Bleed (Detective Ellie MacIntosh) (4 page)

As with the course of life, things went wrong occasionally.

Maybe she’d made some bad choices.

But maybe she’d made the only choice.

It didn’t matter, it was done.

*   *   *

It was becoming a recurring theme. This time the body was in the kitchen with the familiar expanse of polished marble, elegant cabinetry, stainless steel appliances and a tiled floor currently splattered with various unattractive bits of human remains.

The victim was probably attractive without the hole in his head and blood everywhere, but it was very hard to tell with crimson rivulets obscuring his features.

“I killed him.”

Ellie eyed the pale, set face of the young woman before her and took a moment. “Okay … tell us what happened.”

“I can’t talk right here.” She indicated the body with a slightly unsteady hand. “Can we do this alone somewhere else?”

Considering there were crime scene techs all around them, not to mention that Dr. Hammet had just arrived, Ellie gave a nod.

Grasso indicated the nearby family room. “Fine. By all means, Ms. Garrison. Let’s sit down and discuss this.”

The actress was much calmer than the other morning, or even than when Ellie had talked to her last. She wore a camisole under a gray cashmere sweater, and dark slacks that made her hair even more vibrant, and a slight smattering of freckles were visible across her nose that Ellie had never seen before, no doubt because she was so pale.

The couches were Italian leather, the fireplace black marble, and the French doors looked out over a courtyard with the same Olympic-sized pool visible from the dining room. They sat down, and it was interesting to see that Greta seemed more lucid than she had been the last time they talked, less anxious, her calm either drug-induced … or maybe the plausible explanation was in a congealing pool of blood in the dining room.

Ellie said matter-of-factly, “I take it you were expecting your ex-husband.”

Grasso, sitting in his tailored slacks and pristine white shirt with a patterned silk tie, looked at Greta at the question, a small notebook in his hand. The actress nodded, her hands quietly folded.

“You told me yourself, Detective, he would come after me.”

“I said,” Ellie corrected carefully, “that if you knew who had shot Cranz and his friend, he might worry about what you could tell us. Are you saying he killed them?”

“I suspected Sam.” Greta wiped the corner of her eye. “I didn’t
know
.”

Ellie nodded. “Where did you get the gun? You told us just two days ago you don’t own one.”

Greta hesitated, but then shuddered. Her voice was a thin whisper. “It was his. He showed it to me. Said he was going to kill me. He set it down on the kitchen counter as he was ranting. I’ve always known he hasn’t accepted the divorce. I … well … I picked it up.”

It was a valid explanation for another corpse, but only to a certain extent. “If he killed two men to protect you, it makes no sense to us that he would then turn around and pose enough of a threat to give you cause to defend yourself with deadly force. That would negate the reason for the first two killings.”

“What reason?” Greta stared at them with limpid eyes, her body slightly slumped. “What are you talking about?”

“Money.” Grasso was matter-of-fact. “Wasn’t he protecting his investment? Obviously, the two of you don’t get along. The body in the kitchen kind of indicates that, Ms. Garrison. He gets a percentage of your earnings, and it isn’t chump change. I can tell you, people have killed for a lot less.”

The laugh she gave held an edge of hysteria. “You think this is about money? Any of it? That’s … wrong, mistaken. Stupid even.”

Ellie fought a surge of frustration because she knew well enough that they were missing something in this case, but whatever the hell it might be, she had no idea, and this latest shooting just added more brain fog. She leaned forward. “Look, Ms. Garrison, neither Lieutenant Grasso nor myself are stupid. What we are is in the dark as to what the motivation could be if you don’t believe it was money. Mostly because you are not a very cooperative witness, for which we can detain you and, depending on the circumstances, maybe even arrest you. Now, if we are ‘mistaken,’ please explain.”

Greta straightened her spine in a manner that Ellie had seen before. Her mouth tightened. “Sam had an obsession with me. It was why he cast me in the first place, and it was why he never accepted the divorce. I loved him, but I had to get away from it. It wasn’t healthy for either of us. When I found those bodies, my first thought was that he’d done it, and it gave me a sick feeling because I knew why.”

“It would be really nice if we knew why as well.” Grasso was polite, but Ellie sensed the same edginess he felt. There was something a bit off.

“He knew they were here because
he’d
hired them to kill me.” Greta looked away, hands clasped, her expression poignant. “He told me at the last minute he couldn’t go through with it, but it was too late. The money had been paid and the phones ditched so there was only one way to stop it. He knew about the disabled alarm because he’d arranged it all, and he got in and … waited.”

“You said he didn’t have the code.”

“I lied. I never believed for a minute he would do anything like this.”

Her partner glanced over and Ellie slightly lifted her shoulders. It was entirely possible. “So he killed the two men he’d hired. What else did he say?”

“That he’d decided to do it himself. That is when I grabbed the gun and shot him.”

“He said he was going to kill you?”

“He did.”

“There is no thirty-eight-caliber pistol registered to your ex-husband, Ms. Garrison.”

“If you are asking me where he got it, I have no idea. If you think a Hollywood producer doesn’t have contacts, Detective MacIntosh, then you would be mistaken yet again.”

“She’s done.” Two men came into the living room, one of them Greta’s all-too-familiar manager, the other younger, polished, briefcase in hand … attorney. Ellie recognized that faint sardonic smile. They all seemed to have it. The young man said smoothly, “Ms. Garrison will give you a statement tomorrow. I think she’s been through enough this evening unless you wish to charge her with a crime.”

“At this time, no.” Ellie got to her feet. “But the district attorney might have a different take on it. The claim of self-defense is duly noted, but until we hear back from the processing of the scene and the ME, not to mention we’ve been trying to trace the victim’s movements for the past three days, Ms. Garrison needs to be available for further questioning. Understood?”

Greta’s lawyer inclined his head. “Keep in touch, Detective MacIntosh.”

11:00
A.M.
, next day

The receptionist, thin, mid-fifties, and obviously efficient, looked at Ellie’s credentials carefully and then nodded. “Dr. Lukens is with her last patient before lunch, Detectives. I don’t interrupt her sessions unless there is an emergency, so if you’ll have a seat, as soon as this light”—she pointed to a device on her desk—“blinks to tell me the patient has left, I’ll let her know you want a word. We have a separate waiting area from the exit door for privacy purposes.”

Carl wasn’t sure the discipline of psychiatry really helped anyone, his skepticism based on the fact that paying someone to nod and listen to your ramblings seemed like a waste of money to him. The department had tried to force him to get therapy to make sure he wasn’t suffering from any kind of PTSS from having shot and killed two criminals who thoroughly deserved it, but he’d refused. If asked what he took away from the experience, he’d have said probably that he believed remorse was overrated.

He’d shot them, and he doubted anyone mourned them.

Ellie picked up a magazine and began to thumb through it while he checked his messages on his phone. One of them was interesting as hell.

He listened to it twice and then pushed a button as he turned to his partner. “I just got a message from forensics. The ballistics on the bullets that killed the two intruders match the one from the gun that killed Sam Garrison last night.”

Holding a copy of
National Geographic,
Ellie took a moment to digest that, her brow slightly furrowed, her eyes a vivid hazel and full of interest. More and more Carl thought her boyfriend was a pretty lucky guy, except for the fact she was absolutely born to be a cop and that was never easy to live with. Maybe that was why he was relentlessly single. Casual relationships, yes. Permanence, no.

“So Greta was telling us the truth.” Ellie set the magazine down on a small polished wooden table. “And here I would have sworn something didn’t fit quite right.”

He would have sworn exactly the same thing. “If you were the one who had gunned down two men after you supposedly admitted hiring them to kill your ex-wife, would you arrive on her doorstep and not only tell her all about it, but set your gun on the counter where she could reach it?”

“No.” Ellie’s smooth fall of hair moved in a symmetrical swing at her shoulders as she shook her head. “But you know, Lieutenant, people do extremely stupid things all the time I am proud to say I would never do.”

“The other possibility is that she is responsible for all three murders. Hollywood producers aren’t the only ones with connections. Just because she said she didn’t have a gun, doesn’t mean it is the God’s truth.”

“Yes, but unfortunately, her version of what happened makes the most sense, and there is the argument of no residue on her hands. I’m not sure anyone would buy the premise she tampered with her own alarm and enticed two men we can’t prove she even knew into climbing through a window just so she could gun them down. Opportunity aside, there’s no motive.”

“Can’t argue that.”

“Detectives, through there.” The receptionist pointed at a door.

Dr. Lukens proved to contradict Carl’s perception of the professionals in the mental health care field. Tall and dark-haired, with slightly angular features, there was clear intelligence in her eyes, and as she rose and smiled, he sensed a wariness that was not at all the usual almost-condescending aura he so despised.

“Please, have a seat.” Dr. Lukens motioned to two chairs in front of her desk and sat back down. “I assume you are here about Greta Garrison.”

Ellie sat down. “Why would you assume that?”

“It is all over the news. Greta killed her husband and you are homicide detectives, and she is my celebrity patient.” Dr. Lukens folded her hands on the top of her desk. “For that matter, Detective MacIntosh is working on becoming a celebrity in her own right.”

It was true. The case had broken on the news like a crashing wave, partly because of Greta, and partly because Ellie had been in the news so often in the past year. Metzger had done his usual terse on-camera brush-off for the local stations, but no one in the state of Wisconsin was going to forget either of those cases anytime soon.

Carl had experienced his own share of publicity and had no desire to repeat the process. He said, “Ms. Garrison killed her ex-husband after he allegedly hired two men to kill her. Any insights you could give us would be appreciated.”

Lukens wasn’t going to budge. “You do realize that doctor/patient confidentiality means I cannot discuss any specifics with you. If my patients thought I would, my practice would sink like the
Titanic
. In fact, the whole profession would slam into an iceberg.”

“We could get a court order.” Carl spoke in a neutral voice.

“You’d have to provide a very reluctant judge with a reason her therapy was pertinent to your case, Detective.”

“She did kill a man last night.”

“In self-defense, as I understand it.”

Ellie cut in. “We are here to ask what kind of medications you prescribe for Ms. Garrison. The night those two men broke in, she claims to have heard the disturbance but to have dropped back off to sleep because she had taken a drug that helps her do just that. She showed us the bottle, and you are the prescribing physician. The pharmacy where it was dispensed only shows that one medication was filled there. Are there others?”

Dr. Lukens compressed her lips. “I think that is a question that, if I answer, I could be in violation of rules I have no intention of breaking. If she showed you the bottle, then yes, of course, I acknowledge I wrote that prescription. It isn’t a breach of confidence to tell you that she lives a lifestyle that involves a great deal of stress. The media can be very invasive if a person has a high public profile. Detective MacIntosh, how do you like it?”

Ellie predictably ignored the confrontational reply. “You do acknowledge she is your patient?”

“Do you acknowledge she is a suspect?”

“I don’t think anyone would argue that.” The interview had taken an interesting turn. Carl asked in his best placating tone, “Is it an ethical violation to answer this question: Do you believe Greta Garrison is capable of premeditated murder?”

The doctor leaned back in her chair. “Capable? How can I answer that? First of all, Detective Grasso, keep in mind that duty to warn exists, which means that even in the confidentiality of psychotherapy, if I feel a patient is a direct threat to someone, the rules are suspended. Secondly, and maybe neither one of you want to hear this, but I think every single person on this planet is capable of premeditated murder. Everything is measured in degrees and we are all capable of violence on some level. As police officers, surely you know that. I watch the news. I read the paper. Tell me, since both of you have shot suspects, at what moment do you decide that it is a morally right decision to go ahead and pull that trigger? When does it happen?”

As an argument, it had a certain validity.

“As police officers,” Ellie said in a neutral tone, “we are paid to enforce the law. If Greta Garrison acted in self-defense last night and shot her ex-husband, then the law usually excuses that, though I don’t get to make those decisions. My job is to inform the court, with as much depth as possible, about the facts surrounding the death of a human being. So, can we repeat the request in that interest? Can you tell us if you have written other prescriptions for Ms. Garrison?”