A Sister's Guilt

“Would you kill someone for $20,000?” Inspector Tom Higgins asked his partner, Guiles Allard, who was leaning back in his chair, the heels of his scuffed brown leather shoes resting on his paper-strewn desk.

“Hmmm?” replied Guiles, massaging his temples. The pair had been working on a decidedly sticky case. Both had just left the interview room where their prime suspect refused to confess—refused to say anything, actually.

“Would you kill someone for $20,000?” Tom prompted again, taking a seat at his own immaculately organized desk.

“Kill?” Guiles pondered, furrowing his brow in thought. “No, not kill. Although $20,000, I mean—” he turned to look evenly at his partner. “Who couldn’t use that?”

“I suppose. But I doubt it’s worth killing your brother over.”

“Depends on the brother,” Guiles replied dryly, taking a long sip of his coffee. “She’s pretty, isn’t she?” he added casually.

“Hmm?” Tom had been lost in thought. Something about this case—which otherwise appeared to be cut and dry—was bothering him. He felt he’d been on the cusp of knowing exactly what that was when his thoughts turned to their suspect. She was pretty, with a waterfall of long dark curls framing a delicate face. It was impossible to know if her brother had also been attractive, as his face had been brutally bashed-in beyond recognition.

“Yes, she is,” he said, trying to chase the niggling thought that was slowly disappearing into his mind’s recesses. As the case’s missing piece continued to elude him, Tom’s eyes glanced casually at the clock.

“My God, is that the time?”

Guiles smiled, “Yup, 1:31 a.m. She’s not going to be happy you know. That’s your second late night this week.”

Tom felt a pang of guilt. Although she knew he was working on a case, his wife was not going to be thrilled.

“We’ll continue in the morning. We’ve got 18 hours left before we either charge her or let her go,” he said, reaching for his coat and keys. “Something about this…I can’t put my finger on it.”

Guiles smiled wryly at his partner, “Nothing’s simple with you, is it?”

Tom shook his head and shrugged, waving goodnight as he hurried home.

***

“It was an accident,” she whispered it so softly, Tom almost didn’t hear her. Guiles was standing in the corner of the interview room, hands running through his thick black hair in frustration. They still hadn’t gotten one word out of Poppy Hawthorne. The court-appointed lawyer was no help. Apparently, he couldn’t get her to talk either and sat through the interviews blithely sipping coffee. He looked as shocked as Tom felt.

“An accident? Your brother’s face has been viciously bludgeoned at least six times,” Tom replied, not unkindly—he didn’t want her to clam up again—but facts were facts.

Poppy had been staring vacantly at her hands, scraping off the dried blood underneath her fingernails, when she looked up sharply and stared at Tom squarely in the face. Her gaze was piercing, enough to make his heart skip a beat. But the intensity only lasted a moment before she demurred.

“He’s not well, you know. My brother.”

He was not well. Tom corrected internally pressing his lips together and waiting patiently for Poppy to continue.

“He never was, even when we were children.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

Tom looked over to Guiles, who was facing Poppy with an expression that read: Can’t we charge her already? Tom gave him a meaningful look. Guiles scoffed and promptly left the interview room.

“My apologies Miss Hawthorne—

“Mrs.”

“I didn’t realize you’re married.”

“I’m not married. Sorry, I was. I suppose I’m not any more. Hawthorne is my maiden name.”

“And your married name?”

Poppy calmly continued to stare at her hands. It seemed whatever spell had prompted her to speak after hours of silence had broken.

“Ms. Hawthorne, I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I have to step out,” Tom said. “Interview terminated, 8:03 a.m., October 4th.”

With a sigh, Tom stood up and left the room. He found Guiles in his usual spot, feet up on the desk, rolling a cigarette.

“I don’t understand why we don’t just charge her,” he said testily. Guiles was a man of action. Helpful to have around in a pinch, but the nuances of detective work often escaped him.

“Just let me think,” said Tom, pulling out his black leather notebook. He never went anywhere without a notebook. In his 30-year career as a police officer he’d accumulated hundreds of the pocket-sized books. Always black, always pocket-sized. Filled with detailed accounts of each case he’d work since his time as a constable.

“Let’s go over what we know—

“If we must,” Guiles muttered under his breath. Tom ignored his partner’s comment.

“On Sunday, October 3rd, Poppy and James were clearing out the Hawthorne Estate after their father died. Neither lived at the family home, as far as we can tell. Poppy was married, now it appears she’s divorced. Perhaps estranged; she certainly didn’t use her phone call to contact her husband, wherever he is,” Tom paused, waiting for a reaction from Guiles—who shrugged.

Tom continued: “The siblings stumbled on a suitcase full of cash, $20,000 to be exact. A fight must have ensued, resulting in James being brutally beaten until dead. Unluckily for our alleged murderess, the estate gardener chose this moment to pop by and inquire about wages he was owed by their late father. The gardener knocked at the front door. There was no reply, so he tried the knob. The door was unlocked and he let himself inside. He knew someone was in because James Hawthorne’s red Mustang was parked out front.”

“Yes, yes, I know!” Guiles interrupted. “He didn’t see the murder take place, but he walked into the drawing room to see Poppy cradling what was left of her brother’s head. Her clothes were covered in his blood, her finger prints are all over the murder weapon—a very heavy bronze table lamp—and she was crying hysterically, calling out her brother’s name: No, James, no…”

“Yes,” Tom said. “And until a quarter to eight this morning, aside from identifying the body, she hasn’t said a single word since. But it just doesn’t make sense.”

“What do you mean?” Guiles retorted. “They were the only people in the room. They fought over the money–we know James had money troubles, all flash and no substance with that red Mustang. He must have wanted it for himself. And Poppy, well maybe he attacked her while trying to grab the suitcase. She panicked and hit him with the table lamp. She said herself it was an accident.”

“Hit him six times in the face—possibly more? How could a woman of maybe 110-pounds overpower a man nearly twice her size? And why not leave the scene? She just sat there, holding her brother’s dead body, the suitcase of money forgotten beside her.”

“Self-defence! She didn’t need the cash. We know from her father’s will the entire estate was left to Poppy. Her brother didn’t get a dime. Maybe he resented his sister. He threatened her, and she hit him.”

Tom frowned, and stared at his notebook as if the answer might present itself. “It’s odd that, isn’t it? Why was James not included in the will?”

“Look,” Guiles swivelled in his chair to face Tom, cigarette tucked behind his ear. “I know you don’t want to believe this, but she did it. We have no other suspects. She was covered in his blood. Her finger prints are on the murder weapon. That’s all we need to charge her.”

Tom abruptly closed the notebook and shoved it in his jacket pocket, shaking his head as he walked back towards the interview room. He swung open the door and sat down, leaning in towards Poppy. She looked up, wide-eyed. She’s scared. Tom thought as he pressed record.

“Interview with Poppy Hawthorne, 8:27 a.m., October 4th,” Tom heard the door open behind him, and in his periphery watched Guiles take a seat.

“Poppy. I don’t know if you realize this but you’re in very serious trouble. Now, I don’t think you murdered your brother. But I can’t help you if you refuse to tell me what happened. You’re going to leave me no choice but to charge you with the murder of James Hawthorne. A murder, although I’m not sure what happened, I’m quite certain you didn’t commit.” Tom huffed with exasperation and leaned back in his chair, looking at Poppy imploringly. His eyes flicked to her lawyer, who raised his hands as if to say don’t look at me, I can’t get her to talk either.

Seconds passed. Seconds that seemed like hours in the small and stuffy interrogation room. Tom was about to terminate the interview for a second time when at long last Poppy’s soft voice broke the stillness.

“I’m responsible for the murder.” Her lawyer tried to interject at what appeared to be Poppy’s confession. She gave him that piercing look Tom had been the subject of moments earlier, and cut the lawyer off abruptly.

“The murder is my fault,” she repeated with resignation. “So, I suppose you’ll have no choice but to charge me.”

Tom stared at Poppy, shaking his head profusely. “Guiles, take her statement,” he said, flatly.

***

Poppy sat in her cell, tears streaking down her face, thinking about her brother. Why, James? She shuddered, pulling her knees into her chest and leaning her head back against the cold walls of the cell. He really wasn’t well. It’s not fair. Even though we were born only minutes apart, Father always treated him with disdain, always chose me over him... He wasn’t born bad…it’s not his fault Mother died right after he came into this world. It’s not his fault that he turned out so…disturbed. Warped by hate. Always sneaking off to hurt things. Small animals. Me. I had no choice but to leave! If I’d stayed, how could I have helped him? I’m just another person who let him down. Maybe I should have kept away. Never gone back. We should never have gone back… Poppy tried to push Sunday’s events out of her mind, touching the place where her wedding ring used to be. The familiar habit soothed her. She’d had to get rid of the ring, of course. Was it a mistake, telling Higgins about my husband? My husband…my love… Poppy clutched her chest, her heart felt like it was being torn open. She couldn’t breathe. What was I supposed to do? He took away what I loved most…but I had taken everything from him first…

***

At 2:37 a.m., a lone figure carefully slid out from behind a trick panel in the Hawthorne Estate’s drawing room. He’d bided his time in the hiding place. Waiting and watching through a well-placed crack until the officer guarding the still-active crime scene went outside for a cigarette.

He had to be quick. The suitcase was lying exactly where he’d left it, the blood long dried—a dark stain on the once-gleaming marble floors. He smiled cruelly, thinking of all the people who’d wronged him. Finally, he had justice. It’s my turn now, he thought, reaching for the handle.

***

At 5:18 a.m., Tom Higgins woke up with a start. Poppy Hawthorne’s words haunting his thoughts:

“He’s not well, you know. My brother.”

“I’m not married. Sorry, I was. I suppose I’m not any more. Hawthorne is my maiden name.”

“Of course!” He said out loud, waking up his wife. Hurriedly, he reached for the phone.

“Guiles, yes—yes it’s early. Guiles listen! I need you to go to the Hawthorne Estate. The suitcase. Check on the suitcase. Yes now. Yes! I’m going to the station.” With one hand, Tom struggled into a fresh suit, tucking his notebook into the jacket pocket.

“I need to have another chat with Poppy Hawthorne.”