“Those boxes were heavy,” Paul moaned. “And there was a ton of them.”
“Of which you only carried a quarter because the rest of us did our share.” Matt set down his box and turned to Kiko who was bent over a tray scattered with small pieces of cranial bone. “That’s coming along nicely.” He moved to stand behind her, taking in the gradual shaping of the tiny, fragmented newborn skull she’d brought from the Old North Church a few days before the case started.
“It’s slow work because of all the open sutures, but I’m getting there. Do you need me to give you a hand?”
Matt’s gaze flicked to Leigh and she nodded. “I know you’re trying to catch up on your project, but if you could take a break, we could certainly use your help.”
Kiko rose from her stool, stripping off her gloves. “These bones aren’t going anywhere; I can come back to them later. What have we got here?”
“We’re not sure yet,” Leigh said. “Father Thomas contacted me before Mass this morning. He’d been calling around to Saint Patrick’s parishioners when one of them mentioned to him that they had a bunch of church records. There were too many boxes to load into my car, so Matt was kind enough to drive up and give me a hand.”
“Why would records like that be kept outside of the church?” Kiko asked, skimming the labels on the boxes. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s great that they escaped the fire, but why were they ever taken off church property?”
Leigh opened the lid of the nearest box, labeled Adult Education, and winced at the jumbled chaos inside. “This is going to take forever if everything looks like this.” She closed the box and turned away from it. “From what I understand, once a church is closed, some records are considered to have historical relevance and should be kept forever, while most administrative paperwork can be discarded after a few years. Financial papers are kept for a certain number of fiscal years. This parishioner offered to take the papers home and sort through them, separating them into different categories based on their content.”
Paul’s voice drifted up from the floor. “I have a sneaking suspicion they never started. Once they realized what they were getting into, they probably put it off, hoping the church would reopen and they’d be off the hook.”
“They’re back on the hook now,” Juka commented. “They have to get the job done. The church is gone.”
“They’re probably hoping we do it for them,” Matt said. His gaze scanned the boxes. “Let’s get started.” He held out a hand to Paul and hauled him from the floor. “This is going to take a while. Grab a box, find some bench space and start reading.”
“You guys know the names in this case, but to refresh your memory—” Leigh proceeded to list every name associated with the case thus far. “Victim, clergy, parishioner, Witch. Any names jump out at you, speak up. I’d rather do a lot of extra reading than miss what could be the key to this case and the link between our victims.”
Leigh grabbed a box and carried it over to a bench on the far side of the lab. She pulled out a sheaf of papers and started to scan them.
Matt settled at the other side of the bench from her with his own box.
Their eyes met through the open shelves over the bench, in the gap between an alligator skull and a giraffe vertebra. Matt recognized the hopeful gleam in Leigh’s eyes—please let the answer be here—then her gaze dropped as the room went silent and they all got to work.
Sunday, 4:07 p.m.
Boston University, School of Medicine
Boston, Massachusetts
“Did you ever say what Moira Simpson’s husband’s name was?” Kiko’s voice broke the nearly oppressive silence that hung over the lab.
Leigh looked up cautiously. There had been a handful of false starts already—mostly names that sounded similar but were unconnected—so by this point, Leigh was looking at all interruptions with a jaundiced eye. “Probably not. He died nearly thirty years ago so I didn’t think it was relevant to the case. His name was Stephen.”
With a triumphant grin, Kiko closed the worn cover of the notebook she was reading, marking her place with a finger tucked between the pages. The cover was of worn leather, with faded gold lettering on the front—Endowments. “This book contains a running list of all the items that were gifted to the parish, usually in memoriam. It starts in nineteen twenty-eight.” She opened the book again. “There’s an entry here from nineteen ninety-two: Repair and restoration of the vandalized Holy Family stained-glass window, in memory of Stephen Simpson by ‘THE FAMILY.’ ”
Kiko spread the book out flat on the countertop so everyone could see as they gathered around her. The entries were handwritten in different hands and inks, but she indicated a single entry near the top of the page. “This one. I guess the real question is how common is the name Stephen Simpson?”
Matt leaned back against the counter, crossing his ankles. “It could be common if Simpson is an old family name in this area.”
“We can look at birth and death records.” Leigh’s gaze scanned over the boxes. “I haven’t found an actual roster of parishioners in any of the boxes I’ve gone through. Has anyone else?”
There was a chorus of no.
“Of all the things we needed, that was it. But that was likely in the church offices still. Most of what I’ve found has been historical records dating back at least twenty years.”
“Same for me,” Matt said. “Most of mine has been correspondence or reports—the Altar Society, letters from the bishop, diocesan awards, that kind of thing.”
“Let’s assume that really is Moira Simpson’s husband. What are the chances she’d make a gift like that to a church she didn’t belong to?” Paul asked.
“I can’t see it,” Kiko said. “What would be the meaning in that? It was a memorial after all.”
“Then the real issue,” Juka interjected, “is why would Flynn Simpson lie about any connection between his mother and Father Brian?” He swiveled on his lab stool to face Leigh. “Father Brian was at the church by that time, right?”
“Yes, and had been for at least a decade. Simpson not only denied any knowledge of Father Brian, but also said that there wasn’t any connection to Saint Patrick’s.” She stared sightlessly at the page in the book, her thoughts drifting back to her interview only two days ago. “Now that I think about it, he couched it in present terms—not to his knowledge was his mother attending a Catholic church. I’ll ask him about any previous connection.”
“Could he have been too young at the time to remember?” Paul asked.
“It’s possible, I suppose. If he was young and the connection to the church didn’t last long.”
“Don’t forget, he was sick then too,” Kiko said. “That would have been around the time his FOP was diagnosed. He may have been in the hospital or housebound.”
“What if he’s protecting his lover?” Matt asked.
Kiko swiveled on her lab stool to face him. “You’re thinking about the fact that the lover was connected to the site of the first murder.”
“Yes. What if the connection between the killings is Flynn Simpson himself? If we don’t think Dodsworth killed for money, what if the motive is Simpson himself? And what if Simpson’s lying to protect his partner?”
“You’re suggesting that Dodsworth is the murderer, Simpson knows, is okay with it, and is covering for him by lying about Father Brian?” Leigh asked.
Matt shrugged. “I’m not sure where I’m going with it. But that connection with Dodsworth is still there and I think we’d be foolish to ignore it.”
“I can’t argue with that. But the first thing we need to do here is figure out if this is the same Stephen Simpson. If not, then we’re just spinning our wheels.”
“But if it is . . . ,” Juka said.
“Then we need to take another look at the connection between Moira Simpson and Father Brian,” Leigh said firmly. “Whatever binds them together is there, we just need to find it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: MULTIPLE ATTACK LIN
ES
* * *
Multiple Attack Lines: use of multiple hoses to fight a fire.
Sunday, 6:55 p.m.
Lowell Residence
Brookline, Massachusetts
The comforting aroma of roasted meat greeted Matt and Leigh as they entered the kitchen. They found Mike seated at a lowered countertop, slicing a medium-rare prime-rib roast. The older man smiled at their guest’s arrival, the crow’s-feet around his eyes crinkling in delight.
Leigh bent down and kissed him on the cheek. “Thanks for inviting me for dinner. I brought some Italian pastries for dessert. I hope that’s okay.”
“Thank you, that was very thoughtful.”
Hands on her hips, she scanned the kitchen. “I feel bad that you went to all this trouble.”
“It’s no trouble at all. And we’re men—we go out of our way for an excuse to buy a nice piece of red meat.” Mike winked at her.
Matt scanned the countertop, seeing it through Leigh’s eyes— almost every square inch was covered with food and dishes. He was used to his father’s cooking sprees, but after so much time on her own, cooking for one, the extent of the meal must seem extravagant. “Don’t let him fool you. He loves having company over to eat. He kicks me out every time and does the whole thing himself. He won’t accept any help.”
“You can do the dishes,” Mike said dryly. “Now, Leigh, why don’t you sit down? Matt, pour her a glass of wine.”
Leigh settled in one of the kitchen chairs and Teak immediately wandered over to sit at her side.
Matt eyed her surreptitiously as he poured three glasses of red wine from the heavy crystal decanter on the counter. She looked worn, the usual sparkle missing from her eyes. He knew the case was intense, especially now with a firefighter lost in the second blaze; she not only had her own department looking to her for answers, but Salem FD as well. But he suspected it was more than that—her father’s death could never be far from her mind now.
Leigh’s head was bent, one hand lost in Teak’s thick, ruddy fur as the Belgian Malinois leaned against her knee, an expression of pure bliss on his face as she stroked him. “You know, if you keep that up, he’ll never leave your side.” He handed her a glass.
“That wouldn’t be so bad. Man’s best friend and all that.” She took a sip of her wine. “Nice. Really hits the spot.”
Matt could practically see the wine spreading warmth and relaxation through her.
His father interrupted his study. “Matt, a hand please.”
Leigh set her glass down on the table and started to rise. “Let me help.”
Matt gently pushed her back into her chair. “You sit and relax. The old man would have my head if you helped. Besides, you’re already helping by keeping Teak out from underfoot.”
Matt and Mike spent the next few minutes carrying food to the table. Matt kept an eye on Leigh as he worked, noting with satisfaction when the tightness seemed to ease from her shoulders and her laugh became easier as they bantered back and forth.
Finally he sat down and his father pulled his wheelchair up to the open side of the table.
Leigh’s gaze scanned the mountain of food set out on the table. “This looks absolutely amazing. But there’s no way we can eat all of it.”
Matt laughed at his father’s disconcerted expression. “I always tell him he makes enough food to feed the average Army regiment.”
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” Leigh asked.
Mike started passing dishes. “After the accident, I was housebound.” Color flooded Leigh’s cheeks, but Mike reached across the table to lightly pat her hand. “Don’t be embarrassed. It happened, there’s no point in beating around the bush.”
“Matt told me about the accident.”
“It’s hard, losing the love of your life. One moment there she was, large as life, laughing with me in the car on the drive home. The next minute I was waking up in the hospital, Matt was at my bedside and I’d lost days. And my wife.”
A whirlwind of emotion swept through Matt at the rush of memories: Applying for and receiving his hardship discharge from the Marines. Flying home from Afghanistan in a panicked rush, fearing his only remaining parent would die before the plane touched down. Going right to the hospital, still in combat fatigues and carrying his duffel. His father’s broken body in the bed. The devastation in his father’s eyes when he broke the news of his mother’s death. His own overwhelming sorrow.
Matt reached for his glass and took a deep swallow, but the wine didn’t ease the pressure in his chest.
“That must have been horrible.” Leigh’s quiet words broke into his thoughts at the same moment her hand touched his knee. He looked up. Her eyes were fixed on his father, but she’d reached out to him under cover of the table, knowing his discomfort with these memories. He laid his fingers over hers, squeezing her hand in a silent gesture of thanks.
“It was. But Matt’s told me a little of your background so I know you’ve experienced it yourself. You grieve, but then you pick yourself up and you go on. Part of my healing process was learning to cook.”
Matt suddenly found himself the focus of his father’s warm gaze.
“There we were,” Mike continued. “Two bachelors with no woman to take care of us. We were totally lost without Susan. Matt was readapting to life back home again and I was learning how to get along without my legs.” He chuckled at the memory. “We were both miserable and out of our element. We nearly poisoned each other a few times. After that, I decided one of us better learn how to cook or we’d both starve. And since Matt was going back to school, it needed to be me. I discovered I actually enjoyed cooking and was good at it. It was therapeutic, and it gave me something to concentrate on and small victories to mark.” Mike patted his flat stomach. “It’s a good thing we picked up rowing or else I’d be fifty pounds heavier. I ended up being too good.”
“I couldn’t ask for a better wife,” Matt quipped.
The older man waved an index finger at his son in a mock scold. “Careful. Or I’m cutting you off from those pastries Leigh brought.”
Matt glared at his father. “That’s low. Pass the potatoes.”
For a moment there was quiet as everyone filled their plates and settled in to eat.
“Matt’s told me a little of the case,” Mike said. “How’s it coming along?”
“It was a lot stronger when we only had one fire,” Leigh said. “It seemed much more straightforward then. We had a woman who definitely ruffled some feathers in a coven, and we had several pieces of evidence that pointed to a connection within the Craft with both the murder weapon and the pentacle left on the door of the shop.”
“You thought it was someone in the coven that murdered her?”
“That was my initial direction. But every string I pulled seemed to unravel in my hand. She left the coven after a disagreement with one of the other Witches. But that Witch has been out of state on business for the last two weeks. I interviewed two other Witches who left the coven because of Moira Simpson’s behavior toward them. They’re so happy in their present group, they’re actually grateful that she drove them away. No one else seemed to have any significant issues with her and all but three of the remaining members of the Circle of the Triple Goddess have alibis for the night of the murder. And I don’t buy any of those women as the killer.” She turned to glance at Matt. “I’ve talked to all the Witches since the second fire. None of them admit to knowing Father Brian, so there’s no obvious connection there either. Of the three Witches that had no alibi for the first fire, all have an alibi for the second.” She paused to have another bite of prime rib, her face thoughtful as she chewed. “And that’s our real problem. We can’t find a workable link between the two killings.”
“You’re sure they’re connected?” Mike asked.
“Both fire scenes had a pentacle nailed to the front door. Both murder weapons originally belonged to Moira Simpson. On the surface, they’re linked, but look a little deeper .
. .”
“Assuming that the information about the memorial gift is correct, then you know the victims are connected,” Matt pointed out.
Leigh paused, looking up from buttering her roll. “If so, that connection goes back over twenty years and probably has no relevance to her time in the coven during the last ten months.”
“For the sake of argument, let’s assume it’s her husband’s memorial,” Matt said. “We have a priest and a parishioner who knew each other decades ago, but then cut ties sometime later. Certainly, Father Thomas didn’t recognize her so she hasn’t been a parishioner in recent years. But I’m not sure how a twenty-year-old link will lead you to your murderer.”
Mike picked up his wine and stared into the ruby liquid thoughtfully. “But don’t you agree that any parishioner making an expensive donation—like the refurbishment of a hundred-year-old stained-glass window—would have significant ties to the congregation?”
“They must,” Leigh said.
“Then is the son lying about his mother’s connection to Saint Patrick’s?” Mike asked.
“We tossed that around,” Matt said. “But we have to remember that he was a sick seven-year-old back then, who’d just been given the news that his life would never be normal because of his disease. Maybe he wasn’t really a part of the parish.”
“That’s the bone disease you were telling me about,” Mike said. “The one that turns muscle into bone?”
“Yes. Fibrodysplasia ossificans progressiva.”
“Then I think it all depends on how long she was a parish member. But that kind of gift says ‘long-term commitment’ to me. And if she was there long-term, surely he was part of the parish too.” Mike set down his glass. “Let me play devil’s advocate. Let’s say the memorial is for Moira Simpson’s husband, and Flynn knew about it and wanted to throw you off the scent, so he denied any connection.”
A Flame in the Wind of Death Page 20