The Witch Hunt
Alexi
took in the peaceful environment, the white kitchen counter, the tastefully set
table with the cheerful, bright red tablecloth, and the warm cloud of scents:
apples, cinnamon, ginger, and spices. The Upper West Side apartment was large,
high-end, and modern. The kitchen area was no different, with gleaming,
high-performance, energy-saving household appliances, a stainless steel faucet,
a white marble countertop and marble floor. Everything was trendy and expensive,
but it was obvious that Golde Mueller was in charge in the kitchen. It was cozy,
a safe nest for the family, a place to eat, laugh, and have a great time. Alexi
looked through the window. Behind the large buildings, she could see the bare
treetops of the Central Park. The streets below looked glorious. Holiday time
was nearing, it was there everywhere in the city, in the falling snow, the
white streets, in the piles of sweets and dazzling decor behind the glass
storefront windows. Out there, on the streets, the atmosphere was celebratory.
Golde
Mueller was an energetic, tiny woman in her mid-seventies. Her brown hair had
streaks of white. She had fine features and a healthy, brown complexion. She
was fixing dinner for her guest. Alexi watched her as she chopped spinach and
onions, kneaded some dough, prepared the filling and, at last, started grilling
the delicious food. Golde’s hands were elegant – until her retirement, she ran
the family business –, but her fingers were moving very fast.
“Knish,”
Golde explained. “I always prepare knish for holidays. For Steph. She’s very
picky, but she loves what I cook for
her.” She was proud of it.
Alexi
flashed a smile at Golde, a big, confident, professional smile.
She
came here to talk to Golde’s granddaughter, Dr. Stephanie Cohen. Stephanie was
a suspect of a murder. Alexi Frest was a crime author, she gathered material
from real life stories.
“I’m
very glad that you came over,” Golde said. “I’ve heard that you’ve helped NYPD
in rough cases.”
Alexi’s
interviews and research had cast light in the shadows.
“Thank
you, Mrs. Mueller.” Alexi was hoping that her work would get help for victims
and make a difference.
“I’m
sure you can help,” Golde said. She was not taking no for an answer. “Steph
never harmed that bastard, um, that poor young man.” Her tone changed, it was
cold. Alexi almost smiled again. She could tell Golde did not like Jim Wilson.
**
Six
days ago, someone murdered Dr. Jim Wilson in a West Village apartment that he
rented with his girlfriend, Stephanie Cohen. His death was torturous. The perp
slashed and stabbed him twenty-four times. The sharp force injuries and the
angles of the spattered blood showed that the murder weapon – which was missing
– might have been a scalpel. Both Stephanie and Jim had access to a scalpel,
Stephanie was an internal medicine specialist and Jim was a surgeon.
Jim
died in his bedroom. Stephanie said she had been sleeping in the other room all
the while. She had a hard day at the private clinic where she was working. She
was tired and she did not wake up throughout the entire ordeal.
The
heavy entrance door of the apartment was intact. The perp did not force their
way inside. Stephanie or Jim must have let them in.
The
cozy private apartment was insulated, soundproof. The neighbors did not hear
anything. Neither did Stephanie. She woke up at 4.14. a.m. and had a hot
shower. After that, she looked in on Jim. She did not notice anything unusual,
she had no bad premonition.
She
could not remember what she did when she opened the door of Jim’s room.
Jim’s
blood was there everywhere, on the ground, on the bed, on the wall. As an
internist, Stephanie has seen enough of human misery. When she was a resident,
she has worked at the emergency room, she has seen broken bodies, maimed
people, she has treated victims of accidents or violent crimes. Later on, she
dealt with dying patients. This was
different.
Jim
was lying on the floor, on his back. As she looked at him, she knew that he has
been dead for a while, but she had to be sure.
In
a beat, she was there next to him, she sank on her knees. Her hands were
shivering as she was seeking for his pulse. His neck and chest were cold, the
flesh was strangely hard, unyielding. She knew too well what it was, rigor
mortis, he must have been dead for hours. She tried to give him CPR, once,
twice, for endless minutes, even if she knew it was too late. He was cold and
motionless, her rational mind already knew it, but her subconscious mind could
not comprehend it. Later she could not remember that she called 911 at 4.26.
It’s Dr. Stephanie Cohen. My boyfriend,
Dr. Jim Wilson, died a few hours ago. Send an ambulance car. She told the address, she sounded very
calm.
Paramedics
arrived at 4.37. They could tell that Jim Wilson has been dead for several
hours.
Then
investigators arrived, too. They wanted to arrest Dr. Cohen as a suspect. Her
father, a wealthy entrepreneur who had connections everywhere, intervened. Now Stephanie
was out on bail.
Jim
Wilson’s smartphone and laptop were gone. So were his expensive Omega wristwatch
and his wallet that contained cash and his credit card. However, within a day, NYPD
investigators have found the watch and the wallet in a garbage bin near the
Village apartment. Probably the robbery was staged. Dr. Cohen wanted people to
believe that the perps were after Wilson’s belongings. The laptop and
smartphone never turned up again.
The
Stephanie Cohen case was one of the high-profile murders of the year.
Journalists and news anchors were after Dr. Cohen. They tried to discredit her.
Many of them told that she was guilty. It seemed Nancy Grace had a particular
hatred against her. Journalists were quick to point out that Stephanie Cohen
had plenty of time to mess with the evidence. They found out that she and the
victim, Dr. Jim Wilson, were an unhappy couple. According to friends and
colleagues, they fought all the time. Some of Stephanie’s colleagues and
neighbors called her a manipulative, dishonest, and cold person.
People
hated Dr. Cohen, the “killer doctor”. Her defense attorney received death
threats.
Other
sources, however, blamed the victim, Dr. Wilson. They said he was a possessive,
controlling, and arrogant man, impatient and rude with his patients, and he
always had to have his way in everything. Some said he was promiscuous and he
had affairs, and he was a club goer. Others said he was greedy and he had ties
with the mafia, his death was a vendetta and the real perps framed Dr. Cohen.
One
of Jim Wilson’s colleagues, Dr. Michelle Warren, had committed suicide, or, as
some said, she died under strange circumstances three months ago. Did it have
to do something with Jim Wilson’s death? Nobody knew.
Alexi
still watched Golde grilling the dough. It would be strange and sad to have
dinner with Golde and Stephanie, knowing that Stephanie was a suspect.
**
The
sky was getting dark, the streets down below had the bright, ambient glow of
electric lights. It was snowing.
Dr.
Cohen arrived after six p.m. She was a good-looking, tall, athletic woman, with
brown eyes, and delicate features. Her coat and long, dark hair were damp with
snow. She was pale, there were dark circles under her eyes, but she looked
sophisticated. She wore well-cut, high quality clothes, dark blue top, black slacks.
She kissed her grandma. For a second, she hugged her.
“Alright,
grandma?” her voice was a tired murmur, but it still had an intense, compelling
edge. There was concern and a warm smile in her green eyes as she looked at her
grandmother.
Golde
nodded.
“I’m
fine, but how are you?”
Stephanie
comforted her with a touch of her hand, signaling she was alright.
Alexi
stood up to greet her. Dr. Cohen gave her the smallest of smiles as she offered
her hand.
“Evening.
Good to see you. I’m Dr. Stephanie Cohen.”
“Alexi
Frest.”
“Sorry
for being late. I had a new patient at the last moment. I couldn’t leave any
earlier.”
Alexi
shrugged with a smile.
“I
made myself home already. You’ve got a very cozy home. And a fantastic
grandma.” As Alexi mentioned Golde, again, she could detect warmth in Dr.
Cohen’s eyes. It seemed she was close to her grandma.
Golde
placed some crispy, warm knish on everyone’s plate. Another smile on Dr.
Cohen’s drawn face.
**
After
dinner, Dr. Cohen invited Alexi to her study. It was a stylish room, dark
colors dominated it. It had a large desk in the middle, with a laptop and
stacks of files. Plenty of books on the shelves, many of them dealt with
medicine.
Dr.
Cohen signaled to Alexi to sit down in an armchair.
“I
guess you’re here to ask me about the murder. I can’t say much,” Stephanie
said. She seemed weary. “That day, I
was just tired. I fell asleep in the living room. It was like a blackout. When
I woke up, I took a shower.” She shook her head and held her hands up. “I know.
I know. Evidence destroyed. I didn’t know that there was a corpse in the other
room, clear?” She pointed at Alexi with a slender hand.
She
referred to her murdered boyfriend as a corpse. Probably she was detaching
herself from what happened.
“That
was all I needed,” Stephanie murmured. Impatience crept in her voice. “I’ve got
patients in critical condition, and now I have this.” She paused. “I’m not sure if I can stay in my position. I’ve
got a bad reputation. Nobody trusts a doctor like this.”
“I’m
so sorry. People are hard on you.”
“I
get death threats almost every day. My attorney, my family, even my grandma got death threats. Can you
imagine?”
Alexi
thought of smiling, caring Golde.
“Some
people are terrible.”
Dr.
Cohen shrugged. There was a lull.
“Can
you remember anything from that night?” Alexi asked at last.
Dr.
Cohen shook her head.
“I
was sleeping.” Her face darkened. “You know what’s strange? That night . . . in
the middle of the night, while I was asleep . . . I was half awake, I thought
someone was walking in the room. I thought nothing of it. I thought it was Jim.
Perhaps it was just a nightmare, I don’t know. I didn’t wake up to see who it
was. I just wanted to sleep.”
“It
might have been the murderer,” Alexi guessed. Her voice was quiet.
“I’m
afraid, right? I can’t sleep since
then. I’ve moved back to my parents.”
“I
think it’s natural.”
“I
wake up at night and check on the entrance door. Twice or three times, every
night. It’s always locked, but I can’t help it. I’m always afraid that someone
comes in.”
“What
about the door of the other place?” Alexi meant the crime scene, the apartment
in the West Village.
“It
was an automatic lock. When you stepped out and closed the door behind you, it
clicked on its own. You couldn’t open it from outside, unless you had a key. However,
it did have a handle inside. You could open it easily, you didn’t need the key.
The door also had a deadlock, but it wasn’t on when I let in the paramedics.”
“It
means someone may have exited your place, yet the entrance was locked.”
“Yes.”
“How
did you get along with Jim?” Alexi asked suddenly.
Dr.
Cohen shrugged, she locked her arms.
“Oh,
it was awful. At first, yeah, we were happy. Lately, we’ve fought a lot. He had
to have his way all the time. When he wanted to go out and meet friends, we had
to go out. He had to decide about all of our finances. When he wanted a car, we
bought a car. I paid most of it and I never wanted one. Jim loved controlling
me. He was polite and nice with everyone, but I guess there was a lot going on
with him.”
“What
do you mean?”
“Anger.
There was plenty of pent-up anger in him. It was creepy. He yelled at me when I
asked him to go to the grocery, since I had an urgent case at the clinic and
I’d come home late. When I said I wanted to meet my friends, he slammed me
against a wall. He hated when I spent time with my parents. He hated my
grandma.”
“Jerk,”
Alexi agreed.
Dr.
Cohen was in her late twenties. Right now, she looked at least ten years older
than her age.
“I
wanted to move back to my parents,” she admitted. “They would have understood
it. I’m crazy that I didn’t do it earlier. Why did I have to wait until this
happened?” She was almost crying.
“Can
you think about someone who might have wanted to kill him?” Alexi asked.
Again,
that desperate look. Stephanie shook her head.
“Not
really. He was a jerk if you were close to him, but that’s it. He was nice to
others.”
**
Feldman
and Associates Private Clinic was a large and inviting place on the Columbus
Avenue. It was a high-tech clinic, it had trendy waiting rooms, white and dark
grey walls with colorful op art paintings, splashes of neon green, orange, and
purple.
Dr.
Mark Feldman’s office was a stylishly furnished, well-lit room, with heavy,
large bookshelves made of dark polished wood. Dr. Feldman had plenty of books, encyclopedias,
classic literature, and crime fiction; he must have been a well-read and
intelligent person. Alexi could not detect white medicine cabinets or chrome-and-steel
medical devices that looked like tools of a torture chamber. Everything was
comforting and pleasant in this environment. There were bright green potted
palms near the large windows.
Dr.
Feldman was a board-certified cardiologist, he dealt with nuclear cardiology
and echocardiography. He often published in journals on cardiovascular
diseases. He was also a gifted entrepreneur, he has been in private practice
for several decades. He was the founder and owner of Feldman Private Clinic.
He
must have been well over sixty, but he looked younger. He was a tall, lean man,
certainly he took care of himself. He had spectacles, grey hair, and
well-trimmed grey beard.
Dr.
Feldman, along with two fellow doctors, was willing to meet Alexi and talk
about the Cohen case. His colleagues were Dr. Joe Rossi, a stocky internist
with round cheeks, brown eyes, and oily, brown skin, and Dr. Lawrence Palmer,
an athletic, thin surgeon with sharp features, glowing eyes, and tanned
complexion.
“Steph
is a good doctor.” Dr. Feldman was serious. “I’ve known her for years. Our
patients trust her. She cares about them. She follows up every case. She’s
meticulous. When your average doctor can’t see an issue with you, he shrugs it
off. When Steph Cohen can’t find what’s wrong with you, she makes sure you get
screened, hormone levels checked, get blood work, x-ray, you name it, until she
finds what your issue is.”
“I’m
afraid I can’t tell you much about Dr. Cohen. She’s always kept her distance.”
Dr. Joe Rossi was unsmiling, his eyes were almost hostile. He did not like
Stephanie Cohen. Or he just hated the Cohen case, it was giving the clinic a
bad name.
“She’s
very private,” Dr. Palmer said. “A bit stubborn, but one fine young woman.”
“She
wasn’t worse than the rest of us. You should’ve seen poor Jim when he was in a
mood. It always seemed to me that he was the difficult one,” Dr. Feldman
agreed.
“Jim
was very straightforward,” Dr. Palmer said with a casual smile. “If he didn’t
like something, he let you know.”
“See,
Ms. Frest, we’re not happy with the kind of attention we get because of Dr.
Cohen,” Dr. Rossi said. His small, dark eyes were hard. “We don’t like the
media circus.”
“I
understand, Dr. Rossi,” Alexi said. “I’m here to help.”
Dr.
Rossi gave a small grunt. As if he found her annoying. Or he thought she was
lying.
Dr.
Feldman intervened.
“We
know that you want to help, and we’re grateful for it,” he said.
“I’m
not sure if Dr. Cohen is honest with the police,” Dr. Martin said. He has
already made up his mind. Stephanie Cohen was a murderer, a burden on the
clinic. “I’ve been working with her for years. For all I see, she’s a
manipulative person. She’s polite, but you can tell she’s angry. And she’s a
social creeper. Likes to rub shoulders with those who have high positions. Sure
as hell she’s kind to Dr. Feldman, but see when she argues with me. There’s no way in hell that she will
accept what I say. I’m a clinic manager and she wants my position, that’s why
she hates me.”
“You
mean the Melissa Bryce case?” Dr. Feldman said. He sounded tired. “Steph was
right on that one, remember? Thank goodness that she didn’t listen to us. Ms.
Bryce has recovered since then. She couldn’t have, were it not for Steph Cohen.
” He turned to Alexi. “Joe and Stephanie put up a fight over it. Steph’s
diagnosis was right.”
“Seems
you forget all the cases when she wasn’t
right,” Rossi murmured. “She’s paranoid. You haven’t seen a control freak like
her. In her practice, everything has to be perfect.
You know the type.” Alexi could tell that it was more than a personal dislike
against Dr. Cohen. It was the power dynamics between a new, rising doctor and
an experienced one. This was how Dr. Rossi reacted to a perceived threat.
Dr.
Feldman did not say a thing, but he shook his head.
“See,
lady,” Dr. Palmer turned to Alexi, with a wave of a slender hand, “we’ve heard
the gossips on the Internet. Jim had mafia connections, he had many
girlfriends, whatever. Most of it is rubbish. Steph is a great doc and so was
poor Jim. He was, um, arrogant, true, but he was a good doctor. And a good
person. I don’t think Jim did anything wrong.”
**
The
night was peaceful over the meat district, as peaceful as a night can be in Manhattan,
with the steady hum of cars, electric noises, and happy, bright Christmas
illumination on the streets. It was snowing, and some of the soft snow remained
on the sidewalks.
Alexi
was working in her loft. Her room was a warm, safe hideaway. Her LED lamp
emanated an orange glow.
There
was something to the Cohen case. Some of Stephanie’s colleagues backed her up,
some did not. The victim and her colleagues were interesting, too. The word
obscure came to mind.
Alexi
has already done research. She has made some calls. She had trusted contacts,
among others, some investigators at the New York Police Department. Probably
she was going to call Miranda Levinson, her long-time friend, the most
successful media entrepreneur of Manhattan. Alexi and Miranda had a lot in
common. They were driven, strong, intelligent women who had to get along on
their own. They came from upper class New England families of doctors, teachers,
and attorneys; however, their families consisted of serious, motivated people;
none of them were the pearl-wearing, uptight crowd. Both Alexi and Miranda had
BA degrees from elite colleges. They even had some physical semblance, they
were thin, athletic, attractive women with classy features and dark blond hair.
Miranda
was the nicer one, friendly and charismatic, a people pleaser. Her job required
it. She had friends, valuable connections, entrepreneurs and politicians, so
she was among the first ones to hear the latest events of the world. This was
one of the reasons she was at the top of her industry. The others reasons were
that she was a gifted communicator, a workaholic, an overachiever, she was
intelligent, honest, and she had a brilliant mind for business. She worked
night and day, so Alexi could call
her if she wanted to. Miranda knew forensic computer experts who could have
found data on the Cohen case. She knew data brokers who could find just about
any data that ever hit the Internet. Some of Miranda’s acquaintances used legal
methods. Others had shady ways. Miranda was not going to get involved with
illegal data mining, but she knew people who knew people, she could recommend
experts who helped collecting evidence, and it was not her fault that some of
her associates might use illegal
methods.
Alexi
did not want to call Miranda. Not yet. For now, she could deal with her
research on her own. She had her network of informants, Internet security
experts. She could do some research herself, she was good at it.
She
was seeking news and gossips on Internet sites. No interview source could tell
more than anonymous remarks. No personal contact or real life interview could
compete with the faceless, nameless, safe environment of Internet websites and
chatrooms. The cyberspace was where people could gossip, make remarks, and
bully each other without any consequence. Alexi could used net gossip when she
was working on crime stories. Internet was an endless source of speculation,
rumors, and useful background information. They remarks and stories were harsh,
unfeeling, and very exciting.
Alexi
was tracking down the doctors of Feldman Clinic, one by one. The result was
unsettling.
She
started with Dr. Palmer. She went through court records; criminal records of
New Yorkers were available on some websites. She found that Dr. Palmer was
accused of sexual assault.
Alexi
Googled the terms “Dr. Lawrence Palmer New York sex assault”. She has found a
couple of articles. In October, 2014, Dr. Palmer attended a party with a female
friend and he took her home in the midnight hours. The next day, she filed a
lawsuit against him. He was charged with sexual assault. She said she was
afraid of him and had nightmares afterward. He said they had consensual sex.
The bruises and injuries on the woman’s body suggested that she was assaulted.
DNA test results matched with Palmer’s DNA samples.
Palmer
hired high profile defense attorneys. They used techniques that they described
as “aggressive attack”. They undermined the complainant’s credibility. They
hired private detectives to research the woman’s past. They could prove that
she was a college dropout, she had no job, she was a socialite, she liked
“rough sex” and she must have been after Palmer’s money. Palmer pleaded “not
guilty”. The prosecutor could not prove beyond a reasonable doubt that Palmer
assaulted the woman. The judge dismissed the charge.
Alexi’s
muscles tensed as she went through the articles.
She
researched Palmer on social media: his education (Sarah Lawrence), his job, his
friends, his likes and dislikes. She learned that he had plenty of friends, he
had a wife and two young adult sons, he liked Volvo, Dolce & Gabbana, Dom
Perignon, and exotic trips. He visited South Africa, Thailand, the Maldives,
and Malaysia. In his free time, he enjoyed sports, whitewater rafting, horse
riding, and sailing. He was a thrill seeker.
Alexi
checked out his photos. Receding hairline, perfectly cut, very short hair, handsome
face, sharp features and sharp eyes, probably a bit too sharp. High quality
clothes, tanned skin. Tall, thin frame, perhaps a bit too thin.
Dr.
Warren’s case was just as disturbing. Alexi ran a background check on her, but
she could not find anything, she has never had a criminal charge against her. Alexi
could find her birth data, education, professional history, nothing else. She
browsed the web for terms like “Dr. Michelle Warren Manhattan doctor suicide”.
In Internet chatrooms, people were speculating about her suspicious death.
According to her colleagues, family, and friends, Dr. Warren was not depressed
or unstable. She was a hard-working, driven woman. Level-headed. She had a
Harvard education and a stellar career as an internist. It seemed there were no
major downfalls in her life.
She
was a teetotaler, she never touched drugs, she did not even take prescription
meds or painkillers. She had savings on her bank account and no debt. She did
not have a husband, but she was close to her mother and sister. Unlike many
single women in their mid-thirties, she was not looking for a romantic partner;
she did not want a relationship.
She
was not the type to commit suicide.
Alexi
was looking for Dr. Warren on social media sites. Her profiles were still up.
So was her website that advertised her medical practice at Feldman and
Associates as well as a private practice in a Park Avenue office. Her website and
profiles gave the illusion that a tiny part of her was still around. Internet
captured a small part of her for eternity.
Dr.
Warren was a dark-haired, pale woman with keen features. She had glasses. She
was light-framed, thin, downright fragile. She wore simple, reasonable clothes,
elegant but inexpensive, high-neck pullovers, long coats, sensible boots, no
jewelry, there was nothing flashy about her.
Alexi
studied her images, guessing what has happened to her.
On
the last day of her life, Michelle Warren has taken pills, then she hanged
herself in the bathroom of her SoHo apartment. She has left no chance for her
to survive.
Alexi
went through the autopsy report. The medical examiner detected traces of
selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors in Dr. Warren’s blood. She took prescription
drugs, antidepressants, prior to her death. The cause of death was suicide,
asphyxiation due to hanging. Alexi compared the Warren case to other suicide
cases. She has studied various medical examiners’ reports on hanging. According
to medical examiners, it was almost impossible to tell only from the ligature
marks on the corpse whether it was a suicide or a homicide. It was the knot,
the angle of the body, the degree of suspension, and the scene that told tales
about a murder.
There
was no sign of blunt force trauma or abrasions on Michelle Warren’s body. No
sign of beating or dragging. There were no defense injuries, no bruises, no
lacerations, not even a scratch. Neither did the M.E. find DNA such as skin
cells or blood under her nails. If someone had assaulted her, she would have
tried to fight back. Provided she was aware of what was going on. According the
result of the toxicology test, she must have been dazed, with all the SSRI in
her bloodstream. Probably someone drugged her before attacking her. Probably she
did want to defend herself and, unfocused and dizzy, she could not. Probably
she was unconscious when somebody hung her. There was no way to tell.
Alexi
found more articles on Dr. Warren’s death. The medical examiner who performed
the autopsy said that the ligature marks on the corpse were consistent with
hanging by suicide. However, he admitted that there was a possibility that someone murdered Dr. Warren.
**
Jim
Wilson had no criminal record. Alexi could find hundreds of articles and ten thousands
of comments on his death. Most people blamed Dr. Cohen. They sent supporting
messages to Dr. Wilson’s family.
So sorry about your beloved son and
brother. What a senseless loss of a life. Dr. Wilson was a great man, he saved
lives.
So
did Stephanie Cohen, but nobody mentioned it.
Internet
users sent images of Jim Wilson. Wilson, in white cloak, with a polite smile on
his face, it was a photo from the official site of Feldman and Associates.
There were private photos that must have come from his social media profiles
and photo sharing websites. Wilson, wearing hat and cloak on his graduation
day. Having drinks with his friends, sometime in his university years. He was a
handsome young fellow, with bright eyes and a big, laughing smile. There were
photos from later stages of his life, the happy smile was gone from his face.
He looked friendly and polite enough, but he seemed guarded. In some images, he
was with friends and family members. One young man looked like him, according
to the sender, it was his cousin. One picture featured Wilson with a girlfriend
from his youth, a slender girl with sleek, dark blond hair.
More
pictures of him, driving his first car, scuba diving, having fun with friends.
Jim
Wilson and Stephanie Cohen, together, in happier days. She was not hugging or
kissing him, but she was standing close to him, smiling at him, or resting a
hand on his upper arm.
Dr.
Cohen was not just a suspect, she was the
suspect.
What a cold bitch. It’s first degree
murder. Sure she gets fried in the chair. No way, she’ll get the needle. How I
hate this entitled woman. A spoiled bitch who got everything on a silver plate
and always had her way in everything. I wonder how she’ll like it in prison for
life. She’s evil. She’s a liar, a murderer. She thinks she’s better than
everyone and always had to get everything she wanted. She couldn’t get her way
in something and she killed the poor guy.
Most
messages were obscene and offensive. Others were telling more about the story.
Some
Internet users defended Dr. Cohen. They said Jim Wilson had a secret life. At
daytime, he was a focused, friendly, disciplined surgeon. At weekends and at
night, he was a regular to clubs like the Provocateur and 1OAK, he had drinks,
even cocaine, he had plenty of girlfriends. Those few who were close to him
knew that he was arrogant and jealous. Stephanie’s and his friends were talking
about sudden rages and a temper from hell.
A
witness was telling a strange story. A few weeks ago, the witness has seen a
young couple in a downtown Manhattan club. The man was drinking too much. When
his partner warned him to quit drinking, he hit her. Other guests intervened,
and security guards walked the man out of the club. When the witness saw the
Cohen case in the news, he recognized the arguing couple.
More
stories emerged about Jim Wilson. Some of the nurses at Feldman and Associates
did not like him, he made them nervous. When he was in a mood, he made hurtful
remarks or yelled at them. He was unpredictable. Sometimes, rarely, he had violent
outbursts of anger. Once he was so furious with an elderly nurse that she
thought he was going to hit her. The next day, he was the nicest guy, and he
brought the same nurse a cup of coffee, with lots of whipped cream and just a
hint of artificial sweetener, the way she liked it. He could be kind and
thoughtful when he wanted to. Mostly he wanted to.
Someone
has added the images of one of his girlfriends, a pretty socialite who came
from a rich family. She had silky blonde hair, perfect makeup, and a slim,
toned body. Colorful, extravagant clothes.
Some
Internet users mentioned Dr. Warren and they blamed Wilson for her death.
People assumed they had an affair and Dr. Warren committed suicide when he
broke up with her. Others thought Jim Wilson had a hand in her death, this was
why there was no sign of forced entry or defense injuries. She let the murderer
in her home and she let him near her neck.
There
were rumors about a friend who called the police after Dr. Warren’s death, she
said she received ominous emails from Dr. Warren and it had to do with some
strange business in the private clinic. According to this friend, Michelle
Warren was afraid before her death.
He killed his mistress, Warren, and
staged it a suicide. When the Cohen woman learned about the affair, she went
crazy and killed him. That’s what he deserved. He was screwing around and even
killed his gf, he thought he could get away with it. He was wrong, the psycho
bitch killed him. Justice was done. Very nice.
**
Alexi
has collected data on the Cohen case for two days.
She
decided to contact one of her computer security advocate acquaintances. She
asked him to enter the mails of all the persons of interests, Michelle Warren,
Jim Wilson, Lawrence Palmer, and Stephanie Cohen.
The
online security expert has provided her with their passwords and she has been
through their mails.
Dr.
Cohen has mailed her cousins and a niece on birthdays and before family
meetings. She has answered mails from her patients and doctors. She has
received newsletters from medical websites and pharmacies. Alexi could not find
anything personal in her messages. Probably she did not need the Internet,
since she met her parents and grandma often, and she lived with her partner
until his death.
Jim
Wilson’s mails were discreet, too. No messages to Stephanie, not even a fun
message or an image of a rose or a puppy. Forensic computer experts must have
been through his mails – his murder was a high-profile case, an aggravated
crime, investigators might have needed any details, any clues that they could
find, but his mails were dull.
Dr.
Warren has written most of her messages to her mother and sister. They were
ordinary mails about everyday events, family meals, and programs. The messages
– warm and friendly – sounded melancholic and sad now that their writer has
died and would never have dinner with her mother.
There
were some kind words in every mail. Dr. Warren might have been a private
person, but she loved her nearest and dearest.
She
has written some letters to various doctors, specialists, concerning possible
health issues that Dr. Warren detected in some patients. Other doctors asked
her advice, she answered these mails in details.
She
has written messages to a couple of friends. One correspondence seemed
interesting. She has exchanged mails with an old friend, a female architect
named Kelly Hamilton, she lived in Chicago, and, based on the letters, she must
have been friends with Michelle Warren for many years. Some letters had ominous
hints. They were not unsettling, but, knowing that Dr. Warren died, they
sounded strange.
21
Sep 2015
Hi Kelly,
I’m so glad to hear that you got your
promotion. Well deserved. I’m proud of you.
No news here. Something is up at the
clinic. We’ve been selling plenty of sedatives lately. Seems that someone is
messing with the insurance money. I guess Jim Wilson, one of our surgeons, has
noticed it, too. I’m not sure about his girlfriend, Steph Cohen, she’s an
internist. I think they don’t get along and Jim never told her. Sure as hell
Dr. Feldman doesn’t know a thing.
26 Sep 2015
Dearest Kelly,
A good thing that I have a friend like
you. A pity you don’t live closer, we should meet more often. Sometimes it’s
lonely here and it plays tricks on my mind. A few days ago, I came home at
11a.m. Someone was walking the stairs behind me and I thought that they were
following me. How crazy is it?
9 Oct 2015
Larry Palmer, a surgeon from the
clinic, is overbilling some patients with prescription meds. I’m not sure if
they’re patients or just people who sell painkillers and opiates. I’ve asked
Larry about the bills. He just laughed it off and told me to relax.
Kelly
Hamilton must have been the friend who alerted authorities, having suspicions.
It seemed they never took her seriously, and they should have.
Lawrence
Palmer’s correspondence was discreet. He was an entertaining, witty writer. He
never said anything suspicious. Only a couple of remarks showed what kind of a
person he was. Insulting remarks about older women. Taunting comments about
patients.
Alexi
leaned back in her chair. Now she knew what was going on, and she knew what to
do about it. She looked at the clock on her laptop screen. Almost 9 p.m.
Miranda Levinson must be still working. Alexi considered calling her.
She
took her sleek cell phone and called Miranda’s number.
“Evening,”
Miranda said. Alexi detected a trace of warmth in her voice.
“Hi,
Miranda.”
“Good
to hear about you.”
“And
you. Listen, I need your help.”
“I’m
all ears.”
“I
can’t talk over the phone. We’ve got to meet.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
“At
the Pleiades? Or rather Parkway Lounge. It’s closer for both of us.”
“Miranda,
it’ very private. What I want to say has to remain between us. Your place or
mine?”
A
second of silence. Then, “I’ll be there in half an hour.”
**
Miranda
Levinson looked radiant as she cozied up against the seat. Alexi was studying
her. Miranda had a pale, elegant face, high forehead, strong jawline, and
prominent nose. Her eyes – blue-green eyes with hints of gold – gave away her
drive and brilliant mind. Miranda was in her late forties and she had a body
that women half her age envied.
“Now?
Go ahead, tell me,” Miranda said, her voice was casual.
Alexi
felt insecure for a second. She exhaled a breath.
“I
want you to talk one of your friends at the NYDP.”
Miranda
was unflappable.
“You
want details on the Cohen case?”
“No.
I’ve found something the cops want to know. Some of my acquaintances have been
in the mailbox of the doctors.”
“You
got their accounts hacked, you say.”
Alexi
shrugged.
“That’s
why I can’t go to the police, but you
can. You tell them that you’ve got a tip.”
“I
guess you think you’ve found the bogeyman.”
“Yeah.
I’m sure it’s not Dr. Cohen.”
“I
see. You’re playing amateur detective again. Even worse, Anna Politkovskaya.
I’m afraid someday you’ll end up like her.” Anna Politkovskaya was a
Ukrainian-American investigative reporter who worked in Russia. She was one of
the very few who criticized the Kremlin’s politics. In 2006, when she was
working in Moscow, a couple of thugs shot her dead in the elevator of her
building. The shooters went to prison, but nobody knows who sent them to
assassinate Anna.
Miranda
stood up from the chair and walked to the window. She was watching the street
below. Then she turned back to Alexi. She was calm now.
“Why
don’t you just write your stories? You shouldn’t go after the bad guys. That’s
why cops are for.”
“Can’t
you see, Miranda?” Alexi tried the bait. “A big story. Only for you. You’ll
break the news in the Cohen case. And you’re doing a big favor to your NYDP
pals. Sure as hell they’ll be interested in Dr. Palmer.”
Miranda
took the bait. Her pupils dilated as she was listening to Alexi. She was almost
licking her lips, like a greedy, large feline.
“Palmer
had a motive to kill Dr. Warren and Dr. Wilson, then he framed Stephanie
Cohen.”
“What
did you find?”
“I’ve
been through Michelle Warren’s emails. At the clinic, she has come across some
mistakes in accounting, and she poked around. She didn’t write anything to her
mother or sister. I guess she didn’t want to scare them. She has written to a
friend. From her mails, it was clear that she was afraid. She thought someone
was after her, and see how right she was. In a few weeks, she was dead.”
“What
did she notice?”
“Dr.
Palmer has prescribed tons of controlled substances. I’m not saying it went to
drug dealers. It might have. One
never knows. He sure overbilled them. He made at least two million dollars
during the past two years. Dr. Warren mentioned in her mails that Jim Wilson
might have noticed something, too.”
“Alright,
Alexi. I’ll help you. I’ll call a friend of mine.”
***
Miranda’s
home office was expensive, classy, and extravagant. It had black walls and
black marble floor, so smooth and shiny that it reflected images. Miranda had
high-end furniture, black chairs and sofas, and a handmade, carved heavy solid
oak desk in the middle of the large room.
Miranda
was wearing a beige suit with golden jewelry. She gestured with her slender
hands as she spoke. Her face was serious, her eyes were burning, there was an
obsessive, relentless gleam in them.
“I
know. I know. You were right all along,” she said, pacing up and down.
“Forensic computer experts have gone through Dr. Warren’s emails. NYDP and the
Drug Enforcement Administration started investigating Palmer’s case. They found
that he’d issued ten thousands of prescriptions for medicines like Ambien,
Xanax, Valium, and Vicodin. He charged $300 for each prescription. He billed $6
million to private insurance companies.”
“Cunning,”
Alexi murmured. She closed her eyes for a second. She rested her head against
the seat.
“Palmer
lost his state license to practice medicine,” Miranda went on. “He’d have been
investigated for many years until authorities filed charges against him, however,
NYPD accuses him of murder. He’s in jail now.”
“Great.”
Alexi’s eyes were on Miranda, she followed her with her eyes as she was walking
up and down.
“At
first, cops and special agents didn’t understand what was going on. Doctors
rarely take chances to dispense and distribute controlled substances. If it
turns out, at best, it ruins their careers. If they have no luck, they go to
prison. True that Palmer has made plenty of money. Now that he was on the
investigators’ radar, it turned out that false billing and drug trafficking was
just the beginning. He had interests in real estate, he used his real estate
deals to money laundering. He had ties to criminals, drug dealers, and a
prostitution ring. He had a good reason to silence Michelle Warren and Jim
Wilson. Dr. Cohen recalled an important detail. The day when her boyfriend
died, Dr. Cohen was working all day. After work, at 6 p.m., he had a cup of
coffee with Larry Palmer in the clinic. The coffee must have been laced with
sedatives. That’s why she did not wake up when Palmer came over and killed
Jim.”
Alexi
stood up. Her eyes were intense on Miranda as she leaned closer to her. Miranda
held her gaze.
“I
just want to say ‘thank you’ for all your help,” Alexi said with a shadow of a
smile.
Miranda
looked interested. Her eyes were blazing, and she flashed a tiny, triumphant
smile.
“Dr.
Cohen has invited me for dinner tonight,” Alexi said. “She said I should bring
a partner. I told her that I’d rather bring a friend who helped me a lot with
the case. I guess Granny Mueller will like you a lot.”
**
New
York City got heavy snow in the evening. Mist hovered over the streets, dimming
the sharp, geometrical outlines of the buildings. Tree branches and fences
looked like exquisite artwork. Street lamps faded into friendly orbs of light.
The light polluted snow clouds seemed pale grey. The streets were bustling with
people, as Christmas was nearing, everybody was purchasing gifts in the evening
hours.
Alexi
was walking on the snowy sidewalk, her feet crushed damp slush. She flashed a
quick, delighted smile at Miranda Levinson who was walking beside her.
“We’re
here,” Alexi said. They were standing in front of Dr. Cohen’s building.
The
Cohens’ home was warm and inviting. This time, Stephanie’s parents were there,
too. Her mama had hazel eyes and a friendly smile. Her father was a
bespectacled man, he wore a dark suit.
Stephanie
Cohen was very attractive. There was nothing vulnerable about her now. She had
a great posture and compelling good looks, she looked infallible. Her unsmiling
face commanded attention.
“You
look majestic, Dr. Cohen,” Alexi said.
“Glad
to meet you, Alexi. Please call me Stephanie.” Their eyes locked. “Thank you .
. . for everything.”
Alexi
did not tell her about getting mailboxes hacked, since it was illegal. However,
Dr. Cohen was an intelligent woman. She could sense that Alexi and Miranda
helped her case, but she did not ask questions.
Miranda
was approaching them.
“Dr.
Cohen? I’m Miranda Levinson. Nice to meet you.” The two women shook hands.
Golde
greeted Alexi and Miranda, her big smile reached her brown eyes. She was
preparing a lavish dinner, grilled vegetable salad, grilled artichokes, and
potatoes. She was mincing garlic, chopping onions and parsley, and cutting up
bell peppers.
“How’s
the eggplant?” Golde asked Stephanie’s mother, observing the charred food.
“You’ve got to grill it for a couple of minutes. Grill it soft, until the skin
looks black.” In a beat, Golde returned to the countertop. She poured olive oil
on a couple of steamed artichokes, then placed them over high heat on a grill.
“See
my mittens?” She lifted up her hands with the potholders. “I love them. I
bought them three years ago, and they last forever. If you use mittens, you’ll
never burn your hands,” she explained.
Neither
Alexi nor Miranda could cook, but they were listening with polite smiles on
their faces. Stephanie and her parents joined the conversation. They were
sophisticated people with a wide range of interests, books, arts, news of the
world. Golde was a fan of Russian and Ukrainian literature and history, her
family came from Ukraine. She was glad to hear that Miranda’s family came from
Russia. Golde and Miranda had several favorite writers in common. They had much
in common, they were born with amazing leadership skills.
Alexi
nested up in the comfortable chair, listening to the pleasant murmur of talk
and laughter. The Cohen case was solved.