“The really strange thing is, he had no history of violence...no domestic calls of any kind came up on the board...no history of drinking or drugs...as far as we can tell, this was a model family. That’s why I called you.”
“Did Mr. Morton have any history of psychiatric illness?” Mitchell asked.
“Not that we could find. You know these people, so secretive, but nothing on that end either.”
“Has anyone questioned his wife?”
“We were kinda hoping you would do the honors, doc,” Gerald said, grinning.
He slapped Mitchell gently on the back and led him through the entrance of the home.
A coffered ceiling with golden rosettes crowned the entrance to the great hall of the home. A number of 19th-century French pieces, including a boulle marquetry table, lined the hallway that led into the main room. A Louis XVI-style console stood majestically against the wall adjacent to the main stairwell. Six framed antique Ottoman manuscripts lined the walls above the console.
Mrs. Morton sat in the corner of the reception room just left of the main stairwell. She sat on a 19th-century gilt armchair that had originally been crafted for the Egyptian Khedivial family. On the writing table just in front of her sat a Seljuk terra-cotta bull.
Mrs. Morton rose to meet the two men as they approached. She was a stunning woman. Standing at almost six feet tall, her hair was long, thick, and dark, with curly locks draping the ends that hung by her shoulders. Her skin was dark and tanned. She wore a simple Missoni wedge maroon tunic top with a white mid-length skirt.
Patricia Morton had twice been a finalist in the Miss Argentina pageant. In her last competition, she had been first-runner up. Thomas Morton had met her during a business trip to Argentina. He had taken her to see Iguazu Falls on their first date. Even though she had grown up in Argentina, she had never once seen the Iguazu Falls.
Mrs. Morton’s face was distraught. Her dark brown eyes rimmed with tears even as she attempted to remain the cordial hostess. While she’d been away shopping in Winston Salem with friends, she’d lost her husband and two children. Her world had been instantly shattered forever for no apparent reason.
Mitchell opened his vision slightly so that he could examine Mrs. Morton more closely. Her aura was large, perhaps 10 to 12 feet across. The main color was green, though the interior and middle regions were filled with bright yellow and gold inclusions. Deep red and gray clouds lined the perimeter of the aura.
The green color meant that she loved people, was very social, and would likely be quite a good teacher. The yellow color defined a soul that was a highly intelligent woman who was full of life and optimistic. The gold color pointed to some latent psychic and spiritual gifts that lay dormant within her subconscious. With the advent of the recent traumas, Mrs. Morton had little hope of fully realizing those gifts during this lifetime.
The deep red and gray clouds on the aura’s perimeter most likely represented the emotional trauma and shock that accompanied the news that she had just received. As far as Mitchell could determine, Mrs. Morton was a beautiful and gifted soul who was genuinely in shock.
“Mrs. Morton, my name is Detective Sergeant Gerald Holmes. I will be in charge of the investigation. This is my colleague, Dr. Mitchell Gibson. He is a psychiatric police consultant that I have called in to help me on the case.”
Gerald and Mitchell in turn extended their hands to Mrs. Morton. She shook them lightly and returned to her chair. As she sat, an attendant entered the room and placed a Bradford tea service down on the writing table. The attendant then quietly placed three rose porcelain tea cups on the table. As quickly as she entered, she left the room without making a sound.
“Thank you for coming, detective, doctor. Will you take some tea?”
Mrs. Morton was ever the perfect hostess, even under these phenomenally trying circumstances. Years of parties, state dinners, and official gatherings had honed her instincts to exquisite perfection.
“Thank you, ma’am. I think I will,” Gerald answered.
“I will as well,” Mitchell replied.
“Tell us, Mrs. Morton, had you noticed anything unusual about your husband’s behavior over the past few weeks? Anything out of the ordinary that might help us figure out why this happened?” Mitchell asked.
Mrs. Morton sat back in her chair, closed her eyes briefly, sighed for a moment, and looked intently at Mitchell.
“We were very happy. Don’t get me wrong, we argued from time to time, all couples do. But we loved each other and Thomas would never do anything like this. He was a good man. Something is wrong with all this. He loved his boys more than life itself. I just don’t understand.”
“We will do everything we can to get to the bottom of this, Mrs. Morton. Did your husband have any enemies? Anyone who might want to do him harm?” Gerald asked.
“I tried to keep out of my husband’s business affairs. This house, our homes, our charities, our children, keep me quite busy. I just checked our main accounts, we were fine. My husband was a man of great integrity, detective. If he had enemies, they were only those who envied him. He would never intentionally hurt another person. He was a good man.”
Mrs. Morton’s eyes began to fill with tears as she tried to compose herself. She pulled a tissue from the silver container on the writing table in front of her and wiped her eyes quickly.
“We will try to be brief, Mrs. Morton. We appreciate your patience. Do you know if your husband had ever been treated for depression?” Mitchell asked.
Mrs. Morton smiled thinly, sighed again, and took a long sip of tea. As she spoke, the outer perimeter of her aura flashed soft tufts of brown and gray.
“A few years ago, my husband lost a big case...some company in Miami, I believe. They tried to sue my husband for negligence but they were unsuccessful. The whole thing went on for several years and I could tell it was very taxing for him. He had trouble sleeping and difficulty focusing on his work. He saw a counselor, a friend of ours, for a few sessions. The company eventually dropped the suit but I could tell that the whole thing took a toll on my husband.”
“How long ago did you say that was?” Gerald asked.
“About five years ago, if I remember correctly.”
“Anything else that you can recall that might have upset him more recently?...Another suit perhaps?” Mitchell asked.
“No, nothing...as a matter of fact, business has been great.”
“Gerald, I think we’re done here.”
“I think so too,” Gerald replied.
“Mrs. Morton, we will be going now. Again, thank you for your time. I want to extend my condolences to you and your family.” Gerald extended his hand to Mrs. Morton. This time, however, she stepped forward to hug him. As she hugged him, she burst into a torrent of tears. The attendant walked into the room and placed her arms around Mrs. Morton’s shoulders. The two women backed away from the detective and the attendant led Mrs. Morton away from the reception area.
“I hate this part of my job, Mitch,” Gerald said, shaking his head sadly.
“From what I can see, my friend, this is a murder-suicide case with no easy answers,” Mitchell replied.
“I just don’t know why a man with everything would blow it all in one fell swoop for no reason,” Gerald said.
“In many suicides, we never find out what triggered the final event. You know that.”
“I know, but this one seems odd to me, you know, in a funny sort of way...I don’t think this thing is as cut-and-dried as it seems,” Gerald replied.
“I