by Lisa Gardner
D.D. crouched down, obediently peered at the spatter. True enough, half the droplets seemed to spray forward, the other half sprayed back, and yes, there were two distinct smear tracks, as if two items had been dragged through the bloody mess.
“He caught her first in the bedroom,” the man was saying conversationally. “Struck the first blow. She got around him, though, and ran this way. Unfortunately, she didn’t make it.”
“He stabbed her again?” D.D. asked, frowning.
“No. That’d give us spray arcing across the wall as well as castoff, most likely on the ceiling, depending on the direction of the blow. He just grabbed her. By the hair maybe. Then dragged her to the back of the house, with the others, where he finished her off. See, first pattern of droplets are from her running toward the door. Second set is from her traveling the opposite direction. While the smears—”
“Heels of her feet,” D.D. murmured.
“Yep. Helluva thing to do to your own stepdaughter.” The man finished up his sketch, stuck out his hand. “You must be Sergeant Warren. Alex Wilson. I’m Phil’s shadow for a month.”
D.D. glanced at Phil; he shrugged. “True, just heard it myself about thirty minutes ago. You know how it is: We’re always the last to know.”
D.D. took the man’s hand, but she was frowning. “And your affiliation is …?”
“Detective, back in the day. ’Bout eight years ago, I traded in fieldwork for teaching at the Academy. Been feeling a little rusty, however, so I asked permission to shadow a detective off and on for a month. Eight years is a long time in the biz. Between all the advancements in digital photography and digital fingerprinting, I’m starting to feel like a walking, talking dinosaur.”
“You worked for the BPD eight years ago?”
“Nope. Worked out of Amherst. Why?”
“Just making conversation.” D.D. continued to study the man. She pegged his age for early forties, which was uncomfortably close to her own, given that he’d just referred to himself as a dinosaur. He wasn’t too tall, maybe five eleven, still relatively trim. His short dark hair was liberally sprinkled with silver, and his blue eyes crinkled at the corners when he frowned. A working man’s George Clooney. She could appreciate that.
So, Alex Wilson from Amherst. She’d have to ask around.
“All right, Professor. What else do you have to show us?”
“I think it started with the wife.” Alex led them down the hallway, keeping to one side in order to avoid the blood trail. “Maybe they started arguing at dinner, dunno. But he followed her into the bedroom, got her from behind. This one was quick. One hard blow, severing the spinal column at the base of the skull. Even if she lived long enough to scream, the blow would’ve paralyzed her. She went down on her knees, her heart stopping before she bled out.”
Alex passed through a doorway on the right. D.D. found herself in a fairly large bedroom furnished with a king-size mattress and two mismatched dressers that looked as if they’d been picked up at a rummage sale. The bed was topped with an old flowered quilt. Two pink-colored sheets served as curtains over the windows.
On top of the largest dresser sat an assortment of framed photos, including an eight-by-ten of a smiling sandy-haired bride and grinning dark-haired groom. On the floor in front of the dresser was a conspicuously large dark stain covering at least a dozen floorboards. What was left of the sandy-haired bride, presumably.
“Where’s the body?”
“You’ll see,” Alex said. He led them back into the hall, stepped gingerly over the blood spatter and into the next bedroom. This one was smaller and painted a rich blue. Posters of Tom Brady peppered one wall, while rows of shelving containing signed footballs and various sports trophies covered the others.
To the right, a twin mattress bore a Patriots-themed comforter. Directly ahead stood a card table that appeared to serve as a desk, with a metal chair half pushed back. Beside the chair, on the floor, loomed another dark stain.
“Oldest son,” Alex supplied. “Maybe he heard the disturbance in his parents’ room. Stood up to take a look. To judge from the trophies, the kid’s athletic and he’s a decent size for his age. After the mom, the next logical threat. So the subject entered the room quickly and decisively. Kid’s probably still thinking, What the hell? when the subject catches him in the side, slicing between the ribs, straight into the heart.”
“Single blow again?” D.D. asked sharply.
“These two, yes.”
“First in the back of the neck, then between the ribs. I’m thinking the subject has had some training,” she said.
“I’m guessing special forces. Stabbing’s messy business, but this guy has it down to a science.”
“All right,” D.D. said briskly. “Mom’s down. Oldest son is down. Now what?”
“Got two left. Twelve-year-old girl, nine-year-old boy. Probably hoped to take them one at a time, but turns out both of them are in her room.”
Alex vacated the blue room and they proceeded single file down the hallway again. This time the blood spatter turned, leading them through a doorway into a bright pink room bearing purple window valances and half a dozen posters of Hannah Montana and the Jonas Brothers.
“Now things are a little more complicated here, as you can see.” Alex gestured to the floor, which was a dizzying array of spray droplets, blood pools, and yellow evidence placards. “I’m guessing, purely to judge by the condition of the bodies, that he got the boy first.”
“Why the boy?”
“Single mortal wound. Look at the bed.”
D.D. belatedly realized the purple comforter wasn’t really purple. It used to be a dark pink, the original color now skewed by another sizable pool of blood, with a matching spray pattern arcing across the opposite wall.
“The kids knew,” Alex said, more softly now, less academic. “No closets in the room. So they huddled in the corner. Brother and sister together, taking a last stand. The subject came in. He must’ve been a sight by then. Covered in back spray from hammering down the first death blow, let alone the second. Kids stood shoulder to shoulder, next to the bed.
“Boy broke first, that’s my guess,” Alex continued. “Tried to get around the subject by springing up onto the bed. Didn’t work. Subject sliced open the kid’s throat as the boy attempted to bolt past. Game over. Girl’s probably screaming by then. But she doesn’t freeze, which is interesting. Most people facing such a scene …”
Alex’s voice faded, then he cleared his throat, continued on: “The girl runs. Takes advantage of her own brother’s death to sprint for the front door. Of all of them, she’s the only one who gets a chance. He wounds her. Right here.” Alex pointed with his pencil to a round smeared spot. “Maybe the subject was aiming for her neck, but got her shoulder instead. The blow knocked her off balance, hence smudge here and smudge there, probably made by her feet, but she keeps on trucking, God bless her.
“Gets halfway down that hallway, running the race of her life. And then—”
“He catches her,” D.D. fills in, then pauses. “But doesn’t kill her? Drags her away?”
Alex shrugged. “Who knows? She’s the last one left and he has her incapacitated. Maybe he realized he didn’t have to rush. Or maybe he just wanted her to suffer a little more. She got away. That pissed him off.”
“Sexual assault?” D.D. asked.
“Ask the ME. Clothing is intact. Nothing obvious.”
“You think she’s the stepdaughter?”
“Spitting image of the mom, doesn’t look a thing like the dad.”
“So maybe his goal was sexual in nature. Was attracted to her, wanted her for himself….”
Alex looked at her.
“Come on, I’ll show you the rest.”
The back of the house opened onto a screened-in porch. Kind of place to hang out during the mosquito-filled summer evenings. This area obviously hadn’t been included in the renovations; several screens were ripped, the linoleum floor peeled back at
the seams. But that was okay. The ripped floor was now covered in blood, while the lone piece of furniture, a broken-down futon, had, according to Alex, become the resting place of an entire family.
“He laid them out side by side. First the mom, then the oldest son, then the daughter, then the youngest son.”
Alex pointed toward the blood-soaked mattress, currently buzzing with flies drawn to the scent of fresh kill.
“ME has the bodies?” D.D. asked.
“Yeah. Given the heat and fly activity, body removal was a priority.”
“You’re saying the daughter was killed back here, though?”
“On the futon, I think. ME will have to analyze, but it looks like he brought her back here, then strangled her—manual asphyxiation. Patrick’s a big guy. It wouldn’t have taken him that long.”
“Then he moved all the other bodies?”
“I’m guessing in that order. He’d want her taken care of first, then he’d tend to housekeeping.”
D.D. frowned, not liking it. “You’re saying the subject carried three bodies through the house to this one room. Why don’t we see more blood? Seems like we should see trails of it everywhere.”
Alex shrugged. “ME can tell you more, but I’m guessing the bodies had already bled out. Kept the process clean.”
D.D. frowned. “I don’t get it. We’re talking the dad, right? First he slaughters his family person by person, then he brings them together for one last family reunion?”
“I think he was apologizing.”
“Excuse me?”
“If we assume the father did it, then he’s a family annihilator,” Alex stated. “Now, maybe the event started impulsively—got in a fight with the wife and it went too far. Or maybe it didn’t. Maybe this is what he’d planned all along. But think of the nature of a family annihilator: Why do these guys kill?”
D.D. looked at him. “I don’t know. Why do these guys kill?”
“Because they think they’re doing their family a favor.”
“Yet another reason I’m single, now that you mention it.”
Alex smiled wryly. “Times were hard. I bet when we dig deeper, we’ll find the financial picture even bleaker. Maybe they were facing foreclosure, about to be kicked to the curb. The pressure mounts. The father starts thinking he’d be better off dead, but he doesn’t want to hurt his family. That gets him thinking that they’d be better off dead. It’s too cruel to just kill himself. So he’ll do right by them—he’ll kill them all.”
“Shit,” D.D. said, staring down at the blood-churned floor, swatting away another buzzing fly.
“He takes them out one by one. Then he carries each one of them back here and lays them down side by side. Maybe he prays over them then. Or says absolution, or gives them some little speech he’s already prepared in his head. I love you, I only want what’s best for you, I’ll see you soon. Then he picks up the twenty-two and taps one to the forehead.”
“He shot himself?” Phil spoke up. “Pussy.”
“True. Especially given that he didn’t get the job done.”
D.D. did a double take: “Are you saying—”
“Yep. Father’s undergoing surgery now at Mass General. With any luck, they’ll save him. Then we can nail his ass.”
“The father’s still alive,” D.D. murmured, looking at the blood, waving away the hungry flies. She finally smiled. It was a distinctively wolfish expression on her face. “I think we’re gonna have some fun with this after all.”
They were walking back toward the front of the house, past the dining room, when it came to her. She drew up short. Belatedly, Phil and his shadow followed suit.
“Hey, Professor,” she said. “I got a question for you.”
Alex arched a brow, but waited.
“Okay, so father kills the mother, the fourteen-year-old boy, the nine-year-old boy, and the twelve-year-old daughter, then shoots himself in the forehead.”
“Current theory, yes.”
“Based upon blood evidence.”
“Based upon preliminary exam of the blood evidence, yes.”
“It’s an impressive analysis,” she told him. “Very well done. I can tell that you’re hell on wheels in the classroom.”
Alex didn’t say a word, which confirmed that he was as smart as he looked.
“But there’s another major piece of evidence.”
“Which is?”
“The dining room.”
Alex and Phil turned toward the dining room.
Phil asked the question first: “What about the dining room?”
Alex, on the other hand, got it. “Crap,” he said.
“Yeah, it’s always slightly more complicated than we’d like it to be,” D.D. agreed. She looked at Phil. “We got five bodies, right? Four dead, one in critical condition. Five bodies for five family members.”
Phil nodded.
D.D. shrugged. “Then why is the table set for six?”
CHAPTER
FOUR
DANIELLE
You want to know what it means to be a pediatric psych nurse? Welcome to the Pediatric Evaluation Clinic of Boston, otherwise known as PECB. Our unit occupies the top floor of the larger Kirkland Medical Center. We like to believe we have some of the best views in Boston, which is only fair as we serve the toughest citizens.
Thursday night, I sat in the hallway of the pediatric ward observing our newest charge. Her name was Lucy and she’d been admitted this afternoon. We’d had only twenty-four hours to prepare for her arrival, which hadn’t been enough, but we did our best. Most of our kids shared a double room; Lucy had her own. Most of the rooms included two twin beds, bedside tables, and matching wardrobes. Lucy’s room had a mattress and a single blanket, that was it.
We’d learned the hard way that the shatterproof glass on our eighth-story windows didn’t always hold up to an enraged child armed with a twenty-pound nightstand.
Lucy was a primal child. That meant she’d been so severely and continuously abused that her humanity had been stripped from her. She didn’t wear clothes, use silverware, or tend to basic hygiene. She didn’t speak and had never been potty-trained. According to her file, she had spent most of her life in a disconnected freezer unit with bullet holes for ventilation. Her time out of the freezer had been worse than her time in. The result was a nine-year-old girl who existed like a wild animal. And if we weren’t careful, she’d train us to treat her like one.
First hour she was admitted, Lucy greeted our nurse manager by defecating into her own hand, then eating the feces. Twenty minutes later, a milieu counselor—MC—observed her ripping out the insides of her pillow and stuffing it into various orifices. The pillow was removed; Lucy wouldn’t allow us to tend to the stuffing. An hour after that, she scratched open her arm with a fingernail, then drew patterns on the wall with her blood.
First observation of our new charge: Any form of attention seemed to trigger a need to debase herself. If Lucy had an audience, she had to hurt.
By four in the afternoon, we agreed to confine Lucy to her room and assign one staff member to monitor her. Rather than the five-minute check system, where an MC accounts for every child’s whereabouts every five minutes, one staff member would observe Lucy as discreetly as possible, noting every twenty minutes.
Tonight, that was lucky me.
It took until eleven for the kids to settle down. Some were sleeping on mattresses in the well-lit hall; these were the kids who were terrified of the dark. Others could only sleep alone in a pitch-black room. Others still required music or white noise or, for one child, a ticking clock simulating his lost mother’s heartbeat. We set up everyone accordingly.
For Lucy’s first night, I did nothing special. Just sat with my back to her doorway and read stories to the other children. From time to time, I’d catch Lucy’s reflection in the silver half dome mounted in the ceiling above me. The mirrored half domes dotted the broad hallway at strategic intervals—our version of a security system, as th
ey reflected back activities from inside each patient room.
Lucy seemed to be listening to the story. She’d curled up on the floor, waving one hand through the air, the way a cat might study its own paw. If I read faster, her hand moved faster. If I read slower, her rhythm adjusted accordingly.
Then, twenty minutes later, she’d disappeared. In the dome’s distorted reflection, I’d finally spotted her foot sticking out from beneath the mattress. When she didn’t move, I turned around to study her room directly. It appeared that she’d pulled the mattress over her body and had finally gone to sleep. From time to time, her foot would twitch, as if from a dream.
I settled in myself, sitting on the floor with my back against the wall. There were over half a dozen other staff members scattered down the hall. Nighttime in the unit was paperwork time. Gotta catch up while you had the chance.
None of the kids would sleep for long. Some of the more manic ones required food every three hours, though you’d never know it to judge by their skeletal frames. Others just couldn’t sleep.
Nighttime meant old terrors and fresh fears. A subconscious buffet of every evil thing ever done to them. Kids woke up crying. Kids woke up screaming. And some woke up primed for battle. Fight or flight. Not everyone was born to run.
I flipped open the first patient chart, and felt my eyelids already getting heavy. I’d been working a lot lately. More and more shifts. Less and less sleep. I needed to keep busy, especially this time of year.
Four days and counting. Then it would be twenty-five years down, and one more to go. Keep on trucking, the duty of the lone survivor.
I wondered what Lucy would think, if she knew that for years I’d slept tucked beneath a mattress myself.
On my eighteenth birthday, I seduced Sheriff Wayne. I hadn’t started out with a plan. I’d run into him in Boston, three days prior. He’d brought his wife, grown daughter, and two grandkids to the Public Garden to see the Swan Boats. The sun was out, a beautiful spring day where tulips waved and children shrieked as they chased ducks and squirrels across the sprawling green grounds.
