“Please, have a seat.”
Matt and Leigh sat on a small sofa. The young man circled the coffee table to sit in a well-worn recliner opposite a flat-screen TV.
Alarm bells sounded in Matt’s head. There was something peculiar about the way the young man moved—something unnatural and stiff, but, at the same time, vaguely familiar. Eyes narrowing in concentration, Matt studied the man across from him. He sat very still, his left shoulder tilted slightly higher than the right, his left arm pulled tight against his torso, the elbow in an odd locked position, even as his left hand hung loose.
“—I’m sorry to inform you—”
Matt dimly heard Leigh’s words of condolences as his gaze continued to skim over the other man. And then he saw it—an odd bump under the man’s sleeve, just visible where it protruded from the back of his left arm. An involuntary thrill coursed along his nerve endings. What were the chances? Actually, he knew exactly what the chances were—approximately one in two million. But to be able to see this in person, in an actual clinical patient—
When Leigh turned to stare at him quizzically, he realized he must have made some small sound at the discovery. He grimaced in apology and forced his attention back to what Leigh was saying.
“—and I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Simpson.”
“There’s no mistake?” Simpson asked, his face pale and his eyes glassy with shock.
“I’m afraid not,” Leigh said. “Dental records confirm her identity.”
“But I don’t understand. Mom was supposed to be in Boston for the week. She had some sort of getaway planned.” The corners of his lips trembled. “She loved her spa getaways. She told me she was going to be massaged and mud wrapped and polished, and she’d come back next weekend looking like a twenty-year-old.”
Leigh pulled her notepad from the pocket of her blazer. “Where was she supposed to go?”
“I don’t remember the name, but she said it was on Newberry Street.”
“Fancy,” Matt commented.
“Only the best for Mom.” Simpson gave an uneven laugh that ended as a croak before dropping his face into his right hand. Matt noted that his left hand lay in his lap. If he was correct, Simpson wouldn’t be able to raise that hand to his face.
Silence reigned for a moment, only broken by Simpson’s harsh and ragged breathing. Matt glanced at Leigh, but she raised an index finger, telling him to wait.
Finally, Simpson broke the silence. “You said her body was found in an antique store fire. Was it an accident?”
“We don’t have the report back from the fire marshal yet. But we do know the fire wasn’t responsible for your mother’s death.”
The young man’s body jerked as if struck. “What do you mean?”
“Your mother was stabbed to death with a weapon that was found at the scene. In fact, she was killed with her own knife.”
“Her own knife . . . Hold on, do you mean her athame?”
“You’re familiar with the tools of her Craft?”
“Craft? I wouldn’t call it that. More of a hobby. Mom gets . . .” He swallowed hard. “Got bored easily. It came from not having a job. My dad died in an industrial accident before I was born. The money from the lawsuit set Mom up for life. In the end, that worked well because I’ve had health problems since childhood and that allowed Mom to spend her time caring for me.”
“Because of the FOP,” Matt stated.
The younger man froze. Then he slowly turned to stare at Matt. “How could you possibly know that?”
“Wait,” Leigh interrupted, grasping Matt’s forearm. “What’s ‘FOP’?”
“Fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva.” When Leigh stared at him in confusion, he explained. “It’s a progressive bone disorder in which soft tissue is genetically misprogrammed to turn into bone following an injury.”
“Soft tissue . . . meaning . . . ?”
“Connective tissue, ligaments or skeletal muscle.” Matt turned back to Simpson. “I’m a forensic anthropologist. I was called in to consult on this case because of the nature of your mother’s remains. But as a trained osteologist, I recognized your symptoms from the way you move and hold yourself. When were you diagnosed?”
“When I was seven. The doctors thought I had a soft tissue sarcoma and tried to surgically remove it.”
Matt winced.
“What?” Leigh asked. “Is that bad?”
“Any soft tissue trauma will trigger the process to turn that tissue into bone. In attempting to cure his ‘cancer,’ the doctors inadvertently furthered his real disease. Unfortunately, it’s a fairly common misdiagnosis of FOP. A mass is found, often in the abdomen, and cancer is suspected. It’s only when they go in that they realize the mass is actually normal bone, but, by then, the damage is done.”
“Mom was horrified,” Simpson said. “She blamed herself for not finding the right specialists.”
“It wasn’t her fault,” Matt said. “Because it’s such a rare disorder, most doctors wouldn’t even consider it.”
“No, but that’s the kind of woman she is . . . I mean, was. She was very involved in my health care. There is no treatment for this disease, but she learned everything she could and made sure that I saw all the right specialists. And if she didn’t like the answers she heard from one, she took me to another. She spared no expense or effort.” He looked up and met Leigh’s eyes. “I don’t understand why anyone would do this to her.”
“We’re looking into her connections to the Witchcraft community. Mr. Simpson, I’d like to go back to your earlier comment. You called her Craft a ‘hobby.’ Why would you say that?”
“Mom’s whole world was wrapped up in me for the longest time. I was a clumsy child, and FOP only made it worse. We were constantly in doctors’ offices or at the hospital for treatment or as she tried to find someone with a different opinion on how to manage the disease. But when I graduated from college, and got a job and moved out, suddenly she was at loose ends. So she got a dog to spoil and she tried a bunch of new things—yoga, Pilates, sailing, tennis lessons, Witchcraft. She’s been at that for a while now. Maybe she’s finally found the right thing for her.” With a sharp intake of breath, he caught himself, his eyes closing briefly as his head drooped. “I’m still talking about her in the present tense. I’m sorry, I just need a little time to—”
“It’s all right, Mr. Simpson. We understand you’ve had a shock. Can we get you anything?”
“No, thank you. My partner will be home soon. He’s what I need.”
“Good.” Leigh glanced sideways at Matt before continuing. “You mentioned a dog.”
“Yes, Maxie, my mother’s Pomeranian.” A hand flew to his mouth. “She’ll be all alone now. I have to go get her.” His eyes darted around the house as if sizing up its suitability for an animal. “We don’t have any pets because I can’t risk having something underfoot, but we’ll have to take her. She can’t go to a shelter. My mother loved that dog.” His voice cracked on the last word.
“Unfortunately, the body of a small animal was also found at the scene. Did Maxie wear a collar with a tag?”
“Maxie didn’t like anything around her neck and since my mother carried her whenever they went out, she didn’t see the need for a collar.” Simpson seemed to curl in on himself, but only his right side obeyed, leaving him twisted awkwardly.
“Are you well enough for us to ask you a few more questions?” At his nod, Leigh continued. “Your mother actually quit the coven a few weeks ago. You weren’t aware of this?”
“She never mentioned it to me.” His gaze shifted between cop and scientist, only to return to Leigh. “Which is surprising because we talked every few days or so.”
“Maybe she felt uncomfortable about the falling out?”
“Maybe. That might also be why she wanted to get away for a week.” Simpson’s expression suddenly sharpened. “You said she was killed with an athame. Do you think someone inside the community did it?”
“
We’re looking into it. Many things don’t connect for us yet. Do you know if she was familiar with the antique shop where she was found? Is she a regular customer?”
“Not that I know of, but that would be right up her alley.”
“I understand she had expensive tastes,” Leigh said.
“Don’t get me wrong, I loved my mother and she was my guardian angel for many years. She always put my needs ahead of her own. But she was used to having money and spending it on the very best. It was her reward to herself for her other losses in life—a husband and a normal child. Then she became used to a certain standard and worked to maintain it.”
“Did she ever give you the idea that the Witchcraft community didn’t like her spending habits? Was anyone jealous of her wealth?” Matt asked.
“Not that she ever mentioned. I thought Mom was very happy there.” Simpson sighed. “I really hoped she was. She deserved to be happy.”
“One more question, Mr. Simpson. You understand this is all part of regular procedure. Can you tell me your whereabouts between midnight and four thirty on Sunday morning?”
Simpson drew back as sharply as his damaged body would allow. “You think I did it?”
“I’m not saying that, Mr. Simpson. But most murders are committed by people known to the victim. I just want to remove you from any potential suspect list right away.”
Simpson fixed her with a prolonged stare. “I was home, in bed asleep with Aaron. You can talk to him if you need corroboration. He works from home here as a realtor.”
Matt went on alert as Leigh stiffened. “Your partner’s not Aaron Dodsworth, is he?”
Simpson’s brows crinkled in surprise. “That’s him. Do you know him?”
“No, but his name came up in a conversation yesterday with the owner of the shop your mother died in. He’d listed his shop for sale with your partner as his realtor.”
“I had no idea. Aaron handles a lot of properties. He discusses some of them with me, but he never mentioned that one. What a strange coincidence.”
“It is,” Leigh said lightly as she flipped her notepad closed and pulled a card from her pocket. “All my contact information is listed here. If you think of anything else, please don’t hesitate to contact me. With your permission, there’s one other thing we’d like to do. We’d like to go through your mother’s residence. There might be some information relevant to the case there.”
“Of course.” Simpson rose, carefully balancing his weight on both feet before removing his hand from the arm of the chair. “I have a key to her house.”
“I’ll get a warrant, but your permission to enter her residence will go a long way to speeding up that process.”
“Then you have it. Hold on, I’ll get you the key.” He shuffled off down the hallway.
Matt watched him go, noting the care with which he placed each foot. When a misstep could cause irrevocable pain and suffering, caution was well-founded.
He jerked when Leigh smacked his arm. “Stop staring at him like he’s a specimen under your microscope,” she hissed. “He’s a human being and he just lost his mother.”
“I know that. But do you know how rare this condition is?” he whispered back. “I’ve never seen a real FO—” Matt cut off abruptly as Simpson reappeared, a silver key on a large ring extended in his hand.
“Please keep it for as long as you need it. And here’s one of Aaron’s cards. He’ll probably be home in an hour or so.”
Leigh took the key and card. “Thank you for your help. I’ll let you know when we’re done at your mother’s and you can have access to her things.”
“Thank you.”
Matt and Leigh said their good-byes and walked silently to their cars, both parked in front of Simpson’s house. Matt paused with his hand on the driver’s door, looking back up toward the house.
Simpson still stood in the doorway, hunched and frail, a man trapped in the shell of his own body.
It was a picture of imminent death.
CHAPTER NINE: CONCEALED SPACE
* * *
Concealed Space: enclosed or hidden areas between walls, ceilings and roofs or attic floors, soffits, etc., where fire can spread unobserved.
Wednesday, 5:57 p.m.
Boston University, School of Medicine
Boston, Massachusetts
Leigh slammed through the door of the lab and immediately stalked toward Matt, who stood near a gurney surrounded by his students. “What was that at the Simpson house?” she demanded, punctuating her words with a stiff index finger to his chest.
“What?”
She glared at him. “You wanted to come along to be supportive and to supply information, and the moment you saw him, you mentally checked out.”
“I didn’t ‘check out’ ” Matt protested. “I just got . . . distracted. Professional hazard.”
“You can hardly blame him,” Paul interjected. “I’m mean, we’re talking about FOP. Do you know how . . .” He stuttered into silence when Leigh nailed him with her laser-sharp green eyes.
Leigh turned on Matt again, her irritation rising when he simply regarded her calmly. “I see you filled your students in.”
“This is an opportunity to teach them something they’d likely never see in practice.”
She balled her hands into fists to thwart the desire to grab Matt by both shoulders and shake some compassion into him. She knew it was there, but currently the scientist was winning out over the human being. “Would you turn off the teaching for once? You were there to comfort the next of kin. You weren’t even listening when I talked to him, were you?”
“Of course I was.”
“What did I say when we first sat down?” Crossing her arms over her chest, Leigh fixed him with a pointed stare.
“You expressed your condolences and . . . uh . . .” Matt shrugged and gave up. “Okay, I wasn’t listening. I knew I was looking at something I should have been able to recognize, and I was trying to put the puzzle pieces together. Do you know how rare this disorder is? Only about one in two million babies are born with FOP.”
“Thank God for that,” Kiko murmured.
Leigh stopped glaring at Matt and turned to Kiko. “Why?”
“You saw him. Wasn’t it obvious?”
“It wouldn’t have been to her. Hold on, I can explain better with pictures.” Matt selected a heavy volume from the bookcase by his desk, and then returned to the group, flipping rapidly through the pages. “You have to understand that this disease is a horror, an absolute nightmare. It’s being locked in your own body, knowing all that finally awaits you is death. There’s no treatment. No hope.” When he looked up to meet Leigh’s eyes, his were serious, the sparkle of excitement quenched. “I’m sorry if I seemed more interested in him than in his mother, but coming across this was a bit of a surprise and I automatically switched to professional mode. Did you notice that he couldn’t bend his left arm?”
Leigh closed her eyes, picturing Flynn Simpson’s stiff posture. “Yes. I didn’t really take note at the time, but now that you mention it . . .”
“That’s because his elbow has likely fused. Remember what I said about FOP causing soft tissue to turn into bone. Let’s say an injury occurred to a muscle in his upper arm. In a normal person, you’d have some pain, possibly some swelling, but in the course of a few days or weeks, the muscle would heal. When an injury like that happens to someone with FOP, it sets off a chain reaction that replaces the damaged muscle with totally normal bone. But the replacement essentially immobilizes that part of the body. Now, imagine that happening with every bump, bruise, vaccination, and influenza-type infection. Or, in the case of Mr. Simpson, the surgery to remove his ‘cancer,’ which wasn’t cancer at all, but would have been a new bony growth.
“There’s no treatment, and life expectancy is rarely more than forty years. Over time, mobility is lost, and your untouched brain is trapped in the shell of your ossified body. The disease spares several muscles—the heart, the diaphragm
, the tongue and the muscles around the eyes. So your heart continues to beat and you continue to live, if you could call it that, but you’ve turned to stone.”
Leigh realized her mouth was sagging open in horror and hurriedly snapped her teeth together with an audible click.
“Mr. Simpson appears to be in his late twenties,” Matt continued, “but I don’t think he’ll see forty, not with his disease so far progressed. Death in most FOP patients tends to result from one or more common factors—catastrophic head injuries from falls due to lack of mobility, pneumonia, or cardiorespiratory failure when the muscles of the chest and back harden and the ribs don’t permit the lungs to expand. So the patient suffocates.”
“They’re literally trapped inside their own skeleton,” Leigh breathed.
Matt nodded and turned the book around so everyone could see it. “After a lifetime of injury, this is what he can expect.”
Leigh stepped forward to examine the double black-and-white photograph. One side of the photo was a man, his back to the camera, his emaciated body held stiffly and his head at an awkward angle. Ribbons of bone ran down his back: hard, unnaturally protruding twists under pale skin.
Matt tapped the photo with an index finger. “This is Mr. Harry Eastlack. He died in nineteen seventy-three at the age of thirty-nine from pneumonia. By the time he died, all his joints had fused and the only things he could move were his lips, but he could barely talk because his jaw was fused.” He tapped the other side of the photo. “Mr. Eastlack was kind enough to donate his skeleton to research. When the skeleton was defleshed, this was what they found.”
The photo was reminiscent of a normal skeleton from the rear, but with flowing cascades of extra bone where muscle would normally lie in an adult. Bone dripped down the spine and between the ribs, and joint locations were obscured by sheets of abnormal skeletal growth. The vertebrae in the neck were fused into a solid column. “My God . . . ,” Leigh murmured.
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