Chaos

CHAPTER 13

THE BULKY SHAPES OF centuries-old trees and tall dense hedges are etched against the night as we enter the John F. Kennedy Park.

Marino has slowed the SUV to a crawl. He’s turned the emergency lights and siren off. I count four patrol cars and one unmarked SUV parked bumper-to-bumper barely off the pavement. Deeper in it’s too dark to make out much, little more than impressions of something there. Maybe a distant mountain range. Maybe thick woods in murky shades of dark muddy colors.

If I didn’t already know what was around me, I couldn’t tell from what I can see. The darkness transforms benches, paths, trash cans, the bend in the river into a scene that could be almost anywhere. But I would know Boston across the water. Instantly I would recognize the Hancock skyscraper topped by its lance-like antenna, and the Prudential Tower. I couldn’t miss the lit-up Citgo sign, also known as the C-it-Go sign because so many Red Sox home runs have sailed over it.

We can drive but only so far, as there are no roads through the park, which is wide where we are but in other parts very narrow. Motorized traffic is prohibited inside the acres of well-kept grass, shrubs and hardwood trees that stretch between the Charles River and Memorial Drive. I’ve been here many times. It’s a favorite hike from our house near the northeastern edge of the Harvard campus.

If Benton and I keep up a good pace we can make the round trip on foot in roughly an hour. That’s if we take the most direct route, and we don’t always. Now and then we wander from one newsstand and outdoor café or market to another, making our leisurely way to the water, especially when the weather is as sublime as it can be in the spring and fall. On Sundays when it’s warm and not raining we love to drink Peet’s coffee and read armloads of newspapers on a bench by the Charles.

In the winter we might hike or snowshoe here and sit bundled up and close to each other, sharing a thermos of steaming-hot cider. All of this is going on in my mind as an emotional subroutine that I don’t focus on but can’t block. I feel the distant echo of nostalgia, of loss, as I’m reminded of how rare it is that Benton and I have had much time to ourselves for leisure-for doing nothing, whatever that means.

We treasure conversations and activities that are unencumbered by broken laws and tragedies. We treat it as a special occasion if no one is committing violent acts or has died during the hours or a weekend when Benton and I are paying attention to each other. This is why our regular outings at the Faculty Club are important and cherished. It’s why having favorite secret places like hotels, the ocean, the river, and scenic areas where we hike is necessary to good relationships and our good health.

The park is a popular place to get away, to have a picnic, to sunbathe, read, study or play a pickup Frisbee game. Only cyclists and people on foot are allowed but that doesn’t stop Marino from sacrilegiously bumping his big police vehicle over grass and a narrow unpaved path. He halts between a big maple tree and a tall iron lamp that glows wanly in the near pitch-blackness, the SUV nose-in toward the Charles River. The headlights illuminate the red-roofed brick boathouse, and to the left of it the bridge I drove past during my fateful ride with Bryce what now seems days ago.

I watch a lighted necklace of cars moving to and fro overhead, their lights diamond white and blood red. And below, the water is sluggish, greenish black and rippled. I don’t see any boaters out. Most of them will have gone in at sunset. On the opposite shore, Boston’s Back Bay is softly illuminated by the glowing windows of old brownstones and row houses. In the distance, the downtown skyline sparkles, and the night sky is a lighter shade of black, a deep charcoal over the harbor and the ocean, which I can’t see from here.

Marino turns off the engine, and we open our doors. No interior lights blink on because he’s always kept those switches off for as long as I’ve known him. It makes no difference what he’s driving. He doesn’t want to be an easy target, a deer in the headlights as he puts it, and we never have been in all of the miles I’ve ridden with him. Most vehicle-related mishaps when we’re together occur because I can’t see where I’m stepping, what I’m sitting on or exposed to when I’m in and out of anything he pilots.

But to give him credit, he’s much more meticulous about his cars, trucks and motorcycles than he ever was when we first started working together. I’ll never forget his tricked-out Crown Vics with their monster engines, and their long looping antennas bobbing like fishing poles. The ashtrays overflowed, the windows and mirrors at times were opaque from smoke. There were fast-food bags and chicken boxes everywhere, and usually I was sitting on salt that looked like sand everywhere. If you didn’t know what it was you might think Marino lived near a beach.

Overall he’s become more highly evolved. He still smokes but nowhere near as much, and when he does the great outdoors is his ashtray. He wouldn’t think of dirtying or stinking up his car, not that this is anything to brag about. When he eats while on the road he doesn’t rip into the packets of salt and ketchup the way he used to, and he’s much better about cleaning up. Nonetheless I prefer to see what I’m climbing into when he rides me around after dark.

I’ve earned my share of purple hearts from grease and various condiment stains on pants and skirts. I’ve banged my lower extremities against riot guns stored between or under seats, and slipped on running boards that are slick with Armor All. I’ve snagged my hose on a deer antler and hooked my thumb on a fishing lure in the glove box, which also is never lighted. Once we bumped over a bad pothole, and a Playboy centerfold fell out of the visor and into my lap. It was several editions old. Marino had forgotten it was there, I guess.

I lower my pumps to the dirt path, standing up, and the heat slams into me like a wall. It’s not as bad as it was when I walked out of the Faculty Club but that doesn’t mean it’s much better than tolerable. It doesn’t mean it’s safe for long exposures without risking hyperthermia, and I’m assuming we’ll be working the scene for hours.

When the truck is here it can serve as a staging area where we can duck into the air-conditioning at intervals. We’ll have plenty of water, snacks, and urine-collection devices, UCDs-more popularly known as piddle packs.

“We’ve got to figure out exactly how we’re going to do this,” Marino says, and we shut our doors.

The quiet heat is broken by the rumble of traffic on the street behind us and on the bridge. I hear little else. Maybe a plane passing overhead. Nothing is stirring, the heated air inescapable.

“A high recon,” I reply simply as I shoulder my messenger bag. “Then a low one where we move in and collect evidence.”

“You going to leave the body out here even longer than it’s already been?”

“Longer than what? We don’t know how long it’s been. We know when the police got the call, which I’d estimate was what? Thirty or forty minutes ago? I’ll factor all of this in, and the numbers and data will be as exact as anything can be. It’s business as usual in other words, and will be fine.”

“So we just leave her as is.” He pushes a button on his key fob and pops the tailgate.

“Why are you worrying so much?”

“Because I wish we could get the body out of here. That would solve most of our problems, Doc.”

“And at the same time create bigger ones. I don’t want to wait any longer than necessary but I don’t have much choice if I want to see what I’m doing.”

“It’s just too bad this had to happen with Dorothy flying in,” he says, and that may be the very last thing I want to talk about right now.

“Plus I have nothing with me, no protective clothing, nothing,” I pick up on what I was saying before he rudely brought up my sister. “I came straight from a dinner where I didn’t have my car or anything else. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have left for the scene yet.”

We’ve walked around to the back of the SUV, and I don’t rub it in that Marino continues to enjoy a special status and special treatment. Had he taken the required steps that other detectives don’t typically deviate from, he would have called the CFC investigative unit he used to head.

He would have discussed the case with whoever answered. After routine questions were asked and an electronic report was created, one of my medical examiners on call would have been contacted. Most likely that doctor would have responded but only after a truck and all needed supplies and personnel were deployed first.

If I ended up at the scene at all, it wouldn’t be now. It might not be for another hour at least. I probably could have finished my dinner with Benton first, and if I’d had enough wine I wouldn’t have shown up at all. I wasn’t supposed to be working tonight. I was to be with my husband and go pick up my sister. But Marino bypassed all of the usual protocols and checks and balances just as he always does.

I won’t tell him that I don’t really mind. When he calls I know it’s serious. We have a routine that’s familiar and comfortably rutted like an old wagon trail. I watch him lift open the tailgate, and of course no light goes on. I may as well be staring into a cave.

“I’VE GOT GLOVES, COVERALLS,” he says halfheartedly because he knows I can’t wear anything that might fit him. “And the usual stuff, except no thermometer. I should just toss one in so you have it if you need it. I keep meaning to get around to it.”

“We’re going to have to wait,” I say it again, and I have no doubt he won’t be the only one who’s about to get impatient.

Everyone will be champing at the bit to collect whatever forensic treasures might be out here. Every cop-and Marino most of all-will want to know what happened to the victim. I can’t begin to answer that until I examine her, and I can’t do that until I deem it safe. Right now it’s not.

Turning on the lights at this exposed location would be the same as doing it inside a glass house. Anyone around us will have a ringside seat, and as I spell this out, Marino agrees reluctantly.

“We’ll start with photographs. We’ll get the lay of the land,” I say as we continue to discuss what makes the most sense. “I’m sure the truck will be here any minute.”

“But it will be another good twenty or thirty minutes after that with all the setting up to be done.” Marino is halfway inside the back of his SUV, using his phone flashlight to illuminate the precisely arranged and packed crime-scene accoutrements and equipment. “And it’s going to be hard as hell to see in the meantime.” His voice is muffled inside as he roots around. “And my damn night vision’s not what it used to be either. It’s like everything turns to shit the minute you hit forty.”

I stare through the velvety darkness at the river flowing sluggishly like liquid dark glass. Marino hasn’t seen forty in a while, and when he gets like this there’s not much I can say. But I don’t blame him. I would be licking my wounds too if I’d just been duped the way he was.

“Getting old sucks,” he gripes, and I know when he’s feeling belittled and obsessive. “I hate it. I freakin’ hate it,” he adds, and the Interpol impostor has done a number on him.

“You’re not old, Marino.” I’ve heard enough, and we have a lot to take care of. “You’re in great shape and weren’t born yesterday. You’re experienced. So am I, and we know exactly what to do out here. We’ve worked far more difficult scenes than this. Forget about the phone call for now. Put it out of your mind. I promise we’ll get to the bottom of it. But that’s not what should be preoccupying you at the moment.”

He continues digging around inside his truck, and I begin my scan as if I’m a lighthouse sweeping everything around me, looking for what needs to be protected or ignored. Since we don’t know what happened and exactly where, we’ll start well outside the perimeter the police will have secured.

I can’t see any yellow tape from where we’re parked, but I have a pretty good idea it begins at the clearing where a dead body and a bicycle await us. But if this is a case of violence involving the perpetrator and victim physically encountering each other, then the clearing isn’t where the scene begins. It can’t be. And Marino is thinking the same thing.

“Whoever did it had to get in and out of here somehow,” he says. “Unless it’s a damn elf that lives in a tree.”

“Assuming Investigator Barclay’s description of the body has even a semblance of truth?” I reply. “If she really were assaulted and beaten? Then yes, her assailant or someone involved had to access the park. Whether she was killed here or dumped, the person was in and out, and we can’t assume he didn’t take the same route we’re about to. I’m not saying it’s a he.”

“Yeah I know.” Marino hands me a box of extra-large nitrile gloves that he’ll use and I won’t. “But if it was a sexual assault or an attempt, we’re probably talking about a male. I’m already looking for tire tracks, especially gouges and flattened areas of grass. So far I’m not seeing it, but he could have entered the park a number of different ways.”

“A lot of streets dead-end here and along the river,” I point out. “And there’s no wall obviously, so he could have been parked in a variety of nearby locations. But from there how did he get the body in here?”

“Carried it.” Marino is shoving heavy cases of equipment around in the back.

“I doubt it.”

“I didn’t say that’s what I think. I’m just saying it’s possible.”

“How would that explain her bicycle being near her body?” I ask.

“Exactly, because I think we already know she wasn’t dumped.” He tears open a cardboard box. “She was murdered right where she was found.” He hands me one folded pair of disposable coveralls, still in the cellophane package, size double-XL.

“Let’s be reminded that we don’t know that she was murdered.” I watch him and I constantly look around. “We have no idea why she’s dead.”

Lights reflected in the water’s slow current flicker like a vast school of silvery fish, and on the other side, Boston is a glittering empire of centuries-old stone and brick, and modern high-rises. But almost no ambient light dispels the darkness immediately around us, and I dig into my messenger bag for the small tactical flashlight I always carry. I force the box of gloves, the coveralls to fit inside so my hands are free.

“We have to establish the perimeter,” Marino says. “We’ve got to start somewhere but as dark as it is? We’re pretty much guessing.”

“That’s why we start here. We’ll look where we’re going and get an overview,” I reply, and I deeply regret what I’m wearing.

I might have to burn this suit when I finally scrape it off me. I don’t enjoy disposable clothing that swathes me in bright white Tyvek rather much like a building under construction. But right about now I find myself coveting, almost lusting for, a loose-fitting pair of coveralls and lightweight ankle boots.

“We can mark anything we see with cones or flags and then come back a second time once we have the luxury of time, privacy, and appropriate visibility,” I continue the discussion with Marino. “I’m assuming you talked about barriers with Rusty or Harold? I know we have the basics in our big trucks, but there’s nothing basic about this situation. The scene is wide open from virtually every angle and perspective once we turn on the lights.”

“I told Harold we’re going to need more than the usual walls that we prop up with a few sandbags to make sure people can’t see shit from street level.” Marino slides a big scene case to the lip of the open tailgate. “But for something like this, you got that right. We’re going to need a tent because you got all kinds of people looking down at us from buildings and the bridge.”

I glance up at the long string of headlights moving above us, crossing the river in both directions. I watch aircraft lit up like small planets, clustered around Logan Airport, and I think of Dorothy again. Marino digs in a box of evidence-marking cones in bright primary colors, each of them numbered. He stacks a dozen of them, and it always reminds me of the Cap the Hat board game that my father found at a yard sale in our Miami neighborhood when I was a little kid.

“I said we want a roof,” Marino tells me what he told Harold. “I said we’re going to need the full monty out here.”