Justification for Murder (17 page)

S
orensen tried to steer Doctor Leavenworth back to his questions after Darcy left in a rush. He looked back at the physician. Her face was stern, there was nothing welcoming. He wondered if she seemed this cold to her patients.

“How many years have you practiced medicine?” he asked, just to get back into the groove.

“Almost twelve.”

“How many in this office?”

“Five.”

“How many of your patients have died of cancer?”

“I don’t know off the top of my head. Cancer is the second biggest cause of death in America.”

“I can tell you how many unsolved homicides I’ve had in my career.”

Her eyes closed and she rubbed the bridge of her nose. “Detective, I’m not trying to hide anything. If there’s information that I can, by law, tell you, I will. If there’s information I can’t tell you because I don’t know, I won’t make it up just to satisfy you. Besides, if you give me a couple hours, I can find the exact numbers for you and let you know. There’s no reason for you to attack me.”

“Very well.”

He turned the page on his notebook and rested it back onto his knee. Staring at the blank page he said, “Do you have any idea why these women would want to kill themselves?”

“They committed suicide?” Dr. Leavenworth asked, showing genuine surprise.

“Yes.”

She took a minute to think. “Besides the obvious reason, no.” Then she added, “Specially Emma Hughes. We got the results from the lab, and they were negative for cancer. She and her husband were ecstatic with the news, especially because she had a long family history of breast cancer.”

“What’s the probability of false negative?”

“They happen, but it’s very small. That’s why we always recommend that the patient comes back in six months for a follow-up so we can see if there’ve been any changes.”

“And there were none in Hughes’ case?”

Sorensen saw her move the mouse and hit a few letters on the keyboard. After a few moments, she said, “She was due to come back in a couple weeks.”

“What about Meadows?”

“She also did a biopsy about six months ago.”

“Any chance she also has cancer?”

“I thought you said they were all dead.”

“Just humor me, Doctor.”

“Not a laughing matter, Detective.”

Sorensen nodded. She was right, and he was being an asshole.

“She’s the only one who’s still alive,” he conceded. “So, could she also have a false negative?”

“I guess. The same chance as Hughes,” she said and set her eyes back on his.

After a few more questions that didn’t give him a lot more insight into the case, Sorensen walked out of Dr. Leavenworth’s office. He felt like there was more to the story than what she’d shared, but he needed more time to research the doctor. He shook his head, knowing he should have done that before coming to see her.

He walked toward the parking lot, trying to figure out if he had a case for a warrant to get the names of all of her patients with cancer, but he knew he needed much more than what he had. He considered going up the stairs to the second floor, where his car was parked, but opted for the elevator. He looked for his Jeep, and when he had walked almost the entire length of the row, he said out loud, “Son of a bitch.” He shook his head and checked his phone to see if Lynch had sent him a patrol to get picked up. There was nothing.

I’m going to beat the crap out of that asshole
, he thought, punching the numbers for the stationt.

The deputy on the line promised him that somebody would be there to get him in less than five minutes.

While he waited he thought about the victims. The suicide victims not only had the good doctor as a connection, but they also shared the cause and method of death. Then there was Pritchard, the woman who died in the car accident, and Meadows, with two attempts on her life and no cancer. Maybe the connection of the last two was a mere coincidence. But he had been on the job too long to believe that. He also had a weird feeling about the doctor, but he couldn’t figure out why.

When the patrol car showed up, he sighed with relief.

“Thank God. I thought I would have to ride in the back if you came with a partner,” Sorensen said to Martinez as he got in the passenger seat.

“No, today I’m alone.”

“What happened to Wong? Claiming to be sick again?”

Martinez laughed. “Man, that guy always has something. But at least I don’t have to ride with him when he’s sniffling and sneezing all over me.”

“What, you get that cozy?” Sorensen said, hitting Martinez’s shoulder and laughing.

“Yeah, you wish.” He smiled and took the exit for Highway 87 North.

A few minutes later Sorensen thanked him and walked into the station. When he got out of the elevator he bought a Red Bull from the machine and walked into the bullpen.

“Jon, have you worked any of your magic yet?” he asked, seeing the intern focused on his computer monitor.

Jon grunted, but didn’t reply. Sorensen came around and stood behind him so Jon could feel his body heat warm up his personal space.

“What are you working on?” Sorensen asked when he realized it didn’t have anything to do with what he wanted.

“Finding what I can about Harper Johnson.”

“Who the fuck’s that?”

“Detective Lynch didn’t tell you?” He turned to face Sorensen. “His DNA was on the pen in the stolen car found by Emma Hughes’ crime scene,” he said, beaming as he shared the good news.

“Why the hell am I finding this out now?”

Jon’s face darkened. “You said this wasn’t your case anymore, that it was Detective Lynch’s.” His voice was low and quavered a little.

“Never mind that. You should’ve told me.”

Sorensen walked to his desk like a kid asked to take the bench because no team wanted him.

“I’m sorry, I just…” Jon tried to explain.

S
affron wondered if she should go to work. She didn’t feel like it. She lay in bed petting Cat, who was lying on her chest and purring. She wondered if Darcy had gone back to the office and officially quit. She also wondered if Ranjan had finally picked his wife.

Her cell rang, pulling her out of the self-pity spiral she was embarking on. She answered, even though the number was blocked.

“Hello, Miss Meadows. We were wondering if you were going to make your appointment today.” It was more a statement than a question.

“Oh, what time is it?”

She didn’t remember having anything on her calendar.

“Right now. With Doctor Leavenworth.”

“Oh, right. I’m so sorry, I got the time wrong. I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Would that work?”

Saffron looked at her watch. It was barely past nine in the morning. She got out of the bed, and Cat protested.

“Yes, we’ll fit you in.”

While she figured out what she was going to wear, Saffron called a cab and made a mental note to rent a car later that day. After a flash shower, she got in the taxi, which maneuvered through dying rush hour traffic and let her off by the hospital entrance with three minutes to spare. She walked to the elevator at the end of the hall and went up two floors to the doctor’s office.

“Hello, Lydia. I’m so sorry I’m late.”

Saffron contemplated telling her about the car accident but decided not to. She didn’t want to talk about it.

“Don’t worry. These things happen. Why do you think we keep patients’ numbers handy?” The receptionist smiled, showing a large gap between her two front teeth framed by red lipstick. “How are you doing anyway?”

“We’ll see, I guess,” Saffron said, pointing at the door to the ultrasound lab. “Do you need the insurance info again?”

“Nope if nothing’s changed.”

Saffron put her wallet back in her purse and sat down next to the endless supply of lukewarm coffee and powdered milk. She poured a generous cup and winced at the disgusting taste the combination left in her mouth as she swallowed.

She checked her work email. There were too many new messages already. She put the phone away, grabbed an
InStyle
magazine, browsed through it and when done, grabbed another one. After she finished leafing through it, she checked her phone. It was almost ten o’clock. Saffron wondered what was taking so long but then remembered it had been her fault for being late, so she couldn’t really complain about the wait. Besides, she had nothing better to do or a better place to be at.

About fifteen minutes later the door opened and Julia called her name.

“Please, remove everything from the top, and leave the opening of the gown on the front,” she said after they exchanged pleasantries.

Finally, Saffron lay down on the examination table, and Julia asked her to expose her right breast.

“You know this is just routine,” Julia said, spreading warm goo all over the bare area. “They did the biopsy and it was negative for cancer, but the doctors always want to do a follow-up in six months.”

“I know, I know. But…” She stopped talking and began to breathe slowly. Not just talking affected the ultrasound machine, but also heavy breathing or even sighing could alter the reading.

Julia worked through the different images, and Saffron saw her selecting screen shots to save.

“I’m going to call the doctor now.”

Saffron took a deep breath. Her rib cage hurt. Even though she had walked out of the accident without a scratch, she was still sore with adrenaline.

Dr. Leavenworth walked in the room and asked her how she was doing, but Saffron could tell she wasn’t paying attention. The doctor was a million miles away. She grabbed the transducer and rubbed it over Saffron’s skin, focusing on the monitor.

“Hummm, I don’t see it,” the doctor mumbled.

“The lump? Is it gone?” Saffron said, flooding the monitor with red and green streaks.

“No. Do you remember when we did the biopsy we put in a little titanium marker?”

“Yes.”

“It’s used to mark the lump, so if another one ever shows up, they can be easily distinguishable from each other.”

“Right.”

“Well, I can’t seem to find it now.”

“Oh?”

Dr. Leavenworth moved the handle up and down, right and left, as if following an invisible grid. Her eyes concentrated on the images portrayed on the monitor. She grabbed the lubricant, added another generous dollop and tried again.

“I wouldn’t worry. It probably moved behind the lump and that’s why we can’t see it.” She saved a few more images. “It’s not altogether uncommon. In fact, we’ve seen it a couple times before.”

“Okay…” Saffron said, not as confident as the doctor obviously wanted her to feel.

“Julia, can you pull the images from six months ago?”

After she studied each one and compared them to the new ones, she said, “We’re done.”

The lab technician took over the machine, and after clicking on several buttons and turning a few knobs, she handed a tiny towel to Saffron. Dr. Leavenworth stood at the foot of the examining table waiting to get her patient’s full attention.

“Your lump has not changed, so that’s good news.” She paused a few seconds while Saffron absorbed the information. “And as I said, I wouldn’t worry at all about the marker. Sometimes they move around a little.”

“Okay. I’m just happy about the good news.”

“Absolutely. We would like to see you in another six months, but after that, if everything remains the same, we can extend the checkups to every year.”

“Very well,” Saffron said, shaking the doctor’s hand.

S
affron came out of the examination room and changed back into her clothes. She placed the used robe into the basket outside the changing room and headed back to the reception area. Lydia was busy giving instructions to somebody on the phone, so Saffron waited.

“All good,” Saffron said when the receptionist hung up.

“Congratulations.” Her broad smile had very little red lipstick left, but it was genuine and warm.

“Thank you. Have a great weekend.”

She waved and left the doctor’s office craving a latte.

The line at the hospital’s coffee cart was too long, and the coffee was usually burnt, so she decided to go across the street to Mochas & Lattes coffee shop. It took her ten minutes to get there. Half the time was wasted waiting for the light to change at the crosswalk.

She removed her sunglasses as soon as she was inside. The contrast with the bright sun made her temporarily blind. There were a few people seated at tables, and at least ten others in line before her. Not much different than back at the hospital, but at least the coffee was better. The door opened again, and a heavyset man walked toward her, stopping right behind her a little too close for comfort. She moved a few inches forward.

“No matter when you come, this place’s always packed,” the man said, reeking of onions.

She didn’t turn to face him but thought it would be too rude not to respond. “Yep.”

“Did you know that there are a hundred million daily coffee drinkers in America, and about thirty million drink specialty coffees?”

“No. I didn’t know.”

Saffron sucked her teeth and advanced another few inches, breathing through her mouth.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket with a new text, saving her from further small talk. She pulled it out but slid from her hand and fell on the floor, sliding a few inches until it hit the stand showcasing bags of the latest coffee blends and a few new mug designs. The queue moved forward, creating space in front of her. She leaned down to pick up the phone. Another text from Detective Lynch.

Before she could stand up, the loud sound of fireworks, followed by glass shattering, filled the coffee shop. She dropped to the floor and laid as flat as she could. She saw the fat man right behind her get hit and realized they were being shot at. The impact was so severe that his body twisted to the left. The second bullet went through his side. It never exited. He started falling, while a third bullet entered his lower jaw, and left through the right cheek. She heard screams, blood splattered everywhere, and she saw people dropping all around her. Some moaned, while others, already dead, fell on the floor with their eyes open and expressions of disbelief.

The man fell on top of Saffron and gurgled, trying to say something that she couldn’t understand. She felt his warm blood soaking her clothes. The overwhelming smell of copper mixed with onions wrenched her stomach. The screams around her filled her head, and the man’s weight crushed her to the point that she wondered how much longer she would be able to breathe if she couldn’t get out from under him. He kept saying unintelligible words while copious amounts of blood fell on Saffron with each breath.

The firing ceased, the screams stopped, but the moans and cries were still loud. She tried to crawl out from under the man, but he moved with her. With her left hand, the one holding on to the phone, she tried to push herself up to see if she could roll him to the side, but he was too heavy. The door opened.

The glass was shattered, so the only thing left preventing the shooter from just walking in was the horizontal bar that had held the two windowpanes in place. Saffron could see the image of the man entering the store reflected on the pastry display. She could hear him. Each step was slow and methodical. The sound of glass being crushed underneath heavy boots seemed louder than the groans of pain that surrounded her.

“Why?” a woman’s voice asked a few feet away from Saffron.

The boots stopped. Glass screeched under him as he turned a few degrees to face the woman who had spoken. He didn’t say anything. Everybody stopped making noises, and an eerie silence filled the coffee shop. Saffron watched the man’s reflection, distorted on the convex glass casing the pastries. After a few more seconds, he raised his rifle.

“No,” the woman pleaded, extending her hand in front of her for protection.

He pulled the trigger. The muzzle blast filled the room, and the bullet shattered the woman’s hand before it crushed her skull. Then the man turned again, focusing his attention on the other patrons, his feet finding empty spaces and avoiding the limbs and bodies, as if he were playing a macabre version of Twister.

Over the sobs, Saffron heard his footsteps on the shattered glass getting closer. She knew this was the same man who had tried to kill her just two days ago. She tried to relax every muscle and play dead. She was grateful most of her face was hidden by her hair and the Onion Man would probably hide her breathing.

He stopped by her side. She could feel him staring down at her, as if he wanted to make sure she was the one he’d been looking for. Then she felt the muzzle of his rifle against her cheek, but only for a few seconds. He stopped pressing and used it to brush the hair away from her face. Blood dripped from her neck onto the floor, turning it crimson. She didn’t move. The pool of blood continued to expand, sneaking into the tread of his Timberland boots.

He pushed the Onion Man off of her with one violent kick that left a deep, bloody boot impression on the man’s beige corduroy jacket. The body rolled off her, and his arm hit the floor like a chunk of fat, but the only sound he made was another incomprehensible gargle.

Saffron wanted to inhale but didn’t. Her body was so tense she thought her tendons would snap. The man pressed her shoulder a couple times with his rifle again, as if he were testing whether a still snake was really dead. When she didn’t move, he pressed harder and for so long that Saffron wondered if he would ever stop.

She didn’t know how many other people were alive, or if there would be anybody brave enough to save her. After the man shot the lady who asked “Why?” she hadn’t heard other sobs or cries. She thought about opening her eyes, wondering whether it would be better to die seeing the face of the man who killed you, or die in oblivion. She didn’t know, so she didn’t open them. Her only hope was that he would take her for dead and leave her alone.

The pressure on her shoulder subsided, the barrel lifted, and she fought an urge to rub the area where he had pushed. She waited, expecting him to do something else to her, but he didn’t. She imagined him scanning the room, looking for somebody else to hurt, someone else to finish off. But he didn’t move. His boots didn’t go away. She felt the barrel of the gun on her cheek again and the pressure sent rays of pain to the back of her skull.

Saffron tightened her hidden hand around the phone, wishing she could claw her palm, instead, with the recently manicured burgundy nails. Just when she thought her head would shatter from the pain of the metal against her face, she heard a police siren. Then another. The man stopped pushing. Her pain decreased, but she still willed herself to not move any muscles in her face.

A couple seconds later, the man took two steps back and turned around, facing the shattered windows. The noise from the police and ambulance sirens was almost deafening. He just stood there, looking out.

Saffron opened her eyes a sliver, but all she saw were the heels of the yellow boots she already knew so well. She heard cars approaching, stopping, some screeching, some skidding a little on the gravel, but all far enough away in the street to be safe. She wondered if she had a chance to get up and run away now that his focus was somewhere else. But she was too scared. Her muscles were locked, her heartbeat pumping against her ears almost louder than the sirens. She knew she didn’t have the strength to move. She knew she didn’t have the courage to risk it.

“We don’t want any more casualties,” a man’s voice came loud and clear from a megaphone. “Please let people go and we can talk about what’s going on.”

Saffron saw the barrel of the rifle move out of her line of vision. She strained her neck, wanting to see what the man was doing. He was looking through the shattered windows, watching the police. Then he turned and looked back at her. He faced her, seeing she was alive. They locked eyes. He lowered the gun and placed it right between her left shoulder blade and the spine. He didn’t push hard this time, just enough to keep her in place. She closed her eyes and cursed below her breath. She didn’t even think of begging.

The man pulled the trigger and fired.

The sound of an empty chamber filled her ears.

“Jesus, why won’t you die?” he asked her. His voice was low, raspy and sounded tired rather than mad.

He was checking his pockets for extra bullets when she opened her eyes and looked at him. He found none.

“Sir, talk to me. I’m sure we can work this out,” the voice on the other side of the megaphone said.

Saffron watched the killer. She wondered if, like in the movies, the police would crouch behind their cars, aiming their guns at the man standing next to her. He dropped the rifle on the floor, the stock hitting Saffron’s shoulder. He then reached down and pulled a five-inch combat knife from the left pocket of his black cargo pants.

Saffron recoiled, more in her mind than physically, recognizing the knife that had come so close to killing her two nights ago. She scooted a little and tried to move sideways, sure that the man would finally kill her. But the body of the onion man was too heavy behind her and she barely moved an inch or two away. She looked up and saw the killer was not focused on her anymore. He had the knife by his side and was staring at the cops outside.

 “Sir, drop your weapon. We don’t want anyone else to get hurt today.”

The man stayed there as if in a trance, not moving a muscle. Then he switched the knife to his right hand and curled his left fist. Saffron saw his knuckles turn from red to white. After another second, he started raising his arm, as if he were going to surrender.

“Great. Both hands in the air please.”

His right hand didn’t move. Then, with the trained move of a hunter who kills a deer badly shot, he slit his own throat, cutting the left jugular with such force that he almost severed his head from his body before he dropped to the floor. Saffron tried to move away again, but the spray of blood bathed her as the man fell on his knees and then face down on the floor with a loud thud.

“Holy shit,” the man with the megaphone said before he had moved it far enough from his mouth.

Saffron crawled backwards, climbing over the Onion Man and away from the blood still sputtering from the assassin’s body. After a few feet, she was stopped again by something. She looked down. A skinny woman with red hair covered in shattered glass was gasping for air, her eyes pleading as her hand stretched toward Saffron. She took it and sat next to her. Saffron started stroking the woman’s hair while she held her hand as hard as she could.

“It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay,” she kept saying, trying to calm her down.

Before she was able to say it another time, she felt the woman’s strength slip away.

Saffron looked down at her. Two deep blue eyes, half-closed, stared back at her, lifeless. Saffron started to cry.

“No, you can’t leave . It’s going to be okay,” she said and continued to smooth the woman’s hair. “You can’t leave me.”

Her body rocked slightly back and forth while she cried and pleaded.