The Dead Room

17

Darby placed last night’s security tapes on the passenger seat of her car. There had been no need for a warrant. Hospital officials were glad to cooperate.

On her way out, she had checked on Sean’s condition. The neurologist, Dr Goldstein, had gone back to Boston, so she spoke to one of the ICU nurses, a heavy older woman with silver hair.

‘He’s brain dead,’ the nurse said, with great sympathy. Then she touched the small, plain gold cross on the chain resting against her white shirt and added, ‘When you find a family member, I suggest you tell them to make funeral arrangements.’

Darby pulled out of the car park’s south exit, away from the crowd of reporters huddled around the main doors hoping to find a doctor or nurse willing to talk about Sean’s condition.

Driving through the streets on the way back to the city, she kept checking her rear-view mirror for the brown van with the dented front bumper.

Ten minutes later, at a busy downtown intersection, she spotted it six cars behind her. She had first noticed it on her way out of Boston. The van never got too close. It didn’t need to. Her car, a forest-green 1974 Ford Falcon GT Coupe, stood out in the busy traffic and was easy to follow.

Darby glanced at the dashboard clock. Quarter to twelve. The woman’s autopsy was scheduled today at three. Forty minutes to get back to Boston. That gave her a little over two hours to examine the body for evidence. Plenty of time to go to the Belham house and drive back to the city.

Walton Street was blocked off with news vans. She took the next left, on to Boynton, and drove slowly with her attention locked on her rear-view mirror. The van didn’t follow. It whisked straight past Boynton.

She pulled on to Marshall and parked in the driveway. Belham PD had brought in more sawhorses to corral the swelling number of reporters.

The patrolman guarding the front door had a sunburned face. After she showed him her ID, he put down his coffee cup and wrote her name on a clipboard.

‘Have any Feds been inside?’ Darby asked.

‘No, ma’am.’

‘Any Feds asked to go in? Have you seen any around the house?’

‘No one’s asked to go in. As for your question about them poking around, I can’t say that I’ve seen anyone. I’ve been here since six.’

‘Can I see your clipboard?’

‘Sure.’

She scanned the list of names. Boston Lab personnel and Belham detectives. She handed the clipboard back, thanked him and entered the house.

Lab techs stood in the foyer dusting surfaces for prints. Bagged evidence lined the stairs. She moved around them and made her way to the master bedroom. Fingerprint powder covered the walls.

Her kit was right where she had left it when Coop summoned her to the hospital: next to the leather club chair. She removed her camera and made her way back downstairs.

Techs dressed in bunny suits soaked through with sweat were busy collecting evidence from the chairs. Coop had tagged them – a reminder to personnel that the chairs were to be transported to the lab. Walking through the kitchen of drying blood, she was glad to see everyone using the new digital SLR cameras to document everything.

She found Coop in the living room. He had set up a fuming tent around the leather cushions.

He pulled the mask down and said, ‘Lots of smooth glove prints. We –’

‘You still keep those binoculars in your kit?’

‘I do.’ He tapped it with his foot. ‘What do you need them for?’

‘I’m going to do some sightseeing. I’ll be back in a few.’

‘Come see me when you’re done.’

Darby jogged through the woods. When she reached the top of the second incline, she stopped running and examined the trees. Here was a tall, dead pine, the upper trunk split by lightning.

Coop’s binoculars had a leather strap. She fitted it around her neck, then placed the binoculars against the small of her back. She did the same thing with the camera.

She jumped, grabbing the overhead limb with both hands and pulling her feet up, the leather straps pressed against her throat. Wrapping her legs around the limb, she hoisted herself up and straddled the limb. After a moment of wrangling with the straps, she stood and made her way to the trunk.

Climbing, she tested the weight of each limb. An occasional car whooshed by on the Blakely Road and in the distance she could hear branches snapping, Mark Alves’s deep voice shouting something to Randy Scott. She couldn’t make out what they were saying. She stopped climbing when she had a clear view of the neighbourhood.

Binoculars in hand, she searched the areas where the van would be able to see her car. She was surprised to find it parked on the corner of Walton and Cranmore, far away from the house and far from the news vans with their satellite feeds.

The van had Massachusetts plates. She scooped the pen from her shirt pocket and wrote the number on her forearm. Then she removed her phone from the belt clip and dialled the main number for Belham police.

‘This is Darby McCormick from Boston’s Criminal Investigative Unit. I’m working with Detective Sergeant Artie Pine on the homicide on Marshall Street. I need you to send a couple of squad cars to Walton Street to apprehend the driver of a brown van. Tell them to drive up Cranmore and park their vehicles so they block access to Walton – I’ll explain why when they get there. I also need them to run a plate for me.’

She gave the operator the plate and her mobile number, then switched to the camera and took several pictures of the van. The camera lens wasn’t powerful enough to focus on the front plate.

The door opened. The man who stepped out had a round, shaved head. She wondered if this was the same man she’d seen last night wearing the tactical vest and night-vision goggles.

The man buttoned his light grey suit jacket and started running. Darby snapped pictures, catching sight of the slight bulge from the handgun he wore on his belt.

Baldy shoved his way past the throng of reporters and cameramen, then grabbed the elbow of a TV cameraman dressed in jeans, sneakers and a white shirt. Sunglasses covered his eyes and he wore headphones over a baseball cap.

More pictures and then she quickly zoomed in on his face and managed to get a good, clear shot of Baldy speaking into the cameraman’s ear. The two pushed through the crowd and were off and running.

Darby kept taking pictures as the van backed on to Cranmore. A screech of rubber and someone slammed on their car horn. Watching the van’s tyres spinning with smoke, she wondered if Baldy had a police radio or a scanner in his car. Maybe someone had called to tip him off.