Sandrine's Case (9780802193520) by Thomas H. Cook Page A

citizens of Coburn,” he said softly. “No further questions.”
    Morty walked to the podium.
    â€œOfficer Hill, isn’t it true that even before Mr. Madison had mentioned this about a possible suicide note, you’d begun to feel that something was criminally amiss?” he asked.
    Officer Hill stiffened slightly. “Criminally amiss?”
    â€œAn itch,” Morty said dryly.
    â€œI guess so,” Officer Hill admitted.
    â€œYou guess so? Well, upon returning to Coburn police headquarters, you spoke immediately to the duty officer, isn’t that your testimony?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd later you spoke with Detective Ray Alabrandi?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œNow, Detective Alabrandi is a homicide detective, isn’t he?”
    â€œHe’s a detective,” Officer Hill answered. “I guess he investigates homicides.”
    â€œIn any event, you reported your observations regarding the scene of Mrs. Madison’s death to a duty officer at police headquarters, then to a full-fledged detective, even though you must have known that the coroner would certainly be called into the case, isn’t that true?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAll right, so something gave you that little itch, right?” Morty asked. “It would be fair to say that, wouldn’t it?”
    â€œI suppose so.”
    â€œAll right, what did you tell Detective Alabrandi when you had occasion to speak to him regarding the death of Sandrine Madison?”
    â€œWell, for one thing, I described the room.”
    â€œHow did you describe it?”
    â€œIt was a mess, like I said. Stuff was scattered all over the place. It was hard for me to imagine that a woman would let a bedroom get like that, and so, well, I sort of wondered if she’d . . .”
    â€œShe’d what?”
    â€œIf maybe she’d been kept there.”
    â€œAgainst her will?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œSo it was the general disarray of the place that brought about that little itch, is that right?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œBecause women, being natural-born cleaners of rooms, and Mrs. Madison being a woman, you concluded that she might have been . . . imprisoned . . . by her husband?”
    â€œI didn’t know by who.”
    â€œAnd that perhaps Mrs. Madison’s death might not have been a natural one?”
    â€œI knew it wasn’t natural. Mr. Madison had already said it was a suicide.”
    â€œBut you didn’t believe Mr. Madison, did you, Officer Hill?”
    â€œI wasn’t sure,” Officer Hill admitted.
    â€œWell, if Mrs. Madison had not committed suicide, how had she died?” Morty asked.
    â€œI didn’t know.”
    â€œBut you had a suspicion, didn’t you? And this suspicion was that Mrs. Madison had been murdered. That was your true suspicion, wasn’t it, Officer Hill, your itch?”
    Officer Hill stiffened slightly, and I saw that here was a woman who was not afraid to state exactly what she thought, and that to some degree she was doing it out of deference for Sandrine, in an effort, honest and determined, to render justice in her case.
    â€œYes, it was,” she said.
    â€œSo we have clutter, a woman, and from this the idea of a murder?” Morty asked, then quickly lifted his hand before Officer Hill could answer, or Mr. Singleton object, and immediately fired off his next question.
    â€œOfficer Hill, do you remember being called to 439 Dancers Street on the night of October 10, 2009? The house of Janice LePlane?”
    â€œYes.”
    Morty took a photograph from the stack of them he’d placed on the lectern and showed it to Officer Hill.
    â€œIs this the room in which Mrs. LePlane was found?” he asked.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œHow would you describe it?”
    â€œWell, it’s . . . cluttered. Magazines on the floor. Some white food containers. You know, Chinese food.”
    â€œIt’s not dissimilar to