The Bitterest Pill

Two

A thousand things went through Jesse’s mind as he pulled up to the Mackey place, and not a single damn one of them was any good. He didn’t need to be a parent to know that a mother and father should never have to put a kid in the ground before them. Not ever, not for any reason. Drugs, disease, a careless accident, what did that matter? And now that Jesse was a father, Heather Mackey’s death cut even deeper than it had during all the previous cases he had worked involving the death of a child. He hadn’t been there to watch Cole grow up, hadn’t known the boy existed until a few months ago, but that was beside the point. The bond he felt couldn’t have been stronger had he been in the delivery room to hear Cole cry or to watch him open his eyes for the first time.

Suit Simpson greeted Jesse at the curb.

“Hey, Jesse. Molly told me you were on your way.”

“I see the ME’s men are here.” Jesse pointed at the van. “ME inside?”

Suit nodded. “Peter, too. He’s working the scene.”

“Did you use the naloxone?”

Suit shook his head. “Too late. She was already gone. Such a waste. She was a pretty girl.”

“Death doesn’t care about pretty or ugly. Only we do.”

“I guess.”

“Is Selectman Mackey home yet?” Jesse asked.

Suit shook his head. “He’s down in Boston, lobbying for highway funds. Mrs. Mackey was having trouble getting him on the phone until a few minutes ago.”

“Talk to me, Suit.”

“The kid’s in her bed—” Something caught in Suit’s throat. He might’ve been an ex — football star and a man to have on your side in a fight, but he was a gentle soul. That used to concern Jesse. Not anymore. He had taken a bullet in a gun battle with Mr. Peepers, and when the shit hit the fan at the old meetinghouse, Suit had walked back into the building to lead the people inside to safety. He’d done it knowing there was a good chance he would die in the process.

“It’s okay, Suit.” Jesse patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll see for myself.”

The Mackey house was at the foot of the Bluffs. It was a new-to-look-old Cape Cod — style home with a detached two-car garage and vinyl siding meant to look like overlapping cedar shingles. There was a bluestone path leading up to two granite steps and a welcoming red door. The red door didn’t feel very welcoming just then. Jesse let himself in, Suit trailing behind. The second he entered, he heard Patti Mackey’s robotic, disembodied voice. Jesse stopped to listen.

Sue, yes, it’s about Heather... No, she’s not in some kind of trouble. She’s dead... You heard me right... I’m numb, Sue. I shouldn’t be, but I’m numb. Is something wrong with me?

In Jesse’s experience, Patti’s denial and distance weren’t unusual. She was in a kind of self-protective shock, but it would wear off, and when it did... He had seen that dam break too many times for his liking. Once was too many. And there was no getting used to it. It was difficult to witness, so much so that he had always been glad not to be a parent. Now that layer of insulation had been stripped away. He followed Patti’s voice into the kitchen. Jesse had known the family for a long time and thought he should talk to Patti before going to see to Heather. It was a sad fact of his job that Heather was beyond his help.

Patti was a gray-eyed beauty with fair, freckled skin and long auburn hair. She could have passed as Heather’s much older sister. She was placing the phone back in its cradle when Jesse reached the kitchen. She turned to him — eyes empty, face blank. The moment she saw him the walls came down and she crumbled into Jesse’s arms. The tears came in a rush, soaking Jesse’s uniform shirt. Her body clenched and every part of her shook. But it was the sobbing that haunted him. The shrieks coming out of her were feral, primeval. He knew it was moot to try and say something soothing, so he stroked her hair and waited for the first wave to subside. When it did, Jesse sat her down at the kitchen table and held her hand.

“What happened, Patti?”

But it was too soon. She couldn’t even form words.

“Officer Simpson,” Jesse called for Suit.

When Suit stepped into the kitchen, Jesse told him to sit with Patti and to get her anything she needed. As he left the kitchen he leaned over and whispered in Suit’s ear, “Just keep her out of the bedroom.”

The ME was to the side of the bed, jotting notes down on a pad. Peter Perkins stopped what he was doing and held up a plastic evidence bag containing a syringe.

“Found it at the side of the bed.”

Jesse nodded, distracted. He was focused on the dead girl on the bed, dressed in a too-big Red Sox T-shirt. If not for the two other men present and the odors in the air that came with sudden death, Jesse might have been able to fool himself that the girl was simply in a deep sleep. He supposed she was, really, in the deepest of sleeps.

The ME stopped his scribbling and turned to Jesse.

“She’s been dead about two hours. No obvious signs of foul play. We’ll have to wait for the tox screen,” he said, “but it’s a heroin OD. I’d make book on it.”

Jesse asked, “Was she a heavy user.”

“I don’t think so. No track marks. Only one fresh puncture wound that I can see.” The ME took the girl’s left arm, turned it up, and pointed to the inner fold of her forearm. “See it?” He didn’t wait for Jesse to answer. “I’ll know more when I get her on the table. I’m done with her, if you want to have a look. I’ll send my crew in to bag her.” He looked back at the girl. “A shame.”