The Secret Friend dm-2

by Chris Mooney

  The firearms instructor, Steve Gautieri, was demonstrating the classic Weaver stance, the position where the shooter, using a pyramidal base or 'boxer's stance' with one foot in front and the other behind, leaned slightly forward. This stance, Gautieri explained, was the key to accuracy. If the shooter's feet were parallel, the shot would be either too high or too low.

  Darby had adopted a strong stance technique where her legs were spread further apart, almost in a V-shape, her shoulders more forward than the male recruits'. She had also adopted a different grip. Instead of securing her free hand, her left hand, around the fingers holding the handgun, she formed a fist and placed the grip of her handgun against her wrist before firing. It had helped tremendously with her accuracy.

  The targets were ready. Darby reminded herself not to jerk the trigger, just squeeze it.

  The bell rang. Darby fired the gun, her mind flashing snapshots from Traveler's underground basement of horrors – the human bones on the floor and dried blood on the walls; the nightmarish maze of wooden corridors of locked and unlocked doors leading to dead ends; women screaming for help, women crying and begging, dying. She could recall every image, every texture and sound.

  Darby fired the last shot and straightened, the muscles in her forearms aching. She felt oddly relaxed, as though having just completed a long, satisfying run.

  The recruit standing next to her, tall and rugged, kept glancing at her while the firearms instructor examined the results. The sky had grown darker, and it had started to snow. Light flakes swirled in the wind.

  Gautieri held up a paper target. 'Take a look at this shooting, boys. See the nice, tight pattern right here in the centre? This belongs to Darby McCormick, the girl standing at the end there. Nice job, Darby. Want to know why she beat the rest of you? Because she's got her stance down and she knows to squeeze the trigger and not to jerk it. You're dismissed. Darby, I'd like a word with you.'

  Gautieri waited until after the recruits left before he spoke. 'What kind of ammo are you using?'

  'Triton.40 S amp;W, one thirty-five grain,' Darby said. 'The one-stop shots approach ninety-six per cent.' 'That's some serious firepower.' 'A lot of law enforcement agencies use it.' Gautieri looked back to the paper target and grinned. 'You pissed off at anyone I know?' Darby's clothes reeked of cordite. When she stepped into the parking lot she saw her lab partner, Jackson Cooper, leaning against her black Mustang.

  With the exception of his short, blond hair, Coop bore a striking resemblance to Tom Brady, the quarterback for the New England Patriots. Coop wore jeans and a black North Face fleece jacket. He was adjusting the brim of his Red Sox baseball hat when Darby stepped up to him.

  'What are you doing here?' Darby asked. 'I thought you took the day off.'

  'I did. I spent it with Rodeo.'

  'You were at a rodeo?'

  'No, that's the name of my girlfriend. Row-day-oh. I got your message about your meeting with the commissioner. I tried calling but you weren't answering your phone.'

  'I turned it off.'

  'I called the lab. Leland told me you were here, so I decided to swing by. He also wanted me to tell you the files you requested have been delivered to the lab. Fill me in on what's going on.'

  For the next twenty minutes Darby filled him in on her meeting with Chadzynski and her review of Emma Hale's clothing.

  'What do you want me to do?' Coop asked after she'd finished.

  'Tomorrow morning, I'd like for you to take a look at the Virgin Mary statue and see if anything was overlooked.'

  'I'll do it now.'

  'Don't you want to get back to Row-day-oh?'

  'No. I had to fake an emergency to get out of her place.'

  'How did you do that?'

  'I used her phone to page myself, then told her I had to go to a crime scene.' Coop grinned, pleased by his cleverness. 'I'm going to break up with her. It's not working out. She's into all this artsy-fartsy shit. Last night she made me watch Bareback Mountain.'

  'I think you mean Brokeback Mountain.'

  'Given what those two dudes are doing up in the mountains, I think I was right the first time.' Coop smiled. 'Did you talk with Bryson?'

  'I left him a message, but he hasn't called back.' Darby took out her car keys. 'Do you know Tim?'

  'Does anyone know Tim?'

  'What do you mean?'

  'You know what I mean. Bryson's real private. Do you know his partner?'

  'Cliff Watts.'

  Coop nodded. 'Cliffy has worked with Bryson for almost a decade and he doesn't know anything about the man. Has never been to his home, never went out drinking with him. Cliffy is solid. Appointing Woody was a good choice, by the way.'

  'What is it with guys and nicknames?'

  'It's how we show affection, Freckles.' Coop pushed himself off the Mustang. 'We should get going. Weathermen are saying we're going to get a nor'easter. They're predicting two feet.'

  'I'll believe it when I see it. Last Monday they said we're going to get a foot and I woke up to two inches.'

  'I bet that's not the first time you woke up to two inches.'

  'Tell me about it. Remember last month when you passed out on my couch? I saw you in your boxers and let's just say there's a whole lot of truth to that Irish curse thing.'

  'Very funny. I'll see you back at the lab.'

  Seated behind the wheel, Darby started the car and turned on her phone. There was one message: Tim Bryson had returned her call. He said it was urgent. She dialled his number.

  'Bryson.'

  'Tim, Darby McCormick. I just got your message. I'm on my way back to the lab, but I was wondering if we could set up a time to meet and talk.'

  'A call came in about a body floating in the Boston Harbor behind the Moakley courthouse.'

  'Is it Judith Chen?'

  'The clothes seem right,' Bryson said. 'I'm on my way to the morgue. We can talk there.'

  4

  At 5:30 p.m. Hannah Givens stood under the roof of the Macy's department store at Boston's Downtown Crossing, waiting for the bus. This afternoon's light snow had turned into a powerful storm. She wished she had taken an earlier bus instead of working overtime at the deli, helping clean up and do some food preparation for tomorrow morning's weekend breakfast crowd – provided the city was open for business. The weathermen were predicting several feet of snow.

  Hannah tucked her hands deep in her down parka and looked over Macy's lighted window displays where mannequins with perfect figures wore spring dresses. One caught her eye – a beautiful black cocktail dress with a revealing but tasteful slit up the leg. Northeastern University's spring formal was coming up in three weeks and no one had asked her.

  In a strange way, she was relieved. Even if someone asked her, she couldn't afford a new dress – not unless she was willing to pull extra shifts at the deli as well as dipping into her grocery money for the next two months. The idea of eating Raman noodles for breakfast, lunch and dinner wasn't appealing, and besides, it wasn't like she could fit into any of these dresses. She would never be thin, not like the girls in the magazines, not like this mannequin or even her two roommates, Robin and Terry, who got up every morning to work out at the gym and ate nothing but salads sprinkled with goat cheese.

  Hannah knew she wasn't much of a looker. She was tall, almost six feet in heels, a big-boned, curvy woman with nice hair and a pleasant face. She didn't have much of a chest, thanks to her mother's genes. From her father she had inherited SIS – Shitty Irish Skin that freckled from the sun. The Givens lineage had also given her a lazy eye that, despite her mother's assurances, hadn't corrected itself over time.

  The real problem, Hannah suspected, was her personality. She was boring. She was smart, hardworking and good with the books, real good, but that didn't count for much until you got older, when the tables turned and things like brains and a high salary made men stop and take a second look. While Robin and Terry drank dollar drafts at dive bars on Thursday nights and worked the fratern
ity party circuit Friday through Sunday, Hannah was either working or studying. She wanted to have fun – honestly, she did – but with her two jobs and her course workload, she didn't exactly have a lot of free time.

  While she waited for the bus, Hannah passed the time imagining herself five inches shorter and fifty pounds lighter wearing the black dress in the window and a stunning pair of Manolos as Chris Smith, the handsome lacrosse player from her Shakespeare class, escorted her to the spring formal. She'd look like Cinderella going to the ball.

  A car horn honked behind her. Hannah turned and saw a black BMW parked against the kerb on the corner of Porter and Summer Streets. The passenger's side window was rolled down.

  'Hannah? Is that you?'

  A man's voice. She didn't recognize it. She couldn't see who was sitting behind the wheel. The car's interior was dark.

  'I'm in Professor Johnson's calculus class,' the man said. 'I sit in the far back.'

  Hannah stepped up next to the open window. In the soft blue light coming from the dashboard, she saw the man's face.

  He had been in some sort of accident, like a fire. His face was severely scarred, covered with makeup, his nose an awful, crooked mess of skin. His left eye was damaged, wide open and unblinking.

  Hannah pulled away from the window. The wind, wild and fierce, whipped curtains of snow across the streets.

  'I'm sorry, we haven't been formally introduced. I'm Walter. Walter Smith.'

  'Hello.'

  'You ready for Johnson's midterm next week?'

  'I'm going to do a little studying once I get home.'

  'I hope you're not waiting for the bus. They're running waaaay behind schedule on account of the storm. I just heard it on the radio. Hop in. I'll give you a ride.'

  Hannah wanted nothing more than to get out of the cold, to get home and slip into a warm bath. She had a long weekend of studying, and she planned on getting a head start tonight, but the thought of getting inside the car with this stranger filled her with anxiety.

  'Thanks for the offer,' Hannah said, 'but I don't want to put you out of your way.'

  'You're not. I'm heading over to Brighton anyway to visit a friend.' Walter Smith was already moving the backpack and textbook into the back seat.

  He wasn't a stranger, not exactly. He was in Professor Johnson's class. She didn't recognize him, but that didn't mean anything. The calculus class was held in a big, musty lecture hall. There were well over a hundred students.

  'You'll freeze to death out there,' Walter Smith said. 'Hop in.'

  A small statue of the Virgin Mary was mounted on the dashboard. Seeing the statue sent the anxiety away. Hannah opened the door and hopped in, grateful to be out of the cold wind.

  The inside of the car was warm and smelled of new leather and cologne.

  'I live at one twenty-two Carlton Road,' Hannah said, buckling her seatbelt. 'Do you know how to get to Allston?'

  Walter Smith nodded as he pulled away from the kerb. 'One of my friends lives around there,' he said. 'Speaking of which, do you mind if I swing by and pick up him up? It's on the way.'

  'No, of course not.'

  The city ploughs were out, busy trying to clear the streets and highways. Traffic was slow.

  'So,' Hannah said, 'what's your major?'

  Walter Smith was majoring in computer science. He wanted to design computer games. He grew up on the west coast – he didn't say where – and told her he was living in the Back Bay although he was seriously considering moving to someplace like Brighton or Allston where rent was considerably cheaper. When Hannah asked him how he liked Northeastern, he shrugged and said he wanted to go to MIT but couldn't afford it.

  Hannah thought it was odd he could afford a BMW and to rent a place in the Back Bay but couldn't afford to take out a college loan. If you could go to MIT, why waste your time and money on Northeastern? Hannah didn't want to come across as nosy, so she didn't ask.

  By the time they hit Storrow Drive, Walter had grown quiet. He was doing this weird thing with his tongue – gently chewing it on one side of his jaw, then moving it over to the other side. She tried talking to him about music and movies but he seemed distracted. Maybe he was concentrating on the road. The snow was bad, and the roads were pretty slippery. She spotted more than one accident.

  Walter took the Allston exit. Ten minutes later he pulled into a small strip mall with a Radio Shack and two other buildings that looked abandoned. The parking lot was empty. He drove behind the building and parked in front of a loading dock. Crates and trash were stacked up next to several back doors. There was nobody back here.

  'Dave must be waiting inside,' Walter said. 'Reach inside the glove compartment and grab the yellow sheet of paper. It has Dave's cell number on it.'

  Hannah leaned forward and opened the glove compartment. Walter smashed her face against the dashboard.

  'I'm sorry,' Walter Smith said as he pressed a bandana against her nose and mouth.

  At first Hannah thought he was trying to wipe away the blood; then she inhaled some bitter odour that smelled of spoiled fruit. She struggled to move away but she was caught against the seatbelt.

  'I didn't mean to hurt you.' His voice trembled, and he started to cry. 'I'm sorry.'

  She grabbed his wrist with both hands and tried to yank it away, but Walter Smith's grip was too strong. She could taste blood – her blood – on the back of her throat and she started to gag.

  He was crying harder now. 'I'll make it up to you, Hannah, I promise. I'm going to make you very happy.'

  Hannah slumped back against the seat, hearing the windshield wipers going back and forth, back and forth, the Virgin Mary's mournful eyes looking at her with arms wide open, ready to comfort.

  5

  Walter Smith popped the trunk. He unfastened Hannah's seatbelt and then headed out into the wet, heavy snow, quickly making his way to the passenger's side.

  Hannah was heavier than Emma and Judith, and considerably taller. Instead of picking Hannah up and cradling her in his arms, Walter gripped her under the armpits and dragged her to the back of the car. The blankets were already set up.

  Walter placed her in the trunk. He brushed the snow from her face and tucked a pillow under her head. Hannah's nose was bleeding in a slow, steady trickle. He hoped it wasn't broken.

  From his pocket he removed the baggie holding the tiny Ambien pills he ordered online from Mexico and wedged three of them down her throat. Hannah moaned, swallowed. Good. He moved her arms behind her back and handcuffed her wrists. Then he handcuffed her ankles.

  Walter stared down at Hannah. Her face was remarkably warm and open. Her face was what had attracted him. He had seen her waiting for the bus and Mary spoke to him, told him Hannah Givens was THE ONE and Mary was right, she was always right.

  Walter rolled Hannah onto her side so the blood wouldn't trickle down her throat and make her sick. He'd have to stop and check on her at some point.

  Walter tucked a blanket under her chin. He kissed Hannah on the forehead, then shut the trunk and got back behind the wheel.

  The wet snow was coming down at a fast clip. Walter drove slowly, carefully, with both hands gripping the wheel. A lot of cops would be out tonight.

  As he drove, Walter kept glancing at the statue on the dashboard. Mary's voice was clear in his head. His Blessed Mother told him not to worry.

  6

  The dead woman lying on the autopsy table didn't look like a woman any more – she didn't look human, in fact, but more like one of those creatures from an old black-and-white horror movie, a frightful, angry thing that had clawed its way out from a grave. The teeth were bared, the lips and surrounding facial tissue and missing eyes picked away by postmortem fish feeding. The rest of the body was covered by a blue sheet. A white card with a case number was placed under her chin.

  The face was unrecognizable. Darby wondered if the woman was Judith Chen.

  A heavyset man from ID, the section of the lab that dealt exclusively w
ith crime scene photography, took close-up pictures of the bloated face. Coop stood behind him, watching. The small white-tiled room reeked of disinfectant mixed with the overpowering metallic odour of the Boston Harbor.

  Darby had already taken her own set of pictures. As she waited, she reviewed what little she knew of the case, most of which came from newspapers.

  Two and a half months ago, on a Wednesday night during the first week of December, Judith Chen, a freshman at Boston's Suffolk University, was studying for her chemistry midterm at the campus library. Five minutes shy of 10 p.m., Judith, dressed in pink nylon running pants, a pink sweatshirt and Nike sneakers, decided to call it a night. Somewhere between the library and the apartment she was renting in Natick, the nineteen-year-old chemistry major disappeared.

  It was now mid-February and the body lying on the table wore the same clothing.

  The ID man gave her the nod. Darby, dressed in scrubs, put on a surgical mask and a face shield and approached the body.

  The woman's pink sweatshirt and pink nylon running pants were wet, caked with mud and twigs. The feet, still laced with sneakers, hung over a sink dripping with water. Darby was glad to see Bryson had tied paper bags around the woman's hands.

  The right running-pant pocket was sewn shut with the same black thread used on Emma Hale's dress pocket. Darby peeled back the waistband, and through the transparent pocket lining she saw the same five-inch statue of the Virgin Mary she had held in her hands at the lab.

  On the back of the woman's head was a puckered hole – the muzzle stamp from a handgun. There was no exit wound. Darby recalled that the.22 calibre slug found in Emma Hale's skull hadn't produced an exit wound either.

  Coop removed the paper bags and examined the woman's hands. The fingers were gnarled into claws, and the skin, white and puckered with wet wrinkles known as washerwoman's syndrome, had started to slough off the body. The fingernails were painted a bright pink.

  'They're pretty shrivelled,' Coop said.