seemed solid. At approximately 10:38 p.m., an unidentified male called 911, reporting a woman had been thrown off a 23rd floor balcony. The caller stated he had witnessed this crime from his 24th floor office across the street. He further claimed he saw a male in his 30s, with bleached blonde hair and a medium build, arguing with the red-headed female on the balcony. During this fight, the male appeared to be very angry and was screaming at the woman. It was then he hauled off and hit her in the face, causing her to lose her balance and fall over the safety railing to her death. This male was wearing a black turtleneck shirt, black jeans and dark-coloured shoes which had a white stripe on the side.
I stopped reading and returned to the discovery box, where I quickly located a colour photo of Max taken at the police station. Sure enough, his physical appearance matched the 911 caller’s description and he was wearing a black turtleneck.
“Doesn’t look good for you there, buddy,” I commented to Max’s ugly mug.
Unfortunately for my former good friend, it was a very slow crime night in the big city and six cops in three cruisers were at the medical building within two minutes. A minute later, an ambulance arrived to attend to the gravity-assisted victim, now sprawled on the sidewalk. Not enough time to get an elevator from the 23rd floor to the parking garage or main level, let alone take the stairs, I thought. Officers quickly surrounded the building and then started their ascent of the floors via elevators and stairwells. Once on the 23rd floor, a search of offices was commenced, at which time, only one was unlocked—Suite 2309—the headquarters of Max Feldberg, Therapist.
The following lines from Officer Morse’s report made me gravely doubt Max had been set up and why he had been sent to jail for the rest of his mortal life:
Upon entering Suite 2309 we found Max Feldberg lying on a couch with his eyes closed. Only after we identified ourselves as police officers did Mr. Feldberg move from his position on the couch and ask, “What is going on?” At this time, it was noted he appeared to be groggy and he was asked if he had taken any medication recently, to which he stated, “No.” He again asked what was going on and stood up. Mr. Feldberg was asked if he had been in the office during the past thirty minute period, to which he replied he had. Mr. Feldberg then became agitated and began yelling, “What the hell is going on here? You can’t barge into an office with your guns drawn, without clueing me in on what’s happening here.”
At this time, we informed Mr. Feldberg we were placing him under arrest for suspicion of murder. Mr. Feldberg was read his rights, handcuffed and taken into custody.
At first glance, this was a slam dunk case for the prosecution. I read the report again and saw only two contentious areas: that Max was unresponsive when the police stormed his office and the unknown identity of the 911 caller. I recalled seeing a MEDICAL INFORMATION file, which I guessed would contain test results showing Max had been drugged or was under the influence of some substance. I made a mental note to confirm this hypothesis at a later time.
I tackled the WITNESS STATEMENTS folder next. It established the identity of the dead woman and what office unit she was planning to visit that fatal night. A cab driver confirmed he’d dropped the victim off around 8:30 p.m. and she appeared to be in good spirits. “It’s not often I get such a beautiful woman in my cab, whose smile makes me forget how crappy my life is,” he’d stated. The next witness was the front desk security guard, who said the woman had signed in and then taken the elevator to the 23rd floor. The name in the visitor book read “Alexis Penney” and that her destination was Suite 2309.
Finally came the statement of a cleaning lady who was the last person to see Ms. Penney alive—at least outside Max’s office. She said the victim passed her in the hallway and then entered “that shrink’s office.” As it was the end of her shift, the cleaner estimated the time to be 8:35 to 8:40 p.m. There were statements from people on the street below, near the victim’s final sidewalk resting place, but none could shed any new light on the circumstances of her fall. Collectively they put Alexis’ touchdown at around 10:35 p.m., thereby corroborating the 911 information.
So we knew when Ms. Penney arrived, where she was heading and when she left the building (so to speak). All solid timeline information needed at trial. Unfortunately, I did not have the 911 transcript. Had the authorities been able to locate the caller? Was he unco-operative and if so, why? I hoped his information was in the DEFENCE CASE folder.
I replaced both folders and slid the banker’s box into the corner of the kitchen. I didn’t want to overload my brain with too much information all at once—we all know how painful that can be, right? I just wanted to chew over the basics of the case a bit and try to picture the scene from everyone’s point of view: Max’s sleepy perspective; Alexis’ happy-to-terrified standpoint; and the witnesses who had last observed her alive.
That I had not come across the name Jarvis Larsh in any of these documents did not cause me to panic—yet. When initially emptying my magic box of evidence, I’d seen a folder marked JARVIS LARSH and knew it would be the last one I’d read before heading out on Tuesday. Why waste time on a figment of Max’s imagination any longer than I needed? Max was clearly guilty of Alexis Penney’s death. I had no doubt about that. What worried me was why he wanted me to find Mr. Larsh and what he would do to him once I had. Maybe Larsh had nothing to do with the balcony fight but had everything to do with the stolen funds Max had siphoned from his patients.
I convinced myself I had plenty of time to go over the remaining files and the only thing I wanted to do right now was get a drink. The fact Dawn would be serving it would be my reward for working so hard this afternoon.
***
The Sunsetter Pub & Eatery was not crowded and I took my usual booth in the back corner. As I entered, Dawn acknowledged me with a smile and somehow I felt as if I was (metaphorically speaking) home. A notion only a true blue alcoholic would have, I mused to myself. I surveyed the gang of regulars and noted a few of them averted their eyes. I had become something of a celebrity, yet no one wanted to have their picture taken with me, undoubtedly fearful they too would vanish into thin air.
I vacantly perused the menu until Dawn arrived at the table, placing a large frosted mug of beer in front of me.
“Let me guess,” I said with a smile. “Compliments of the hot blue-haired lady at the table near the front door?”
“Close,” Dawn laughed. “It was her husband. He heard you were good at making loved ones disappear. This beer is a retainer for your services.”
“Tell him my fee has gone up since I became infamous. It’s now two beers and a pound of wings.”
“I’ll make sure to give him the message.”
I took a longer look at the couple in their late 70s, and felt equal parts of envy and sadness. “If something happened to her tomorrow, he would die within six months—that’s a fact.”
“A medical fact or a convenient fun bar fact you made up?” Dawn asked skeptically.
“Medical. I think it was written up in Mortician Monthly,” I laughed. “Front page story, I recall.”
“I’m glad to see you’re keeping busy during your time off. Have you considered reading something a bit less morbid though?” Dawn suggested.
“Like what—Tiger Beat?”
“What’s Tiger Beat?”
“You know—it has fluff stories about today’s hottest heartthrobs.” She looked at me
