CHAPTER 12 - Rita

CHAPTER 12RitaIHEAR THE CHIEF IN HIS OFFICE, TALKING ON THE PHONE. I PEER AROUND the door frame. If he’d wanted privacy, he would’ve closed the door, right? He looks up at me from under his bushy gray eyebrows.“I’ll call you back.” Bob drops the phone in its cradle. “What’s up, Rita?”“You remember any detectives named Bradley with the Boston PD?”The chief leans back and threads his fingers together over his ample stomach. “Walt Bradley was a homicide detective. Worked the Strangler case.”“Huh. I think I did hear Walt’s name.”“Yeah. He was a bit of a legend. He retired before we were there. Why?”“Well, apparently Jay Bradley’s father and grandfather were Boston PD detectives.”Bob blows out a breath. “No shit? Well, that’s something.” Bob scratches his head. “Walt must’ve been the grandfather. I don’t remember his son though.”“Me neither. Dr. Bradley’s partner said that Jay overheard some pretty gruesome stories when he was a kid.”“I bet.”“Think he got himself mixed up with some unsavory characters? Maybe doing research for that book he was writing?”“Could be, Reet.” The chief leans forward, drops his feet to the floor. “You see Chase yet?”“No, I just walked in.”“He’s got notes from the autopsy.”I glance back at the squad room. “I’ll find him.”Bob’s phone rings. “Let me know,” he says as he picks up the handset.Chase is sitting at his computer, drinking a cup of black coffee that looks like mud, and he jumps when I call his name. “Sorry.”“It’s okay. Just inputting my notes.” He tucks his phone in his pocket, saves his file, and swivels in his chair. We head down the hall and turn into my office.Chase sits across from my desk and draws a deep breath. “Dr. Gaines said time of death was between one and four a.m.”I hang my jacket on the back of my chair, pull out my notebook, and sit. “Okay,” I say. “After the party, the wife said he was going to work out in his office after everybody left around eleven-thirty.”“Uh huh. And he was wearing the clothes he had on at the party, so somebody came along afterward and killed him a couple hours later.”“And broke into the filing cabinet, went through his desk,” I add.“Yeah.”“What else?”Chase scrolls through his phone. “He did have some defensive wounds after all, just some small cuts on his right hand. Dr. Gaines said he might’ve made a grab for the knife, but she said the neck wound was pretty much instantly fatal. The guy didn’t have a chance.”“So the perp came at him from behind?”“That’s what the doc said.”“Whoever did this walked up behind Dr. Bradley, slit his throat, then went through his stuff, looking for something.” I lean back, drum my fingers on the desk. “Any chance it could’ve been the wife, you think?”Chase shakes his head. “Dr. Gaines thinks the perp was a man, or maybe a tall, strong woman. Mrs. Bradley’s not very big. And she said the angle of the cut makes it likely the perp was as tall as, if not taller than Dr. Bradley.”I’m five four, and Mrs. Bradley and I were about eye to eye. “How tall was Dr. Bradley?”Chase thumbs through his phone. “Six two, one hundred seventy-six pounds.”“Okay. Pretty safe to say she’s low on the list, unless she hired someone.”“And she seemed genuinely distraught.” Chase’s eyes are soft, as though he’s on Mrs. Bradley’s side, defending her honor.“Yeah.” I sigh. There’s still tons to slog through. Talking to Bradley’s patients alone will eat up hours of police work. I glance at my phone. “Let’s run over and talk to the neighbor before the Pearsons get here.”* * *According to Mrs. Bradley, Mrs. Murray is an elderly widow who has lived in the house next door for more than fifty years. And the house looks it. Long neglected, the porch sags, and the windows are dirty, not a total mess, but you don’t have to look too close to see the decay. The house is an aberration in the otherwise pristine neighborhood. After we ring the bell two or three times, she answers the door, a huge German shepherd at her side.I introduce Chase and myself, show her my badge. She peers at us through thick glasses, nods a gray head, and welcomes us inside. We sit in a dim living room that smells faintly of moth balls, mold, and dogs. The furniture is dark and worn, and the room is cluttered from years of living. She’s a tiny woman, probably doesn’t weigh as much as the huge dog sitting at attention next to her armchair.“Can I get you two any coffee?” she asks.“No, thank you, Mrs. Murray,” I say. “Nice dog.”“Percy? Yes, he’s a good boy.”I wonder how someone so small manages such a big animal, but the answer lies in the bric-a-brac scattered through the room. Yellowed and curling ribbons from dog shows decades in the past hang from every picture frame. Photos of, I assume, a young Mrs. Murray wearing poofy fifties skirts, holding the leads of majestic dogs, sit on every end table.“My husband and I raised show dogs for years.” She sighs. “Those were good times.”I tap my pencil against my notebook, and I can’t help myself from sketching Percy’s great ears. “You know about Dr. Bradley’s death, Mrs. Murray?”“Oh, yes. What an awful shame. I was at church yesterday morning, then I went to see my daughter, so I was out when the hubbub next door was going on.” She shakes her head and dabs a handkerchief under her nose. “I can’t believe it.”“Did you know the Bradleys well?”“No. Not too. They haven’t been here long. I waved when I saw them coming or going. He was real nice. Took my garbage to the curb a time or two. Told me to let them know if I ever needed anything. A handsome man.”“What about Mrs. Bradley?”“I didn’t see her as much. She’d wave, but she always acted like she was in a hurry. No time to chat. I thought she was a little snooty, but my daughter says she just might be shy.” Mrs. Murray shrugs. “I feel bad for her. My husband and I were married fifty-two years. I was lucky.”“We need to know if you saw or heard anything Saturday night. You were home?”“Oh, yes. I don’t go out too much anymore. Just to my daughter’s. I was home. I saw the cars next door after dinner. I figured they had company again.”“They entertain a lot?”“Fairly often. There are cars over there quite often.”“What time did you go to bed Saturday night?”“Ten-thirty. After the first half of the news.”“Did you get up at all in the night?”“I don’t usually get up until morning, five-thirty or so. I sleep pretty good for an old lady.” She smiles, proud of this accomplishment, as she should be, I think with chagrin. A good night’s sleep isn’t as easy for me as it once was. I don’t want to attribute it to age, but...“Did you get up Saturday night?”“I did actually.” She scratches her chin with a thin, blue-veined hand. “Percy sleeps on the floor right by my bed, and he usually doesn’t make a peep all night, but Saturday night I woke up because he was downstairs in the kitchen, barking his head off.”“What time was that?” I ask, my pencil raised.“Just before two a.m.”Chase and I glance at one another. “What did you do?”“Well, I went downstairs to see what the commotion was about. He was at the back door barking, so I turned on the porch light, but I didn’t see anything. I said, ‘Percy, you nuthatch, there’s nothing out there.’ I figured it was a tomcat maybe.” She sniffs, swipes her nose with the hankie again. “Was it the murderer, do you think?” she asks, her voice a near whisper.“We don’t know. Would you mind walking us through the kitchen, showing us what happened?”“No problem.” She waves her hand and shuffles to her feet.We walk slowly behind her down a short dark hall, floorboards squeaking, the smell of Vicks in her wake. The dog sticks like glue to her side as if he’s part of the demonstration, which I guess he is.The kitchen is as cluttered as the rest of the place, and the smells of a thousand meals linger in the air. The porcelain sink is faded to gray, and the yellow curtains over it are stiff and look like they’ve hung there for decades. The appliances are clean but aged, and the table is piled with neatly folded newspapers. I move the little curtains aside and see the tall, ivy-covered fence that separates Mrs. Murray’s property from the Bradleys’. The top of the garage roof is visible, nothing else.Mrs. Murray walks to the back door, and we follow. Percy pushes his nose in the crack between the edge of the door and its frame. “This is how I found him,” she says. “But he was barking to beat the band. He wanted to get outside.”“Does he have a loud bark?” Chase asks.She smirks. “He could raise the dead. The people who used to live behind me complained a time or two. But the officer who came out was real nice. He told me not to worry about it. Said they should be glad Percy was around to monitor the neighborhood.”“Did you open the door when you came downstairs?” I ask.“The inside door, but not the storm door, so I didn’t let him out. I didn’t see anything amiss. He calmed down, and I went back up to bed.”“So you turned on the porch light and looked out back a little before two a.m.?”“Yes.”“You didn’t see or hear anything going on by the Bradleys’ garage?”“Not a thing.” She places her hand over her heart. “Is that where it happened?”I nod. “Would you open the inside door and turn on the light.”“Well, it was dark then.”“That’s okay. We just want to see.”“All right.”The backyard is a tangle of overgrown bushes and rusting patio furniture. I step outside on the little stoop. A cold wind blows against my face, scattering a hank of hair that’s fallen out of my bun. From here, you can’t see much more than the garage’s roof either. But distance-wise, the building is close, snugged up against the fence not far from Mrs. Murray’s back door. I turn and look up at the porch light. It’s pretty bright, and the perp probably would’ve noticed it as he searched the doctor’s office. And it stands to reason he would’ve heard the dog barking. I return to the kitchen, where Chase and Mrs. Murray are discussing dog training. Percy gives me a knowing stare. His dark eyes seem to say, “See, I tried to tell her somebody was up to no good over there Saturday night.”“Thank you, Mrs. Murray,” I say, and hand her my card. “Please call if you think of anything else.”She nods and places a gnarled hand on Percy’s head. “What a terrible shame. Jesus, what’s this world come to?”* * *Mr. and Mrs. Pearson are already sitting in the small interview room when Chase and I get back to the station. We sit opposite them in cold metal chairs. Mrs. Pearson is petite, smaller even than Mrs. Bradley, and I’m already crossing her off my mental list of suspects, but she looks nervous, uncomfortable.Mr. Pearson is a different story. He slouches in his chair with a cocky look on his face like, I’m here, but I’m not happy about it, so let’s get it over with. He’s got short, sandy-blond hair and Paul Newman eyes. He’s a real pretty boy, and I bet Mrs. Pearson needs to keep her eye on him.After the preliminaries are through, we get down to business.“Mrs. Pearson, I’m told you and Mrs. Bradley are good friends, go back a long way.”“Yes. Best friends. Growing up, we lived two streets apart, went to school together.”“Graybridge locals then?”“Yes. Her family moved here when she was little.”“What about you, Mr. Pearson? Where’d you grow up?”“Boston. Jay and I lived in the same neighborhood. He stayed local for college, but I went to college in New Hampshire, where I majored in biology. My mom and dad still live in the old neighborhood. Dad’s a salesman, and Mom’s a housewife. I’ve got two older brothers and an older sister. That help?”Mrs. Pearson’s eyes go wide, and she gives her husband a sideways glance.Like I thought, a real wise guy. “It might. You’re good friends with Dr. Bradley, Josh?” I ask, looking over my notes.“Yeah.”“Anything either of you remember as odd at the party?”They both shake their heads. “It was a fun evening,” Mrs. Pearson says, sniffs and paws through her purse, pulls out a wad of tissues. “We can’t believe someone would do this to Jay.”“He say anything to either of you in the days preceding that indicated he was worried about anything, anyone?”“No,” she says.Mr. Pearson’s gaze settles on Chase’s phone as Chase types quickly. “He seemed fine to me,” he adds, clears his throat.“Okay, Mr. Pearson, walk us through the evening, if you would,” I say, and sit back, observing his face as he goes through pretty much the same scenario as the others. He loses some of the attitude as he tells his story, as if he realizes he sounded like a dick when the interview began. He ends his tale with his hands folded on the table.“Can either of you think of anything that might shed light on Dr. Bradley’s death?”“No.” Mrs. Pearson wipes her nose and sticks the tissue back in her purse. “Do you think it was one of his patients? Someone who had severe mental problems?”“Could be.”I look over my notes. “You guys live about a ten-minute drive from the Bradleys?”“Yes. About,” Mrs. Pearson says.“You both go right home, right to bed after the party?”“Yes,” Mr. Pearson says. “We didn’t know anything was wrong until Molly called the next morning.”“Uh huh.” I scribble in my notebook, a quick sketch of both of them next to my observations. “Either of you have anything to add that might help us find your friend’s killer?”Neither of them does, and they leave, Mr. Pearson’s hand firmly on his wife’s back.* * *I turn on the lights in my apartment and drop my takeout bag on the coffee table. I head into my bedroom, peel off my work clothes and slip into yoga pants and an old Rolling Stones concert T-shirt. On my way through the kitchen, I pour a glass of wine and set it next to my burger and fries. I flip through my vinyl collection, place a record on the turntable and Crosby, Stills and Nash fill the apartment with heavenly harmonies. I get settled on the couch, take a sip of wine and sigh, then drag my satchel over. I put on my gloves and take out Dr. Bradley’s planners. I’m just about to open the newest one, stamped with this year’s date, when voices erupt from the foyer.Mrs. Antonelli, my new neighbor, is screeching at her son or daughter. Don’t know which one yet. They helped her move in last month. Apparently, they sold her house out from under her, as she put it, but she refused to move into the senior care facility they picked out. The compromise was the apartment across the foyer from mine. The daughter lives around the corner. It seems Mrs. Antonelli is unable to finish a conversation in the confines of her own place, and I’m treated to a loud dialogue practically on my doorstep whenever anyone comes or goes, and that’s often. For a tiny eighty-two-year-old, she has a strong, loud voice. The son’s and daughter’s voices are gentle hums between her bursts of conversation or shouting, as the case may be.I want to enjoy my evening in peace, so I wait to open the planner until I hear the heavy front door close. A low voice that probably belongs to the son is inscrutable but prompts a rejoinder from his mother that I can definitely hear loud and clear.“You’re coming back Friday? Leo!”Yup. The son. More low conversation. The outside door creaks open.“Leo? What? Okay then, if that’s the best you can do.” The front door closes, and a second later, Mrs. Antonelli’s door slams. Thank God.I nibble cold fries straight from the bag and sip my wine and open the first planner. The pages are still crisp and white. Only the first week of January has any writing on it, but I flip through the other pages, just in case, but there’s nothing there. No more plans. Only the sad reminder that this man’s life has ended.There are two notations. January 4: “Birthday.” And Thursday, January 2: “Lunch with Hayes.” I sift back through my notes, looking for anyone named Hayes, but don’t see it written anywhere. He wasn’t at the party, so who is he? I make a note to ask the wife tomorrow.I set the planner aside, bite into my burger, which, thankfully isn’t stone cold, and reach for the other planner. It was well used, slightly puffy, pages filled with notes in various colored ink, a stain of perhaps coffee here and there. Just by the feel of it, Dr. Bradley was a busy man. I start at the back, December. There are several notations for Christmas activities. Dinner dates with his wife and a smattering of friends’ names corresponding to his birthday party guests. On December 9, he wrote, “Meet Laken at spa, 12:30.” Maybe he went in for a massage. Thursday, December 19: “Pub, Josh and Cal.” So he had a few beers with his buddies. Then I see something that has me sitting up straight, setting my wineglass on the coffee table.On Monday, December 30, Dr. Bradley had noted an appointment at a prison in Connecticut. What was he doing there? I look back through the rest of the planner. There are no other appointments listed for that facility or any other prison. Everything else looks to be purely social. An ex-patient? Or was Dr. Bradley conducting interviews for his book? Another question for the Mrs., although she might not know. She doesn’t appear to know much of anything of her husband’s professional life. Maybe a question for Dr. Westmore instead. I tidy my notes, outline my questions for Mrs. Bradley for tomorrow, and finish my wine.