The Dead Room

by Chris Mooney

  ‘I can’t believe no one noticed it.’

  ‘He wasn’t a suspect, so there was no reason for anyone to pat him down. When the EMTs brought him to the hospital, the kid refused to let anyone touch him. Threw a fit, the doctor told me. He was in shock, so they gave him some space to calm down. Based upon what the boy told me last night, I wouldn’t be surprised if the mother gave the revolver to him.’

  ‘What’s this business about him requesting to speak to your father?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Darby rubbed her face, then ran her fingers through her hair. She couldn’t remember a time when she had felt this tired. ‘Right now your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘Did you get any sleep?’

  ‘Maybe a couple of hours. Every time I shut my eyes, all I can see is that kid slamming the muzzle underneath his chin. If that Fed hadn’t come into the room, Sean wouldn’t be in a coma.’

  ‘The boy was in shock, Darby. The commotion alone –’

  ‘Sean was talking to me. I’d finally got him to a place where he trusted me – he told me his real name was Sean. He was going to tell me the truth about his grandparents – why they were killed, the names of the people who did it. He was going to tell me everything and then that prick came in waving his badge and saying he was taking over the investigation and moving the kid. He scared the shit out of him.’

  ‘That might very well be true. But, with all due respect, your professionalism can be called into question.’

  Darby leaned back in her chair, waiting for the rest of it. Chadzynski might have a cop’s blue blood running through her veins but she had the heart of a politician. She was quietly assembling people to help plan her campaign to run for governor. The real reason for her visit was damage control.

  ‘I understand you assaulted him,’ Chadzynski said.

  ‘Is that what he called it?’

  ‘I’m asking you.’

  ‘We had a minor confrontation. I mentioned that in my report.’

  ‘Yes, I know. I also know about your personal history with the FBI. Tell me what happened.’

  ‘Did you read the part where Special Agent Phillips didn’t stick around the hospital? That he bolted along with my tape recorder?’

  ‘You’re positive about that accusation?’

  ‘I checked with everyone who was there. Except Phillips, of course. When I get through with him, he’ll be shitting bones for a week.’

  ‘Eloquently put, as always. I haven’t spoken to Special Agent Phillips or anyone from the Albany field office. I need to know how to handle this, so tell me exactly what happened.’

  Darby’s phone rang. She looked at the caller-ID.

  ‘Speak of the devil,’ she said, and picked up the phone. ‘Darby McCormick.’

  ‘This is Dylan Phillips returning your call. How can I help you, Miss McCormick?’

  Darby didn’t answer.

  The voice on the other end of the line was deep, husky. The Federal agent she met last night had had a slight lisp and a voice that wasn’t as deep. It was lighter, almost effeminate.

  ‘Miss McCormick?’

  ‘I’m here. I take it you don’t know who I am.’

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘We met last night at St Joseph’s Hospital.’

  ‘I think you have me confused with someone else. Last night I was at dinner with my daughter and her fiancé.’

  ‘Are you looking for a fugitive named Amy Hallcox?’

  ‘I don’t recognize that name. What’s this about?’

  ‘I don’t know yet, but someone impersonated you last night. I’ll call you back when I have more details.’

  ‘Please do.’

  Darby hung up and turned to her computer. She logged on to the National Crime Information Center.

  ‘Shit.’

  Darby scooped her keys off her desk.

  Chadzynski stood. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘NCIC didn’t have a listing for Amy Hallcox. There is no fugitive warrant.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘To the hospital,’ Darby said, coming out from behind the desk. ‘I need to pull last night’s security tapes.’

  16

  Jamie woke up to bickering voices. Her bedroom door had been shut and Carter was no longer beside her.

  ‘Stop bossing me around,’ Carter said from behind the door.

  ‘Keep your voice down,’ Michael hissed. ‘You’ll wake up Mom.’

  Too late, she thought, and looked at the alarm clock. It was going on eleven.

  Shit. She had overslept and the kids had missed the bus for camp. She’d have to drive them. She whipped off the covers and got out of bed, her head groggy, pounding.

  ‘I’ll get dressed when I want to,’ Carter said. ‘You’re not the boss of me, pancake balls.’

  ‘Dumb-dumb, how many times do I have to tell you “pancake balls” doesn’t make any sense?’

  ‘Oh, yes, it does.’

  Jamie opened the door. Her two boys were huddled at the end of the hall in front of the dead room – Carter barefoot and dressed in his Batman pyjamas, a black Batman mask covering his face; Michael wearing baggy shorts, sneakers and another one of Dan’s old Bruce Springsteen concert T-shirts. They were too big for Michael’s slender frame but he wore them anyway – to stay close to his father, she suspected, to try to keep him from fading.

  ‘Jesus, Mom,’ Michael said, coming closer. ‘What happened to your face?’

  ‘Fell. I… ah… tripped in… ah… ah… hospital. Garage. Hit… ah… bumper. Car bumper.’

  Michael stared at her the way Dan used to, with that X-ray vision glare that told her he’d caught her in a lie.

  She looked at Carter and said, ‘Get… ah… dressed.’

  ‘Okay, Mom.’ He grinned at his older brother before ducking into his bedroom.

  Jamie went into the master bathroom and started brushing her teeth. A moment later she saw Michael’s reflection in the mirror. He stood in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest.

  ‘How’d the hospital tests go?’

  ‘Fine,’ she said around her toothbrush. ‘You… ah… eat?’

  He nodded. ‘I fed Carter too.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You were gone a long time.’

  She spit out toothpaste. ‘Fine. Honest.’

  ‘You didn’t get home until after three in the morning.’

  A mild irritation crept its way through her. Michael was always monitoring her comings and goings, clocking the time of her arrivals and departures.

  Why are you getting angry at him, Jamie? You were gone all day, then you called and fed him that lie about having to stay late at the hospital to have another MRI and now here you are with the right side of your face swollen. He’s worried about you. For Chrissakes, go easy on him.

  ‘Mom, I’ve been doing some thinking, and I don’t want to go to sports camp any more.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m too old for it. And I was thinking I could help you around the house for the rest of the summer. Mow the grass, do some cleaning. The garage could use it. The house hasn’t been cleaned since… you know.’

  Since your father was murdered.

  It was a tempting offer, having both Michael and Carter close to her now. She might have indulged the idea if it wasn’t for Ben. She needed to devote her time to finding his two partners. After she dropped off the kids, the plan was to head to Ben’s Boston address. She wanted to see what was in his house, if anything.

  ‘I’m not scared staying alone at the house – I was fine yesterday while you were at the hospital,’ Michael said. ‘I can watch Carter for you too. And we can spend some time together before school starts.’

  Jamie rinsed out her mouth and shut off the water. She turned to him and said, ‘You… ah… need… ah… need… to, ah… be with… ah… friends.’

  ‘What friends? They avoid me. It’s like I’m invisible.’

  ‘Have… ah… you… talked…
ah –’

  ‘Mom, I just said they avoid me. They don’t call me to hang out or do anything. Even their parents avoid me. Remember last week when we were at the grocery store and saw Tommy’s mother? Remember what happened?’

  Unfortunately, she did.

  Standing in the cereal aisle with Michael and Carter, she saw Tommy Gerrad’s mother, Lisa, turning her trolley into the aisle. Jamie waved hello and then, in her broken, fragmented speech, suggested that Tommy should come over and hang out with Michael, play on the Xbox or maybe even make a plan to see a Pawtucket Red Sox game. Both boys loved baseball.

  Lisa Gerrad made up some excuse about how booked the summer was with camp and holidays. She checked her watch, said she had to get to an appointment and moved past them as if the shop had suddenly caught on fire.

  ‘Think about the money you’ll save,’ Michael said. ‘I know money’s tight.’

  Jamie sighed, not wanting to think about money right now, how Dan’s meagre investments, and her disability and SSI payments, barely covered the monthly bills. She had used the payout from Dan’s small life insurance policy to put a serious dent in the mortgage, but even after refinancing at a lower rate, she still had to pay Wellesley’s property taxes, which just kept going up year after year.

  ‘Thank… ah… you, but… ah… ah… you… ah… need to… ah… go. To camp.’

  Michael didn’t speak, but the fight hadn’t left his eyes.

  She didn’t have time to argue. She brushed past him and went downstairs to gather Ben’s things, reminding herself to dump the bag of bloody clothing in the back of the minivan.

  The kids didn’t talk during the twenty-minute drive to Babson College. Carter played a game on his Nintendo DS. Michael sat in the front seat, earbud headphones connected to the iPod resting on his stomach, and stared out of the window as if he were on the way to his funeral.

  Jamie pulled up to the main building, a massive brick structure with white pillars in the front. Kids ranging from as young as five to as old as sixteen bounded up the steps and ran around the lush, green campus shaded with trees.

  ‘Take… ah… bus… ah… ah… home, okay?’

  ‘Okay, Mom.’ Carter kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘I… ah… may… ah… home late.’

  Carter grabbed his backpack and opened the door. Michael didn’t move. He was looking out of the front window at Tommy Gerrad, who was standing with a group of other thirteen-year-olds near the steps. They were all whispering to each other, staring at the minivan.

  Jamie debated about whether to say something to Tommy. She had known him since pre-school. Spoiled and sometimes bratty, but all and all a good kid.

  ‘Mom, why do you hate me so much?’

  She spun around on her seat, her stomach clenching. She tried to speak but couldn’t get the words out.

  ‘Okay, maybe hate was the wrong word,’ he said. ‘But you don’t like me. You feel something. Is it because I look like Dad?’

  Yes, Michael was a spitting image of his father, and, if that wasn’t painful enough, Michael, just like his father, always asked complicated emotional questions in this nonchalant way, as if they were speaking about mathematical equations instead of feelings. Like Dan, Michael kept his true emotions bottled and locked away on some shelf to gather dust.

  ‘I know I remind you of him,’ Michael said. ‘What he did to us.’

  I still don’t know what your father did to us, Jamie wanted to say.

  ‘Forget it,’ he said, and opened the door. ‘You’ll just go on pretending.’

  ‘Pre… ah… ah… Pretending?’

  ‘That you wished I was dead.’

  A cold, sick sweat broke out across her skin. ‘I… I… ah… don’t… ah… ah…’

  ‘Ever since he died, it’s like you can’t stand being around me – and don’t say you don’t because you and I both know it’s true. I’m more like Dad, and Carter’s more like you. If I was dead, you would have moved on.’

  To what? Jamie wanted to say. To where?

  ‘I know you wouldn’t have kept the house,’ he said. ‘I know you wanted to leave here but didn’t because of me. I had to beg you to stay.’

  ‘Not… ah… not true.’

  ‘About the house or that you wished I was dead?’

  She started to speak, stammering the words as usual.

  Michael, either sick of waiting or not wanting to hear what she had to say, opened the door. She tried to grab his arm but he had already stepped out of the car.

  ‘Michael, don’t… ah… wait –’

  He shut the door and walked away. She stared after him, blinking back tears.

  She didn’t hate him and she didn’t wish he was dead. Jesus! How could he have said such appalling things? Yes, after Dan’s murder, she had wanted to pack up and move. Michael had put up a fight, but even if he had wanted to move, it wouldn’t have mattered. The house couldn’t be sold. She had called a number of real estate agents. They were interested until they recognized the address.

  But you don’t like me. You feel something… it’s like you can’t stand being around me – and don’t say you don’t because you and I both know it’s true…

  Michael had never been a touchy-feely kid, not even as a baby. He had rejected her breast, preferring the bottle. He screamed after he finished eating, wanting to get away from her. Michael didn’t cry when Dan fed him. They had a special connection, Michael and Dan, the two sharing a bond and a secret language spoken mainly through gestures, nods and grunts. And now Dan was gone, leaving Michael marooned in some strange wilderness without a guide or compass.

  Jamie needed to be busy. She took Ben’s mobile phone from her pocket, wanting to reconnect the battery and take a closer look at what was stored on it. Maybe there would be something –

  A knock on her window startled her.

  She whipped her head around and saw a tall, lanky man with short white hair and thick-framed glasses. Her 68-year-old parish priest, Father James Humphrey.

  She rolled down the window. ‘What… ah… why… ah… you here?’

  ‘I help out with the sports programme.’ His soft voice still carried traces of his Irish brogue. His grandparents had come over on the boat, and all the Humphrey children – nine brothers scattered across the north-east – had kept the accent alive.

  He seemed to be waiting for her to say something – or maybe he didn’t know where to start. She hadn’t seen him or gone to church since Dan’s murder.

  ‘I… ah… can’t talk… ah… now. Got… ah… busy day.’

  ‘What happened to your face?’

  ‘Accident,’ she said. ‘Fell.’

  ‘Against a man’s fist?’

  Her face flushed.

  ‘My brother Colm, God rest his soul, was a boxer. I recognize a shiner when I see one.’ Humphrey’s kind and gentle eyes were free of judgement. ‘What happened, love? Who hit you?’

  ‘Accident,’ she said again. ‘I have… ah… go. Appointment.’

  He nodded and shifted his gaze to Carter’s car seat. ‘Are you still seeing the therapist?’

  ‘Yes.’ Humphrey had given her the name of a therapist who specialized in helping victims of trauma. The woman, Dr Wakefield, agreed to work pro bono. Jamie had visited the woman for a month and then stopped going.

  Humphrey looked back at her.

  He knows, she thought. He knows I’ve lied to him, I can see it written all over his face.

  ‘Have to… ah… go. Goodbye… ah… Father Jim.’ Jamie put the minivan in gear and drove away.

  17

  Darby placed last night’s security tapes on the passenger seat of her car. There had been no need for a warrant. Hospital officials were glad to cooperate.

  On her way out, she had checked on Sean’s condition. The neurologist, Dr Goldstein, had gone back to Boston, so she spoke to one of the ICU nurses, a heavy older woman with silver hair.

  ‘He’s brain dead,’ the nurse said, with great s
ympathy. Then she touched the small, plain gold cross on the chain resting against her white shirt and added, ‘When you find a family member, I suggest you tell them to make funeral arrangements.’

  Darby pulled out of the car park’s south exit, away from the crowd of reporters huddled around the main doors hoping to find a doctor or nurse willing to talk about Sean’s condition.

  Driving through the streets on the way back to the city, she kept checking her rear-view mirror for the brown van with the dented front bumper.

  Ten minutes later, at a busy downtown intersection, she spotted it six cars behind her. She had first noticed it on her way out of Boston. The van never got too close. It didn’t need to. Her car, a forest-green 1974 Ford Falcon GT Coupe, stood out in the busy traffic and was easy to follow.

  Darby glanced at the dashboard clock. Quarter to twelve. The woman’s autopsy was scheduled today at three. Forty minutes to get back to Boston. That gave her a little over two hours to examine the body for evidence. Plenty of time to go to the Belham house and drive back to the city.

  Walton Street was blocked off with news vans. She took the next left, on to Boynton, and drove slowly with her attention locked on her rear-view mirror. The van didn’t follow. It whisked straight past Boynton.

  She pulled on to Marshall and parked in the driveway. Belham PD had brought in more sawhorses to corral the swelling number of reporters.

  The patrolman guarding the front door had a sunburned face. After she showed him her ID, he put down his coffee cup and wrote her name on a clipboard.

  ‘Have any Feds been inside?’ Darby asked.

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Any Feds asked to go in? Have you seen any around the house?’

  ‘No one’s asked to go in. As for your question about them poking around, I can’t say that I’ve seen anyone. I’ve been here since six.’

  ‘Can I see your clipboard?’

  ‘Sure.’

  She scanned the list of names. Boston Lab personnel and Belham detectives. She handed the clipboard back, thanked him and entered the house.

  Lab techs stood in the foyer dusting surfaces for prints. Bagged evidence lined the stairs. She moved around them and made her way to the master bedroom. Fingerprint powder covered the walls.