by Lisa Gardner
Then there were his hands, with those long, callused fingers resting upon his knees.…
“What happened to all the donuts?” Phil spoke up.
“Bite me,” D.D. said. She returned to the whiteboard. “Victimology,” she announced. “We got the Harringtons in Dorchester.…”
“White, working-class Christians,” Phil summarized. He’d found a maple frosted, and was chewing contentedly.
“School, employment, church, social clubs, prior address?”
Phil rattled off a geographic profile of the Harringtons’ known activities and organizations. D.D. dutifully wrote down each answer, then drew a line down the middle of the whiteboard to create a second column. “Okay, now we have the Laraquette-Solis clan.”
“White, low-income drug dealers,” Phil provided.
Alex spoke up. “Four children, four different fathers.”
“Long history with child services.” Phil again.
“Long history with immigration,” Neil, their third squadmate, countered from the back. Neil’s skin held the ghostly pallor of someone who spent too much time under fluorescent bulbs. Given that he’d spent the past two days at the ME’s office, overseeing the Harrington autopsies, and now there were now six more dead … Neil used to be an EMT. Made him the best man for the job.
“Turns out that Hermes Laraquette was from Barbados,” Neil continued now. He glanced at his notes. “Hermes was a Redleg—some small white underclass that descended from indentured servants, criminals, etc. INS has been looking for him, which is one case file they can now close.”
“School, employment, church, social clubs, prior address?” D.D. prompted.
This list was thin. The Laraquette-Solis clan lived across Boston, in Jamaica Plains. They were not known for their community involvement or their social consciousness. The family had moved into the neighborhood six months ago, and while Hermes liked to saunter around in his rainbow knit hat, the woman and kids were rarely seen outside.
D.D. couldn’t imagine it. How could anyone stay inside with that smell?
She studied the list under the Harrington name, then the list under the Laraquette name. Nothing leapt out at her.
“Enemies?” she prodded.
No one could think of any enemies for the Harringtons. The Laraquettes, on the other hand … They’d need days to research that list, given Hermes’s drug dealings. D.D. filled in TBD, for “to be determined.”
“So,” she declared briskly, “according to our lists, there’s no obvious overlap between the Harringtons’ world and the Laraquettes’. From a logical perspective, how could these two families know each other?”
“Mission work, maybe,” Alex spoke up, “if the Harringtons’ church does anything with low-income families. Or their own volunteer efforts.”
“Worth checking,” D.D. agreed. “The Harringtons are do-gooders and the Laraquettes could use some good done. Other connections?”
“The kids,” Neil suggested. “Teenage boys are close in age. Maybe knew each other from sporting activities, summer camps, that kind of thing.”
D.D. wrote it down.
“Foster families, troubled kids,” Phil continued, brainstorming. “Harringtons adopted Ozzie, who we know passed through a variety of households before reaching them.”
“You’re thinking the Laraquettes once fostered Ozzie?” D.D. was dubious. “I’d think it would be the other way around—child services looking to place the Laraquette children to get them the hell out of that house.”
“That, too,” Phil agreed. “Again, we know the Harringtons had an interest in at-risk kids, and we know the Laraquette kids were at risk.”
“All right, from that perspective, I can buy it. We’ll call social services. They always love to hear from us. Other possibilities?”
The group was quiet, so D.D. made a few notes, then cleared the whiteboard and set them up for discussion number two: crime scenes.
Neil, the autopsy guru, led the way. “ME confirmed that the mother, Denise Harrington; the older son, Jacob; and the younger son, Oswald, all died of a single knife wound. Of note, there are no hesitation marks on any of the wounds.”
“Christ,” Phil muttered, the lone family man in the room.
“The girl, Molly, suffered a knife wound to the upper left arm. Cause of death, however, was manual asphyxiation. Fractured hyoid bone, which indicates a perpetrator of considerable manual strength.”
“Like a nine-year-old boy?” D.D. spoke up.
Neil gave her a look. “Not likely.” He glanced back down at his notes. “As for the father, Patrick Harrington, ME hasn’t gotten to him yet. According to the doctor’s report, however, he died due to complications from a gunshot wound—swelling of the brain.”
“Okay. So three stabbed, one strangled, one shot. Kind of original right there. Most family annihilators have a singular approach, don’t they?” D.D. looked to Alex for an answer.
He nodded. “Traditional approaches include shooting, drugging, and/or carbon monoxide poisoning. Sometimes, you see a case where the father figure drugs the family first, presumably to limit their suffering, then shoots them. If we look at teenage family annihilators—the abused son seeking retribution—methodology expands to bludgeoning and/or arson. I haven’t heard of a case where a single attacker switches weapons as he/she goes along.”
“Single attacker,” D.D. picked up. “Let’s talk about the number of perpetrators for a second. What about cases where the adolescent child has a partner in crime, like the daughter and her boyfriend who kill her family so they can be together. Or wasn’t there a case where a daughter and her lesbian lover murdered her grandparents so they could be together? Stuff like that.”
“When a teenager is the instigator of family annihilation,” Alex said, “there are instances of partner involvement. In those cases, however, both partners murder the offending family members, then escape together. Not kill the family, plus the adolescent instigator, and then the partner gets away.”
“Coconspirator turned on the instigator?”
“Why?” Alex asked.
“Hell if I know.”
“Not probable,” Alex said. “Furthermore, the Harrington scene is methodical. Two teenagers on a killing spree are never gonna get through a house that clean. We’re looking for a perpetrator of above-average strength and intelligence. Patient, calculating, and skilled. Find me that teenager, and we’ll talk.”
“Fair enough,” D.D. said. “What do we know about the knife?”
“The knife used in the Harrington attack matched a set found in the kitchen.” Phil had finished his donut and was brushing crumbs off his rounded belly. “Handle too smeared to yield prints.”
“And the handgun?”
“Registered to Patrick Harrington. His prints on the handle.”
“So murder weapons came from inside the home?”
Phil nodded.
“All right. The Laraquette-Solis scene?”
Alex took the lead this time, picking up his notes. “Mixed methodology. Four shot—the adult male in the family room, the teenage boy in the hallway, and two girls in their bedroom. Adult female, Audi Solis, was fatally stabbed in the kitchen. Baby was suffocated in her crib, presumably with a pillow. Order unknown at this time. Could be father did family, then lay down on the sofa and shot himself. Could be he was taken out first, then the family, with the handgun returned to the father to implicate him in the crime.”
“Knife?” D.D. asked.
“Matches the set found in the kitchen,” Phil repeated. “Handle didn’t yield prints.”
“Gun?”
“Unregistered, serial number filed off.”
“Stolen,” D.D. said. “Black market.”
“Most likely. Given Hermes’s lifestyle …”
“Hot gun for the dope dealer,” D.D. concluded. She paused for a minute, considering their list. “Interesting that both scenes yield the same three methodologies for murder: shooting, stabbing, asphy
xiation. And that in both scenes, the murder weapons originated from inside the home.”
“Not conclusive,” Alex cautioned.
“Not. But interesting. In your words, this type of crime generally has a singular approach. We now have two scenes where an entire family was eliminated using three separate methodologies, and the murder weapons were found inside the home. What are the odds of that?”
“Copycat?” Neil asked from the back.
D.D. shook her head. “Can’t be. We haven’t released cause of death to the media yet. They know Patrick Harrington was admitted to the hospital for a gunshot wound. But we didn’t release stabbing, and we definitely never revealed that Molly Harrington was strangled.”
More silence, which was answer enough.
D.D. set down the blue dry-erase marker.
“Houston,” she declared, “I think we have a problem.”
D.D.’s boss didn’t want to go nuts yet. Sure, there were some disturbing coincidences between the Harrington scene and the Laraquette case. But coincidence could be just coincidence, while the formation of an official taskforce was bound to attract media attention. Next thing you knew, some Nancy Grace wannabe would announce the two cases were conclusively linked, with a madman running around Boston murdering entire families. Phones would ring nonstop. The mayor would demand a statement. Things would get messy.
It was August. People were hot and short-tempered. The less said the better.
Instead, the deputy superintendent came up with the bright idea that D.D.’s squad could handle both investigations. Thus, if any more coincidences were discovered, they’d be quick to put the pieces together.
D.D. pointed out that assigning three detectives to cover two mass murders was asking a bit much.
D.D.’s boss countered that she was essentially working with a four-man squad: She had Academy professor Alex Wilson to assist with prepping reports on the crime scenes.
She demanded two more detectives, bare minimum.
He granted her Boston’s drug squad to assist with background info on Hermes.
It was more than D.D. normally got from her stressed-out, budget-bound boss, so she considered it a victory.
Her squad accepted the news without blinking. So they’d be eating at their desks and neglecting their families. That went without saying in this day and age of reduced government funding and escalating rates of homicide. You didn’t become a detective for the lifestyle.
Given that their weekend appeared grim, D.D. decided the first thing they should do was break for lunch. Half a dozen donuts doesn’t last a girl as long as you’d think. Fortunately, the BPD cafeteria was not only located conveniently downstairs but was known for its food.
D.D. went with rare roast beef on rye, fully loaded, plus a giant slice of lemon cake. Phil, who she would swear was half woman, ordered a chef’s salad. Neil requested egg salad, a questionable choice, D.D. thought, for a man due back at the morgue. The lanky redhead downed his sandwich in four bites, then was out the door, whistling cheerfully. D.D. suspected he’d taken an interest in the ME. God knows they were spending a lot of quality time together.
Alex settled in beside D.D. with grilled chicken and penne pasta. She gave him grudging respect for eating hot food on a day when it was over ninety.
He loaded up on salt, red-pepper flakes, then Parmesan. After a bit of experimenting, he seemed to decide his lunch was good to go. High maintenance when it came to food.
Naked. In her bed. Cold chills. Warm thrills.
D.D. took a giant bite of sandwich.
“You can’t really believe the two cases are linked,” Alex asked after a minute. Phil was sorting his way through his salad, avoiding tomatoes, loading up on ranch dressing. He looked up at this, eyeing D.D. with equal skepticism.
She took another bite, chewed, swallowed. “Can’t decide,” she said at last.
“Well, you gotta think something,” Phil countered, “since you just bought us both cases.”
“Victims have nothing in common,” Alex said. “Given the difference between the two families’ geography, occupations, and lifestyle, what are the odds they knew the same homicidal maniac?”
“Could be a stranger crime,” D.D. said with a shrug.
Alex arched a brow. “Even lower probability, given that you’re talking about an attack on an entire family, which, at least in the Harrington case, occurred while still daylight. A disorganized killer might have the impulsiveness for such an attack, but not the methodical approach. Organized killers generally take the time to scout out risky targets.”
“One of BTK’s first crimes was an attack on a family right after breakfast,” D.D. said, referring to the notorious Bind Torture Kill murderer who operated for decades in Kansas. “He talked himself through the front door, then held a gun on the kids until the parents agreed to be tied up. Once he subdued the parents, he proceeded according to plan.”
“No evidence of bondage at our scenes,” Phil pointed out.
“And BTK stalked his targets first,” Alex said firmly. “He spent months on reconnaissance before he made his move. We’re talking two crimes that occurred within thirty-six hours of each other. Where’s the time for stalking, for identifying each family member, formulating a strategy for attack, and, here’s a thought, for knowing that each household happened to have a twenty-two handgun on-site, let alone get possession of it?”
“Perpetrator got lucky?”
Alex gave her a look. “If it’s a serial case,” he continued relentlessly, “where’s the downtime? Most of these guys take a moment between victims, revel in a job well done.”
“That’s sick,” D.D. said crossly, mostly annoyed that Alex was right, which meant she was wrong. Being horny was hard enough, but being horny and stupid would be too much to bear.
“That’s the point,” Alex was saying. “One killer for two entire families in a span of less than thirty-six hours is a long shot. That kind of bloodlust, combined with such high-level control …” His voice trailed off. “I can’t picture it. It doesn’t fit.”
“But two fathers independently deciding to kill their wife and kids, using the same three methods, within a day of each other—that makes sense?”
“Coincidences happen.”
“It’s not a coincidence!”
“Then, what?”
“We need more information. I know: We’ll investigate. What a great idea!”
Alex rolled his eyes at her. D.D. moved on to her lemon cake.
“I think we should have our auras cleansed,” she announced.
“Hey,” said Phil. “I’m a family man.…”
“Then you can call child services and get everything you can on Oswald Harrington and the Laraquettes. Alex, you’re with me.”
“But I showered just this morning.”
“Not that kind of cleansing. We’re going to tend to our inner beauty.”
“You mean a spa?”
“No, it’s time we call upon Denise Harrington’s favorite shaman, Andrew Lightfoot.”
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
VICTORIA
Evan walked into my room at 4:14 a.m. and demanded to go to the park. He asked again at 4:33, 4:39, 4:43, 4:58, 5:05, and 5:12.
It’s 5:26 now, and we’re walking to the park.
The morning’s beautiful. The rain the night before has washed away the worst of the humidity. The air is warm, but pleasant, like a kiss against our cheeks. We walk the half a dozen blocks, breakfast in hand, and watch the sun paint the horizon. Being at the easternmost edge of the time zone, Massachusetts has one of the first sunrises in the country. I like to think of the early daybreaks as an exclusive treat for people who will spend their lives dropping their “r’s.” Other states have better enunciation. We get this.
“I see purple,” Evan says excitedly, pointing to the horizon and running circles around me. “There’s yellow and orange and fuchsia!”
“Fuchsia” is one of his favorite words.
I don’t know why.
The park comes into view. I expected the playground to be empty at this hour. Instead, a small boy waddles around the two swing sets and impressive climbing structure, his mother watching from a nearby bench.
I hesitate. Evan dashes ahead. “A friend! Mommy, Mommy, a new friend!”
By the time I make it to the playground, Evan has already run half a dozen exuberant circles around the toddler. The small boy doesn’t appear overwhelmed, but is grinning at Evan as if meeting a clown for the first time. Encouraged, Evan zips figure 8s all over the playground. The boy toddles after him.
I feel my usual sense of parenting pessimism. Maybe Evan will play nicely with the boy. Maybe they’ll enjoy each other’s company. Evan misses other children so much. Maybe that will give him the incentive to be gentle. Maybe.
I sit down on the bench next to the other mom. It seems the hospitable thing to do.
“Good morning,” she says brightly, a young girl, maybe twenty-two, twenty-three, with long brown hair held back in a ponytail. “I didn’t expect to see anyone else in the park this time of morning.”
“Neither did I,” I agree, trying to summon a smile energetic enough to match her own. Belatedly, I stick out a hand. “I’m Victoria. That’s my son, Evan.”
“Becki,” she says. “That’s Ronald. He’s three.”
“Evan’s eight.”
“Wow, he’s a morning person,” she laughs, watching Evan race up and down the slide. He’s already ditched his flip-flops and is in bare feet. I wonder how long before his dark blue gym shorts and red T-shirt follow suit.
“We just moved here,” Becki offers. “As in, the moving van unloaded yesterday afternoon. We still don’t have all the beds set up, nor the window air conditioners in. By five this morning, it seemed better to get outside. Ronald can run around while it’s still cool out, then maybe I can get him to nap through the heat.”