and
then turned and ambled toward the street.

The forensics van was just leaving. Lisa Krunk and Don
seemed to have vanished, the tape had been removed, and everything was back to
normal.

Hank walked Jake and Annie to the Firebird. After the two
had climbed inside, he leaned against Jake’s open window, and said, “Now I have
to tell Anderson Blackley about his wife.”

“That shouldn’t be as bad as it usually is,” Jake said, as
he brought the engine roaring to life. “He doesn’t seem to care much about her
anyway.”

Hank nodded. “Yeah, but it’s still no fun,” he said, and
then stepped back and watched the bright red Pontiac kick up a little gravel
and roar from sight around the end of the row of units.

Chapter 25

Thursday, August 18th, 5:15 PM

SAMANTHA RIGGS had arrived at work this morning as usual.
The only thing that wasn’t usual is Philip Macy wasn’t there yet. He was always
in before her.

And then he had called. He wouldn’t be in today.

When Philip explained his wife had committed suicide the day
before, Samantha was distraught, almost hysterical, and was barely able to make
it through the day. Couldn’t keep her mind on her work.

It didn’t seem like Abby to take an overdose and end her
life. She knew Abby was depressed, but she had known her for a long time. It
just didn’t make sense. But, on the other hand, Philip had said the coroner had
ruled it as suicide. Perhaps it was.

And now, as she shut down her computer, grabbed her purse
from the bottom drawer of her desk, and flicked off the lights, she was feeling
a little better. The blow that had overwhelmed her at first had now subsided to
a numb sadness.

She felt sympathetic for Philip, and had promised to take
care of things at work for as long as he needed. She hoped it wouldn’t be too
long, though. It was a small firm, just the two of them now, and a
receptionist. When Abby had stopped showing up a few weeks ago, it had put more
pressure on the rest of them. And now, at least for a few days, Samantha would
have to handle the client load by herself.

She locked the office suite behind her and waited for the
elevator. She squeezed into the pack of departing workers; the elevator dropped
two floors and the doors opened with a hiss. She stepped out, crossed the
lobby, and followed the horde from the high-rise office building, through the
spinning door to the street. She caught the first bus and crowded on, standing
room only, holding onto an overhead bar as the bus jiggled her homeward.

Fifteen minutes later she stepped off, just a couple of
minutes walk from home. But first. She went to a nearby deli for a prepackaged
sandwich and some soup in a cardboard container, and then made her way from the
main thoroughfare and down a side street to her mundane apartment building, a
big square block of bricks and mortar.

Inside the lobby, she checked her mailbox. A couple of
bills, a lot of junk, and a hand-addressed envelope. No return address. She
stuffed the stack under her arm and climbed one flight of stairs to her
apartment.

She dropped everything on her tiny kitchen table and selected
a can of Pepsi from the fridge, a glass from the cupboard, and sat down.

She went through the mail as she sipped her soup. The bills
would go in a stack to be paid later, the rest was garbage. Except for the
curious envelope.

She slit it open with her thumb and withdrew a single sheet
of paper. She unfolded it and started to read, her mouth dropping open, her
meal forgotten.

Dear Sam,

I am sending this letter to you because I know if nothing
happens to me, if I am still ok when you receive this, then you will keep this
note, just in case, and not show it to anyone.

However, I am afraid for my life. In the event something
happens to me, then please take this letter to the police.

Sam, you are the only one I have told in detail about who I
witnessed murdering a woman on Sunday evening. Philip, my dear Philip, believed
I saw a murder, but the police did not. And so, I am hoping if this letter has
to be revealed, then they will take it seriously now.

The man I saw was Dr. Boris Hoffman. I saw him strangle a
woman on the lawn of a neighbor’s house. The woman appeared to be half naked,
dressed only in a red bra and panties. I couldn’t see her face and so couldn’t
tell who she was.

When he saw me watching him, he chased me, but left when I
got to the front door of my home. I am afraid he will return. Since I am a
patient of his, he knows me. He had already told the police I am delusional.
Believe me, I’m not delusional. I know what I saw.

If I die, I know it will be by his hand. I have no proof.
Only what I saw that night.

If I’m dead, they will have to believe me now.

The note was signed and dated.

Samantha sat still for a while, staring unseeing at the
paper in her hand, and then folded it carefully, thoughtfully, and stuffed it
back into the envelope.

Philip had told her Abby had committed suicide. Did he
really believe that? Did the police believe that?

Samantha didn’t believe it now.

She would have to call the police.

She stood and reached for the phone on the counter, picking
up the receiver. She hesitated, and then hung it up. She stood for a moment,
the note in her hand, and then finally bent down and tucked it carefully into
the bottom drawer of the cupboard, safely hidden underneath a stack of
magazines.

Thursday, August 18th, 6:18 PM

DETECTIVE HANK CORNING drove down the tree-lined street and
squeaked to a stop in front of 90 Berrymore. He had never been here before, but
he knew the area well.

He squinted at the house. He wasn’t sure if Anderson
Blackley would be home, but when he saw the black Subaru parked in the
driveway, he shut off his vehicle and stepped out.

He strode up the pathway, climbed the steps to the front
door, and rang the bell.

Blackley came to the door dressed in a housecoat. His hair
was damp and needed a comb. Probably just took a shower.

“Anderson Blackley?” Hank asked.

“Yes.”

Hank showed his ID. “I’m Detective Hank Corning. May I come
in for a minute?” he asked. “I need to speak to you.”

Blackley stepped back and allowed Hank to enter, leading him
into the front room. He motioned toward a chair by the large stone fireplace.
Hank sat as Blackley tightened the belt of his housecoat snugly around him and
dropped onto the couch. He looked at Hank and waited.

Hank cleared his throat. “Mr. Blackley,” he said. “It’s
about your wife.” He cleared his throat again and paused. “I’m sorry, but I
have to inform you she has been found. She’s dead.”