Текст книги "Silent Justice"

Автор книги: Rayven T. Hill

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 5 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Chapter 13

Tuesday, 3:21 p.m.

JAKE SAT AT THE desk in the office, browsing MapQuest to find the exact location of Virginia Thorburn’s house. He printed out a map of the area surrounding 112 Mill Street, folded it, and tucked it into his pocket.

Matty poked his head in the doorway. “I’m home, Dad. Where’s Mom?”

Jake pushed back his chair and looked at his son. “We have to go out for a little while. Your mother ran next door to see if Chrissy will watch you.”

“No problem,” Matty said. “Kyle and I have stuff to do anyway.”

The back door opened and closed.

“It sounds like she’s back now,” Jake said as he stood, heading for the kitchen. “We won’t be gone long.”

“No problem,” Annie said when Jake entered the room. “Chrissy’ll watch him. Are you ready?”

“Ready,” Jake said.

Matty said goodbye and ran out the back door.

Annie got her handbag from the counter and followed Jake outside, and they got into the car. Earlier, she had looked up Virginia Thorburn’s phone number and called her under the pretense of a sales call, finding out the woman would be home until 5:00. That gave them lots of time.

Jake started the car, pulled from the driveway, and glanced at Annie. “I’m not sure how receptive Mrs. Thorburn will be to a visit from us. Her son is accused of murder and she might be on the defensive.”

“We’ll have to tread lightly,” Annie said thoughtfully, buckling her seat belt.

Jake pulled out the map, consulted it, then handed it to Annie. “They’re right on the edge of town,” he said. “The only thing further north is the steel mill, and then on the other side of the tracks, it’s all government property. Forest, swamp, and some vacant land.”

A few minutes later, Jake pulled onto Mill Street, a narrow two-lane road of crumbling asphalt. A sidewalk ran along the right side, mature trees overhanging the roadway.

“There it is,” Annie said, pointing ahead and to her right. “Number 112.”

Jake slowed and squinted at the numbers displayed beside the front door. He glanced to his left. A car sat directly across the road from the house, a lone figure visible in the driver seat. Jake pulled to the shoulder and turned off the engine.

Annie gazed at the parked vehicle. “I think he’s watching for Adam,” she said, climbing from the car. “I’ll be right back.”

She crossed the road, went around the car, and tapped on the window. She leaned down and talked to the driver. Jake got out of the Firebird when Annie returned.

“It’s Officer Spiegle,” she said. “Another officer’s in the house in case Adam returns. There’re cops all over the city looking for him.”

“They have a better chance of finding him than we do,” Jake said.

“We’ll do our best,” Annie said, stepping onto the sidewalk, Jake following. They went up the gravel driveway to the side of the house.

Annie opened a tattered screen door and tapped on the inner door. They waited.

The door scraped open and a woman appeared, giving an impatient sigh. “Yes?”

“Virginia Thorburn?” Annie asked with a pleasant smile.

“Yes.”

Annie introduced them and said, “We’re concerned about Adam, and we’d like to help him if we can.”

Jake wasn’t sure how true that was, but he would go along with Annie’s story.

“How can you help him?” the woman asked with a frown, dropping one hand to her hip.

“Perhaps we could come in and talk?” Annie said.

Mrs. Thorburn hesitated, then sighed again and moved back, waving them in. “You might as well join the circus. Everybody else is.”

Annie and Jake stepped through the doorway into the stale-smelling kitchen, the screen door slapping closed behind them. The woman sat at the table and crossed her legs, tugging her short, tight skirt into place. She puffed at a lit cigarette, then took a sip of coffee from a stained mug, eyeing them over the top.

“Might as well sit down,” she said.

The Lincolns pulled back chairs and sat facing the woman.

She took a long drag of her lipstick-stained cigarette and blew the smoke at the ceiling. “I don’t know how you can help Adam, but I’m willing to listen.”

“Mrs. Thorburn,” Annie began, then hesitated. “We know Adam is accused of killing a woman, and the police are claiming they have evidence against him.”

The woman cocked her head. “Who’d you say hired you?”

Annie answered slowly, “We’ve been retained by the husband of the victim—”

Jake interrupted, glancing at Annie. “But we’re only interested in the truth. Nothing more.” He leaned in and looked intently at Mrs. Thorburn. “If Adam is innocent, then we want to prove it.”

Annie nodded. “We were hoping you could help us, and in turn, help your son.”

“Help how? I don’t know if he did it or not, and neither does he.”

Jake frowned. “How can he not know?”

She butted her smoke out and took the last sip of her coffee. “Because Adam is schizophrenic. He doesn’t always remember what he does.”

Jake glanced at Annie. He didn’t know much about schizophrenia and he wasn’t sure Annie did either.

“He has blackout periods sometimes,” Mrs. Thorburn said, dropping her eyes. “I’m afraid he’s guilty.” She paused a moment, then looked up and added quickly, earnestly, her voice shaking, “But he didn’t do it on purpose. Never. Never.”

Annie spoke softly. “Do you know where Adam is, Mrs. Thorburn?”

She shook her head. “I have no idea.”

“Does he go away often?”

“No. But after last night …” Her voice trailed off and she took an uneasy breath. “If he remembers what he did, he might not come back.”

“Could he be at a friend’s house?” Jake asked.

She shook her head slowly. “He has no friends.”

Annie leaned in and touched the woman’s trembling hand. “Any relatives?”

“Not in this part of the country. Maybe out East. I don’t know. My husband never mentioned any family.”

“Where’s your husband?” Annie asked.

Mrs. Thorburn’s mascara ran as a few tears escaped her downcast eyes. “Died. Almost a year ago. Left me with this place and Adam.”

“I’m sorry.”

Mrs. Thorburn plucked a tissue from a box on the table and dabbed at the tears, smearing her makeup. She took a shaky breath and looked away. “He wasn’t much good anyway.”

Jake studied the distraught woman. She looked like she’d lived a rough life. She’d lost her husband and would soon lose her son. And with no family to turn to, things could only get worse.

Mrs. Thorburn looked back and forth between Jake and Annie. “Adam’s an honest boy. If he’s convinced he’s guilty, he might turn himself in eventually. The only thing is …” Her voice trailed off, her lower lip quivering.

Annie spoke soothingly. “Yes?”

The woman pulled her hand back and dropped it into her lap, clasping her hands together. “I might never see him again. He’s actually quite timid, and he would be afraid to go to prison.”

Jake leaned forward. “Then we have to find him as soon as possible.”

Mrs. Thorburn lit another cigarette and took a couple of long drags. It seemed to calm her and she leaned in. “It might be best to leave him be. Let him make up his own mind what to do.” She dabbed at her eyes. “I’m sure he’ll do the right thing. I only want him to be safe.”

“So do we, Mrs. Thorburn,” Annie said. “So do we.”

Chapter 14

Tuesday, 3:44 p.m.

HANK RECEIVED a call from lead crime scene investigator Rod Jameson. The final report on the murder of Nina White was ready and waiting on Hank’s desk.

He had been interviewing neighbors of the Thorburns at the time of the call—necessary and tedious work that had to be done. Often it turned up a lead, but today he’d received little information about Adam Thorburn. Few in the neighborhood knew him all that well. He was described as a quiet boy, and seemed to be a loner.

In addition to issuing the BOLO on Thorburn, Hank had officers canvassing the entire neighborhood. Houses in all directions were being visited in the hopes someone either had seen Adam Thorburn or could supply information as to his whereabouts. To this point, no one could furnish a lead, and many didn’t know the boy or the Thorburns.

It didn’t look promising.

He returned to the precinct, went to his desk and sat, pulling in his chair. He picked up the forensics report and browsed the paperwork. After thoroughly examining the evidence and accompanying photographs, Hank saw no surprises in the conclusions drawn by the investigators. Their work served to confirm Hank’s assumptions about what had gone on in the parking lot late last evening.

The impounded vehicle had been inspected, and the report concluded the tire track found at the scene of the murder was from the same car. Furthermore, the lab ascertained the blood found between the treads of the tire was of the same group as Nina White’s blood.

The paint from the vehicle was also compared to chips found on Nina White’s car, and along with photos, they concluded the damage was caused by the vehicle in question. A search of Nina’s car had turned up nothing of further interest.

A fine powdering of glass was also found in the grill and on the hood of the vehicle. Forensics couldn’t ascertain whether or not it came from Nina White’s car, only that it was consistent, but Hank had no question about it.

A botanical expert was consulted, and he affirmed the rose found in the mouth of the victim was the same species as the ones which grew along the rear wall of the Thorburn house.

The search of the Thorburn residence turned up nothing incriminating and contained no clues as to where Adam Thorburn might be hiding out.

His cell phone rang and he answered it. It was Teddy White—again.

“Detective, do you have any news for me?”

Hank held his patience. “Nothing yet, Mr. White. You need to allow more time. Adam Thorburn is on the run and we’ll track him down, but at this point, we don’t know where he is.”

“I’ve hired some private investigators,” Mr. White said.

Hank frowned at his phone. There were several PIs in this town and he didn’t want any of them mucking around with the evidence and getting in the way of a police investigation. “That’s well within your rights,” Hank said. “But it might be a little premature.”

“The Lincolns promised they would help.”

Hank’s vision of an interfering gumshoe vanished. There were none so thorough and as caring as his good friends, Jake and Annie Lincoln, who were always careful to stay out of the way of law enforcement. He had worked alongside them in the past, helping him to crack some tough cases. And though Captain Diego rarely admitted it outwardly, they often had his unwritten blessing.

“Mr. White,” Hank said, “I’ll call you as soon as we have anything concrete.” He didn’t want to give the grieving widower the brush-off, but he needed to be firm. “I’ll inform you the minute we find the suspect.”

“Very well. I’ll call you again tomorrow. Thank you, Detective.”

Hank hung up. He always felt deeply for the victims, and he sympathized with Teddy White. Though he had never personally experienced the loss of a loved one at the hands of a violent killer, he’d seen enough heartache and senseless murders as head of RHPD Robbery/Homicide to do him a lifetime.

He was a little surprised the Lincolns hadn’t called him regarding their involvement, so he dialed Jake’s number.

“We just got back,” Jake explained. “I haven’t have a chance to let you know yet.”

“I’ll drop by and see you guys after work,” Hank said. “It’s been a while.”

“We’ll fill you in on our visit to Virginia Thorburn while you’re here.”

Hank hung up and glanced toward Detective King’s desk. He didn’t expect to see King for a while. Hank had him organizing the neighborhood search for Adam Thorburn, and it could easily take him the rest of the day.

He looked up as the front desk officer approached and handed him an envelope. A scrawl on the front revealed it was from Richmond North High School.

Hank dumped its contents onto his desk. It was a five-page report on Adam Thorburn, retrieved from the school’s record storage. Hank leafed through it. The neatly stapled report contained Adam’s vital information along with Nina White’s handwritten notes on her meetings with the student.

Among other things, the report showed Adam had barely made passing grades during the two years he attended Richmond North High School. Those grades were inconsistent with his above-average IQ of 130. In her notes, Nina attributed his poor grades to a lack of applying himself. It was noted Adam was schizophrenic but rarely showed negative signs at school.

But that was all seven years ago, and according to his mother, his condition had deteriorated since then.

During Adam’s counseling sessions with Mrs. White, her notes showed she had attempted to encourage him but had been unable to impress on him the importance of a good education. He had seemed distracted and had been easily discouraged. She’d made note of his occasional comments regarding the bullying he received from other students.

At Mrs. White’s request to interview Adam’s parents, Adam’s mother had attended several meetings with her over the two years. His father hadn’t bothered to show up for any of the appointments. It was noted at the final meeting that, in Mrs. White’s opinion, his home life was less than ideal and might be a detriment to his desire to learn. There were no details as to exactly what she meant by this opinion.

Hank put the report aside. He had a good idea what Adam’s home life must’ve been like. The Thorburns lived on the edge of poverty, which was no excuse to commit murder, but it wasn’t an environment that would foster a lot of motivation to succeed. He wondered what would’ve turned the quiet boy into a vicious murderer.

He glanced across the room when he heard his name called. Captain Diego stood in the door of his office, waving him over. Hank stood, went into Diego’s office, and took a seat.

Diego sat forward, rested his arms on his desk, and looked at Hank. “Anything positive on the Nina White murder yet?”

“Lots of positive,” Hank said. “We have a solid suspect. We just can’t locate him.”

As Hank went over the evidence with Diego, the captain brushed at his dark mustache with two fingers, listening intently.

When Hank was done, Diego sat back, a frown on his round face. “I’ll give you all the support you need on this, Hank. Whatever you want. Just find the guy.”

“I’m doing my best, Captain. We’ll get him.”

“Keep me informed.” Diego dismissed him with a wave and went back to his paperwork.

Hank returned to his desk and called King, but the detective wasn’t having any luck. “It doesn’t look like he’s hanging around the neighborhood. Nobody’s seen him.”

“Keep at it,” Hank said and hung up. It was doubtful Adam Thorburn had much money or food. He would have to surface eventually, and Hank wanted to be there when he did.

Chapter 15

Tuesday, 4:29 p.m.

ADAM EASED DOWN onto the rough floorboards and laid his head back against the wall. He would be safe here for now, but how long could he last with no food and nothing but a tumbledown shack in the swamp for shelter?

He might be able to pick some wild berries or apples that grew along the edge of the wetlands, but it would hardly be enough to nourish him. And when the cold came, the swamp would sleep until spring, and he couldn’t survive without a constant source of food and heat.

The heat he could take care of. There were enough dead and dying trees in the area to furnish him with fuel, and he could insulate the hut with grass or straw hauled from a farmer’s field a mile or so away. He could survive the winter without fear of freezing to death, but food was his main concern. The small wildlife in the area would all but disappear in the winter, and even if he could trap the occasional rabbit, meat of any kind would be scarce.

He had some life-and-death decisions to make and there was no one else he could turn to.

But winter was still a long way off, and it was impossible to tell what might happen to him in the meantime. For all he knew, and sometimes for all he cared, he could be dead by then. That might be for the best anyway. He was a burden on society, a burden on his mother, and always a burden to himself.

He glanced around the single-room hut. He had discovered this place many years ago and enjoyed some peaceful times here—away from the rest of the cruel and uncaring world, and away from his parents’ arguing. He hadn’t been here since his father had died, and he’d kept this place a secret. It was a safe haven, and a place where he could be alone and not have to hear about what a loser he was.

But back then, he’d known he could always return home after he’d recharged his soul. Now, this was home, and there was no turning back.

He sighed and turned his eyes toward the ceiling. The roof was still intact, and the walls, although leaning and bulging in places, still appeared solid enough. Whoever had built this place had done a good job, considering the location. He wondered what it had been used for at the time. Perhaps it was once someone’s home. Maybe someone who needed a refuge—just like him.

The shack was dry, built on a solid piece of land rising above the swampy waters, and the builder had mounted it on half a dozen firm wooden pillars to be certain it would endure. That kept it well above the rising and falling of the waters.

Unlike most people who shunned the muddy, decaying wetland, looking on it as nothing more than a place to be feared, a place of death and decay, Adam felt at home in the steaming bog. Much like himself, it was misunderstood. It was a place of vibrant life and rebirth, a place of new beginnings and innocence.

He closed his eyes and breathed in the pungent odor surrounding him. The beautiful fragrance of constantly decaying vegetation signified a second chance. The black waters of the wild wetland would regenerate, sprout anew, and breathe fresh life into death.

If it were possible, he would throw himself into the beautiful black waters and reincarnate into what he yearned to be—normal, like the rest of the world, happy, healthy, and free.

A bullfrog’s deep voice spoke somewhere close by. Adam opened his eyes and gazed through the small window—a square hole in the wall—and strained to see the visitor. The thick foliage and the rising steam perfectly camouflaged the creature from its predators, invisible to all but a mate perhaps waiting nearby.

The situation he found himself in was completely beyond his control. His illness had caused him to do the unthinkable—take the life of another human being. Though the voices in his head hadn’t presented themselves today, he knew they would be back. It was only a matter of time before they hounded him again, causing him to make another rash move.

He wondered how many times he’d hurt someone, or worse still, killed another human being without knowing it. The woman might not have been the first—just the first time he got caught.

If worse came to worst, he would allow himself to die in the swamp rather than let the voices control him. The problem was, when he blacked out he didn’t know what he did. He could kill someone and never know it had happened.

It was a despairing thought, and he felt helpless. There was nothing he could do about it, and it all seemed to be beyond the expertise of his doctor, the doctor he might never see again. Dr. Zalora would turn him in for sure. Even his mother wouldn’t be able to help him much. The police would be certain to keep an eye on the house in case he returned, and the penalty for sheltering a fugitive from justice would be more than she deserved.

He rose wearily to his feet and stepped outside the hut. On the high ground where he stood, weeds and wildflowers thrived. Vines swallowed one side of the building, reaching for the sun from the rooftop. Lush grass flourished in patches of dark green about his feet. Here and there an evergreen stood amid the quaking moss. Tall reeds shot upwards from the muddy ground a few feet away, and further down, the swamp bubbled and steamed endlessly.

Adam wondered if they would track him here. They would scour the neighborhood and perhaps the rest of the city, but surely no one would think he had retreated to such a desolate and dangerous place. Maybe they would give up eventually, assuming he’d moved from the city, or maybe even out of the country.

That is, if he could keep himself under control and not make an appearance during one of his blackout periods.

Perhaps he was being too optimistic, a rather unusual state for him. He was more used to being unduly paranoid, in fear of the unknown, frightened of unseen dangers that permeated his thoughts and overwhelmed him with panic.

It was during those irrational panic attacks he entertained thoughts of ending it all. He often found himself on the cusp of a decision—to give in entirely to the voices, or stop them forever by ending his own worthless existence.

He never seemed to make that decision. During those times when his will was weak, perhaps it was a natural instinct for self-preservation that aided him in the battle against the voices. When the panic subsided, he still existed as before. Nothing changed.

Long ago, he had given up hope they would ever find a cure. His case was unusual, the doctor told him. His advice was to adapt, persevere, and hope one day ongoing research would result in something to stabilize him. All he wanted was to get his life back and be normal. Was that too much to hope for?

Adam sat down on a rock by the edge of the teeming bog, pulled his feet up, and wrapped his arms around his legs. He gazed over the landscape in front of him, swamp as far as he could see, the place he now called home. It would take care of him, feed his soul, and nourish his mind, and the small measure of peace it brought to his tortured heart would be all he could hope for.