Family Practice (5 page)

“Dissatisfied patients?”

“The patients are all going to be really upset.” Debra gulped and held the tissue against her mouth. “I can't seem to think. I don't know anything.”

“I know this has been very upsetting,” Susan said. “Thank you for your help. I'll have somebody see that you get home.”

Susan told Officer Demarco to take care of Mrs. Cole and watched as he guided her toward the door.

Debra had been evasive when asked why she thought she was at fault, and Susan wondered why. Stumbling on a homicide victim was traumatic for the ordinary citizen; it made thought processes disorganized and unreliable. Lies were just as likely the result of shock as deliberate falsehoods.

In the dead woman's office, Osey was lifting prints. Susan didn't have to worry whether he'd miss anything. He always dusted everything that could take prints and many that could not. To Osey, collecting prints was right up there with singing in the church choir for having a good time. The voice of her former boss in San Francisco sounded in her head. You will never lose a case by collecting and preserving too much evidence. You can lose—badly—by making a premature decision that a certain article or mark is unimportant or unworthy of your attention.

She wanted every article and every mark noted and examined; she wanted no mistakes, nothing overlooked, no foul-ups that could allow the bastard to get away with it.

“Where's Parkhurst?” she asked.

“Out scouting the garage.”

Across the hall, she stood in the doorway of an examining room and looked around. From the crumpled paper drape on the table, this was obviously where Dr. Barrington had taken Jen. The doctor must have left the room, walked toward her office, and been shot. Why had she left? Someone called to her? She heard something? And Jen? Did she hear the shot and run out?

Just past Dorothy's office, the hallway turned right and led to an outside door.

The shooter, standing at the right-angle turn, could have fired twice and been out that door in three or four seconds.

The door opened to a parking garage, small, with space available for about ten cars, empty except for the white Buick near the door. Dorothy Barrington's, most likely.

Ben Parkhurst, a compact man with a hard face and dark hair, stood at the far end of the garage, fingertips in the back pockets of his jeans. He'd been off today too, until the phone call rousted him, and he'd come in with a lightweight sports jacket thrown on over a blue knit shirt. He was talking with another man, but when he noticed her he gave a nod, and both men walked over to her.

“This is Murray Kreps,” he said, and introduced her to the slight man with thinning gray hair, wearing tan pants and a brightly flowered shirt.

“Ma'am.” Murray nodded at her. “Terrible thing. What's this world coming to? Drug addicts all over the place. Nobody safe anywheres. That what it was? Some addict thinking a doctor's office is a good place to find drugs?”

“Murray takes care of maintenance for the building,” Parkhurst said.

“Was Dr. Barrington a good person to work for?” she asked.

“Dr. Dorothy, you mean? They're all Barringtons. Except for that Wakeley fellow. Pretty good bunch. Dr. Dorothy was the head of things.” He nodded firmly. “You might say she was good to work for. Long as things went smooth. Fair. Can't say better than that, can you? Could get all riled if anything went wrong.”

“How long have you worked here?”

He wrinkled his forehead. “Must be going on for fourteen years now.”

“Any trouble lately?”

“Trouble?”

“Violent patients,” Parkhurst said. “People hiding in the building after hours. Break-ins.”

“Just the one time.”

“What happened?” she asked when he didn't seem inclined to elaborate.

“Intruder, I guess you'd call it. Would have been last week.” Murray scratched his scalp through his sparse gray hair. “Maybe the week before. Working late, she was. Dr. Dorothy. Did that sometimes. Door was still unlocked. That one right there.” He nodded toward the garage entrance.

“Who was it?”

“Can't say I got a look at him.”

“It was a man?”

“Well, now you ask, I'm not right sure of that. She was just finishing up, getting ready to leave, and there was this somebody coming along the hallway. She shouted at him. I was way off on the other side of the building, and I came running. Course he was long gone by the time I got there.”

“You didn't get a look at him?”

“Didn't, at that. Out the door and just gone.”

“Dr. Barrington—Dorothy—did she know him?”

“Said she didn't. Didn't get much of a look at him herself.”

“Did she report the incident?” Parkhurst asked.

Murray shook his head. “I kinda mentioned it like maybe we should, but she said no harm done. Figured it was somebody thought the place was empty, everybody gone home, and had come in to see what he could steal. She said she'd be more careful about locking up when she was here after closing time. You all about finished in there? I should get in and start cleaning up.”

“Not yet,” Parkhurst said. “We'll let you know.”

“Why wouldn't she report an intruder?” Susan said after Murray had gone. She walked from the garage to the open parking area behind and squinted in a sudden burst of sunlight. The sky was a vivid blue beyond the huge puffy clouds; wisps of steam rose from the wet pavement. Parkhurst, at her side, paced in the lithe, economical manner of a predator.

She looked across at the large maple trees lining Tennessee Street, trees that had been planted the day Lincoln was assassinated. It was a commercial street with an entry into the parking lot. Office buildings sat on both sides of the lot. Across the street, old stone two- or three-story buildings with fancy cornices: the Rademacher Pipe Organ Company, Mayes Mercantile, Timely Creations. On the corner, the beautiful old Episcopal church, massive and impressive, with stained-glass windows, a heavy steeple, and clusters of bright-yellow daffodils in front. Old-fashioned, gas-lantern-shaped street lights. Traffic, not much, but moving in both directions.

“Anybody see anything?” she asked.

“I've got Ellis and Zawislak canvassing the area and taking down license numbers.”

The license numbers of any cars parked in the area would be noted, the numbers run through DMV, and the owners tracked down and questioned.

“How's the kid?”

“Not good. Still alive when I left the hospital. This is a Saturday afternoon. Somebody must have seen something.”

“Rain was slamming down like a son of a bitch. Very few people out. Any who were would be concerned only with getting in.”

From the garage, Officer Yancy called, “Chief Wren? Hazel on the phone. She's gotten hold of the girl's mother.”

5

T
HE
B
ARRINGTON HOUSE
, on Indiana Street only a few blocks from the medical clinic, had been built on the original site of the stagecoach depot. The house dated from the early nineteen-hundreds: Italianate style, white, three-story, with dormers, many-paned windows, a columned porch across the front, and a wide expanse of lush green lawn.

The three-car garage was a strictly modern addition. Behind it, Susan could see part of a gazebo with a latticed top.

Parkhurst at her side, Officer Yancy following, she climbed steps onto the porch and poked the doorbell. Discreet chimes tinkled away inside. She hated this part of being a cop: bringing bad news. Wading into the midst of family or loved ones of a victim meant getting mired in an emotional swamp. Survivors reacted differently according to character; some got hysterical, some froze. A few attacked: kill the messenger. Several years ago in San Francisco, the wife of a young man killed in a drive-by shooting had come at her with a knife.

Double all that for homicide. Add in that the cop knew, odds on, one of the grieving was the killer. Most murder victims were killed by someone they knew.

A young woman opened the door. She had a piquant little face with short dark curls and was wearing cutoff jeans and a red T-shirt with “Good Gourd!” in gold letters.

“Police officers. Chief Wren and Lieutenant Parkhurst.” Susan held out her ID, but the young woman ignored it.

“Is something wrong?”

At first glance she looked like a teenager, but a closer look showed her to be early twenties. “Your name?”

“Ellen.”

“Ellen—?”

“Barrington.”

Ah. The youngest of the siblings. “May we come in? We'd like to speak with Mr. Talmidge.”

“Taylor?” Something skittered behind the dark eyes, but was gone too fast for Susan to get a fix on it.

“Is he here?”

“Yes. Come in.”

They stepped into a wide foyer with pink floral wallpaper, a padded bench covered in pale-green-striped silk, and a writing desk with a potted plant; just inside the door was a bright-green umbrella stand. They followed Ellen into the living room, large and high-ceilinged, with a row of windows that looked out onto a back garden. Despite the late-afternoon sunlight slanting through the windows, the room seemed dark: heavy dark-rose draperies, velvet Victorian sofas in the same dark color, wing chairs and upright wooden chairs with carved legs and backs, and padded pale-pink seats. Small tables of dark, carved wood sat by the sofas and chairs and between the windows, holding vases, plants, and cut-glass bowls. A somber painting hung above the fireplace of a stream overshadowed by menacing trees. Through an archway, Susan saw a Queen Anne dining table and a tall, glass-fronted cupboard filled with china.

“Ellen?” A tall man, smooth, polished, with straight, dark hair silvering at the temples, prominent nose, and strong jaw, came through the archway. “Was that the door?” He wore a white dress shirt, subdued tie, and fashionably pleated brown trousers.

“Mr. Talmidge?” Susan said.

He looked at her with the deceptively amused expression that conceals contempt. “Yes? What can I do for you?”

“We'd like to have a word with you.”

He flicked a glance at Ellen. “Certainly. What is this about?”

“It's about your wife.”

The appraising look disappeared, and an opaque mask slipped over his face. “What about her?”

He had something to hide. Not necessarily that he'd shot his wife, but something.

“She's still at the office,” Ellen said.

“I'm sorry,” Susan said. She'd never figured out a way to say this. No matter how she tried to ease into it, she brought news of death, and it was devastating. “Dorothy Barrington was shot this afternoon.” She watched Taylor Talmidge's face. The spouse, or any variation thereof, was immediately suspect in a homicide. “She died almost instantly.”

He seemed to stagger, threw a look at Parkhurst, who nodded in confirmation. Talmidge turned and stared out a window at the sunlit grass. She felt momentarily sorry for him, for his loss and for what lay ahead. Even small-town gossip was nothing compared to being under the microscope of a homicide investigation. His whole life would be open to scrutiny.

Ellen, white-faced, took in air with a sharp gasp and then seemed to stop breathing entirely. She stumbled back onto a sofa, crossed her arms, and clutched them to her chest.

“Why?” Talmidge whispered hoarsely. “Why did this happen?”

“That's what we need to find out.”

Leaning forward, he covered his face with his hands, and his shoulders shook with an attempt at control. He mumbled to himself, and she strained to make out the words.

“It couldn't have—” was all she could hear.

She and Parkhurst waited silently for him to regain his composure. Ellen sat frozen, her eyes blank.

“What do you want me to do?” Talmidge said dully. He took a handkerchief from a back pocket and wiped his face before turning toward them.

Parkhurst said, “If you could sit down, sir. We need to ask some questions.”

“I don't understand.” Talmidge slumped in a gold curved-back chair by the fireplace. “Who shot her?”

Susan sat in an identical chair on the other side of the fireplace. Parkhurst, making himself unobtrusive, leaned against a window ledge. Yancy stood stiffly in the archway. “Can you think of any reason why anyone would kill your wife?”

Talmidge shook his head, not so much in response to her query as in an attempt to readjust his thinking.

“Was anything bothering her? Did she mention any problems she was having? With the medical practice, for instance?”

“Sometimes she worries about her patients, but—she wouldn't discuss anything like that with me.”

“Did she come home for lunch?”

“No—” He stopped, then said, “I'm not sure. She may have. At times she did.”

“You weren't here between twelve and one?”

“Uh—no. No, I wasn't.”

“Where were you?”

Ellen's dark eyes were fixed on his face.

“I was—” His manner seemed to sharpen, and he focused on Susan. “Why are you wasting all this time? Why aren't you out finding who killed her?”

Ellen got a startled look on her face and ticked a glance at Susan. Nothing slow about this one, Susan thought. She picked up right quick that we're treating her brother-in-law as a suspect.

“We're simply gathering information, Mr. Talmidge. You weren't here this afternoon? Can you tell me where you were?”

“I was here. Not at noon. I went—” He squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I'm thinking about a new car. I went to look—”

Ellen got her very mobile little face well in hand, no expression at all, but she was paying close attention. It may have been her way of putting off acceptance; it may have been the realization that she was also going to come in for her share of suspicion.

“What time did you get back?”

“Maybe two or two-thirty. From then on I was here.”