CHAPTER NINETEEN: REMEDIAL ACTION
* * *
Remedial Action: a permanent solution to prevent or minimize the migration of a hazardous substance after release into the environment.
Saturday, 10:45 a.m.
Salem Boatworks
Salem, Massachusetts
The tiny front office was only big enough to hold a filing cabinet and a counter with a computer and phone. Behind the counter hung a carved wood sign—Salem Boatworks—surrounded by glossy framed photos of beautiful custom-made boats.
“Good morning. Can I help you?” The young woman behind the counter greeted Leigh.
Leigh quickly flashed her badge. “I’m looking for Flynn Simpson. He told me I could meet him here.”
The girl’s face clouded. “This is about his mother’s death, isn’t it? Horrible tragedy. We tried to get Flynn to take some time off, but he came in to catch up since he missed the last few days.” She leaned forward conspiratorially and her voice dropped to just above a whisper. “Have you got a line on the Pentacle Killer yet?”
Bloody newspaper articles. “I’m afraid I can’t share that information with you. Mr. Simpson?” Leigh asked pointedly.
The woman straightened, her lips pursing in disappointment. “Just a moment. He’s out back.”
She disappeared through a door into the back room, leaving it open a few inches. Construction sounds drifted through the gap—men’s voices punctuated by the punch of a nail gun, a saw roaring to life, followed by the scream of the blade biting into wood. Moments later, the receptionist returned. “He says to go on back, second office on the right.”
“Thank you.”
Leigh stepped through the door into the big boathouse. Overhead, fluorescent lights provided illumination and fat silver ductwork crisscrossed the high ceiling of the single large room. One wall was almost completely comprised of windows, allowing sunlight to flood in. Half a dozen boats filled the space, each in a different stage of repair or construction. Wooden struts supported an overturned boat, the unfinished wooden planks of the hull covering only halfway up ribs that protruded like spindly fingers. A heavy metal cylinder hung four feet off the floor, suspended from a long track bolted to heavy I-beam supports. Against the far wall, a crowded workbench was crammed with tools and cans of varnish, while nearby, a man wearing safety goggles manned a circular saw, the floor around him littered with sawdust.
A head briefly appeared above the side of a speedboat, stripped of all its fittings and windshield. At the questioning look, Leigh said, “Flynn Simpson?” and the man pointed to an open office door.
Leigh rapped lightly on the door. Simpson looked up from where he sat, head bent over a pile of paperwork. He looked worn and exhausted, and his mourning black further washed out his already pale skin. “Trooper Abbott, come in.” He motioned to a chair on the opposite side of a desk covered in catalogs and paperwork.
“I appreciate you making the time to see me.”
He sat back in his chair, his posture awkwardly hunched. “You know what it’s like—take some time off and the stacks on your desk mushroom by leaps and bounds.” He lifted a pile of papers with his right hand and dropped them the few inches back to the surface. “Orders and inventories and billing. And everyone needs everything now.” He sighed pensively. “I’ve been spending a lot of time planning Mom’s funeral. I’d like it to be a beautiful service for a beautiful woman. She didn’t outline anything in her will, but I hope she’d approve of my arrangements.” Hope filled his expression. “Have you learned anything new about her death?”
“Nothing I can share at this time. When I can, you’ll be the first to know. I actually have some questions about another death.”
Hope melted away, leaving distress etched on his face. “The fire the other night?”
“You’ve heard about it?”
“It’s been headline news for days now. The ‘Pentacle Killer’ strikes again. Were you able to identify the victim in the second fire?”
“We confirmed his identity this morning. His name was Father Brian Clarke. I was wondering if you knew him. Or know if your mother did.”
Simpson’s face grew thoughtful and one finger drummed lightly on the top of his desk. Finally he shook his head. “The name’s not familiar. He was a priest?”
“The pastor at Saint Patrick’s Catholic Church. You’re sure your mother didn’t know him? She didn’t attend a Catholic church?”
He shrugged, an awkward one-sided gesture as only his right shoulder rose and fell. “I can’t say for certain. I’ve been living away from home for about five years now. But she certainly never mentioned any Catholic priests to me. What if they were simply chosen at random?”
“The victims? To what purpose?”
“What purpose is there ever in taking someone’s life? I read about the Bradford case in the papers. That was someone who was essentially playing games with peoples’ lives.”
He had her there. “That was more the exception than the rule. Ninety-five percent of the time murder has a very basic motive—greed, lust, jealousy, or revenge.”
“Then the paper didn’t get its theory on ceremonial sacrifice from you?”
For a moment Leigh simply stared at the twisted young man before her. “Ceremonial sacrifice?” The two words were enunciated clearly and slowly, disbelief ringing in every syllable.
“Killed with a Witch’s blade and then cleansed by fire.” Reaching over to the other side of his computer, Simpson held up a paper. “It was in this morning’s Salem Times. According to them, the priest was killed with a curved knife.” He scanned down the article. “A boline.”
“Does it say how?” Leigh forced her jaw to relax so it didn’t sound like her words came from between clenched teeth.
“Throat slit.” He looked up. “That’s different from Mom. Different weapon, different manner of death but the same sign on the door. When are you going to stop them?”
“Who?” Leigh asked coolly.
“The Witches. According to this article, tourists are thinking of leaving because of the risk of staying in town.”
Leigh counted to ten before allowing herself to speak. “Don’t believe everything you read, Mr. Simpson.”
Simpson considered her thoughtfully for a moment before tossing the paper aside carelessly. “I guess you’re right. You need to keep all your options open. But to save you from asking, I was with Aaron on Thursday. He came home early and we had dinner together and stayed in and watched a movie. It was memorable because normally he’s out in the evenings showing houses, so when he’s got the night off, we take advantage.”
“Thank you, I’ll make a note.” Leigh rose to her feet. “Thanks for your time. If you think of anything else—”
“I’ll be in touch. I have your numbers. Thank you, Trooper.”
Once outside, Leigh took a deep breath of the tangy salt air rolling in off the harbor. She wanted to spend the afternoon following up on the list Matt’s students gave her on the chemical companies, but she suspected they wouldn’t be open on a Saturday. That was first thing on her list for Monday morning.
She turned her mind glumly to Jason Wells and the Salem Times. The information leak had to stop. She suspected she knew where the leak was and she was ninety-nine percent sure it wasn’t in her own department. If the leak had come from the morgue, the juicy detail of the hamstringing would have been included in the article. She was now surer than ever that the leak must be in within the fire department and she wanted Bree’s ear for five minutes to discuss it.
If she’ll talk to me.
Leigh climbed into her car and closed the door with a muffled thump. She pulled out her phone and dialed Bree’s number.
“Bree Gilson.”
“It’s Leigh Abbott.”
There was a moment of silence, then Bree spoke in a quiet voice. “Hi. Um . . . look. I’ve been meaning to give you a call. I owe you an apology for—”
“No apology required,” Lei
gh said, suddenly meaning it. With everything else going on right now, there was no room for egos in this case. They were all on the same team, after all. “I know what it’s like, losing a colleague. Sometimes we need time to work through it. Don’t give it another thought.”
“Thanks.” Relief layered thickly over the single word.
“I need to talk to you about something that’s . . . a little awkward. Have you seen the articles in the Salem Times?”
“The ones written by Jason Wells? Have I ever. That little piece of—”
“We’ve got a leak. And based on the information that’s getting out, as well as what isn’t, I think it’s coming from the fire department.”
Silence.
“It’s the only explanation,” Leigh rushed on. “It’s information our press officer isn’t providing.” Another pause. “What do you think?”
“I think if it’s one of the firefighters, then they’re going to answer to me. And the chief. And it’s not going to be pretty.”
“Look closely at the articles so you know what I mean. Can I leave it with you?”
“I’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“Thanks. I’m sorry to pile this on you along with everything else you’re going through.”
“No problem. It just gets added to the list. Anything new on the red phosphorus?”
“Not yet, but we’re working on it. I’ll let you know as soon as I have anything solid.”
Leigh hung up, feeling better than she had since yesterday morning; she hadn’t realized how much tension she’d carried because of Bree’s outburst. And she was definitely looking forward to Jason Wells getting cut off at the knees.
Feeling energized, she started the car and merged into traffic, turning toward the unit.
Her mood abruptly darkened as she realized the next thing she needed to do—collect the evidence on her father’s death. Her gut clenched with dread, but she wrapped her fingers tighter around the steering wheel, her jaw set.
She was going to get to the bottom of that too.
CHAPTER TWENTY: ARCANA
* * *
Arcana: secret knowledge and mysteries known only to initiates; comes from the Latin words arcanus meaning “shut in” or “closed,” and arca which is a “chest” or “safe.” May also refer to the classification of the cards in a tarot deck.
Saturday, 8:25 p.m
Abbott Residence
Salem, Massachusetts
“This is everything on your father’s death?” Matt asked as Leigh set two fat file folders on the coffee table.
“The paperwork’s in the files. The physical evidence is in the box.” Leigh nudged a cardboard file box on the floor with her toe.
“Can I see it?”
Leigh leaned forward to pull one of the folders toward her where they sat hip to hip on the couch. “There’s really nothing useful in there. Everything we need is in the files.”
“Hey.” Matt wrapped his fingers around her wrist and she froze. “Nothing useful, or something you don’t want me to see?” Leigh angled her face away the tiniest degree, her jaw locked as she stared unblinkingly at the paperwork. And then he knew. He gentled his voice. “Or is it something you don’t want to see?”
“I’ve seen everything in that box.” Flat, toneless.
Matt could practically see her defenses struggling to stay up and his heart broke for her. He couldn’t imagine the hell of having to examine the violent death of a parent in minute detail. “But you don’t want to see it again. I get that.” When she stayed turned away from him, he lay his hand on her thigh. The muscles were stiff under his touch. “But I can help better if you let me look. Maybe I’ll see something you didn’t.”
She tried for a casual shrug, but the movement came off stiff and awkward. “Sure. Help yourself.” She handed him the box.
He set it down on the floor by his feet and removed the lid. He rummaged through the contents, keeping everything below the lip of the box and out of Leigh’s line of sight. He immediately saw why she didn’t want to delve into the box. Two pistols lay on top, each in its own evidence bag. One was a .40 Sig Sauer, very similar to the firearm Leigh carried when she was on duty. The other was a Bryco .38 semiautomatic. The gun that killed her father. He continued sorting through the evidence. Two pairs of bagged winter gloves. Two bullets in individual bags—one slightly misshapen on one side, the other distorted into a mangled mushroom. Her father’s head shot. His gaze flicked to Leigh. She was busily reading the content of one of the file folders, but her lips were pressed together so tightly they were almost bloodless.
There wasn’t much more in the box after that, just the CI’s unclaimed personal belongings in a single bag—clothing, wallet and cluttered key ring—and a second bag with Nate Abbott’s clothing. There were none of Nate’s personal effects, but Matt assumed Leigh had requested those once the case was closed and they were no longer evidence. He closed the lid and picked up the other file folder, sitting back on the couch. He leaned into Leigh. “What have you got?”
She held up a single finger while she finished reading. “The scientific reports. This is ballistics. I’ve already gone through the DNA reports. I also have shoe casts, fingerprints, and hair and fiber. Your folder has the crime scene photos and the autopsy report. We’ll each go through a folder, then we’ll switch. That way we won’t miss anything.”
“Are you sure? I can just summarize this for y—”
“Yes,” she snapped. Then the file folder fell into her lap and she exhaled sharply. When she turned to look at him, her face was too pale and her eyes were sunken. “Sorry. I’m just finding this . . . difficult.”
Matt set down his folder to take one of her cold hands in both of his, chafing the skin between his palms. “You’re examining your father’s death under a microscope. It’s going to be difficult. So if I can do some of this for you, let me. I know you need all the facts, but give yourself a break.”
She nodded, pulling her hand from his grasp. They both picked up their file folders and settled in to read.
Matt opened his folder, wincing at the sight of the crime scene photos on top. Nonchalantly shifting his left elbow onto the armrest, he purposely angled his body so Leigh couldn’t see the contents.
He flipped through the photos slowly, taking time to examine each one. There were shots of the snowy alley from different angles and multiple shots of each body, including the one sent to Leigh the previous week. They’d clearly brought in lights and the snow sparkled cheerfully around the ruined bodies of the two men. The CI—Roger Tyson—lay face up, his dark eyes open and staring, a large red stain soaked into the front of his winter coat. Straight shot, right through the heart. A gun lay several feet from his right hand, scuff marks in the snow indicating it had been kicked out of the way, and boot prints straddled the body. Leigh’s father lay face down in the snow, facing away from the CI, his legs twisted and his arms flung wide. Part of the back of his skull was missing and blood soaked the snow in a gruesome puddle. The dirty white brick wall behind the body was covered with a spray of blood and brain tissue, spatter from the fatal wound.
Matt felt the tangled knot in his chest ease slightly as he turned to the next page—the autopsy report. Both autopsies had been performed by Rowe, and Matt found comfort in the short, clinical reporting style. No emotion, just facts. Leigh’s father had died instantly when the bullet penetrated the forehead near the right outer border of the frontal bone and exited through the back of the head, taking a chunk of bone with it in a ragged exit wound. Tyson’s death took less than a minute after the bullet pierced his aorta. No sign of struggle with either man.
Matt flipped back to the photos, studying the two bodies again. Something uncomfortable was niggling at the back of his mind. The body shot in the CI made sense to him; cops were taught to aim for the middle of the torso to increase their chances of a hitting their target. But Nate Abbott’s head shot was nothing short of pure bad luck. If the two men had shot at eac
h other at the same time, the chance of the CI making that shot accurately was very small. Maybe he’d been aiming for Abbott’s torso, had gotten hit the moment he pulled the trigger, and that had thrown off his aim. The bullet caught Abbott in the head, the force of the impact spinning him around so he fell face down in the snow.
Matt glanced at Leigh’s bent head, keeping his thoughts to himself. If her father died from a bullet gone wild, he wasn’t going to break the news to her.
The last document in the pile was the incident report, written by Detective Oakes. It told the story clearly and, in Matt’s mind, left no questions unanswered. This also bothered him; in his limited experience in police cases, it was rare that every question got answered. From the outside looking in, it seemed very neat. Maybe too neat. Or was he simply trying to find answers for Leigh, even if they didn’t exist?
He closed the file and looked up to see Leigh quietly watching him, the firelight painting one side of her face with a warm glow. “Already done?”
“Yes.” She extended the folder. “Time to trade.”
Matt’s fingers involuntarily tightened on the file folder in his lap, but he forced himself to surrender it. He shifted on the couch, angling himself closer. They opened their files and started reading. When Matt took Leigh’s hand, she didn’t complain, even though it was awkward for both of them. Occasionally Leigh’s fingers twitched in his, so he wordlessly held on a little tighter, stroking his thumb over the back of her hand until she relaxed. Past the crime scene photos. He read through his reports, but often glanced over at what she was reading, marking her progress through the information.
Finally, she closed the folder and he did the same, having been done for at least five minutes; he’d read that last page four times over.
“How about some wine before we take this apart?” she asked.
“Sounds perfect. Need help?”
“Sure.”
Minutes later they returned to the living room carrying a chilled bottle of pinot blanc and two slender stemmed crystal wineglasses. Sitting back down on the couch, Leigh poured two very generous portions, faint notes of pear and citrus wafting into the air.
A Flame in the Wind of Death Page 18