“If Whittaker had been a woman, she would have been forced to resign, but this asshole continued to climb the ladder. Is he still alive?” Jude asked.
“Alive and kicking. He lives in Rye with a view of the ocean.” Ronan rolled his eyes.
“Get an address and phone number. I want to talk to this asshole.” Fitz grinned and reached for the police reports Jude had given him.
“You got it. I also found Greg Fairbanks. Oddly enough, he lives in Peabody.” Ronan continued to read the information about the widower. “Damn, he got remarried eight months after his wife died.”
“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything nefarious,” Fitz said. “People didn’t just live together back then like they do today. If he wanted to shack up with someone new, it meant he had to get married. Not to mention that he’d had a wife to cook, do laundry, and perform other wifely duties. I can easily imagine wanting someone to fill those shoes as quickly as possible.”
“I get what you’re saying.” Ronan carded a hand through his dirty-blond hair. “But if anything ever happened to Tennyson, I’m done. He’s my one great love. There could never be anyone else.”
“Same for me,” Jude agreed.
“Ten is your one great love too?” Fitz asked, sounding snarky.
Jude shot the captain the bird. “So, you’re saying that if something happened to Jace, you’d make a Tinder profile and start dating again?”
“Not right away. I’d wait a week or two after the funeral, you know, give me time to bury the man and get the insurance payouts.” Fitz shot Ronan a triumphant look. “Back to the case. The police report concerning the kids is painfully thin. There aren’t even three separate incident reports; they were all lumped together.”
“Jesus,” Ronan whispered under his breath. “There was no forensic evidence taken at the scene. There’s pictures of blood, vomit, and spilled food, but none of them were sampled. I’m guessing that the cops thought it was a simple case of food poisoning, and the janitor put sawdust on the puke, and that was that.”
“Things don’t get much better for Marie Fairbanks,” Jude said. “The manner of death was homicide and cause of death exsanguination. She was stabbed half a dozen times in the chest and abdomen.” Jude shook his head in obvious horror. “There was semen found during the autopsy, and the blood type of the donor was A negative. It’s noted here that’s the same blood type as her husband. Would be interesting to find out if Whittaker was the same.”
“The cops don’t come right out and say it, but these notes read like her murder was a justifiable homicide,” Fitz added. “Each of the parents of the dead kids were interviewed, and they’d all had plausible alibis. It was a Friday morning, and the mothers were getting their kids off to school, and the fathers were off to work. There were no witnesses placing anyone out of the ordinary at the school that morning. Miss Fairbanks was known to come in early. Anyone who knew her would have been aware of her schedule.”
“Like Whittaker,” Jude said.
“Or her husband.” Fitzgibbon dashed notes on his copy of the police report.
“I’m starting with him.” Ronan pulled out his phone and dialed the number on file for Greg Fairbanks. He put the phone on speaker. It rang several times before a man answered.
“Hello?” a scratchy voice answered.
“Is this Greg Fairbanks?” Ronan asked.
“It is. Who is this?” Fairbanks sounded on guard.
“My name is Ronan O’Mara. I’m a private detective in Salem, Massachusetts.” He held his breath, hoping the man was willing to talk but, at the same time, was prepared for the line to go dead.
Fairbanks sighed. “I know who you are, Detective O’Mara. I’m one of those old relics who still reads the newspaper every morning with my coffee. I’m well aware of the work you’ve done in Boston and now Salem’s cold case unit. I would imagine you’re calling about my first wife.”
“I am,” Ronan agreed. He hadn’t imagined the conversation being this easygoing. “I’ve got my team with me, and you’re on speakerphone.”
Fitz and Jude introduced themselves.
“This is going to sound very strange,” Ronan began.
“Detective O’Mara, my wife was brutally murdered over fifty years ago. I’ve been contacted by everyone from psychics, nosy nellies, true crime documentary producers, and the like. I assure you that the reason for your call won’t be any stranger than requests I’ve received over the last half century.”
Ronan liked this guy. Fairbanks was a straight shooter. “If you know who I am, then I’m guessing you know my husband is psychic.”
“Yes, I know of Tennyson Grimm. One of the women in our pickleball club sees him once a month.”
Another spot of good news. If Fairbanks knew Ten was on the level and believed in his abilities, what he had to say next would be much smoother. “What we’ve kept under wraps is that our six-year-old daughter also has those same gifts.”
Fairbanks chuckled, which sounded a bit like a rusty screen door. “Hmm, a baby psychic, huh? Can’t say I’ve ever heard of such a thing before. Poor little mite. I can’t imagine being burdened with those powers at such a young age.”
“I agree completely.” Ronan could write a book on what those gifts had done to his daughter over the years, both good and not so good. “The reason that I’m calling is because our daughter performed a concert at Salem Elementary in New Hampshire on Thursday as part of an exchange program between the sister cities.”
