Cold Justice by Rayven T. Hill

in his hands. Hank sat down beside him. “I can take you home,” he
said gently, putting his arm around his shoulder. “There’s nothing more we can
do here. I expect they will release your wife’s body tomorrow.”
    Philip looked up and nodded. “Ok,” he managed.
    Hank would have to wait for the autopsy report, but he knew
Mrs. Macy’s death was likely going to be labeled as a suicide. But he wasn’t so
sure. Something just didn’t add up. It was too convenient. She claimed to be a
witness to a murder, and now she was dead. Coincidence? Maybe. He also knew it
was important to get statements as soon as possible, but Philip was as yet
unable, or unwilling, to speak.
    Philip followed Hank to his car parked out in the emergency
area’s parking lot, and they drove away. He stared quietly out the side window
as Hank weaved through the north end traffic, his faltering old Chevy finally
making it to the Macy home on Silverpine Street.
    There was a cruiser, lights still flashing, parked by the
curb alongside a couple of unmarked vehicles belonging to investigators. He saw
curious neighbors across the street, gathered to see what was going on in this
usually quiet neighborhood. One guy was sitting comfortably in a lawn chair, as
if waiting for a big event. Three or four more were standing on the sidewalk,
or on their front lawns.
    As he pulled in the drive and squeaked to a stop behind
Philip’s Lexus, he saw a uniformed cop at the front door. The cop watched as
they climbed from the vehicle and approached the house. He nodded at them and
mumbled something as he opened the door for them.
    As they stepped inside the lobby, Hank turned to Philip. “They
are still processing the scene, Mr. Macy. If you could wait here until they’re
done.” He motioned toward a bench in the lobby, and Philip nodded and slouched
down, closing his eyes.
    Crime scene investigators were there, making notes, taking
prints, and snapping photos. Lead crime scene investigator, Rod Jameson was
directing operations. Hank had asked for a thorough job, the scene to be
treated as if it were a crime scene.
    As Hank stepped into the living room, he approached Jameson.
“How’s it going here?” he asked.
    Jameson looked up from his clipboard and glanced around. “Just
about done here, Hank. We’re waiting for you to take a walk-through and then
they’ll bag the evidence, and we’ll be out of here.”
    “Did you find a suicide note?”
    Jameson shook his head.
    “Thanks, Rod.”
    Jameson grunted and went back to his clipboard.
    Hank looked around the room. He unfolded a paper from his
pocket, the report from the responding paramedics. Apparently, Mrs. Macy had
been on the floor when they arrived, where her husband had laid her before
trying to revive her. He saw the chair where she had been slouched over. He
noticed the stand containing the bottle of vodka, the glass, and the pills.
Lorazepam and vodka. Not a good combination. He picked up the glass and smelled
it. Alcohol.
    He spent several minutes taking in everything in the room,
and then into the kitchen, looking for anything out of place. He looked in the
fridge, in the garbage bin, checked the door to the back yard. Locked and
bolted from inside. He noticed the nearly full pot of coffee. He scrutinized
everything, taking in all he saw.
    He went upstairs and took a look around the guest room,
checking in drawers, in the closet, under the bed, on the floor. The room had
already been fingerprinted, leaving traces of dust on the stand and the
doorknob.
    The upstairs bathroom got the same inspection. In the
medicine cabinet. In the bathtub. Towels are dry, window closed and locked.
    Back downstairs he examined the rest of the main floor,
checking windows, doors, studying the floor, even the walls and ceiling.
    There was a small office off the living room. He peeked
inside and saw a desk, a few bookcases half full of books, a printer, computer,
a couple of chairs, some other office furniture. He