The Society

by Michael Palmer

  “I’m absolutely exhausted all the time,” Kristine said, “if that’s what you mean by ‘all right.’ My husband has a photo of me pinned to the pillow so he can remember what I look like.”

  “Believe me, if I had a husband, he’d have a photo pinned up, too. It’s like be careful what you wish for. So, what’s up?”

  “You know I’m attached to the Norfolk barracks.”

  Norfolk County was south of Middlesex, Patty’s unit.

  “I had heard that, yes.”

  “Well, I’m calling you from a crime scene in Dover. A man named Cyrill Davenport was in his Cadillac when it blew up in the driveway of his mansion. The bomb squad says someone wired his car. He is—was—the CEO of Unity Comprehensive Health.”

  Patty sucked in a jet of air. Davenport would be the third managed-care executive in the area to be murdered in the last eight weeks. The first, Ben Morales, was shot—executed would be a more appropriate word—outside his home in Lexington. One bullet, mid-forehead, fired by a .357 of some sort. No witnesses. Patty was the investigating officer initially assigned to head the investigation. It was her third murder case, but the first in which the killer wasn’t immediately known.

  The second managed-care executive, Marcia Rising, had been gunned down in the secured parking lot of her guarded HMO office building, also in Middlesex County—this time with a nine-millimeter. Once again there were no witnesses. The similarities between the two deaths brought greatly increased interest and concern all the way up the state police chain of command, from Patty’s immediate boss, Detective Lieutenant Jack Court, through the detective captain, the major, and finally to Colonel Cal Carver, and Carver’s right-hand man, Lieutenant Colonel Tommy Moriarity, Patty’s father.

  Immediately following the Rising murder, with Tommy Moriarity’s tacit blessing, Wayne Brasco, a long-time detective and close compadre of Lieutenant Court in the Good Ol’ Boy Club, was assigned to take over for Patty and oversee the investigation. Patty would continue to work with him, but Brasco, in every sense of the term, would be The Man. While Patty was displeased with what she saw as an undeserved demotion, she was even more pained by the selection of Brasco, for whom she had no respect as a cop and whom she had already warned more than once to stop calling her Sweetcakes, Babe, and the like.

  The phone tucked between her chin and shoulder, Patty was already out of bed snatching clothes from her bureau and closet.

  “Kristine, it’s great of you to call me so quickly. I’ll get in touch with Wayne Brasco, my partner on this one, and we’ll be out there in just a little while. I guess you know this case is number three.”

  “I do, but don’t bother calling Brasco.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’s already here. Apparently someone from Norfolk called him, because he’s been here almost from the beginning, glad-handing the guys like this was some sort of frat party and ignoring every part of me except for my breasts. A couple of minutes ago, he jokingly let slip that you were also on the Middlesex cases with him—something about your being assigned to work with him as a favor to your father.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “You don’t have to tell me. I was with you at the academy.”

  “Thanks. I’m really upset that Brasco didn’t call me.”

  “The man’s a cartoon. I don’t know how you put up with him. He’s like something from the fifties.”

  In a tribute to her flexibility and fitness, Patty had brushed out her hair (cut short since a druggie seized a fistful of the longer version during an arrest), pulled on underwear, socks, a pair of slacks, and a dark blouse, buttoned it up and tucked it in all without dislodging the phone.

  “Tell me something,” she asked as she slid on her belt, tightened it, and finished things off with a navy blue sweater vest. “Have you guys found an envelope yet?”

  “Not that I know of, but mostly it’s been the lab people so far. We’ll get our shot in a little while.”

  “I’ll be out as soon as I can.”

  “Great.”

  “And, Kristine, thanks again.”

  “I just hope I’m nearby to see Brasco’s face when you show up.”

  “You may have to pull my fist out of it first.”

  “Now, that would be my pleasure.”

  Lost in thoughts of the managed-care murders and the disdain of Wayne Brasco, Patty was half a block past Serenity Lane before she realized she had missed the turn. No surprise. Driving was an instant hypnotic for her, and after just a few minutes on the road she was invariably lost in something—classical or country music or, more often, a case. She swung her three-year-old Camaro, a rally-red Z28, into a tight U, then paused by the curb to compose herself and take in a few more seconds of Beethoven’s Sixth.

  Breathe in . . . breathe out.

  The exercise failed to lessen the stabbing pain caused by her nails digging into her palms. There was nothing to be gained by making a scene here with Brasco, she cautioned herself. Some kind of response to his snub was most definitely called for, but timing was everything. She just had to watch for the right moment and seize it.

  A young uniformed policeman, stationed halfway down Serenity Lane, checked Patty’s ID, told her she was driving a really neat car, then motioned her past. The crime scene, cordoned off by yellow police tape and several sawhorses, was dramatic. Two fire engines, half a dozen cruisers, vans from the bomb squad and forensics, and an ambulance were still parked on the street. Beyond them, a dozen or so people—local cops, detectives, and crime-scene investigators—watched and waited as the laboratory people finished their work. Well off to Patty’s right, Kristine Zurowski and another officer were ascending the front walk to a Greek-revival-style mansion that Patty found repugnantly ostentatious. Ahead of her was a more tasteful but no less vast colonial with all of the windows shattered. The pungent smells of explosive and fuel still permeated the air.

  Welcome to the Davenports’.

  Patty flashed her shield at one more inquiring officer, then ducked beneath the yellow tape. The front yard was illuminated by hazy morning light plus a series of spots. In addition to the burned and twisted metal of Cyrill Davenport’s car, Patty could make out significant segments of the man himself, including an elbow and nearly intact head. She stared skyward for half a minute before she was composed and ready to make her way across to Detective Lieutenant Wayne Brasco.

  Brasco, a thick, stubby, unlit cigar clenched in his teeth, was chatting with two other men, still waiting for the green light to begin their work. He was a bull-necked specimen with a slightly simian face, a perpetual five-o’clock shadow, and hairy, tattooed forearms. A fog of cologne and cigar invariably hung around him, occasionally augmented by beer. While there were those who, out of earshot, derided Brasco’s intelligence, Patty knew better than to underestimate his street smarts or his shrewdness. He wore a wedding ring and as far as she knew had a wife, but that didn’t stop him from boasting of the “deals” he had made with the “chicks” he had arrested.

  A shadow of surprise crossed Brasco’s face as she approached, dispelled almost immediately by a broad grin.

  “Hey, if it isn’t my gal Friday. Guys, meet the legendary Patty Moriarity, Tommy’s kid.”

  Patty shook hands with the men from Norfolk, Corbin and Brown, both of whom seemed at first glance to be more enlightened than her partner.

  “Thanks for calling me, Wayne,” she said.

  He shrugged matter-of-factly and said, “I was going to.”

  “Bomb squad say anything yet?”

  “Nope, but what can they say? The dude was blown to smithereens, and it wasn’t an accident. Ba-da-bing, ba-da-boom. Case closed.”

  Brasco laughed at his own attempt at flip humor. Patty was pleased when neither of the other two officers joined in.

  “Well, for those of us not as knowledgeable about explosives as you are,” she said acidly, “there may be one or two things we can learn.”

  Had Brasco
ever bothered to spend time talking with her, or even looking through her file, he might have learned that through taking several courses, Patty was making herself something of an expert on ordnance and explosives.

  “Well, that’s one of them coming over here right now,” Brasco replied, an irritated edge appearing in his voice. “You can ask yourself.”

  A baby-faced officer who could easily have passed for Opie on The Andy Griffith Show approached the quartet and was introduced to Patty by Corbin as Chipper Dawes.

  “Well, we’re all done,” Dawes said.

  “Thanks,” the Norfolk detective replied. “You’ll get us a report as soon as possible?”

  “No problem.”

  “So what do you think?” Patty asked. “Semtex?”

  Dawes looked at her with surprise and undisguised respect.

  “As a matter of fact, yes,” he said. “We’re fairly certain of that. Probably wrapped around the drive shaft, just behind the transmission.”

  “So what’s this Semtex all about?” Brown asked, angling his rotund body, purposefully or not, so that Brasco actually had to step to his left and forward to insert himself back in the ring of conversation.

  “The terrorist’s friend, we call it,” Dawes explained. “Plastique. Similar to C-4. It can be molded into almost any shape and worked into almost any space. Forty pounds or less flattened the American embassy in Kenya.”

  Patty sensed Brasco’s discomfort and bore in.

  “The IRA is supposed to have more than three tons of the stuff. With a little knowledge, it’s a cinch to make. Have you found the detonator?”

  “No. I’m going to stick around for a while longer to look, but I have my doubts we will.”

  “So,” Patty continued, now on a roll, “if the Semtex was wrapped around the drive shaft, the detonator was possibly some sort of centrifugal fuse that went off when it reached enough RPMs.”

  “You’re exactly right, Sergeant,” Dawes said. “Two weights come together and form a contact that sends a small electrical impulse to the blasting cap, and ka-boom. There are other ways the Semtex could have been detonated, but this is what we think at the moment.”

  Lost in thought, Patty toed the ground and glanced down. A charred lump—probably a portion of a leg with bone protruding out—lay on the lawn just a few feet away. At that instant, two lab people scurried over, labeled it, marked the location on a chart, and dropped it into a large plastic evidence Baggie.

  “Chipper,” she asked, “do you think this could possibly have been the work of an amateur—someone who’s just angry at managed-care executives because of something a managed-care company did that hurt them or maybe killed a loved one?”

  “Not really,” Dawes replied. “Whoever did this knew what they were doing. It may not look it, but blowing up a car in a driveway without substantially damaging the house twenty feet away is not easy.”

  “This woman’s a keeper,” Corbin said. He was an imposingly tall and muscular black man with dark, intelligent eyes, and Patty wondered what life would have been like had someone like him been assigned to her case. “You’d best stick pretty close to her, Wayne. She’ll make you look smart.”

  Brasco merely shrugged. His eyes were flint. Even in the dim light Patty could see him flush. She felt like a guerrilla, making quick, annoying strikes at the enemy. Next time maybe you’ll call me.

  “There’s more evidence this guy was a pro,” Brown added. “I interviewed Davenport’s wife. She didn’t see or hear anything before the explosion, but she also admits to having had a good deal to drink last night—and from the looks of her, I would bet most nights before that. However, she insists that her husband’s Cadillac was in the garage and the electronic door was closed. That means someone had to get the door open without disturbing anyone, then get through the security system of the car and get it out onto the driveway, then set the explosive.”

  “So maybe whoever wanted revenge hired a pro,” Dawes ventured, excited to be one of the gang of detectives.

  “Or maybe he was a pro to begin with,” Patty tried, testing the notion out on herself as much as the others. “You know, some HMO doctor or managed-care company just happened to do something to upset the wrong person—a professional killer.” She surveyed the scene again, then thanked Dawes and turned to the Norfolk men, pointedly ignoring Brasco, who looked something like the loser in a round of musical chairs. “Lieutenant Corbin,” she said, “we need to get inside the garage.”

  “The three of us were already there briefly before you arrived. As soon as the crime-scene people are done, we’ll be opening the door.”

  “We can wait if you insist, but I’d rather not. Lieutenant, as you know, this is the third death in what is almost certainly the work of a serial killer.”

  “Yes, I’m well aware of that.”

  “Well, did Wayne tell you about the letters?”

  “The what?”

  One glance at Brasco told Patty she had struck another nerve. If the killer had once again left alphabet letters about, as he had in the first two cases, Brasco clearly wanted to be the one to discover them. Immediately, he inserted himself between her and the Norfolk detectives.

  “Yes, Patty, thanks for bringing it up,” he said confidently, clearing the insincerity from his throat. “I was waiting to get clearance from Lieutenant Court to tell you two about the letters when Patty arrived. He hasn’t called back yet, but I assume Jack won’t have any problem with sharing the information with you.”

  “That’d be nice of him,” Corbin said, with thinly disguised sarcasm.

  “We’ve kept this information internal in case we needed it,” Brasco went on.

  “We understand.”

  “Well, in each of the other cases, the killer has left a calling card—two, in fact. Each of the first two victims had an envelope alongside them. The first one contained the letters E and R, and the second one the letters R and T. Both envelopes and all the letters were clean. Obviously, the killer couldn’t put an envelope in the car he was about to blow up, so I strongly suspect something is in the garage.”

  You wouldn’t suspect your knees were bare if you had forgotten your pants, Patty thought savagely.

  “What about the garage?”

  The man behind the query, tall and straight, looking as distinguished as any diplomat, wore the full uniform of a lieutenant colonel, complete with a multitiered rainbow of decorations above his left breast. At the sight of him, Brasco stiffened. Corbin extended his hand.

  “Colonel,” he said.

  “Roosevelt,” Tommy Moriarity replied. “Good to see you again. It’s been a while since that forensics conference in Boston.”

  Corbin introduced Brown to the second in command of the state police force.

  Patty hesitated, gauging the situation to determine the greeting the man would like from her. Finally, she reached out and took his hand in both of hers.

  “Hi, Colonel,” she said. “I’m glad to see you.”

  At six-three, Moriarity was nearly a head taller than his daughter. For the briefest moment it looked to Patty as if he was going to bend down to embrace her, or kiss her on the cheek. Then he simply smiled the creased, weathered smile she loved so much, and returned the greeting.

  “You know Wayne Brasco?” she asked.

  “Of course. Your wife and family okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Margo, isn’t it?”

  Patty knew her father might have only met Brasco’s wife once, possibly years ago. She wasn’t the least surprised that he remembered her—he remembered everyone.

  “Yes, sir, Margo. She’s doing great.”

  “So?”

  Although the question was directed more or less to the group, Brasco was not about to pass up the opportunity to impress the colonel.

  “So, it’s another managed-care executive,” he said. “The other two looked like professional hits. So does this one. Probably Semtex, we’re guessing. I just told Corbin a
nd Brown here about the alphabet letters we found with the other two victims. It’s my guess there must be letters in the garage.”

  Patty stifled a groan.

  “Roosevelt,” Moriarity said, “do you think you could check with the crime-scene people and get us permission to take a look in there?”

  “No problem.”

  Moments later, the detective returned and indicated that so long as they were careful, they could enter the garage through the kitchen of the house. Just leave the garage door alone until someone could determine how it might have been opened and closed by the killer without the electronic code and without anyone knowing. Stepping around and between grisly remnants of Cyrill Davenport, they entered the house through the front door.

  Using a handkerchief, Patty gently opened the door from the rear hallway to the garage. Then she extracted a slim, powerful flashlight from her purse, located the light switch, and flicked it on with a pen.

  It took just three minutes of searching before Tommy Moriarity said, “Well, Lieutenant, it looks as if you are absolutely right.”

  He indicated a heavy metal rake, tines propped up against the back wall. Impaled on the tine at each end of the row was a three-inch white square that looked as if it was cut from a file card. Meticulously, artistically printed on one card was the block letter B, and on the other, an E. Careful to touch nothing, the four of them peered at the finding as Patty further illuminated it with her light.

  “E, R, R, T, B, E,” she said softly.

  “Heartbeat?” Corbin offered.

  “Possible,” Patty replied. “Maybe it’s parts of several words in a quote.”

  They searched the garage for another five minutes, but found nothing unusual or out of place. Back outside on the driveway, Moriarity encouraged Corbin and Brasco to keep him informed and to contact him if there was anything he could help them with, including passage around any bureaucratic roadblocks to their investigation. Then he motioned Patty to a spot on the lawn where the two of them could talk unheard.