Bad Thoughts (16 page)

      
As they approached the triple-decker that his apartment was in, Shannon saw the squad cars lining the street. DiGrazia was standing in front of the house next to his talking with a uniformed cop. Their eyes locked on each other. DiGrazia started moving in a trot towards the cab. He was at the door as Shannon stepped from it.

      
DiGrazia was breathing hard from his run. “Well, well,” he grinned. “The prodigal son has returned. And looking kind of ripe at that.”

      
Shannon couldn’t help returning the grin. DiGrazia was looking worse than him. Along with the dark circles under his partner’s eyes, the little hair DiGrazia had left was streaked with dirt and his clothes looked like they had been slept in.

      
“At least I have an excuse,” Shannon said. “What’s yours?”

      
“What’s mine?” DiGrazia sputtered. “You sonofabitch. I’ve been out every goddamn night looking for you. I haven’t slept in five days. That’s my goddamn excuse.” DiGrazia hesitated and then lowered his voice. “What have you been up to?”

      
“I don’t know. I just woke up, so to speak.”

      
“Yeah, well, it doesn’t look like your rest did you much good.” He paused, considering Shannon. “At least you’re back in one piece.”

      
“It looks that way. About spending your nights looking for me, I’d like to thank you.”

      
“Yeah, sure you would. You really don’t know what you’ve been doing?”

      
Shannon shook his head. “No idea. About an hour ago I came out of it in a crack house in Roxbury.” He hesitated. “How’s Susie been?”

      
“She hasn’t left you yet. My ex sure would’ve.” Exhaustion passed over DiGrazia’s thick face, giving his flesh a wasted look. “I’m glad to see you, pal. I’ll tell you, after the last week being run ragged both on the job and looking for you, I’m having a tough time thinking straight. Did you know Rose Hartwell?”

      
“Ah, shit. What happened to her?”

      
“You did know her?”

      
“Yeah, I know her. I know everyone on this street. What happened?”

      
DiGrazia started to say something and then stopped himself. For whatever reason he got cute. “You better look for yourself.”

      
“All right. Let me wash up first—”

      
“Nah, don’t worry about it. You’re fine. Fresh as a goddamn daisy.” DiGrazia had an arm around Shannon’s shoulders and was veering him away from his building towards the triple-decker Rose Hartwell lived in. As they walked, DiGrazia asked whether Shannon knew if the Hartwells were having marital problems.

      
“Yeah,” Shannon said, “I think things had kind of hit bottom for them.”

      
“That’s what I’ve been hearing,” DiGrazia said.

      
There were about a half dozen plainclothes cops milling through Hartwell’s apartment, all grim-faced, all wearing beige or maroon sports jackets. Shannon didn’t recognize any of them. Rose Hartwell was waiting for them in the kitchen. She was lying on a small table, fully clothed, a knife sticking out of her mouth. She was dead. Gary Aukland was standing off to one side while a thin man with a short marine-style haircut examined the body. The man had an unnaturally pale complexion with lips that were way too red. His facial bones seemed to shine through colorless, translucent skin. Shannon didn’t know him, either. DiGrazia murmured in his ear, “FBI.”

      
There was no shock as Shannon looked at the body. He was surprised how calm he felt. Almost serene. It was as if he’d been expecting this for a long time. Maybe not Rose Hartwell, but someone. He asked the FBI examiner how long the woman had been dead. The man sniffed in the air as if he smelled something and then muttered about them having to wait for a report. Aukland cleared his throat and said it probably happened early in the morning. He moved his head to one side, signaling towards the living room. “Come on,” he said, “let’s go talk.”

      
They left the kitchen with DiGrazia joining them. Aukland asked if Shannon had been sick. “You look almost as if you’ve been suffering from exposure,” the coroner noted.

      
“Not that I know of. But then again, what the hell do I know?”

      
Aukland gave him an odd kind of look and then shook his head. He told him he’d heard Shannon had been put on departmental leave. “Right now I wouldn’t mind volunteering for that,” Aukland added. “They’re really pissing me off in there. You realize how big a favor they’re doing letting us watch? Tight-assed little pricks.”

      
“Why are they involved?”

      
“Because they’re experts from their elite Sex Crime unit. And we have a serial killer,” Aukland said with an unhappy smile.

      
“There was one several days ago in Boston,” DiGrazia said.

      
“And the Roberson murder,” Aukland added.

      
Shannon turned to DiGrazia. “I thought you had the kid all wrapped up?”

      
“I was wrong. He didn’t do it.”

      
Shannon was going to say something else but he let it drop. DiGrazia’s expression demanded that he let it drop. He asked Aukland what they had on Rose Hartwell’s murder.

      
“It’s hard to tell standing on the sidelines, but it doesn’t look like there’s any physical evidence. No skin, no blood, no semen. There’s a slight discoloration along the wrists that shows her hands were tied. Probably with some sort of fabric, maybe a towel. Whoever did this has a pretty good knowledge of forensics. How closely did you look at that knife?”

      
“What do you mean?”

      
“You probably couldn’t tell from the angle you were standing at. The knife went right through the back of her neck and stuck a half inch into the table. It severed her windpipe. My guess is she died of asphyxiation. And, Bill, it probably wasn’t fast.”

      
“Any other wounds?”

      
“No, just the one. It was more than enough, though.”

      
“And there was one like this last week in Boston?”

      
“A carbon copy. And you have Phyllis Roberson. For the most part the profiles match.”

      
Shannon looked out the window, squinting. “How’d you find out it wasn’t Roberson’s kid?”

      
Aukland shrugged. “The blood we found on the pillow didn’t match either Roberson or her son. Also the timing didn’t fit. With the amount of time it took her to bleed to death, the son couldn’t have done it. He was in school at the time the internal bleeding had started.”

      
DiGrazia’s thick ears had turned bright pink. “With what we had at the scene anyone would’ve picked that kid,” he said.

      
Shannon asked, “What about the scratch marks on his arms?”

      
“It probably happened the way he said it did,” Aukland said. “Her internal bleeding was slow so it took a while for her lungs to fill up. In the meantime, her son came home, found her like that, tried to pull the knife out of her throat, and well, you know what happened next.” Aukland showed some yellowed teeth as he smiled. “I almost think our killer planned it that way; leaving her dying with that knife bobbing out of her throat so her son would do what he did. The blood, though, doesn’t make any sense. He was so careful not to leave any other physical evidence. Do you know how difficult it is to kill someone like that without leaving any physical evidence? You think he would’ve realized he left a few drops of blood.”

      
“I guess he got careless.”

      
“The sonofabitch plants newspaper stories about Janice Rowley’s murder in the kid’s room to frame him, is so damn meticulous with the murder, and he leaves blood behind in plain sight?” DiGrazia asked.

      
“He probably got so excited with the murder he didn’t realize it.”

      
Aukland thought about it and shrugged. “Maybe,” he conceded. “I’m going back in there and keep my eye on things.”

      
DiGrazia grabbed Shannon by the arm. He told Aukland they’d join him later. Then to Shannon, “Let’s go to your place.”

* * * * *

      
Once inside his apartment Shannon tried to call his wife at work. DiGrazia cracked his knuckles impatiently as Shannon left a voice mail message.

      
“What do you think, we got a serial killer?” he asked as soon as the phone was put down.

      
“You don’t think so?”

      
“That’s right. I don’t.”

      
“A copycat murder?”

      
“Nope,” DiGrazia said, shaking his head. “No details were released on any of the murders.” He took a cigarette out, slipped it into his mouth, and then raised an eyebrow at Shannon and offered him one. Shannon declined.

      
DiGrazia lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply and then stood and watched as the smoke curled around him. “I think we got someone who wants it to look like a serial killer,” he said, the smoke drifting past him, his face all of a sudden anxious, his eyes like hard red marbles. He sat down on the sofa and leaned forward, licking his lips.

      
“Phyllis Roberson was having problems with her ex,” DiGrazia explained. “She was suing him for back child support. A lot of money, Bill. And her ex didn’t want to pay. You know, spite. Real bad blood between the two of them.”

      
“Roberson’s ex and Brad Hartwell got together and planned this?”

      
“No, but they’re both criminal lawyers. They both work in the same courts.”

      
“So?”

      
“So maybe they know the same people.” DiGrazia took another drag on his cigarette and then stubbed it out, all the while his eyes focused on Shannon’s. “Maybe by pure luck they hired the same guy. And maybe this genius had the idea to make it look like a serial killer to cover up the motive. Maybe he got the idea reading about the details of Janice Rowley’s murder. Shit, Bill, we have two women with marital problems murdered. You know the statistics as well as I do. Seventy-five percent of the time it’s the husband.”

      
“What about the other woman—the one killed last week?”

      
DiGrazia shrugged. “I think she was thrown in to confuse the issue. I’ll show you her file when you come down to the station.”

      
“Were any of them forced entry?”

      
“No, they were all let in. So what’s your gut feeling, a serial killer or something else?”

      
“My gut feeling is you’re suffering from sleep deprivation.”

      
“Come on—”

      
“It’s too complicated for a hit man. And I can’t see a hit man throwing in a third body just to be cute.”

      
“You’re not using your imagination, pal. Try thinking outside the box a little.”

      
“Okay, how about this—whoever’s doing this is enjoying it. It’s taking a long time for these women to bleed out.”

      
“Shit, Bill, that’s just a smoke screen. There’s been nothing sexual with any of these victims. And you got strong financial motives for both Roberson and Hartwell to be killed. I’m telling you, this serial killer business is just to throw us off the trail.”

      
“What does the FBI think?”

      
DiGrazia made a face like he had swallowed sour milk. “Fuck ’em,” he said, scowling. “I haven’t mentioned squat to them. They can keep searching for their serial killer for all I care. You want to come down to the station later today? I’ll bring in both hubbies for interrogation.”

      
“We better make it tomorrow. I need to clean myself up and take care of things with Susie.”

      
DiGrazia’s face fell slack, not bothering to hide his disappointment. “Okay, we’ll do it tomorrow,” he said. “I should go home and get some sleep anyway.” He leaned back against the sofa. “It’s good to have you back, Bill.”

      
“Thanks.”

      
“You really don’t know where you were?”

      
“Other than where I woke up, no idea.”

      
DiGrazia leaned further back into the sofa, his eyes narrowing as he appraised his partner. “I could look into it,” he said. “But a crack house in Roxbury doesn’t sound good. It’d probably be better if I didn’t.”

      
“Probably,” Shannon agreed.

* * * * *

      
Susie called later. Shannon told her he wasn’t sure if she’d be there this time.

      
“I wasn’t,” she corrected him. “I’ve been at work.”

      
“You know what I mean.”

      
“I know what you mean.” There was a hesitation where Shannon could only hear a soft hum over the line. Then Susie asked if it was over.

      
“Our marriage?”

      
“No. Not our marriage. Your—the sickness.”

      
“I certainly hope so.” He started to laugh. “At least for this year.”

      
“At least for this year,” she agreed, and then she started to cry. When she was able to, she told him she’d be home as soon as she could.

* * * * *

      
Susan Shannon reached Pig Dornich at his office. “My husband just came home,” she told him.

      
“No kidding.” He sounded disappointed, almost hurt. “Just like that?”