Fragmented

by Colleen Connally

  Pressure mounted by the police. The FBI had even tried to talk with her. She had given them the same answers…she didn’t know anything. They had questioned everyone around her—her colleagues, doctors…Matthew. They had left no stone unturned. She doubted it would be long before they discovered she had driven Zach’s car out of the parking lot.

  Under no illusions, she realized the police followed her everywhere she went. The hospital offered a few options to the way she could exit the West Campus. She called down to Nevy and waited for him to help her out of the hospital. He might be spying on her for Matthew, but he never refused her anything. He had always been willing to do her favors. She hadn’t needed any until now.

  Nevy ran up the back stairs, where she stood waiting by the door. Out of breath, he said, “Shouldn’t have a problem going out through the tunnel and exiting on Longwood Avenue from what I can see. It’s snowing a little. Do you need a ride? I can get my car.”

  She smiled at him. “I appreciate it, Nevy. I really do, but you’ve done quite enough. I can take it from here.”

  “You know, I told that detective that there wasn’t a better nurse around. No one cares about their patients more than you.”

  “You’re too nice to me, Nevy. Thanks again. See you next week.”

  She took the long way around as Nevy had suggested. A wind swept the door wide open when she cracked it to exit the building. She pulled her knitted cap over her ears and swung her bag over her left shoulder.

  The weather had turned. Snow came down harder than what she had expected. She took a deep breath in and gulped. It would be a long trek home.

  She pulled her jacket closer to her. Turning, she thought she heard her name. She turned back, right into a man who had hurried up beside her.

  “Cameron.”

  For a moment, she didn’t recognize him as she fought the snow. Then his face emerged through the weather. She froze in her tracks.

  “You are a hard woman to track down, you know. You’ve ignored my calls, texts…” Darren said. He took her by her arm, giving her no option but for her to listen to him. “I understand. I do. Can you just give me a minute?”

  She frowned and tried to jerk her arm back. He wouldn’t release her. She shook her head. “I don’t think so, Mr. Kennedy. I haven’t talked with anyone. I don’t think I’m going to start with you. Please let go of me. I want to go home.”

  “If we are being formal, Miss Quinn, it won’t take long. I assure you I’m trying to help you. Do you think I would jeopardize a case? Please, just hear me out,” he said, not giving her a choice. “Why don’t we go somewhere we can talk?”

  Another gust of wind hit Cameron in her face. She remained silent. She had to get away from him.

  “The least I can do is give you a ride home. Don’t have a car, I take it?”

  She shot him a look. She had given her car to Zach. He had a knowing grin on his face. She had the urge to slap it off his face.

  “If you want, I could signal to the unit in front of the hospital. They are waiting to take you in. They have a tape showing you driving off in your brother’s car. Or you can listen to what I have to say.”

  She glanced back at the police car, and then back at Darren. It wasn’t much of a choice. She relented and walked with him to his car.

  * * * *

  “Do you ever listen to anyone, Mr. Kennedy?” Cameron asked as the two were escorted to a table. She took off her cap, slightly shaking her hair down. “I agreed to listen to you on my way home. You said...”

  His smile grew larger, arrogant, most assured of himself. He pulled her chair back to seat her. “I didn’t think you would complain. I’m going to give you a ride home after a warm meal…on me. Did you have other plans?”

  She eyed him. He knew damn well she didn’t. She said nothing.

  “Relax, Cameron.”

  She shrugged. The waitress came by. “Drinks?”

  “What would you like, Cameron?” He emphasized her name.

  “Hot chocolate, please,” she answered quickly, for he looked as if he was ready to order for her.

  “How about a cup of chowder to start with?” Darren began. Cameron sighed when the waitress left with their orders. The Lucky Shamrock wasn’t crowded as it usually was on most nights. The snow had kept most of the customers home.

  “I really just wanted a cup of hot chocolate.”

  He tilted his head toward her. “Okay. I hope you don’t mind if I eat. I had to wait awhile for you to come out.”

  Warming up, her senses piqued. She stood. “This was a bad idea.”

  “Sit down, Cameron. Now. You haven’t listened to anyone since this case broke. For your brother’s sake, sit down.”

  Slowly, she inched back into her seat. She stared at him with hatred streaming outward.

  “You don’t have to say anything. I waited over two hours in the cold to tell you what you need to hear.” He pulled his briefcase on top of the table. He opened it, taking out the top file.

  “By this time, I know most everything about you and your family. I can understand you feeling you need to protect your brother. I even understand your reluctance to help us in our investigation. Life has thrown you some curves, but Cameron, all of us have our crosses to bear.”

  “Don’t even pretend to know me. You don’t. And if you think for one moment I believe you are looking after my interests…”

  He interrupted her. “Listen to me for a moment without speaking. I want you to fully comprehend this situation. It’s not a game, Cameron.”

  He sat back while the waitress came back with their drinks.

  “The detectives and the FBI have tried to talk with you. Do you have any concept of what they are trying to accomplish? They are on the trail of a serial killer. He’s killed three so far. Three young men. The same age as your brother. How would you feel if it was someone you loved? How would you feel if it had been your brother?”

  “Is that your ploy? I would have expected better from you. It wasn’t Zach. I feel bad, but my brother didn’t do it. I know he’s not capable of that. You know, this was a bad idea. Why don’t you call the police car and tell them you have me.”

  She stood. He grabbed her hand and jerked her back down harshly.

  “Listen to me for a moment,” he demanded. “If you took the time to listen to anyone, we have been trying to tell you something.”

  She sat back, having been taken completely by surprise. “What do you mean?”

  “Zach is not the prime suspect,” he said simply.

  * * * *

  Darren watched her reaction, recognizing she didn’t trust what she was hearing. For the first time since he had seen her in the hall of the police station, his anger toward her subsided for a moment. She looked frightened. He comprehended well she would never admit it to him, not after what had passed between them.

  “Then what is all this questioning? The news has him convicted. The school has him on suspension.”

  “I know. I know, and if this pans out the way I believe it will, I give you my word. I will personally speak with the school to clear up any misunderstanding.”

  “If that’s the case, what do you want from me?”

  He took a sip of his coffee. “We believe there are two possibilities. One, the killer picked Zach randomly to throw us off. Led us down an empty trail, wasting our time. The second option—he knows Zach and doesn’t care for him. Set him up.”

  “Okay.” Her eyes welled up. She squeezed her eyes tightly as if she had sworn not to show any sign of weakness in front of him. She drew in a breath. “Go on.”

  “If this killer did set Zach up, he may have done more than use his screen name. We need to know. If he did, like use his own computer or his car, then we could narrow the field down to those who had immediate contact.”

  He watched her. The wall once again emerged. He opened up the file. He took pictures out. The first—Rey Caputo; next, Steve Coultier and Jamie Marshall. She squirmed but her e
yes never left the pictures.

  “I don’t want to see these.”

  He realized he had pushed her enough for the moment. He picked the pictures back up. “A killer capable of this…what else do you think he could be capable of, Cameron?”

  “I want to go home, Mr. Kennedy. Now, if you don’t mind, I want to go home.”

  He nodded. He pressed her too much. “Okay, okay. Let’s eat. And then I promise I’ll take you home.”

  They ate the meal in total silence, not that she ate much; hardly anything at all. But he watched her the entire time. She refused to look at him. He helped her with her coat when they finished. His hand pulled it over her shoulder. He could feel her shiver. Instinctively, he pulled her around, facing him. Staring into her eyes, he saw fear. Clearly she was scared.

  Yet she didn’t say a word, not even about their night together. Most women would have lashed out at him, used it against him in an attempt to turn the tables on him. He had expected it, but she said nothing.

  She continued her silence in the car. Knowing her address from her file, he pulled up in front of her apartment. “Could I walk you to your door?”

  She shook her head. Instead, she asked, “When are they coming to pick me up?”

  “They are giving you until morning to think about it.”

  She nodded. About to leave, he pushed his card in her hand.

  “Cameron, I’m sorry. I’m sorry this has turned out the way it has, but you have to understand nothing comes before my job.”

  “Sorry isn’t necessary. It was a mistake, plain and simple. You have nothing to worry about from me. I learn from my mistakes and I don’t repeat them,” she said, pausing when she grabbed the handle of the door. She turned back to him. “I understand perfectly, but you understand something. Nothing comes between me and my family. Nothing.”

  Sudden irritation surged through him at her dismissal. Nevertheless, he squeezed her hand with the card in it. “I put my cell phone number on it. I don’t know if you have kept my number. If you need me any time, call.”

  She pulled back her hand and opened the door. She exited the car. He saw her put the card in her coat pocket and enter her building. He pulled down the street with the realization he still wasn’t immune to her. His own words came back to haunt him…definitely a complication.

  Chapter Nine

  Brophy made good time trekking down to the South Shore along Route 3. He didn't drive this way often in the winter. During the summer months when he would take the kids down to the Cape, Route 3 would be clogged with vacationers. Didn't have to worry about that now. Summer was a distant memory.

  Brophy turned off the Hingham exit. With Waters in the passenger seat, the two had set out for the home of Anthony Luciano, the former Massachusetts state trooper whose son died in the car crash that cost Mary Quinn her life.

  Brophy’s previous trips to Hingham had been to the district court situated not far from their destination. At another time, he might appreciate the scenic drive along the shoreline, with fresh snow glistening in the sunlight. Today, it was the furthest thing from his thoughts.

  He had gotten the call from Centrello on his way into work. Luciano had committed suicide. In the suicide note he left, there had been some mention of the Quinns. Centrello needed Brophy and Waters to check it out.

  Brophy considered having the local authorities faxing over the report. Luciano had no direct connection to his murder case, but after the parking lot tape fiasco, Brophy wasn’t taking a chance. He wanted to see any evidence that might have a connection to the case, up-close and personal.

  This case had taken a strange turn. He needed to find a logical explanation for the tapes’ sudden disappearance. One moment, Waters called him and declared they had the girl dead to rights…saw her clear as a bell on the parking lot tape, driving out in the Escape after her brother had been picked up for questioning. Time and date stamp of the tape gave them clear evidence the girl had the car.

  Darren had gone to this Cameron Quinn. Brophy had confidence that Darren laid out a scenario to the girl that didn’t leave her any other option but to give up the car’s whereabouts. So confident that they had her backed up against a wall, they gave her time to consider her situation.

  Their reasoning had been simple. They needed more than the car. Brophy wanted Zachary Quinn’s computer. McCormick wouldn’t allow any other course of action than to proceed by the book. Making sure they dotted every i and crossed every t had cost them. The tape disappeared…

  The security tape of Beth Israel’s parking lot simply vanished…along with the computer scan of Cameron Quinn’s card being used that night. The computer crashed, along with the backup program; even the information sent over through email to Waters had been ruined. A virus attacked it. Fried Waters’s computer…

  The tech department said they had never seen this particular virus. It would take awhile to determine whether they could save any of the tape or files. But it destroyed their advantage. The girl never called Darren back…McCormick had.

  Brophy didn’t believe in coincidences. The computer didn’t crash by accident. Someone was damn good with hacking computer systems.

  He pulled into a long driveway, rounding around a striking landscaped home. An elongated pale yellow Colonial with a wide berth entrance, a brick walkway, and a three-car garage sat in the middle of a couple of fenced-in acres.

  Seemed hardly a house that a former state trooper could afford…especially one who had been disgraced and convicted of obstruction of justice. Anthony Luciano served less than two years for his part in the cover-up. Luciano had been sued but had filed bankruptcy. According to court records, he had nothing left. Couldn’t tell by this house.

  Brophy parked behind a police car. An ambulance sat out in front of the entrance. The house still swarmed with first responders. Waters walked in first to the impressive home and was greeted by Captain Joseph Griffin of the Massachusetts State Police. He had been expecting the two detectives.

  “Come in.” Captain Griffin gestured for the men to follow him. “He was found first thing this morning by his girlfriend. They had a fight last night. She was moving out. Had come back to pack up her clothes.”

  Brophy entered the large family room, a man’s room brimming with one accolade of a sporting moment after another: pictures of Bobby Orr soaring in the air after scoring the winning goal in the Stanley Cup Final, Vinatieri kicking the winning field goal in the Pats’ first Super Bowl victory, and Curt Schilling’s bloody sock pitching against the Yankees in the miracle year of the Red Sox.

  A large flat screen took up another wall. Luciano’s body sat behind a large mahogany desk positioned in front of a large bay window. Dressed in a black T-shirt with a zipper sweat shirt, his head lay on the desk in front of his computer. His eyes were wide open. His hand spread across the top of the desk in a position one would expect to find it if he had taken his life. He had taken it in the mouth. Luciano had no intention of surviving the shot. He hadn’t.

  On first glance, nothing cried foul to Brophy. It looked like a suicide. Nothing suggested otherwise. He turned to Griffin.

  “You called us down here for a reason.”

  Griffin nodded. “It was his suicide note. Found it in the printer.”

  Waters’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Printer? Kinda odd. You would think he would have written it out.”

  Griffin nodded. “To be honest, I was surprised we found a letter. He was a man of few words.”

  Griffin walked around the desk and grabbed a bagged letter, easily read through the clear plastic. He glanced over it quickly and handed it to Brophy. “Before the accident, I considered Luciano a good friend. I knew him well enough to know he didn’t write this. The whole letter laments over the death of Mary Quinn. How he hates himself that he destroyed the family of such a good woman. He curses his son for texting and driving.”

  Griffin looked back up at Brophy and shook his head. “Luciano hated the Quinns. In his mind, Dani
el Quinn killed his boy. He blamed the Quinns for his downfall. Luciano never once accepted any responsibility of wrongdoing. He turned a blind eye to his son’s failings. He never admitted the accident was Bernie’s fault. Luciano never saw past his hate. He never understood the damage he had done.”

  “So you’re thinking that this isn’t a suicide?” Brophy simply gazed back, his eyes steady.

  “All the evidence points to suicide. I personally think he’s been on the verge since last year.” Griffin shook his head. “He had reached a breaking point. He lost everything. Financially, he was ruined. Lost his money. The house is being foreclosed. His marriage was over. His wife divorced him while he was in prison and remarried. Took their daughter and moved out of state.

  “He was a proud man. His life was his son, Bernie. He lived through him. I just don’t think he could ever accept his kid was human and made a mistake. But saying that, it doesn’t feel right. I thought it strange with the note written like it was. Somebody else wrote it. Of that I have no doubt.

  “Given there is an active investigation ongoing on Quinn’s son, I thought that there might be some connection. Seemed strange. I had always suspected Luciano hid the money he had gotten from the insurance and suing the Quinns, but the note confesses to hiding the money in an off-shore account. Gave an exact amount—a million and a half. The note begs forgiveness for his sins…doesn’t sound like the Luciano I knew and….” Griffin pointed to the computer. “Going to take it back to the lab. It’s frozen. Can’t get into it to see if he typed it or if it was sent from another source. Odd sort of emblem flashing on the screen saver…”

  Tightening his gloves around his fingers, Waters walked over to the table and opened the laptop. “Damn.”

  He turned the screen around for Brophy. A fire emblem flashed intermittently. He had seen the fire emblem before…on Waters’s computer…the one that had been fried by the virus.

  * * * *

  The phone rang and rang. Cameron fumbled to unlock the door to her apartment, bogged down with a grocery bag under her arm. Dropping the bag on the recliner, she grabbed the phone only to answer dead air. She had thought it may have been Meghan returning her calls. Foolish thought—Meghan never had called the house phone. More than likely it would have been someone from the press.