by Lisa Gardner
“And no sense of boundaries. Child would walk through your front door without knocking if you left it unlocked. Several of the neighbors kept finding him in their yards, sitting on their patio furniture as if he owned the place. Then there was the incident with him and Mr. Harding’s barbecue. Boy said the grill turned over by ‘accident,’ but I gotta say, I wouldn’t put it past him to dump hot coals on a wooden deck. When he felt slighted, he could be cruel. Did I mention the squirrels?”
“You haven’t mentioned the squirrels.”
“He liked to throw stones at them. I yelled at him more times than I could count to leave the poor squirrels alone. Then you know what he did? I caught him one day in my own backyard, yanking a squirrel off the bird feeder. Guess he’d crept up on it while it was eating. Why, he grabbed it by its tail, whipped it around two or three times, then slammed its head into the feeder post. Terrible, terrible thing. Blood everywhere. He just stood over the poor creature, and smiled.
“Normal boys don’t smile like that, Mrs. Detective Sergeant. Normal boys don’t lick the blood off their hands.”
D.D. couldn’t think of anything to say to that. Apparently, neither could Phil or Alex. “When … when did this happen?” she ventured finally.
“May, or maybe June. Beginning of summer, we’ll say. Ozzie wasn’t allowed out of the house alone after that. Mostly, his older brother, Jacob, came out to keep tabs on him. Now, Jacob’s a good boy. Strong and fast. Good arm, I’m told. Makings of a first-rate quarterback, to hear his father speak. Jacob seemed to be able to keep Ozzie in line.”
Miss Patsy paused, seemed to realize she had just spoken of Jacob in the present tense, and caught her breath in a small hiccup. “Oh,” she said, and that one sad word spoke volumes of a family that did not exist anymore.
D.D. gave the woman a moment. She took another sip of her iced tea. She was almost done with her glass; Alex and Phil were as well.
Alex leaned forward, seemed to have something to say. D.D. nodded slightly and he cleared his throat.
“Miss Patsy?” he asked gently.
The old woman turned her gaze to him.
“Were you home last night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What exactly did you hear?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. But I was inside, had the air conditioners running. Can’t hear much of anything over that hum.”
“Did you talk to any of the family members earlier in the day?”
“No, sir. Just saw Denise out, sweeping the front porch, when I went on my evening shuffle. I gave her a little wave and she waved back.”
“Did she mention having company?”
“Not to me, sir.”
“Notice any strange cars in the neighborhood?”
“Oh, there were several. Always is this time of year, with all the summer barbecues.” She smiled faintly. “We folks in Dorchester like to have fun.”
“Do you know of anyone who might bear a grudge against Patrick or Denise?” D.D. spoke up. “Did either of them mention getting in a fight with anyone? How was their relationship with their ex-spouses?”
“Patrick was a widower; Denise never spoke of her former husband. I got the impression he was out of the picture. Maybe not so interested in domestic life. I certainly never saw anyone coming by to take the kids every other weekend.”
D.D. made a note. “Times are hard,” she said softly, looking at Miss Patsy. “Sounds like Patrick and Denise had a lot on their plate. Three kids to manage—one with some challenges. Plus, they had an entire triple-decker to remodel, then Patrick lost his job. That’s a lot of stress for one family. Things happen when people are under that kind of stress.”
“The Harringtons are good people,” Miss Patsy repeated firmly.
“And the last time you spoke to either Denise or Patrick …?”
“Two days ago. Denise came by around nine o’clock and we had a little wine on the front porch. Jacob was starting up football practice and had just been picked for the first string. She was gonna take Molly back-to-school shopping this weekend.” Miss Patsy shrugged. “We talked of normal things, everyday things. Denise seemed happy enough to me.”
D.D. nodded, made another note—Money??—then rose off the chair, digging out her card. “Thank you for your time, Miss Patsy. If you think of anything else, please give me a call. Oh, and, of course, thanks for the excellent iced tea.”
Miss Patsy nodded, shuffled to her feet. Phil offered to carry their glasses and iced tea pitcher back to the kitchen. Miss Patsy let him.
“It’s true they’re all dead?” Miss Patsy asked as she escorted them to her front door. “Patrick, Denise, Jacob, Molly, and Ozzie?”
“Patrick’s hospitalized. Critical condition.”
“Poor, poor man,” Miss Patsy murmured. “I don’t know what’s worse: for him to join his family in Heaven, or for him to recover all alone. Sad choices for a good man. I guess you just never know what’s really going on with your neighbors, do you?”
“Nope,” agreed D.D. “You never do.”
CHAPTER
EIGHT
By the time they were done with Mr. Dexter Harding, it was after twelve and D.D. was starving. Alex proposed that they break for lunch. He knew a great little Italian bistro not far from here. He said this more to D.D. than to Phil, and Phil took the hint, ducking out with some mumbled excuse about stacks of paperwork waiting for him on his desk.
D.D. was suspicious of her partner’s abrupt departure, but it was Italian food, so she didn’t press the matter.
She and Alex caravanned to the corner restaurant, which featured green awnings and the smell of garlic and fresh baked bread. D.D. inhaled twice and decided she’d found a new home.
Alex ordered lasagna. She went with chicken parm. The waitress brought fresh bread to dip in olive oil. D.D. tore her way through the steaming loaf while checking phone messages. Patrick Harrington remained in a drug-induced coma. Neil, D.D.’s other squadmate, had made it through the autopsy of the wife with no surprises. The ME would start in on the girl after lunch.
Finally, she had a message from Chip, the almost-got-laid accountant, wondering if D.D. wanted to try dinner a second time around. She did, but given the way the morning was going, Chip was going to have to be a very patient man.
“Okay,” D.D. declared half a loaf later, trying to check surreptitiously for olive oil dripping down her chin. “We spent last night with one crime scene and the morning with two neighbors. You’re the professor—what d’ya think?”
“Will there be a quiz later?” Alex asked mildly; he’d also been checking messages. Now he put away his phone and reached for the bread basket.
“Please. This case was supposed to be wrapped up five hours ago. You’re gonna have to start detecting a lot quicker if you wanna roll with my squad.”
He arched a brow, seemed amused. He was a good-looking guy, D.D. decided. The charcoal-colored suit worked with his dark blue eyes and salt-and-pepper hair. A good-looking guy with good taste in restaurants. Hmm.
“Let’s review the basics,” he said now, his deep baritone sounding very much like the teacher he purported to be. “We have a crime scene with four stabbed and one shot, close contact to the head. Blood evidence tells us the victims were taken out one by one. The pattern would at first blush appear to be a murder-suicide, with the head of the household, Patrick Harrington, stabbing his entire family before shooting himself in the head.”
“At first blush,” D.D. agreed.
“Now, we’d love Patrick’s take on this, but so far he’s one step above a vegetable in the ICU, so that’s not going to happen yet.”
“Darn convenient for him,” D.D. groused, then went for more bread.
“Which brings us to impressions of the family by friends and neighbors. We have the lovely Miss Patsy—”
“Very lovely,” D.D. interjected.
“Fabulous iced tea,” Alex agreed. “Though a little heavy on the breakable figurines
.”
“Don’t sneeze in that house; it’ll cost you.”
“Miss Patsy likes Denise and Patrick very much. Considers them stand-up parents, good Christians, and all-around nice neighbors, who did have a lot on their plate but were holding up well enough. On the other hand, she is not a fan of their adopted son, Ozzie, who has a history of creepiness.”
“Licking the blood off his hand …” D.D. shivered.
“Now, the second neighbor, Dexter Harding, had a bit to add to that puzzle. Economic situation was a bit more dire than Miss Patsy understood from Denise. According to Dexter, Patrick considered them down to their last two months of operating income. Not a good place to be.”
“Ah, but according to Dexter, Patrick had a plan,” D.D. countered. “Patrick believed he was just two weeks from finishing the second floor. Say he gave himself six weeks to get it rented, asking for first and last month’s rent, plus deposit. That would be a significant cash injection due in the next two to eight weeks.”
“So we have a family in a tense economic condition, but not hopeless. Few things go according to plan, they could pull out of it.”
“Which suggests,” D.D. commented, “that Patrick has reason to be stressed, but perhaps is not yet suicidal. I mean, why go postal now? You’d think if he’s gonna lose it, it’ll be eight weeks from now when he can’t find a renter, doesn’t get the money, etc., etc.”
“Logically speaking, yes,” Alex agreed. “But he’s still stressed, the wife’s still stressed. Maybe someone said something last night at dinner. The daughter charged too much at the mall, the expenses for the older son’s football uniform were higher than expected. All you need is a trigger. Things unfold from there.”
“Patrick can’t stand the thought of his family ending up homeless, his kids becoming wards of the state …” D.D. filled in. “All of a sudden, Patrick convinces himself that killing his own family is the right thing to do. And our solid Christian neighbor turns into a family annihilator.”
The waitress appeared, sliding oval plates smothered in red sauce in front of each of them. The smell alone made D.D.’s mouth water. She loaded her chicken parm with grated cheese and went to town.
“Brings us back to the kid,” she managed after the third bite.
“Ah, but which one?” Alex asked with an arched brow. He was taking more time with his lasagna. A patient man, she observed. Probably had to be for working crime scenes. She wondered what had taken him from the field to the classroom, and what now made him want to be out in the field again.
“I mean Ozzie,” she prompted. “You know, the one that kills squirrels for sport. Why? You’re not suspecting the oldest, are you?”
The neighbor Dexter Harding had had some news: The Harringtons were not a family of five after all. They were a family of six. Patrick had an oldest son from a previous marriage who was currently in Iraq. In honor of Private William Edward Harrington, aka Billy, Denise often set a sixth plate at the table. The Harrington version of tie a yellow ribbon ’round the old oak tree.
It appeared they didn’t have to worry about a mystery guest anymore. Unfortunately, Billy Harrington was about to get some very bad news from home.
“We should at least confirm the kid’s in Iraq,” Alex said.
“Well, duh.”
He grinned at her. “How’s the chicken parm?”
“Love it.”
“I can tell.”
“How’s the lasagna?”
“Almost as good as my grandmother’s.”
D.D. eyed him suspiciously. “With a last name like Wilson, you want me to believe you know about red sauce?”
“Ah, but my mother’s a Capozzoli.”
“I stand corrected. With a name like Capozzoli, your grandmother can probably make some gravy.”
“She taught me everything I know,” Alex commented.
D.D. paused, fork midair. “You can cook?”
“It’s my passion. Nothing like a Sunday afternoon rolling out pasta while simmering a nice sauce Bolognese.”
D.D. couldn’t swallow.
“You should come over for dinner sometime,” Alex said.
D.D. finally got it: the whispers, the exchanged glances … “Phil sold me out. Told you the quickest way inside my pants is through my stomach.”
“Didn’t even cost me thirty pieces of silver,” Alex confirmed cheerfully. “You should still come over for dinner.”
“I don’t date fellow detectives.”
“I’m not a detective.” He smiled at her. “For the next month, I’m just playing the part on TV.”
“Problem with dating another detective,” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him, “is that all you end up doing is talking shop.”
“We can talk food. What I enjoy cooking, what you enjoy eating.”
“I enjoy eating everything.”
“Works for me.”
She eyed him skeptically. “Don’t let my current good mood fool you; I’m a bitch most of the time.”
“Don’t let my current charm fool you; I get as pissed off as the next guy.”
“Why the classroom?” she asked. “Why leave the field for the classroom?”
“Had a wife. Wanted kids. More traditional hours seemed a good idea at the time.”
“What happened? She change her mind about Bolognese sauce?”
“Couldn’t get pregnant. When my wife couldn’t become a mother, she decided she didn’t want to be a wife either. We split amicably two years back.”
“You’re still teaching.”
“I like it.”
“But you’re here now.”
“I like this, too.”
“That’s awfully likable,” D.D. said with a scowl.
“Which is why you should come over for dinner.”
“I don’t do kids,” she warned. “I’m too old, too cranky.”
“Perfect, because I was just hoping for lots of sex.”
D.D. laughed, surprised and a little charmed. Laughter felt good after eighteen hours of working a crime scene. So did lunch. “I’ll think about it,” she said finally. She took a bite, chewed, swallowed. “Now, back to the matters at hand: What do we make of nine-year-old Ozzie Harrington?”
“Kid’s tricky,” Alex said at last.
“Kid’s dead.”
“We’ve already had allegations of animal cruelty and petty arson. I’m guessing there’s bed-wetting in there somewhere, which makes him a textbook serial killer.”
“Dexter thought the barbecue accident was really an accident,” D.D. countered.
“Dexter fidgeted uncontrollably every time we mentioned Ozzie’s name. Kid gave him the heebie-jeebies. He was just trying to be polite about it.”
“He said Patrick and Denise could control Ozzie. Also, that Ozzie worshipped his older brother Jacob. Seems unlikely, then, that Ozzie would turn on them, especially one by one like that.”
“That’s the problem,” Alex said. “A nine-year-old boy with a history of severe psychiatric problems could absolutely take out an entire family. In the middle of the night, armed with a shotgun or baseball bat, going from bedroom to bedroom … If that were our crime scene, I’d say the freaky son did it and Patrick was lucky to get out alive.”
“But it’s dinnertime with a kitchen knife,” D.D. said quietly. “Patrick’s not a small guy. Then you have fourteen-year-old Jacob, also athletic. Seems like the two of them would be able to wrestle a scrawny nine-year-old to the ground.”
“And you’d see more defensive wounds,” Alex said. “From the girl, everyone. Ozzie’s the smallest member of the household. They’d absolutely put up a struggle. For that matter, I’m not sure a nine-year-old would have the strength to strike the mortal blow to Mrs. Harrington. We’ll get a report back soon enough, but I’m already guessing the angle of the blow suggests someone taller than Denise, not shorter.”
“Methodology makes it tricky,” D.D. commented. “Assuming Ozzie is the perpetrator, that means he, wha
t? Shot his father with a gun. Then grabbed a kitchen knife and killed his mother with a single blow, killed his older brother with a single blow, then chased his sister through the house before ultimately catching her and strangling her. Then, after all that, he slit his own throat? Tough way to commit hara-kiri.”
“Actually, I’ve seen it done.”
“Really?”
“Case back in ninety-seven. Depressed ad executive slit his own throat. We had our doubts, given the injury, but the ME could prove it from the angle of incision. Don’t ask me. There are times forensics seems like pure voodoo.”
“All right. So Ozzie slit his own throat. Then he carried the bodies through the house to a single location? It just doesn’t make sense. Blood tells us Ozzie’s throat was slit in the sister’s bedroom. Physical size tells us there was no way Ozzie would’ve had the strength to drag his mother or father through the house.”
“Which brings us back to Patrick,” Alex agreed. “Only logical explanation.”
D.D. pushed back her plate. “So why don’t I feel good about it?”
“Because sometimes, we never understand our neighbors, not even after the fact.”
D.D. sighed, thought he had a point. “We dig into the financials, bet we’re going to find some consumer debt, some past-due bills. We’ll see just how on edge the Harringtons were living. Then we’ll pay a visit to the kids’ school, Denise’s work, Patrick’s former employer, round out our victim profiles.”
“We should also pay a visit to the psychiatric unit where Ozzie stayed. Remember, Miss Patsy said he was hospitalized for a bit.”
“I thought we just ruled out Ozzie.”
Alex shrugged. “There’s still something we don’t know. Or, for that matter, someone.”
CHAPTER
NINE
DANIELLE
Lucy escaped shortly before three.
I should’ve seen it coming. She’d started the day remarkably calm. By eight a.m., she’d eaten dry Cheerios without throwing the cup at anyone passing by. At eight-thirty, she crept out of her room long enough to swipe a toy car Benny had left in the hall. She’d tucked it under her chin as she scampered on all fours to a corner of her room. Then she’d set the Hot Wheel on the floor and proceeded to bat it around like a cat toy.