Cold Justice by Rayven T. Hill Page A

rummaged through the desk,
looking for a note. Nothing. The computer was off. He left it.
    Finally, he approached Jameson. “You can clean up here now,”
he said.
    They bagged and tagged, and in a few minutes, the
investigators were gone.
    Hank found Philip still waiting. They went into the living
room and sat on the couch. Hank had a notepad in his hand, his pen ready.
Philip slouched back, his eyes closed.
    Hank turned sideways and looked at Philip. “I realize how
hard this is, Mr. Macy, but I need to ask you some questions, if you are up to
it.” Hank hated this part. Hated questioning someone who was obviously grieving
so much. They just want someone to share their pain, or perhaps just be left
alone, not to be interrogated. He had seen so much grief in the almost twenty
years as a cop, and it never got any easier for him, or for them.
    “Mr. Macy, I’m sorry, but I must ask, did your wife ever
talk about ending her life?”
    Philip opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling. “No, no.
Never.” He seemed to be pleading. “She never would. She may have had problems
lately, but she wasn’t suicidal.” He turned and looked earnestly at Hank. “I
know she didn’t kill herself. She just wouldn’t.” His voice shook, his hands
working nervously.
    Hank nodded. He didn’t know what to say to that. He was
thinking about the murder Abigail had stated she witnessed. “Did your wife ever
tell you if she had any idea who was involved in the murder she saw? Who the
killer is, or the victim?”
    Philip shook his head. “No, I don’t think she saw them
clearly. She didn’t like to talk about it, but she was obviously fearful.”
    “Mr. Macy, when you came home and first found your wife, did
you touch anything? Or move anything?”
    “Nothing. I just tried to revive her, and then called 9-1-1.”
He glanced over to the chair where he had found his wife’s body, and looked
away quickly.
    “Had you been in any contact with her throughout the day? On
the phone, or otherwise?”
    “I had called and talked with her briefly this morning. She
appeared to be fine. I tried again a few times this afternoon, but got no
answer.”
    “When was the last time you spoke to her?”
    Philip looked up and thought a minute before answering. “Probably
around noon. Maybe twelve-thirty.”
    Hank scribbled in the notepad. He needed to ask for an
alibi, but wanted to be careful how he framed the question. “And you were in
the office all day?”
    Philip nodded. “Yes, all day. My assistant, Samantha, was
there. She left for lunch about twelve, and came back a few minutes after one.
Other than that, she was there all day.”
    “And until recently, your wife worked at the office with
you?”
    “Yes.”
    “So, I take it she knew Samantha?”
    “Yes, very well. They didn’t socialize outside the office,
but they went to lunch together a lot. Things like that.”
    Hank nodded, scribbled, and then, “What’s Samantha’s last
name?”
    “Riggs. Samantha Riggs. I can get you her address and phone
number if you’d like.”
    “Yes, I would appreciate that. I need to talk to anyone who
knows Abigail.”
    “I’ll make you a list as soon as I can and get it to you,”
Philip said.
    Hank consulted his pad, made a couple of quick notes and
then stood. “I think that’s all for now Mr. Macy, but I may have more questions
later.”
    Philip stood, and they shook hands. As he showed Hank to the
door, he stopped and looked earnestly at him. “Detective, my wife would never
kill herself. I know she’s been murdered. Please find out who did this,” he
asked, pleading.
    “I’ll do everything I can,” Hank said, as he left and made
his way down the steps to his vehicle. He climbed in and sat there for a
moment. He would have to wait for the autopsy report, but it sure looks like
suicide.
     
     
     
     
    Chapter 12
     
     
     
    Wednesday, August 17th, 6:28 PM
     
    JAKE SWUNG the Firebird into the guests’ parking lot of
North Richmond