He couldn’t possibly have one this fast if Leo Gantz confessed to the murder within the past hour, and I’ve been with Marino all afternoon. I haven’t overheard him on the phone saying anything about searching Leo’s house or even questioning him. It would have come up eventually in the investigation but with all that’s gone on there hasn’t been time.
“When you get a warrant let me know,” she continues. “And I’ll be happy to help.”
She’s saying she’s not going anywhere with him. Lucy doesn’t want to be used as a weapon in his battle with Machado and I don’t blame her. She may also know that it’s a battle already over, no winner or loser really. There can’t be in something like this.
“It’s important that Machado doesn’t start interrogating Leo with nobody else there.” Benton isn’t defensive or overbearing as he again reminds Marino that Machado has formally requested the assistance of the FBI in the Nari homicide investigation.
The official machinery is in motion. Benton rubs it in. Agents have been assigned and deployed, and strategic discussions are under way, he says. It’s a process that’s hard to stop and Marino doesn’t have that kind of authority.
“He’s a loose cannon.” Marino is very loud.
“Don’t give him reason to say you are,” Benton warns. “He’s asked that we help with the Nari investigation and respond to the Gantz house and that has to be dealt with.”
“And I’m unrequesting the FBI.” Marino is incensed. “He shouldn’t have asked for assistance without clearing it with me.”
“I believe the appropriate party to clear it with would have been your commissioner,” Benton says.
“So the Feds will take over? They probably already have, right?”
Benton says nothing. He’s in his email, on his phone, typing. It’s a ruse and Marino falls hard for it.
“What the hell is wrong with him?” he exclaims.
“Let me see what I can do,” Benton says, and it’s not true. “We need to get this taken care of.” He continues to mislead, the situation already taken care of but Marino is none the wiser.
He’s too angry to pick up on subtleties and has a decision to make. Marino has to choose where his loyalty lies, and I can see him struggle. I see it in his eyes and in the flexing of his jaw muscles. He wants Machado gone and he hates that he wants it. He has the power to make Machado gone but he’s trying to persuade the commissioner and Benton to do it, and they won’t, not directly, and it’s already done anyway. Marino needs to do the right thing and tell the truth. That’s what Benton is waiting for, and I think back to what Marino said about having Machado’s back and keeping his secrets.
“I’m not sure there’s ever been a time when we were asked and then the requesting department changed its mind,” Benton seems to muse. “Paperwork has started. Calls have been made. This is extremely difficult and I don’t want to create any exposure. Legally, I mean.”
Then the door leading inside my building opens again. Rusty and Harold roll out the pouched body, a small shape in its black cocoon. Wheels make a quiet clatter as the steel carrier is guided down the ramp, the two autopsy techs on either side of it like pallbearers. Past Lucy’s car. To the back of the van. Jen Garate appears in the square opening of the bay door. The Bean brothers greet her enthusiastically as if it’s nothing to be in a bay with a dead body, as if they just ran into each other in a coffee shop or a grocery store.
“This is how he wants it to go? Fine,” Marino says. “I’m texting him right now that he’d better not start without me.” He does it as he’s saying it. “He damn better just wait until I roll up. He doesn’t know shit and he’s going to totally ruin this case because he’s got something to prove.” His thumbs are busy typing.
“I’d suggest that you’re careful what you put in writing,” Benton says.
“Screw him.”
“I’m heading out for the day,” I hear Jen Garate say, and she looks at me and waves. “If you need anything you know where to find me,” she calls out cheerfully. “Happy Birthday! Her scene photographs have been uploaded if you want to see them.”
She means Gracie Smithers’s have been.
“But remember you’re not supposed to be working!” she adds as she walks outside into the parking lot, heading to her sporty car, a fiery red Scion.
“This isn’t helpful, Pete. Be careful and stop texting,” Benton says.
“You’re just noticing it isn’t helpful? You don’t know the half of it.”
The Bean brothers lift the pouch off the carrier. I can tell by the way they handle it that Gracie Smithers doesn’t weigh much and is in full rigor mortis. They’re gentle as they place her on a padded quilt in the back of the van and belt her in with Velcro straps attached to the floor. They’re talking in low voices that are hard to hear.
“Holy smoke.” I make out what Harold says. “Well that’s going to make things hit the fan.”
I pick up the words lawsuit and congressman, and Benton is very calm with Marino who says in no uncertain terms he wants Machado pulled off the case. Marino refuses to work with him on any case. Then he throws Machado under the bus.
CHAPTER 22
SIL MACHADO IS SLEEPING with my firearms examiner Liz Wrighton. But that’s not the worst of it.
Their professional involvement changed in a manner that is strictly against protocol and is possibly criminal. She moves his cases to the head of the line. She goes out of her way to accommodate, and he returns the favor by giving her information she’s not supposed to have, details that could taint her objectivity. Marino claims he knows all this for a fact, and his wrath is dissipated just like that.
“I’m sorry, Doc,” he says to me and he looks deflated and overheated. “This wasn’t the way I meant for you to hear it.”
I don’t believe he ever meant for me to hear it, and he should have told me. He should have told me when he first found out. The problem with a woman, as he put it earlier today, is this particular one works for me. He’s said not a word until now. I’m reminded that his allegiance has shifted away from the CFC and from me. He’s a cop again. He walks, talks and thinks like one.
“Is it true?” Benton asks me and I have no doubt he already knows.
“This is the first I’ve heard of it,” I reply with a quietness that belies my anger.
The black van beeps as it backs out of the bay, and Rusty and Harold head our way, guiding the empty carrier. I push the button for the retracted door. The motor is loud as the steel panels begin to roll down. I watch the square space get smaller, closing out the dusky sky and the white crime scene vehicles in the parking lot. It’s almost six o’clock. Most people are gone. I focus on the metallic blue Ferrari and remember what Marino said about people spending money when they’re unhappy. I wonder what else has been kept from me.
Wheels softly rattle as Rusty and Harold walk past us, heads bent, giving us privacy, and knowing them they’ve heard enough. They push the empty carrier inside, the far wall heavy and solid with stainless steel. I lean against the metal windowless door, holding it open. I ask them to move Jamal Nari’s body out of whatever cooler it’s in.
“You want him at your station?” They pause by the floor scale and won’t look at Marino.
They wouldn’t approve of what he just did. They probably think it’s hypocritical and unfair. As is true of the general male population here they’re enamored of Liz, and Marino has had his share of indiscretions, serious ones that wouldn’t have been ignored were he anybody else. He’ll continue to be Cambridge’s star detective only now he’ll be unfettered. I’ll probably have to fire Liz.
“Put him in the autopsy room but you can leave him as is on the tray,” I tell Rusty and Harold. “I don’t need him on the table. I’ll be there in a few minutes. When I’m done I’ll roll him back inside the cooler if the two of you would like to leave.”
“If that’s okay. We’ve got our bowling league tonight. A hair away from winning a trip to Vegas.” The
y don’t sound excited. What they just witnessed has made them subdued and in a hurry to get out of here.
“Good luck,” I reply.
“Liz Wrighton? You’re sure?” Benton asks Marino as I close the door.
I walk past everyone, down the ramp, over to the table with its red and yellow French country cloth. Straightening up and cleaning always calms me.
“Yeah I’m sure.” Marino avoids looking anyone in the eye.
“What’s your relationship with her? It’s important I know.” Benton already does.
“Nothing,” Marino says. “I know her type and I’m not about to take a chance of fucking up cases or ending up in jail.”
I empty the ashtray into the trash. Cigarette butts and what’s left of the cigars smell dirty and stale.
“Would Machado say your relationship with her is nothing?” Benton asks.
“I don’t give a shit what he says. It wouldn’t be his first or last lie about me.”
“You would deny it.”
“I sure as hell would and he doesn’t have a damn thing to prove his bullshit.”
I run water in the sink and it makes a hollow drumming sound against stainless steel. Pulling cellophane off a new roll of paper towels, I rip off several sheets.
“Good. That’s one problem we can cross off the list,” Benton says, and it’s not lost on me that Lucy is quiet.
I think of emails, of any indelicate communications. If there were any such exchanged between Marino and Liz, I have a feeling they would have disappeared from our server. Lucy is the system administrator and would protect him. She wouldn’t hesitate to scrub his phone. I also have no doubt she would preserve damning emails relating to Machado. Lucy will defend her people at any cost.
“Liz Wrighton has already done the analysis. I suggest we have it done again so she isn’t the one who testifies about it.” Benton doesn’t seem surprised by what has gone on.
He knows her reputation and I also suspect Lucy tipped him off. It’s the sort of messiness she would find out. There’s nothing she doesn’t see if she decides to look. But if she’s known for a while she didn’t tell me. I’m trying not to be bothered by that. Running water splashes loudly as I rinse the ashtray, scrubbing it hard with my fingertips, the water very cold. I feel Lucy watching me.
Neither she nor Marino told me. For an instant I can’t look at either of them. Just as quickly I’m over it. I dry the ashtray with a paper towel and return it to the table. I wipe off the plastic cloth. I pick up the pastry box and walk back up the ramp. I look at Lucy, and her green stare is unwavering. I see nothing in it that might tell me she feels she did anything wrong. I look at Marino and continue looking at him until he gives me his eyes. What’s in mine should reassure him that I’ve already let it go.
Anger helps nothing. What’s done is done. Now we move on. I open the door and lean against it. Soft lighting from inside illuminates the ramp, and the security guard behind her glass window smiles at me. Georgia Cruz is new. She was born in Georgia while her career Army father was stationed at Fort Benning, and she’s good. I like her. She resumes typing on her computer, rolling her chair back to the 3-D printer inside her bulletproof glass-enclosed workspace, what people call The Fish Tank.
“Maybe you can pass it up the chain about him being compromised and have your SAC call Gerry Everman.” Marino sounds slightly desperate.
He doesn’t like being a snitch and I can imagine what he’s thinking. If he couldn’t work with Machado before, now he absolutely can’t. Marino must have him completely out of the picture but the Cambridge police commissioner doesn’t need to hear it from the Boston Division’s Special Agent in Charge. A word from Benton would suffice and I’m sure that word was passed along hours ago. As I stand inside the bay with my husband, my niece and Marino, all of us congregated at the top of the concrete ramp near the open door, I watch the mouse get trapped.
Machado is the mouse and it’s all played out. It’s what Benton does. A simple plan with the end result that the young investigator takes the fall after Marino drops the dime on him. Marino assumes he caused everything to happen but in fact Machado’s fate was decided earlier, possibly much earlier. There may have been discussions long before my phone call about the bleach. The rivalry and dirty secrets between Machado and Marino became destructive. One of them had to go.
“It’s his fault he didn’t recuse himself,” Marino says to me, and I don’t respond. “The minute you asked her to come in today and examine the bullet frag we recovered he had a chance to do the right thing and recuse himself. He’s had chances for months. I kept waiting for him to do what was right.”
“He should never have put himself in the situation to begin with.” Lucy finally speaks. “And Liz shouldn’t have either. But rules don’t apply to her. They don’t seem to apply to a number of people these days.”
It’s an ironical comment for my niece to make. She has no respect for rules and no trouble rationalizing anything she does.
“Unfortunately people being who and what they are, relationships happen,” Benton replies and he should know.
When ours began we were working a homicide and he was married. We didn’t recuse ourselves from anything. We didn’t even try. We were smart enough not to get caught. The truth is none of us always does what’s right or fair. But when it comes to Lucy, Benton, Marino and me what can always be counted on is that ultimately we will side with each other.
“We need to get things on track and I’ll tell you what else isn’t helpful.” Marino’s mood has dramatically shifted as if nothing has happened and he’s in charge. “Suits and muscle heads in flak jackets. This is a psychological thing right now, Benton. A fifteen-year-old kid is admitting to something it’s not possible he did.”
“He’s in a lot of trouble,” Benton replies. “He’s used to lying. Unfortunately for him, he’s good at it which isn’t unusual when kids have been abused.”
“Maybe you can tell me exactly what Machado told you.” Marino looks red faced and disheveled in his baggy Harley jacket and sweatpants, while Benton is impeccably dressed, unreadable and cool.
“Exactly this,” Benton replies. “At around eight A.M. Leo got into a fight with Nari inside the apartment. Leo returned later and shot him. Afterward he dropped the gun into the sewer but conveniently can’t remember which manhole cover he removed to do so.”
“And he did that without a lifting tool,” Marino says. “What? He pried open a hundred pounds of cast iron with his damn finger? Don’t tell me you think there’s any truth in this.”
“It has to be taken seriously.”
“I can tell you what he’s tweeting,” Lucy says. “He claims that all he did was go there to talk, to give Nari’s wife a tennis trophy as a gift and he attacked him. He hit Leo in the head with it. So Leo came back later and shot him. Not one tweet,” she says this to me. “Ten of them telling the story.”
“A TENNIS TROPHY,” I repeat. “It would be helpful if I can see it before I examine him.”
“It never happened,” Marino says, and I think of the apartment on Farrar Street.
I didn’t see a tennis trophy or any sign of a struggle. I think of the guitars and the possible presence of bleach, details I’m betting Leo Gantz doesn’t have a clue about. Who was inside that apartment? Who was it really and what was the person doing in there?
I text Anne. I ask if she’s still in the building. I want to know what showed up in Nari’s CT scans, if she saw anything unusual including gastric contents that Luke Zenner described as interesting.
“You need to keep in mind Leo’s tweets were from his house, from its wireless network,” Lucy continues to explain. “But not the one this morning that alluded to Jamal Nari’s death before it happened. The IP for that is the Sheraton in Cambridge, the business center. The tweet was sent from one of their computers at nine A.M. Then it was retweeted like crazy,” she adds as I read Anne’s response.
She’ll stop by the receiving area
where I’m still holding open the door, leaning against it. I listen to Lucy explain that the tweet sent from the Sheraton at nine o’clock this morning was from the Twitter account that uses the name Copperhead. Maybe at some level I expected it. Now I have a better idea why Benton is here and what he and Lucy have been doing.
“In both cases a hotel computer in its business center was used,” she says. “It made tracing the tweets a dead end because the IP and the machine access code belong to a computer that’s used by the public, by guests in the hotel or any person wandering in to print their boarding pass or whatever.”
“So you have no idea who Copperhead is?” I watch Anne emerge from the corridor, a long white lab coat flapping around her knees and a smile on her plain but pleasant face.
“I know who it’s supposed to be,” Lucy says.
CHAPTER 23
GEORGIA SLIDES OPEN HER window in the center of the bright white receiving area.
She says something to Anne as she walks through. Both of them laugh and Anne sasses her back, an inside joke that I don’t hear as I listen to what Lucy is saying about the identity of Copperhead.
“It’s a Twitter account belonging to Michael Orland, who died in February,” she says and Marino looks amazed.
“The piano guy?” he exclaims. “I saw him on Leno right before he quit. Maybe it was Idol. It wasn’t that long ago. I guess it could have been taped.”
“That’s a shame.” Anne walks over to us.
“This Michael Orland was a plumber,” Lucy says. “After he died someone hijacked his account.”
“How do you know he’s dead?” I ask.
“Twitter. His location, bio and contact info make it clear he’s the Michael Orland who was a hospital homicide in Florida this past February,” she says. “Six patients were given lethal doses of mivacurium chloride. There may have been others. A nurse was arrested and they’re still exhuming the bodies of other patients who suddenly stopped breathing. He was from not far from here, New Bedford, was visiting Saint Augustine and had an appendectomy. Soon after, he died. He was single, no kids. It’s a fairly typical example of it not occurring to anyone to delete a Twitter account. Some hackers have programs set up that do nothing but search for dormant users. Usually it means the person is dead or for some reason isn’t going to notice. Those are good accounts to hijack.”
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