Knife Edge (A Dead Cold Mystery Book 27) by Blake Banner (most inspirational books of all time .TXT) 📗

that Leroy photographed Brad Mitchell and Dr. Wagner together, albeit simply chatting together, and it later turns out that they were, in fact, having an affair, and she went on to become the director of his multi-million-dollar clinic in White Plains.”

Dehan leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. “Sir, there were five people in that house when those kids were killed. The logic is irresistible: Either a sixth person was there and the Mitchells are protecting them, which makes practically no sense at all, or a sixth person arrived unnoticed and killed them, which is so difficult as to be virtually impossible, or one or both of the Mitchells killed those kids. There is no other possible explanation.”

He went into a kind of dark sulk and muttered, “Dear Lord!” Then he scowled at me like it was my fault people did that kind of thing. “Impossible for a sixth person to arrive? Are you sure? Why?”

“Yes sir, because they would be seen either by neighbors or by the Mitchells. We have been over it from every angle. The blackmail angle is just about all we have, and the only thing that makes logical sense. It has to be explored and, hopefully, eliminated.” I paused, thinking, and added, “Though that will leave us with only very bizarre options indeed.”

He sighed. “I’ll see what I can do, but let me warn you it is going to be very hard to find a judge sympathetic to what you want to do.”

Dehan shrugged. “Then maybe you can get them to explain to us who the sixth man was, and how he got in.”

She earned herself a rare scowl, he gave us the order and we left. We took Dehan’s Toyota and made the ten-minute drive down Soundview and Lacombe to the Mitchells’ house on Turneur Avenue. As we were arriving, Dehan said to me, “They won’t be there, and the nurse is going to insist on calling the Drs. Mitchell.”

I shrugged. “That’s OK. She’ll have to call them after we go in. Her option is that we call for backup and knock the door down. She won’t want to do that.”

We pulled up outside the white house, with it decorative white railings, and Dehan killed the engine and looked at me. “This kid is not going to talk to us.”

“Maybe. I’m not convinced. My gut tells me something inside him is desperate to tell somebody what he saw. But neither his mother nor his father wants to hear him, either because they are being overprotective, or because his silence suits them.”

She put her hand on the door handle and stopped.

“His father is a psychiatrist. He knows the kid needs to get this out of his system.”

My face told her I agreed. “Sure, so what is it that’s stopping him from doing what his son needs?” I shrugged. “Go figure.”

We climbed out of the small car and made our way through the white, wrought-iron gate and up the stone steps to the front door. We rang and after a moment the door was opened by a young woman in a modern nurse’s uniform. She was tall and angular, with thick black hair that wasn’t so much curly as matted. She had a severe face and a green overall, and on her feet she had clogs.

She said, “Yes?” as though it were an advance rebuttal of anything we might have to say.

We showed her our badges. “I am Detective John Stone of the New York Police Department.” I thought I had better spell it out for her. “This is Detective Carmen Dehan. We have a court order…” I extracted it from my pocket and showed it to her. “It requires Marcus Mitchell’s parents and/or guardians to grant us access to him, to attempt to speak to him.”

She took the order and read it, shaking her head. “I cannot do this. It’s impossible. Not without Dr. Mitchell’s consent.”

“On the contrary.” It was Dehan, picking the order out of the nurse’s hands with her fingers. “You can and must. This is an order of the court and it applies to you, with or without Dr. Mitchell’s consent. Otherwise, in ten minutes’ time, you will have this place crawling with cops carrying battering rams. Now, I suggest you show us the way to Marcus’s room, and then you telephone whichever Dr. Mitchell it is you need to get consent from.”

I smiled and pushed past her. Dehan followed and closed the door. The nurse just stood and stared at us.

I offered her what you might call a thin smile. “What’s your name?”

“Thelma.”

“Well, Thelma, you had better show me the way to Marcus’s room, or I will prosecute you for contempt of court and obstructing a homicide investigation. Snap out of it, nurse.”

She gave a small gasp and hurried across the broad living room toward the stairs. We followed her stumping clogs up to a wide landing, which we crossed to a white door. Here she paused and stared at us. There was a kind of horror in her eyes.

“He has not spoken for six years. He is deeply traumatized. He does not move or react or respond. Please, be gentle with him. What he saw…” She shook her head, closed her eyes and opened the door.

The room was bright. Double windows stood open onto the rear lawn and lace curtains wafted gently in the cold breeze. Angles of light lay across a bright, patchwork quilt composed of luminous orange, red and yellow squares. The room was large, broad and spacious. There was an armchair in a far corner, a pine chest of drawers and a freestanding oak wardrobe.

Marcus was lying in the bed. I had always imagined him as a child, but he was now about seventeen. He would have been a handsome young man, with a sensitive, intelligent face, had he not been so thin and drawn. The quilt was pulled up to his chest. His hair was platinum, his skin very white and his eyes very blue.