Too Dark To Sleep

by Dianne Gallagher

  Sterling moved into the kitchen. “We’re clear in here,” he called out after a few minutes. Maggie watched as he hauled the light upstairs. Brendon Sterling was one thorough little bastard. That’s how it should be. Let the evidence tell the story. And there would be evidence this time. There had to be.

  “Hey, you need to check this out,” he yelled. “Major league up here in the bedroom.”

  “What have you got?” Dublowski called out as he headed for the stairs.

  “Spatter and puddling. At the bathroom door, in the master bedroom. Fair amount. The floor’s dry, so I’m not sure.”

  “That’s me,” Maggie said coldly.

  The room was silent. Nothing like being utterly naked in a full room. Nick watched Maggie wrap the scarred arms around herself. He should get her out. Maybe call in a doctor to sedate her or watch her or something. Nick should keep her safe.

  “I’ll be fine, Detective,” Maggie said. “Just do the work.”

  Dublowski nodded. “Let’s keep on track, folks.”

  An old man carrying a tackle box shuffled into the room. “Where do I start,” he barked.

  “Mort,” Harley called. “I need you over here.”

  “Anything to make you happy, Ed.”

  “Check him out,” Harley said. “I’m going to take him right after we dust. I’ll have the autopsy report by morning, Nick.”

  “Did he have any family?” Dublowski asked.

  There was no answer.

  “Maggie, is there anyone I need to notify?”

  Maggie Quinn shook her head. “Just me.” She stared silently out the window and into the backyard. She didn’t cry, didn’t wail, didn’t do anything. Just waited. And thought.

  “We’ve got a receipt,” Harley said. “Time is 1:38.”

  “That’s early,” Maggie mumbled. He usually didn’t leave until Maggie was awake. But Maggie was already awake and gone. “Did you find the key?”

  “No key.”

  “He has it,” she answered. “That’s his trophy.”

  “He could’ve ditched it somewhere.”

  “No, he’s got it,” she said quietly as she looked at the red pool. Maggie was disappearing, draining into the floor to join the blood puddled around the body. “He was alive when he was cut.” The words were small, painful.

  “Yeah.” Harley knew it wouldn’t help to lie.

  Maggie imagined Galen’s face as he opened up Rayney’s chest and stared at the still-beating heart. Fucking bastard. She stopped. There was something. Something that didn’t fit. Maggie bent close to Rayney’s face. She focused on only what was important and blocked out the rest of the body.

  “He pulled his lips back. Tried to make the victim smile.” Maggie wanted to touch Antoine Rayney just once before he disappeared into the bag, but that wouldn’t happen. She wouldn’t allow it. No mistakes.

  “Lids are clean. I’ll dust his mouth,” Mort said.

  Harley was checking each finger. “Looks like he scrubbed the nails.”

  “He was scratched,” Maggie said suddenly.

  Nick shook his head. “You said he knocked him out at the back door. How could he…”

  “I was wrong,” Maggie snapped. “He wouldn’t scrub the nails if he didn’t have to.” She bent down, looked at the floor. There, by the couch. How could she have missed it? “The couch was moved. Skid marks. Popped off the coasters and slid across the floor. He tried to rub them off. At the right angle you can see the smudge.” She looked at the end tables, then rose, and flipped the switch on one of the lamps. Nothing. “The bulb’s been broken. It was knocked over during the struggle.”

  “It could’ve burned out,” Nick said.

  “Not in my house.”

  “I’ll dust it,” nodded Mort.

  Something else. The drawer.

  “Open this,” she whispered to Nick. Dublowski’s gloved hand pulled the drawer open. Inside was Erin’s baby book. “Check it for prints and saliva. Corners of the pages.”

  “You sure?” The last thing Nick wanted to do was take the dead child’s book.

  “Yeah. He couldn’t resist.”

  Nick handed it to Padilla to bag.

  “They struggled.” Maggie studied the area around the couch, changing her angle, bending, standing. “Right here. There’s a skid mark. Tennis shoes. They fought here before…” Her voice stopped abruptly. Before Galen split Rayney’s chest open.

  “We’ll get him,” Nick said. “We’ll get him this time.”

  “You’ll need papers,” Maggie said. “Wake up Judge Phillipotte. Tell him it’s for Paddy Quinn’s kid. That should speed things up. Make sure you’re by the book or Pavlak’s going to have a field day. Check Galen’s scrubs, too. He might’ve worn them. This was messy and no one’s going to question blood on a surgeon.”

  Nick nodded.

  “He won’t agree to the search. Even with a warrant. Get in his face just like before. He’ll pull his righteous indignation bit, but don’t let up. Take a few uniforms, big guys. Intimidate him. Make the fucker sweat, then pull back.”

  Dublowski nodded.

  “Once he figures out where you’re going, he’ll be looking for a fight. If he struggles with the officers, he’ll blame them for any marks you find. He’ll blame whoever touches him. It’s always someone else’s fault, never his. That’s what he does. So make damn sure nobody lays a finger on his ass. Put him in a hall where the whole fucking hospital can see him. He wants his lawyer, give him his fucking lawyer. Then make him squirm in front of everyone. Pull up his shirt in front of everyone.”

  And if the scratches aren’t there, I’ll look like a fool, Nick thought. In front of everyone.

  “Don’t worry,” Maggie muttered. “There’ll be scratches.”

  Hours later, Dublowski conferred with his team. They had what they needed. The canvass was complete, evidence collected. Harley stayed long enough to clean up the blood on the floor. He scrubbed away as much of the stain as possible. Still a dark red halo remained in the wood. Nick took a moment to check Maggie before he left. Her eyes were fixed on the place where Rayney’s body had been.

  “Look, I gotta go. I just got the call. We’ve got a warrant,” he said gently. “You shouldn’t stay here.”

  And where would she go? No place, Maggie decided. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Why don’t I leave a uniform. Just in case.”

  “I’m okay.”

  The detective studied her. Maggie looked like that first time he saw her. Sharp. Cold. A knife blade in the sun. Hours earlier Dublowski thought she wouldn’t make it through the night. Now, he was convinced there was nothing that could destroy the woman.

  “I’ve got work. I’ll call when I have something.”

  Maggie nodded. She locked the door after everyone left, then stared at the red stain on the floor. The only thing left of Antoine Rayney.

  Scratching.

  At the door.

  Like a dog wanting to come in from the cold.

  Maggie didn’t look. The dark was just giving her a gentle tap. Letting her know it was still waiting. She wanted to scream. Cry. Do something. But if she let go, there was no guarantee Maggie Quinn could pull herself back. So she didn’t let go. Instead, she pulled the lamps close, stretching the cords out to the entryway, surrounding herself with warm light. Maggie sat on the floor near the stain until the sun came up six hours later and cast light across the hide-a-bed in the library, then she lay down and tried to sleep.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Art Weinstein had the warrant in his hand when Nick arrived at St. Andrew. Tierney himself went to Galen’s house, but Rebecca Harding said her husband was working all night. Emergency surgery. They waited at the hospital until the cardiac surgeon wandered i
n with a group of his medical students.

  “Marcus Galen,” Nick said loudly, “I have a warrant to search your body as well as the premises.”

  “Betsy,” the surgeon called over to a nurse. “Please get my wife on the phone and have her call my lawyer.”

  The nurse nodded.

  “I’m sure your wife already has,” Nick smiled. “She was our first stop. Said you had an emergency surgery. Funny, no one knows about any emergency.”

  The surgeon’s face flushed. “This is getting ridiculous. What? Am I supposed to be concealing a weapon? Is that it? Are you going to pat me down?”

  “Please remove your shirt.”

  Marcus Galen stared at the officers. “I’m going to need some sort of explanation.”

  “Here’s your explanation.” Dublowski held out the warrant. “If everything checks out, we’re out of your hair. Now the shirt.”

  “I will not,” Galen said indignantly. “Gentlemen, this has gone too far. You will wait until my lawyer arrives and reviews this warrant.”

  Nick moved in, crowding him, but not touching. Maggie would’ve been proud. “You will take off your shirt. Now!”

  Galen eyed the uniforms standing around him. He held his ground.

  “Gentlemen,” Nick said, mocking the doctor. “Keep Dr. Galen safe and sound until his lawyer arrives. Excuse me.” He turned to one of the nurses at the station. “Could I borrow that chair?”

  The woman nodded. Nick positioned it in the middle of the hall. “Doctor, if you would take a seat.”

  All around students, staff and patients were whispering. Moving away from Marcus Galen.

  “We’ve got an empty room just down the hall,” the nurse offered.

  “Thank you, but I think this’ll do just fine.” The detective smiled. “Wouldn’t want the doctor accusing us of harassment. Wouldn’t want him to say our officers got physical.”

  “No, that would be bad,” grinned Art.

  “This way everyone can see what we’re up to. Right, Doc? Everything out in the open.” Nick watched the bile rise as Galen sat. The young detective turned back to the nurse. “Betsy, if you could show Mr. Padilla here to wherever it is Dr. Galen might leave his scrubs.”

  “Certainly, just down the hall here in the doctor’s locker room.”

  Nick smelled something as he stood next to Marcus Galen. It was very faint, like the doctor had gone swimming and splashed on cologne without showering. Nick leaned close.

  “Is that bleach, Doctor? Were you trying to wash something away? Maybe like blood?”

  Ten minutes later, Padilla showed up with nothing.

  “Wow, you must’ve been pretty busy tonight. Lots of emergency surgeries,” Dublowski said. “Where else do you keep scrubs?”

  “In the receptacles outside each OR. They’re emptied every few hours in the biohazard bin,” the nurse said hesitantly.

  “Can you show my men?”

  “Yes.”

  “You won’t get away with this,” Marcus Galen growled after the nurse left with Padilla. “I know what you’re up to.”

  “Yeah, great. So do I.” Nick turned his back.

  “You can’t treat me like this.”

  “Watch me,” the detective said, looking at the surgeon.

  “Jesus,” Art smiled. “Quinn has been breaking you in.”

  While they waited for Padilla to return, Morris Pavlak stormed the hall.

  “This is completely uncalled for,” said the lawyer. “I insist you stop harassing my client.”

  “And I insist your client remove his shirt,” said Nick, handing over the warrant to the lawyer. “Now.”

  Pavlak read the document, then looked at Galen. “Just do as they say, Marcus. We’ll fight it later.”

  “Morris, I think…”

  “You heard your lawyer,” Nick said, stepping closer.

  “Perhaps we could move to a more private location,” Pavlak suggested. “We don’t want to interfere with hospital activities.”

  “I don’t want any questions about how we handled your client. Right here is fine.”

  “Morris…”

  “We’ll fight it later, Marcus.”

  There was a long silence as Marcus Galen slowly undid his tie, unbuttoned his shirt and removed it. The light scent of bleach tumbled out.

  “McLean, get some shots.”

  The photographer snapped photos of the scratches on the doctor’s neck and chest as well as the bruising around his rib cage. Morris Pavlak threw an acrid look at his client just as Padilla came back with clear plastic bags filled with bloody scrubs.

  “Randy, we’re going to need this man’s body swabbed down for samples,” Nick smiled. “Marcus Galen, you’re under arrest for the murder of Antoine Rayney.” Nick Dublowski tossed a glare at the lawyer. “Listen closely, Mr. Pavlak, so I don’t get anything wrong. You have the right to remain silent…”

  At noon the phone rang and Maggie forced herself to answer. Maybe it was Dublowski. Maybe he had Galen. Maybe the surgeon confessed. Maybe this was all over.

  “Are you okay?” It was her father. Tierney must have called. There was no one else.

  “I’m fine,” she said quietly.

  “Someone will be over in the next hour.”

  “You don’t need to…”

  “Listen to me. Someone will be over in an hour and you will let them in. Is that clear?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll take care of this. Do you understand?” The old man’s voice was steady. “We will take care of this.”

  So don’t do anything stupid. It’s what her father wanted to say, but was afraid to.

  “Do you hear me?”

  “Yeah, Dad, I hear.”

  “A doctor’s coming over to check you out. Do what he says.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Maybe Dublowski told the chief about her little episode. Maybe her dad was just scared shitless. It didn’t matter. Nothing really mattered, except nailing Galen. If a doctor could help with that, fine. If someone making her meals and being her babysitter could help, so be it. Nothing was going to stop Maggie because nothing else mattered.

  After her father hung up, she called Dublowski. There was no answer at his desk or his cell. Busy, she told herself. The first twenty-four hours were the most crucial. He was probably interrogating Galen. Or else he had nothing and was just avoiding her. Maybe he was blocking her number. Maybe he was tired of listening to her. Maybe… maybe Galen got to him, too. Maggie twitched. No, he wouldn’t strike so quickly, she told herself. He’d wait to see the affect. Wait to see if he got to her, knocked her off balance. That’s what he wanted. But he wouldn’t see anything. Maggie wouldn’t let him.

  She walked the perimeter of the house looking for anything the team might’ve missed. There would be nothing. If it was part of the puzzle, Maggie knew Padilla already tagged it, bagged it, and logged it. That didn’t stop her. She couldn’t stay still, couldn’t walk through her own front door because the child in her was afraid of what might be waiting inside next. She couldn’t go in the kitchen because Galen had been there and put her groceries away. The only door she could walk through was the side entrance. The dark tittered at the grand joke. The dark and Galen. Laughing together.

  As her father promised, Carmen Esteban arrived within the hour. She convinced Maggie to let her make sandwiches, but was forbidden to touch anything else in the kitchen, living room or entryway until Maggie was sure the lab rats had everything they needed. The old Hispanic woman didn’t like it, but Maggie didn’t care. No bush league mistakes were going to stop them from putting Galen away.

  Dr. Tom Dwyer arrived a short time later. He was a middle-aged man who looked older and probably owed the Outfit a favor or t
wo. “Your blood pressure is up. And you’re dehydrated.” He listened to her chest. “I know what you’ve been through, Miss Quinn. Your father told me.”

  Maggie blinked. Of course he did.

  “You can get through this. He knows you can.” The man took some bottles from his bag. “I reviewed your file. You need to keep taking the medication you’re currently on. I’d like to add Xanax to the mix just for a brief time. Until you feel like you’ve got a handle on things.”

  I do have a handle on things, Maggie told herself.

  “Carmen will see that you get your meds at the proper times. You also need sleep. I’ll leave some pills to use for the next week or so. Understand?”

  Maggie did. She was going to catch a killer.

  The apartment was dark and silent. Cheryl was at work and probably pissed. Nick never came home for their big night out. Never called. He’d make it up to her later. Right now, he had work. Nick hurried to the bedroom for a quick shower and a change of clothes, then he would be back at the office. The closet was open and most of its contents missing.

  “Fuck.”

  He searched the apartment for a note, something, anything to let him know where she was. There was nothing. She was at her sister’s. That’s where Cheryl always went when they had a really big fight. He picked up the phone and dialed his wife’s cell. No answer. He tried her sister’s house. Nothing.

  Nick was in and out of the shower in five minutes, dressed and out the door in ten.

  “Jesus,” he muttered. He didn’t have time for this shit.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  “You have got to be kidding,” Dublowski blasted.

  “We don’t have enough to hold him,” Carly Weston said flatly. The ASA was flipping through the file Dublowski provided her as she sat across from the detective and John Tierney.

  “The scrubs?” Dublowski cried.