Clear and Convincing Proof (13 page)

“And it never frightened you, seeing things that no one else saw?” Barbara asked, studying Dorothy Johnson, who looked and talked as rationally as anyone she had ever known.

“Never. They don't do anything threatening. In fact, if they realize that I'm aware of them, they vanish. Usually it happens outside, when I'm being very still and no one else is around. I think I sense that someone is there, and I make certain not to move.
Often I get a glimpse, sometimes just out of the corner of my eye, but sometimes a full front and center sort of look. Little people mostly, now and then something else, a demon, like that or nearly like that.” She pointed to the monitor. “Rarely it's a ghost of someone I've known. I used to see Ralph out in the garden now and then. He never spoke or seemed aware that I could see him. I hated to have to sell the farm, leave him there alone, but I couldn't manage it by myself.”

She couldn't have been more matter-of-fact if she had been discussing the price of butter. Feeling almost helpless in the face of such certainty, Barbara walked around the table, then paused opposite Dorothy. “Can you estimate how long it was from when you heard the shot until you reached the window and looked out and saw whatever it was you saw?”

“Not very long. How long? Bring the chair over and I'll show you what I did.”

Shelley, closer to the wheelchair, brought it to Dorothy's side.

“See, I was at the side of the bed,” Dorothy said, getting to her feet laboriously, then reseating herself in the wheelchair. “Let's say the table here is the bed. The tray was here, where the chair is, and the window about where the china cabinet is. I was facing the television, away from the window. It was still muted. I heard the shot and sort of turned my head, maybe listening for a second one. Then I wheeled myself back a little to get room to turn around partway.”

They watched her maneuver the chair away from
the table, turn and move to the china cabinet, then maneuver it again so that it was parallel to the cabinet. She pressed her forehead against the glass front, then drew back.

“That's just about how it was,” she said. “I might have been a little slower that morning. I wasn't as strong as I am now and everything took a little longer than you'd think it should.”

No more than a minute. Barbara nodded. “Mrs. Johnson, we won't impose on you any longer. I really appreciate your help. Thanks.”

They got on their jackets and coats. Alex put the computer back in the case with the extension cords and surge protector, and in another minute or two, they left Dorothy Johnson, still in the wheelchair.

No one spoke for several blocks as Barbara headed back toward the office. Then Shelley said, “Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.” She sounded regretful.

“It was a good idea,” Barbara said, surprised. “It worked extremely well. What do you think, Alex?”

“She saw something and interpreted it in a way that made sense to her,” he said after a moment. “I'd say that what she saw is perfectly clear in her mind, and she did the best she could in correcting my version. It's probably pretty close to what it looked like. Would you call her as a witness?”

“I doubt it. But she did tell us something important. The shooter was dressed in black, probably a long black mackintosh or raincoat of some sort, and the shot was probably fired right after seven-
thirty. And,” she added, “I think it's safe to assume that the killer did not move the body. Damn! Why was the body moved at all?”

“Why do you say the killer didn't move him?” Shelley asked after a moment.

“The way I see it working,” Barbara said, “McIvey is heading toward the clinic's side door, and someone perhaps calls to him, or is even waiting for him. The killer ducks under the umbrella and shoots. McIvey falls. The killer watches for a moment to make sure he isn't going to get up again and then begins to back up, still watching. He's backing up when Mrs. Johnson spots him, and keeps backing up a few more feet, then he turns and leaves the scene. No time to move the body before she sees him backing up, and to think he might have gone back to do it seems implausible. What for?”

“Everything keeps pointing back to the conspiracy theory,” Shelley said.

“I know.”

“Barbara, you realize that Mrs. Johnson didn't mention hands, feelers, tentacles, anything of the sort?” Alex asked then. “And she didn't mention a gun.”

She nodded. “Right. But I believe she told us about everything she did see. Including a tail,” she added morosely.

B
arbara was at her desk brooding over the images on her monitor, going back and forth between the front and back views. Before leaving, Alex had downloaded them from his computer. She had sent Maria home, and Shelley had left at five. She wished that Shelley had not mentioned giant cockroaches, because the more she stared at the rain-shrouded image before her, the more it resembled a big black roach. Frank had left a message that he would drop in a little after five, and she was waiting for him, and building a case against Annie McIvey, she admitted to herself.

When the buzzer sounded, it was with a sense of relief that she got up to let Frank in. She helped him out of his coat and then, as they walked back to her office, she asked, “Do cockroaches have tails?”

“I'd say you've been out in the sun too much, except there hasn't been any sun to speak of for days on end. Drinking? Smoking an illegal substance? Overtired?”

“Have a look,” she said motioning toward the laptop.

He crossed to the desk and gazed at the monitor for a time. “Maybe cockroaches do have tails,” he said. “I give. What is it?”

She told him about the computer experiment, and he studied the image again, then nodded. “I'd say Mrs. Johnson had it right. It's a demon.”

“Yep. Your turn. What brings you out this time of day? Why aren't you home feeding the worms, or peeling potatoes or something?”

“I've noticed that every time you get a little low,” he said, “you bring up the subject of my worms, get in a little dig. No pun intended. They are God's perfect composting machine. Do you feel threatened by them?”

She laughed. “I'm going to sit on the sofa with my feet on the table and swill wine and wait for you to tell me why you're here. Would you care to join me?”

He would. Then, with chardonnay in hand, he sat in one of the comfortable chairs and began.

“While you were out playing with the children,” he said, “I've been throwing my weight around at my office, which, you may recall, I am still helping to maintain financially, giving me every right to use its vast resources. Namely two of the young punks who sit around twiddling their thumbs most of the time.”

And who, she thought, were probably scared to death of him. She did not say a word and suppressed a smile. She knew very well how much free time the young attorneys had; after putting in their seventy-hour weeks, they were as free as birds. Fresh out of law school, the bar exam challenge met and conquered, she had gone to work in the firm, and if it hadn't been for Frank and the few criminal cases he was still handling, she would have left within a week. Later, Sam Bixby, the other senior partner, had gathered a flock of tame junior partners around him and they had passed a resolution that the firm no longer would consider criminal cases—too unsavory, too disreputable, too publicity hungry. She had walked out.

“I wanted to learn the extent of David McIvey's estate and the terms of his will,” Frank was saying. “It seems that he changed it immediately after his divorce years ago, cut out the first Mrs. McIvey altogether and left the bulk of his estate to his mother. A real spite will. There are other considerations—the education of his children, their maintenance until they reach college age, things of that sort—but that's the gist of it. Apparently he never had the will rewritten after his second marriage. And that presents a real can of worms now. The first Mrs. McIvey is claiming that since his mother predeceased him, his children should inherit everything. Sid Blankenship is claiming that the will is invalid since it predates his second marriage, and that he died intestate, since his situation had been changed by his remarriage. There
fore, his widow is his main beneficiary, the children secondary.”

“If Annie's charged and found guilty, the kids get it all,” Barbara said after a moment. “That's pretty much where we were before, isn't it?”

“It's slightly different. If Billy the Kid rose from his grave and claimed responsibility for the death of David McIvey, the estate would still be tied up, maybe for years. The estate comes to about two and a half million. We're talking about real money here, and the first Mrs. McIvey has become a player. She's been in conference several times with the police investigating the murder. I've no clue what they have to talk about, but there it is.”

“Well,” Barbara said after a moment, “it seems that Dr. Kelso was right all along. They need to settle the foundation scheme now, or it may never happen. I wonder how near death his wife actually is.”

“If she's had Alzheimer's for ten years or so, she's damn near,” Frank said. “Maybe overdue. You're right, though. No court would allow a change at the clinic until those shares are settled. They'll wait for the estate to be cleared and go on from there.”

“I keep reminding myself that the clinic isn't my concern,” Barbara said. “People should put their affairs in order before other people come along and start shooting guns.” She drained her glass and set it down. “You up for some dinner?”

 

The next morning, after finishing a few routine chores, Barbara consulted with Shelley about two
pending cases that Shelley was handling, then said, “Well, hold the fort. I'm off to see Dr. Kelso, and then lunch with Will. Back around two probably.”

She was curious about the old man, she mused as she left. He was of her father's generation, but nothing like her father, who had slowed down but certainly had not stopped working. As far as she could tell Frank never intended to stop, no matter how often he said he was retiring. It could be harder for a doctor, she decided. You either doctored or you didn't, but probably you didn't do it part-time only when it suited you. With a dying wife, grown children who lived far away and no practice, it appeared that the clinic was the only real interest he had left.

It was a beautiful day with sunshine and the temperature edging up around sixty—a foretaste of spring. But it was a false spring that brought out crocuses and teased daffodils out of the ground, forced open the buds of daphne and swelled the buds of magnolias. Next week, or possibly before nightfall, the capricious god of weather might blow in a gale or sleet mixed with snow.

She was humming as she drove through town, then south on Jefferson. Even with their branches bare now, the trees were lovely, arching gracefully over the street—sweet gums, big leaf maples, an occasional oak and the ever present fir and spruce trees.

The neighborhood had been upscale decades before, probably when Kelso bought his house here, and although many of the gracious old homes had been turned into apartments, they were still fine. She
parked at the curb, checked the number and walked to the front door. His house, pale green with russet trim, was well kept, the yard meticulous with pruned shrubs, colorful flower beds of primroses almost too garish in reds and yellows and a drift of deceptively delicate-looking pansies. Professional work, she decided, waiting for someone to come to the door.

Dr. Kelso opened the door himself. “Come in, Miss Holloway,” he said. She entered a wide foyer with a staircase, an arched doorway to a room on one side, a closed door on the other. The runner on the floor was threadbare in spots. Oak-framed pictures of children were crowded on the wall.

“I thought we might use my study for our talk,” Dr. Kelso said, leading the way down the hall to another closed door. Inside that room was a large desk with a clutter of objects, a cup of pencils and pens, several framed pictures, papers, a newspaper, lamp, telephone. A dark sofa with a worn leather cover was flanked by two matching chairs, tables, a magazine rack, bookshelves…. It was a well-used room, comfortable and bright with sun streaming in two windows.

A coffee table before the couch held several thick scrapbooks. Dr. Kelso motioned toward one of the chairs. Barbara took off her jacket and sat down.

Dr. Kelso was wearing a shapeless gray sweater, a blue-striped shirt without a tie and gray slacks. He kept his cap on.

“I've been thinking about the predicament we're facing,” he said, his voice as raspy as ever, but force
ful now. “And I wanted to talk to you alone, in confidence, not as part of a committee, so I'm grateful that you could come. Thank you.” He cleared his throat; it didn't help his voice as he continued. “Sid tells me that you employ Bailey Novell as a private detective, and Sid has a very high opinion of him, as he does of you. Miss Holloway, I don't believe the police will solve the mystery of who killed David McIvey. We can rule out a passerby, a transient. Why would he kill him, move the body and then fail to take his wallet? And we can rule out David's office associates, since none of them is familiar with the routine at the clinic and none of them had any way of knowing that David would have gone through the garden to enter the clinic.”

He was articulating the same reasoning that she had gone through days earlier. She nodded and did not comment.

“I think we all know that the killer was someone connected to the clinic,” he said. “We won't bother with motives since likely everyone had one. And nearly everyone connected to the clinic would have known those things I mentioned before.”

His eyes were sharp and steady as he regarded her. It was a strange combination, the furrowed, wrinkled face, the white cap and those steady keen eyes.

“I've been going through those scrapbooks,” he said, motioning toward them. “Patients we treated at the clinic over the past fifty-two years. There have been thousands of them, Miss Holloway, success
fully treated, restored to a tolerable or even a good state of health, a good life. Over a third of them would have received no treatment without us. In the vast scale of the universe, that's insignificant, I know, but to each of them—real people, children, women, men, old, young—to each and every one of them we made a difference.”

He looked at the scrapbooks and said more softly, “We changed their lives. We made a difference. I know I appear to be obsessive about the clinic, about putting its future before all else. Frankly, Miss Holloway, that's because I do put it first. All else
is
secondary. I believe the police have stopped their real investigation because they're convinced that Annie killed David, with or without an accomplice, and that, as you surmised, they are waiting for a break. Waiting for someone to come forward with hard evidence, the gun, a raincoat, something conclusive. I understand that it often happens that way. In any event, the estate may be tied up in probate for a lengthy period because the first Mrs. McIvey has contested it. The only way to save the clinic is if we vote the fifty-five shares that we control to form a foundation. And we can't do that without Annie's cooperation.”

Although Barbara had not intended to say a word yet, he held up his hand as if to forestall any comment.

“I know Sid and your father agree that she received good advice. I don't dispute that. But we can't let this drag out for six months or a year, pos
sibly longer. Miss Holloway, I want to hire you and your detective to investigate David's murder, to find his killer and enough evidence to convince the police so that they will make an arrest, the case will be closed and we can move forward. I want to hire you, not as part of a committee, but as an individual, and in strict confidence. You will still have our previous agreement, and it will still be in effect if they arrest Annie or Darren and charge them with a collaborative murder. But I want you to find the real killer and prevent that arrest.”

Barbara stared at him with surprise, then shook her head. “Dr. Kelso, I don't have the resources to do that. I have no access to whatever evidence the police collected.”

“Sid has told me about some of the cases you've handled,” he said. “I believe you do have the resources available to you. I'm not a wealthy man by today's standards, but I will pay whatever the charges are. Hire the people you need.”

“It isn't that simple,” she said. “Once an arrest is made, the defense attorney has access to the police evidence through a process called discovery. But until then, that evidence is locked away. I can't get at it. And I have no authority to start questioning people about statements they might have made.” She shook her head again. “Even if I could make my own investigation, what if I learned that Annie did it? Or that she's involved with someone else who did it?”

“Then you report to me, and after that keep your
mouth shut,” he said. He stood up. “I said the day we engaged you that I don't care who killed him. I don't, as long as it wasn't Annie. Darren, Greg, Naomi, anyone else, I don't care. Just not her. Everyone at the clinic will cooperate. They have orders to cooperate. And it was someone at the clinic.”

Barbara rose from her chair. “Dr. Kelso, I believe that you understand very well that I can't agree to such a proposal. A serious conflict of interest would inevitably arise, to say nothing of the questionable ethics of such a dual role. I've been retained to defend both Annie and Darren if the need arises. I can't compromise that trust.”

“You don't understand!” he cried. “Within a month of the death of my wife my kids will be looking for a buyer for their shares. There won't be a clinic after that. It will be in the courts for decades! And there won't be any money to pay your fees, Miss Holloway! Annie and Darren will be on their own, and they don't have money for their defense. Ethics and conflict of interest be damned! I'm trying to save something bigger here.”