“Single attacker,” D.D. picked up. “Let’s talk about the number of perpetrators for a second. What about cases where the adolescent child has a partner in crime, like the daughter and her boyfriend who kill her family so they can be together. Or wasn’t there a case where a daughter and her lesbian lover murdered her grandparents so they could be together? Stuff like that.”
“When a teenager is the instigator of family annihilation,” Alex said, “there are instances of partner involvement. In those cases, however, both partners murder the offending family members, then escape together. Not kill the family, plus the adolescent instigator, and then the partner gets away.”
“Coconspirator turned on the instigator?”
“Why?” Alex asked.
“Hell if I know.”
“Not probable,” Alex said. “Furthermore, the Harrington scene is methodical. Two teenagers on a killing spree are never gonna get through a house that clean. We’re looking for a perpetrator of above-average strength and intelligence. Patient, calculating, and skilled. Find me that teenager, and we’ll talk.”
“Fair enough,” D.D. said. “What do we know about the knife?”
“The knife used in the Harrington attack matched a set found in the kitchen.” Phil had finished his donut and was brushing crumbs off his rounded belly. “Handle too smeared to yield prints.”
“And the handgun?”
“Registered to Patrick Harrington. His prints on the handle.”
“So murder weapons came from inside the home?”
Phil nodded.
“All right. The Laraquette-Solis scene?”
Alex took the lead this time, picking up his notes. “Mixed methodology. Four shot—the adult male in the family room, the teenage boy in the hallway, and two girls in their bedroom. Adult female, Audi Solis, was fatally stabbed in the kitchen. Baby was suffocated in her crib, presumably with a pillow. Order unknown at this time. Could be father did family, then lay down on the sofa and shot himself. Could be he was taken out first, then the family, with the handgun returned to the father to implicate him in the crime.”
“Knife?” D.D. asked.
“Matches the set found in the kitchen,” Phil repeated. “Handle didn’t yield prints.”
“Gun?”
“Unregistered, serial number filed off.”
“Stolen,” D.D. said. “Black market.”
“Most likely. Given Hermes’s lifestyle …”
“Hot gun for the dope dealer,” D.D. concluded. She paused for a minute, considering their list. “Interesting that both scenes yield the same three methodologies for murder: shooting, stabbing, asphyxiation. And that in both scenes, the murder weapons originated from inside the home.”
“Not conclusive,” Alex cautioned.
“Not. But interesting. In your words, this type of crime generally has a singular approach. We now have two scenes where an entire family was eliminated using three separate methodologies, and the murder weapons were found inside the home. What are the odds of that?”
“Copycat?” Neil asked from the back.
D.D. shook her head. “Can’t be. We haven’t released cause of death to the media yet. They know Patrick Harrington was admitted to the hospital for a gunshot wound. But we didn’t release stabbing, and we definitely never revealed that Molly Harrington was strangled.”
More silence, which was answer enough.
D.D. set down the blue dry-erase marker.
“Houston,” she declared, “I think we have a problem.”
D.D.’s boss didn’t want to go nuts yet. Sure, there were some disturbing coincidences between the Harrington scene and the Laraquette case. But coincidence could be just coincidence, while the formation of an official taskforce was bound to attract media attention. Next thing you knew, some Nancy Grace wannabe would announce the two cases were conclusively linked, with a madman running around Boston murdering entire families. Phones would ring nonstop. The mayor would demand a statement. Things would get messy.
It was August. People were hot and short-tempered. The less said the better.
Instead, the deputy superintendent came up with the bright idea that D.D.’s squad could handle both investigations. Thus, if any more coincidences were discovered, they’d be quick to put the pieces together.
D.D. pointed out that assigning three detectives to cover two mass murders was asking a bit much.
D.D.’s boss countered that she was essentially working with a four-man squad: She had Academy professor Alex Wilson to assist with prepping reports on the crime scenes.
She demanded two more detectives, bare minimum.
He granted her Boston’s drug squad to assist with background info on Hermes.
It was more than D.D. normally got from her stressed-out, budget-bound boss, so she considered it a victory.
Her squad accepted the news without blinking. So they’d be eating at their desks and neglecting their families. That went without saying in this day and age of reduced government funding and escalating rates of homicide. You didn’t become a detective for the lifestyle.
Given that their weekend appeared grim, D.D. decided the first thing they should do was break for lunch. Half a dozen donuts doesn’t last a girl as long as you’d think. Fortunately, the BPD cafeteria was not only located conveniently downstairs but was known for its food.
D.D. went with rare roast beef on rye, fully loaded, plus a giant slice of lemon cake. Phil, who she would swear was half woman, ordered a chef’s salad. Neil requested egg salad, a questionable choice, D.D. thought, for a man due back at the morgue. The lanky redhead downed his sandwich in four bites, then was out the door, whistling cheerfully. D.D. suspected he’d taken an interest in the ME. God knows they were spending a lot of quality time together.
Alex settled in beside D.D. with grilled chicken and penne pasta. She gave him grudging respect for eating hot food on a day when it was over ninety.
He loaded up on salt, red-pepper flakes, then Parmesan. After a bit of experimenting, he seemed to decide his lunch was good to go. High maintenance when it came to food.
Naked. In her bed. Cold chills. Warm thrills.
D.D. took a giant bite of sandwich.
“You can’t really believe the two cases are linked,” Alex asked after a minute. Phil was sorting his way through his salad, avoiding tomatoes, loading up on ranch dressing. He looked up at this, eyeing D.D. with equal skepticism.
She took another bite, chewed, swallowed. “Can’t decide,” she said at last.
“Well, you gotta think something,” Phil countered, “since you just bought us both cases.”
“Victims have nothing in common,” Alex said. “Given the difference between the two families’ geography, occupations, and lifestyle, what are the odds they knew the same homicidal maniac?”
“Could be a stranger crime,” D.D. said with a shrug.
Alex arched a brow. “Even lower probability, given that you’re talking about an attack on an entire family, which, at least in the Harrington case, occurred while still daylight. A disorganized killer might have the impulsiveness for such an attack, but not the methodical approach. Organized killers generally take the time to scout out risky targets.”
“One of BTK’s first crimes was an attack on a family right after breakfast,” D.D. said, referring to the notorious Bind Torture Kill murderer who operated for decades in Kansas. “He talked himself through the front door, then held a gun on the kids until the parents agreed to be tied up. Once he subdued the parents, he proceeded according to plan.”
“No evidence of bondage at our scenes,” Phil pointed out.
“And BTK stalked his targets first,” Alex said firmly. “He spent months on reconnaissance before he made his move. We’re talking two crimes that occurred within thirty-six hours of each other. Where’s the time for stalking, for identifying each family member, formulating a strategy for attack, and, here’s a thought, for knowing that each household happened to have a twenty-
two handgun on-site, let alone get possession of it?”
“Perpetrator got lucky?”
Alex gave her a look. “If it’s a serial case,” he continued relentlessly, “where’s the downtime? Most of these guys take a moment between victims, revel in a job well done.”
“That’s sick,” D.D. said crossly, mostly annoyed that Alex was right, which meant she was wrong. Being horny was hard enough, but being horny and stupid would be too much to bear.
“That’s the point,” Alex was saying. “One killer for two entire families in a span of less than thirty-six hours is a long shot. That kind of bloodlust, combined with such high-level control …” His voice trailed off. “I can’t picture it. It doesn’t fit.”
“But two fathers independently deciding to kill their wife and kids, using the same three methods, within a day of each other—that makes sense?”
“Coincidences happen.”
“It’s not a coincidence!”
“Then, what?”
“We need more information. I know: We’ll investigate. What a great idea!”
Alex rolled his eyes at her. D.D. moved on to her lemon cake.
“I think we should have our auras cleansed,” she announced.
“Hey,” said Phil. “I’m a family man….”
“Then you can call child services and get everything you can on Oswald Harrington and the Laraquettes. Alex, you’re with me.”
“But I showered just this morning.”
“Not that kind of cleansing. We’re going to tend to our inner beauty.”
“You mean a spa?”
“No, it’s time we call upon Denise Harrington’s favorite shaman, Andrew Lightfoot.”
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
VICTORIA
Evan walked into my room at 4:14 a.m. and demanded to go to the park. He asked again at 4:33, 4:39, 4:43, 4:58, 5:05, and 5:12.
It’s 5:26 now, and we’re walking to the park.
The morning’s beautiful. The rain the night before has washed away the worst of the humidity. The air is warm, but pleasant, like a kiss against our cheeks. We walk the half a dozen blocks, breakfast in hand, and watch the sun paint the horizon. Being at the easternmost edge of the time zone, Massachusetts has one of the first sunrises in the country. I like to think of the early daybreaks as an exclusive treat for people who will spend their lives dropping their “r’s.” Other states have better enunciation. We get this.
“I see purple,” Evan says excitedly, pointing to the horizon and running circles around me. “There’s yellow and orange and fuchsia!”
“Fuchsia” is one of his favorite words. I don’t know why.
The park comes into view. I expected the playground to be empty at this hour. Instead, a small boy waddles around the two swing sets and impressive climbing structure, his mother watching from a nearby bench.
I hesitate. Evan dashes ahead. “A friend! Mommy, Mommy, a new friend!”
By the time I make it to the playground, Evan has already run half a dozen exuberant circles around the toddler. The small boy doesn’t appear overwhelmed, but is grinning at Evan as if meeting a clown for the first time. Encouraged, Evan zips figure 8s all over the playground. The boy toddles after him.
I feel my usual sense of parenting pessimism. Maybe Evan will play nicely with the boy. Maybe they’ll enjoy each other’s company. Evan misses other children so much. Maybe that will give him the incentive to be gentle. Maybe.
I sit down on the bench next to the other mom. It seems the hospitable thing to do.
“Good morning,” she says brightly, a young girl, maybe twenty-two, twenty-three, with long brown hair held back in a ponytail. “I didn’t expect to see anyone else in the park this time of morning.”
“Neither did I,” I agree, trying to summon a smile energetic enough to match her own. Belatedly, I stick out a hand. “I’m Victoria. That’s my son, Evan.”
“Becki,” she says. “That’s Ronald. He’s three.”
“Evan’s eight.”
“Wow, he’s a morning person,” she laughs, watching Evan race up and down the slide. He’s already ditched his flip-flops and is in bare feet. I wonder how long before his dark blue gym shorts and red T-shirt follow suit.
“We just moved here,” Becki offers. “As in, the moving van unloaded yesterday afternoon. We still don’t have all the beds set up, nor the window air conditioners in. By five this morning, it seemed better to get outside. Ronald can run around while it’s still cool out, then maybe I can get him to nap through the heat.”
Next to the playground is a soccer field. Around the soccer field is a wooded fringe that separates the park from the neighboring houses. Evan has veered away from the little boy and is racing up and down the white lines of the soccer field. I allow myself to relax a fraction, take a sip of coffee.
“Where did you move from?” I ask Becki.
“North Carolina.”
“That explains the lovely accent,” I murmur without thinking, and Becki beams at the compliment. It occurs to me that Evan isn’t the only one who misses his friends. I don’t belong to any social groups anymore. I don’t have clients, or coworkers, or close neighbors. I don’t attend playgroups, or hang out with the other moms after school. I see a respite worker twice a week and talk to my six-year-old daughter once a week. That’s the extent of my social life.
I’m pleased I can still make small talk. “What brought you to Massachusetts,” I ask now, warming to the moment. I hold out a ziplock bag containing banana muffins. Becki hesitates, then accepts one.
“My husband’s job. He’s a project engineer. They move him around every few years.”
“You’re lucky to land in Cambridge,” I tell her. “This is a great family area. You’ll love it here.”
“Thanks!” she says brightly. “In all honesty, I picked the town because of the universities. I’m kind of hoping that now Ronnie’s three, I can take some night courses.”
I check on Evan again. He’s made it to the far soccer goal and is climbing in the black netting. Ronald has spotted him and is working his way down the field on his shorter legs.
Becki calls him back and the toddler obediently swings around and returns to the jungle gym. “Sorry,” she says self-consciously. “Nervous mother. Sometimes he bolts on me, so I don’t like for him to get too far away. I know he’s only three but, wow, can he run!”
“I know what you mean,” I assure her. “I haven’t been able to keep up with Evan since he was two. Kids are all muscle and speed. We can’t compete.”
She nods, working on her muffin. “Evan’s an only child?” she asks at last.
“He has a sister,” I reply. “She’s with her father.”
Becki glances at me, but doesn’t pry. I put away the muffins. Get out a container of fresh strawberries.
“Will you have a second child?” I ask.
“I hope so. Once I finish up my degree at least. Ronnie was a bit of an oops. A happy oops,” Becki corrects hastily, coloring slightly. “But I’d hoped to finish college first.”
“Of course.” Evan’s still working the soccer field; Ronald’s back at the jungle gym. I get the lid off the strawberries, hold them out.
“That reminds me—I gotta get to the grocery store,” Becki comments, selecting a strawberry and taking a bite. “Actually, where is the grocery store?”
I give her directions, and that leads her to digging through her diaper bag for a notepad, and that leads me to sketching out several rough maps with the best local restaurants, a great bookstore, this absolutely wonderful bakery over on Huron Avenue. I feel like I’m drawing a map to the life I used to live. Here are places where you should shop, eat, and play. Here are things you, your husband, and your children would enjoy doing.
Cambridge is such a nice town, filled with historic grandeur mixed with the hip Harvard scene. Maybe I could bring Evan to the park more often. Maybe I could attempt the special-needs playgroup again. Or perhaps the lo
cal pool. Evan’s pretty good at pools. The swimming tires him out, keeps him distracted. I could bring a book, relax in the sun. I could mix us both fun, fruity drinks. Strawberry smoothies, virgin piña coladas. Michael and I went to Baja once, where we drank the best piña coladas, made with fresh fruit juice and rum. We’d drink them starting at sunrise, while lounging on the beach, digging our toes into the warm, white sand….
“Victoria?”
I’m lost in my fantasy, making the mistake of remembering better days, of wanting a life beyond the cage in which I live. The high-pitched note in Becki’s voice brings me back. I stop drawing a map to the best coffee shop. I look at the playground. It takes me only a second to understand Becki’s shrill tone.
Evan and the little boy are gone.
I start with the usual platitudes. They couldn’t have gone far, we’d only glanced away for a minute. Why doesn’t she check by the street? I’ll start with the woods.
Becki obediently rushes toward the empty sidewalk. I make a beeline for the woods, calling Evan’s and Ronnie’s names. Nothing.
My heart’s beating too hard, my breath growing shallow. Maybe the boys are playing hide-and-seek. Maybe Evan saw Ronnie toddle off, and set out to rescue him. Maybe they’d just gotten curious. Boys do that. Some boys at least.
I trot down the impossibly long wooded perimeter, calling, calling, calling. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Then I start to think about things a mother shouldn’t have to think about. Those two young boys in the United Kingdom who’d lured the toddler away from the mall and killed him down by the railroad tracks. Then an incident much closer to home, where two teenagers had murdered a seven-year-old boy by shoving gravel down his throat—they hadn’t wanted him to tell his parents they’d stolen his bike. Or maybe the case of the six-year-old who’d lit the three-year-old on fire. Or the child who’d murdered his neighbor with a wrestling move, then stuffed her body under his mattress.
I make it down one side of the field, across the end, then work my way along the other, calling the boys’ names. The woods aren’t that deep. I can see the rooftops of neighboring homes through the boughs of green trees. The morning’s quiet; the sounds of traffic, muted. The boys should be able to hear me. Ronnie, at the very least, should call back.