He invisioned the chaos that always followed any major disaster. Cops searching the premises. Paramedics triaging, the dead being passed over in favor of the wounded. Witnesses coming back in, and the police trying to preserve the integrity of the scene. The courtroom had been a warzone of overturned chairs and spilled medical supplies. Blood and gun smoke and voided bowels. It had taken hours before the scene was processed and the evidence recorded. Hours during which McNulty assumed that Waltham PD had seized the cameras and any film coverage of the incident. It appeared they’d overlooked the Arriflex.
“Who was the operator?”
“Randy Severino.”
“The new kid?”
“I never used two cameras before. This is the first time.” Larry turned worried eyes on McNulty. “Vince. If Randy is involved, or even if he isn’t but he sells the footage…” He waved a hand along the road to the location vehicles. “It’s going to sink Titanic Productions.”
McNulty sympathised but had to tell it straight. “Larry. We’ve got to tell the police.”
The producer deflated like a pricked balloon. “I know. Christ. They were our people who were killed.” He straightened partway. “But can we first make sure it isn’t Severino? At least then I can do some damage control.”
McNulty held his hands up. “I’m your technical adviser. Not a P.I.”
Larry wagged a finger. “Including stunts and security. Well, this is security.”
McNulty glanced toward the location then turned back to Larry Unger. He let out a sigh of resignation and nodded slowly. “Okay. First thing. I’d better talk to F.K.”
F.K. was John F.K. Parenteau, Titanic Productions’s long-standing director of photography and main camera operator. He’d dropped the John because he was sick of being called J.F.K, another link to Zapruder if you believed in conspiracy theories. McNulty didn’t believe in conspiracies. Not even coincidences. So the first assistant cameraman disappearing along with his camera was a fair indication that he was involved in some way. McNulty waited until they were between setups, then guided Parenteau into a secluded glade.
“The new kid didn’t show up this morning?”
Parenteau understood where this was going. “About the Arriflex, you’re asking?”
McNulty leaned back against a tree. “When did you see him last?”
Parenteau rubbed his chin, as if that would aid his memory. “In the courtroom. He was doing reverse coverage.”
“What about after?”
This time he scratched the back of his neck, paused, then shook his head. “Everything was madness. After. Was he taken to give a statement?”
McNulty raised his eyebrows but didn’t answer. That would be a question for Jon Harris if it came to that. McNulty reckoned it would come to that. Just not yet. He looked at the director of photography. “What was he filming?”
Parenteau’s face brightened. This was one he could answer. “Reverse angles of the room. Some close-ups of the extras. Reaction shots.”
There’d certainly be some reaction shots, that was for sure. Evidence as crucial as the Zapruder film, only this time including the lone gunman. This wasn’t a grassy knoll situation where the camera was pointing the other way. Severino had been filming reverse angles, pointing the camera toward the double doors at the back of the courtroom, and the glass doors at the main entrance to the orphanage were in the deep background.
“What happened when the shooting started?”
Parenteau laughed as if that were obvious, but he answered anyway. “There was a stampede. To the only way out.”
McNulty lowered his head. “The door behind the judge’s bench.”
Parenteau nodded. His voice trembled. “It was a bottleneck. We all thought we would be next. In that room.”
McNulty remembered seeing the Arriflex on the floor. “And he dropped the camera.”
Parenteau looked embarrassed. “We dropped everything. I’m sorry.”
McNulty pushed off from the tree and patted F.K. gently on the shoulder. “No need to be sorry.” He stood up straight. “You didn’t see him after that?”
Parenteau shook his head. This time he was close to tears. “We should not be filming. We should have shut down.”
McNulty shrugged. “It’s a no-win situation. Life goes on. Shut down and we’re all out of a job.”
Parenteau wiped his eyes and straightened his shoulders. “And now?”
McNulty hardened his eyes. Not at the cameraman but at what he had to do next.
“Now? Room service.”
TEN
McNulty stood on the south bank of the Charles River and looked at the motel’s rear aspect. The gentle curve of Crescent Street around the front not only dictated the building’s shape but also gave the Crescent Motel its name. The curve of the street was determined by the sweep of the Charles River. Randy Severino’s room was upstairs, overlooking the river.
A pleasure boat sounded its horn and McNulty glanced toward the bridge as the captain prepared to turn the boat around. Tourists snapped photographs of the river flowing down the weir with the Francis Cabot Lowell Mill in the background. Pedestrians on the bridge took photos of the pleasure boat. Reverse angle shots were the theme of the day. McNulty looked up at the first assistant cameraman’s window and plotted his route. Middle stairwell. Along the walkway. Third room from the end. Knock on the door. Cops always knock on the door before they decide to break in. He’d taught Alfonse that on his first day. Just after stopping him from walking like a duck.
The middle stairwell was concrete and rendered brick. It doglegged back on itself halfway up, bringing him out on the rear walkway. McNulty paused at the top of the stairs and reassessed his approach. Nothing had changed since he’d lost sight of the room on his way up. The drapes were still drawn. The window was still shut. The door was still closed. There was only one way in or out.
He stood on the balcony for another minute, listening to make sure nobody else was coming up the stairs. He checked both ways along the balcony walkway then looked down at the riverside gardens. Nobody was down there looking up. McNulty was invisible. He strode along the walkway with a strong, confident walk. Easy movement. Relaxed hands. Like he belonged there, which he did. His room was just at the other end. He ticked the room numbers off as he passed and slowed when he neared the third from the end.
The window was still shut.
He listened for footsteps behind him. Nothing.
The drapes were still drawn.
He glanced over the balcony. Nothing.
The door was still closed.
He checked the far stairwell. Nothing.
The room came up on his left and he stopped at the door. He listened for any sound inside but the room was quiet. There was no sign of movement behind the flimsy drapes. There were no smells to indicate anything untoward had happened. Dead people smell, even after one day. There was nobody dead inside.
McNulty raised his fist and knocked on the door. His copper’s knock. The don’t-mess-with-me-it’s-the-police knock. There was no response. There was still no movement behind the drapes. He knocked again for completeness and got the same result. Alfonse would have been impressed. He tried the handle but this was a budget motel, the doors latched automatically when they closed. The card-reader slot was above the handle. He tried his room key in the reader. It didn’t open. He let out a sigh then looked both ways again.
Still nobody coming.
He nodded and pushed the door gently but firmly. It wasn’t a good fit. It moved a quarter inch and stopped but didn’t feel very solid. He flexed his key card into the gap, level with the latch, and slowly jiggled it while he rattled the door. Three seconds later he was inside and closed the door behind him. There was nobody dead inside. That was the only good news.
The location crew of Titanic Productions traveled light because they knew how basic the accommodations would be. They didn’t bring lots of clothes or pers
onal belongings because chances are they weren’t going to stay long, and even if they did, the rooms wouldn’t have enough space to store them. The few possessions Randy Severino had brought with him were spread across the floor and ripped to shreds. What little storage space the motel room offered had been stripped, smashed and searched with a fine-tooth comb. Or a hammer. McNulty was betting on the hammer.
A soft canvas travel bag had been turned inside out and slashed from end to end. A selection of jeans and T-shirts had been similarly destroyed. A Bible that the motel provided had been torn in half and the spine disembowelled. The bedding had been stripped and the pillows slashed to spill their fluffy innards. The queen-size mattress had been tipped off the bed and leaned against the wall, rusty springs curling out of the vicious razor cuts that had opened it up like a gutted cow. The mirror opposite the bed had been smashed, it appeared. out of frustration. Because this level of destruction told McNulty the searcher hadn’t found what he was looking for. And what he was looking for was small enough to fit inside the spine of a Bible. Otherwise why slit it open?
The room was a standard motel single. Single in as much as it only had one bed. Double in that the bed could have slept two fat people and still left room to spare. Bedside cabinets were built into the headboard. The drawers had been emptied and dumped on the floor. The flat-screen TV had been yanked off the wall but there was no space for hiding stuff in the slim plastic casing. The mirrored closet was open and the coat hangers had been strewn across the bed. It didn’t look as if Severino had had any hanging clothes.
A bathroom cubicle jutting out of the far corner spoiled the simple lines of the room. McNulty looked inside. The shower curtain over the bath was torn at one end. There was no bathroom cabinet, just a narrow shelf above the washbasin. What few toiletries Severino possessed had been squeezed, emptied and slashed in the lavatory. The faucet was running. The hot one, steam misting the wall-mounted mirror, which was intact. McNulty turned the faucet off and went back into the room.
The destruction told McNulty two things: First. Severino was involved in something, even if it wasn’t the shooting itself. Second. The person who had trashed the motel room wasn’t looking for the Arriflex. McNulty added a third. Not the negative from the Arriflex, either. Processed or unprocessed, the film canister was bigger than the places that had been searched here. He added a fourth. The first assistant cameraman had vanished before the heavy mob tossed his room. But where had he gone?
McNulty tipped the mattress over so it fell back onto the bed. He didn’t bother tidying anything else. There was no sign of blood or trauma, but he had to consider the possibility that Severino might have gone the way of the other victims. Because whoever had searched his room was serious, and serious people don’t take no for an answer. That would make this a crime scene. You don’t go tidying a crime scene.
He stood in the only patch of clear floor space in front of the bathroom and scanned the cubicle. The room was gloomy with the draperies drawn. Light from the bathroom spilled out. He was about to flick the switch beside the door when something rolled across the tiled floor. The lid off Severino’s aftershave rattled against the door and spun itself down to a stop.
The silence was deafening. Then the shower curtain was ripped down and something slammed McNulty across the head.
ELEVEN
Blows to the head only knock people out in the movies. To do that in real life you’d have to use so much force there’d be a fractured skull and brain damage. McNulty didn’t suffer brain damage. He did see stars and tumble across the bed though. That was as much time as the intruder needed. McNulty hit the floor on the other side of the bed just as the front door was yanked open. By the time McNulty shook his head clear and reached the door, the pounding footsteps already had a ten-yard start.
McNulty went through the door and turned right. The intruder was halfway to the middle stairwell. McNulty set off at a flat run, his footsteps pounding a faster beat than the running man. The man heard him and picked up the pace, arms pumping for extra speed. McNulty put his head down and leaned into the run. Doors flashed by on his right. The pleasure boat began its long, slow turn beneath the bridge. The man glanced over his shoulder. McNulty tried to get a glimpse of his face.
Then a uniformed cop came out of the middle stairwell.
Everything changed in an instant. The cop was old and ready for retirement. The running man was nearer the stairwell than the burgled motel room. McNulty was racing after him, the room door open in the background. The cop had been sent to investigate the room involved in the reported break-in. Take a few details and record a crime. Happened all the time at budget motels. But this wasn’t investigating. This was two men pounding the concrete toward him. He fumbled his gun out of its holster and yelled a superfluous warning. “Stop. Police.”
The running man ignored him. McNulty yelled over the noise of pounding footsteps. “Stop. Him.”
The cop didn’t want to shoot anyone. He hesitated. The runner did not. He vaulted the railing and went over the balcony at a dead run. The cop’s mouth opened in surprise. McNulty kept running, craning his neck over the side. The man dropped onto the roof of a shiny red panel van in the narrow parking lot and slid down the front. He barely broke stride as he sped along the riverside walk. The cop waved his gun at the only remaining suspect. McNulty. “Stop.”
McNulty raced toward the cop and jerked a thumb toward the fleeing man. “Call for backup.” Then he vaulted the railing too. When he’d done this stuff on the movie set he had weeks to arrange the stunts. Safety was paramount. Doing it for real was a whole different experience. He bounced off the roof of the panel van and slid down the windshield of the car parked next to it. When he hit tarmac it was with one shoulder and a forward roll. When he got up he was facing the wrong way.
The gunshot split the air. The report echoed along the river. A warning shot. The old cop was shocked and winded and still didn’t want to shoot anyone. He spoke into his shoulder mic, then turned to go back down the stairs. Whatever he’d said must have sounded urgent because sirens sounded almost immediately.
McNulty spun around and saw the burglar dashing along the riverside walk toward the Moody Street Bridge. The mill was still in the background. The river was still flowing across the weir. Pedestrians were still photographing the pleasure boat as it went into its sweeping turn. McNulty sprinted after the running man but he’d lost time and distance.
The sirens grew louder and seemed to be coming from everywhere. The old cop must have put out an officer-needs-assistance call. Everybody responds to a cop in trouble. The shiny red panel van pulled away from the back of the motel and headed for the exit. Blue lights flashed across the bridge.
The running man came out of the riverside walk next to the Margaritas Mexican Restaurant and Watering Hole. A Budweiser delivery truck blocked Moody Street to the right so he had to go left. Onto the bridge. McNulty reached the corner and followed him along the sidewalk. Photographers jumped out of the way. Flashing blue lights and sirens approached both ends of the bridge.
An air horn and ship’s bell sounded. The running man didn’t hesitate. He vaulted his second railing in as many minutes and disappeared over the side. McNulty raced to the spot and saw him land awkwardly on the upper deck. The leisure boat continued its turn, pulling away from the bridge back along the river.
McNulty weighed angles and distance and the tiredness in his legs. Did he have enough strength to jump the widening gap? Was it worth the potential injuries? Did he feel like Tom Cruise? The answer to all three was no. The man disappeared in the crowd as the boat pulled away. McNulty slammed his hands on the railing.
Cars screeched to a stop behind him. Blue lights flashed. The sirens stopped. Half a dozen cops aimed their guns across the roofs of their marked units. A plain Crown Vic pulled up beyond them and a detective got out. McNulty kept his hands on the railing so nobody would shoot him. Jon Harris came through the cordon and spoke
to the back of McNulty’s head.
“Is this the part where you tell me what you did with the missing film?”
TWELVE
Police Headquarters. Again. At the same desk in the Detectives Bureau overlooking the same parking lot out back. McNulty hadn’t been fingerprinted and photographed. That was a good sign. Except you only get fingerprinted and photographed after you’ve been charged, so there was still plenty of time for that. He hadn’t been searched and read his rights, either. That was a better sign. You don’t get arrested and questioned without being searched and read your rights, so he wasn’t under arrest. Just helping police with their inquiries.
“Milk and sugar, right?”
Jon Harris waved an empty mug at McNulty. Cops don’t offer you coffee if they’ve got enough evidence to go at you hard. If the detective was taking the softly, softly approach then he must still be sounding McNulty out. He stirred milk and sugar into the coffee, then put it on the desk.
“Why don’t we start with what you’re not telling me?”
McNulty drank his coffee and kept it brief, if not entirely honest. He explained about finding out this morning that the handheld camera was missing and going to the first AC’s room to ask what had happened to it after the shooting.
“First A-C?”
McNulty realized the detective wasn’t up with movie terminology. “First assistant camera.”
Harris looked blank.
McNulty nodded. “Okay. D-o-P is the director of photography, the cinematographer. On a Larry Unger set he is also the main camera operator. First A-C operates the second camera, which in this case was the Arriflex.” He held his hands up as if looking through a viewfinder. “Reverse angle. Covering the rest of the room.”
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