Claire said, “That seems right. Looks to me like he took the first two shots to his back. Then, he probably turned to face the shooter and that’s when he got this one to the underside of his biceps. It went through the muscle and into the chest. That could have been the slug that stopped his heart forever.”
Conklin said, “So, who do we think was the shooter? Mrs. Doe? Did she get someone to let her into the room so she could kill her husband? It’s a logical explanation. An obvious one. Or could it have been Mr. Murphy, who killed the man cuckolding him? Is that why his wife was spared?
“And if the motive was a domestic beef,” Conklin continued, “why take the jewelry? Was it staging, to make the shooting look like a robbery?”
Claire listened as Conklin continued theorizing out loud. He said, “Or was it, in fact, a robbery? A stranger gets into the room or he was waiting in the room. He gets the loot and John Doe’s wallet. But why didn’t he give Mrs. Murphy a shot to the head so she couldn’t testify? Was he convinced she was dead?”
Claire cut off his musings, saying, “Here’s my theory. Anyone would have been convinced that that woman, Joan Murphy, died in that hotel room. You see, there’s an unusual condition called ‘catalepsy.’ If this is that condition, it’s my first experience with it. I know that death is a many-part process. Different parts of the body cease at different times. Skin lives for twenty-four hours after a person dies, for instance.
“So, catalepsy is a nervous condition that looks like death even though it’s an attenuated slow-down. If Mrs. Murphy had not been refrigerated overnight, she would have suffered brain death and she would have died.”
“Okay, so what causes catalepsy?”
“Could be a number of things. Parkinson’s disease, epilepsy, cocaine withdrawal. It can be a side effect of an antipsychotic. And one of the most common causes can be traumatic shock.”
Conklin said, “She had to be pretty traumatized, all right. You think her memory will ever come back?”
Claire shrugged and said, “It’s possible. Let me know, will you? I can’t really explain it, but I feel somewhat attached to Joan. I want to know what happened to her and why.”
Chapter 9
Conklin came through the gate to the Homicide squad room and went directly to the small island made up of two facing desks—his and Lindsay’s—and a side chair.
He grabbed his desk phone and called St. Francis Memorial. He was shunted around to various bureaucrats until finally a head nurse told him that Mrs. Murphy was in stable condition and was currently having a CAT scan.
Conklin said he’d call back. He was glad to have time to do a background check on the miraculous Mrs. Murphy before meeting with her.
He booted up his computer and began opening the databases that were at his disposal at the police office. He learned that Joan Murphy, nee Tuttle, had been born in New York in 1972. Her mother had been an editor at a high-fashion magazine and her father was CEO of a business machine corporation. Joan had gone to private schools and had capped off her high school diploma with a degree in literature from Berkeley.
Murphy’s first husband, Jared Knowles, was a well-regarded art director in Hollywood. Her second and current husband, Robert Murphy, was a model and small-time actor who was born in 1986. Conklin did the quick math in his head. That made Robert fourteen years younger than his wife.
Joan had bought and paid for the Murphys’ home prior to her marriage to Robert, and it had since been featured in multiple glossy style magazines. The Murphys were also pictured in many of the society columns and had a handful of celebrity friends. On the face of it, they seemed to have a pretty good quality of life.
Conklin stretched, taking a break. He texted Sackowitz, telling him he was going to interview Joan Murphy ASAP. After that, he scavenged the refrigerator in the break room and found a container of yogurt marked “Boxer.” He grabbed the snack, knowing Lindsay wouldn’t mind.
He ate at his desk and opened the criminal databases, finding zip, zero, and nada on Joan and Robert Murphy. They hadn’t ever been in trouble with the law. No scandals, no shoplifting, no nothing.
Next, Conklin looked at all online photos he could find of this nice, upscale couple. What had happened to Joan? She seemed to have a decent life, but then one night she checks into a hotel room and entertains a man who isn’t her husband. A shooter somehow gets into this hotel room and blows away the lover. Then that same assassin wings the millionairess and leaves her for dead.
And what had happened to Joan’s jewelry? Had the whole thing been a pre-planned armed robbery? It was starting to look that way to Conklin. Maybe it hadn’t been about the duplicitous relationship after all.
Suddenly, his desk phone rang, jerking him out of his thoughts.
The caller ID read SACKOWITZ.
“It’s crazy that Joan Murphy is alive, right?” he said to the night-shift detective.
Sac said, “My thinking exactly. Who’s the target here? Or was this a robbery that got out of control?”
Conklin said, “I’ve been wondering the same thing. Hopefully this interview helps us figure things out. Then, after I see Mrs. Murphy, I’m going to drive out to her home so I can talk to the husband. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Sounds like a plan. But be careful.”
PRESENT TIME
Chapter 10
Rich Conklin had finished his useless bedside interview with Joan Murphy, but before they could go to Claire Washburn’s office, Joan had to be cleared to leave the hospital.
He called Cindy from the waiting room and left her a voice mail telling her that she shouldn’t hold dinner for him. Minutes later, the attending physician came down the hallway to ask him to come with him to his patient’s room.
Once he was standing at Joan’s side, Dr. Kornacki turned to Conklin and said, “I want you to be my witness on this situation. I told Mrs. Murphy she should stay with us overnight, so that we could keep an eye on her for twenty-four hours at minimum.”
Joan chirped, “And I said, ‘No thanks, doctor. I’m fine now.’ And I really, truly am. I’m ready to go home.”
Kornacki said sternly, “There’s a chance that you might relapse if you leave, but I can’t force you to stay here. See your regular physician. Please do it tomorrow.”
Joan plucked at the hospital-issue nightgown. “Detective, may I please have my clothing and other belongings back? I must have been wearing quite a bit of jewelry. I’m never without my engagement ring and mother’s necklace.”
Conklin ran his hand down the side of his face. “Unfortunately, Joan, we weren’t able to locate your jewelry. And your clothing will need to stay with our team for now, for testing.”
Joan sighed and said, “Doctor, may I borrow some scrubs? Either blue or green would be fine with me.”
Conklin stood outside as Joan dressed and then he co-signed the “Against Medical Advice” release form. He watched as Joan submitted to the nurses, who were fussing around her as they seated her in a wheelchair.
He pushed Joan’s chair out to his car. The foot well on the passenger side was filled with litter, and Joan sniffed in disgust when she saw it.