It would be hard to find a more direct contrast than a comparison of Doctor Lippincott’s free clinic in Northeast Washington and his private offices north of Georgetown University. The waiting room was huge, furnished with a few comfortable chairs, all of which were empty at the end of the office day. The carpet was lush, a sandy beige color which complemented the muted earth tones of the walls. The paintings displayed a Southwestern motif, cacti at sunset and buttes in the dawn sun. The magazines in the wall racks would only interest an upscale clientele. Lippincott’s receptionist bore more than a passing resemblance to Tyra Banks. Fresh flowers waved their sweet scent from tall vases on her desk. She offered Hannibal a broad smile despite Cindy’s presence. He would have loved to talk to her, but instead he stood aside and let Rissik take the lead.
Orson Rissik chose to make his entrance in full police detective mode. Tan trench coat over gray suit, he stalked into the waiting room, jaw and badge thrust forward. The receptionist gasped quietly, her eyes cutting to a drawer on her left as if it was where she kept her stash.
“Where’s Doctor Lippincott?” Rissik demanded. His sharp tone shook the young girl. Her hand moved toward the intercom. “No, don’t call him. Just tell me where he is.”
She waved a shaking hand vaguely down a narrow hall. “Consultation room,” she stuttered. “Third door.”
Rissik turned, winked broadly at Hannibal, and strode off down the hallway. Hannibal and Cindy moved quickly to keep up. Hannibal thought they must appear to be junior detectives, he in his usual black suit, Cindy wearing the navy blue skirt suit she usually reserved for courtroom battles. Rissik stopped in front of the closed door long enough for them to catch up. Then he turned the knob and burst in, slamming the door against the wall behind it.
“Lawrence Lippincott?”
Lippincott sprang to his feet behind his massive oak desk. Apparently he was going over his books, much as any businessman might at the end of the day. Although Rissik moved right up to his desk, Lippincott’s eyes were on Hannibal and Cindy at the back of the room.
Hannibal would call the furnishings luxurious. The love seat, the easy chair, the coffee service on its own table, everything except perhaps the huge desk belonged in some rich man’s study. Hannibal expected to see trophy animal heads on the dark paneled walls instead of the framed portraits of black leaders hanging there.
Lippincott’s gaze eventually fell on Rissik who was too close to ignore for long. “And just who are you supposed to be?”
“Who I am is Orson Rissik, chief of detectives in the Fairfax police department,” Rissik said, brandishing his shield, then putting it away. “I’m the guy these two came to with a problem earlier today. A problem that relates to a murder investigation I’m running. Who I’m supposed to be is the guy who questions Abigail Nieswand about the circumstances of that murder, since I have reason to believe she may have seen or heard something and could have material information.”
Lippincott leaned forward, his fists on the desk supporting him. “I see. They’ve brought you here to intimidate me. They probably think that after the day I’ve had, one of the worst in my life, I’ll just buckle under your pressure. Well mister detective, you can threaten me. You can bring out your rubber hoses if you choose. I will not jeopardize my client’s emotional health. Not at this time.”
Hannibal stepped to the side and into the room a few feet to watch the confrontation better. Lippincott was strong willed, but how long would he endure a staring contest with Rissik? After a full minute, he looked away from the detective’s dangerous eyes. Then Rissik stepped back, lifting the left side of his jacket. Lippincott’s eyes widened as if he feared the policeman might actually shoot.
“Don’t worry,” Rissik said. “I don’t need my gun. I’ve got much better weapons.” From his inside suit jacket pocket he pulled a handful of folded papers. They separated into two small packets, one in each of his hands.
Cindy stepped forward. “I checked with Charter,” she said “You haven’t committed her. She’s signed in voluntarily. And that means we can require her presence. Of course, you could have her committed I suppose, which is why we also have a writ of habeas corpus requiring you to bring her before a court.”
Lippincott’s mouth opened and closed twice, then he slumped into his chair. Now it was Hannibal’s turn.
“None of us wants Mrs. Nieswand cross examined in a court of law,” Hannibal said. “That kind of pressure can damage the healthiest minds.”
“Even if I let you talk to her,” Lippincott said, “a clumsy approach could send her farther into her psychosis.”
“Or,” Hannibal offered, “You could tell us what she knows. We think we know what happened that day. We’re really looking for confirmation.” Lippincott looked up, startled. His hands settled on his desk and he now looked ready to listen.
“My client, Sloan Lerner, is accused of the murder of Patrick Louis, also known as Ike Paton,” Cindy said. “I believe him innocent, but he was on the property that day.” She started pacing in front of Lippincott’s desk, and Hannibal imagined her working a jury. “My client went to the Nieswand home that day to see Abigail Nieswand. It seems she borrowed money from someone last year and never repaid the debt. Mister Lerner is a collection agent, whose job it was to recover the money. But instead of seeing Mrs. Nieswand, he encountered Ike Paton, whom he knew years ago as Patrick Louis. And Louis was quite protective of Mrs. Nieswand.”
Cindy stopped in mid stride and turned a penetrating gaze on Lippincott. Suddenly she was not handling a jury, but dealing with a hostile witness. “Did you know Mrs. Nieswand and Pat Louis were lovers just a year ago in Atlantic City, Doctor? I see by your face that you did. Did you think no one else would ever find out?”
Without actually moving, Lippincott appeared to be backed into a corner. He looked from one accusing face to another. “You don’t know. I mean, you don’t understand the situation. Mrs. Nieswand is prone to addictive behavior. Alcohol. Barbiturates. This man. That was addictive behavior too.”
“Yes, well we do know my client confronted Louis outside the Nieswand house and never got to speak to Mrs. Nieswand,” Cindy continued, not letting any of the pressure escape. As she paced, her hair flipped over her conservative collar, snapping at Lippincott like a whip. “They fought. Louis pulled a knife. He cut my client, who fought back and managed to knock him out. And then,” she turned and slapped her palms down loudly on the desk, “And then he left. Left Louis lying there, unconscious. A car pulled up, then pulled away. She had to hear. She was alone in the house. Her lover never came back in. She must have gone out to see what was the matter.”
While she described events, Cindy slowly leaned toward Lippincott. Now he stared forward as if the lion cage was open and he was next to be eaten. Hannibal and Rissik exchanged admiring glances. Then Hannibal stepped forward, took her arm and gently pulled her back.
“It wasn’t just the dead body of her lover that drove her over the edge,” Hannibal said. “She saw something, or maybe heard something that shocked her.”
Lippincott looked down but could not hide the pain on his face or in his gut. “No. She saw no evidence of another person.”
“No,” Hannibal said, “nothing she told you.”
Lippincott looked up. “You think she’d tell you something she didn’t tell me?”
“You don’t know what to ask,” Rissik said.
“Think about this,” Hannibal went on. “We followed a pretty thin trail of clues to get this far. We told you all this to let you know we can put things together the untrained person might miss. I know if we can talk to her, even through you, we’ll get something to incriminate Angela, to implicate her in this murder. Isn’t that what you want?”
Lippincott’s arms were wrapped around him now, as if to hold him together. His head moved slowly back and forth, and a thin sweat broke out on his bare head. “That’s just it. She won’t say anything to implicate Angela or anyone else.”
Hannibal bared his teeth and clenched his fists. “How do you know that?”
“Because she’s confessed to the murder herself.”