Murder 101 (19 page)

“Good title, Fiona,” I remarked. “Nice allusion to Act III, Scene 2.”

She sat across from me, fidgeting in her chair and sighing loudly as I read the first couple of paragraphs.

This had been a short assignment, so I got to the conclusion with a quick scan of all of her major points in less than five minutes.

So, it stands to reason that there was truly no blood on Lady Macbeth’s hands
—
just the guilt that she had conspired in committing a murder.

I took a pen from my briefcase and made a note on the paper:
“Guilt cannot be on her hands. How about ‘It stands to reason that there was no blood on Lady Macbeth’s hands, but that she now has to live with the guilt that she conspired with Macbeth in committing a murder.’ Need to develop this thought more.”

Macbeth commits the murder, but ultimately, Lady Macbeth feels responsible for the crime against Duncan, the king of Scotland. Once his best friend and confidant, he has turned against him in a way that no friend should turn against another.

Her grammar stank and I didn’t agree with the statement, but I thought I would leave it alone until I could do a closer reading. I read on. She referenced Act V, Scene 1, which is Lady Macbeth’s penultimate scene displaying her guilt and insanity.

When Lady Macbeth says, “Yet who would have thought the girl to have had so much blood in her?” it illustrates the fact that although she didn’t see the crime being committed, she knew that the crime against the king was bloody and indeed, violent. In today’s world, her only hope would be the insanity defense. Because she didn’t mean to do it.

I reread the line. “Girl” was an obvious mistake. Duncan is an old man when Macbeth kills him. I drew a circle around the two words and inserted a question mark, thinking that she may be mistaking the line for that from another play.
Hamlet,
maybe?

I looked up at Fiona from over the top of her paper, my eyes landing on the necklace resting on her throat: a diamond-encrusted “X” on a short gold chain.

Twenty-four

I put the paper down slowly and stared across at Fiona, who stared back at me.

“Nice work, Fiona,” I said, my voice shaking slightly. I pushed my chair back from the table a bit, but hit an uneven floorboard and couldn’t go any farther.

“Thank you,” she said, coldly. “May I have my paper back now?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so.” I folded it in two and pushed it back into my briefcase. I pushed the chair back hard over the floorboard and stood up.

She stood up as well. The table separated us.

Even though it was getting dark, I could see a familiar shape bounding down the back steps of the building through the glass of my office windows. Crawford. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or frightened. Moments later, I heard the back door of the building open and his footsteps on the stairs. I prayed that he would come to the office before going to the Blue Room so that I had some company. I heard him call my name as he opened the door. He was dressed in a white-cotton oxford and black pants. No sign of the big gun, but I mentally flashed on the one he wore on his ankle.

Fiona looked at him coming through the door. She turned back around, her face cold and hard. “Give me back my paper,” she snarled.

Crawford made his way into the room and stood at the far end of the table. “Ladies,” he said, a question in his greeting.

“Detective, this is Fiona Martin. She’s in my Shakespeare class,” I said, motioning to her. “Fiona, this is Detective Crawford.”

He walked over and shook her hand. The look on her face was a mixture of confusion and anxiety. She looked to him and then back to me.

“Detective Crawford is a friend of mine,” I said.

He looked at me for some clue as to what was happening. I looked down at the table and the paper in front of me.

“Detective Crawford is working on Kathy’s murder.”

Fiona glared at me. “Why is he here? Did you already know?”

“Know what, Fiona?” I asked, wanting to hear her say it.

“Is that why you wouldn’t give me my paper back?”

Crawford perched on the edge of the table and crossed one leg over the other, his hands wrapped around his right ankle. “Why don’t you both sit down so we can talk?” he suggested, his posture casual and nonthreatening.

Fiona’s eyes filled with tears. “You know, my father’s here, and I can ask him to come in and make you give it back.” She continued to stand and stare at me.

I sat down. “I don’t think you want to do that, Fiona. Tell me what you were writing about in the paper.”

I saw her mind working as she decided what to do.

“Please.”

Crawford stayed silent, watching Fiona as she sat down and buried her head in her hands and sobbed. His hands wrapped the bottom of his pant leg tight around his ankle.

“Did you kill her?” I asked.

She nodded. “But it was an accident!” she cried.

“I’m sure it was,” I said, trying to keep my voice even and soothing. “What happened?”

“She caught me with Vince,” she said. “And she freaked out.”

I would have freaked out, too, I thought. But then again, she had been with Ray. Would she really care if Fiona was involved with Vince? I didn’t say anything and let Fiona keep talking.

She narrowed her eyes and looked at me. “You know she was sleeping with your ex-husband, don’t you?” She fingered the “x” around her neck with her free hand.

I nodded.

“She wasn’t as nice as everyone is saying she was.”

“I didn’t really know her well.” I looked at Crawford.

“She didn’t want Vince with anyone else. She was really mad that he took up with her roommate, of all people. She was like that. Jealous.”

Crawford waited a minute before asking, “How did she die?”

She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back in the chair, taking a deep breath. “We were in a bar on Broadway when she found us. Vince left like the big chicken that he is . . . was,” she said, “and it was just the two of us. I knew that she was sleeping with Ray, and I told her that, but she was still pissed off that I had hooked up with Vince. She said it wasn’t right. We left the bar and started walking home.”

“Along Broadway?” Crawford asked.

“Yeah.” She shot a look at him, but he didn’t respond in any way. “We went through the woods between the apartment buildings and our dorm, and that’s when she told me that Vince was only using me to get back at her.” Tears started falling down her face. “That just wasn’t true,” she protested.

“I’m sure it wasn’t true,” I said, thinking that that was what I was supposed to say.

“Right!” she said, agreeing with me. She cried for a few more minutes. “Vince always told me he loved me. And he gave me this,” she said, rolling the diamond necklace between her fingers. “He was really hurt when she broke up with him.”

“The breakup wasn’t his idea?” I asked.

She shook her head. “No. It was all her idea.” She looked down. She looked like she had something else to say, but she kept silent. Something unspoken hung in the air.

Crawford looked over at me questioningly.

“What else, Fiona?” I prodded her.

She wouldn’t look at me.

“Fiona, if there’s more, we have to know. Anything you tell us could help you,” Crawford lied.

“Did you know that Vince is dead?” she asked, changing the subject.

I nodded. I heard Crawford take a deep breath and exhale slowly. I didn’t feel the need to go into any more detail.

“And Johnny’s in jail.”

I was surprised that she knew that. “How did you know that?”

“He’s my cousin. My mother’s sister’s son. They called my dad to get him out.” She fiddled with the edge of her skirt. “But he couldn’t.”

Her parents apparently hadn’t told her the whole story. Crawford led her along with her story. “So, what happened in the woods?”

“I pushed her,” she said, matter-of-factly. “And she fell backwards and gashed her head open on a stump sticking out of the ground. I think she died then.” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “There was a lot of blood.”

“How did you get the body to my car?” I asked.

“Kathy told me that Ray let her drive his car every once in a while and that he kept a spare set of keys in his desk drawer in his office. I went into his office and took them. I knew he had a BMW, but there was an old Volvo key on the key ring, marked ‘Al.’ I figured that was your car key. I also figured you wouldn’t miss that junker too much, so I asked Vince and Johnny to help me get the body and dump it.” She paused for a minute. “I wasn’t trying to frame you. I thought you’d be happy to be rid of that wreck. I told Vince and Johnny to take the car and get rid of it. I didn’t think that they’d only go a few miles. How stupid was that?”

I didn’t say anything. Vince and John were certainly not criminal masterminds, that was for sure.

I tried to keep her talking. “Why did you break into my office?” I asked. “Were you just trying to get the paper back?”

She looked at me quizzically and then a mental light went on in her head. “Oh, that was Vince. I told him that I thought I might have given away something in the paper, and he freaked out.” She smiled slightly. “How weird was it that we were doing
Macbeth?”

“Yeah, weird,” I agreed. “When did Vince give you the necklace?” I asked.

She touched it to make sure that it was still there. “A few weeks ago.”

“What does the X mean?” I asked.

“It’s my birthday. October tenth. The tenth day of the tenth month.”

“And X is ten in Roman numerals,” I said. “Clever.”

“Well, it’s a heck of a lot nicer than wearing a ten around your neck. That would look cheesy.” She shifted again. We sat in silence, looking at each other for what seemed like hours, but what was really only a few minutes.

“So, what do you think I should do?” she finally asked, breaking the silence.

“I think you should give yourself up,” I said.

“What’s going to happen to me?” she asked.

I looked at Crawford to provide some kind of explanation. “If you explain everything to the judge just like you explained it to us, I’m sure you’ll be able to work things out,” he said. I knew that he was lying, but looking at her, I could tell that she was buying whatever he was selling.

She stood up and smoothed her skirt down and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. “Well, that’s good. I feel much better.”

Crawford stood as well. “So, let’s take a ride to the precinct, and we can get everything down in writing and on video.”

She looked at him in shock. “I’ve got an awards ceremony tonight.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to miss it, Fiona,” he said gently, taking her arm. It was the first time I had seen him use the sad face with anyone but me.

Fiona shook loose from his grasp and lunged across the table, grabbing the large pair of scissors that I had used on her paper. She turned and stabbed him once in the shoulder, and another time right above his heart, stunning herself and the two of us. She looked at me, dropped the scissors and ran for the door.

Crawford put his hand over the shoulder wound and doubled over at the same time. Blood seeped between his fingers, and his white shirt bloomed crimson in seconds. He grabbed the gun from his ankle and pointed it at her back. “Fiona! Stop or I’ll shoot you dead,” he said, loudly but calmly.

She skidded to a stop, inches from the door to the stairway. She slowly put her hands up over her head, but kept her back to us. Crawford got up, holding the wound closest to his heart closed with his left hand, aiming the gun with his right. I watched as he walked over to her, grabbed her roughly by the collar of her silk blouse, and dragged her back to the table. He threw her into the same chair in which she had been sitting during our conversation. The chair moved back several inches when her body hit it, and she let out a yelp. She rubbed her left elbow with the palm of her right hand.

“Alison, call nine-one-one,” he said, pressing on his shoulder with the palm of his hand. “Tell them it’s a ten-thirteen. My badge number is one-seven-four-three-oh.”

Wyatt told me later that a 10-13 meant “officer needs assistance,” and that it would bring every available squad car in a twenty-mile radius to the scene. He held the gun on Fiona, inches from her face. She stared into the barrel, perhaps finally understanding the severity of the situation.

Crawford cursed under his breath, and winced. He was furious with her, and I think it took every ounce of control for him not to blow her head off. The blood was pooling on the floor around him, and I watched him as I made the call. The color was draining from his face, and he was getting weak. After I hung up, I ran back to where they were sitting and stripped off my half slip.

I bent to pick up the scissors. “Leave them. They’re evidence,” he commanded, but his voice was small.

I ripped the black nylon slip in two and wrapped it around his shoulder and tried to stop the bleeding. It was only minutes later that I heard the wail of several police cars and the steady bleat of an ambulance siren. I stood behind him and put my arms under his armpits as he slid down in the chair, losing consciousness. His head fell straight back and I could see the thick layer of sweat covering his face. The gun slipped out of his hand and fell to the floor, dropping beside him but inching closer to Fiona.

Fiona and I looked at it. I had Crawford and her chair in my path. She reached down and grabbed the gun.

“It was an accident!” she screamed, the gun waving wildly in her trembling hand.

I took my hands out from under Crawford’s armpits and positioned him so that he wouldn’t fall out of the chair, his head and upper torso resting on the table. If I was going to get killed, I didn’t want it to appear that I had been using his body as a shield. I looked over Fiona’s shoulder and saw through the windows of my office that a virtual phalanx of police officers were running down the stairs behind the building, but I kept my eyes on her and the gun.

“Give me the gun, Fiona,” I said, starting toward her slowly.

She was sobbing. “I didn’t mean to do that,” she said, pointing the gun at Crawford.

I nodded like I understood. I held my hand out to her. “The police are here.”

Her face crumpled, and she let out a gut-wrenching sob. She put the gun to her head.

“No, Fiona!”

The window in my office exploded as three officers, dressed in head-to-toe black and wearing riot gear, burst through the glass. They were through the windows and by Fiona’s side in seconds. They all screamed simultaneously for Fiona to drop the gun and for me to hit the floor. We both obliged.

Fiona began sobbing as two of the officers surrounded her and pointed large automatic weapons at her. The other officer, a woman, checked all of the offices and called out “All clear!” The main office door opened and Wyatt ran in, his gun pointed into the room. He ran to Crawford’s side and checked his neck for a pulse. “Get the EMTs in here!” he shouted to the door, and, immediately, three EMTs entered with a stretcher. Within seconds, they had Crawford on a stretcher, his shirt off, and an IV in his arm. One of the EMTs set about cutting Crawford’s pants off and I looked away, knowing that he would want me to. After they covered him with a sheet, I took one last look: he was still unconscious and looked about as close to a corpse as someone with a pulse can get.

“Multiple stab wounds, thready pulse, blood loss,” one technician shouted into a walkie-talkie, “BP is ninety over sixty.” He continued talking as the stretcher was brought to waist height on wheels and removed from the room. The EMT called “Mercy” to Wyatt, who nodded.

Cops swarmed the room. With one of their own on a stretcher and headed to the hospital, the mood was solemn but charged with anger. I was actually worried about Fiona’s safety. Fiona was on her knees with her hands laced on her head, a female cop standing over her with her gun drawn. After a few minutes, Sally Hiney came over, pulled Fiona’s arms off her head, and tightly cuffed her hands behind her back. Sally, roughly twice Fiona’s size, dragged her through the chaos. Fiona turned and looked at me. “I’m sorry,” she cried, as another officer by the door joined in hauling her out, lifting her by her armpits so that her feet were a few inches off the floor.