Hank sat back and folded his arms, looking at King. “Could be him. Driving his mother’s car.” Hank looked at Callaway. “Does he still live with his mother?”
“From what I could find out, yes, he does.” Callaway pointed to the paper in Hank’s hand. “And he was a student at Richmond North High School. Dropped out seven years ago without graduating.”
Hank sat forward and smiled grimly. “That’s gotta be him. Explains why King couldn’t find anything in the school records or Nina’s White’s files.” He looked up. “Thanks, Callaway. Good job.”
“Need anything else, just let me know, guys. You know where to find me,” Callaway said as he turned away.
“Looks like we have enough for a search warrant, King,” Hank said. “Let’s get everything together and talk to a judge. And we’ll bring Thorburn in for some serious questioning.”
Chapter 10
Tuesday, 1:27 p.m.
WITH THE EVIDENCE Hank had accumulated, he was able to get an immediate warrant allowing a search of the house and property where Adam Thorburn lived, including the vehicle Hank suspected had been used as the murder weapon.
Two police cruisers, along with the two detectives following in Hank’s car, made their way silently down the street and pulled in front of a beat-up house in a rundown neighborhood. A search team was close behind, ready at Hank’s signal to do a meticulous search of the property.
The squat bungalow at 112 Mill Street was one of many in this time-worn community on the edge of town, the dwellings erected decades ago, long forgotten by progress that had torn down and rebuilt other areas of the growing city. Home to the uneducated and the unlucky, ownership in this neighborhood was cheap, the rent even cheaper, and the occupants stubbornly clung to their habitations.
Or perhaps it was because no one wanted to buy cheap, tear down the old, and build bigger, in this undesirable community with nothing but riffraff for neighbors. The nearby steel mill, long criticized for pumping out toxic fumes, was an additional deterrent to much-needed renewal.
As officers sprang from their vehicles and surrounded the house, Hank and King got out and approached a black 2005 Honda Accord parked in the driveway. Hank went immediately to the front of the vehicle.
“Looks like the one,” he said, pointing to a scratched bumper and a smashed fender. He crouched down and examined the bumper. Amid the scratches, flecks of white paint were visible. He examined the fender and saw more flecks of white paint.
Once CSI matched up the tire treads with the track from the murder scene and examined the tires for traces of Nina White’s blood, they’d have their proof and their man.
Officers were now at the front and back of the house. Hank strode to the side door, King following. They drew their weapons and Hank banged on the door.
“RHPD. Open the door,” Hank called.
He heard a rustling and the door moved inward, scraping along the floor as it opened. A woman in her late thirties appeared in the doorway. Her mouth dropped open and she raised her hands halfway, then took a step back, an astonished look on her face.
Hank held up the warrant in his free hand. “I have a warrant to search these premises.”
The woman’s large eyes became larger and she lowered her hands, clasping them above the waist of her tight, short skirt, her low-cut blouse revealing an immodest amount of cleavage. Cheap costume jewelry adorned her neck and one wrist. Gaudy earrings swung under her long brown hair, all in sharp contrast to her faded and worn slippers.
Hank moved inside and the woman stepped back, allowing him to enter the kitchen.
“Does Adam Thorburn live here?” Hank asked, glancing around the room.
She nodded uncertainly. “Yes … yes, but he’s not here right now.”
“Are you Mrs. Thorburn?” King asked.
“Yes. I’m Virginia Thorburn. Why’re you looking for Adam?”
Hank didn’t answer. He waved an officer inside to stay with Mrs. Thorburn as the detectives went through the house, clearing each room, searching for the suspect.
Adam Thorburn was not there.
Hank approached Mrs. Thorburn. “Where is he, ma’am?”
“I … I don’t know. What’s this all about?”
Hank paused and looked at the distraught woman. “Your son is suspected of murder.”
She gasped and a hand went to her painted mouth. “It’s not possible,” she said. “Adam would never hurt anyone.”
“Does your son work?”
“Yes … sometimes, but I don’t think he went in today.”
“And you don’t know where he is?”
She shook her head.
A search team had moved into the house. They would look for weapons as well as anything connecting Adam Thorburn to the crime.
Mrs. Thorburn dropped into a chair at the table, lines of worry now on her brow, her hands in her lap as she watched the proceedings. She looked at Hank as he sat at the other end of the table and removed a pad and pen from his pocket.
“Where does Adam work?” Hank asked.
“Mortino’s.”
“What does he do there?”
“He brings in the grocery carts people leave outside.”
“Do you work, Mrs. Thorburn?”
She nodded. “I’m a waitress. I work evenings, four days a week at a bar two blocks away.”
“Did you work last night?”
“Just Thursday through Sunday.” She shrugged. “The place isn’t busy enough the rest of the time.”
Hank made a notation in his pad then pulled out his phone. He found the number for Mortino’s, called the store, and was notified Adam Thorburn was not at work today. He was assured by the manager Hank would receive an immediate call if Adam was heard from or came into work.
Hank hung up and looked at Mrs. Thorburn. She was watching the search team as they browsed through cupboards and rifled through drawers.
“Mrs. Thorburn,” Hank asked, “did Adam go out last night with the car?”
She turned back, leaned in, and clasped her hands in front of her on the table. She dropped her eyes a moment, then raised them toward Hank, nodding her head briefly. “I was next door and came home late. But this morning, I saw Adam had taken the car out while I was away.”
“You noticed it was smashed up on the front?” Hank asked.
She nodded. “Yes. That’s how I knew Adam took it.”
“Does he drive it often?”
She shook her head. “No. He doesn’t have a license anymore. They … took it away from him.”
Hank leaned in. “Who took it away?”
She took a deep breath. “His doctor notified MOT that Adam has schizophrenia and it’s not safe for him to drive.”
Hank sat back and narrowed his eyes. “Why is it not safe?”
“He has delusions and hallucinations on occasion. And lately, periods when he blacks out entirely and doesn’t remember anything.” She frowned deeply. “Did Adam have an accident?”
“We believe he ran over someone. A woman.”
She tilted her head slightly. “But you said murder?”
Hank looked at the woman, distraught, worried, and fearful for her son. “It looks like he might’ve done it on purpose.”
She shook her head adamantly and spoke in a firm voice. “Never.”
“Perhaps there’s another explanation,” Hank said. “But it’s important we find him.”
She nodded and dropped her eyes toward her fidgeting hands.
Hank stood and went outside where CSI was examining the Honda. He approached an investigator who crouched by a front tire, scraping at a tread with a special tool. The investigator looked at Hank and said, “There appear to be traces of blood between the treads.”
Once the blood was examined, Hank was certain it would prove to be that of Nina White. “Do the treads match up with the track at the scene?” he asked.