``He has now. We have a situation you’re not going to like.’’
``Try me,’’ Brant said, concerned. Warning lights flashed red. When had he last been summoned to the inner sanctum? Not since the Casson case a year earlier. The memory brought a stab of pain to Brant’s temple.
Paul Casson had been a Master of the Universe with a trophy wife, an expensive townhouse on Beacon Street, a property in the country and more enemies than friends.
He’d been found early one morning, his body splayed across the steps of the Boston Common bandshell with a bullet to the head and his brains scattered like scramble eggs. The investigation had been difficult. In the end, Brant had ended up getting shot twice. The first bullet grazed his left shoulder. The second had lodged itself into his brain, somewhere between the temporal and parietal lobes where it still sat.
Brant had been lucky. The bullet’s trajectory had been confined to one side, meaning the right hemisphere had been left intact. The brain stem and midbrain were untouched. The ventricles had also been missed, reducing the risk of complications from infection or swelling. Finally, the bullet had been fired from a small-caliber handgun, meaning it had been slow and relatively benign.
``There’s a woman in an alleyway off Copley Square,’’ Jolly said without preamble. ``She seems to have her head bashed in. I want you to take Junior here and investigate.’’
``Understood,’’ Brant said, glancing anew at the other man. ``What else do we know about this woman? Identification?’’
``If I knew I would have told you,’’ Jolly said sharply, waving his hand in the direction of the folder. ``What I DO know is this isn’t going to go down well.’’
Jolly raised and furrowed his eyebrows. Brant took in the meaning. A corpse turning up near the steps of the city’s power base looked bad, regardless of the circumstances. The political fallout would be severe, especially since the Mayor had put the police department’s payroll in his crosshairs.
``Anything you want me to do?’’
``Just get over there as quick as you can.’’
``You said it was a woman, chief?’’
``Yes, I said a woman.’’ Jolly’s face flushed red out of frustration. ``It’s probably just some gang banger caught in the crossfire or a drug deal gone bad. Either way, just get over there and get it resolved. Keep it simple. But get it done.’’
Brant straightened in his chair. He didn’t like being admonished by Jolly. That the man would do it in front of another officer stung deep.
The other man drew his hands through a head of thick brown hair as he shot a meaningful glance at Jolly. The captain had turned his back.
``He always like that?’’
They were standing on the sidewalk. Cars rumbled down Tremont Street, throwing grit into the air. Gray clouds seemed to brush the tops of the adjacent buildings.
``Pretty much.’’
``I’d heard he was difficult.’’
Brant nodded.
Division A-2 of the Boston Police Department was located south of Northeastern University near Camden in a lively section of the city’s South End. The building was a converted meatpacking factory, two storeys of red brick with windows looking onto Tremont. The squad room was in the back with a view of the neighboring church. The building on the opposite of Tremont was an old piano factory converted to lofts with exposed brick and oversized windows.
Despite the heat, Brant had thrown on a light windbreaker, which he wore unzipped and open. The other man wore a white polo shirt, tan pants, a brown leather belt and brown leather shoes, pointed and polished to a shine. He carried no gun, which was probably for the best, Brant guessed.
``John Clatterback, huh? Why haven’t I seen you before?’’
The other detective shrugged.
``You’re new?’’
``Graduated last year. I’ve been working out of Hyde Park.’’
``So what do I call you? How about Cluster?’’
The semblance of a smile crossed the junior man’s face. He’d heard it before, no doubt. Many times and in many iterations.
``You couldn’t think of anything more original?’’
``I’ll work on it. Give me some time.’’
A uniform pulled up to the curb with a sedan from the car pool, stepped out and tossed the keys to Brant.
``Screw that,’’ Brant said as he passed the set over to his new partner. ``You know where Copley Square is Clatterbuck?’’
``Clatterback.’’
``How about I just stick with Cluster?’’
The younger officer made a face as if he’d eaten something rancid. ``Any way I can stop you?’’
``No.’’
``It’s better than the alternative, I suppose. And, yeah, I can drive.’’
They sat in silence, the city slipping by unnoticed and unremarkable. The day had turned humid. The heat pressed down on the city, heavy and omnipresent.
Not much action, the streets mostly vacant.
There were exceptions. A vagrant on Tremont pushing a shopping cart full of cans and bottles. An obese woman waiting alone at a bus stop on Camden, her shirt one size too small, her gut spilling out for all to see. A gaggle of young girls eyeing them from a 7-Eleven parking lot, their faces feral masks weary and threatening at the same time.
Clatterback fixed his eyes on the road as he changed lanes. He drove with ease, relaxed and confident.
``So what’s your story, Cluster?’’
``My story?’’
``Why are we working together?’’
Clatterback flicked the left indicator and turned onto Massachusetts Avenue.
``What makes you think I have a story?’’
``Everyone has a story. You’re too young to be in homicide. So that either means you’re some kind of genius, or you have family connections. I’m going with family connections. You don’t look like a boy wonder to me.’’
Clatterback smiled.
``You’re some kind of detective, eh?’’
``I do my best. You ever been involved in a murder investigation before?’’
Clatterback deflected the question.
``You worked with Simon Harvey, right?’’
Brant nodded.
``I was sorry to hear about his death.’’
``It’s what you do with the time when you’re here that counts.’’
``What is that, some kind of quote?’’
``Yeah, a Jonas Brant quote.’’
Clatterback turned onto Boylston. The traffic thickened. Low rise buildings gave way to bigger office blocks. Soon they were in the middle of a canyon, towers flanking each side.
``Here’s what we’re going to do,’’ Brant said, turning to look at Clatterback. ``You stand there and watch me. Don’t do anything. Don’t say anything. Just watch. And take notes if you want. Maybe you are some kind of boy wonder. Maybe it’s my lucky day. I doubt it. But whatever you do, don’t touch anything. Understood?’’
``Understood.’’
``Remember, I’ll do the talking. You’re window dressing.’’
``Yes, sir,’’ Clatterback said, offering a mock salute.
Brant smiled in return. He didn’t have to like this new partner. But he had a feeling he could work with him. That would be good enough.
CHAPTER FOUR
By day, Copley Square was an intersection of art, culture and commerce. The public library was at its heart. On the other side of the square, Trinity Church. Sandwiched between the two, the square itself.
Clatterback pulled into the only available parking space behind a Coca-Cola delivery truck and beside a maple tree. A bicycle, stripped of its saddle and gearing, had been chained to the trunk. Weeds grew from the base of a streetlamp. On the other side of the lamp post, a garbage bin overflowed.
``Over there,’’ Brant said, indicating a uniformed cop standing off to the side.
An EMT van, its lights flashing red, was making its way down Bolyston. A white-paneled van from the Crime Sc
ene Unit had already arrived. A second blue and white EMT van had been hastily parked on the other side of Boylston.
The alleyway was an afterthought, a sliver of dark between two buildings. The first was a brutalist slab of brick housing a digital printing store. The second was more impressive. Colonial-style window grids in white aligned like perfect soldiers to guard the lower half of the building’s facade. The entrance was a stone arch closed to the street by a black wrought iron gate. At the top of the white marble facade, a CVS/pharmacy sign flashed red. Along the sidewalk, office workers moved in packs, carrying bagged lunches and Starbucks lattes. Others clutched purses or handbags, backpacks or briefcases. Tourists stared down at their iPads, mobile phones and ebook readers. All seemed oblivious to the black shoe attached to the foot sticking out from the blackness.
The uniform was named Sanchez. He was a mountain, six feet plus with shoulders as wide as a fullback’s. He had the lean, angular face of a man not long out of adolescence. His hair was a military cut, shaved to almost nothing at the sides and back, slightly longer on top.
``You found her?’’ Brant asked, announcing their arrival.
Sanchez nodded. ``Called it in as soon as I knew what we were dealing with.’’
``Good boy.’’
Sanchez bristled at the compliment.
``You have a little peek, maybe turned her over?’’
``No sir, didn’t touch a thing. You’re the first of our guys to arrive. EMTs got here ten minutes ago. ME’s on the way.’’
A crowd had started to form. An older couple clad in short-sleeved t-shirts surveyed the scene. The hot dog vendor across the road stood on the balls of his feet. The Coca-Cola delivery guy had stopped loading his truck.
``Keep these people back until the guys from the crime scene unit get here.’’
``I understand, sir.’’
``How long you been a uniform?’’
``A year, sir.’’
``Ex-military?’’ Brant asked, curious. Sanchez had the bearing, the demeanor. If he hadn’t known better, he would have guessed Marines. Or maybe Navy.
``Fallujah, sir. Honorable discharge.’’
Brant puffed his cheeks. ``Jesus. Okay, as I say, keep these people back.’’
``Yes, sir.’’
Two crime scene units arrived. Brant nodded a greeting in the direction of one of the investigators as the man unspooled a roll of crime tape. Behind them, an EMT had already begun an initial survey.
A tall woman in black boots, dark navy pants and lighter blue t-shirt with BOSTON STRONG printed in yellow on the front approached them, her walk an easy, confident saunter. The woman wore tinted Oakley sunglasses. An identification badge dangled from her belt.
``Woman. Mid twenties by the look of it. Gun shot to the back of the head. Face is beaten in pretty badly.’’
``Good to see you too, Jennifer,’’ Brant said to the woman from emergency medical services.
``Who’s the skinny guy?’’
The EMT Brant had called Jennifer nodded toward Clatterback.
``John Clatterback, meet Jennifer Daley,’’ Brant said. ``You okay if we have a look, Jennifer?’’
The woman nodded, her face a neutral mask.
``Wear these but don’t touch anything,’’ Daley said, handing Brant and Clatterback a pair of latex gloves each.
Brant pulled on the gloves. Chances were good the crime scene had already been contaminated. On the off chance that it had not, they wanted to preserve the scene as best they could for the field investigators.
Sanchez stood guard at the alleyway’s entrance — his impressive physique and scowl acting as the sole deterrents to the curious, the meddlers and, eventually, the media.
The alleyway was a place of discarded newspapers, soda cans, broken glass and dirt. Water flowed from some unseen source. Along one wall and underneath a sodden pile of cardboard boxes, the body of a full clothed woman lay in peaceful repose.
Brant watched as a crime scene investigator removed a section of cardboard, exposing the woman’s face and upper torso.
``Jesus,’’ Clatterback said as he leaned over to retch. A black cloud of flies swarmed over the woman’s face, entangling themselves in her hair. A cloying, pungent smell rose to meet them.
``You okay, Junior?’’
Clatterback nodded awkwardly.
``Here, you’ll want this,’’ a second EMT said, producing two facemasks and giving them to Brant.
Stifling his own urge to gag, Brant brought the facemask to his mouth while he handed the second to Clatterback. He had sympathy for the junior detective. His stomach turned at the sight of the young woman, forcing him to choke back bile.
Daley had been right. The woman was in her mid twenties, perhaps slightly older. A clear complexion. Her hair, though matted and tangled, appeared to be neatly cut and styled. Her light summer jacket was unzipped at the neck, revealing a silk camisole underneath.
Whoever had killed her had made sport of her face. She’d been pummeled. Purple bruising covered much of her skin. Her eyes were swollen and shut. Her lips had been cracked, her mouth contorted into an obscene, bloated grimace. Dried blood caked much of her left ear and the shattered remains of an eye socket. Flies buzzed. Maggots gorged on the liquifying remains of her flesh.
``Jesus,’’ Clatterback repeated, his voice muffled by the mask. ``I don’t know. I….’’
``Take a deep breath.’’
Brant crouched for a better look and watched as one of the other field investigators prodded the woman’s cheek. The skin rippled with movement.
``Larva,’’ the investigator said.
``Time of death?’’ Brant asked the man, standing and sniffing as he watched the investigator carefully survey the body. The stench was overwhelming, the air fetid and heavy.
``ME’ll need to have a look. I wouldn’t want to guess.’’
The investigator returned to the body. A woman from the Medical Examiner’s office had arrived and was standing off to the side, deep in conversation with the EMT Jennifer Daley.
``Homeless? A mugging?’’ Clatterback asked Brant, a hopeful naivety in his voice.
``Doubt it. Look at that face. A lot of fury there.’’
Brant surveyed the scene, looking for telltale signs of a mugging or a struggle.
``Hey, Sanchez. You find any wallet? A bag?’’ he called toward the entrance.
``No, sir.’’
They returned to the body. More investigators from the Crime Scene Unit had arrived. The woman from the medical examiner’s office had finished with Daley and moved toward them.
She was young, not much older than the dead woman splayed out inelegantly on the bed of cardboard. The ME had a slight asymmetry to her face, not unattractive but just enough to give her a distinctive, memorable appearance. Brant was struck immediately.
``I’m from the ME. Doctor Julia Simmons. The EMTs tell me you guys are the investigating officers.’’
``Where’s Heinz?’’ Brant asked, referring to the head of the medical examiner’s office.
``Chief’s on another run. This one’s mine. At least for now.’’
``Okay,’’ Brant said.
The cursory greetings exchanged, Simmons began her investigation.
She crouched, placed her gloved hands to either side of the woman’s head and gently lifted. Blood oozed out from behind the skull.
``Ah, crap,’’ Clatterback said, jumping back as a rivulet of crimson fluid gathered and pooled.
``Shot in the back of the head.’’
Brant threw his partner a look as he leaned in for a closer view of what was left of the woman’s skull. Carefully, the medical examiner twisted the woman’s head, exposing what appeared to be the bullet’s point of entry. Though saturated in fluid and obscured by hair and congealed blood, the fatal wound was obvious. Simmons gently returned the head to its original position and stood.
Over Brant’s shoulder, more of the forensics team had begun to arriv
e. Uniforms were marking the area with more rolls of yellow tape. A truck had pulled up onto the sidewalk adjacent to the alley. A generator and lights were being hauled out and assembled.
Clatterback glanced over his shoulder at the unfolding scene. Soon, they would be sidelined.
``Any thoughts?’’ Brant asked, directing the question toward the medical examiner.
``This wasn’t where she was killed,’’ Simmons said flatly. ``There would have been signs of a struggle. Someone would probably have heard something. Besides, a shot like that...there should be more blood. Look at her hands.’’
``What do you see?’’
The medical examiner scrutinized the woman’s fingernails and the tips of her fingers. The dead woman wore no ring. Her nail polish was chipped. One of the nails was broken. Given the condition of the woman’s hands, Brant had little doubt they’d be able to find skin samples.
``She fought,’’ Simmons said finally.
``How can you be sure?’’ Brant asked.
``The fingers show trauma.’’
``So where do we start?’’ Clatterback asked when Simmons had moved off to consult with the EMTs and the members of the forensics teams.
``We start at the beginning again,’’ Brant said without a hint of irony in his voice. ``You okay over there, Sanchez? I’m going to take a couple snaps.’’
The uniformed officer cradled a flip phone between his shoulder and left ear. Finishing the conversation, he snapped the phone closed and returned it to his back pocket. ``You got two minutes, sir. Cavalry’s on the way.’’
Brant stepped back from the body for a vantage point that would afford a better view. As he’d seen on their arrival, she’d been placed on a mattress of collapsed cardboard boxes. Other than that, there was little to go on. No handbag. No briefcase.
Brant took out his cellphone, aimed and began firing off a succession of photographs.
``Looking for anything in particular?’’ Clatterback asked.
``Notice anything?’’ Brant asked, answering the question with one of his own.
Clatterback hesitated as he considered how to answer. ``What am I supposed to be looking at?’’
Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller Page 2