by Unknown
The private club had no security cameras. Members flashed their ID and signed a sheet. The name Sam Dingle was on the list.
Fletcher had specifically requested room 33, which was conveniently located next to the elevator. His companion was an as-yet-unidentified young woman with long dark-red hair.
Eckart had escorted Bryson and Watts to the room, and when he heard the gunshots, he ran away and called security instead of the police – ‘I wanted to handle the matter privately, as I’m sure you can understand,’ he told Neil Joseph. Thick, grey smoke had started to fill the rooms and Eckart, believing there was a fire, had no choice put to pull the fire alarm.
Witnesses were hard to come by. Neil found two men who, after considerable prodding, reported seeing a man matching Bryson’s description being dragged into the private elevator before a smoke grenade and aerosol container laced with a nausea-inducing chemical flooded the hallways.
‘The aerosol and smoke grenades are used by SWAT teams in hostage situations,’ Darby said. ‘Both grenades contain serial numbers. The companies that manufactured them can use the serial numbers to find out which police agency purchased them.’
Malcolm Fletcher, Darby was sure, had most likely obtained the grenades from either a black-market dealer or at a gun show in a state where laws were lax and anything could be purchased for cash.
The blue pellets covering the bathroom floor came from three shell casings which also contained serial numbers. Neil Joseph was saddled with the unfortunate task of having to devote a significant amount of manpower to chasing down these leads which would most likely prove to be worthless.
‘You think Fletcher is still lingering around Boston?’ Coop asked.
‘If he is, he won’t be for long. He just killed a cop. Everyone in the state is going to be looking for him.’ Darby checked her watch. ‘I have to get to the morgue.’
Waiting for the elevator, Darby wondered why Malcolm Fletcher had decided to make a public spectacle of Bryson’s death. Doing so ensured intense media coverage. Maybe he wanted Bryson’s sins to have a national audience. Chadzynski was probably already meeting with her media advisor, working on spin control.
Darby couldn’t blame her. If what Tina Sanders said was true – that Tim Bryson had thrown a critical piece of evidence in exchange for money – what other cases had he contaminated? Had he planted, destroyed or removed evidence on the Emma Hale case?
62
Tim Bryson’s body lay on a steel table underneath a blue sheet spotted with blood.
Darby headed to the back of the autopsy suite. Cliff Watts, arms folded across his chest and face swollen from the stitched gash on his forehead, looked over the shoulder of Neil Joseph, who was hunched over one of the benches examining a clear, Ziplock bag smeared with blood. Lying next to the bag was a cell phone with a cracked screen.
‘This was inside his jacket pocket,’ Neil said to her, tapping his pen against the bag. It held Jennifer Sanders’ driver’s licence, hospital ID and credit cards. ‘I understand you found a purse next to the remains.’
Darby nodded. ‘It was empty,’ she said.
‘Bryson searched the hospital last weekend, right?’
‘We split into teams. The basement is a maze.’
‘Was Bryson with you?’
‘No.’
Neil looked to Watts and said, ‘How was the search organized?’
‘Three people on each team – two cops and someone from Sinclair security,’ Watts said. ‘Danvers PD loaned us some people.’
‘I talked with Bill Jordan. He said there are several ways to get inside the hospital. Bryson was well aware of them.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Maybe your partner went back for this evidence here and didn’t get around to disposing of it.’
‘Cut the shit, Neil, you know as well as I do Fletcher planted this bag before he tossed Tim off the roof.’
‘I don’t know that. The only thing I know is that this bag here was found inside Tim Bryson’s jacket. Maybe there’s some truth to what Bryson told Tina Sanders about that piece of missing evidence – what was it again, a belt?’
‘You’re taking sides with a psychopath?’
‘No, Cliff, I’m trying to figure out why Fletcher tossed Bryson off the roof – in a public place, no less. I’m trying to figure out if your partner was dirty.’ Neil straightened and looked Watts directly in the eye. ‘You two worked together in Saugus, right?’
‘I don’t have to put up with this shit.’ Watts stormed out of the room.
‘Don’t go too far,’ Neil called after him. He caught the expression on Darby’s face and said, ‘Something you want to add?’
‘I was thinking about a quote Fletcher told me, a line from George Bernard Shaw: “If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance.”’
‘Well, it looks like the son of a bitch is going to get his wish. Bryson’s all over the news. How long do you want to bet it will be until his conversation with Tina Sanders gets out? My guess is the end of the week.’
‘A cassette was playing when I found the remains,’ Darby said. ‘If Bryson went back there and cleaned out her purse, why would he leave the cassette?’
‘That’s a good question. You got an answer for me?’
‘Not yet, but if I were you, I’d shitcan the attitude.’
Darby left to change into scrubs. She ran cold water over her face until her skin was numb.
When she came back into the room with her equipment, ID was taking pictures. Tim Bryson’s mangled, crushed body lay under the harsh autopsy light, still dressed in his bloody clothing. Bags were tied around his hands.
Neil walked up next to her and leaned against the counter. ‘Tina Sanders still won’t speak to us,’ he said. ‘You think Fletcher threatened her?’
‘I don’t know. My guess is she’s in shock. All these years go by and then in the course of two days she not only discovers her daughter’s remains, she’s given the name of the man who killed her.’
‘Have you spoken to Jonathan Hale recently?’
‘Bryson and I went to talk to him on Saturday.’
‘So you haven’t talked to him since?’
‘No. Why?’
‘I took a look through Bryson’s cell phone. Hale’s name is listed on Bryson’s call log. Hale called twice last night. Bryson got a voicemail, but I don’t know his password so I can’t unlock it. You mind if I speak to Hale?’
‘Be my guest.’
ID finished the first round of pictures. Darby collected grit samples from underneath Bryson’s fingernails. There were no marks on his palms; he hadn’t fought off Fletcher. His right wrist was broken.
Collecting fibres and pieces of glass from the clothing, Darby spotted a bruised area on Bryson’s neck.
‘It looks like an injection site,’ she told Neil. ‘We’ll have to wait until the tox screen comes back.’
Darby went to work cutting the clothing. She replayed her conversation with Tina Sanders, remembering the framed picture of the young girl she had seen on Bryson’s desk.
I had one, my daughter, Emily, Bryson had told her that morning after visiting Jonathan Hale. She had this really rare form of leukaemia. We took her to every specialist under the sun. Seeing everything she went through, I would have sold my soul to the devil to spare her life. I know that sounds overly melodramatic, but it’s the honest-to-God truth. You’ll do anything for your kids. Anything in the world.
Was Bryson made so desperate by his fear and love for his daughter that he orchestrated a plan to throw away the key piece of evidence in a murder investigation in exchange for money he used in a final attempt to save his daughter’s life?
Darby slipped into that private place where she carried her true feelings about people, the same part which demanded a fierce, almost childish fairness in all human transactions; that constantly fought to separate everyone and everything into clearly labelled categories of right and wrong, good an
d evil. What side did Bryson fall? Darby considered the question and was surprised, even slightly appalled, to feel a cold, grim satisfaction.
To wash it away, Darby thought of the framed picture of the young girl. She focused on Emily Bryson’s smile to summon some measure of sympathy and still she felt empty.
63
Boston’s Forensic Anthropology Unit was a small suite of windowless, cluttered offices crammed with government-issued steel grey bookcases and matching filing cabinets. Except for an anatomical chart, the white walls behind Carter’s desk were bare.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ Darby said.
‘It’s fine. It gave the students more time with the bones. It’s rare to get a full set of remains.’ Carter, short and stocky with grey stubble and thick glasses from some bygone era, grunted as he stood. ‘You look exhausted.’
‘I haven’t slept yet.’
‘I don’t know if the remains belong to Jennifer Sanders. I’m still waiting for the dental records to be sent over.’
Carter escorted her to the locker room. Darby changed into surgical scrubs and followed him down the hall to the bone room.
She passed the small room containing a sink and stove. The majority of bones sent here for examination more often than not were covered in decomposing soft tissue. In such cases, bones were placed in Crock-Pots and roasting pans holding water and detergent and brought to a gentle boil in order to allow the bones to adjust to the heat. The process, called thermal maceration, sloughed off the remaining tissue.
The remains were assembled on an adjustable steel gurney similar to the ones used in the morgue. As always, the room was very cool.
‘The remains are definitely female,’ Carter said. He pointed to the pelvic bones. ‘We have a raised sacroiliac joint and the wide sciatic notch. Given the blonde hair mat and the characteristics of the skull, our Jane Doe is definitely Caucasian.’
‘What about age?’
‘The medial ends of the bones aren’t completely fused to the shafts, so she’s at least twenty-five. The pelvic bones are dense and smooth. Because they don’t show any grain, and given the fact that the cranium’s intermaxillary sutures aren’t fused, she’s no older than thirty-five.’
‘Cause of death?’
‘Look at the hyoid bone.’
Darby checked the horseshoe-shaped bone in the neck. It was broken.
‘She was strangled.’
‘Yes,’ Carter said. ‘Now take a look at this.’
He pointed to the scapula. Darby saw a large fracture.
‘That was caused by a serious blow,’ Carter said. ‘Either he kicked her or he hit her with something like a bat or a long piece of wood.’
‘What about a brick?’
‘That might do it. She’s got some other fractures. The poor girl was beaten.’ Carter sighed, shook his head. ‘The femur is just under forty-eight centimetres. Our Jane Doe is between five-six and five-nine.’
The office phone buzzed.
‘Excuse me,’ Carter said. He took the call, listened for a moment and without answering hung up. ‘Jennifer Sanders’ dental records are here. I’ll be right back.’
While Carter compared the dental records, Darby stared at the remains, wondering how long they had lain inside the room full of brick and plaster. Was she kept alive for days, beaten and possibly raped before she was strangled? How long had she cried out for help?
Carter pushed his glasses up his long, beak-like nose.
‘It’s Jennifer Sanders,’ he said.
64
Walter calmly set the tray on the kitchen counter. Hannah had finished most of her dinner. She had been with him for nearly five days and she still refused to speak to him.
Emma Hale had screamed the first two weeks, calling him every name in the book while demanding to be let go immediately. At the beginning of the second month, she had tried to attack him with one of the kitchen chairs inside her room. To prevent that from happening again, he used chains with brackets and locks to secure chairs to the kitchen table legs. As punishment, he turned off the electricity to her room and left Emma alone in the dark, without food, for several days, to teach her a lesson.
It worked. For the next three months Emma was well behaved. She acted friendly and kind. She seemed interested in what he had to say. She opened up and shared things about her life – personal, intimate things like her mother’s death. They had many long, pleasant conversations. They even watched movies together – When Harry Met Sally and Pretty Woman. To show his appreciation, he brought her to the upstairs dining room for a special romantic dinner and served everything on fine china. Emma had repaid his kindness by hitting him over the head with the dinner plate. She almost made it to the front door.
In the beginning, he had been dazzled by Emma’s beauty, had fallen under her spell and was willing to do anything in the world to make her love him – he had gone so far as to sneak back inside Emma’s home to retrieve a special necklace. He had given it to Emma as a surprise and she still refused to love him and Mary told him it was time to send Emma away.
The first week, Judith Chen hadn’t screamed or yelled; that came later. When he offered to buy her clothes, any clothes she wanted, she had said yes and thanked him. She had modelled the clothes for him, said how nice they were, and thanked him. He bought her the books she wanted, DVDs and magazines; he cooked her favourite meals and always she thanked him.
With her soft voice and disarming manner, Judith had seductively manoeuvred him into walks outside to get fresh air. He always took her out late at night, when the rest of the world was asleep. Blindfolded, she sat in the passenger seat and he drove her a mile away, to an isolated section of woods, and walked with her. She never complained about the gag or the handcuffs. When he returned Judith to her room, she thanked him, she always thanked him.
The night she tried to escape, they were out for one of their lovely walks. This time he hadn’t gagged her but her wrists were cuffed. On the way back to the car, she asked if she could kiss him. She leaned forward, smiling, and drove her knee into his crotch.
The pain was like a white-hot supernova; it exploded across his vision and the next thing he knew he was down on the ground among the dry pine needles gasping for air. She kicked him in the stomach and kicked him in the head once, twice, three times. Then she was sitting on the ground and, like an acrobat, moving her cuffed wrists across the back of her legs and over her feet. She grabbed the car keys from his coat pocket and ran through the woods.
Bleeding and dizzy, he managed to get to his feet and run after her. Mary told him to relax – everything would be fine, she said, and Mary was right; she was always right.
Walter caught up to Judith just as she reached the car. He pulled her away from the door and Judith screamed and he shoved her face against the hood and she kept screaming and again he smashed her face against the hood and windshield until Mary told him to stop.
Judith didn’t talk after that. Then she got sick and she… she had to leave.
Why wouldn’t Hannah speak to him?
This morning, when he delivered breakfast, he had asked her if there was anything she would like: a book, movie, a CD by her favourite band – anything, just name it. Hannah didn’t answer.
Walter came back an hour later and knocked on the door. She didn’t answer. He collected the dishes from the sliding tray and carried them upstairs. He worked out extra hard and took a long shower.
He brought her lunch and knocked. When Hannah didn’t answer, he let himself in. She was sitting in the leather chair again.
Unable to stand the silence any more, Walter decided to tell Hannah about the accident, how he had woken up in bed with his skin and hair on fire and Momma already collapsed on the burning bed. He stressed how he didn’t blame Momma for hurting him. Momma was angry because Daddy had left them when Walter was still in her belly and Momma had to work two jobs to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. Momma talked about how angry she was a
t God for having him take away her dreams and sticking her with a bad child – and he had been bad, oh yes, he had done bad things to get Momma’s attention. He didn’t tell Hannah about the time he was caught choking the little girl. It was an accident. All he wanted was to hug her. She was so pretty and she smelled so good.
Walter told Hannah how he had learned, through patience and prayer, lots of prayer, to forgive Momma even after all the terrible things she did to him, like the time she dunked his hand in a pot of boiling water. He still loved her now, even though Momma was gone and in heaven.
And now it was time for Hannah to forgive him. It was time to move forward. It was time for Hannah to be thankful for all the wonderful blessings in her life.
As a show of good will, Walter gave her a present – a sheet of beautiful Crane stationery and a matching envelope. He handed her a pen and told her to write a letter to her parents. He promised to mail it. Again he said he was sorry for hurting her. It was an accident. Forgive me, Hannah. Please.
Hannah didn’t answer.
Walter gripped the edge of the kitchen counter. He had opened up to Hannah, shared his most painful secrets, and she hadn’t said one word, just sat in the damn chair, waiting for him to leave. Her silence mocked him. He felt like slapping her right then but he didn’t. Walter was proud of his self-control. He washed the dishes and shut off the lights in the kitchen.
For the next two hours he worked on a client’s website. Then he hit the weights until his muscles were depleted.
Walter felt lighter, much better. He sat down with the wedding album.
The first picture was a wonderful black-and-white photograph of Hannah dressed in a stunning Vera Wang wedding gown. Walter wore a classic black tux. They were holding hands. The people sitting in the pews were smiling, admiring them. Everyone was clapping.
Here was another picture of them on their honeymoon in Aruba. Hannah stood on a beach of white sand, wearing a breathtaking black bikini that barely covered her tanned body. Her hair was wet, smelling of the ocean, and she was smiling and happy as she looked down on him, her husband, lying on a towel under the bright, hot sun, his skin perfectly tanned and sculpted with muscle, not a blemish or scar anywhere.