Margaret Truman's Experiment in Murder (2 page)

“What else did you notice?”

“Her.”

“Her?”

“The driver.”

“It was a woman? You're sure?”

“Oh, yes, very sure. It all happened fast, but it was a woman driving.”

“Can you describe her?”

“Not very much. She was blond, though. I saw that much.”

“Did she look like she was trying to avoid hitting the victim?”

A man interjected himself into the conversation. “Hell, no, she didn't try to miss him. Aimed right at him, was going like a bat out of hell. Looked like she wanted to hit the poor bastard. His head shattered the windshield. At that speed—”

The detective thanked them and went to his car, where he called in. Sedgwick's body was placed into the ambulance and driven away. Horns began blowing again.

“Get some cones on this mess,” a detective ordered an officer. “Divert traffic around it until it's cleaned up.”

The detectives moved their car to the curb in front of Sedgwick's office building, got out, and pushed through a knot of people.

“Hell of a way to die,” one said as they waited for the elevator.

“Is there a good way?”

“You think what the witnesses said is true, that some blonde ran the doc over on purpose?”

“Maybe a patient. He was a shrink. Maybe he got too chummy with a blond patient, crossed over the line. They've got rules about that.”

“About what?”

“Having sex with a patient.”

“Do they? They should.”

“Yeah, they do. Not that shrinks care about rules. I heard about a shrink who left his wife to marry a patient. Happens all the time, I hear.”

“Well,” his colleague said as the doors opened, “if that's the case here, maybe the blonde was his wife, not his patient. A woman scorned. Hell of a way to die.”

 

CHAPTER

3

Betty Martinez had worked as Mark Sedgwick's receptionist for seven years. There wasn't much to do as a psychiatrist's receptionist, so she assumed a variety of other roles, including insurance expert, bookkeeper, travel agent, and personal gofer. Sedgwick traveled a lot, often on the spur of the moment, which meant not only booking his flights, hotels, and rental cars but also salving patients who had to be canceled at the last minute. Most of his trips were to San Francisco, where he often met with others at the Lightpath Psychiatric Clinic, about which she knew little except that it demanded a great deal of his time.

Her dusky complexion and last name testified to her Hispanic American heritage, mother American, father Puerto Rican, no siblings, and half a degree in business administration. Lack of money had led to dropping out of school after her sophomore year. Her hair was so black and dense that it might have been mistaken for a high-priced wig. She was just a few sit-ups and fast-food meals away from sliding into overweight.

On this morning she'd arrived at the office at eight thirty, a little earlier than usual, and had settled at her desk in the reception room. It was a good job. Dr. Sedgwick was generous with pay and gifts. The office suite was at the rear of the building. She would have preferred an office at the front, where larger windows let in more light and afforded a view across Virginia Avenue. The few times she'd brought it up, Sedgwick had explained that the building's rear was quieter, a better setting for seeing patients. It wasn't her place to debate it, and so she didn't. Still, it would have been nice to be in the front.

Except for this morning.

The two detectives entered the area and one flashed his badge. “This is Dr. Sedgwick's office?” he asked.

“Yes.” Having two detectives arrive unexpectedly unnerved Betty, and the quiver in her voice mirrored it. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

“I'm afraid so, ma'am. You work for Dr. Sedgwick?”

“Yes. I'm his receptionist.”

“I'm afraid there's been an accident.”

“To the doctor?”

“Yes, ma'am. Were you expecting him this morning?”

“Yes. I saw that he was running a little late but … is he ill?”

“He was struck by a car in front of the building, ma'am. He's dead.”

She burst into tears as the door opened and the morning's first patient, a heavily made-up middle-aged woman wearing a tight beige pantsuit and huge gold hoop earrings that bounced off her shoulders entered. She looked at the sobbing Betty, then at the two men in suits. “What's happened?” she asked.

“There's been an accident, ma'am.”

“I have an appointment with Dr. Sedgwick. Betty, what's going on?”

“Dr. Sedgwick is—” Her sobs muffled her words.

“I'm afraid you'll have to leave,” said a detective. “The doctor won't be seeing patients today.”

Confusion was written all over the woman's face. She started to ask more questions but took a hint from his stern expression and left. When she was gone, one of the detectives perched on the edge of Betty's desk. He placed a hand on her shoulder and said, “I know this is a shock to you, but do you think you can pull yourself together to answer some questions?”

“I … think … so.”

A few tissues later, and a trip to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face, she returned.

“We'll need a list of the doctor's patients,” said a detective.

“A list? I can't give you that.”

“I know, I know, there's doctor-patient confidentiality involved. But it appears that what happened to the doctor might not have been an accident. The driver—she left the scene—might have deliberately struck him.”

“Why would someone do that?”

“Can we have a list?”

“No. I mean, I'd get in trouble if I did that.”

“We can get a warrant.” He knew that few judges would issue a warrant for a doctor's patient list based upon the
assumption
that the doctor might have been a victim of a crime, but the threat sometimes worked. It didn't with Betty Martinez.

He shifted the conversation.

“Was the doctor married?”

“Divorced.”

“Where's his ex-wife live? And kids.”

She gave him the address and phone number in Chevy Chase.

“He have a girlfriend?”

She managed a smile. “A few.”

“What about his patients? He get involved with any of them?”

“Involved? You mean romantically?”

He nodded.

“I don't think so.”

He hated “I don't think so.”

But she
did
know. She'd become aware over the years of working for him that he had become sexually involved with a few of his patients. It bothered her, but she wasn't in a position to challenge him about it.

The detective's cocked head invited her to answer again.

“No,” she said, “I don't think so.”

Nothing to be gained by pressing her.

“He have any enemies, you know, people who got mad at him for something he did or didn't do in his practice, somebody who held a grudge?”

“I don't think so. I mean, I don't know of anyone.”

Their questioning of her lasted another fifteen minutes. Their final query was, “Do any of his patients have blond hair?”

This brought forth an incredulous, pained laugh from her. “Lots of them do,” she said.

After suggesting that she call all the patients to alert them that the doctor wasn't available—and informing her that other officers would be back later that day to ask more questions and to examine the office—they left.

“He was screwing patients,” one said as they drove back to headquarters.

“Looks that way.”

“You figure that's the direction we go?”

The driver shrugged and swerved to avoid a bicyclist. “Idiot!” he muttered.

“The world's full of them.”

“If the good doctor was playing kissy-face with his patients, the world has one less idiot.”

“I'm hungry.”

“Me, too. Dunkin' Donuts?”

 

CHAPTER

4

After jelly donuts and coffee, the detectives who'd been called to the accident scene contacted their superior and were instructed to go to Sedgwick's apartment, seal it off, and wait for Forensics to show up. They secured the cooperation of the building's superintendent and now sat in the living room, where they discussed their confusion over the order they'd been given.

“They're treating this like a crime scene,” one said. “Doesn't make sense. The guy was just a shrink in private practice who got run over.”

“Deliberately.”

“Even so.”

“Homicide is homicide,” his partner said. “Doesn't matter
how
somebody kills somebody. Maybe there's something in here that'll point to the mysterious blonde with the heavy foot.”

His colleague got up and perused a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, then went to the window and looked out over a pocket park. “Nice place the doc had.”

“There's good money in treating head cases,” said his partner, who'd left the living room and gone to a small second bedroom used by Sedgwick as an office. He slipped on a pair of latex gloves, sat at the desk and opened its drawers, fingered their contents, and closed them. A desk calendar contained handwritten dates and times of its owner's October schedule—lunch dates, a dental appointment, reminders of TV shows he'd wanted to watch, a Saturday notation “Day with kids,” and other indications of his life slipping by. He looked up at the second detective, who stood in the doorway. “You figure they've notified the doc's ex-wife?”

“I hope we don't catch it,” was the response. “Petrewski enjoys catching next-of-kin notification. You know that about him? He's like a ghoul.”

Their conversation was ended by the arrival of the Forensics unit. As the newcomers set about scouring the apartment, the two detectives who'd secured the place went to their car and called in. Ten minutes later, they sat with their superior at headquarters on Indiana Avenue.

Their boss listened to the results of their findings at the accident scene. When they'd finished, he said, “We ran a background check on the deceased. He had a top secret security clearance.”

“I thought he was in private practice,” a detective said.

“That's right. And he also had a top secret security clearance. Langley ran his clearance twelve years ago. It was updated last year.”

One of the detectives laughed. “A shrink
and
a spook,” he said.

His boss didn't laugh. “He was a consultant to the CIA's”—he looked at a note—“the CIA's Medical and Psychological Analysis Center. I want you to canvass people in his apartment and office buildings. Maybe someone picked up on a relationship with a blond woman, heard them argue, things like that. It's a long shot, but so is finding a white sedan with D.C. plates. I have people working on that now, checking MV records and repair shops. We're treating this as a homicide based upon what your eyewitnesses said. They seem to know what they were talking about?”

They nodded in unison.

“What about the ex-wife?” one asked as they prepared to leave. “She been notified yet?”

“As we speak.”

“Maybe she's a blonde.”

“Or a brunette wearing a blond wig,” said their boss. “Get going. I have a feeling that this is going to heat up.”

*   *   *

Jasmine Smith-Sedgwick wasn't a blonde, at least not that day. She wasn't a beautiful woman; handsome would be a more apt description. Her figure was nice, though, and she was tall, with reddish hair worn long. Her jeans and sweatshirt fitted her the way they should.

Two detectives pulled up behind a black Mercedes in the driveway of her Chevy Chase home and rang the bell.

“Yes?” she said.

A badge was shown. “Your former husband was killed this morning by a hit-and-run driver,” a detective said.

“Oh, my God,” she said. “Hit by a car? Where?”

“Virginia Avenue, in front of his apartment building.”

She looked back inside, concern etched on her face. “The children aren't here,” she said. “They'll be devastated.”

“Sorry to bring you bad news,” one detective said. “Maybe it'd be better if we sat down inside. We have some questions to ask you.”

“Questions? What kind of questions?”

“About your former husband. You see, it was a hit-and-run, and people who witnessed it said it appeared that the driver intended to hit him, deliberately aimed at him.”

She gasped.

“If you don't mind, ma'am.”

“Yes, of course, please come in.” She looked past them and was relieved that they'd arrived in an unmarked car.

They went to a family room. It had a big flat-screen TV, a pool and game table on which a jigsaw puzzle was half completed, and plenty of comfortable furniture. She offered them a soft drink or coffee, which they declined. One detective remained standing while questioning her; the other sat on a couch next to her and took notes.

“Can you think of any enemies your husband had?”

She wrinkled her face in thought. “No. Of course I haven't been in his life for the past three years since the divorce. We see each other only occasionally, but he's inconsistent about spending time with the kids. Of course he's always traveled a great deal, which often gets in the way of visitation.”

“Why does he travel that much?” Jasmine was asked.

She shrugged. “I never knew. It was always to some psychiatric convention or other. He's been involved for years with a clinic in San Francisco. I really don't know much about it and frankly never cared. I just knew that it took him away from home more than was healthy for the children.”

“He ever talk about his patients with you?”

She shook her head. “That was strictly off-limits. I understood.”