Chapter Thirteen
“You have someplace nearby we can go and talk? Probably not a good idea if we’re seen in the parking lot like this.”
Ames nodded. “Your car door was unlocked so I wrote down the directions to my office and left them on the front seat.”
“That car door wasn’t unlocked,” Meeks said, letting his voice trail off.
Ames shot a glance at Meeks and said, “It was unlocked, the directions are on the seat. Meet me there in half an hour, I think I’ve got something you boys might want to see.”
“We’ll be there,” Beckett said and the two exchanged a nod as Ames pushed himself away from the car and hopped into his Ranger. On the side was painted a yellow star with his name and title. A row of blue and red lights lined the top.
Meeks opened his car door, picked up a sheet of paper from his seat and looked at it. “How you think he got this thing in here like that?”
Beckett ignored the question. “What’s it say?”
Meeks studied it for a moment and said, “Looks like we’re going back over to Newton.”
“That’s fifteen minutes from here. That’s good, means we can stop and get some real coffee on the way.”
The two men climbed into the Crown Vic and Meeks followed the directions back to Newton, Beckett reading aloud from the script. Halfway there they stopped off at a Dunkin Donuts for some coffee, Meeks a soy milk mocha and a straight black for Beckett.
Ten minutes later they pulled up to the Newton Sheriff’s department. It was small and quaint, just like everything else in the town, made of red brick and surrounded by plush green grass. A gleaming flagpole stood on the front lawn with an oversized flag at half mast.
Two immaculately clean patrol cars were parked on either side of it.
“We at a police station or a damn Norman Rockwell painting?” Meeks asked as he parked beside the two cruisers and climbed out.
“This is the suburbs,” Beckett said. “People out here not only have the money but are willing to spend it on the things they find important.”
“And a nice big flagpole is important?”
“I’m sure it was to whoever paid to have it erected.”
Together they pushed through the front doors to find an open and airy lobby with floors of white marble and dark woodwork everywhere. A pretty young blonde sat behind a desk of the same wood and said, “Good morning Detectives Beckett and Meeks, Sheriff Ames is expecting you in the conference room. Can I you get you two anything?”
Beckett held up the full cup of coffee in his hand and said, “Just directions to the conference room please?”
The blonde stood and pointed past them to an open door. Ames could be seen sitting at the desk and motioned for them as they looked his way.
“How the hell did that girl know our names?” Meeks whispered as they walked over.
“Man’s a hell of a lot better than you give him credit for,” Beckett said and stepped inside.
Ames was sitting at one end of the table with a file spread before him. Another man in a lab coat was standing with his back to the room, staring out the window. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back and his shoulder length sandy blonde hair was pulled into a loose pony-tail at the base of his neck.
Ames stood as they entered and shook their hands. “Thanks for coming over so soon, I’m sure you’ve got a lot on your plate right now. I appreciate it.”
“Appreciate you having us,” Beckett said. “We’re more than happy to help a fellow agency out in any way we can, even happier when they can help us.”
Ames chuckled at the comment.
“Also,” Beckett added, “we wanted you to know we had nothing to do with that scene at the FBI earlier. I told Winston he was ass for attacking you guys like that, but he let it be known that he didn’t need my help on the matter.”
“Us guys huh?” Ames said, eyes narrowing a bit. “So he pulled that shit on Marcy too huh?”
Beckett’s eyebrows and shoulders rose a bit in unison. “In as many words. He didn’t out and out call her a whore like he did you, but he let it be known what he thought.”
The men took seats around the table and Ames again balled his fist up. He held it a few inches above the table and stared at it for a few seconds, then released and looked up at them.
“As I’m sure you both heard earlier, the Wilbanks’ are very good friends of mine. I have been a friend of Marcy’s since we were kids and have known Kelly longer than my own wife.
“I know the reputation the man has, but the truth of the matter is he’s a good man and an even better friend. Only knock the man has against him is he was born into wealth and expectations and had no desire for either. He’s told me more than once that if his parents didn’t own a fair chunk of the Northeast, he’d probably be one of my deputies here.”
He looked from Beckett to Meeks and back again. “I am telling you this to let you know this is personal, especially after what Winston pulled this morning. I happen to know Chief Royal put you two on this case for the Boston Police and I am not about to walk away and let this thing go away when it happened in my own backyard.
“I figure we work together on this, we might be able to bring this guy’s killer to justice and serve Winston a steaming pile of shit all at the same time.”
He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table, staring hard at each of them. Not a word was spoken, but he seemed to be waiting for them to say they were in before he went on.
Beckett matched the lean and said, “Killer? Everything about this thing so far says accidental drowning. What makes you think there’s a killer involved?”
Ames stared hard at Beckett for several seconds before blinking once and nodding just slightly. He leaned back in his chair and motioned towards the end of the table. “This here is Richard Craig, assistant medical examiner for the city of Newton.”
Craig turned from the window and joined the men at the table, pulling up a chair beside Ames. He had a long face and hooked nose with watery blue eyes framed by heavy wrinkles.
He extended his hand to each of them and said, “Please, call me Ricky. I apologize if I seem a little dazed. We received Mr. Wilbanks’ body last night and have been in the morgue with it ever since.”
Meeks furrowed his brow and asked, “All night? Wasn’t this a case of drowning? Shouldn’t that have taken like ten minutes to determine?”
Craig reached across Ames to the file sitting before him and rifled through a set of papers. “This is a copy of the file as it currently stands. My boss, Scott Schulman, is over at FBI headquarters right now with the original.”
He continued digging through the papers until he found what he was looking for, extracting it from the pile and sliding it across the table. “Mr. Meeks, was it?”
“Devin,” Meeks said.
Craig nodded. “Devin, you are correct, Mr. Wilbanks official cause of death was drowning.
“In instances of freshwater drowning water fills the lungs. The body’s natural reaction is to try and seal them from taking on new fluid and clear them of any already there, often by pushing it from the lungs into the blood stream.
“This pushing of the excess water in the lung tissue causes the cells to explode, or as I’m sure you’ve heard it referred to, the lungs to burst.”
“And that’s what happened here?” Beckett asked.
Craig nodded. “It is. However, if you turn that sheet over...” he let the last words hang in the air as Beckett did so, “you’ll see we found some things that were inconsistent with drowning.”
Beckett scanned the list, motioning with a hand to Craig. “Go ahead.”
“By all accounts, Mr. Wilbanks was an excellent swimmer. He was a champion in the breast stroke in high school and still took part in the Massachusetts Swim for Diabetes every year. The odds of him falling in and being unable to pull himself back up are very slim.
“As such, it needs to be reasoned that he was either incapacitated before ente
ring the water or was in some way forced and/or held under.
“With regards to the first, we covered every inch of his body and can find no signs of anything that would have rendered him unconscious. He has no history of seizures, dizziness, or fainting. His wife told us last night that to her knowledge he has never lost consciousness, even for a few minutes.
“There are no bruises on his head, no wounds, and no indications of blunt force trauma. Nothing that would signal he was unconscious before entering the water.
“It therefore stands to reason that unconsciousness was obtained after entering the water. There’s no way of knowing exactly where Mr. Wilbanks entered the water, but Davey here told us he found both Mr. Wilbanks and his boat at a depth of over fifteen feet.
“There’s no way to determine why he might have entered the water, but it can safely be said that at that depth he probably didn’t hit his head on the bottom, or any submerged brush.”
“And you just said there were no injuries to his head of any kind, right?” Beckett interjected.
Craig pointed to Beckett and said, “Correct. Furthermore, a fall from the boat would not have been enough to render him unconscious. Maximum of a couple feet, most likely with his arms or legs hitting first.”
Beckett stared at the paper, sweeping his gaze over the findings.
“How bout he went into the water, got himself trapped under the boat and couldn’t get out? It’s not terribly common, but it’s not impossible.”
Craig sifted through some more papers in the file and pulled out two photographs, laying them side by side in front of Beckett and Meeks. “These photographs were taken this morning less than an hour after we received the body. They are of Mr. Wilbanks’ hands.”
He motioned to the fingers in each photograph and said, “As you can see here, there’s not a scratch or mark on either one. Not so much as a speck of dirt in the fingernails and not a single chip in any of them.”
Beckett leaned back and nodded as Ames said, “Don’t you think a man trapped under a boat would be pounding like hell to get out? Clawing at that thing? Doing anything he could to reach the surface?”
“Was the boat anchored at all?” Beckett asked. “Was there a tow-rope of some sort he could have been caught in?”
Ames shook his head. “When I found his body it was floating free. The trolling motor was down, meaning he wouldn’t have had an anchor out.”
“How large a boat we talking?” Meeks asked.
“That’s the thing,” Ames said, “it’s a fishing boat. Maximum of seven feet across and very lightweight. Any man, even if they were panicking underwater, would have easily been able to get out from underneath there.”
Beckett took a long pull on the cooling coffee and ran a hand over his chin. He stared at the pictures for a few seconds and looked up at Craig and Ames.
“Go ahead and hit me with it.”
A sad smile grew across Craig’s face. “How’d you know it was coming?”
Beckett tapped the pages before him and said, “Because so far you’ve made a pretty compelling argument, but given us nothing concrete enough to use the word killer. There must be another piece.”
Craig cast a sideways glance at Ames and said, “Mr. Wilbanks had three broken ribs when he came into us this morning.”
Beckett’s eyes snapped up from the photograph and he leaned forward a bit. “Come again?”
Ames matched his lean and said, “Now you know why I used that word.”
“Three broken ribs? Where?”
Without looking at the sheet Craig said, “Two on the right, one on the left. Fracture pattern consistent with being squeezed horizontally. Only bruising on the whole body is found around the break points.”
Ames raised his eyebrows a bit. “So what do you think?”
Beckett blew out a long breath, his gaze focused on the table beneath him. He took an extra moment to let his thoughts sort themselves into a semi-coherent structure before answering.
“This man is a United States Congressman. I am sure he’s voted for things that weren’t popular and I am sure he’s made plenty of enemies along the way.
“Thing about most of those enemies, even more so if you include potential terrorists and things of that nature, is they would want to make a statement with a hit like this.
“What reason would they have for killing a Congressman that would be better served by keeping it quiet?”
Silence fell over the room for several long moments. All four men exchanged glances before focusing on the plain white walls around them.
Ames was the first to speak.
“You know, I had been trying so hard to convince myself there was a killer I hadn’t even thought of that. Whoever did this, damn sure didn’t want us knowing he was ever there.”
Dear Michael,
Pride is a luxury of those that live without want. It is something that can be pointed to and called on, it can keep a person from doing what they know in their heart is right.
I stand before you today a woman free of pride. Rather I am a woman of tremendous want, and that want is you. My life has been a life not worth living since you left. Every morning I spring from bed in hopes it is finally the day you’ll come home to me and each night I go to bed in agony knowing you are not near.
Pride has led me to do a lot of foolish things in my life and it has prevented me from doing things I knew were right. Not this time. Every bit of my pride is gone. I live only for the chance to prove it to you.
Waiting for you,
Sarah Beth
Chapter Fourteen
The best thing about the hit on Wilbanks was I got a workout in as well. A man like me needs to always be in shape, but needs to do so in a way that doesn’t draw attention. I have the same abs now in my early forties as I had when I was in my mid-twenties, veins still run down the front of my biceps and cross my forearms.
The key though is to keep it as unassuming as possible. Giant arms or grotesque vasculature tends to draw stares, which tend to be remembered. By staying in shape yet maintaining an average build, it is that much easier for me to blend in.
Since stumbling upon this profession years ago, I have found it behooves me to cultivate my current appearance. Not overly large. Short brown hair I wear parted to the side. Never too tan or too pale. No distinctive scars or tattoos.
With a good workout complete, I had no real reason to arise early today. My next target was a creature of the night and there was nothing I can do until well past sundown anyway.
Last night as I left the park I thought of trying to turn the night into a two-for-one, but decided against it. I was without supplies and the sun had already been down for over an hour, the makings of a sloppy hit.
Sloppy tends to lead to complications, a hassle I can ill afford to have on my record.
I awoke this morning at well past ten o’clock, the West Coast proclivities in me snapping me awake at ten the same as if it were seven back home.
Too late for breakfast I rolled out and showered, the smell of lake water still on my skin despite the lengthy scrubbing I gave myself last night.
I dressed in baggy jeans and a plain charcoal gray hooded sweatshirt and went for a walk, down Concord and onto Garden towards Harvard Square. There are few things in the world as invigorating as a New England fall and for a few minutes it was almost as if I had never left.
The bright afternoon still shined bright off all the buildings, the brick sidewalks still piled high with leaves of gold and red. Students still strolled through Harvard Yard and pretended their classes were the most important thing in the world and the panhandlers still jingled their cups to every person that roamed by.
I rolled into Au Bon Pain and grabbed a chicken Caesar salad and a fruit dish. I chose a seat in the outdoor café for a couple of hours, enjoying my food and watching the people go by. I couldn’t help but smile as I watched men hawking Spare Change newspapers on the corner and the Chessmaster schooling students for two do
llars a game.
For a few minutes, it was almost like I was one of them again.
At just after three I rose from my table and disappeared into the T station, catching an outbound train to Alewife, my brush with nostalgia now past.
Normally I would never waste the kind of time I did today, but normally I wouldn’t have it to waste.
When the list came in from Mavetti I analyzed each of the people on it and decided on the optimal order they were to be taken out in. This is a habit of mine that I developed early, something I picked up to make it almost impossible for anybody to be able to string together a connection between the victims.
By keeping people always looking in different directions, I ensure they’re never looking at me.
Unless of course I want them to.
Exiting the Alewife train station I swung south down Fresh Pond Parkway and into a CVS. Using cash I purchased a small bottle of bleach and a vial of ammonia. I added to the pile some Drano and a bottle of Armour-All, then tossed in a Gatorade and a Snickers bar.
In my non-descript clothes with my generic CVS sack I looked as normal as the next guy and made a point of walking through the lobby of the Tria, even nodding at the young girl behind the desk. The odds of anybody picking up my scent and tracking me here are non-existent, but it’s the little things that have kept me in business for so long.
Safely back in my room I flipped on the TV and checked the scores, opening the Gatorade and the Snickers. I still wasn’t really hungry from the late lunch, but I would need it later.
Once I finished eating I took the sack into the bathroom and piled everything up beside the bathtub, then rinsed the Gatorade bottle out and dried it as much possible. I opened the lid on the Armour-All bottle and poured it down the drain before rinsing and drying it as well.
Flipping on the overhead exhaust fan, I turned the water on, letting it run warm into the empty tub. I had to be careful not get the water too hot, as any steam could prove fatal.
I opened the bleach and filled the Gatorade bottle halfway up before pouring the rest down the drain and waiting for the shower to carry it away. When the tub was clear I added two inches of ammonia to the bleach and again poured the rest out and waited for the drain to clear.
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