Chapter 34 Murder
Murder
I reached up and flicked on the lights, and they flickered a few times as if reluctant to be pulled from the sanctity of sleep.
I went behind the counter, and to my surprise, there were no books to put away—the place was spotless.
I guessed Bob was trying to help with my leg, but I’d have been more than capable of doing it.
I hoped someone else, perhaps his daughter, Sarah, did it for him.
She’d come home yesterday, and he would close at the end of today to spend time with her.
I placed my handbag under the counter and turned on the computer, intent on doing more research into the lands at Rutherford’s Estate.
It was as good a place to start as any, and I wanted to know more about Cole.
The computer hadn’t even come fully to life when the door dinged and Darcy walked in.
He wore a red, white and blue striped T-shirt with blue jeans, the only modern look about him was the laptop in a black shiny leather case he held.
“Morning, Darcy, isn’t it school holidays?”
“Hey, Amy, just doing a bit extra.” He walked with long strides, slightly hunched forward like his thin frame was on the cusp of snapping in two.
The computer finished booting up, so I signed in and was on Google moments later.
I typed in ‘Kirt Cole Memphis.” A whole bunch of article headlines came up, mostly about developments.
“Cole Displaces Elderly” caught my eye, so I clicked on it, and an image of an elderly lady and her frail husband standing outside an apartment block appeared.
The story stated that Cole had bought the complex to develop, but the couple had lived in it for forty years and were homeless with nowhere else to go as a result.
It was dated five years ago. I closed the page and kept reading.
All were stories about his developments, many controversial, with people displaced and developments granted that should not have been possible.
They painted the picture of a ruthless man.
My leg started to ache. I pulled up a stool and sat down, careful not to aggravate the burn on the back of my thigh, which had been sore since my painfully unforgettable drunken night out. Bleary-eyed and tired, I skimmed through a few more stories.
Another headline snagged my attention: “Kirt Cole’s Soon-To-Be Ex-Wife Found Murdered.” Dated 2014. I clicked on it. There was an image of a young, pretty African American lady smiling.
“The body of Kirt Cole’s wife, Melanie Cole, 26, was found floating in the Bligh River yesterday morning at 7 a.m. by joggers.
Police say that while the cause of death is yet to be determined, it appears she met with foul play.
Ms. Cole had been married to Mr. Cole for four years, but the pair had separated before her death.
Ms. Cole had made allegations of assault against Cole in the past and had taken a restraining order out against him.
At the time of her death, Ms. Cole had been suing Mr. Cole for divorce, reportedly taking him to court for access to half of his six-billion-dollar fortune.
Ms. Cole is mother to eight-year-old Desmond Parker, who resides with his father.
Police do not have any suspects currently and refuse to comment on the exact cause of her death. ”
Chills scurried over my body. I needed coffee.
I went to the back room and turned on the pre-prepared coffee maker, wondering as I waited if a man would really be so brazen as to take out people who may have stopped his development the same night he announced his plans.
Once the pot was full, I poured myself a coffee.
The door dinged, and I walked out, mug in hand, as Mrs. Peters walked in.
She was an older lady who liked to wear homemade matching tracksuit sets and never wanted any help.
She lifted her hand and waved, then headed right.
I searched “Rutherford’s Estate” and its location came up, followed by articles on how beautiful it was and the proposed development.
I read one large story—a glowing report—that estimated over a thousand jobs would be created, and it was written by none other than Mike Bowden.
I clicked out of it and tried searching “missing hikers Rutherford’s Estate,” but again nothing.
I sighed and took a sip of now-tepid coffee.
Over the course of the morning, it was unusually quiet. Mrs. Peters bought a few Mills and Boon books, and a couple others brought the latest fiction releases. In between helping them, I kept searching for information.
Eventually, I tried “Church Heights history, Native American sacred sites, settlement.” The area was settled—or raided—by white Americans in the early fifteen hundreds.
The fertile land, much of which was obtained from the government by a simple claim of ownership, drew them here.
There was a lot of information, but nothing of significance.
I searched “Missing hikers Church Heights,” but again, nothing came up.
I sighed and drummed my fingers on the counter, frustrated with my grossly incompetent computer skills.
“I can hear you sighing from all the way down the back,” Darcy said, his laptop tucked in his arm. “What’s wrong?”
“I just can’t get any information up on the missing hikers or Rutherford’s Estate.”
Darcy settled his laptop on the counter and straightened a pen that was lying crooked on the desk. “Here, let me try.”
I shuffled to the right to allow him access. Long, thin, freckled fingers, tapped at a speed I couldn’t fathom. His brow furrowed. “It’s been removed.”
“What, why?”
He peered up, neither concerned nor surprised. “Missing hikers are not good for business.”
“How would someone be able to get all that taken off?”
Darcy shrugged. “Money will buy you just about anything. Except ethics and a decent personality.”
How much power did Cole have? And how low would he go to get what he wanted?
A thought hit my head, which flew from my mouth before I considered the dubious ethical implications.
“Darcy, if you wanted to access the hospital records to view Katrina and Robert’s injuries, could you do it without anyone knowing? ”
It’s not like I thought they were murdered—Robert was drunk. This was just to prove to myself it was an accident.
“Yeah, easy.” He closed the page, opened the Church Heights Hospital page, and started typing.
Unease pressed against my gut. I’d just requested he do something illegal.
Something that if we were caught, would see us both do jail time.
I consoled myself with the knowledge that no one would ever know.
The hospital login screen came up, and he was in a few moments later, whizzing into different pages with yet another login password.
“You’re very clever, Darcy,” I said, amazed.
“I know,” he answered, not conceited but matter-of-fact. “That’s rather interesting,” he mused. “Katrina and Robert’s autopsies were both done in Two Peaks.”
“Interesting how?”
“They are always done at Church Heights. Every ‘car accident’ here,” he said with air quotes, “the reports are done by Dr. Page, and the injuries are not always consistent with the accident.”
I blinked. “What are you saying, Darcy? You think Page killed them?”
He shook his head of spiky-styled orange hair. “No, not Page.” His eyes lit up with a strange excitement. “Church Heights has way too many car accidents, missing hikers, and bear attacks for a town this size. Amy, think about it. Five times the national average.”
Bob’s words hit my head.
“He died in a car accident. He was only twenty-five.” Bob’s words hit my head and a deeply unsettling feeling took root in my veins.
I turned my attention back to the screen, peering over Darcy’s shoulder, and saw Katrina’s name come up under Dr. Page’s notes, where he’d treated her in emergency.
Darcy read it aloud with speed and detachment.
“Katrina’s skull was fractured at the back and on her forehead.
Her ribs were all broken. Facial injuries, nose broken, cheekbone and jaw fractured, massive internal injuries, bruises all over her body. ”
My stomach churned.
“And this is also interesting—she had bruises and cuts on her wrists.” He glanced up with a knowing look.
I frowned. “Wrists? What would cause that?”
“Being tied up, cable ties or thin rope.”
My heart sank and then rose in a sickening rush. I said in a raw, quiet voice, “What about Robert?”
“No report on him—he went straight to Two Peaks. Which is strange. What would a Two Peaks ambulance be doing in Church Heights, unless it was already prearranged? Unless Page was too busy with the fires,” he muttered as if thinking out loud.
His lips twisted in thought. “They only have one doctor here, and there were a number of people with smoke inhalation problems and a few burns. Maybe that’s why Katrina’s body was taken to Two Peaks for the autopsy .
. .” I didn’t respond, waiting for him to go on. “I’ll hack into Two Peaks hospital.”
I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t stop now; I needed to know.
It took him only a few minutes, and then he was reading, “Robert Tolle, injuries noted were a fractured skull; massive internal injuries; broken cheekbones, jaw, and nose; crushed ribs—but no mention of bruises on his wrists. And”—he paused and read down the page—“a blood alcohol level of 2.0.”
“And Katrina’s autopsy report?”
He skimmed over it and said grimly, “Same, except no mention of bruised wrists or a fracture to the back of the head.”
“Who did the report?” I asked, my lungs contracting painfully in my chest.
“Dr. Phillip Raynor.”