The Dead Room dm-3

by Chris Mooney

  Randy put down his clipboard, his gaze fixed on the raw stitches covering her face. Both he and Mark looked exhausted.

  ‘We thought you could use a hand with the clothes,’ Randy said, ‘so Mark and I came in early.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Darby said. ‘Thank you both. I really appreciate it. Have any of you seen Coop?’

  Randy shook his head. Mark said, ‘I know he was here this morning. I haven’t seen him since.’

  Darby wondered if Coop was working at the bomb site. She checked in with the lab’s secretary.

  ‘He took a personal day,’ the secretary said.

  ‘Did he say why?’

  ‘Not to me he didn’t. Maybe he left you a message.’

  Darby went to her office. No message from Coop, but there was one from Madeira James.

  ‘Miss McCormick, I’m calling to follow up on our conversation yesterday regarding the microstamped bullet you found. The company president has the form I signed to release all information regarding the test ammo and the demonstration. He’s currently reviewing it with legal. As soon as I know anything, I’ll call or email.’

  The message had come in this morning shortly before ten. It was now a quarter to four.

  The second message was from Rob Litzow, the desk sergeant in charge of the evidence trailers. He had been unable to find the evidence and murder books associated with the Sheppard murder in April of 1983.

  Darby called Litzow. ‘What happened to the evidence?’

  ‘Don’t know. It could’ve been mislabelled or lost. This happens a lot with older stuff. We’ll find it, I’m sure, but it’ll take some time.’

  She recalled what Ezekiel had said about Sullivan having inside help within the police departments. You can’t trust anyone, especially people inside the Boston police department. Sullivan had plenty of your people on his payroll.

  She turned to her computer and said, ‘I need a list of people who’ve checked out the Sheppard case.’

  ‘Nobody’s asked for it for the last five years, I can tell you that.’

  ‘What do you do with the old logs?’

  ‘They’re in storage.’

  ‘Find them and fax them over to me. And while I have you on the phone, I want you to pull everything you’ve got on the murder of Thomas McCormick.’ She read out the evidence and case file numbers.

  Darby hung up and checked her email. Nothing from Madeira James. Randy had emailed her a copy of the evidence report he had filled out on the items he recovered from the woods. She printed out a copy, then picked up the phone and dialled James’s direct number at Reynolds Engineering Systems. She got the woman’s voicemail. Darby left a message asking her to call with an update.

  Next, she tried calling the owner of the Belham house, Dr Wexler, in France. No answer. She left another message.

  Now Coop. He didn’t answer his mobile. She tried his home number. No answer.

  Why are you avoiding me, Coop?

  Darby went to the printer. Her head throbbed separately from the wounds on her face. Thump-thump, like a heartbeat. She sat back in her chair and pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes. The Percocet the doctor had prescribed for her would take care of the pain. It would make her feel sluggish and stupid. She grabbed some Advil tablets from her desk drawer and dry-swallowed them as she picked up the evidence report.

  No prints or blood were recovered from the smoke canisters. Randy had given the serial numbers to the bomb squad. Good move. They would know where to look to see if they had been stolen. Running down the serial numbers, though, had taken a back seat for the moment now that the entire bomb squad was busy in Charlestown.

  Darby flipped through the sheets and read through Randy’s notes. The Wonder Twins had done an exhaustive job processing the evidence.

  Something about the binoculars bothered her. She thought about Randy’s grid map and carried the evidence report with her to the conference room.

  52

  Darby stood in front of the whiteboard. The binoculars had been found in the upper-left-hand quadrant of the woods, a good distance away from the incline leading up to the road. Randy had recovered sneaker prints near the binoculars. These same prints matched the ones on the back deck steps, and so belonged to the person who had shot their way inside the house. This person had been far away from the others. It was possible this person was acting independently of the other men – had no connection to them. Okay, so why did the binoculars bother her?

  She flipped back through the pages. Here. Smooth glove prints and a couple of smudged latent prints Mark had tried to enhance without any luck.

  She read the specs on the binoculars. They were made by Nikon. Inexpensive. Not the sort of thing a tactical person would use. The bald guy with the tactical vest had had night-vision goggles. The Fed, Alan, had used some sort of HERF device to fry the circuitry inside the hospital’s security cameras. The TV cameraman she’d seen watching the house had had a camera with a laser mike. High-tech equipment. These binoculars were small, meant to be folded and tucked into a back pocket. You used them to watch birds, maybe a sporting event or a concert. They weren’t used for surveillance.

  She turned the binoculars over in her mind’s eye. Saw the cracked plastic and the screws, the screw had –

  Darby left the conference room and checked the binoculars out of the evidence locker.

  The screws had been stripped. Someone had taken apart the binoculars to fix them. Someone had touched the inside of the binoculars. Mark had only fumed the outside.

  She carried the evidence bag back to serology. She told Mark about the binoculars.

  ‘Shit,’ he said. ‘I never… It didn’t even occur to me.’

  He took them to the exam room across the hall.

  Randy said, ‘The fingerprints came back on the Belham house. No matches except for those belonging to Kendra Sheppard and her son. The ones that we couldn’t identify I’m guessing belong to the people who own the house.’

  ‘Wexler,’ Darby said, wondering why neither the man nor his wife had returned her call.

  She turned her attention to the bloody clothes spread out across the bench.

  Kendra found out who Sullivan really was, Ezekiel had said, and she also found out about the Boston Feds setting up local witnesses and informants… Kendra told me she’d kept the tapes, notes, all of it. I don’t know where they are; she didn’t tell me.

  Audio tapes and notes are bulky things. She couldn’t have carried them with her all the time. That meant she must have locked them away somewhere safe. Where? A safety deposit box?

  No, Darby thought. You have to fill out a form for that, you need to show a licence. Whatever identity she was using would have to have been logged on the bank’s computer system. Kendra didn’t trust computers. She wouldn’t have wanted to give these men a way to trace her.

  So where had she stored these tapes?

  ‘The clothes are pretty much dreck,’ Randy said. ‘Lots of blood, yes, but most likely it’s the vic’s. We’re using…’

  Randy’s voice trailed off in her mind. Darby was thinking about an airport locker. That was anonymous. Stuff your items in the locker and pay a fee – you could use cash. Problem: you couldn’t use an airport locker indefinitely. The fee covered you for a day or two, depending on the airport. An airport was anonymous but not convenient. Kendra would have wanted to keep the evidence she had close to her – within arm’s reach. She’d need access to it quickly in case she had to run. She had been running for a long time.

  ‘… just what they’re reporting on the radio and TV about the bomb site,’ Randy was saying. ‘Dr Edgar and his grads students are still unaccounted for, along with Jennings. Lots of injuries but no names given, lots of witnesses…’

  Running, Darby thought. Kendra had been on the run for twenty plus years, changing identities for her and her son. Ezekiel had said something about Wisconsin. Kendra working at an insurance company, Kendra seeing Peter Alan heading inside the building
and Jack King sitting behind the wheel of a car parked right out front.

  She picked up Sean from school and started driving to look for a new place to live, Ezekiel had said, just left all of her stuff behind.

  Darby said, ‘Randy, I need you to get Kendra’s handbag from the evidence locker.’

  ‘I searched it and didn’t –’

  ‘Don’t talk, just go get it.’

  In her mind she saw Kendra spotting the dead FBI agents. What did she do? She drove away to pick up her son from school.

  Drove to find a new place to live.

  Left all of her stuff behind.

  But not everything – not the most important thing, a cold, flat voice said. Kendra wouldn’t have left behind the evidence. She needed that. So after she picked up Sean, she drove – she didn’t stop, she just kept driving because she already had the evidence with her. She figured out a way to have it with her at all times, within arm’s reach in case she needed to run. She had the evidence with her at all times.

  Randy removed the handbag from the evidence bag and placed it on the bench. Darby’s attention never left the blood-soaked clothes, afraid that if she looked away she’d lose the connection to the voice speaking to her: She had the evidence with her at all times. She had the evidence with her at all times.

  Darby reached for the box of latex gloves. She put them on and started with the handbag.

  Black leather Liz Claiborne wallet holding nothing but cash and a Vermont driver’s licence for Amy Hallcox.

  Three plastic-wrapped tampons.

  Next, the box of Altoids. Nothing in there but mints.

  She had the evidence with her at all times.

  You couldn’t carry a handbag with you at all times. Kendra would have used something that she could have with her at all times.

  What was left? Watch and jewellery.

  The watch had already been dusted for prints. Darby picked it up. Black polyurethane strap and a black faceplate surrounded by a stainless-steel mask with a brushed-steel finish. The second hand ticked along steadily. Silver numbers but no manufacturing stamp identifying the watchmaker.

  She turned it over. The back of the watch looked normal, but not the left side. A small rectangular piece of plastic. She grabbed a pair of tweezers and pushed out a plastic tab belonging to a small USB flash drive.

  ‘Holy shit,’ Randy said. Then his surprise turned to embarrassment. ‘I never would’ve thought… I examined that watch myself and not once did I notice that.’

  ‘You weren’t supposed to. It’s concealed. I need to take this to my office. Oh, and before I go, I should tell you that there’ll be some people inside here momentarily sweeping the office for listening devices.’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Sorry, Randy, I can’t tell you. Orders of the commissioner.’

  ‘Say no more.’

  Darby thought about the USB drive. Kendra Sheppard had gathered information during a time when such devices had yet to be invented. That meant only copies of the original documents and audio recordings were on the drive. Had she destroyed the originals? Or had she stored them someplace safe?

  She found Warner inside her office along with the other two men.

  ‘I need to speak to you privately for a moment,’ she said.

  Warner pointed to the door. The two men nodded and left.

  Darby slid the tiny flash drive into the USB slot of her computer.

  The door shut behind her and Warner said, ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I found Kendra Sheppard’s documents.’ Darby pointed to the computer screen holding a list of MP3 audio files and PDF files.

  Warner slid next to her and leaned on the desk. He took out a pair of bifocals. Darby stared at the list. Christ, there’re dozens of files here. ‘Judging by the size of these files, I’d say they were scanned.’

  ‘Can you print them out?’

  She nodded, then grabbed the mouse and clicked on one of the PDF files.

  A window opened asking her for a password.

  She clicked on one of the audio files and got the same window.

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘What?’ Warner asked. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘They’re password protected.’

  ‘You don’t happen to know the password, do you?’

  ‘No. And don’t ask me to start typing in random passwords either.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I might wind up erasing the files. I’ll call the computer lab.’ She reached for the phone.

  Warner blocked her. ‘I’ve got to clear it with the commissioner. You got a guy in mind?’

  ‘Jim Byram,’ she said. ‘He’s the best at this stuff.’

  ‘Okay. Once he’s vetted, I’ll have him get to work on it.’

  ‘These files are probably just copies. Kendra either stored the originals someplace else or destroyed them.’

  Warner nodded. ‘You talk to Cooper yet?’

  ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Then go find him. Find him and talk some sense into him. Then call me on your way back here. I’ll need your help sorting through these files.’

  She pushed the chair back and stood up.

  ‘One other thing,’ Warner said. ‘These people who were following you… if you think you see anything, I want you to call. Don’t go all Rambo on me, okay? We need these guys alive.’

  Darby nodded and left, thinking about where Coop was, how she was going to get him to open up and talk.

  She checked in to ballistics. They had no record of a Glock eighteen ever having been used in the commission of a crime.

  53

  Jamie awoke to a gauzy haze of thoughts. She tried to open her eyes and a dim voice – one that sounded eerily familiar – groaned in protest: No, stay here with me.

  She recognized the voice – had slept next to it for close to fifteen years.

  Stay here with me, Dan said. Stay here where it’s safe.

  Safe?

  Safe from what?

  It came to her, slowly at first. Father Humphrey had come to her house to warn her about Kevin Reynolds. He knows what happened here and asked if I knew you, if you still lived in the area. Humphrey’s words. And… and… what? She had run into the house to get the kids. And Humphrey grabbed her, telling her to calm down. She remembered pulling free. Remembered running to the foot of the stairs, about to scream to the kids to come down right now, when a plastic bag was wrapped around her head.

  Father Humphrey did that, she thought. The priest who baptized both my babies and ate dinner at my house and saw to my husband’s funeral arrangements while the kids and I were recovering in the hospital – that man wrapped the plastic bag over my head.

  She remembered feeling the plastic sticking to her lips as she sucked in air. Remembered struggling to prise his rough, callused hands from her throat and remembered her face slamming against the wall and pain exploding inside her skull – pain, oddly, she couldn’t feel at this moment – she couldn’t feel anything and for some reason that scared her the most. She should –

  Rough hands slid across her cheeks. Fingers pushed her eyelids open and she saw Father Humphrey’s face and his sad, bloodshot eyes. She couldn’t seem to focus on the rest of the room but she could make out shapes and colours behind the priest – an emerald-green comforter covering a bed; a pair of drawn lavender curtains covering her windows and a lamp sitting on an oak nightstand.

  My bedroom. I’m in my bedroom and I seem to be sitting up. Why can’t I move my hands and feet?

  For some bizarre reason she didn’t feel afraid. She didn’t feel anything. My head should be pounding – it should feel sore, at the very least – but I don’t feel any pain. I just want to shut my eyes and go back to sleep.

  ‘Come now, darling,’ Humphrey said, gently shaking her head. She could smell cigarette smoke and booze on his breath. ‘Time to wake up.’

  He
let go of her face. Her chin dropped against her chest and her body slumped to the side but she didn’t fall. A long line of drool dripped on to her tan shorts.

  Father Humphrey had duct-taped her to one of the kitchen chairs. She could see the strips wrapped around her shins. He had tied her hands behind her back – the kids, oh Jesus God, Jesus Mary and Joseph, what did he do to Michael and Carter? Were they in the bedroom?

  It took a great amount of effort to raise her head.

  ‘That’s my girl,’ he said.

  Her head flopped to the side, against her shoulder. The bedroom door was open and she could see the hall. The doors to the boys’ bedrooms were shut. The door to the dead room was open. Father Humphrey had kicked it open. She saw the lock and pieces of wood lying on the carpet.

  What did he do to the kids? And why don’t I feel scared? Why do I feel so goddamn calm?

  Father Humphrey snapped his fingers. ‘Over here, love.’

  Jamie rolled her head back to him. He sat on the edge of her bed with his legs crossed. Blue hospital booties covered his polished black loafers. It was hard to concentrate now, hard to keep her eyes open. Her head kept swimming; this serene calmness or whatever it was wanted to drag her back down into the place where Dan was now, this sweet, black oblivion.

  The kids, a voice screamed to her.

  She opened her eyes and looked at Humphrey and his hospital booties.

  No, not hospital booties, she thought. They’re… they’re… what’s their names, the ones who investigate crime scenes… forensic. Yes. Forensic techs wear those booties when entering a crime scene… so they don’t leave footprints.

  ‘I didn’t believe it when Kevin told me he saw you this morning, waiting for him in your minivan,’ Humphrey said. His latex-covered hand held a mobile against his ear – Ben Masters’s phone, the Palm Treo. ‘What were you going to do to him, Jamie?’

  The room kept going in and out of focus.

  Concentrate. You have… to concentrate. Find kids.

  The kids weren’t in the bedroom – at least she couldn’t see them. She looked at the opened door next to the nightstand and saw the familiar short hall with the two walk-in closets and the small area she and Dan had used for storage. No sign of Michael or Carter in there but –