Damaged Goods: A Jack McMorrow Mystery

by Gerry Boyle

  “And Louise did this?”

  “Didn’t deny it. Couldn’t explain, either. Said she liked this new foster mother okay, only been there a couple of weeks. My theory, I think she’d been knocked around so much by her real mom, used to beat the living crap out of her, that’s what they said in court. Belittled her something awful. I think she just didn’t know how to react when somebody was nice to her. Something went haywire inside her head.”

  I stood there in the driveway under a darkening sky, the story rolling over me like waves.

  “You sure you didn’t hear about this?”

  “Sounds vaguely familiar.”

  “What do you do when a murderer is fourteen? And this isn’t some gangbanger shooting guns in the air, bullet comes down on somebody’s head. This is a girl turned a human being into steak tartare.”

  “So—”

  “You sure you want to hear all this? I mean, I kinda get going on this one.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m interested.”

  “Alright. So the judge stews over it for months. I mean, people saying, ‘How can you let this kid loose? What if she does it again?’ She says she doesn’t even know why it happened. I mean, this is literally a walking time bomb.”

  “What was the sentence?” I said.

  “I was there,” she said. “Judge reads this long statement. Smart woman. I mean, you could tell it tore her up. Victim’s family there, the foster mom was like Mother Teresa, you know what I mean? Her kids all grown up, she decides to help the underprivileged.”

  I waited.

  “Judge decides to sentence her as a juvenile. Keep you until you’re twenty-one, then off you go, free and clear. Courtroom went crazy, everybody crying.”

  “So she’s out,” I said.

  “Somewhere,” she said. ‘I’ve always wondered about that. I mean, is she bagging groceries? Is she taking care of old people in a nursing home? Is she somebody’s babysitter? Gotta do something, right? I’m sure she can’t go around saying, ‘And, oh, by the way. I’m a murderer.’”

  “No,” I said.

  “One of those interesting situations,” she said.

  “Yes. Very.”

  “So there you have it. In a nutshell.”

  “One more thing,” I said. “What was her last name. Louise what?”

  “Lilly,” she said. “Louise Lilly. Isn’t that a pretty name?”

  Chapter 39

  It could have been someone Mandi met in jail. Her sister. A friend from school.

  I started down the road, then broke into a trot. Jamming the key into the lock, I got the door open, went straight to the computer in the study. I turned it on, stood over the desk as I waited, clicked through.

  Typed the name: Louise Lilly, then Quincy, Massachusetts. Hesitated, then touched the key.

  I waited. The list popped up.

  Boston Globe, August 20, 1999. Teen Showed No Sign of . . . I took a breath. Touched the keyboard.

  The story. Foster mother brutally murdered. Quiet fourteen-year-old girl arrested. Investigators said she told them she didn’t know why she did it. She liked Mrs. Martini. There had been no argument that young Louise Lilly could remember. Police said she told them her new foster mother was bringing in groceries and the hammer was in a tool belt in the entryway. The girl said she took it out of the holder and just started swinging. Once she started, she couldn’t stop.

  Then into the bio part. Born in Medford, no father in the picture . . .

  I scrolled down. Mother couldn’t hold a job because of drinking, moved every couple of months, dragged her daughter with her. Nine different schools, all around Boston, before she was eight. Removed from home when she showed up at school showing welts that turned out to be from the cord of a hairdryer.

  I scrolled again. The Martinis’ children were grown. This was their first foster child. They wanted to give back to the community. The dad fixed up a room, new paint and paper and furniture, so the girl wouldn’t feel like she was living in hand-me-downs . . .

  I didn’t care about that. I just wanted to see—

  The girl walked two miles to a fire station, told firefighters she had just done “a very bad thing.”

  —the picture.

  Neighbors and friends devastated. The girl’s mother too distraught to comment, but a former classmate at Tompkins Middle School in Revere said. . .

  And there it was.

  The caption said, “Louise Lilley.”

  Younger, slimmer. Her hair longer.

  Mandi.

  I pulled away from the screen. Swallowed hard. Leaned back down and bookmarked the page. Closed out and shut the computer down. I was out the door when it clicked off.

  Hurrying back down the road, I tried to put it in order.

  A horrific crime, fourteen years old. A child who killed an innocent and well-meaning woman for no apparent reason. A girl who continued pounding Mrs. Martini long after she was dead.

  Every bone in her body.

  Chutes and Ladders. Mandi, at home in our house. Sophie, eyes wide and bright: “Mandi’s here!”

  The loner who purveyed this false sort of relationship. The young woman who didn’t want anyone to love her. Roger, on the boat, “She said she deserved it.”

  The sentence had been six years in a juvenile jail. But was Mandi still punishing herself? Eight years since it had happened and nothing since. Or was that true? Marty, with a bullet in his head.

  Back to Clair’s, I started up the driveway. Roxanne was at her car, taking something from the back seat. Sophie and Mandi were at the side door, holding hands. Sophie’s hair was in short braids.

  The rifle, loaded, just inside the door.

  “Daddy,” Sophie said. “I got braided.”

  A car approaching, the mailman’s Jeep again, yellow roof lights flashing. A package, I thought. I stopped.

  A rifle shot.

  Behind the barn.

  Another shot. This one a shotgun.

  Closer.

  They froze, then Roxanne ran to the house, scooped Sophie up, and yanked the door open. They were all inside when I reached them.

  “Call the police, stay down,” I said.

  I grabbed the rifle and leapt the stairs, saw the Jeep at the end of the driveway. I waved him off, ran across the yard, around the end of the barn. Clair was behind a farm trailer, shotgun aimed at the woods.

  “Get in here,” he said.

  I ran in a crouch, threw myself behind the cart.

  “Edge of the woods,” he said. “First shot just missed, over my head. Returned fire, but no accuracy with this thing.”

  Boom, another shot, a simultaneous crack in the wall of the barn above us.

  “His rifle’s sighted high,” Clair said. “Why you always sight a gun. Police?”

  “Roxanne’s calling.”

  “If he’d been smart, he would’ve tried to get closer. Crawled through the grass. You see him through that scope?”

  I slid the barrel through the slats of the trailer, peered through the scope. I found the edge of the trees, ran the scope left, then right.

  Nothing, then movement. A block of leaves along the trunk of an oak.

  “Got him,” I said. “He’s in camo. Left side of the third tree to the right of the big maple.”

  Boom again, the slats splintering three feet to our left. I put my eye back to the scope.

  “Still see him?”

  “Yes. Same place.”

  “Must’ve not seen the rifle, thinks I can’t reach him with this.”

  “Here comes another one,” I said.

  We hunched lower. A shot, this time close, above our heads.

  “Take him,” Clair said.

  A door slammed at the house.

  “They must be getting out,” I said.

  Another shot from the woods, a snap as the round hit the barn between us.

  “Got him?”

  There was a shriek. From the house.

  “Sophie,�
�� I said.

  “I’ll take it,” Clair said.

  I moved out from under the rifle and slid it over to Clair. He fixed his eye to the scope as I reached around him, took the shotgun.

  “There you are, you son of a bitch,” Clair said.

  He took a breath, exhaled slowly and held it. I was crouched, ready to go.

  He squeezed the trigger. There was a boom and Clair still looked through the scope. He nodded.

  “Go,” he said.

  I did, running with the shotgun down the back side of the barn. I heard Clair going the other way, and I circled, came out first, ran across the dooryard, down the driveway.

  The Jeep was backing out.

  Roxanne was behind the wheel, Mandi in the front seat beside her. As the car swung into the road, I saw Sophie, the top of her head, and Wilton holding her, his hand over her mouth.

  Chapter 40

  Clair was getting into his truck. I ran for the passenger side, yanked the door open as he started off, took a couple of steps to keep up, and threw the shotgun in, then heaved myself up.

  The Jeep had gone left, past my house, headed east. We caught a glimpse of it ahead, then it went over a rise. Clair slammed the big Ford through the gears, hit fourth, and kept the pedal to the floor. We launched over the crest of the rise, the truck coming off the ground, hitting hard.

  I steadied the guns, my feet against the dash.

  “We can’t shoot.”

  “We’ll stay with him,” Clair said. “Just hope the cops come in this way.”

  “I’ll call,” I said.

  I got my phone out, flipped it open. The truck bounced and skidded.

  No service.

  There was a plume of dust ahead, a dry stretch of road, the Jeep somewhere beyond it. I braced myself with my feet, one hand on the gun barrels, the other holding the phone.

  I punched in 911. Call failed.

  “Shit,” I said.

  “Hang on,” Clair said.

  We slammed over potholes and the truck veered left. Clair pulled it back. I looked through the dust, saw brake lights flash on and off.

  “He’s got Roxanne booking it,” Clair said.

  “He’s got Sophie,” I said.

  We were gaining, the Jeep showing closer as the dust subsided. It bounced, slid, straightened, then slid again going into a downhill turn.

  “Maybe we should back off,” I said. “They’re gonna go into the woods.”

  It was big trees on this stretch, stone walls in the brush along the road. All of it rushing by, the motor roaring. We made the downhill turn, started up the other side, Clair downshifting, flooring it.

  We crested the hill. The intersection was ahead, the Jeep running the stop sign, tires screeching, a small silver car sliding past, the kid at the wheel fighting to stay on the road. We braked, slid to a stop, watched as he hit the ditch and the car bounced.

  They’d gained on us and Clair turned, ran through the gears, kept the pedal down. It was four miles to the main road and we needed to have them in sight when they turned. The motor screamed. I tried the phone again. Still nothing. We caught glimpses of the Jeep before it disappeared into curves.

  We saw it go right, up on two wheels, nearly rolling over.

  “Jesus,” I said.

  Traffic now, trucks and cars, two lanes and no place to pass. The Jeep braked behind a log truck then went right, passing in the breakdown lane, spraying gravel. The trucker hit the airhorn, the brakes. Hit the horn again as we went by.

  A rust-pocked pickup pulled out in front of us, a white-haired driver going slow. We slowed and Clair started to go right, but the man pulled over. Clair went left and the man veered back.

  “Come on,” I said.

  Clair hit the horn and the man held up his hand, flipped us off. Clair stayed behind him, cars coming at us, a chip truck barreling past. When the old man finally turned off, the Jeep was gone.

  “You take left,” I said.

  We drove on, looking down side roads, behind houses, into the woods.

  “There,” I said. They’d gone right down a narrow dirt road. Clair braked and backed up and we followed. Dust showed the way, and when the air cleared, we knew they’d turned again.

  Again, Clair braked. Again, he backed up.

  I looked right. This time he saw them, a flicker of brake light. It was a single lane through the woods, probably leading to somebody’s back field. We turned in, pounded down the rutted path.

  And there they were.

  There were boulders blocking the road and the Jeep was stopped, doors wide open.

  I was out before we stopped, rifle in my arms. I ran to the Jeep, saw Sophie’s sandal on the back seat. There was a path on the far side of the little cul de sac and we ran down it, Clair first, shotgun in two hands in front of him. The path went uphill through dense scrub trees, then opened into an overgrown pasture.

  We stopped. Looked out.

  There were clumps of poplar in the field, big and thick enough to hide behind. But the grass didn’t show that anyone had run through. I turned, looked to the left and back.

  “Lay ’em down,” Wilton said.

  He was coming out of the woods alongside the path. He was driving Roxanne and Mandi in front of him, Mandi limping. Sophie was in his arms, one little foot bare, his hand over her mouth. He was dressed in black jeans and a black long-sleeved shirt. The revolver was black, too, the barrel pressed to Sophie’s head.

  Her eyes were closed, like she was already dead. Roxanne was ghastly white. Mandi was silent,

  “It’s okay now, honey,” I said, in case Sophie could hear me. “Daddy’s here.”

  “Sure it is,” Wilton said. “Soon as you put those guns down on the ground.”

  We didn’t move.

  “Or I kill the little one right now.”

  “Oh, my God,” Roxanne said. “Oh, my God.”

  We lowered ourselves to a crouch, placed the guns on the path.

  “Your god ain’t gonna do nothing, ’cause he don’t exist,” Wilton said. “They been selling you a fairy tale.”

  “Don’t hurt her,” I said. “Just take the car and go.”

  “The car,” he said. “You think I did this for a goddamn car? A fucking car? This is about my children. This is about the children the Gestapo bitch here abducted from me. Where are my kids, bitch? Where are my fucking kids?”

  “We can bring you to them,” Roxanne sobbed. “They’re fine. They are. Just let her go.”

  “No, no, no,” Wilton said, grinning. “Don’t pull the crying thing with me. Crying Christians and tricky Jews. Well, what we’re gonna do is you’re gonna tell me where they are. And we’re gonna go there and you’re gonna go in and take them out of fucking State incarceration and bring them to me.”

  “Okay,” Roxanne said.

  “We’re gonna bring them back here and you’re gonna be tied up and taped up, just like the mailman. By the time you get loose, I’ll be gone.”

  “Fine,” Roxanne said.

  “Is she asleep?” I said.

  “Some sort of shock,” Clair said.

  “She’ll be sleeping permanent, you don’t do what I say,” Wilton said.

  Sophie was sliding down in his arms and he boosted her back up. I saw her eyes start to open.

  “Goddamn,” Wilton said.

  He dropped her to the ground and I saw the wet stain spreading down his jeans.

  “Brat,” he said, and he raised the gun.

  Mandi jumped in front of Wilton, raised her hands over her head as Sophie ran for Roxanne.

  “Shoot me,” Mandi said. “Go ahead.”

  Sophie’s arms were outstretched and Roxanne lifted her and spun away, started to run. Wilton moved for a clear shot but Mandi moved with him, blocked his shot.

  “Shoot me,” she said, five feet from the gun. “I mean it.”

  I dropped to the ground and reached for the rifle, Wilton snapped off a shot, a deafening boom, dirt spraying. I dodged bac
k and he turned, saw Roxanne and Sophie a hundred feet down the trail. He raised the gun, both hands now, but Mandi jumped in front of him again, bouncing up and down and waving her arms like a kid desperate for the teacher to call on her.

  “Shoot me,” she said. “Go ahead. I dare you, you goddamned freak. You piece of crap.”

  He looked puzzled, lunged at her, flung her back, started running after Roxanne and Sophie. I grabbed the rifle as he stopped and aimed again, then Mandi hit his legs, screaming, pulling him. Wilton staggered, slashed at her with the gun, aimed it at her head.

  There was another boom. The pistol kicked up. Wilton straightening, feet coming off the ground as Clair’s shot lifted him, spun him, and he fell, landing face down.

  Clair was on his knees, the shotgun at his hip. Mandi sagged to all fours, her head lowered. There was a moment of utter stillness. Then Roxanne’s scuffing footsteps in the leaves.

  And then a deep breath from Mandi, a long sigh. I put my hand on her shoulder.

  “You okay?” I said, as I looked at Wilton, the black puddle spreading from underneath him.

  “Yeah,” she said, face to the ground. She looked up at me and there was blood running from her scalp down her forehead.

  “You know, don’t you?” Mandi said.

  “Yes. But maybe you’re even now.”

  She shook her head, looked away. “No. It’s like I told you, Jack. I’m damaged. Damaged goods.”

  I squeezed her shoulder once and started after my wife and child.

  Chapter 41

  It was big news, in all the Maine papers, television, the Globe and the Times, CNN.com. “Abduction of Social Worker, Child, Ends in Fatal Shooting.” Roxanne took a leave of absence. We stayed home. For a couple of days Ricci and another state trooper were posted at each end of our road to keep the press away.

  We took the phone off the hook. And we held Sophie tight. Roxanne and I. Mary and Clair.

  For two days, Sophie held us, too. She didn’t speak. She didn’t cry. She slept in our bed and when she woke up, one of us had to be there. Roxanne’s boss called a couple of times, told her there was counseling available.