Fragmented

by Colleen Connally

  “Do you think I could have possibly had anything to do with the search warrant having the wrong address on it?”

  Frustrated, Karl sat on the floor, stopping his efforts to pick up the mess. She could see he was too tired to argue. “You knew, though?”

  “I figured it was a possibility. Everyone has mixed up the address since I can remember. Old—they turn it into 40; instead of 4 Old Bentley Road, it becomes 40. How the hell can it be my fault the warrant said 40 Bentley Road? I’m sure Dad tried to tell them there was a 40 Bentley Road not far from us.”

  “Okay, okay, Cam. I’ll give you that one. But you haven’t made many friends today. What about your father? The house was clean, top to bottom, according to the police report. All of Zach’s clothes were either in the dryer or washer. And where in heaven’s name is his computer? We both know he doesn’t go anywhere without it. It should have been at your father’s if he didn’t go back to his dorm or his car. Which leads to the biggest issue. Where’s his car?”

  She hesitated. That question…that one definitely could become a problem. She picked up another cushion.

  “They believe you moved it, Cam. It won’t take much to put it together. If they find out it was parked at the hospital, there are cameras, you know. It would have been picked up. Evidence tampering isn’t something they take lightly. You can get into serious trouble.”

  “They would have to make the connection, first. If they had, they would had looked there to begin with.” Cameron paused. She reached over and squeezed Karl’s hand. “Look, Karl, I appreciate everything you’ve done. I don’t know what I would have done. Getting McCormick. Do you think we’ll need to keep him on retainer?”

  “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked him. He’s not cheap, Cam. Can you afford him? Do you need help?” he asked.

  He wrapped his arm around her shoulder, pulling her to him. She needed a hug. She broke away, fighting back tears.

  “I have the down payment I was going to use for my condo. I’ll use that. Dad doesn’t have it.”

  He looked at her. She swallowed hard. There was nothing more to say. She had an apartment to clean.

  * * * *

  At last, it was finished. The apartment was put back together, at least to the best of her ability. The boys had helped. She would never have gotten done without their help…and support.

  With the last bit of energy she could muster, she shut her bedroom door. Leaning back, she slid down on the floor. For the first time since the detectives banged on her door, she allowed the tears to fall.

  With conviction that came from the depths of her soul, she would never let her brother suffer like her father had…like they all had already. Nothing came before protecting her brother…nothing.

  There was no explaining the instinct that drove her—switching Zach’s shoes, washing his clothes, hiding his computer…much less his car. Zach looked so exposed and vulnerable.

  Karl had been right to worry. She was in trouble and she couldn’t explain why she had done what she had, except she didn’t have time to think. She only had time to react.

  Moreover, she had drawn her father into the whole mess. She had needed him. To his credit, he responded. Her father hadn’t hesitated. If he had been drinking, the immediate need of his children sobered him up.

  She had done most of it. She had thought of destroying Zach’s computer, throwing it in the ocean like she had his shoes. Something in her held back. What if it proved his innocence and not his guilt? She hid it in a spot she felt no one would ever find it. Maybe she had watched too many police shows.

  She left her father cleaning Zach’s room in the basement. It was decided he would follow her later, after the police showed up. She had no doubt they would.

  On the way back to Boston, Cameron took a drive down along the ocean front. It had been high tide. She fought the force of the wind and threw his shoes into the crashing waves. There would be no way to make the connection to Zach after being drenched in the salt water.

  She made a conscious decision to dispose of the trash in Zach’s car in a nearby McDonald’s trash can. She hadn’t a clue whether any of the trash held importance. She threw away everything loose in the car…she made a mental note to herself to kill her brother herself when all this was over as she picked up a couple of empty beer cans.

  It was then she noticed the dark stains in the driver’s seat and floorboard. Her heart sank. Was it dried blood? She refused to consider the possibility…it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be, but it hardened her determination to hide the car…until all this nonsense was settled.

  For all the times she had covered for her friend…for using her as an excuse to cover up her indiscretions…Meghan was going to help her whether she knew it or not. Cameron drove up Meghan’s street and into her garage with the keys Meghan had given her. The ease surprised Cameron herself.

  She had been prepared for Mila or Ian, with the excuse she needed a parking space due to the snow ban on parking on the street, but neither greeted her. She hadn’t wakened them. She would leave a message in the morning for the two, so they wouldn’t question the car’s appearance.

  The street hadn’t been plowed, but the Escape didn’t have a problem with the trek into the garage. It was right on the street. She walked out of the garage, making sure it was locked up tight. Her luck held out. The plow came down right after she had begun plodding up the street through the snow, covering her tracks.

  She continued walking without looking back. Frozen, she didn’t have a choice. She couldn’t stop for fear someone might connect her to Meghan’s house. It seemed like ages before she saw her father pull up in his car. He had to wait until the police showed up before he left.

  She breathed easier when he dropped her off a block from her apartment. He continued down to the police station. She walked into her apartment and immediately had been taken down to the police station.

  The confidence she had hidden the car well evaporated in the night. Her hope lay with the police catching the real culprit. Then hiding the car wouldn’t be an issue. But there would be no going back now.

  Her heart sank when she had seen Darren at the police station. She pushed him from her mind. So it wasn’t meant to be. He had made that clear even before she had seen him.

  She crawled under her covers. Her eyes began to close. But before sleep could claim her, a fleeting thought crossed her mind. It wasn’t only the police that was a concern. What was the killer thinking now? Did he know she had thwarted his attempt to frame her brother? Moreover, what would happen if he had?

  Chapter Eight

  Brophy sat in view of the board filled with pictures and timelines. For the first time in three days, he had had a full night of sleep. It had been a futile attempt to clear his head, and he was no nearer to solving this murder than he had been the morning he had been assigned the case.

  He held Caputo’s file in his hand; his notes were littered across the desk. He kept going back to that kid, Quinn—interviews with anyone who had a connection to the boy, from football coaches to grammar school teachers. He shook his head. It wasn’t that he was sold on the kid as a suspect, but his intuition told him the key to finding the killer lay with Quinn.

  Something was different about the Caputo case, and it pointed to Quinn.

  “Maybe the red flag is what the neighbor, Ida Konta, said,” Waters offered, leaning back in his chair with coffee in his hand.

  “Come on, Waters. We looked into that. We got his medical records. It mentions that his mother took him in once to get examined, because his friend’s father was arrested on child abuse. It was precautionary. For God’s sakes! You’re grasping at straws. The kid was four. Four! There is absolutely no indication he was abused. None. The doctor said there was no evidence. There was never any other mention after that.”

  “Then what do you want me to say? You’re the one who thinks the kid has a connection to the murder. We’re hitting a brick wall. ’Cause I’ve got nothing on hi
m. Honestly, he looks like every other football kid at Eastern… drinks too much, parties, girls…I’m not seeing it.”

  “That’s just it, isn’t it, Waters?” Brophy shot back. “If it wasn’t for the car at the scene, and the Facebook connection…”

  “Those are two strong links that can’t be ignored.”

  Brophy turned and looked at Darren. The man was wearing on his last nerve. “You know, Darren, we’ll let you know if something breaks. Don’t you have other cases to prosecute?”

  “Thought another set of eyes would help. Nothing has come back on the car?”

  Brophy stared at Darren. He knew Darren, probably better than the man knew himself. For some reason, this was personal to him.

  “APB’s been out for two days,” Waters offered. “Nothing. Hasn’t been burnt out, reported stolen. Nada. What the hell could she have done with it in such a short period of time?”

  “Not much. But she did disappear from her apartment. She didn’t go out the front, which means…”

  Brophy’s words faded. He rose and went to the board. Looking over the map, he pointed to a spot. Good Lord! How stupid could he have been!

  “Where does she work?”

  “Beth Israel,” Waters stated, as if it registered with him. “Not far from her apartment. It’s probably where it was parked for the storm! I’ll get right on it.”

  “Damn!” Brophy uttered. He watched Waters pull out his phone and walk over to the corner to make a call. Brophy reprimanded himself. He should have thought of it beforehand, especially with the snow ban. Mistakes always come back to haunt you.

  “Not going well, Detective?”

  Brophy looked over his shoulder. Dr. Malcolm Levy walked over to the area and placed a file down on Brophy’s desk. The doc pulled up a chair. He was an older man, short—stood no more than five six. His gray hair distinguished his wrinkled face with his black rimmed glasses. An intelligent sort, but gave himself no airs. Brophy liked him well enough, as much as he could a profiler.

  The FBI had offered his services to help evaluate the threat of the suspect. Brophy wasn’t a fool. He realized the FBI waited to make a connection of these killings to the other suspicious ones out of state, so they could take the case.

  “I finished my initial assessment.”

  “Ah, here we go,” Brophy murmured.

  “Don’t have much faith in what I think, Detective?” Dr. Levy challenged. “I think you have a serial killer on your hands. I don’t think that’s the question. The question you should be asking is: who could be capable of such acts? Looking over the files…it’s not this kid, Zachary Quinn.”

  “Well, it looks like I can go home.” Brophy shrugged. “Don’t need to waste the taxpayers’ money on overtime. Let me get you my case files…”

  “Don’t be an ass, Broph,” Darren said. Darren raised his hand to keep Brophy quiet, at least for moment. “Listen for a minute, will you? I have it on good authority Dr. Levy’s the best at what he does.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Kennedy,” Dr. Levy said. His attention turned to Brophy. “I will explain myself in detail. I believe, given your evidence, you will find you might even agree with me, Detective.”

  Brophy plopped himself in his chair. With his hand, he flippantly waved to the doctor. “It’s all yours. Tell me, whatcha got?”

  “I think you have a very angry man on your hands. It’s telling how he kills. He uses a knife. It’s personal to him. He wants to drain the life out of his victims. It gives him a sense of power, which to me signals abuse as a child. But it’s also telling that he doesn’t torture his victims. He does it quick. It’s like a flash of unrelenting anger.”

  “Okay, so far, I’m with you, but I don’t go on theories. I need evidence.”

  “It’s what I’m trying to help you obtain. You are dealing with a serial killer. He isn’t going to let anybody or anything get in his way of his ultimate goal. You are looking for someone who can live two lives. You’re telling me the kid is capable of that? I’ve interviewed Quinn. I believe this kid has enough trouble passing his courses, after playing football and partying.

  “He lives in the moment, has no violent tendencies, loves animals. Case in point—his dog at home and the turtle that he has had five years. He even brought the turtle with him to college and cared for his pet in his dorm room. Seems to be socially active and quite popular among his friends.” Dr. Levy paused and exhaled before he continued. “The killer is someone who might function in society, but not actively social. A loner. I would lay my reputation on the line that this kid isn’t who you are looking for.”

  With the greatest reluctance, he had to agree, but he didn’t relent on the suspect. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we do have a serial killer here in Boston, but just maybe the Caputo murder was a random murder…this Quinn kid. Maybe the knife was just a coincidence.”

  “Possible, not probable,” Dr. Levy maintained.

  There was a long silence. He was missing something. He thought of the other killings, random victims…Caputo was chosen. Brophy gave an exasperated sigh. “The kid’s damn sister tampered with evidence for some goddamn reason. She must have suspected he was capable of killing or she wouldn’t have gone to such fucking extremes.”

  “She’s an enabler. Since her mother’s death and the father’s drinking, it has fallen on her shoulders to care for her brother.”

  “She has no faith in law enforcement,” Darren interrupted Dr. Levy. “Would you if your family had been dragged through the mud the last few years?”

  Dr. Levy shrugged slightly. “It would be a logical explanation. I don’t think it is beyond possibility that she took on the role much like that of a mother. Someone who would do anything for their child…whatever is necessary in her eyes to protect him.”

  Brophy’s head came up. His dark eyes fixated on the board. Pointing his finger at the board, he got back up and hit the picture of Zach Quinn. “Maybe I’ve been looking at it wrong…maybe the kid is also a victim of the killer. What if, for some reason, the killer wanted us to look at Zach Quinn?”

  Brophy turned back around to the others. Still pointing his finger, he went on, “What if the killer is escalating the game? He is not only killing, but leading us in circles after the wrong guy.”

  Dr. Levy’s eyes focused on Brophy in intense concentration. “I believe it is a distinct possibility. The question would become why? On one hand, I would argue that it goes against his pattern. The first two showed control and power. The psychosis of a serial killer usually doesn’t vary to this extent.”

  “What if the kid saw something that would incriminate the killer?” Darren asked.

  “Then why wouldn’t he just kill him like he did the others?” Brophy countered. “I’m telling you, it’s like we have not one, but two killers.”

  For a moment, no one spoke. At last, Darren offered, “The car and the kid’s computer…if you had it, would it help in deciphering your next step?”

  Brophy laughed with vented frustration. “What do you think, Darren? One way or the other, if the car is contaminated with the victim’s blood, it would incriminate Quinn. That would tell one of two things: either Quinn is guilty as hell, or it’s someone close enough to have access to the kid. I would imagine the computer would do the same. You know this…why have me spell it out to you?”

  “I thought I might talk with the sister,” Darren answered.

  “You’re good, but I doubt you’re that good, bro,” Brophy said in a sarcastic tone. “What are you going to say…‘Please, Miss Quinn, we know you tampered with evidence, but it would be appreciated if you handed it over now. Sure would help us either convict your brother or maybe find another suspect. And better yet, you can go to jail as well. So what do you say?’”

  “Look, Brophy, I thought I might help. Maybe I could reason with her. How badly do you want the evidence back?”

  “What’s your angle, Darren? McCormick isn’t going to let you come within a mile of the girl.�
�

  “Let me worry about that.”

  “Then go for it.” Brophy stared at Darren. Why did he get the feeling Darren was keeping something back from him? Maybe he was just imagining it. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Waters motioning to him.

  “They are pulling the parking lot tapes for us. Let’s go.”

  Brophy grabbed his coat and followed Waters out the door.

  * * * *

  Frank Benassi started having issues twelve hours after his transplant. His blood gases had been erratic, but the last two seemed to have stabilized. His hematocrit plateaued after the last transfusion. It hadn’t dropped in the last couple of hours. Cameron breathed a sigh of relief. His condition would require constant monitoring, but at least it didn’t look like he would be going back into surgery.

  She was exhausted. At least she didn’t have to work for the next few days after completing her usual stint of three twelve-hour shifts. She felt she could sleep for a week, but she doubted she would be able to finally get any rest. Thoughts rambling in her head kept her tossing and turning in bed.

  What if McCormick was right in his assumption that Zach’s computer and car could clear Zach’s name? No...no…her instincts cried out differently. Something was amiss. She just couldn’t put her finger on it. Her worries continued to mount, especially after the strange message she received last night on her computer.

  The police seized her laptop with the search warrant, even though she was certain they had no need for it. She thought: let them have it. She didn’t care. She bought a new one. Setting up her new laptop, she signed into Facebook. She hadn’t been on for ages, but in the middle of looking through the posts, it popped up.

  Odd, for it had come from an account she didn’t recognize. But the message it delivered frightened her half to death.

  : Cameron, r u there…Cameron, i no u r…Can’t sleep?...i no what u did

  She had clicked off without bothering to shut it off properly. She dare not tell a soul. Who could she? She had no one. No one to fall back on. No one to lean on. No one to tell how scared she was.