Hidden Order

CHAPTER 27

Despite the crush of morning traffic, they finally arrived at their destination, 630 Washington Street.

Looking up, Harvath wasn’t surprised to see that the body had been removed. A host of gruesome photos taken by passersby was already making the rounds of the Internet. Interestingly enough, many of the amateur photographers had failed to capture the enormous plaque embedded in the building’s redbrick faïade, commemorating the structure’s significance.

Known as the “Liberty Tree” building, it marked the location of a famous elm tree from which an effigy was hung in protest in 1765. The effigy represented Andrew Oliver, the man Mad King George had appointed to carry out the Stamp Act tax on the American colonies, and it drew a very large crowd — the first of its kind in public against the king. It was considered a seminal moment leading up to the Revolutionary War and the men who had hung Oliver in effigy would go on to call themselves the Sons of Liberty. Harvath wasn’t surprised at all that this location had been chosen for another symbolic murder.

A Boston PD patrolman was blocking the main entrance. As Harvath grabbed his bag out of the back, Montgomery stepped up to the officer and flashed his FBI credentials and told him to let Harvath pass. The young FBI agent had already explained he was working another case and was only functioning as his driver.

Harvath thanked him for the ride as the patrolman said, “Fourth floor,” and waved him inside.

Harvath rode the elevator upstairs and stepped out into a hive of activity. There were crime scene technicians, uniformed police officers, detectives, and FBI agents. They all had short hair, and while the FBI agents were all trim and in good shape, the cops looked like cops everywhere and represented a wide range of physical fitness levels.

The patrolman downstairs had already radioed up to the officer controlling the inner perimeter of the crime scene and had told him to let Harvath pass. The officer directed Harvath down the hall to where a pair of technicians, who had ostensibly photographed everything, was beginning to disassemble a very odd contraption. There were old-fashioned wooden pulleys, hooks, and lengths of rough, fibrous rope that looked like they were twisted from hemp.

“Can you hold off for a second please, fellas?” he asked the CSTs. “I’d like to take a look at all this.”

“Just what this investigation needs,” one of them said derisively, “another Fed.”

“You picking up the overtime?” his colleague asked.

Apparently, there wasn’t a lot of love lost between the Boston PD and the FBI. Harvath wasn’t surprised. The Boston Homicide Unit had some excellent detectives, but overall a terrible and unfortunately long-standing record when it came to their ability to actually solve murders. On multiple cases, the FBI had been forced to come in and bat cleanup. It was a source of embarrassment for the city and they had been working hard to turn things around. Nevertheless, it didn’t excuse the attitude Harvath was getting.

“No, I’m not picking up your overtime,” he replied. “In fact, I’d be happy to recommend you both for a permanent vacation.”

“And just who the hell are you anyway?” the first CST demanded.

“Wyatt Earp,” Harvath replied, shooting him a very serious, don’t-fuck-with-me look that backed the man down. Smiling, he suggested, “Why don’t you two take a break and get a cup of coffee? I’ll only be a few minutes.”

“Fine by me, pal,” the short-tempered tech said as he stopped what he was working on, stood up, and gestured for his partner to follow.

Harvath was glad to be able to have a few minutes to work in peace. Stepping back, he took the entire contraption in piece by piece.

From an engineering standpoint, it was ingenious. Everything had been assembled facing the broken window. The ropes and pulleys were suspended from the sprinkler pipes and helped balance a polished plank of wood atop a modified fulcrum. The plank actually comprised three pieces of wood fitted together, which likely had made it easier to transport. Holes were drilled on each side to accommodate the ropes.

At first, Harvath had thought that all of the water had come from a broken sprinkler pipe. The problem was that only the floor was wet. No other surface areas were — not the desks, not the file cabinets, not even the windowsills.

Looking around, he noticed the large plastic industrial garbage can on wheels again. Originally, he hadn’t paid much attention to it, figuring the can belonged to a cleaning crew or something. Now his interest was piqued.

Removing his flashlight, he walked over to the can and shined some light inside. It was streaked with moisture and there was a small puddle of what looked to be water in the bottom. There was also something else.

Returning his flashlight to his pocket, he bent down and examined the exterior of the can. Near the very bottom, he found it. It appeared that the can had been filled with water, but that someone had drilled a hole at the bottom to let the water out. Why?

Harvath stood and went back over to the plank and reexamined everything. That’s when it hit him. The killer, or killers, had probably left long before Herman Penning was even dead.

It was all making sense now and what he had originally seen as ingenious was quickly reaching the brilliance level.

The sixty-year-old man had been fitted with a noose and was then placed onto the plank, which would function like a chute. When the appointed moment arrived, the chute tipped forward and gravity jettisoned the father of two and grandfather of four through the window. The man then fell, but only until he reached the literal end of his rope, at which point his neck was snapped.

Judging by the size of the garbage can and how much water it could hold, it had functioned like a timer. Secured to the plank, it would have acted as a counterbalance, holding it horizontal for as long as its weight was greater than the victim’s. As soon as that ratio changed, gravity would take over.

After taking several pictures of everything, Harvath grabbed a chair in order to better examine the pulleys. He’d only been up on it for a few moments when he heard a throat being cleared behind him.

He turned around to see a man and a woman, shields on their belts and their hands very near their weapons.

“Agent Wyatt Earp, is it?” the woman said. “I’m Detective Annie Oakley and this is my partner, Buffalo Bill. Why don’t you step down. We’d like to have a word with you, please.”