by Jen J. Danna
TWO PARTS BLOODY MURDER
ABBOTT AND LOWELL FORENSIC MYSTERIES
TWO PARTS BLOODY MURDER
JEN J. DANNA WITH ANN VANDERLAAN
FIVE STAR
A part of Gale, Cengage Learning
Copyright © 2015 by Jen J. Danna
Five Star™ Publishing, a part of Cengage Learning, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously. All characters named as being part of the Massachusetts State Police Department and the Essex County District Attorney’s Office are fictional and not based on actual persons, living or deceased. All places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Danna, Jen J.
Two parts bloody murder / Jen J. Danna with Ann Vanderlaan. — First edition.
pages ; cm. — (Abbott and Lowell forensic mysteries)
ISBN 978-1-4328-3027-4 (hardcover) — ISBN 1-4328-3027-9 (hardcover) — ISBN 978-1-4328-3022-9 (ebook) — ISBN 1-4328-3022-8 (ebook)
eISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3022-9 eISBN-10: 1-4328-3022-8
I. Vanderlaan, Ann. II. Title.
PR9199.4.D365T96 2015
813'.6—dc23 2014038271
First Edition. First Printing: February 2015
This title is available as an e-book.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4328-3022-9 ISBN-10: 1-4328-3022-8
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Contact Five Star™ Publishing at [email protected]
Printed in the United States of America
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AUTHOR’S NOTE
* * *
The title of this novel comes from The Devil’s Dictionary, a series of satirical newspaper columns published by Ambrose Bierce (1842–1914) beginning in 1881. Originally collected and published in 1906 as The Cynic’s Word Book, it was retitled as The Devil’s Dictionary in 1911.
BRANDY, n. A cordial composed of one part thunder-and-lightning, one part remorse, two parts bloody murder, one part death-hell-and-the-grave, and four parts clarified Satan. Dose, a headful all the time. Brandy is said by Dr. Johnson to be the drink of heroes. Only a hero will venture to drink it.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
* * *
Once again, we are so immensely grateful for all the help we’ve received during the writing of this manuscript: Detective Lieutenant Norman Zuk of the Massachusetts State Police, Essex Detective Unit, for his continuing assistance to ensure our police procedures are correct. From taking the time for a personal meet-up in Boston, to ensuring any needed connections within the state police are in place, and then painstakingly going over all our technical questions and sharing his personal experiences on the job, his generous help continues to be invaluable. Detective Lieutenant Mike Holleran of the Massachusetts State Police, Crime Scene Services Section, for his insight into the inner workings of his department, and for sharing his personal experience on fingerprint collection and analysis. David Procopio, Massachusetts State Police, Media Relations Unit, for always assuring the support of the state police in our endeavors. James Marsh, Community Development Director, the City of Lynn, for kindly providing a tour of the High Rock Tower Observatory as well as information concerning its history. Dr. Tracy Rogers, Director of the Forensic Science Program at the University of Toronto, for technical consultation. Author Carrie T. Morgan, for sharing her insights into the emotional aspects of PTSD and its effect on soldiers.
From a writing perspective, we were once again joined by our incredible critique team: Lisa Giblin, Jenny Lidstrom, Margaret Isaacs, and Sharon Taylor. As always, you generously shared your time and considerable talents with us, and we’re grateful for the stronger manuscript that is the result of your efforts. We were aided once again by our editor, Gordon Aalborg, who always goes the extra mile to teach his authors how to think critically, and to assist them in finding ways to improve an already solid manuscript. Thanks also to our wonderful agent, Nicole Resciniti, who continues to support our endeavors in every way.
J.J.D. and A.V.
Thank you Paul and Shelly, you are the best son and daughter-in-law any mom could ever have. Your humor, encouragement, and enthusiasm brighten every conversation, chat, and email exchange. Well, at least until you start snickering at the auto-correct spelling absurdities I transmit while texting.
The Thundertail Tribe is a continuing challenge and an ongoing blessing. I have three wonderful pit bulls—Angel, Spike, and R Kane. Because of the Boys I have more friends, help, and connection than ever before in my adult life. I have people I can rely on, people who rely on me, and a social network to advocate and help save lives every day.
Angel, a Love-A-Bull rescue alumnus, greets me every morning with a big pittie grin while pretending not to hog the middle of the bed. Fur brother Spike, a deaf dog from the same rescue, reminds me daily of the value of sign language and the futility of yelling at those who don’t, or can’t, hear. R—as in “Raising”—Kane is the newest Thundertail. This graduate of Don’t Bully Me Rescue is the perfect “stubby dog”: big heart, bigger head, and a tail that never stops wiggling his butt. In just thirteen months Kane has morphed from street dog into certified therapy dog volunteering to comfort AIDS patients, nursing home residents, and child victims of domestic violence.
A.V.
When someone who works full time commits to writing a book in a compressed period of time, it is often to the exclusion of almost everything else around her. So immense thanks are owed to my family—husband, Rick, and daughters, Jessica and Jordan—who allowed me to be “absent” for long periods of time while working on this manuscript. Rick, I could not have completed this novel without your continued support and willingness to carry part of my load. To Jess, thank you for endeavoring to teach me your considerable photography skills before sending me off to Boston to work on cover art images; I hope I did you proud. To Jordan, my ever-willing victim—thank you for always being good natured when I need a stand-in to confirm skeletal positioning and mechanics. If our death scenes are realistic, it’s partly because of the many times you’ve been “killed”! And thanks to my mother, Edith Danna, for giving me permission to hide a little piece of our family inside the history in this story.
J.J.D.
PROLOGUE: BOTTLING
* * *
Bottling: the process by which a bottle is filled with wine or beer, and then corked, plugged, or capped.
Sunday, 3:10 a.m.
Many years ago
Lynn, Massachusetts
He stepped back from his handiwork, the wooden handle slipping from his damp
fingers as the tool fell with a clatter to the scarred wood floor. After wiping his gritty hands on his coarse wool trousers, he reached into the breast pocket of his threadbare shirt and retrieved a small leather pouch. He pulled out a cigarette paper, sparsely sprinkled on a ration of tobacco, and then rolled it.
It took three matches before he could still his shaking hands enough to light the end.
He pulled a deep draft into his lungs, feeling the smoke almost instantly calm his nerves.
It had to be done. It was only right.
He closed his eyes, still hearing the voice in his head—the curses, threats, and bribes that eventually changed to shrieks of terror. Until even those were finally muffled.
Not so brave now, are you? Take away your power and you’re no better than the rest of us.
Standing before the wall, he calmly smoked the last of his cigarette. Then he dropped the butt to the ground, grinding it under the heel of his heavy boot. There was still work to do.
When he was finished, he stopped at the bar, eyeing the array of bottles. He contemplated for a moment, and then poured himself a large tumbler of pale, aged brandy. Turning back toward the tomb, he raised his glass in a final toast.
And drank deeply.
CHAPTER ONE: EIGHTEENTH AMENDMENT
* * *
Eighteenth Amendment: a constitutional amendment banning the manufacture, sale, import, export, and transportation of alcoholic beverages in the United States and its possessions beginning in January of 1920. Contrary to common belief, it did not prohibit the purchase, in-home preparation, or the consumption of alcohol. It is the only amendment to have ever been repealed.
Friday, 12:24 p.m.
The Adytum Building
Lynn, Massachusetts
The wind caught the door as it opened, sending it crashing into the antique brick wall hard enough to rattle windowpanes several feet away. Startled, Massachusetts State Police Trooper First Class Leigh Abbott braced a hand on filthy wood and glanced up from where she crouched on the floor. Raising her free hand to her forehead to block the glare from the tripod lights, she focused on the tall, burly man coming through the door. Then she pushed to her feet and stepped back from death.
“When I called the ME’s office for a pickup, I wasn’t expecting them to send you.” Meeting him halfway, Leigh lifted one of the bags from his arms.
Dr. Edward Rowe cocked a single bushy, white eyebrow at her. “No one sends the medical examiner for the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, Abbott.” His gaze shifted to the victim across the room. “But the call came through, and when I heard it was your case, I decided to follow up. It’s been a few weeks since I attended to a case myself.”
Leigh was well aware that standard protocol in Massachusetts was to send techs out to death scenes and for bodies to be transported without on-scene processing. Rowe was running a few cases on his own to prove to the funding Powers That Be that murder conviction rates improved with timely and thorough victim processing. But this was the first indication her victims were receiving special attention. Warmth at the implied compliment rushed through her. “Thanks. You know I’d always rather have you on-site than one of your techs.”
“Don’t say that too loudly. The tech will be in right behind me after he’s parked the van.” Rowe set another bag down on the dusty, debris-littered floor, fifteen feet away from the body. He opened the bag and pulled out a disposable Tyvek suit, shaking it out with a practiced snap. “But when it comes to working with cops, you and I always do well together. Better than most, in fact.” His gaze quickly scanned the empty room as he tugged on the suit. “Although, I’m not used to you being on your own. After the cases you’ve run lately with Lowell and his team, it must feel odd working solo again.”
Leigh gave him a crooked smile. She’d never admit it, but she was feeling the isolation of being without the team more strongly than she ever would have suspected. What started off as an unwilling alliance between herself and forensic anthropologist Dr. Matt Lowell had developed into a cohesive partnership. Add in Matt’s three graduate students, and the team was complete. Compared to the mostly frosty relationships she had as the only woman in the Essex Detective Unit, working with her team felt like a homecoming. On a case like this, investigating solo, she missed not only the brainstorming and the way they played off each other to build the case, but also the camaraderie and the drive of a shared goal. “Only specific victims require the forensic anthropology team. Luckily this one doesn’t, because Matt’s out of town at a symposium, and won’t be back for three days. Besides, he wouldn’t know what to do with this victim. Too much flesh.”
Rowe gave a short bark of a laugh. “Don’t know if I’d agree with that. As an ex-Marine medic, Lowell knows his way around a body.”
Leigh dropped her head to hide the warmth brightening her cheeks. He certainly knew his way around hers.
Rowe’s voice interrupted thoughts not suited to a crime scene, jerking her back to the here and now. “What do we have here?”
“Something I wasn’t expecting to find, that’s for sure.”
Rowe flicked a quizzical glance in her direction as he started to pull out gloves and his instruments. “You’re a murder cop. What were you expecting if not a body?”
“I was expecting a body, just not one this fresh.” Before he could ask, she raised a hand. “Let me back up. At the unit, if we have time on our hands, we work open reports and cold case files. I had a report of some old guy in a nursing home who repeatedly told a story about a body hidden in this building. The family didn’t pay much attention—apparently he’s ninety-six and tends to tell some pretty tall tales on a regular basis—except he kept retelling this particular tale. So they reported it to the local police, who turned it over to us since it described a murder. I had some time on my hands today during shift, so I came out to look the place over.”
Daylight flared briefly into the room as the missing tech banged through the door, bags piled on his shoulders like a pack mule.
Rowe waved him in before turning back to Leigh. “Can we go ahead and do photos? I saw the crime scene boys in their van outside.”
“Yes. They’ve done their initial work, even did a fancy 3D laser mapping of the room. They did body shots, but I know you like to do your own in case anything changes between the scene and the morgue. They cleared out until after you’re done to preserve the integrity of the scene. I stayed to maintain it.”
Rowe motioned the tech to get started. The tech put down his bags, pulled out a camera, and immediately started photographing the body in situ.
Rowe stepped back to stay out of his way. Hands on his hips, he tipped his head back to consider the high ceiling above them. Plaster crumbled in chunks from overhead, but the remains of intricate crown molding still circled the top of the walls. “This is a great old building. Must be a hundred years old.”
“More than that actually. I took the time to look up the building’s history because I was trying to get a feel for exactly how long the supposed victim could have been here. It was built in eighteen-ninety.” She scanned the interior of the room again, taking in the worn wood floor, aged walls, peeling paint, and the water stain running nearly floor-to-ceiling beside a single window so grimy that only watery light filtered through. “It’s been at least a decade since this part of the building was occupied. I talked to the owner, who was extremely skeptical at the suggestion of a body. The upper three floors of the building are now low-income senior housing. He said that those floors were totally gutted and refurbished about twenty-five years ago and they certainly hadn’t found a body then. A few storefronts are still occupied but several are empty just like this space.”
“If they only renovated the upper three floors, that still gave you some leeway for a search,” Rowe reasoned. “Especially if the upper floors were always residential. It’s doubtful they’d be able to hide a body up there with no one noticing.”
“That’s exactly what I thought. The owner was
n’t willing to waste his time coming down here on a ‘wild goose chase’—his words, not mine—but he gave me full consent and these”—keys jingled merrily where they hung suspended between her index finger and thumb—“and told me to help myself. I checked out the empty stores in front before coming back here. As soon as I got to the bottom of the stairs in the brick archway, I could see the door standing open. I called out my designation, but no one responded. I came in cautiously because I was expecting a homeless person squatting out of the cold nights. But instead I found him.”
They both turned to look at the victim sprawled on the floor: male, probably in his mid to late forties. His clothes spoke of a lifetime of luxury and money—custom-made leather shoes, classic gold watch, and a perfectly tailored suit. He might have been asleep, if not for the dark blossom of blood over his heart and the waxy pallor of his skin.
Rowe stepped forward and leaned over for a better view. “That’s no homeless person. He’s wearing a Breitling watch that’s worth more than many people in Essex County make in a year.”
“I noticed that when the crime scene techs got the extra lighting set up.” She looked up at the single light socket that hung from a cord in the ceiling, the base of a shattered light-bulb still embedded in the fixture. “I’m thinking the owner’s estimate of this place being empty for a decade was conservative.”
Rowe circled the body, surveying it critically. “Gunshot wound is the only obvious cause of death at first glance.” After staring at the floor for a moment, he grasped one of the tripod lights and swiveled it around to shine into the dark corners of the musty, dank room. His gaze skimmed over the illuminated walls and floor. “Hmmm …”