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

murdered in the United States using handguns. Only one thousand, four hundred and seventy-six were murdered using knives. That one small boy should be involved in four murders, each one a stabbing, is a statistical aberration, and therefore significant. It means something.”

“It’s a fluke, Stone. The first was a domestic incident and the choice of a kitchen knife was opportunistic. It was what was available. And in the murder of Lea and Leroy…” She shrugged and watched the waitress take away the empty plates and deliver the pizza and a dish of lamb chops. When she’d gone Dehan said, “Either the murders were committed by Mitchell or they weren’t. If he did, we have to assume that he was under an intolerable amount of pressure caused by the threat of blackmail from Leroy that was going to bring down not only his family, but also his career and the clinic he was planning to establish. Now, think about it, Stone. What are the chances of a New York, liberal academic having a gun in his house—or anywhere else for that matter?”

“Granted.”

“You want to hear what my gut is saying?”

“Aside from feed me more pizza?”

She stuffed a slice in her mouth and spoke around it.

“I think the killing of Leroy and Lea was also opportunistic. We don’t know what went down that day. We only know what the Mitchells told the investigating detectives. But my gut tells me that, if Mitchell killed those kids, it was a spur of the moment decision in which he seized an opportunity and struck.”

I shrugged. “It’s very possible. But it’s only speculation.”

She stared at me a moment, chewing, then said, “Wagner will have telephoned Mitchell by now and he’ll be expecting us. We need to go see him while he is still rattled, before he has time to agree on a story with her.”

I picked up a lamp chop and nodded. “That kind of thing takes a lot of time and thought and discussion. There is always something you overlook or forget about. We’ll go see him after lunch.”

She wiped her fingers on her jeans and reached for her cell. “I’ll call him now and tell him we’re on our way, rattle him a little more.”

She held the cell to her ear for a moment, sucking her teeth and staring at me. Then:

“Yeah, this is Detective Carmen Dehan of the NYPD, I need to talk to Dr. Brad Mitchell.” She waited a moment, watching me. “Putting me through to his secretary.” I nodded once, upward. She averted her eyes and started talking. “Yeah, good afternoon. This is Detective Carmen Dehan of the NYPD. I need to speak with Dr. Brad Mitchell… Oh, he’s teaching a seminar right now? How long will he be?” She grinned at me and winked. “You figure he’ll be another hour? So he’s been in there for an hour already… OK, well that’s fine. Please let him know that we’ll be there in an hour,” she looked at her watch, “at one thirty, and we really need to talk to him. It’s important.”

She hung up. We finished the chops and the pizza, drained our beers and left.

An hour later I found a parking space outside the Psychology Building of the University of New York at Number Six, Washington Place. It was right next to the Center for Neural Science at Number Four. The two departments were in the same classic Gotham City style, with black facades at street level that somehow managed to suggest the deep unconscious, between massive, ochre columns in a neo Greco-Roman style that added to the awe factor.

We found Mitchell’s office on the ninth floor. He had the corner overlooking Washington Place and Mercer Street. It was large and classical in style, with a lot of mahogany and oak, tall bookcases with well-thumbed hardbacks and paperbacks overflowing the shelves. The floor was dark green wall-to-wall carpet, and his desk and chair were oak and green leather.

Mitchell was tall and rangy, slim, with thick silver hair. He was standing beside his desk, in a dark blue suit, looking at us fixedly with his cell to his ear. He said, “OK, they’re here. I’ll get back to you.”

He hung up, laid his cell on the desk and spoke as he removed his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair, like he was preparing for a fight.

“So, this is the new, human face of the New York Police Department. First you mount an incompetent investigation into my children’s death, then you neglect it for six years and finally, lacking any other suspects, you try to pin it on the father. That’s good, you know?” He pulled out the chair and lowered himself into it. “Because I haven’t been through enough in the last six years. I need to suffer a bit more.” He paused, scowled at us and asked, “What the hell do you want?”

I approached and showed him my badge. “Detective John Stone, of the New York Police Department. This is my partner, Detective Dehan. Dr. Mitchell, do you mind if we sit down for ten minutes? We’ll make this as brief as is possible.”

He sighed and gestured at the two chairs across his desk. We sat and Dehan spoke first.

“Was that Dr. Wagner on the phone, Dr. Mitchell?”

He focused his scowl on her. “You know damn well it was. That’s why you went to see her first, in the hopes of scaring me and unsettling me.”

He loosened his tie.

I said: “Dr. Mitchell, I head up a cold case unit at the 43rd Precinct. The first investigation ground to a halt through a total lack of evidence. But we have received new evidence and we are bound to look into it.”

His face flushed and there was real anger in his eyes. “New evidence? Just what exactly do you call evidence in the New York Police Department? Rumors? Malicious gossip?”

I offered him a rueful smile. “Anything we can get our hands on, sir. It’s possible we are