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Authors: Gregg E. Brickman
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then I found out he'd cleaned out the savings account. There isn't anything left."
I didn't know what to say.
"That's why they called me to the police station today."
"Excuse me?" Now I knew the reason she came late.
Ray was covering the bases. I agreed with him. A person familiar to the victim is often the killer, and there was a lot of trouble in this family. But I wondered what was behind Ray's enthusiasm. Hutchinson wasn't dead, might not be for a long time. Ray was spending an unusual amount of time on an attempted homicide when there were plenty of successful murders to work.
"It was terrible," she said. Tears filled her eyes and ran in rivulets down her lustrous brown cheeks. I offered her a tissue, and she dabbed at the tears before blowing her nose. "The phone rang about eight. I was getting up. I showed some property late last night, then met with Michael Wiley. When I went to bed, I couldn't sleep. I keep thinking about being sixty years old, destitute, and selling real estate for that creep Wiley. He won't pay me anything significant for the business. He wants to take over the contracts and give me a job. I bet he fires me the first chance he gets."
"What did Detective Stone want?"
"He wasn't the one who called me. It was some woman. A clerk or something. When I dragged myself into the police station, Stone was there. He asked someone to put me into a conference room." She shifted her weight in the chair then stared at her husband's ventilator. "It wasn't a conference room. It was an interrogation room like the ones on television—table and chairs, nothing else. It didn't even have a window."
"Go on," I said. On one hand, I wanted to rise to the defense of my patient's wife. The poor woman. On the other hand, I understood she was a suspect. But why call her in now, today?
"They left me there a long time. Stone came in with another officer, a young man, and they offered me coffee. They questioned me about the business, how it was going, and how it was doing before Barry was shot. I told them things were on a wing and prayer as far as I could tell. I even volunteered the information about the lack of cash flow and the fact I was having trouble making payroll."
"It sounds like pretty old territory. Hadn't they asked you those questions before?" The gum had lost its flavor, and I realized I was chewing too hard, like a cow with her cud. I helped myself to a tissue and used it to remove the gum from my mouth, keeping an eye on Amelia while I disposed of it.
"I presumed they'd get around to questioning me. Right after Barry . . . Well, they pretty much left me out of it. They asked me a few things, but I was distraught and not helpful. They said they would get with me later." Grunting, she lifted herself out of her chair, walked around her husband's bed, and stood by the window.
"What else happened?" I decided to keep prompting her. It would be interesting to compare what she said with Ray's version, if he discussed it with me that is. I went to stand beside her.
"Stone said—let me see if I can get it exact—he said, 'Don't you think you could make payroll if you hadn't taken five-thousand out of the agency's money market account?'" She looked at me. Her face was tense, drawn in around her nose. She spread her hand out in front of her in a motion that would have said he's got the whole world in his hands had the circumstances been different. "I was speechless."
"Then?"
"I tried to explain I hadn't been included in the agency's finances. Barry brought home a paycheck, sometimes as payroll, sometimes as corporate dividends, depending on what the tax accountant said. I never saw the books. I didn't have access to the money. I remember signing cards when the accounts were opened, but I never did anything with them. The only time I learned anything was when the taxes were done at the end of the
I didn't know what to say.
"That's why they called me to the police station today."
"Excuse me?" Now I knew the reason she came late.
Ray was covering the bases. I agreed with him. A person familiar to the victim is often the killer, and there was a lot of trouble in this family. But I wondered what was behind Ray's enthusiasm. Hutchinson wasn't dead, might not be for a long time. Ray was spending an unusual amount of time on an attempted homicide when there were plenty of successful murders to work.
"It was terrible," she said. Tears filled her eyes and ran in rivulets down her lustrous brown cheeks. I offered her a tissue, and she dabbed at the tears before blowing her nose. "The phone rang about eight. I was getting up. I showed some property late last night, then met with Michael Wiley. When I went to bed, I couldn't sleep. I keep thinking about being sixty years old, destitute, and selling real estate for that creep Wiley. He won't pay me anything significant for the business. He wants to take over the contracts and give me a job. I bet he fires me the first chance he gets."
"What did Detective Stone want?"
"He wasn't the one who called me. It was some woman. A clerk or something. When I dragged myself into the police station, Stone was there. He asked someone to put me into a conference room." She shifted her weight in the chair then stared at her husband's ventilator. "It wasn't a conference room. It was an interrogation room like the ones on television—table and chairs, nothing else. It didn't even have a window."
"Go on," I said. On one hand, I wanted to rise to the defense of my patient's wife. The poor woman. On the other hand, I understood she was a suspect. But why call her in now, today?
"They left me there a long time. Stone came in with another officer, a young man, and they offered me coffee. They questioned me about the business, how it was going, and how it was doing before Barry was shot. I told them things were on a wing and prayer as far as I could tell. I even volunteered the information about the lack of cash flow and the fact I was having trouble making payroll."
"It sounds like pretty old territory. Hadn't they asked you those questions before?" The gum had lost its flavor, and I realized I was chewing too hard, like a cow with her cud. I helped myself to a tissue and used it to remove the gum from my mouth, keeping an eye on Amelia while I disposed of it.
"I presumed they'd get around to questioning me. Right after Barry . . . Well, they pretty much left me out of it. They asked me a few things, but I was distraught and not helpful. They said they would get with me later." Grunting, she lifted herself out of her chair, walked around her husband's bed, and stood by the window.
"What else happened?" I decided to keep prompting her. It would be interesting to compare what she said with Ray's version, if he discussed it with me that is. I went to stand beside her.
"Stone said—let me see if I can get it exact—he said, 'Don't you think you could make payroll if you hadn't taken five-thousand out of the agency's money market account?'" She looked at me. Her face was tense, drawn in around her nose. She spread her hand out in front of her in a motion that would have said he's got the whole world in his hands had the circumstances been different. "I was speechless."
"Then?"
"I tried to explain I hadn't been included in the agency's finances. Barry brought home a paycheck, sometimes as payroll, sometimes as corporate dividends, depending on what the tax accountant said. I never saw the books. I didn't have access to the money. I remember signing cards when the accounts were opened, but I never did anything with them. The only time I learned anything was when the taxes were done at the end of the
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