by David Hosp
Long stepped carefully around the debris and moved toward her. She was thin, with dark hair and fair skin. She was wearing blue slacks and a yellow blouse. A zebra-print shoe was still on one foot; the other had been knocked off and lay nearby. A long dark stain spread out on the rug from her head, and a fire poker lay to the left of the body. The fireplace was on the far wall, and Long could see the set to which the poker belonged.
He squatted and looked at the woman’s face. Her eyes were still open, staring at the carpet, and he had to resist a natural impulse to close them. It wasn’t his job, and he didn’t want to touch anything until the coroner and the crime lab boys had been over everything. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled to the body.
Long heard footsteps on the stairway. ‘Doc’s here,’ Officer Washington called. He came up the stairs, breathing heavily, coughing from the smell. ‘Truck’s on the way, but Doc’s coming up.’ He was standing in the doorway, and Long could feel him looking around. ‘You see anything interesting?’
Long stood and shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Probably a junkie looking for enough cash to score his next high.’
‘You think?’
Long shrugged. ‘No way to know for sure until we do some more poking around, but it fits. Locks were picked. Place was tossed, but tossed quickly. Looks like he just hit the places where he’d likely find basic valuables.’ He looked around at the mess and the furnishings. ‘Probably didn’t find much. Maybe enough to get high once or twice. Maybe not even that much. Most likely she was either already here, back in the bedroom, or she came home when it was going down. Perp grabs the easiest thing he can find – the fire poker – and gives her a whack. Then he’s gone.’
‘That’s it?’ Washington said. ‘You think someone kills that easily?’
‘Trust me,’ Long said. ‘People kill a lot easier than that.’
Finn and Kozlowski walked into Murphy’s Law, a bar at the edge of the commercial district in South Boston. It was a long cement building with a bright red awning and dark tinted windows. At night the place served a decent cross-section of the community, from older locals and blue-collar stalwarts to some of the urban pioneers homesteading on office salaries from downtown in the business district. When Finn and Kozlowski walked in, though, it was still only two in the afternoon. At two in the afternoon, the only people in the place were those who had nowhere else to go.
Kevin McDougal was sitting in a booth at the far end of the bar with two others keeping him company. His companions were bigger than Kevin, which wasn’t saying that much. Eamonn McDougal was over six feet tall, but his wife was tiny; no taller than five feet and no heavier than ninety pounds. Their son inherited her build. What he lacked in physical presence, though, he made up for in attitude. He worked out incessantly, and his muscles bulged under tight clothing. His arms, legs and neck were covered in tattoos that seemed to spread like vines, engulfing him further and further every month. He had a quick temper and a reputation for fighting dirty.
Finn and Kozlowski walked the length of the bar, Finn in front, toward the trio in the booth. Kozlowski nodded to the bartender as they made their way; the bartender nodded back.
The three in the booth noticed Finn and Kozlowski coming – in the quiet of the afternoon drinking crowd, they were hard to miss – and McDougal’s two companions stood up, guarding the booth.
‘Fuck you want?’ one of them barked at Finn.
‘I want to talk to your boy, there,’ Finn replied. ‘Kevin, right?’ He extended his hand.
McDougal looked up at him. ‘I don’t know you, mutherfucka,’ he said. He had a watch cap pulled low over his brow, and his street accent was exaggerated, as if to convince people he was tough.
‘No, you don’t.’ Finn said. ‘My name’s Finn. We need to talk.’
‘You cops?’ the friend standing closest to Finn asked.
‘No,’ Finn said. ‘We’re not cops.’
‘Then my boy don’t need to fuckin’ talk to you.’
‘Yeah, he does.’
‘Says who?’
‘Says his father,’ Finn said. That made all three of them pause. The two standing looked at McDougal, seeking direction.
McDougal looked down at the table. ‘My father don’t fuckin’ run me,’ he mumbled.
After a beat, the young man standing closest to Finn said, ‘Yeah, his father don’t fuckin’ run him.’ He took a step into Finn’s face. He wasn’t tall, but he was meaty, with thick shoulders and a layer of fat across a prominent brow that jutted out beneath a shaved head. A tattoo spread out from his neck up to his ear, reading, Don’t Mess. ‘He don’t wanna fuckin’ talk, he don’t fuckin’ talk. Get the fuck outta here.’
Finn looked the young man in the eyes. ‘You kiss your boyfriend with that mouth?’ he said, nodding toward the other man standing by the booth. The tattooed man moved closer, until his face was only inches away. ‘You don’t want to act tough,’ Finn said. ‘You want to sit down.’
‘You wanna make me siddown, asshole?’
‘Me? No.’
The young man reached up and grabbed Finn by the collar. He pulled back his other hand in a fist, sneering confidently. The look lasted only a split second, though. Before he could throw the punch, Kozlowski moved forward and grabbed him by the elbow. In one swift move, he twisted the young man’s arm around far enough that the back of his hand was above his shoulder blade. The move forced the young man to let go of Finn’s collar and double over as he gave a high-pitched squeal. Kozlowski used the momentum to drive the man’s forehead down hard into the top of a nearby table, splitting the skin just above the nose. Leaning over him, Kozlowski used all of his weight to keep him immobilized. ‘Man asked you to sit,’ Kozlowski said.
‘Fuck you!’
Kozlowski pulled the man’s head off the table and slammed it down again. Then he pushed the man’s arm up even further, drawing a fresh scream. ‘Any more, and it breaks,’ Kozlowski said. ‘You wanna sit yet?’
People at the bar were watching, as were McDougal and his other friend, both of whom remained still. The bartender called over, ‘Koz! Fuck’s goin’ on over there?’
‘Young man here slipped,’ Kozlowski said. ‘I’m trying to make sure he’s all right. Make sure he doesn’t slip again.’
‘Did he slip hard enough to need an ambulance?’ the bartender asked.
‘Not yet.’ Kozlowski leaned down and spoke into the side of the man’s face. ‘What do you think, kid? You gonna sit, or are you gonna slip hard enough to need an ambulance?’
The young man was wheezing through the pain. ‘Ahhh!’ he yelled as Kozlowski applied additional pressure to the arm. ‘Okay, I’ll sit!’
Kozlowski eased up on his arm and spun him around into a chair at the table. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket. ‘Wipe the blood off your face.’ The young man sat there fuming, but remained in the chair. He took the handkerchief and put it to the top of his nose to stop the bleeding.
Finn looked at the other young man. ‘You want to sit, too.’ The young man didn’t hesitate, and slid into a chair at the same table as his friend. ‘Not there,’ Finn said. ‘Both of you, over there.’ He pointed over toward the other side of the bar. The two of them hesitated. ‘I’m Kevin’s lawyer,’ Finn explained. ‘At least for now. That means whatever I say to him is privileged, as long as I say it to him in confidence. If you’re close enough to hear what I say, the privilege dies.’ The two of them looked at him, still not comprehending.
‘Just move, morons,’ Kozlowski said.
The two of them looked at McDougal. He didn’t look up from the table, and after a moment they stood up and moved to the other side of the bar.
Finn stood at the opening of the booth, looking down at Kevin McDougal. ‘Mind if we sit?’
CHAPTER THREE
Long stayed at the apartment while the coroner and the lab boys did their work. He didn’t need to be there; he’d get a report when they were done, and he suspected he’d learn litt
le from it. The case was likely to be over quickly one way or another. Either they would find a fingerprint that could easily be matched with someone already in the system and they would make an arrest in a day, or there would be nothing to point in any particular direction and the case would die on the vine in a week.
He’d work the case no matter the direction it took; he believed in working cases even when they looked hopeless. And there was always a chance that there was something more to the case than appeared on the surface. It was unlikely, though, and Long was resigned to the notion that there would be little to go on.
He sat on the chair in front of the woman’s desk, watching the activity in the room. Pictures were being snapped from all angles; surfaces were being dusted with dark gray fingerprint powder; items were being catalogued for the evidence locker. In the middle of the room, Doc Murphy, the coroner, was performing his initial examination of Elizabeth Connor’s remains. He leaned over her with a clinical precision that approached indifference, his tall, thin frame curled into a Dickensian stoop as he slid around the body, instructing his assistant where to snap images.
‘What do you think, Doc?’ Long asked as Murphy worked.
‘Well, she’s dead.’
‘You’re good. I can see why you’re in charge. Any thoughts about how long?’
‘Have to run some tests. At least forty-eight hours. That takes us back to Tuesday morning. Could’ve been Monday night. Probably was.’
‘Cause of death as obvious as it seems?’ Long asked.
Murphy shrugged. ‘I assume. Looks like the lethal blow was a single whack to the head. I’ve been doing this for too long to put my reputation on the line until I’ve done the full exam. There are too many things her body may want to tell us.’ He shifted position, examining her fingers. ‘From the way her head bled out I can tell you that she was alive when she was hit. Poker’s lying there with blood stains on it; looks like the head wound is consistent with the shape and heft of the poker. You draw your own conclusions. What’s interesting are the other wounds.’
‘Other wounds?’ Long said.
Murphy lifted up the back of the woman’s shirt so that Long could see the dead woman’s back. It was covered with cuts and marks. ‘You see these?’
‘Yeah.’
‘They look like they were made after she went down from the blow to the head. I count thirty in all, and from the look of them, some were made after she had bled out enough that she had to be dead. Look here.’ He pointed to a few long cuts. ‘No blood came out. Deep, violent slashes, but no blood. Whoever did this was still hitting the body in a rage minutes after she was already dead.’
Long frowned. ‘Drug rage, you figure?’ Long asked.
‘Could be,’ Murphy said. ‘It’s some sort of psychosis, that’s for sure. No other reason to keep hitting the body that way.’
‘When she was hit in the head, the first blow, was she facing her killer, or was she hit from behind?’ Long asked.
‘No way to tell at this point. Probably no way to tell ever.’
‘You kidding? They figure out stuff like that on television all the time.’
‘Yeah, I know,’ Murphy conceded with a sigh. ‘Those TV coroners are good. Maybe we should call one of them in, see if they’d be any help here. Unfortunately, she was struck on the side of the head. I may be able to tell a little more from the angle once I measure it, but it’s not going to be conclusive. She could’ve been turning, she could’ve been ducking; there’s really no way to tell. Does it matter?’
Long shook his head. ‘No, probably not. Just curious.’
Murphy stood up and looked at his assistant. ‘Bag her,’ he said. ‘We’ll do the rest back at the morgue.’ He looked at Long carefully. Long reached into his pocket without thinking, drew out a piece of gum and put it in his mouth. ‘I’ll let you know if we find anything else,’ the coroner said. ‘But I wouldn’t hold my breath if I was you. It’s probably exactly what it looks like.’
‘Yeah,’ Long said.
‘She got any family?’
‘Not that we’ve identified yet. Neighbors don’t know of any.’ He gestured to the mess on the floor. ‘I still gotta go through her mail; maybe we’ll learn something from that.’
‘I hope she didn’t have family,’ Murphy said. ‘Something this random …’ he shook his head. ‘Tough for a family to take. How are you doing?’
‘I didn’t know her.’
‘No, not about her; everything else. You doing okay?’ Long hated the question. He got it often these days, and he wasn’t sure how he was supposed to answer it honestly. He didn’t try anymore.
‘I’m good.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah. Thanks.’
Murphy looked Long in the eyes, and Long looked away. ‘If you ever want to talk, I know some pretty good guys. Department’ll pay for it, too, y’know?’
‘Yeah,’ Long said. ‘I know. Thanks, I’m good.’
‘You change your mind, you know where to find me. You’re a good cop,’ he said. ‘Don’t let them take that away from you.’ Long said nothing. The coroner looked around the room. ‘I’ll be in touch about this. Let you know what we find.’
‘Okay, thanks Doc.’ Long watched as Murphy walked out the front door. There were still a few of the crime lab boys left, taking some last snapshots and cleaning up their gear, but soon the site would be deserted. They all knew the odds of solving something like this; there was little enthusiasm in the air. Uniformed officers were canvassing, but as yet they had learned nothing helpful. No one saw anything, no one heard anything, no one knew anything.
God, he needed a drink. Not yet, he told himself. Soon.
He bent down and started gathering up the papers strewn across the floor. He had to go through them eventually, and there seemed no time like the present. The faster he worked the angles, the faster he could put the case behind him.
He found it an hour later. He’d been through nearly all of the correspondence – bills, mainly. A few catalogues from low-end discount retailers; no personal mail to speak of. He figured he was just about done.
It wasn’t in the stacks on the floor or in any of the drawers or shelves; it was taped to the bottom of one of the desk drawers, which had been tossed on the floor. Carefully hidden, it blended in with the wood, and he might not have even noticed it, but he had trouble getting the drawer back into the desk and turned it over to see where the slides were.
As he pulled the envelope free, the cellophane tape pulled chips of wood off the bottom piece of the drawer. It was medium-sized, manila, with a flap at the top and a metal wing attachment that fit through a hole so the envelope could be opened and closed repeatedly. Long pulled the wings together and opened the flap.
There was a letter inside, old and yellowed. He held it up and examined it closely. Grimy fingerprints marred the outside of the envelope, and the postage mark was smudged. Long could just make out the date of delivery – July, 1991.
He read the letter twice. It was likely unconnected with the murder, but it complicated the investigation. At the very least, it would require an additional stop, or maybe two, along the road to putting the case behind him. That was fine with him; that’s what they paid him for.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘How old are you, Kevin?’ Finn asked.
‘Fuck you care?’
Finn looked at Kozlowski. ‘You believe this?’ He shook his head and turned back to McDougal. ‘It’s a simple question, dipshit. How old are you?’ He feigned sign language as he asked the question.
McDougal stuck his chin out like an angry child. After a moment he said, ‘Twenty.’
Kozlowski motioned to the bartender. ‘I’m gonna have to tell Jimmy not to serve you anymore.’
‘Fine,’ McDougal said. ‘I’m gonna have to slit your fuckin’ throat. Then I’m gonna have to find a new bar.’
‘You’re not very bright, are you Kevin?’ Finn said. ‘It’s okay, in my line of work I dea
l with a lot of guys who are dumb as stumps, so I’m used to it. I just like to know what I’m dealing with.’
Kevin said through his teeth, ‘I’m only twenty and I’m smart enough to have my own crew. Smart enough to drive a fuckin’ 7-Series and live in a duplex. Fuck do you drive, asshole?’
Finn looked over at the two young men sitting at the far end of the bar. One of them still had Kozlowski’s handkerchief to his forehead to stop the bleeding. They were engrossed in a cartoon playing on the television over the bar and seemed to have lost interest in what was happening at the table. ‘You call those two a crew?’ Finn asked. ‘Koz took them out in about ten seconds, and he’s on Social Security. They make the stumps I deal with normally look like Rhodes Scholars. Get it straight, Kevin, the only reason no one’s punched your card is because you’re Eamonn McDougal’s kid, and they’re afraid enough of him to leave you alone. That doesn’t make you smart, it makes you lucky.’
‘I’m smart,’ McDougal replied, though his head was down.
‘No, you’re not. You got busted selling crack to an undercover officer across the street from a middle school. If you were smart, you would have known that if you deal within two hundred yards of a school, jail time doubles. Now I come out here and find you with these losers in a bar while you’re out waiting on a trial, when a condition of your bail was to stay off drugs and alcohol and to stay away from anyone with a criminal record. If you were smart, you would know enough to stay clean while you’re out on bail. Nothing pisses a judge off more than finding out that someone they’ve let out is screwing up. It makes them look bad. But no, here you are with a couple of guys who, no doubt, already have some time on their sheet, tossing back Jameson’s and High Lifes, lookin’ for trouble. Not smart.’