The Dead Room

34

Darby, who had just stripped out of her coveralls, paced the threadbare carpet in the empty bedroom at the top of the stairs waiting for Dr Howard Edgar to come back on the line. The state’s new forensic anthropologist had moved into his Quincy home less than a week ago and was now rummaging around the strange rooms still packed with boxes searching for a pen and paper.

She had borrowed a mobile phone from a patrolman and had gone upstairs to get away from the noise. Jennings had gathered his troops inside the kitchen and she could hear him speaking.

‘The lead we had on Kevin Reynolds? It turned out to be his cousin, which isn’t surprising, since the two of them look so much alike. We need to find him. Some of you grew up here. I did too, so I know what you’re thinking – the neighbourhood won’t talk to us. Code of silence and all that bullshit. Tell them the remains we found might belong to local girls. That’s your way in. Use that to get them to talk. Work your contacts. Call any retired flatfoot you know who walked these streets during the Sullivan regime. Any name you get will help us get closer to identifying these remains.’

White lights danced across the old bedroom walls. Darby looked out of the grimy bedroom window at the faces gathered below her.

The locals had pretty much packed it in for the night but the media seemed to have doubled in size. Reporters, cameramen and photographers stood shoulder to shoulder behind the sawhorses, every one of them anxiously staring at the front door. Word had leaked about the remains.

Edgar’s nasal voice came back on the line. ‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, Dr McCormick. What’s the address?’

She gave it to him. ‘Do you know how to get to Charlestown?’

‘No, but it doesn’t matter. My wife purchased a portable GPS unit for my car, so even a directionally challenged person like myself will have no trouble finding the address. Now tell me what you found.’

‘Three sets of remains, one in a state of advanced decomposition. The other two are fully skeletonized. They appear female. You can forget using dental records to ID the remains. Their teeth were pulled out before they were buried. And the person or persons who did it also cut off their hands and feet. It’s a classic mob burial before the days of DNA.

‘I sifted through the dirt and didn’t find any metacarpal or carpal bones. When you examine the tibia, you’ll see grooves that I think are consistent with a circular saw.’

‘Hopefully we can ID them through some other means,’ Edgar said. ‘I’d hate to use mitochondrial DNA testing. It’s very time consuming, in addition to being expensive.’

Edgar was worried about the city’s bean counters. Not a good sign.

‘There may be more remains buried down here,’ she said. ‘I dug up only a small part of the dirt cellar. A good part of it is laid in concrete, so I’d like you to bring in your sonar equipment. You’ll also need some additional bodies to help move the furniture. The space is rather small, so I’d suggest no more than three or four people.’

‘Dr Carter left me a list of graduate students. I don’t have the list handy, so I’ll have to stop by my office first. I apologize: I’m not usually this disorganized.’

‘There’s no rush. You’ll be here for a while – probably a good part of the night.’ And so will I, Darby added privately. She had called in additional forensic teams to help process the house.

‘Dr McCormick, unless there’s some urgency, I’d prefer to examine the remains in situ.’

‘I thought you might. I did a little digging around the bones to see if I could find any clothing or jewellery that might help us, but, other than that, everything is undisturbed.’

‘Thank you,’ Edgar said. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

Darby snapped her phone shut, wishing she could go home and take a long shower. Her damp clothes clung to her skin and she felt as grimy as this bedroom’s window. She glanced at her watch. Half past ten.

Flashbulbs started popping from the street. She could hear the rapid machine-gun click-click-click of dozens of cameras snapping pictures, like this was a goddamn paparazzi event, as the two male attendants from the medical examiner’s office, wearing masks and coveralls, walked down the front steps carrying a black body bag holding Peter Alan. Cameras were held in the air to capture and record the footage. Cameramen stood on the roofs of news vans and cars, on the pavement and front stoops, along with some of the neighbours. Across the street, on the corner, a woman wearing a pink tank top and matching short-shorts stood barefoot on the front stairs of a home talking to a burly, bald man.

That’s the driver of the brown van. He’s wearing the same light grey suit and brown trousers.

Without taking her eyes off him, Darby opened her phone and hit the programmed number for Coop’s mobile.

‘Where are you?’ she asked when he answered.

‘I’m in the basement.’

‘Go upstairs to the living room and look out of the window facing the street. I’ll explain when you get there.’

Baldy stood close to the woman, speaking near her ear. The woman’s arms were crossed over her chest and she stared down at her bare feet.

Darby glanced around the street. No sign of a brown van. It’s probably parked on one of the side streets.

‘Okay,’ Coop said, ‘I’m here.’

‘Look across the street to your right. See the woman with the tight pink shorts? Has the word “trouble” stitched across her ass?’

‘I see her.’

‘The guy standing to her right, the one that’s built like a beer keg? I saw him this morning in Belham – he was the one driving the van,’ Darby said. ‘I want you to keep an eye on him while I talk to Jennings.’