Cold Justice (6 page)

“Abby?” he called. “Are you here?”

No answer.

He stepped inside the lobby and dropped his briefcase onto
the floor, walking into the kitchen.

“Abby, are you here?”

No answer. Probably up in her room.

He ran up the steps and into the guest room, calling her
name. The room was empty. He was sure he would find her here. He walked back
down the stairs.

It was when he went into the living room he saw her. She was
slouched back in the stuffed chair in an unnatural position.

He dashed over to her. Something didn’t seem right.
Frightened now, he shook her gently, trying to wake her. There was no response.

“Abby. Honey. Wake up!” He shook her more, almost violently
now.

Her eyes were closed. She looked to be sleeping peacefully,
but still no response to his pleading.

He checked her pulse. On her arm, then her neck. Nothing.
She didn’t appear to be breathing. Her skin felt cool.

Panicking now, he dug furiously into his pocket. Found his
cell phone. He dialed quickly, his hand shaking. His whole body shaking.

Two rings, then, “9-1-1. What is your emergency?”

He spoke rapidly. “It’s my wife. She’s unconscious. I can’t
revive her. Maybe she’s dead.”

“I’ll send an ambulance right away. What’s your address,
sir?” The operator spoke calmly.

“88 Silverpine Street. Please hurry.”

“It’s on its way now. Sir, is she breathing?”

“No, she doesn’t seem to be.”

“Do you know how to perform CPR?”

“Yes. Yes, I’ll try.”

He dropped the phone onto the coffee table, leaving the
speaker on, and carefully lifting Abby from the chair, he laid her on the
floor. He forced her head back and her mouth open, blowing his own air into her
lungs, over and over again.

He tried to get her heart pumping. Working furiously. Her
heart didn’t respond. She didn’t breathe. He wasn’t getting any sign of life.

Again, he forced air into her mouth. Into her lungs. He
begged her to answer him, as he pumped furiously at her heart, again and again.

The awful truth finally crashed into him, and he stopped. He
rose from his knees and sat on the edge of the chair, his face in his hands,
sobbing uncontrollably.

“Abby,” he wept. “My Abby.”

Finally, he sat back, trying to gain some control of
himself. He wanted desperately to make some sense of this. It was then he
noticed the half-full bottle of vodka and the nearly empty bottle of pills on
the stand beside the chair.

He was bewildered. Had she done this herself? Had she
overdosed? He blamed himself. He should never have left her alone. He dropped
his head and wept again, in shock and disbelief. “It can’t be. It can’t be,” he
said, again and again.

He fell to the floor, holding her in his arms, “Abby,” he
moaned. “Oh, Abby. My Abby.”

He could hear the sirens in the distance now. He looked up
and listened. The ambulance was coming. He prayed they would know what to do.
Maybe she’s not dead. Maybe just sleeping. Unconscious.

He lay her back down gently, and then stood and ran to the
door. He had locked it again when he came in, so he unlocked it and swung it
open, begging for them to hurry.

The ambulance screeched to a stop in his driveway. The doors
opened and two paramedics climbed out carrying some equipment. As they hurried
up the steps and through the open door, he motioned toward the living room.

“In here,” he said.

They rushed in, one paramedic kneeling down beside her. He
checked her pulse. He checked for signs of breathing, and then sat back. He
looked at Philip and shook his head slowly.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “She’s gone. There’s nothing we
can do.”

“She can’t be,” Philip’s voice was frenzied. “She can’t be.
Try again.”

“I’m sorry, sir. There’s no pulse. She’s gone.”

Philip dropped to the couch and wept in despair as the
paramedics went back outside, returning in a moment with a gurney. He watched
as they lifted his wife’s body onto the gurney, covering her face with a
snow-white sheet.

One at each end, they carried her out the door, and loaded
her into the vehicle.

Philip stumbled into the back of the ambulance and it sped
away. The lights flashed and the sirens screamed, drowning out the sound of
Phil’s own wailing, as he knelt on the floor of the vehicle, holding his wife’s
cold dead hand.

Chapter 10

Wednesday, August 17th, 5:32 PM

THE DOOR LEADING from the garage to the kitchen slammed.
Jake walked in. Annie slouched sideways at the kitchen table reading a book on
police procedure. Her feet were propped up onto a chair beside her, a half
finished cup of coffee at her elbow. She looked up as he came in.

“Did you get the oil changed?” she asked, as he went to the
sink to wash his hands.

“Yup,” he said, and then, “Where’s the grease remover?”

“Under the sink,” she said, gulping down the rest of her
coffee.

“How was the visit with your mother?” Jake asked, scrubbing
at the grime on his fingers.

Annie dropped her feet and sat up. She tucked the bookmark
into the book and closed it, sliding it away. “The usual.”

Jake grinned over his shoulder at her. “Any gossip?” he
asked.

Annie laughed. “No. Thankfully, she had to get to work and
didn’t stay too long.”

“Hey Mom. Hey Dad.” Matty gave the usual greeting. He had
been next door playing with Kyle since he came home from school.

Annie caught him as he went by and gave him a hug. Jake
turned and said, “Hey Mat.”

Matty went out the back door onto the deck. They could hear
him kicking around a soccer ball.

“I checked out Timmy, the Macy’s little boy,” Annie said.
She told Jake about the news story she had found online, and the tragic
accident that had taken his life.

Jake whistled, “Wow. That’s a nasty thing to have happen.”

Annie nodded and sighed, thinking of Matty, and then asked, “Did
you get those papers served ok?”

“Yeah, no problem.” Jake grinned. “I could hear him cursing
all the way back to the car. He wasn’t too happy about it.”

Annie laughed. “They never are.”

“Franklin & Franklin is a pretty large firm. I hope they
can send some more work our way.”

The jangling of the phone on the kitchen wall interrupted
them. Annie scooped it up. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Lincoln, it’s Matty’s teacher, Beth Cobblestone.”

Annie covered the mouthpiece with her hand and whispered to
Jake, “It’s Matty’s teacher.” Then into the phone, “How are you, Miss
Cobblestone?”

“I am well, thank you,” Annie heard, then, “I was hoping you
could come to the school and see me this evening. It’s about Matty. He’s been
in an altercation with another student, and I’m quite concerned.”

Annie frowned, worried, “What kind of altercation?”

“I’m afraid he’s been in a bit of a fight with another
student.”

Annie looked at Jake, an anxious look in her eyes. “We’ll
talk to him, Miss Cobblestone,” she said.

“Can you come at six-thirty, please? The other boy’s parents
will be there as well.”

“I’m very sorry. Yes, yes, we’ll come at six-thirty.”

She hung up the receiver and studied it for a moment before
turning around. “Matty’s been in a fight,” she said, as she went to the back
door and opened it. “Matty,” she called, “will you come in here, please?”

Matty could tell by the tone of his mother’s voice he had
better hurry. He gave the ball a good kick. It jumped and tumbled across the
deck and rolled onto the lawn. He came inside, and sat at the kitchen table. He
looked meekly at his parents. He knew what was up.

His father finished drying his hands on a paper towel and
tossed it into the flip-top garbage can. He came over and sat across from him.

Annie stood beside Matty, and put her hand gently on his
shoulder. She leaned over and looked him in the eyes. “Matty, your teacher
called. What’s this about a fight?”

He looked up. “It wasn’t my fault, Mom.”

Annie waited. Jake said, “What happened, son?”

Matty played nervously with his fingers. “It was Kevin.
Kevin Jordan. He was pushing Kyle around. I told him to stop, but he didn’t.”

“And?”

“And so I pushed him away.”

“And that’s all?”

Matty looked at the table, now playing with a placemat. “He
wouldn’t stop,” he said.

They waited for Matty to continue.

He looked up at his dad. “He tried to punch me.”

“And?” his mother asked.

“He missed. But I didn’t.”

“You punched him?”

Matty gave his mother an uncertain frown, shrugged his
shoulders, and then nodded.

Annie and Jake looked at each other, and then back at Matty.

“Is that the whole truth, Matty?” she asked.

“Yes, Mom. That’s all that happened. I just hit him once and
he ran away. He ran into the school and told the teacher. He’s just a mean kid
and he’s always bullying the little kids there. He started it.” He paused for a
minute, and then looked bravely at his mother. “I’m sorry Mom, but he really
deserved it, and I would do it again if I had to. There were a lot of other
kids there and they all saw what happened. Maybe he’ll stop bullying now and
leave them alone.” He looked down, and then continued, “I feel sorry for him,
though. He has no real friends, except for one kid that lets him boss him
around all the time.”

Annie studied him thoughtfully for a minute, and then stood
and said, “Ok, Matty. You can go back outside now. But stay close by. We have
to go and see your teacher this evening.”

“Yes, Mom,” Matty said, as he dropped from the chair and
sauntered back outside.

Annie sat down and leaned into the table, looking at Jake. “What
do you think?” she asked.

“I think he’s telling the truth,” Jake said. “We’ll see what
this Kevin brat has to say.”

Chapter 11

Wednesday, August 17th, 6:02 PM

ABIGAIL MACY had been pronounced DOA at Richmond Hill
General Hospital. Hank had been watching a distraught Philip Macy trying to
control his emotions. He seemed to be well past the denial stage, and was
flip-flopping now between despair and anger. At times, he was pacing up and
down the long sterilized corridors, and then back to the waiting room.

Hank spoke briefly with the doctor. He had pronounced
Abigail dead, a necessary formality, and her body had been taken down to the
hospital morgue, located somewhere in the bowels of the massive building. An
autopsy would be performed if the coroner thought it necessary, generally
mandatory if a death occurred outside of the hospital.

Philip had stopped pacing now and was sitting slouched
forward, head in his hands. Hank sat down beside him. “I can take you home,” he
said gently, putting his arm around his shoulder. “There’s nothing more we can
do here. I expect they will release your wife’s body tomorrow.”

Philip looked up and nodded. “Ok,” he managed.

Hank would have to wait for the autopsy report, but he knew
Mrs. Macy’s death was likely going to be labeled as a suicide. But he wasn’t so
sure. Something just didn’t add up. It was too convenient. She claimed to be a
witness to a murder, and now she was dead. Coincidence? Maybe. He also knew it
was important to get statements as soon as possible, but Philip was as yet
unable, or unwilling, to speak.

Philip followed Hank to his car parked out in the emergency
area’s parking lot, and they drove away. He stared quietly out the side window
as Hank weaved through the north end traffic, his faltering old Chevy finally
making it to the Macy home on Silverpine Street.

There was a cruiser, lights still flashing, parked by the
curb alongside a couple of unmarked vehicles belonging to investigators. He saw
curious neighbors across the street, gathered to see what was going on in this
usually quiet neighborhood. One guy was sitting comfortably in a lawn chair, as
if waiting for a big event. Three or four more were standing on the sidewalk,
or on their front lawns.

As he pulled in the drive and squeaked to a stop behind
Philip’s Lexus, he saw a uniformed cop at the front door. The cop watched as
they climbed from the vehicle and approached the house. He nodded at them and
mumbled something as he opened the door for them.

As they stepped inside the lobby, Hank turned to Philip. “They
are still processing the scene, Mr. Macy. If you could wait here until they’re
done.” He motioned toward a bench in the lobby, and Philip nodded and slouched
down, closing his eyes.

Crime scene investigators were there, making notes, taking
prints, and snapping photos. Lead crime scene investigator, Rod Jameson was
directing operations. Hank had asked for a thorough job, the scene to be
treated as if it were a crime scene.

As Hank stepped into the living room, he approached Jameson.
“How’s it going here?” he asked.

Jameson looked up from his clipboard and glanced around. “Just
about done here, Hank. We’re waiting for you to take a walk-through and then
they’ll bag the evidence, and we’ll be out of here.”

“Did you find a suicide note?”

Jameson shook his head.

“Thanks, Rod.”

Jameson grunted and went back to his clipboard.

Hank looked around the room. He unfolded a paper from his
pocket, the report from the responding paramedics. Apparently, Mrs. Macy had
been on the floor when they arrived, where her husband had laid her before
trying to revive her. He saw the chair where she had been slouched over. He
noticed the stand containing the bottle of vodka, the glass, and the pills.
Lorazepam and vodka. Not a good combination. He picked up the glass and smelled
it. Alcohol.