Free Murder Suicide by Keith Ablow Page A

him.
    Coady used his gloved hand to close the door behind them.  "Carpet knife," Coady said, pointing to the sink.
    Clevenger looked into the sink, saw the carpet knife, its blade bloodstained.  "She was Snow’s lover," he said, without looking up.
    "What are you talking about?"
    "Grace Baxter and Snow.  They were having an affair."
    "She told you that?"
    "No," Clevenger said, making eye contact with Coady.  "I met with J.T. Heller today.  Snow told him about it."
    Coady looked like his mind was working to generate a simple solution to a complex problem.  "Maybe she hears her man offed himself, gets depressed herself, and..."
    "Possible," Clevenger said.  He paused.  "How do you rule out the husband?"
    "What?"
    "The most common way women kill themselves is by overdose," Clevenger said.  "Sometimes they cut their wrists.  But her neck, and a single horizontal cut to each wrist?  That would be one for the psychiatry journals.  When someone goes for the carotids it’s in response to psychosis — a delusion the devil’s in your veins, that sort of thing.  I didn’t see any evidence of psychosis in Baxter."
    "Let’s be honest," Coady said.  "You didn’t see any of this coming."
    That line landed like a kick to Clevenger’s gut.  It took his a few seconds to recover.  "No," he said, finally.  "I didn’t.  But that’s important, too."
    "Oh, I get it," Coady said.  "This can’t be happening because the all-seeing Frank Clevenger, M.D. missed it.  We can’t accept the obvious if it means you obviously fucked up."
    "He is covered in her blood."
    "He walked in, saw his wife of twelve years bleeding out in bed and tried to perform CPR.  When we got here the body was still warm.  No pulse, but still warm."
    Clevenger didn’t respond.
    "What’s his motive?" Coady asked.  "Jealousy?  Snow’s death was all over the news today.  He had to know he didn’t exactly have to compete with him anymore."  Hearing his own words seemed to jar him a bit.
    "Agreed," Clevenger said. "Snow was out of the way."
    "Oh, so now he’s guilty of a double homicide.  We got a banker, a pillar of the community, in a homicidal rage, killing his wife’s lover in the A.M. , then offing his wife in the early evening.  And it’s not like he walked in on them together, grabbed a gun and blew them away.  No irresistible impulse here.  He planned to off them both in the same day."  He paused.  "Now that would be one for the criminal science journals."
    "Maybe he didn’t plan very well," Clevenger said.  He took a beat.  "Look, I’m not saying he’s necessarily involved.  But his wife was cheating on him.  She and her lover are dead.  And he managed to get her blood all over him."
    "Okay," Coady said, dismissively.  "I won’t officially rule him out."
    "Just unofficially?"
    "How about I run my own investigation?  I had a single question for you:  Was John Snow psychologically capable of suicide?  If you want the case, that’s the scope of the work.  Whether or not we rule Baxter a suicide isn’t your concern."
    "I hear you," Clevenger said.
    Coady knew he was being brushed off.  "You should back off.  You have a vested interest in this not being a suicide.  Because if it is, it might also be a decent malpractice case."
    "Which might be the only way to start getting the facts," Clevenger said.  He turned and walked out.

Chapter 7
     
    8:40 P.M.
     
    Clevenger left with Anderson.  They met up again at their offices in Chelsea.
    "What are you thinking?" Anderson asked, taking the seat beside Clevenger’s desk — the one Grace Baxter had sat in.
    "We have two people in love, or at least intimately involved, dead within hours of each other," Clevenger said.  "Their affair certainly feels like the place to start.  Someone couldn’t stomach what they had, or couldn’t stomach the fact that it was over."
    "That could be Grace herself.  She could be the shooter."
    "Possible," Clevenger said.  "But to