Chapter 4

The principal of Public School Seventy-four led the detectives down a hallway decorated with collages and childish self-portraits. “The children are outside at recess now, but you can speak with Amanda’s teacher. If you need to see me for anything afterwards, I’ll be in my office.”

They entered a classroom and the man spoke to a middle-aged woman listing spelling words on the chalkboard. “Mrs. Kroft, these police detectives would like to have a word with you about Amanda Grayson.”

The woman turned to face them as the principal left them alone. “Yes?”

“We understand Amanda has been in your class for the past week,” Briscoe said.

“She started here on Tuesday of last week. Is there a problem?”

“Not with her,” Green assured the woman. “We’re trying to find some information on her parents. Amanda’s records haven’t arrived yet and we were wondering if you had an address or phone number for the Graysons.”

They followed the woman as she walked to her desk. “Mrs. Grayson came in with Amanda last Monday afternoon and introduced her to me. She left this address and phone number.” The teacher handed a sheet of paper she had taken from a drawer to Green. “But she said it was for a friend they were staying with who would be picking Amanda up from school. Mrs. Grayson indicated she was difficult to get in touch with during the day.”

“Can you describe Mrs. Grayson to us?” Briscoe asked.

“She was about five-foot-six, short dark hair, maybe a hundred and twenty-five pounds. She was wearing a business suit, skirt and jacket, like she was dressed for work. She said she worked as a billing clerk for several doctors and divided her time between their offices.”

Green handed the paper back to her after copying the information onto his notepad. “Did she say anything about being able to reach Mr. Grayson?”

“No, she didn’t. She was only here for a few minutes, and we mostly talked about Amanda. Mrs. Grayson indicated that they had moved a couple of times recently and she was concerned about Amanda making friends and getting settled.”

“Could we talk to Amanda?” Briscoe asked. “She might at least be able to tell us where her father works.”

“I’ll go get her,” the teacher offered.

She returned a few moments later holding the hand of a girl with waist-length brown hair and bangs cut above her wide dark eyes.

“Amanda, these men would like to talk to you,” the teacher explained.

The girl clutched the teacher’s hand and stood close to her. When Briscoe took a step toward her, she moved partly behind the teacher, looking at him fearfully.

Briscoe smiled and bent down. “It’s okay, Sweetheart. We only want to ask you some questions.”

Seeing that his words had done nothing to reassure her, Briscoe pulled one of the small chairs out from under a desk and sat down, so that he was at eye level with her. “You know, I had a little girl who looked a lot like you,” he said, trying unsuccessfully to keep the sadness from his voice. “My name is Lennie and I’m a policeman. My partner and I are trying to find your mom and dad. They aren’t in any trouble; we just have something important to ask them. Can you tell us where your daddy works?”

The girl looked up and the teacher nodded. “It’s okay to tell them, Amanda.”

Looking cautiously back at Briscoe, she said, “My dad works at an insurance place.”

“What’s the name of the company?” Briscoe asked.

With a shrug she said, “I don’t know.”

“Do you know where his office is?”

“No. But he’s not there right now, anyway. My mom said my daddy had to go away for a while. I don’t think he’s back yet.”

“Do you know where he went?”

The girl shook her head.

“Where does your mom work?”

“She works for Dr. Freedman and Dr. Jones and some other doctors.”

“Do you know where?”

She shook her head again, still regarding Briscoe apprehensively.

Deciding that she had told them everything she could, Briscoe gave her a smile. “Thank you, Amanda. You were a big help.” He got up and thanked the teacher as well, then he and Green started for the door. Before reaching it, Briscoe stopped and turned back to face the little girl. “Oh, one more thing: Ms. Garrett at P.S. 69 said to be sure and tell you to write a letter to Samantha. She really misses you.”

He was rewarded with a shy smile from the little girl.

***“We could look up the names of the doctors Amanda mentioned and give them a call. Shouldn’t be more than a couple hundred in the phone book with the names ‘Freedman’ and ‘Jones’,” Green suggested dryly.

Briscoe took another bite of his club sandwich and chewed thoughtfully. “I still say the best way to track these people down is through Amanda. Whoever comes to pick her up this afternoon has to know where to find the parents, or at least the mother. I think our John Doe is the father.”

“Not that I necessarily disagree, but what makes you so sure all of the sudden?” Green asked. “That guy could’ve been killed after the Graysons moved out.”

“Look at what we know so far: John Doe was found dead with a knife from the kitchen stuck in his back, not a weapon brought in from outside of the house. There was no forcible entry and he was in his p.j.’s, sound asleep when it happened. The phone was disconnected on Monday, the day after the murder, the same day Mrs. Grayson called Amanda’s old school to say they had moved. When she enrolled her in the new school, she said they were staying with a friend. She told Amanda her dad had gone away for a while. And I’ll bet you her fingerprints match the ones found on the murder weapon.”

“That’s not a bet I’m willing to take, Partner,” Green said as he picked up a french fry. “Sounds pretty logical to me. Maybe he was cheating on her.”

“Hell hath no fury,” Briscoe noted. “Whatever the reason, I think we need to find her soon, as in today. If she realizes we’re looking for her, she might decide to take the kids and disappear again.”

***Briscoe and Green waited outside of the school, having already alerted the principal and Amanda Grayson’s teacher of their intentions. When they heard the dismissal bell ring, they watched as noisy children spilled from the building. After a few minutes, they spotted Mrs. Kroft walking close to Amanda, making their way down the long line of waiting school buses and cars. The detectives followed at a discreet distance, not wanting to upset the little girl. When the teacher stopped at a blue van and Amanda began to climb inside, they approached the driver.

“Excuse me,” Green said, pulling out his badge. “I’m Detective Green and this is Detective Briscoe. Would you mind telling us your name?”

“It’s Sandy Hamilton.”

“Ms. Hamilton, we’d like to ask you a few questions. Would you please step out of the vehicle?” Green asked.

“I don’t want to block traffic,” the woman replied, eyeing him warily.

“This will only take a minute,” Briscoe assured her, opening her door.

She turned to look over her shoulder. “Stay here, Amanda. I’ll be right back.” After getting out, she followed the detectives to the sidewalk.

“We’re trying to locate Sara Grayson,” Green continued. “Can you tell us where to find her?”

“She’s at work right now. Is there something I can help you with?”

“Do you know where Mr. Grayson works?” he asked.

“No, I don’t. Would you mind telling me what this is about?”

“We need to ask Mr. or Mrs. Grayson some questions about someone we’re investigating,” Briscoe explained.

“I can give you the address and phone number of one of the doctors Sara works for,” she said, opening the passenger door and taking a business card out of her purse. “This is where she will be this afternoon.”

Green took the card and studied it. “May we keep this?” When the woman nodded, he said, “We know you’re authorized to pick Amanda up from school and her teacher told us the Grayson’s were staying with you for a while. Is that true?”

“Sara and the children are staying with my husband and me until they can find a place of their own.”

“What about Mr. Grayson?”

“I don’t know where he is.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Briscoe asked.

“I only met him once, about a year ago. Sara and I became friends through work when I was a nurse in one of the doctor’s offices where she handles the billing. She called me a few days ago and said she and the children needed a place to stay temporarily. I told her they could stay with us.”

Green exchanged a look with Briscoe. “Exactly what day did she call you?”

“I don’t remember,” the woman said evasively. “I really need to move my van. I’m holding up other cars.”

“Would you mind giving us your address and phone number, in case we have any more questions?” Green asked, pulling out his notepad.

“I guess not,” she answered.

After she had given them the information, Briscoe handed her a business card. “Thank you, Mrs. Hamilton. If you need to get in touch with us for any reason, this is where we can be reached.”

As she drove away, Green said, “The address and phone number she gave us matches the one Sara Grayson gave the teacher. But I definitely got the feeling she knows more than she’s saying.”

“And she didn’t seem too eager to share what she knows,” Briscoe noted. “Come on. Let’s see if we can get to Mrs. Grayson before she gives her a heads up.”

***The detectives followed a receptionist to a brightly-lit office. “Sara, there are some men here to see you. They’re from the police department.”

The receptionist motioned them in before leaving. Briscoe and Green stepped into the room as a woman sitting at a desk turned to face them.

“Mrs. Grayson,” Briscoe said, “we’d like to ask you a few questions. I’m Detective Briscoe and this is Detective Green.”

The woman nodded. “I’ve been expecting you. You’re here about Mitchell.”

“Yes, we are,” Briscoe agreed. “Your friend Sandy Hamilton must have called.”

She shook her head. “I haven’t spoken to her all day. I just knew you would eventually find me.”

Green glanced at Briscoe in confusion, then asked, “Do you know where we can find your husband?”

Mrs. Grayson looked puzzled. “Since you’re here, I assumed you had already found him.”

“Oh? Why is that?” Briscoe asked.

She looked from one to the other. “Have you or haven’t you found my husband’s body?”

Briscoe let out a breath and shook his head slightly. “So that was Mitchell Grayson we found in the house you used to live in. We weren’t completely sure. Can you tell us what happened?”

“I thought you knew,” she answered quietly. “I killed him.”

The detectives exchanged surprised looks and Green stepped toward her. “You’ll have to come with us, Mrs. Grayson. This is a conversation we need to continue down at the police station.”

***Van Buren was waiting for them when they came in, having received a phone call from Briscoe as he and Green drove over. She remained in the observation area while they settled Mrs. Grayson into the small, dingy interrogation room.

When they came out, she said, “I called the D.A.’s office. Abbie will be here as soon as she can get away. Has Mrs. Grayson changed her mind about having a lawyer present when we question her?”

“We asked her three times on the way over,” Green answered. “She says she can’t afford one and doesn’t care if one is present or not.”

“To be on the safe side, I called Legal Aid. They’re going to try to send someone over as soon as possible, but they’re swamped as usual,” Van Buren informed them. “In the mean time, Abbie said to be sure and get her consent in writing before we tape the conversation.”

At their nods, the detectives followed her into the interrogation room.

After everyone was seated at the scuffed table, Van Buren placed a copy of the consent and a Miranda warning in front of the woman. “Unless you want to wait for a lawyer, you’ll need to sign these before we talk. This one gives us your consent to video tape our conversation, and the other is a waiver stating that you have been informed of and understand your rights.”

Grayson nodded absently and signed the papers, then handed them back to Van Buren.

“Now why don’t you tell us what happened,” Green suggested.

The woman sighed heavily and folded her hands on the table in front of her. Her voice was void of all emotion when she answered, “I stabbed my husband after he went to sleep, a week ago Sunday.”

“Why?” Briscoe asked. “Did you have an argument or something?”

She looked him square in the eye. “I’ve admitted that I killed him. Do I really need to give you a reason?”

Van Buren’s voice was kind. “The reasons behind your actions are important. Your explanation will have a lot to do with what you are charged with and what your punishment will be.”

The other woman shook her head. “I did it. Why, doesn’t matter.”

“Sometimes there are extenuating circumstances,” Green explained. “If you tell us why, maybe we can help you.”

After considering his words, she shrugged. “I don’t know what to say.”

“How long were you married?” Van Buren asked.

“It would have been twenty-one years in July.”

The lieutenant leaned forward. “After living with your husband for nearly twenty-one years, why did you feel the need to stab him to death a week ago Sunday?”

Grayson hesitated, seeming at a loss for words. After a few moments, she finally answered, “I wanted out of the marriage but we were part of a very strict religious group and my husband didn’t believe in divorce. I was trapped and felt I had no other way out.”

“There are less drastic ways of ending a relationship than murder,” Green observed. “Why didn’t you just leave him?”

“Where was I going to go that he couldn’t find me? He never would have given up. Our children and I were his family and he wouldn’t have let any of us go. He would have tracked me down like you did.”

“Which brings us to our next question,” Briscoe commented. “If you were so sure we were going to find you anyway, why didn’t you turn yourself in after you killed him? Why did you run?”

“I didn’t run,” she insisted. “I needed time to make sure my children would be taken care of. After I saw to that, I wanted to work as long as I could before you found me to help with expenses. My main concern is for their welfare.”

“So you were thinking of your children when you killed their father?” Briscoe asked sarcastically. “How do you think that’s going to affect them?”

Grayson ran her fingers through her hair nervously and shook her head. “I don’t know. But my children are safe now. That’s what’s important.”

Van Buren had been studying her carefully and asked quietly, “Were you afraid of your husband? Was he abusing you or your children?”

“No, of course not,” she answered quickly. “He punished the children when needed and lately he had been a little short-tempered, but he didn’t abuse them.” She leaned on her elbows, speaking earnestly. “You have to understand that my husband was under a lot of pressure. His office was down-sizing; people were being laid off right and left. He never knew if he would still have a job from one week to the next. He was worried he wouldn’t be able to provide for us.”

“Why did you want out of the marriage?” Green asked.

Mrs. Grayson shook her head again. “That doesn’t matter. All that’s important is that he’s dead and I’m responsible.” She held her head in her hands wearily and repeated, “That’s all that matters.”

“You’re going to have to give us more information than that if you want our help,” Van Buren noted. “We need to know what led up to your actions.”

With a deep sigh, Grayson said, “There’s nothing more I can tell you. I don’t want to answer any more questions.”

“You signed a waiver of your rights,” Briscoe reminded her. “You have to answer our questions.”

“Then maybe I do need to speak with a lawyer,” she admitted.

Van Buren stood up, adressing the detectives, “Could I see the two of you outside?”

She led the way out of the interrogation room, waiting until the door was closed. “Something about all of this isn’t right. One minute she’s saying she killed him because she couldn’t live with him anymore, and the next she’s defending him, telling us how much stress he was under. She’s confessed, but she isn’t giving us everything. I think we need to find out something about Mitchell Grayson.”

“You want us to investigate the victim? Whatever her reasons for killing him, we’ve got her dead to rights,” Briscoe insisted. “She stabbed him while he was asleep. Can there be any doubt that it was murder?”

Van Buren shrugged. “Maybe not. But my instincts tell me there’s more here than meets the eye. Did her friend mention anything about this religious group the Graysons belonged to?”

Green shook his head. “She didn’t tell us much of anything. She said she met Mitchell Grayson only once.”

“We have more than enough to arrest Mrs. Grayson, so she’s not going anywhere. Find out where her husband worked, and after you take her down to booking, do some checking. Talk to the people Mitchell Grayson worked with and learn what you can about him. I want to know why this woman found murder to be the only way out of her marriage.”

***Carmichael sighed with relief as she drove in her stocking feet toward the 27^th precinct, wondering what had ever possessed her to put on a new pair of shoes that morning. It would have been fine if she had been sitting in a courtroom all day, but she had visited three different offices tracking down evidence for an upcoming trial, and had been to the court building for an arraignment. Not a good day to wear anything but something old and comfortable. Her running shoes would have been a wise choice, she thought, if only they didn’t look so inappropriate with a skirt.

It had been difficult to sit still through the last thirty minutes of the plea agreement meeting she had just attended. She could still hear the defense lawyer’s voice droning in her head as he had tried to explain why she should go easy on his client. Even five more minutes of the sob story and she would surely have screamed. The defendant had pled guilty to robbery and arson. She really didn’t see what his abusive mother had to do with his idiotic decision to burn a pawn shop after robbing it, in order to destroy his fingerprints. But an agreement had been reached and all that remained was a little paperwork to fill out before placing the case in the ‘completed’ bin on her desk. She hoped to finish with it early that evening so she could go home and soak her aching feet.

When she reached the parking lot, she reluctantly forced the shoes back on with a groan, then headed inside.

“Sorry it took so long to get here,” Carmichael apologized, stepping into Van Buren’s office. “I was in the middle of negotiating a plea when you called and I had to listen to a detailed account of the troubled life of Harold Glover, self-admitted thief and arsonist. What did I miss?”

Van Buren turned her chair to retrieve the tape. “Only Mrs. Grayson’s matter-of-fact confession to killing Mr. Grayson.”

“Does she have a lawyer?”

“The P.D. assigned to the case couldn’t make it over. She wants to take a look at the tape before her client is arraigned tomorrow morning, so I sent a copy over to her office.”

“Who’s handling it?”

“Brenda Radcliffe.”

Carmichael nodded. “I’ve worked with her before.”

The lieutenant got up and popped the tape into a VCR that was sitting on top of a small television. “I’m not quite sure what to make of the confession.”

“What do you mean?”

Van Buren pushed ‘play’. “I’ll let you see for yourself.”

Carmichael watched carefully, trying to get a feel for Sara Grayson’s state of mind. If there was going to be a question of the woman’s mental competency, she wanted plenty of warning.

Upon reaching the end of the tape, Van Buren stopped the player.

“It looks pretty cut and dried to me,” Carmichael observed. “She confessed freely and she sounds perfectly rational. I’d say we have a strong case.”

Van Buren regarded her thoughtfully. “I’m not so sure. There are a lot of questions I’d like to have answers for before we write Sara Grayson off. In my opinion, the woman is a little too resigned to her fate. She didn’t even try to help herself. There has to be a good reason for her to stab to death the man who was the father of her three kids after spending twenty-plus years of her life with him.”

“Over twenty years living with the same man? That alone sounds like reasonable cause as far as I’m concerned,” Carmichael noted dryly.

“There are days,” Van Buren agreed with a smile. “But I’d like to know more about Mitchell Grayson. I sent Briscoe and Green to talk with his coworkers. Maybe they can come up with something that will help us make some sense of it all.”

“Better make it fast. Brenda is known for quick, no-nonsense pleas. She likes to avoid going to trial if at all possible. My guess is she’ll be ready to sit down and talk terms within twenty-four hours of her client’s arraignment.”

Van Buren nodded. “I’ll let you know if they come up with anything.”

***“Watch out for that car,” Green pointed. He settled back into the seat and tried unsucessfully to relax. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into allowing you to drive.”

Briscoe’s next quick lane change was accompanied by a blaring honk from a car whose driver suddenly found herself behind him. “You let me drive because it’s raining and it’s rush hour,” he reminded Green. “You hate driving in heavy traffic when it rains.”

“Well I dislike your driving even more. Just try to get us back to the precinct in one piece, will ya?”

“No problem,” Briscoe promised. He tapped the steering wheel thoughtfully as they waited for a traffic light. “You know, women like Sara Grayson really get my goat. Here she is, married to a guy who does his best to support her and the kids, who by all accounts is a decent, hard-working family man, and she’s still not satisfied. What do women want from us anyway?”

“I don’t know, Partner. If I had the answer to that question, I’d be a rich man.”

“Well I for one will be happy to hand Van Buren the last nail for Sara Grayson’s coffin. Any woman who could kill her husband in cold blood and sit there without a hint of remorse, just because she didn’t want to be married anymore, deserves to rot. A guy goes to sleep in his own bed, resting up for another hard week, thinking everything is going great, and next thing you know his wife stabs him in the back. Literally!”

Green shook his head at the bad joke. “What she did doesn’t make much sense to me either. But look on the bright side: We identified the victim and solved the case in less than two weeks. That’s good for our percentages.”

“Small consolation for Mitchell Grayson,” Briscoe noted, swerving into the next lane.

“One piece, Lennie,” Green reminded him loudly over the sound of another horn.
***Van Buren sat back as the two detectives appeared at the door of her office. “I was about to give up on you and go home. What did you find out?”

As Green sank into a chair with obvious relief, Briscoe stood in front of her desk and answered, “We found out that Mitchell Grayson kept pictures of his wife and three kids on his desk and bragged about what a great family he had. The people he worked with said other than the fact that he had a bit of a holier-than-thou attitude, the guy was a model employee. They were stunned when we broke the news to them.”

“How many people did you talk to?”

Green leaned forward. “Enough. There are no two ways about it; Grayson was well-liked. He worked in the same office for eleven years and no one had anything bad to say about him. He was just a regular guy.”

“A regular guy whose wife thought the only way to get away from him was to send him to the next life,” Van Buren reminded him.

“So why does that have to be his problem?” Briscoe asked. “You know, there are more than a few of the fairer gender out there who are plain nuts. Looks to me like this is one of those cases where he was the innocent victim and she’s the one who fell off the deep end.”

With a shrug, Van Buren said, “You may be right. But I still say there are most likely some skeletons in Mitchell Grayson’s closet that would explain his wife’s behavior.” She glanced at the clock behind Green. “Brenda Radcliffe at Legal Aid wants a copy of everything we have. She’s handling Sara Grayson’s case. You can write up your report tomorrow morning. Right now, I think you should go home so the city can stop paying your overtime. I know I’m ready to call it a day.”

Green got up and followed Briscoe out as Van Buren retrieved her purse from the bottom drawer of her desk. As she started to leave, she spotted two slips of paper on her desk. Picking them up, she headed for the door and turned off the lights.

“I almost forgot,” she said, approaching the detectives’ desks. “A woman named Sandy Hamilton called twice while you were out. She wouldn’t tell me what she wanted, but insisted that she had to talk with one of you tonight. Either of you know who she is?”

Briscoe took the notes from her and tossed them onto his desk. “She’s a friend of Sara Grayson. Probably wants to vouch for her character. It can wait. I’ll call her in the morning.” He picked his coat up from where he had draped it across the back of his chair and gestured toward the door. “We’ll walk you out.”

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