Catch a Killer

by Kris Rafferty

Jack didn’t argue, and Hannah wished he would. She was in the mood for a fight. Her phone rang. “It’s Ferguson.” She hit Accept, and put it on speakerphone. “What have you got?”

  “We pinged her phone. She’s at Pomodoro’s Bistro on Hanover Street. Hannah—”

  “Oh, what a relief!” Hannah smiled at Jack, who frowned, shaking his head. “What?”

  “It’s midnight,” Jack said. His grimace dampened her relief, as did his implication. It was unlikely Pomodoro’s was open this late. “Ferguson? Where is Pomodoro’s Bistro?” Jack said.

  “That’s what I’m trying to—Benton, Hannah. It’s on the Freedom Trail,” Ferguson said. “Cruisers are on-site and reporting the restaurant is on fire. You better hurry and get there. Hanover Street. The rest of us are en route.”

  Hannah’s hand was shaking by the time she hung up. “‘Around my couches with torches bright.’” She shook her head in a daze. “Pomodoro’s Bistro is on fire.” Hannah was thrown back in her seat as Jack hit the gas, driving the streets of Boston like the devil was on his ass.

  They arrived fifteen minutes later. Hannah didn’t wait for the car to come to a complete stop, but hit the ground running. EMTs were caring for victims. Patrons and servers wore reflective blankets and oxygen masks. She saw a gurney being wheeled into an ambulance and recognized Vivian’s tweed suit jacket and skirt. Covered in soot, her purse resting on her stomach, she was unconscious.

  Hannah flashed her credentials. “Special Agent Cambridge. Will she live?” They ignored her as they secured Vivian’s gurney in the ambulance. Hannah jumped inside with them. “I’m coming.” She saw Jack running toward the ambulance as the EMT closed them in, driving off. Her phone rang. She picked up and immediately pulled the phone from her ear. Jack was shouting.

  “What the hell are you doing? Ferguson just pulled up with Deming. I’m getting reports that witnesses are saying the fire started at Vivian’s table. She was with a man. I’m looking at him right now.”

  Vivian looked as if she was dying, and Hannah wanted to touch her, but the EMTs were hooking her up to IVs and monitors. It was frightening. “What’s he saying?”

  “Nothing, Hannah. He’s dead. You have to know this means she could be our perp.”

  She shook her head, not willing to believe it. “She’s unconscious, Jack. She’s a victim here, too. We have to give her a chance to explain before we derail the investigation like this.” Hannah ignored the irritated glances from the EMT.

  Jack was silent for a moment, and then she heard his impatient sigh. “Which hospital are you heading to?” Hannah asked the EMT. The guy moved Vivian’s arm to get better access to the IV. That nudged Vivian’s purse to the ambulance’s floor, at Hannah’s feet.

  “Mass General. We’re five minutes out,” the EMT said.

  “Did you hear that? Mass General.” She heard Jack’s “yes” as she grabbed the purse. She rifled through it without a moment’s hesitation, and quickly found a letter. “Hurry, Jack.” It didn’t take long to read it, and as every word processed in her mind, Hannah’s heart beat a little slower. It broke a little more. When she finished, her hand holding the letter dropped to her lap. “Jack, I’m holding Vivian’s confession. She’s our killer.”

  “Read it to me.”

  Hannah wiped a tear with the back of her wrist, and forced herself to read. “‘Dear Hannah, I am the Mercy Killer. I didn’t intend to be. It just happened. I was the last, unknown submitter to the Boston Globe’s advice column. Mine was the broken heart, the jilted bride. The gentleman I’m dining with tonight is the man who destroyed my dreams. Is it wrong of me to make him suffer, too? Such a splendid death I designed for me. A flaming torch. The Freedom Trail. A serial killer. Much print will be expended dissecting my efforts. I don’t begrudge those who went into hiding, but wish them well. You, also, Hannah. This is something I had to do. Please try to understand. “Seven more loves weep night and day, Round the tombs where my loves lay, And seven more loves attend each night, Around my couch with torches bright.” I am seven. And I’m finally free. Sincerely, Vivian O’Grady.’”

  There was silence on the line, and then Jack swore. “No, she’s not. She’s the sixth stanza.”

  “Maybe she’s counting the guy that jilted her? Seventh victim.”

  Vivian’s body began to shake, and then progressed to seizing. The EMT checked her vitals, then pumped a syringe of drugs into her IV bag. Then Vivian went still.

  “She’s crashing!” The young EMT straddled her chest.

  “What’s going on there?” Jack’s shouts hurt her ear as the EMT performed chest compressions on Vivian.

  “She’s dying, Jack. I have to go.” The letter was evidence, but now it had Hannah’s tears on it. Carefully placing it back into its envelope, she gathered Vivian’s belongings and put them back into the purse. Vivian flatlined twice in the next five minutes, but had a heartbeat when the ambulance arrived at the trauma entrance. EMTs wheeled her gurney into Mass General.

  Hannah was the last person to leave the ambulance, and when she climbed out, she stood in the parking lot, feeling overwhelmed and faint. How had she missed the signs? Vivian had fooled her and the rest of the team. People had died because Hannah had been so blind, and those deaths were on her now.

  Chapter 21

  Hannah had said little to Jack since he found her in the ER waiting room. When the doctors declared Vivian stable, but unconscious, he put uniformed policemen on her door and convinced Hannah it was time to leave.

  “Let’s go home to Ellen,” he said.

  “No,” Hannah said. “Ellen is safe with Natalie and Mrs. Branaghan. Take me back to the precinct.”

  It was late when they met up with the rest of the team in the incident room. Jack was worried about Hannah. She was beyond exhausted, pale, and distracted. He felt shell-shocked himself, and humbled. They looked like amateurs, because Vivian had fooled them all.

  The ride up the elevator to homicide was silent, but when the doors opened, the department was lit up and noisy. Detectives and patrolmen mingled around a makeshift buffet table in the hall outside of the incident room. He recognized Sergeant O’Neil in the back, and wondered why the guy was here. This was homicide. Then Jack saw Deming, who noticed him. She held a cup in one hand, and in the other balanced a plate filled with a variety of finger food. He and Hannah approached.

  “Mrs. Pepperidge took pity on us.” Deming lifted her paper cup in salute, before taking a sip. Jack could smell the wine. “Food is love, she said. Apparently, alcohol is, too. We’re supposed to view this as a celebration. A victory meal, of sorts. Not feeling it.” Deming grimaced, peering at the laughing faces and jovial officers. “None of this feels right.”

  Hannah was avoiding everyone’s gazes, keeping her thoughts to herself. He wanted to hold her and whisk her off to hide somewhere, but she was acting distant, and he was afraid this case ending had pushed her further away from him. She seemed to be second-guessing everything. Maybe even him.

  “I’m heading to my desk,” Hannah said. “I have things I need to do.”

  Jack didn’t stop her, afraid what she would say if he tried. Instead, he watched her disappear into the incident room. From the looks of Ferguson and Lieutenant Pepperidge, they were also taking this news hard, but homicide’s night shift wasn’t hiding their good cheer. Nobody here knew Vivian well. She’d always kept to herself. It explained why the whole damn department had turned the occasion into a party. Yet he and his team just wanted to grieve.

  “Hannah found the note in Vivian’s purse,” Jack said.

  “I want to see it.” Deming frowned. “Does Charlie have it?” She asked as if that possibility made her less likely to pursue it. Jack had to suppose that whatever was going on between those two went deep. Deming didn’t normally care about people enough to avoid them. She sipped her wine, put it down, then popped a chicken nugget int
o her mouth.

  “Yes. Charlie is running it for DNA and prints right now. He wasn’t happy to get the call, but he came in, along with his team.”

  “And Vivian? Any news?” she said.

  “She’s under guard in the ICU. She’s not going anywhere.”

  “I feel stupid.” Deming pushed her food around on her plate. “Some profiler I turned out to be.”

  “You did great,” Jack said. “You pegged her completely. We investigated her, Deming. She was clean, had an alibi. But we have her confession now. Answers will come later.”

  “Ferguson kept saying it was a woman. I should have listened.”

  “We all should have. Seems obvious now.” Jack caught a movement near the incident room door. It was Ferguson. He was looking through its glass pane, probably at Hannah inside. He seemed torn between entering or not. “We all dropped the ball.”

  “What’s Hannah doing?” Deming sipped more wine, watching Ferguson not enter the incident room.

  “Punishing herself.” He was almost positive she was going over the case from beginning to end, listing all the places she’d missed a clue. He couldn’t allow that. Jack watched as Ferguson pivoted and walked away from the door, a scowl on his face. It triggered Jack’s need to see Hannah now. “Enjoy the food and wine while I go talk my partner off the ledge.” Deming delayed his departure with a touch on his sleeve.

  “Is that what she is?” Her smile was sad, but it was encouraging.

  “She’s more,” Jack said. “Always has been.” Deming’s smile blossomed to a hopeful one. And for the first time since he stepped off the plane at Logan Airport, he felt hopeful. The case was over. It ended badly, but it was over and it was time to look toward the future.

  He strode down the hall, nodding to those he recognized, and by the time he’d pushed through the doors to the incident room, Ferguson was nowhere in sight. Jack found Hannah at her desk staring at a case file, her head in her hands, just as he’d predicted.

  “Stop,” he said.

  “Stop what?” She leaned back in her chair, grimacing at him, as if he’d done something wrong.

  “Stop beating yourself up. We caught the perp. That’s all that matters.”

  “Tell that to Gary Buntle. Or the guy with half his face smoking in the morgue right now.”

  “That’s not on you. You didn’t kill them.” Jack towered over her. “Tomorrow is time enough to second-guess. After you’ve slept, had some food. There’s a huge spread out there. We should be eating it.”

  “Go,” she waved him off, returning to her file.

  “It’s time to move on, Hannah.”

  She shook her head. “It’s time to mourn, Jack. That’s what you do when you lose something.”

  “You didn’t lose. You won. The case is solved.”

  “I lost my confidence. I worked with Vivian nearly twenty-four seven this month. How did I not see the evil in her? And look at you.” She lifted her hand, indicating him. “I thought you loved me, but you left me in such a spectacular way. I can’t be trusted to see the truth, and now people are dead because I wasn’t good enough.”

  “That’s insane, Hannah. I love you, it’s just—”

  “If you loved me, you never would have hurt me like that. What I feel for Ellen is love. What you feel for me is something else.”

  His stomach tightened. “You’re wrong.” She was going to leave him. This was her way of preparing him for the big good-bye. “I do love you. My pride got in the way and I left. I’m not excusing my behavior. I was a fool, yes, but who isn’t when it comes to love?”

  “Me,” she said. “I asked one thing of you.” Tears fell from her eyes. “To be with me. And you left.”

  He took her hand. “I’m sorry. I do love you, Hannah. I always have. You have to give me another chance. Give us a chance.”

  He heard someone enter the room, and thought it must be Ferguson finding the courage to approach Hannah. Frustrated, a sharp word hovering on his lips, he turned and saw the lieutenant’s wife. Politeness forced him to say the right words. “Hello, Mrs. Pepperidge. Thanks for the nice spread outside.”

  “Jolene. Please call me Jolene.” Carrying a bottle of wine, she seemed put out to find him with Hannah, making him wonder if she’d overheard his and Hannah’s conversation. She presented the wine and two paper cups. “Jack, you remind me of my husband. All work, no play. My husband, by the way, I’ll get back now that this nasty case is over.” She uncorked the red wine, set the two cups on the desk next to Hannah’s file, and poured until it approached their brims. “When you get a win, you celebrate.”

  Hannah shook her head. “But it’s Vivian, Mrs. Pepperidge. I…I just can’t.”

  Sadness flickered in Mrs. Pepperidge’s eyes, but then she forced a smile. “I know. Life sucks. That’s why we drink.” She offered Jack the other cup.

  Jack wasn’t much of a wine drinker, but didn’t want to be rude. He lifted his cup in salute. Hannah lifted hers. “Am I taking your cup?” he said. He held it out to the lieutenant’s wife, but she shook her head, showing him her palm. Even so, he got the feeling that he was intruding on a moment she’d intended to share with Hannah.

  “No, sit, sit.” Mrs. Pepperidge’s eyes twinkled as he sat on the chair next to Hannah’s desk. She made him feel like a schoolboy. “Believe me, I’ve had my fill. Please drink. It’s very expensive. I wanted Hannah to get her share before it was gone. Of all of us, she deserves it.” She chuckled. “Not to take anything away from your involvement in the case, Special Agent Benton.” She indicated his cup. “We wouldn’t be here without you.”

  They gently tapped paper cups and managed not to spill the wine. Hannah was playing along, drinking, but he could see her impatience and knew she wanted both him and Mrs. Pepperidge gone. To brood, no doubt. Well, too bad. He wasn’t about to allow that—blaming herself—and he would not be discarded with the case.

  “Cheers,” he said.

  “Cheers,” Mrs. Pepperidge and Hannah echoed.

  The expensive wine went down easy, but he didn’t like the bitter aftertaste, so he put the cup back on the desk and hoped Mrs. Pepperidge wouldn’t be insulted if he didn’t finish it.

  “What do you have there?” Mrs. Pepperidge stepped to Hannah’s side, peering over her shoulder. She narrowed her eyes, reading a copy of the advice column letter attributed to Vivian. It was in its plastic evidence sleeve, typed, anonymous—only it wasn’t anonymous now. “‘My heart is broken.’ Yikes. This lady cuts to the chase.” Mrs. Pepperidge pressed a palm to her chest as she continued to read. “‘The one I loved left me long ago, betrayed me, and I should have moved on, but can’t. I’ve tried to forget, but the hole in my heart won’t allow it. Every morning I wake and remember what I lost. It tortures me. I feel like a fool and don’t know how to make this pain go away. Please. Someone help me.’” Mrs. Pepperidge exchanged an awkward glance with Jack, and then pursed her lips. “If that doesn’t break your heart, nothing will. Have you figured out who she is?”

  “What makes you think it’s a woman?” Jack said. He saw Hannah blinking, as if trying to clear her vision. He wondered if she were staving off another panic attack. She sipped more wine and cleared her throat. She didn’t look good. Jack decided to take her home. “It could just as easily be from a man.” Men got their hearts broken, too. Hannah was breaking his right now.

  Surprised, Mrs. Pepperidge looked between him and Hannah, as if only now reading the undercurrents in the room. Nudging the wine toward Jack, the lieutenant’s wife gave him a look that said, here, drink, you look like you need it. And she was right. Hannah was going to leave him. He downed the rest of the wine and grimaced at the bitterness. This high-priced wine sucked.

  “I just assumed it was a woman. I’m showing my age, I guess.” Mrs. Pepperidge leaned forward, peering at Hannah. “You’re looking a bit pale, sweetie.
Don’t you agree, Jack?”

  He did, but didn’t say anything because he was feeling a bit queasy himself. “It’s been a long day.” Scrubbing his face with his hands, he gave his head a little shake to stave off his growing lethargy. He just wanted to take Hannah home and know that the two people he loved most were tucked away safe, near at hand. She hadn’t left him yet. Jack would think of something to convince Hannah they belonged together.

  “Jack?” Hannah touched his arm, leaning heavily on the desk. “Jack, what’s happening?” She seemed afraid, and confused.

  He reached out to her just as his vision narrowed and the strength left his body, and then he slid to the floor, unable to move, eyes fixed and unblinking.

  Chapter 22

  Hannah leaned forward to catch him, but fell forward onto her desktop instead, scattering folders to the floor. Mrs. Pepperidge walked around the desk and took Jack’s now vacant seat.

  “Finally. Alone at last.” The lieutenant’s wife seemed pleased. “Hannah, my dear. You’re the one that got away.” She nodded toward Jack. “You still love him, don’t you? Despite what he did to you? What he took?”

  Words failed Hannah. She didn’t recognize this woman. This Mrs. Pepperidge was fierce and frightening.

  “I was there,” Mrs. Pepperidge said. “At the hospital last March. I saw you miserable, bedridden. I was in the hall when you handed your letter to the nurse to mail and overheard your explanation about what you were doing. It broke my heart.” Her chin quivered. “Because while you were waiting for your baby to die, I was mourning the loss of my child. I kept an eye out for your letter in the Globe, and when I found it, read it, I knew what I had to do. Help people. See their pain, as no one saw mine.” She covered her mouth with her fingertips, and her eyes lost focus. “We called her Winnie.” Mrs. Pepperidge’s smile was wobbly, her eyes misty. “My little girl… So delicate. It’s my fault.” Her gaze hardened as she dropped her hand, bitterness corrupting her expression. “We kill our babies, Hannah.” She glanced at Jack, supine at her feet. “Did you name yours? They don’t give you a birth certificate if it dies too soon.”