D.D. made another note.
“Next up, let’s examine the open parts of letters such as m, n, y, h. Some people scrawl with a tight, cramped script that closes up these spaces. But your letter writer has produced full, open shapes, very elegant. Also, looking at the m’s and n’s, each hump is fully formed and rounded on top, while in contrast, the v in the word ‘everyone’ is sharply angled. This level of precision, each letter being fully and accurately formed, doesn’t just imply control, but also a great deal of practice, someone well schooled in penmanship.”
“You mean someone of higher education? Above average intelligence?” D.D. asked.
“I mean Catholic school,” Dembowski said bluntly. “I mean no one learns to write this beautifully without wearing a plaid uniform and being beaten by a nun.”
“Makes sense to me,” said D.D., who was the product of public education and wrote with a tight, cramped scrawl only a doctor could love. Across from her, Alex, who had attended a private Catholic school and regularly teased her about her illegible handwriting, grinned.
“Of course,” Dembowski continued, “the accurate spelling and correct use of punctuation, grammar, and capitalization all indicate a well-educated, intelligent person. Then again, the note consists of only two lines, meaning we have limited material for analysis.”
“Understood.” D.D. was starting to enjoy this. For better or for worse, Dembowski’s pseudoscience was starting to create an image of a killer in her head, and she liked it. The note agreed with her crime scene; her crime scene agreed with the note. That worked for D.D.
“Finally,” Dembowski said, “it’s important to look at the tail of the y and the ending hook of the last letter of each word. These flourishing touches can tell us a bit more about psyche. For example, while the consistent size and accurate form of each letter tells me your letter writer is practiced and precise, the tail of the y gives us the first insight into style. In this case, the y has a distinct loop, above and beyond what is strictly necessary for form. Likewise, each word ends with an upward flourish, a sort of graceful finishing touch.”
“You mean refined,” D.D. said sharply. “As in, I’m not only looking for someone well educated, but also upper class? Higher socioeconomics?”
“Possibly. Attending a private school, however, would seem to indicate that. Overall, my highly unscientific opinion is that the person who wrote this note is right-handed, very neat in appearance, detail-oriented, well educated, possibly Catholic, and of course…”
He paused a beat, as if the last piece of the puzzle should be obvious to D.D.
“Rounded letters,” Dembowski prodded. “Finishing flourishes.”
D.D. finally got it. Her eyes widened. “No way!”
“Oh I’m nearly positive. And when it comes to gender, studies have shown even a layperson can accurately predict the sex of a letter writer nearly 70 percent of the time. Men and women are different, even when it comes to penmanship. So, assuming the person who did the shooting is the same person who wrote this note, then your murderer…”
“Is a woman!” D.D. filled in.
“Yep and, most likely, a tightly wound one at that.”
Chapter 7
“THEY ALLOW DOGS IN THE COMM CENTER?”
I looked up from the coffee-stained counter in the tiny kitchenette area to find Officer Mackereth, lounging in the doorway, studying me and Tulip, who sat patiently by my side.
Seven forty-two A.M. My replacement, Sarah Duffy, had done me the courtesy of showing up on time for day shift. She’d logged in, performed roll call, then we’d spent thirty minutes reviewing the dispatch log from the graveyard shift, so she’d have a sense of history to guide the day. It helped particularly with domestic complaints, where maybe two calls from the same residence had already come in during one shift, then a third hit during the next shift. At that point the second dispatcher knew the situation was ongoing, possibly escalating, and probably it was time to get more aggressive with the police response, whether the caller agreed or not.
I’d just clocked out, feeling I’d earned every penny of my $14.50 hourly wage. I was simultaneously exhausted and cranked up on adrenaline, a dangerous combination for anyone, but particularly for me.
One more day down, three more to go until the twenty-first. Randi and Jackie had each been murdered in the evening. For the sake of argument, I’d set my mental deadline at 8 P.M. January 21. Meaning eighty-four hours and counting. Or, assuming I slept six hours each morning, only sixty waking hours left.
Tom pushed away from the doorjamb and walked into the small space. He approached Tulip, held out his hand.
“He got a name?”
“Her name is Tulip.”
“Bring her often?”
“Too cold to leave her outside,” I said, as if that explained everything.
He nodded, so maybe it did.
I finished wiping down the counter with a Clorox wipe, then went to work on the battered stainless steel sink with a scrubber sponge. Nine months ago, I’d started buying all new cleaning supplies for the break room. Trust me, someone had to do it.
Officer Mackereth was scratching Tulip’s ears, but eyeing me. I didn’t return his gaze. I scoured the sink. Coffee and hard water stains everywhere. Drove me nuts.
“Quite the call tonight,” he said presently.
I stilled, noticed a rust stain that would never come out, scrubbed harder.
“Sorry I was slow on the intel,” I said abruptly. “Caller was hiding from her husband and couldn’t really talk.”
“Then how’d you get the information?”
“Phone beeps.”
“Pardon?”
I finished the sink, glanced at him, then turned on the water to rinse the sponge. Officer Mackereth was probably mid-thirties, blue eyes, short-cropped brown hair. Bit burly, but carried it well. Gave him the kind of presence that made subjects give up on the idea of running and surrender instead.
I didn’t like him standing so close. I didn’t like him studying me with cop eyes, trained to ferret out secrets and spot dissembling.
He’d never caught up with me after a shift. Most of them hadn’t. On the one hand, as Detective D. D. Warren had said, I had their backs and they felt like they had mine. On the other hand, dispatchers had a notoriously high burnout rate. Meaning most of my officers were waiting for my one-year anniversary, to see if I was still around, before investing in a personal relationship.
I was like the walk-on part in all those old war movies. The new guy whose name nobody bothered to learn.
Except Officer Mackereth was talking to me now, paying attention to me now. Following war movie logic, he’d just doomed me to blow up in scene two.
The thought made me smile, then made me want to laugh, then made me want to cry.
Exhaustion and adrenaline. A dangerous combination in any person, but particularly in one with only eighty-four hours left.
“What do you mean phone beeps?” Officer Mackereth asked again.
I put away the Clorox wipes. Got out my messenger bag. “I asked questions. The caller responded by using one beep for yes, two beeps for no,” I supplied. “Got the job done.”
I slipped the wide flat strap crossways over my body, black leather bag, with my loaded Taurus, draped at my hip. I picked up Tulip’s leash.
And Officer Mackereth placed his hand on my arm.
I stilled. Maybe sucked in a breath. Tried to think what to feel, how to respond. For a year I’d been training to attack, retaliate, defend. I should drop into boxer’s stance, hands in front of my face. Take a picture, my coach always yelled. I should prepare to deliver jab one to be followed quickly by punch two, left hook three, uppercut four.
No one had touched me in a year. Casually, politely, kindly.
And the sheer vacuum of my isolation suddenly threatened to consume me. Isolation, exhaustion, adrenaline.
I wanted to laugh. I wanted to cry.
I wanted to throw myself
into Mackereth’s arms and remember what it felt like to be held again.
“Did you learn that in training?” he asked me evenly.
“No.”
“What about the gun? How’d you know he had a gun?”
His hand was still on my arm, his blue eyes fastened intently on my face. I kept my chin up, my expression neutral. “Just knew.”
His arm finally dropped. Beside me, Tulip whined slightly, as if sensing my discomfort.
“Good work,” he said abruptly. “I think.…Thank you, Charlie. I mean it, thanks.”
“I’m glad you’re okay,” I said simply. “And I’m sorry it took me so long to figure out the situation. I’ll do better next time.”
Two more shifts. That’s all she wrote. Two more shifts.
Officer Mackereth switched his attention to Tulip, who was now pressed against my leg. I noticed his hands by his side. No wedding ring, but that didn’t mean anything. Few officers wore them, not wanting to broadcast personal information in their line of work.
“I’ll take you home,” he said abruptly.
“It’s okay—” I started.
He cut me off. “Can’t take her on the T,” he said, gesturing to Tulip. “We might be open-minded,” his tone was wry, calling my bluff, “but Boston mass transit isn’t.”
He had me there. Taxi had cost me thirty bucks, nearly a third of my shift. Take another taxi home, and after taxes, why had I bothered to work at all?
I still hesitated, old instincts dying hard. Detective D. D. Warren had advised me to confide in my officers. They didn’t have ties to Randi or Jackie. They couldn’t be part of the problem, so I should make them part of the solution.
Except…In war movie logic, Officer Mackereth’s use of my name meant I’d die next. But in the story of my life, if I used Officer Mackereth’s name, he’d be the next to go. There was a reason I kept to myself; not just because I was trying to limit the pool of people who could hurt me, but because I was trying to limit the pool of people I might hurt back.
“Come on, Charlie,” Officer Mackereth said gruffly. “Cut a guy a break. You probably saved my life tonight. Least I can do is save you cab fare.”
He turned toward the door. And Tulip and I followed, Tulip with a fresh prance in her step at the unexpected attention.
I wondered what Jackie had been doing this time last year. I wondered what she’d been thinking, who she might have recently met. And I wondered, if she had known, if our trio’s erstwhile planner had foreseen her own death, what would’ve she done differently.
Said no or said yes?
That’s a central life question, don’t you think? Do you regret the things you did, or the things never done?
Eighty-four hours and counting, I followed Officer Mackereth to his vehicle.
I TOLD OFFICER MACKERETH I lived in Cambridge, by Harvard Square. Close enough, I figured. Tulip and I could walk the rest of the way from there.
Officer Mackereth, I learned, lived in Grovesnor. Meaning, given morning rush hour traffic northbound on I-93, he was now driving at least an hour out of his way. I protested again. He led me to his patrol car, which all officers drove home.
I climbed in the front, taking up position in a genuine black leather passenger seat that was quite comfortable. Tulip got the hard vinyl-covered bench in the back. Perfect for hosing down. Not so good for smooth-haired dogs. Tulip slid off twice, then gave up and lay on the floor.
“Where you from?” Officer Mackereth asked me as we hit the on-ramp for 93.
“New Hampshire.”
“Concord?”
“North, the mountains.”
“You ski?”
“A little. Cross-county.”
“Used to downhill in college,” he offered. “Tore my ACL. Cross-country might be better for me. Family?”
I squirmed in my seat, looked out the window. “Not married. You?”
“Never tried it. Seeing anyone?”
“Tulip’s pretty special,” I offered.
He chuckled. “You two been together long?”
“About to celebrate our six-month anniversary. I’m hoping she’ll bring me flowers. You have any pets?”
“No girlfriend, no kids, no pets. Two parents, one pain-in-the-ass older sister, and three adorable nieces and nephews. That’s enough for me.” His turn again: “Hobbies and interests?”
“I like to clean.”
He paused, glanced at me with his left hand on the wheel. “Seriously?”
I shrugged. “I work all night, then sleep all day. Cuts into a girl’s social life, you know.”
“Fair enough.” He glanced down at my hands fisted on my lap, stating shrewdly, “Bet you didn’t get those knuckles cleaning.”
I stared down self-consciously, wishing I’d put on my mittens, or at least tucked my hands beneath my legs. My knuckles were a mess, the valley between the joints of my pinky and ring finger swollen and purple on both hands. The remaining knuckles were abraded in several places, a collection of old and new injuries. Prizefighter hands. Not pretty, not feminine, and yet I valued this new and improved look very much.
“Boxing,” I admitted at last.
Officer Mackereth arched a brow. “Then you do have a hobby. Must be a serious one if you can do that kind of damage wearing gloves.”
I didn’t correct his assumption. Of course I fought bare-knuckled. What good were gloves gonna do me on the twenty-first?
“You seem to work mostly graveyard,” I stated, switching the focus back to him.
He nodded. “Mostly.”
“Why? You must have enough seniority to request a better rotation by now.”
Officer Mackereth shrugged. “I started out with graveyard because that’s what rookies get. And I don’t know. Guess I’ve always been a night person. I don’t mind the hours, while there are plenty of officers with families and kids and dogs, and God knows what, where graveyard would be a real pain in the ass. Seems to make more sense for me to keep the shift.”
“Team player,” I said.
“Most cops are,” he observed. “What about dispatch officers?”
“Loners,” I assured him, which wasn’t exactly true, but I was feeling impulsive. “Being shut up in a darkened room with multiple monitors and a dozen cups of java is our idea of a good time. You know what you get when you cross an air traffic controller with a tightrope walker? A nine-one-one operator.”
He laughed, a rich, easy sound that thrilled me more than it should have.
“What got you into dispatch, anyway?” he asked.
“Tried it out in Colorado. Needed a job, didn’t have a college degree. Call centers will take just about anyone, which fit my qualifications.”
As a student, I’d suffered from chronic memory issues, not to mention a limited ability to focus. It had made for a rough academic ride. Oh, the times Jackie had shaken her head at me as I’d failed yet another test. Turned out, however, that crises brought out the best in me. You don’t want me on your team for a quiz bowl, but if someone’s breaking into your house, I’m the gal to call. I planned on the adrenaline rush being my friend on the twenty-first.
“Not many dispatch officers make it through training,” Officer Mackereth observed now.
My turn to shrug. “Turned out I liked it. Every shift is different, you get to think on your feet. I’m probably painfully ADD, meaning it’s perfect. You?”
“Father’s a cop. Cliché, but there you have it. And I like it. Every shift is different. You get to think on your feet.”
Officer Mackereth exited 93 for Storrow Drive. Almost there now. Through the top of the rear divider, I could just make out Tulip’s head as she sat up in the back.
“You can drop us off in Harvard Square,” I said.
“You don’t live in Harvard Square.”
I looked at him. “How do you know where I live?”
“I’m a cop,” he answered levelly. “I looked it up.”
My hands stilled on my l
ap. I thought of my loaded Taurus, snug in my bag because they’d never let me wear it holstered at work. “Officer Mackereth,” I began.
“Tom.”
“Officer Mackereth.”
“Tom,” he repeated stubbornly.
“You can drop us off at Harvard Square,” I informed him crisply. “Tulip could use the walk.”
“Only if you answer one question.”
I eyed him mutely.
“Is it just me you don’t trust,” he continued evenly, “or is it all men? Because to the best of my knowledge, I’ve never done anything to disrespect you, but if I have, then I’d like to know so I can do better next time.”
He was nearly at Harvard Square. And he wasn’t going to slow down. I could tell that. He knew my address and he had it in his head that he owed Tulip and me a ride home. Maybe that was nefarious, maybe he wanted to prove what he knew, how close he could get.
Or maybe, he was a guy and I was a girl and tonight we’d shared something pretty intense. And I was exhausted and fired up and he was exhausted and fired up, and he had that deep laugh and that broad chest and it would be easy to touch him.
I remembered that. The warm, hard feel of a man’s skin beneath my hand. The coarse rasp of beard, the hungry taste of a man who wanted me as much as I wanted him. It made me feel a little reckless, a little wild.
Maybe what most of us feared wasn’t dying, but dying alone. Without ever really touching. Without ever really connecting. Having inhabited this earth, but without leaving any impression on it.
The thought hollowed me out. Took all my fatigue and restlessness and spiraled it dark and low, until I did want to sleep with a virtual stranger. I just wanted, for one moment, to feel like I mattered.
Officer Mackereth hit Harvard Square. He slowed, allowing for the morning congestion of lights, cars, and college students. He followed the road as it looped around brick buildings, slid under the overpass, took a left at one of the many green spaces, and formed a direct line to my house.
In the back, Tulip whined, sensing we were close. Four blocks. Three, two, one. Officer Mackereth tapped the brakes, turned right, traveled half a block down, then halted right in front of my landlady’s gray triple-decker.