Outsourced

15

Alex Resnick noted the location of the surveillance cameras as he entered the bank. Two other detectives, Tom Stillwall and Phil Hollings, were already inside talking to a witness. Resnick nodded to them and then glanced at the dead woman. Over the years he had grown mostly numb to the sight of dead bodies, but seeing this girl weakened him in the knees. She was just too damn young to have something like that happen to her. He heard a low groan, and saw his partner staring in her direction.

“Damn, there’s a lot of blood,” Maguire said.

Stillwall approached the two of them, both hands pushed deep in his pockets, his face frozen in a constipated frown. He was a big man, messy, his hair uncombed, a thick six o’clock shadow already showing. His suit, which was several sizes too big, looked as if it had been slept in.

“Hey, boyos,” he greeted them, his constipated look growing more pained, “what a mess, huh? We’re going to be here all goddamn night. And just my luck, I’ve got Sox tickets for this evening.”

“Two people were shot?” Resnick asked.

“Yeah, we had two of them all right.” Stillwall consulted a notepad. “One Mary O’Donnell, forty-two, lives right here in Lynn.” He closed his notepad. “She was in pretty rough shape when they took her out, shot point blank in the stomach with a forty-five. Whoever did that wanted to inflict much pain, my friend.

“Now this poor girl,” Stillwall went on, waving a hand in the direction of the dead woman. “Margaret Williams. Only barely twenty-three. Always hard to imagine when they’re dead, but she must’ve been something to look at when she was among the living. This was a pure execution. And like the other shooting, a forty-five was used. Two shots, two casings. We got them both.”

“Why’s she still here?”

“FBI’s sending over one of their CSI experts, although I don’t see the point of it. I mean for crying out loud, we know what happened, and even if we didn’t we’ll be watching videotape of it later. But what are you going to do, rules are rules.” Stillwall moved closer to Resnick. “Let me give you a quick rundown,” he said, lowering his voice. “Six or seven guys stormed in here, all wearing masks, all with guns drawn. Several of them had assault rifles, maybe AK-47s. They laid everyone out on their stomachs and taped their wrists and ankles behind them.”

Stillwall stopped in his tracks, his frown deepening as he held his stomach. “Damn acid reflux,” he said after a while. “I had a sausage sub for lunch and I’ve been paying the price ever since.”

“So everyone’s on the floor…” Resnick said patiently, trying to get Stillwall back on track.

“Okay, so after everyone’s on the floor, they go for the safety deposit boxes. They didn’t try for the vault or bother with any of the money from the cashier drawers.”

“What about the shootings?”

“I’m still not clear on what happened. That guy over there with Phil, the pencil-necked individual who looks like he’s about to pass out, is one Craig Brown, the manager of this fine banking establishment. According to Brown and several other witnesses, there was something going on between the two victims and one of the gunmen.” Stillwall edged closer, his voice dropping to a low growl. “Now something I find interesting; this bank has a new state-of-the-art security system. We tried it five minutes ago and the system worked like a champ, yet during the robbery the damn thing’s a bust. You got to ask yourself why.”

“You think there was someone on the inside?” Resnick asked.

“I don’t know how else to explain it. The system is locked away in a cabinet. Brown unlocked it for us and showed us that everything was up and running. I have to think the system was turned off before the robbery. And according to Brown, he’s the only one who has the key to the cabinet. Figure that one out, boyo.”

Stillwall raised an eyebrow, waiting for a reaction from Resnick. When he didn’t get one, he turned to Maguire. “Your partner’s a hard man to please. Just about talk your ear off if you let him, but you must know that by now.” He waited a few seconds and then sighed after still getting no reaction from either of them. “No sense of humor, the both of you.”

Stillwall led the way to the back of the bank where the safety deposit boxes were kept. Two extension cords plugged into outlets in the hallway snaked through an open door. Resnick walked into the room. Both cords were attached to drills that lay on the floor. He counted the number of safety deposit boxes that had been dumped on the floor. Eight of them, each with three holes drilled into them. Examining one of the boxes, he saw that the holes had cut through bolts that would’ve kept the boxes from being able to be opened.

“Seems they knew what they were doing,” Resnick said.

“That it does,” Stillwall agreed.

Maguire stood squinting at the rows of safety deposit boxes. “I wonder how they happened to pick the ones they did,” he said.

“Do we know who owns them?” Resnick asked Stillwall.

Stillwall showed a thin smile. “So far Brown’s not being very cooperative. He’s making noise about the privacy of his customers, crap like that, but he doesn’t have a leg to stand on. We could get a court order by tonight if we had to, but I think if we lean on him a little he’ll cave fast enough. What do you say, Alex?”

“Sure, just give me a minute.” Resnick stepped back and took several shots of the damaged safety deposit boxes before sliding the digital camera back into his jacket pocket.

They got to the lobby as two FBI agents were entering the bank. Resnick knew immediately they were FBI from their dress and body language. One was a tall, thin man in his late forties with a long dour face; the other an athletic dark brunette around thirty who would’ve been very attractive if her face hadn’t been set in a humorless, rigid expression. Phil Hollings joined them and there was a quick round of introductions. The woman, Kathleen Liciano, was the crime scene investigator, and she quickly left them to go and examine the dead body. The other agent was Donald Spitzer. Stillwall gave him a quick rundown, more tersely than he had with Resnick and Maguire.

“The government is going to be seeking the death penalty for the people behind this,” Agent Spitzer announced glumly. “We’ve been looking for a case like this in Massachusetts ever since the federal death penalty was expanded.”

“I hope we’ll be able to oblige you,” Stillwall said. “The perps who did this deserve at least that much. We were about to talk to Mr. Craig Brown and try to find out, among other things, why the bank’s security system magically stopped working before the robbery. Would you care to join us?”

Spitzer indicated that he would. Brown, who was standing across the lobby, turned a bit green as four detectives and an FBI agent approached him. Stillwall did the introductions. The bank manager had put out his hand to the FBI agent, but pulled it back after Spitzer ignored it.

“We’d like to talk to you someplace quiet,” Resnick said.

“All of you?”

“You don’t have a problem with that, do you?” Spitzer asked

“No, of course not.” Brown’s eyes jerked from Resnick to Spitzer. He took a handkerchief from his suit pocket and wiped the back of his neck. “My office should be fine.”

After they got situated in the bank manager’s office, Resnick asked Brown about the shootings.

“They had us all lying face down. I don’t think any of us saw the shootings. When that first shot happened I thought it was a bomb. I never heard anything so loud.” Brown’s voice wavered, probably as he replayed the moment in his head. As his attention focused back on Resnick, his skin looked paler, almost waxy. “I still can’t believe this happened,” he muttered. “I feel like I’m going to have a heart attack or something.”

“Do you require medical attention?” Maguire asked.

Brown shook his head. “Maybe a glass of water.” He picked up a coffee mug from his desk and started to get up, but Maguire took the mug from him. “I’ll get you the water,” he told him.

“Why do you think those two women were shot?” Resnick asked.

“One of the robbers was talking to Peggy. I don’t know exactly what he was saying, some strange things, like about a Brazilian bikini wax. I think he was trying to pick her up. Peggy just let him have it, told him what she thought of him. Then he shot her.”

“Peggy – you mean Margaret Williams. You knew her?”

“I’ve known her since she was seventeen. I know her parents also. Peggy was a beautiful girl. Also very feisty – someone who wouldn’t take guff from anyone.”

“Did you have a relationship with her?” Hollings asked.

“What? No, of course not.”

“Why do you think your security system didn’t work?” Spitzer asked. There was a hard edge to his voice and the bank manager flinched at the sound of it, almost as if he had been punched.

“I have absolutely no idea,” he said. Maguire had brought back his coffee mug. Brown’s hands shook as he drank from it, some of the water spilling on to his suit jacket. “Right after I was freed, I checked the cabinet and found that the system was still on. I tested it later with two of the detectives here and the system worked the way it was supposed to. I have no idea what happened.”

“Who was with you?” Spitzer demanded.

“What do you mean?”

“When you checked the cabinet, who was with you?”

“I was alone…” Brown’s mouth closed slowly as he realized what Spitzer was getting at. As he stared at the FBI agent, a shadow fell over his eyes. “I don’t like what you’re implying,” he said. “Maybe I should consult a lawyer.”

“That’s your right,” Resnick said. “And if you’re involved in this, it would probably be a good idea.”

“If you do want to lawyer up, we’ll be more than happy to bring you down to the station for official questioning and make sure the media knows all about it,” Stillwall added.

Brown’s complexion turned a sickly white as he looked from Spitzer to Stillwall. “This is ridiculous,” he said. “I had absolutely nothing to do with this.”

“You can understand why we would be suspicious,” Resnick said.

“No, I don’t understand that.”

“Anyone else have a key to that cabinet?”

Craig Brown shook his head.

“There you go,” Hollings offered.

“Add to that your unwillingness to cooperate with us,” Resnick said.

“Unwillingness to cooperate?” Brown sputtered. “How am I not cooperating?”

“A woman is shot to death, another critically wounded, and you can’t tell us why your alarm system didn’t work,” Stillwall said.

“I’ve been telling you, I don’t know.”

“You won’t even tell us who owns the safety deposit boxes that were broken into,” Resnick said.

“Which is just plain silly,” Stillwall explained. “If we go to a judge, we’ll have a court order within the hour forcing you to provide us with that information.”

“You would make things easier for me if you got a court order,” Brown said. “The person who owns them wouldn’t be happy if I gave you the information voluntarily.”

“One person owns all of the boxes that were broken into?” Maguire asked.

Brown nodded. Then, very softly, “Viktor Petrenko.”

Resnick’s voice cracked as he asked Brown to repeat the name. Brown repeated that Viktor Petrenko owned all of the boxes that were robbed.

Resnick could feel his heart beating a mile a minute. “Did he own any others?” he asked.

Brown shook his head. “Only the ones that were broken into.”

There was a knock on the door and a patrolman stuck his head in. “We found another dead body out back,” he said.

“What do you mean out back?”

“In a lot behind the bank’s. A male Caucasian, around sixty, shot once in the head.”

Resnick exchanged glances with his partner and then Stillwall, who lowered his head into his hand and squeezed his eyes. “I might as well throw my Sox tickets away,” he moaned.

Resnick and Maguire left with the patrolman, the others staying behind to continue questioning Brown. Resnick had to get out of that office anyway. Hearing that Petrenko owned those safety deposit boxes had sent a burst of adrenaline pumping through his system and he had to get moving. Petrenko must have had more than just money in those boxes. Probably also weapons and other incriminating evidence. If Resnick could get his hands on what was taken from those boxes, he had no doubt that he would be able to put Petrenko away for a long, long time.

As they walked towards the lobby, Resnick was so caught up in his thoughts that he only half heard his partner ask the patrolman whether the media had picked up on the robbery yet.

“It’s a zoo out there,” the patrolman was saying. “Reporters from all the local stations and newspapers are parked out front.”

“Any of them know about the dead body out back?” Resnick asked.

“Not that I know of. We’re trying to keep them away.”

When they got to the lobby, Resnick noticed that Margaret Williams’ body had been removed. A large puddle of blood remained where she had died. When they left the front lobby door, a burst of voices yelled out to them. Resnick looked up and saw a mob of reporters and cameramen being restrained by a line of uniformed cops. He ignored them and moved quickly towards the parking lot in back. The patrolman led the way, pushing through a thick row of shrubs about three feet high. Maguire cursed as his pant leg caught on a branch and the fabric ripped.

On the other side of the shrubs, Kathleen Liciano was kneeling by the dead body. She looked up as Resnick approached her.

“He was shot once in the forehead with a forty-five caliber,” she told him.

Resnick scanned the empty lot. “Could he have been shot in the bank’s parking lot and dragged here?”

“No. I found the bullet casing here. Also, there would be plant debris on his clothing if he had been dragged through those bushes.”

Resnick looked down at his own suit and brushed away some small leaves that had attached themselves to it. Maguire walked over to him, still cursing over his torn pants.

“I just bought this suit,” he complained. He looked down at the dead body and shook his head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with these old guys having to walk around as if they’re still at Woodstock. He should’ve been shot dead just for dressing like that. Do we know who he is?”

Liciano shook her head. “He had no identification on him.”

“Car keys?” Resnick asked.

“No. His pockets were empty.”

Resnick stared at the dead body. There was a small entry wound in the middle of his forehead. Without looking, Resnick knew there would be a large hole blasted out of the back of his skull. The dead man’s body looked bloated, his skin grayish. There was a smallness to his face, though. Almost as if it had shrunk in death. Resnick looked past the body and could see small pieces of brain and bone fragments littering the pavement.

“I wonder what he was doing here?” he asked no one in particular. “This store has been vacant for years.”

“Probably lousy luck more than anything else,” Maguire offered. “Maybe he was going to cut through to the bank, ran into the perps, and got shot either because he saw something, or maybe for his car.”

“But why would he park here?” Resnick asked. “Why not in the bank’s lot?”

“Who knows?”

Kathleen Liciano stood up, stretching. She removed her latex gloves. “I’m done here,” she said. She handed Resnick a card. “Call me in a day and I’ll let you know if the autopsies reveal anything.” An ambulance had pulled up next to them. She turned to talk with the EMT workers about the removal of the body.

Resnick took one last look at the dead body and then faced Maguire. “Let Tom and Phil handle the witnesses,” he said. “Get the surveillance tapes and I’ll meet you back at the station.”

“What about you?”

Resnick gave a thin smile, one of the few Maguire had seen from his partner during the three months they had worked together. “I have an errand I need to run,” he said.