“I understand, Jesse.”
Jesse turned and waved Tommy back over. When the EMT returned, Jesse said to Alisha, “Are you willing to let the EMT draw blood for the purposes of determining your blood alcohol level? Your contract says that under these circumstances you are required to take a Breathalyzer test, but I can try to get a court order to compel you to—”
“No need, Jesse. He can draw blood. I already told Suit and Peter how much I had at the Gull.”
“Listen, Alisha, this is going to be investigated by the state police, so even if I was inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt, I can’t help you. Remember what I said before. You’re under no obligation to talk to anyone, and get a lawyer.”
“I understand, Jesse. I swear, he fired on me.”
“If there’s a gun to find, Alisha, we’ll find it.”
“Can you call Dylan for me? I don’t want to be alone.”
“Sure, I’ll call him for you.” He turned to the EMT. “Tommy, do me a favor. After you draw the blood, stay here with her until someone comes to be with her.”
“I can do that.” Tommy motioned for Jesse to meet him around the side of the ambulance.
“What is it?”
“What if the investigators ask me what I overheard between you and her?”
Jesse patted Tommy on the shoulder. “If they ask, you tell them the truth.”
“You sure, Chief?”
“Uh-huh.”
Jesse walked away, digging his cell phone out of his jacket and punching up Dylan’s number.
“What’s up, Jesse? You calling about the fire?”
“Fire?”
“Yeah, the gatehouse at the Nolan place. Chief Wilson says it was arson.”
“That’s not why I’m calling, Dylan. There’s been a shooting involving Alisha.”
There were a few seconds of stunned silence before Dylan spoke. “Is she . . . all right?”
“I think she’s probably in a lot of trouble. She shot a suspect and we can’t find the suspect’s weapon.”
“Oh, shit! Where is she?”
“Newton Alley.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Dylan, before you come, take down this phone number. Do you have something to write on?”
“Go ahead, Jesse.”
Jesse recited a ten-digit number with a Boston area code. “Call him.”
“Who is he?”
“Monty Bernstein. He’s half shark, half lawyer. Do you understand?”
“I do.” Dylan clicked off.
Jesse buried his phone back in the pocket of his jacket, gloved up, and ducked under the yellow tape. He supposed he should have done this first, but the dead man was beyond his help and he had just given Alisha all the help he could. At the front end of the alley, he swerved around eight numbered placards and shell casings. At the walled end of the Slip, Dr. Minter was dealing with the body. His back was to Jesse, obscuring Jesse’s view of the dead man. All Jesse could see were his feet and the large pool of blood. He noted several bullet scars on the back brick wall.
“What’s the word, Doc?”
“Three obvious wounds—one in the chest, one in the lower abdomen, and one in the upper-left thigh—any one of which might have been fatal.”
“Any ID on him?”
“I believe he has a wallet in his back-right pocket.”
“Would it be okay if I had a look?”
“I’ll hand it to you,” Minter said, obviously annoyed.
When Jesse flipped open the wallet and saw the name on the New York state driver’s license, the knot in his gut nearly snapped.
“Well, Chief Stone,” Minter said, “what’s the victim’s name?”
Jesse thought he heard himself say, “John W. Vandercamp.”
37
Jesse was still trying to wrap his head around the dead man’s identity when Lundquist, another detective from the state police, and the state forensics team showed up at the scene.
“Jesse, this is Detective Lieutenant Mary Weld. She’ll be handling the investigation.”
Weld was a sturdy-looking woman with brown eyes and a polite but businesslike manner. She let you know just by her expression that charm and a friendly attitude would bounce off her like paper bullets. She nodded and offered her hand. “Chief Stone.”
He didn’t bother asking her to call him Jesse. “You want a rundown on the situation?”
She thought about it before she answered. “Sorry, Chief, I prefer you step back. I don’t want to come to this with a preconceived notion of the chain of events. What I do need is to speak to the responding officers and Officer Davis. She’s the shooter, correct?”
“She is.”
“I also need all evidence collected by your department immediately turned over to the state forensics team, and I’d like to look at the scene and the victim.”
Jesse pointed down Newton Alley. “The ME is at the dead end with the body. I will send over the two responding officers. Officer Davis is in shock.”
Detective Weld gave Jesse a cold stare. “Is that your assessment?”
“According to the EMT.”
“Okay, Chief, I understand the impulse to want to protect your cop. I do. Brian here will tell you I’m a good detective and a fair one. But don’t try to color events in Officer Davis’s favor, and please stay out of the investigation unless I request something from you. By the way, Chief Stone, where were you during the events of this evening?”
Jesse asked, “Is that relevant?”
“I won’t know until you answer.”
“Boston. I got back into town about twenty minutes ago.”
“Do we have an ID on the victim?”
“John W. Vandercamp. Twenty-two. New York state resident. His wallet’s been bagged.”
Lundquist’s eyes got big at the mention of the name Vandercamp, but he didn’t say anything.
Weld continued. “Was he known to your department?”
“He was wanted for questioning in connection to a vandalism incident.”
That got a rise out of Weld. “Vandalism!”
“There was a cross-burning incident here earlier in the week and the victims asked us not to report it as a hate crime in order to protect their children from the potential fallout and publicity. Mr. Vandercamp was captured on surveillance footage purchasing five gallons of kerosene shortly before the cross-burning and in close proximity to the location of the crime.”
Weld shook her head, slipping on gloves. “Okay, Chief, if you’ll send your officers over. I’m going to have a look at the scene.” She took a few steps, stopped, turned back. “Remember, Chief, stay out of it.”
Lundquist waited for Weld to be far enough away. “Vandercamp! You think he’s related to what’s-his-name, Leon Oskar Vandercamp?”
“Uh-huh. Be a helluva coincidence if he wasn’t.”
“One in a million.”
“Sounds about right.”
“I suppose I should clue Weld in,” Lundquist said. “The shit’s hit the fan, Jesse. Can’t imagine how bad it’s going to get when the family finds out.”
But Jesse had spotted Dylan Taylor’s car and had already begun walking his way. Lundquist shrugged and headed toward the tape barrier.
Dylan Taylor was a tall, handsome man, solidly built, with dark blond hair and deep blue eyes. He had taken over as head of security on Stiles Island months ago. Jesse didn’t know him very well but liked what he did know about him. Jesse grabbed him by the arm as he was running toward the ambulance.
“Oh, sorry, Jesse, I didn’t see you.”
“Be calm, Dylan. She needs you to be calm.”
“What happened?”
“I’ll let her tell you. Did you call the lawyer?”
“Yeah, he’s a
lready on the way.”
“He’s good at his job and he’s a good guy . . . in his way.”
“He said the same thing about you.”
“Listen, Dylan. The state investigator is here and she is going to interview Alisha any minute. What did Monty advise you to do?”
“To tell Alisha not to talk to anyone until—shit!”
“Exactly.”
Dylan Taylor took off in a mad sprint.
Jesse found Suit and Peter Perkins, who had shifted duties to crowd control. He hadn’t noticed until now that there was a crowd. That was the thing about using sirens in town. It made people curious. Maybe this time, Jesse thought, that curiosity might not be such a bad thing.
“Detective Weld, the statie investigator, wants to talk to both of you. She’s over by the scene. Go one at a time. Remember, tell her the truth and just answer her questions. Don’t volunteer anything more than what’s asked for. It won’t help Alisha if the statie doesn’t trust you. Suit, you go first.”
Jesse looked into the faces of the gawkers, many of whom he knew by name. But at the moment they seemed like people he didn’t know at all.
38
The soldier knew that Stone was looking for him and understood it was very risky for him to be there, even far back from the crowd gathered around the police cruisers. The kid was gravely wounded. He was certain of that much, but he had to be sure the kid was dead. And then, when the van finally arrived to take the body away, he knew. The soldier watched the two attendants get out of the van, bored expressions on their faces, one carrying the neatly folded and packaged body bag under his arm like a newspaper. There was no longer any need to take the risk. He turned away from the crowd, holding the cell phone up to his face.
“Is it done?” asked the Colonel.
“It’s done, sir.”
“Did he suffer?”
Yes, probably. “No, sir. She emptied her clip into him.”
“Did you take care of everything?”
“Yes, sir, just as planned.”
“Good. I’m going to enjoy watching her fry for this. Let’s see what the media makes of it.”
“Sir,” the soldier said, “they don’t do that in this state.”
“Don’t be impertinent, son. I was speaking figuratively. After we’re all done with her, she’ll wish they did still bring down the wrath of the state.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Never mind me,” the Colonel said, his voice suddenly brittle.
“My condolences, sir.”
“Thank you, but no death was ever more important. Were it only possible that all of our deaths be as meaningful a sacrifice in a glorious cause as my youngest boy’s.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I will wait for the call and then I will join you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It begins. There’s no turning back. The battle has been joined, the revolution begun. Hallelujah.”
The soldier put the phone back in his pocket. He agreed that something had to be done to save the country, but he didn’t think there was any reason to be shouting hallelujah. He had seen too much carnage, seen too many of his comrades perish for no good reason, to think there was any glory in death. As far as he could tell, the dead got nothing for their sacrifice except a short trip to hell. But that was the thing. It took a certain kind of strength and dedication to serve up your own flesh and blood for a cause. The soldier was willing to sacrifice himself readily enough. He just didn’t think he could sacrifice his own son the way the Colonel had.
Thinking about his own boy being raised by another man on the other side of the country filled him with feelings that tore him to pieces inside. It filled him with a sadness so deep it made him weak. Yet at the same time, it filled him with rage so powerful he swore he’d choke on it. Sometimes he felt it had a life of its own, separate from him. He pushed both feelings down as far as he could. That’s just what a soldier does, he told himself. Pushes feelings down so he can move ahead and do his duty. The Colonel was right about one thing for sure: There was no turning back.
* * *
—
JESSE RETURNED TO HIS OFFICE to make the kind of call he dreaded. Although he had no patience for haters—How can you hate people you’ve never met?—Jesse didn’t relish the thought of telling yet another father that his son was dead, regardless of the circumstances. But the circumstances of John Vandercamp’s death couldn’t be ignored and they weren’t going to make the conversation he was about to have any easier.
There had been some debate about who was going to make the call: Weld, Lundquist, or Jesse. But in the end, Weld deferred to Jesse, trying to make it sound as if she was somehow bowing to his authority or doing him a favor.
“No, Chief Stone, it’s your jurisdiction. My interest is in the righteousness of the shoot and to see that Mr. Vandercamp’s rights were not violated. Notification of the family would still be your responsibility.”
“Uh-huh.”
Jesse wasn’t sure how that worked. How was he supposed to keep his distance from the investigation while handling what promised to be a pretty ugly situation? Weld’s largesse didn’t end there.
“And, Chief, I’m going to need to use your people to canvass the area and take witness statements. I can’t get my people in here until tomorrow morning.”
Jesse pulled out the old bottle drawer and stared into the empty space as he dialed.
Someone picked up on the first ring. “Hello,” said the voice on the other end of the line.
“Is this Leon Oskar Vandercamp?”
“Yes.”
Jesse hesitated for a second. This wasn’t how these conversations went. Usually, people would demand Jesse identify himself or ask if this was a solicitation of some kind. But not Vandercamp.
“My name is Jesse Stone. I am chief of the Paradise, Massachusetts, PD.”
“Yes.”
“Do you have a son named John W. Vandercamp, aged twenty-two, of Oswego, New York?”
“Yes.”
“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you about your son.”
“Yes.”
There it was again, or, rather, there it wasn’t. No questions, no shriek or howl in anticipation, just one chilly syllable. It reminded Jesse of how cops were trained to testify in court: Only answer the questions posed as tersely as possible, never elaborate.
“He was killed this evening in a shooting incident in town. I’m sorry for your loss. We’ll need you to—”
The line went dead. When Jesse attempted to call back, he got voicemail. People had a right to react to events however they wanted to, but Jesse couldn’t escape the sense that something wasn’t right.
39
Jesse slept at the station on a cot. He’d done it before and imagined he would do it again. Suit had once asked him why he didn’t just sleep in a cell, because the beds were more comfortable than the cot.
“Not if I have a choice, Suit,” he’d said.
He got up before the sun, gave himself a hand shower in the bathroom like he used to do sometimes at gas stations or in restaurant bathrooms on long bus trips between road games. Life was a lot less complicated back then. The biggest disputes for him in those days were with second- or third-base umpires. Nobody’s life hung in the balance, only wins and losses, and then not always. Once he toweled himself off, he shaved, brushed his teeth, and changed clothes into the spares he kept in his office.
A very weary-looking Molly Crane was at the desk.
“Alisha was supposed to have the desk,” she said as Jesse came out of the bathroom. “Don’t worry about it. My husband’s handling the kids. I’ll work doubles until . . .” She didn’t finish her sentence, because they both knew what “until” meant.
“Thanks, Molly. The budget’s going to get blown up by this anyway.”
&n
bsp; “How’s it look for Alisha?”
“Not so good. I’m not part of the investigation. There’s a Detective Lieutenant Mary Weld from the state police in charge. She wanted me to back off.”
“Wouldn’t look good, you handling things. I get it, but I know Alisha says the suspect fired first.”
Jesse didn’t ask how Molly knew that. He said, “No gun.”
“But—”
“It’s Newton Alley, Molly. It’s a dead end. Weld had Peter and Suit out all night collecting witness statements.”
“Don’t you believe her?”
“I believe she believes it.”
“That’s not the same thing, Jesse.”
“Evidence, Crane. Without a gun—”
“But she wouldn’t’ve killed an unarmed suspect. You know that. She’s a good cop.”
“You can’t know what someone will do. You can’t test how everyone will react.”
“Maybe a witness saw or heard something that backs Alisha’s account.”
“The suspect’s gun didn’t sprout wings.”
Molly shook her head. “I won’t believe it. I just won’t.”
“If it was about beliefs of friends and families, we’d have empty prisons. But if it makes you feel better, I don’t want to believe it, either.”
“I’m sorry, Jesse. I know this is hardest on you. I’m just beat.”
“No apologies. Alisha is going to need you. I’m going to get some fresh air and donuts. You want something?”
She shook her head.
At the front door, Jesse turned back to her and half smiled. “One good thing, as far as you’re concerned.”
“What’s that?”
“Alisha’s lawyer is Monty Bernstein.”
Molly blushed in spite of herself and in spite of her exhaustion. As far as Jesse could tell, there were only two men other than her husband Molly ever had eyes for. One was Crow, the Apache hit man, and the other was Monty Bernstein.
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