The Chill of Night (36 page)

Then there was Abby. Even if hypnosis helped her identify Kelly as the killer, no jury in the world would convict on testimony from a schizophrenic witness. A schizophrenic witness who, according to her own psychiatrist, could have been off her meds. As for the other witnesses, both Maggie and Magol Gutaale Abtidoon could only testify that the bad guy wore a heavy coat and glasses with black frames.

Finally there was the not insignificant issue of motive. Goff’s insurance policy might work for a jury, but he was sure a lawyer would try to pooh-pooh it as a gift to a worthy charity and not something that could be used to enrich an individual. Especially one who had deliberately chosen a life of relative poverty so he could, in turn, help others.

What else was there? McCabe knew firsthand Kelly was volatile. Given to easy anger. But this, the lawyers would eagerly point out, wasn’t a killing committed in a rage. It was too planned. Too choreographed. Plus, Kelly was gay, so why’d he keep her alive so long? Not for sex, unless he swung both ways. Possible, but not convincing.

About ten minutes out from the landing, Bowman left the paved road and bumped the Explorer onto a circuitous pattern of dirt trails, going from one to another until, after another ten minutes or so, they came to a small clearing. He pulled in behind Jacobi’s crime scene van. McCabe could see some lights about a hundred yards ahead. They climbed out.

‘That’s Kelly’s cottage, if you want to call it that,’ said Bowman. ‘More of a shack really. We go the rest of the way on foot.’

Directly in front of him was a small wooded area about fifty feet wide. Beyond that lay a snowy and possibly rocky field.

‘There’s sort of a path,’ said Bowman, ‘but there’s lots of icy ledge between here and there. The ice is covered by mushy snow, so you’ll have to walk carefully.’ He shined his flashlight on McCabe’s city shoes and smirked. ‘You may have some trouble walking in those. You’re sure as hell gonna get wet feet.’

‘I’ll live with it.’

‘Might even break an ankle.’ Bowman smiled as if he thought that was worth hoping for.

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Suit yourself.’ Bowman handed McCabe a flashlight. Tasco already had one. ‘I’ll go first. Watch my feet and step where I step. I’ll let you know if there’s anything treacherous coming up.’

The January sun wouldn’t be up for another couple of hours, and there was no moon. ‘Place was built about a hundred years ago,’ Bowman said as they started down the path. ‘House is cantilevered out over a cliff maybe fifty feet above the ocean. Nothing but rocks and breakers below. An old set of wooden stairs to the side over there takes you down to the beach. Hell of a view from the house, but it beats me how it’s stood up to the nor’easters all these years. I would’ve guessed the storms that blow in here would’ve knocked it to hell and gone long ago, but there it is.’

McCabe followed Bowman and, as instructed, walked in his tracks. Tasco brought up the rear. He felt wet snow slipping into his shoes. Within seconds his socks and feet were soaked. There was no way he was going to complain about it. He’d sooner get frostbite, even lose a toe or two, than give an asshole like Bowman the satisfaction of hearing him whine. It took ten more minutes of careful foot placement to traverse the hundred yards to the house. McCabe slipped a couple of times and landed on his ass once. He got up and kept going.

Bowman pushed the door open. In the dim light of a single lamp, McCabe saw Bill Jacobi, seated at a small wooden table, systematically leafing through piles of paper files taken from a cardboard moving carton set in front of him. Neater piles, already examined and sorted, were arranged on the far end of the table. Two more cartons were on the floor.

Jacobi looked up. ‘Okay to come in,’ he said. ‘We’re finished in here except for this stuff.’

McCabe entered and looked around. The place was about as different from the Markhams’ as two structures described as island cottages could be.

‘Where are your guys?’ McCabe asked.

‘Out searching the property with a few of the locals. Kelly’s got about five acres here. Doubt they’ll find much, but hey, you don’t know if you don’t look.’

Bowman left to join the searchers. Tasco sat down next to Jacobi. McCabe slipped off his shoes and explored the space. The room they were in was a small combo kitchen and living room. Beat-up furniture. Appliances that reminded McCabe of what his parents had in the Bronx thirty years ago, and his parents’ stuff was old then. One door led to a small bedroom that was pretty much filled by a double bed with a bare mattress, a small painted bureau, and one bedside table. On the table was an alarm clock, digital numbers flashing as if it hadn’t been reset after a power cut. A couple of books. A telephone. He pulled open one of the drawers in the bureau. Nothing. Not even a pair of dry socks. Books were piled everywhere on the floor. He saw no obvious signs of Lainie having been in residence.

A second door led to a bathroom. A sink. A cheap metal shower stall. He turned the tap. No water. Turned off for the winter. What did Lainie drink if this was her prison? Where did she wash? Using the toilet wouldn’t have been a problem. The seat was set above a hole hanging out over the sea. Probably illegal these days. And, no doubt, a little cool on the ass.

McCabe came back into the main room and sat with the others. He rubbed each set of toes in turn, trying to get the circulation going in them again. He’d read you can always tell when you’ve got frostbite because you can’t feel the pain anymore. If that was right he was okay. His toes hurt like hell.

‘You guys been here a while?’ he asked.

‘Pretty much all day.’ Tasco looked at his watch. ‘And all night.’

‘Find anything other than the fingerprints?’

‘Yeah,’ said Jacobi. ‘Lot of DNA sources. Hairs in the bed. A couple long and brown like Goff’s. What looks like dried semen stains on the sheets.’

‘Where are the sheets?’

‘Packed up and on their way to Augusta. Some dirty cups and silverware that were in the sink. Also en route. May have traces of DNA. There’re cold ashes in the woodstove. Can’t tell how long ago the last fire was. We’ll sift through them in case Kelly tried burning something incriminating.’

‘Anything else?’

‘The phone’s connected,’ said Tasco. ‘Dial tone’s beeping like there’s a voice mail message on it.’

‘You haven’t listened to it?’

‘Can’t. Not till we get Kelly’s password. One oh nine is supposed to be checking with Verizon. I would’ve thought we’d have something by now.’

‘Can I help with the files?’

‘Sure. Just wear these and don’t smear.’ Jacobi tossed him a pair of gloves. ‘I’ll want to check all this stuff for prints later.’ Looked like a big job.

The boxes contained a potpourri of Kelly’s life. Letters, photos, postcards from vacationing friends. Also a lot of notes and papers from college and seminary. A number of photos showed a younger Kelly with the same young man. Teddy Childs? Or maybe an earlier partner. In a couple he was dressed as a priest, but mostly not. One photo showed a young Kelly with an older woman who stared at the camera with the same intense blue eyes. Presumably his mother.

Jacobi and the two detectives kept at it for an hour, none of them speaking, each of them glancing at each piece of paper, then placing it in one of several neat piles arranged by type of document. The room was silent save for the sound of men breathing, hands shuffling paper, and an occasional creak from the house moving on its precarious foundation. McCabe imagined the whole thing tumbling off the cliff and into the ocean with the three of them still in it.
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night sailed off in a wooden shoe.
There was no wind. No roar from the dead-calm sea. Not even the ticking of a clock. Just the creaks.

‘This what you’re looking for?’ The sudden sound of Jacobi’s voice made McCabe jump. Jacobi was holding out a spiral-bound booklet with a clear plastic cover. McCabe took it. The first page contained only title, author, and date. ‘
An Examination of the Prophetic Tradition in the Old Testament.
John Kelly, TOR. May 2, 1994.’

He opened it and began reading. At the top of page 21 he found exactly what he was looking for. An italicized quote,
All the sinners of my people shall die by the sword, which say, The evil shall not overtake nor prevent us
. Beneath it was what appeared to be a lengthy and scholarly discussion of how and why a vengeful God would deal with those who ignored his precepts. McCabe stared at the quote. Seeing it on paper seemed to seal the deal. Kelly was guilty. McCabe just needed a motive and some hard evidence that would convince a jury. Jacobi got up from his chair and stood looking over McCabe’s shoulder.

‘So Kelly’s your pither, huh?’

‘Looks that way.’

The quiet in the room was broken by the William Tell Overture, the part that used to be the theme music from
The Lone Ranger
on TV. Tasco hit a button on his phone. The music stopped. ‘Tasco,’ he said. ‘Yeah? Okay. Good. Let me write that down.’ He removed a small notebook and pen from his coat pocket and made a notation. ‘Thanks, Andrea. Yeah, you, too.’ He looked at McCabe. ‘That was Verizon.’

‘Kelly’s password?’

‘Yup.’

‘What is it?’

‘Bunch of numbers.’ He read from the note. ‘726288279.’

‘It spells “sanctuary.” ’

‘What?’

‘The numbers. They spell out the word ‘sanctuary’ on a telephone keypad. Should’ve guessed that one an hour ago. I must be losing it.’

They went into the bedroom. McCabe picked up the receiver and dialed the number for Verizon voice mail. ‘John Kelly,’ said a male voice.

Then a computerized female voice came on. ‘Please enter your password.’

McCabe entered the letters S-A-N-C-T-U-A-R-Y.

‘You have one new message. To listen to your messages now, press one.’

McCabe pressed one.

‘First new message. From unknown caller. Received Tuesday, December twentieth, at 6:44
P.M
.’

‘I know what you’ve been doing, you asshole, and you’re not going to get away with it. We need to talk. And don’t try ignoring me. I’ll try your other line.’ McCabe realized he’d never heard Lainie Goff’s voice before. Still, he was sure it was her.

‘To hear the message again, press one.’

He pressed one. ‘I know what you’ve been doing, you asshole, and you’re not going to get away with it. We need to talk. And don’t try ignoring me. I’ll try your other line.’
I know what you’ve been doing, you asshole.
What exactly
was
Kelly doing? Was it the motive McCabe was searching for? He handed the phone to Tasco and let him listen.

The front door opened and closed. Bowman’s voice called out, ‘Hey! McCabe! Where are you?’

‘In here.’

Bowman appeared in the door of the bedroom. ‘Get your coats on,’ he said. ‘You guys better come see what we found.’

It was still dark, and McCabe didn’t see it at first. Not until Bowman positioned the beam of his flashlight right on the spot. A human hand, sticking up out of melting snow and attached to about six inches of skinny arm that was covered in a solid mass of blue tattoos. Young and almost certainly male. Both hand and arm looked frozen. The same waxy sheen he’d seen on Lainie Goff’s body. McCabe looked around to position himself. They were standing in a wooded area a couple of hundred feet southwest of the house. ‘This still Kelly’s property?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ said Bowman. ‘It goes back another fifty feet about to that big pine tree over there.’

Two of Jacobi’s techs, Jeff Feeney and Carla Morrisey, had already started stringing yellow crime scene tape in a wide perimeter around the spot, shooing away a couple of the local searchers. They retreated to the far side of the tape.

I know what you’ve been doing, you asshole, and you’re not going to get away with it.
Goff’s accusation played over and over in McCabe’s head. Was this what Kelly was doing? Abusing teenaged boys from Sanctuary House? Just like the priest who had abused him? Had Goff found out about it and accused him? Had he killed Goff, and this boy as well, to keep her from going public? To keep her from calling the cops and, in the process, destroying him and his life’s work, Sanctuary House? McCabe shined his own light on the hand and arm sticking out of the snow. He was sure he’d found a motive that, for John Kelly, would have been far more powerful than mere money.

When the area was circled in tape, Feeney and Morrisey hauled a small generator and a couple of powerful floods out of the back of their van. Feeney began setting them up on top of steel tripods. Morrisey unrolled heavy black cable from the generator to the lights. She plugged it in and flicked a switch, and suddenly the burial site was lit up like center field at Yankee Stadium.

McCabe called Terri Mirabito at home again.

‘Jesus, McCabe, don’t you ever sleep? What is it now?’

‘We found another body.’

‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’

‘Frozen.’

‘Pithed?’

‘Don’t know yet.’ McCabe watched as Feeney began shooting the crime scene photos with a high-end digital camera. Morrisey was taking measurements to precisely position the spot where they found the arm on a location diagram. ‘All we can see so far is an arm. Looks like a boy’s. The rest of the body, assuming there is a rest of the body, is still buried in a couple of feet of snow and ice. If the weather hadn’t warmed up and melted a bunch, we wouldn’t have found it at all.’

‘Okay. I’m getting dressed. Where do I go this time?’

‘Head on down to Casco Bay Lines. I’ll make sure the fireboat’s waiting for you.’

‘Harts Island?’

‘Yeah. There’ll be a car waiting on this side. I’m calling Fortier, too, so don’t take off without him.’

It was nearly six o’clock, and Fortier was already awake sipping coffee. He said he’d throw some clothes on and be at the dock in fifteen minutes. Before he hung up McCabe asked him to bring along some dry socks and, if he had them, an extra pair of waterproof boots, size eleven or thereabouts, and, oh yeah, if he didn’t mind terribly, maybe a hair dryer. Fortier said he’d see what he could rustle up.