“About sixty a year, about five a month, on average. Right?”
“Yeah?”
“And of sixty per year, how many would you say are pretty cut and dried? Jilted lover goes off? Parent starts shooting over a custody battle? Vehicular homicide? Drug related, gang related?”
“Got to be damn near all of them I would think. Maybe five times a year we have a body show up and we have no idea how it got there.”
The Chief took three files from atop his desk and tossed them in front of Beckett. “We’ve had three in the last three days. Brockler, Wilbanks, and last night we added Pickard to the list.”
Beckett reached out and slid the top folder from the stack. “Pickard? Should I know who that is?”
“Up and coming young reporter over at The Globe. Her body was found by cleaning personnel early this morning.”
Beckett thumbed through the crime scene photos, wincing. “These look like she bled out. What’d they do, inject her with Ebola?”
“All we know is sometime around ten o’clock she received a flower delivery. That was all anybody knew until she was found dead this morning.”
“This is The Boston Globe,” Meeks said. “Don’t they have cameras, security, something, around there?”
The Chief shook his head. “No cameras, it’s an office not a prison.
“They have a night guardsman, but he doesn’t remember much of anything. Said the delivery man came in, asked where he could find her, and went on his way.”
“Guy must have gotten a good look at him though, right?” Beckett asked.
“Mahorn and Haney are working the case, their notes are right there. Said all the guy could give them was average height, average weight, average hair and face, seemed like a bit of a fruit cake.”
“A fruit cake?” Beckett asked.
“Said he talked real high and walked like a princess. Otherwise, he had nothing.”
Beckett flipped through the folder again and looked up at the Chief. “So what does this have to do with us? Why’d you call us down here?”
A thin, humorless smile grew across the Chief’s face. “I know I told you to work the Wilbanks case, but I want you working these too. Three murders in as many days, all without a single clue left behind. No witnesses, no motive, no nothing.
“Three perfect murders.”
Beckett leaned back, crossed his right ankle to his left knee and pondered the notion for a minute.
“Right now we’re looking at a chemist, a Congressman, and a reporter. Three different locations, three different vocations, three different age ranges,” Meeks said. “I’m not seeing the connection Chief.”
“The perfect crimes are the connection,” Beckett said. “The victims may not all be linked, but it sure looks like the killer’s are.”
The Chief stood from behind his desk and walked around behind Meeks and Beckett. He grabbed his coat from the hook on the back of the door and said, “And that’s why you’ve got your own parking spot. I’ll see you two tomorrow.”
Beckett and Meeks sat in silence as the Chief’s footsteps grew fainter in the empty building. When no longer audible, they heard the door to the parking lot open and a few moments later swing shut.
“What you thinking?” Meeks asked
Beckett kept his gaze focused on nothing in particular, trying to formulate what he knew into a working hypothesis. “We’ve got a chemist, a reporter and a Congressman.”
“And?”
“And I’m thinking if there is a common thread, it’s got to start with the Congressman.”
“Why’s that? He wasn’t the first one killed, shouldn’t we start by looking at Brockler?”
Beckett shook his head side to side, the movement slow and methodical. “We should start with the biggest one. Odds are if there’s a thread between them, it’s there.”
Meeks considered the notion for a moment. “Yeah, but how we going to do that? We just found out our biggest connection there is nailing his wife.”
“That might not be our biggest connection,” Beckett said. “At least not for what we need.”
Meeks leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “What are you thinking?”
“I think it’s time we go talk to Helen Graham.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Beckett and Meeks stood outside the Congressional office of Keller Wilbanks and finished the last of their morning coffee. The building was just feet away from the Charles River, a few blocks from the Esplanade. It was made entirely of dark brick, with wrought iron cages over most of the windows, and held an ominous feeling about it.
“Not exactly what I was expecting. You?” Meeks asked, tilting back his Dunkin Donuts cup before tossing it into a garbage can along the street.
“Didn’t have any expectations on the matter,” Beckett replied. “This isn’t his actual office, just his field office when he’s here in Boston.”
“Which from the sound of it, is pretty much all the time.”
“Which makes it even more important that he has a less ostentatious home base. If he has a palace here, people will know he’s neglecting Washington and taking advantage. He keeps a low profile in a joint like this, people assume he’s off doing what’s expected of him.”
Beckett finished his coffee and tossed it into the can. “Well, let’s do this.”
The both of them walked up the front steps and pulled the doors open, expecting to find a subdued scene before them.
Instead, as soon as the doors parted a torrent of noise and activity burst out at them. Phones rang from several desks and people ran back and forth. Piles of posters and billboards were printed and standing everywhere along with stacks of clipboards and papers.
A young girl ran by the front door and Beckett called, “Excuse me, can you tell me where to find Helen Graham?”
The girl continued moving and said, “Who?” while holding a hand to her ear.
“Helen Graham!” Beckett shouted.
The girl turned so she was facing them, but continued moving away. She shot a hand to the second story railing and turned to continue on her way.
“What the hell is this?” Meeks asked as they navigated the melee and ascended the old wooden stairwell bisecting the space. “Don’t they know the guy is dead?”
Beckett shook his head, but said nothing.
They reached the landing for the second floor and turned in the direction the young girl had pointed.
It was apparent within seconds who she had been pointing at.
A middle aged woman stood in the middle of several younger workers, giving directions and motioning with her hands. She wore a black business suit with the jacket unbuttoned and an ivory blouse underneath. Her hair was pinned back in an expensive coif and her makeup was flawless.
A very striking woman, especially while standing in the group of young folks all dressed in jeans and looking fresh out of bed.
As they approached the group departed and the woman turned to face them. “You must be detective Beckett and Meeks.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Beckett said, flashing his badge.
“Helen Graham, and please, no ma’am,” she said, holding up a hand for effect. “I am already ten-to-fifteen years older than most of the people in this building. I don’t need it from you too.”
“Apologies,” Beckett said.
Once more she waved her hand, brushing off the comment. “I was actually expecting you yesterday. Please, come in.”
She led them into a large and airy office, with a large mahogany desk and several chairs sitting around it. Bookshelves lined the walls and were piled high with stacks of books and papers.
Graham took a seat behind the desk with Meeks and Beckett across from her and said, “So, how can I help you gentlemen?”
Beckett cast a glance out the open door and said, “For starters, what is all this?”
Graham raised her eyebrows and tilted her head to the side to see past him and into the hallway.
�
��Keller’s passing left an open seat in Congress. Because this was only the first year in his term, a special election must be held to fill the seat. We’ve kind of become the unofficial campaign headquarters for the candidate the Democrats would like to see take his place.”
Beckett removed his wire bound notebook and said, “Is there a definitive hierarchy on this kind of thing? Everybody knows that if one person goes down who the next in line will be?”
Smiling, Graham shook her head. “No Mr. Beckett, nothing of the sort. I know you see an opening for something of a conspiracy theory, but that’s not the case.
“Keller was a young man and showed no signs of leaving any time soon. The Democrats wanted him to wield more power from his position, but they were by no means looking to replace him.”
“I see.”
“Besides, they practically had to beg, borrow and steal to get another candidate to step up behind him. Everybody suspects that incident at the lake was less sincere than the papers have spun it. There’s more than a little concern with jumping into that post right now.”
“Why do you think that is? Does somebody know something? Are there rumors of foul play circulating?”
“Not that I know of, though little things like your being here now kind of puts the writing on the wall. An accidental drowning doesn’t usually call for teams of detective to still be pounding the pavement days later.”
“Touché,” Beckett agreed. He paused for a moment and said, “I guess we’ve gotten ahead of ourselves here. Can you start by explaining to me your role, both individually and as an office?”
“Certainly,” Graham said. “I served as Chief of Staff for Keller, which most of the time was more or less a glorified secretary. All appointments went through me, I was in charge of his date book, appearances, making sure he was fully briefed on items of importance. It was my job to remember every name, date and issue that this office saw.
“We as an office here basically monitored the home front, so to speak. We were perpetually canvassing constituents seeing what they felt was important, what they felt needed more attention, their general levels of satisfaction with the office, everything.
“Of course, as you can see, those days are now past.”
Beckett nodded. “I see. What can you tell me about Mr. Wilbanks personally? What kind of man was he? Did he have many enemies?”
A wistful smile crossed Graham’s face.
“Keller Wilbanks is someone I always jokingly referred to as Ox, short for oxymoron. He was born into wealth and polish, but was simple minded and down to earth. He held a position of extreme power, yet was as humble as a beggar on the street. Very gifted painter and pianist, yet preferred to spend his free time fishing.
“In all the time I knew him, never have I heard a bad thing said about him. Not by anybody that actually knew him anyway. The media always wanted to vilify him, paint him as a poor Congressman, but that wasn’t the case.”
“Can you tell me where this reputation as being a poor Congressman stemmed from?” Beckett asked. “He was perpetually ranked near the bottom of the Congressional power rankings, there has to be some grain of truth to it.”
“There is and there isn’t. Keller served on several committees and was a loyal member of the Democratic Party. At the same time though, he refused to play the pandering game of Washington politics. That’s part of the reason he spent so much time here.
“Keller was a man of principal and he didn’t believe in voting for things he was opposed to just to win favors. Instead, he would simply stay away from the voting altogether. He felt that was the best strategy because it didn’t compromise his morals and it didn’t create enemies.”
Beckett made another note and glanced over at Meeks. He pondered his next question for several moments before plunging straight ahead.
“This may seem a little out-of-left-field, but can I ask you about Mr. Wilbanks personal life?”
Graham raised her head back slightly and smirked. “So you found out his wife’s a tramp, huh?”
The words snapped Beckett’s head back an inch in surprise. “That well known, huh?”
“Another way Keller was an oxymoron,” Graham said. “He loved that woman very much, despite the fact that she didn’t feel the same for him. I guess I can’t honestly say she was a tramp though.
“As far as I know, in all that time it was only the one man.”
Beckett ran his tongue over his lips and said, “The one man? And you suspect Mr. Wilbanks knew? This wasn’t a case of his just finding out and Ames taking him down because of it?”
“I wouldn’t think so. She and the Sheriff grew up together, were high school sweethearts. I think everyone knew they were sweet on each other and got together quite often.
“Besides, I can’t ever see Keller making a scene about it to the point that it would require action on her part.”
The air was gone from Beckett’s lungs as he cast another glance at Meeks. He had been so certain that angle was going to lead him somewhere, but it had served as nothing more than a mirage.
A glimmer of hope in the distance that held no real substance.
Wilbanks knew his wife was cheating and didn’t care.
The pager buzzed to life and Beckett pulled it from his belt. He read the words twice over and said without looking up, “Ms. Graham, we appreciate you meeting with us.”
“My pleasure,” she said, stood and shook both their hands. “Judging by your reaction though, I fear I didn’t have the answers you were looking for.”
“Not necessarily. You told us we’ve been looking in the wrong place, and sometimes that can be just as important.”
“Very true,” Graham said. “Good luck gentlemen.”
Beckett and Meeks turned to leave and as they reached the door, Beckett turned, “Did Keller, I mean did Mr. Wilbanks, ever have transgressions of his own?”
Graham responded with a sad smile. “No, none at all. Keller Wilbanks was too good a man for that.”
Beckett nodded and left the building without another word.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Meeks was already getting into the car as Beckett burst out the front door and took the steps two at a time. He jogged down the sidewalk to the car and said, “Storrow to 93 North to 225 West as fast as you can get us there.”
“What the hell did that page say?” Meeks asked as he slid behind the wheel and started the car. He turned the headlight flashers on high and sped through the mid-morning traffic.
Beckett shook his head and flipped open his cell phone. He hit the first speed dial and muttered, “Come on, come on,” as it rang.
“It’s Beckett, can I get the Chief please?” he asked, then turned to Meeks. “We’ve got another body, this one’s in Billerica.”
“Billerica? That’s twenty miles from here, how do we know this is one of ours?”
Beckett started to answer but changed gears mid-sentence and said, “Chief! What’s going on over there?”
He flipped the phone to speaker and the Chief’s graveled voice spilled into the car. “Another body was found this morning out in Billerica. Call just came in a few minutes ago, as yet no definitive ID.”
“Who made the call?” Beckett asked.
“Victim was part of a grocery delivery service through WIC. This morning they arrived to deliver groceries and when nobody came to the door, they went around back to try the kitchen. Found the body out back with a rope around her neck.
“From the sound of things, she’d been there for some time.”
“Shit, shit, shit,” Beckett muttered. “We know anything else yet?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re certain it’s one of ours though?”
“How could it not be? They say the body’s been dead a good while, probably puts time of death at some time yesterday. That’s four consecutive days with a mysterious death. You do the math.”
Beckett exhaled through his nose. “We’re on 93 now, should be there in fif
teen minutes or so.”
“I’ve asked the Billerica police to hold off on touching anything until you arrive. This is probably another non-existent crime scene, but you can at least take a look.”
Beckett flipped the phone shut and stared at it for a moment, then balled his hand into a fist and slammed it into the dashboard. “We were so damn worried about Wilbanks wife, we let another one get by us!”
He pulled his notebook from his pocket and stared down at his notes, flipping through everything he had written. He kept his head down for fifteen minutes, pouring over every word he’d written.
“This must be it,” Meeks said, jerking Beckett’s attention up as they rounded into the Peaceful Glen community. A police cruiser sat on the corner where they turned and several more were clustered at the end of the street.
Meeks eased the Crown Vic up behind the mass of black-and-whites and the two men hit the ground moving quick. They ignored the stares of the officers at the front of the house and walked around to the back yard.
It was a scene free of activity, the only sign of any recent presence being a brown bag of groceries lying on its side with contents spilling out onto the ground.
In the middle of the yard lay a small white woman with thick brown hair. Across her frail body she wore a light sundress that was badly stained and her eyes stared up at nothing.
Her body was void of color and rigid. Judging by the damage to her limbs and face, some smaller creatures had already been by to feast.
Around her neck was a noose, the end of it looped up over the nearest branch. The end of it was attached to a stake that had pulled itself from the earth and swung free a few feet off the ground.
“Sweet Jesus,” Meeks muttered, taking a step forward.
Beckett extended a hand to stop him and said, “Just give me a minute first.”
One foot at a time he stepped out into the yard and circled the body, taking in everything around him. He remained silent for ten long minutes as Meeks stood by, a few of the Billerica police wandering in to watch.
When Beckett was through with the area he leaned over the body and examined it as well. He remained knelt over her for several minutes then whispered, “I am so sorry,” before reaching out and sliding her eyelids closed.
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