The Detective D. D. Warren Series 5-Book Bundle

  “No birth father,” Bobby reported.

  “I believe that’s biologically impossible.”

  “No name listed on the birth certificate, no guy mentioned around the barracks, and no male role model visiting every other weekend.” Bobby shrugged. “No birth father.”

  D.D. frowned. “Because Tessa Leoni didn’t want him in the picture, or because he didn’t want to be in the picture? And oh yeah, in the last couple of nights, did those dynamics suddenly change?”

  Bobby shrugged again.

  D.D. pursed her lips, starting to see multiple possibilities. A birth father intent on reclaiming parental rights. Or an overstretched household, trying to juggle two intense careers and one small child. Option A meant the biological father might have kidnapped his own child. Option B meant the stepdad—or birth mother—had beat that child to death.

  “Think the girl is dead?” Bobby asked now.

  “Hell if I know.” D.D. didn’t like to think about the girl. A wife shooting her husband, fine. A missing kid … This case was gonna suck.

  “Can’t hide a body in the ground,” she considered out loud. “Too frozen for digging. So if the girl is dead … Most likely her remains have been tucked somewhere inside the house. Garage? Attic? Crawl space? Old freezer?”

  Bobby shook his head.

  D.D. took his word for it. She hadn’t ventured into the house beyond the kitchen and sunroom, but given the number of uniforms currently combing through the eleven hundred square foot space, they should’ve been able to dismantle the structure board by board.

  “I don’t think this has anything to do with the birth father,” Bobby stated. “If the birth father was back in the picture making noise, those would be the first words out of Tessa Leoni’s mouth. Contact my rat bastard ex-boyfriend, who’s been threatening to take my daughter from me. Leoni’s said no such thing—”

  “Because the union rep has shut her down.”

  “Because the union rep doesn’t want her to make statements that incriminate herself. Totally fair game, however, to make statements that incriminate others.”

  Couldn’t argue with that logic, D.D. thought. “Fine, forget birth father for a second. Sounds like the current household was dysfunctional enough. To judge by Trooper Leoni’s face, Brian Darby is a wife beater. Maybe he hit his stepdaughter, too. She died, Trooper Leoni came home to the body, and they both panicked. Stepfather has done a terrible thing, but Trooper Leoni let him, making her party to the crime. They take the body for a drive and dump it. Then get home, get into a fight, and the stress of the whole situation leads Tessa to snap.”

  “Trooper Leoni helped dump her own daughter’s body,” Bobby said, “before returning home and shooting her husband?”

  D.D. regarded him squarely. “Make no assumptions, Bobby. You of all people know that.”

  He didn’t say anything, but met her stare.

  “I want Trooper Leoni’s cruiser,” D.D stated.

  “I believe the brass is ironing that out.”

  “His car, too.”

  “Two thousand and seven GMC Denali. Your squad already has it.”

  D.D. raised a brow. “Nice car. Merchant mariners make that kind of money?”

  “He was an engineer. Engineers always make that kind of money. I don’t think Trooper Leoni hurt her own child,” Bobby said.

  “You don’t?”

  “Spoke to a couple of the troopers who worked with her. They had nothing but good things to say about her. Loving mom, dedicated to her daughter, yada yada yada.”

  “Yeah? They also know her husband was using her for a punching bag?”

  Bobby didn’t say anything right away, which was answer enough. He turned back to the scene. “Could be an abduction,” he insisted stubbornly.

  “Unfenced lot, bordered by a couple hundred strangers …” D.D. shrugged. “Yeah, if just the six-year-old were missing, I’d absolutely run the perverts up the flagpole. But what are the odds of a stranger creeping into the home the same evening/morning the husband and wife have a fatal argument?”

  “Make no assumptions,” Bobby repeated, but didn’t sound any more convinced than she had.

  D.D. resumed studying the churned-up yard, which might have once contained footprints relative to their present discussion and now didn’t. She sighed, hating it when good evidence went bad.

  “We didn’t know,” Bobby murmured beside her. “Call came in as an officer in distress. That’s what the troopers responded to. Not a homicide scene.”

  “Who made the call?”

  “I’m guessing she made the initial phone call—”

  “Tessa Leoni.”

  “Trooper Leoni. Probably to a buddy in the barracks. The buddy summoned the cavalry and the call was picked up by operations. At that point, most of the troopers responded, with the lieutenant colonel bringing up the rear. Now, once Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton got here—”

  “Realized it was less of a crisis, more of a cleanup,” D.D. muttered.

  “Hamilton did the sensible thing and notified Boston turret, given the jurisdiction.”

  “While also summoning his own detectives.”

  “Skin in the game, babe. What can I say?”

  “I want transcripts.”

  “Somehow, as official state police liaison, I have a feeling that will be the first of many things I will fetch for you.”

  “Yes, state police liaison. Let’s talk about that. You’re the liaison, I’m the head detective. I take that to mean I call the shots, you run the plays.”

  “Have you ever worked any other way?”

  “Now that you mention it, never. So first task, find me the girl.”

  “Don’t I wish.”

  “Fine. Second task—get me access to Trooper Leoni.”

  “Don’t I wish,” Bobby repeated.

  “Come on, you’re the state police liaison. Surely she’ll talk to the state police liaison.”

  “Union rep is telling her to shut up. Her lawyer, once he arrives, will most likely second that command. Welcome to the blue wall, D.D.”

  “But I also wear the fucking uniform!”

  Bobby looked pointedly at her heavy field jacket, emblazoned BPD. “Not in Trooper Leoni’s world.”

  4

  I was on my first solo patrol for all of two hours when I received my debut domestic disturbance call. Incident came from dispatch as a verbal domestic—basically the occupants of apartment 25B were arguing so loudly, their neighbors couldn’t sleep. Neighbors got mad, neighbors called the cops.

  On the surface, nothing too exciting. Trooper shows up, occupants of 25B shut up. And probably drop a bag of burning dog poo on the neighbor’s front stoop the next morning.

  But at the Academy they had drilled into us—there is no such thing as a typical call. Be aware. Be prepared. Be safe.

  I sweated through my dark blue BDUs all the way to apartment 25B.

  New troopers work under the supervision of a senior officer for their first twelve weeks. After that, we patrol alone. No wingman for companionship, no partner to watch your back. Instead, it’s all about dispatch. Second you’re in your cruiser, second you exit your vehicle, second you stop for a cup of coffee, second you pull over to pee, you tell dispatch all about it. Operations is your lifeline and when something goes wrong, it’s operations that will send the cavalry—your fellow state troopers—to the rescue.

  In the classroom, this had sounded like a plan. But at one in the morning, getting out of my cruiser in a neighborhood I didn’t know, approaching a building I’d never seen, to confront two people I’d never met, it was easy to consider other facts, too. For example, while there are approximately seventeen hundred state troopers, only six hundred or so are on patrol at the same time. And these six hundred troopers are covering the entire state of Massachusetts. Meaning we’re spread out all over the place. Meaning that when things go wrong, it’s not a five-minute fix.

  We’re all one big family, but we’re still
very much alone.

  I approached the building as I had been trained, my elbows glued to my waist to protect my service weapon, my body turned slightly to the side to form a smaller target. I angled away from the windows and kept to one side of the door, where I would be out of direct line of fire.

  The most frequent call out received by a uniformed officer is situation unknown. At the Academy, we were advised to treat all calls like that. Danger is everywhere. All people are suspect. All suspects are liars.

  This is the way you work. For some officers, this also becomes the way they live.

  I mounted three steps to a tiny front stoop, then paused to take a deep breath. Command presence. I was twenty-three years old, average height and unfortunately pretty. Chances were, whoever opened that door was going to be older than me, bigger than me, and rougher than me. Still my job to control the situation. Feet wide. Shoulders back. Chin up. As the other rookies liked to joke, never let ’em see you sweat.

  I stood to the side. I knocked. Then I quickly threaded my thumbs into the waistband of my dark blue pants, so my hands couldn’t tremble.

  No sounds of disturbance. No sounds of footsteps. Lights blazed, however; the occupants of 25B were not asleep.

  I knocked again. Harder this time.

  No sound of movement, no sign of the residents.

  I fidgeted with my duty belt, debated my options. I had a call, a call required a report, a report required contact. So I drew myself up taller and knocked hard. BAM. BAM. BAM. Pounded my knuckles against the cheap wooden door. I was a state trooper, dammit, and I would not be ignored.

  This time, footsteps.

  Thirty seconds later, the door silently swung open.

  The female occupant of unit 25B did not look at me. She stared at the floor as the blood poured down her face.

  As I learned that night, and many nights since, the basic steps for handling domestic violence remain the same.

  First, the officer secures the scene, a swift, preliminary inspection to identify and eliminate any potential threats.

  Who else is in the home, Officer? May I walk through the house? Trooper, is that your weapon? I’m going to need to take your firearm, Trooper. Are there any other guns on the property? I’m also going to need your duty belt. Unhook it, easy … Thank you. I’m going to request that you remove your vest. Do you require assistance? Thank you. I will take that now. I need you to move into the sunroom. Have a seat right here. Stay put. I’ll be back.

  Scene secured, the officer now inspects the female party for signs of injury. At this stage, the officer makes no assumption. The individual is neither a suspect nor a victim. She is simply an injured party and is handled accordingly.

  Female presents with bloody lip, black eye, red marks on throat, and bloody laceration high on right forehead.

  Many battered women will argue that they’re okay. Don’t need no ambulance. Just get the hell out and leave ’em alone. Be all better by morning.

  The well-trained officer ignores such statements. There is evidence of a crime, triggering the larger wheels of criminal justice into motion. Maybe the battered woman is the victim, as she claims, and will ultimately refuse to press charges. But maybe she is the instigator—maybe the injuries were sustained while the female beat the crap out of an unknown party, meaning she is the perpetrator of a crime and her injuries and statement need to be documented for the charges that will soon be filed by that unknown party. Again, make no assumptions. The trooper will alert dispatch of the situation, request backup and summon the EMTs.

  Other bodies will now start to arrive. Uniforms. Medical personnel. Sirens will sound in the horizon, official vehicles pouring down the narrow funnel of city streets while the neighbors gather outside to catch the show.

  The scene will become a very busy place, making it even more important for the first responder to document, document, document. The trooper will now conduct a more detailed visual inspection of the scene, making notes and snapping initial photographs.

  Dead male, late-thirties, appears to be five ten, two hundred ten to two hundred twenty pounds. Three GSWs midtorso. Discovered faceup two feet to the left of the table in the kitchen.

  Two wooden kitchen chairs toppled. Remnants of broken green glass under chairs. One shattered green bottle—labeled Heineken—located six inches to the left of the table in the kitchen.

  Sig Sauer semiauto discovered on top of forty-two inch round wooden table. Officer removed cartridge and emptied chamber. Bagged and tagged.

  Family room cleared.

  Upstairs two bedrooms and bath cleared.

  More uniforms will assist, questioning neighbors, securing the perimeter. The female party will remain sequestered away from the action, where she will now be tended by the medical personnel.

  Female EMT, checking my pulse, gently probing my eye socket and cheekbone for signs of fracture. Asking me to remove my ponytail so she can better tend my forehead. Using tweezers to remove the first piece of green glass which will later be matched to the shattered beer bottle.

  “How do you feel, ma’am?”

  “Head hurts.”

  “Do you have any recollection of blacking out or losing consciousness?”

  “Head hurts.”

  “Do you feel nauseous?”

  “Yes.” Stomach rolling. Trying to hold it together, against the pain, the confusion, the growing disorientation that this can’t be happening, shouldn’t be happening …

  The EMT further examining my head, finding the growing lump at the back of my skull.

  “What happened to your head, ma’am?”

  “What?”

  “The back of your head, ma’am. Are you sure you didn’t lose consciousness, take a fall?”

  Me, looking at the EMT blankly. “Who do you love?” I whisper.

  The EMT does not reply.

  Next up, taking an initial statement. A good trooper will note both what the subject says and how she says it. People in a genuine state of shock have a tendency to babble, offering fragments of information but unable to string together a coherent whole. Some victims disassociate. They speak in flat, clipped tones about an event that in their own minds already didn’t happen to them. Then there are the professional liars—the ones who pretend to babble or disassociate.

  Any liar will sooner or later overreach. Add a little too much detail. Sound a bit too composed. Then the well-trained investigator can pounce.

  “Can you tell me what happened here, Trooper Leoni?” A Boston district detective takes the first pass. He is older, hair graying at the temples. He sounds kind, going for the collegial approach.

  I don’t want to answer. I have to answer. Better the district detective than the homicide investigator who will follow. My head throbs, my temples, my cheek. My face is on fire.

  Want to throw up. Fighting the sensation.

  “My husband …” I whisper. My gaze drops automatically to the floor. I catch my mistake, force myself to look up, meet the district detective’s eye. “Sometimes … when I worked late. My husband grew angry.” Pause. My voice, growing stronger, more definite. “He hit me.”

  “Where did he hit you, Officer?”

  “Face. Eye. Cheek.” My fingers finding each spot, reliving the pain. Inside my head, I’m stuck in a moment of time. Him, looming above. Me, cowering on the linoleum, genuinely terrified.

  “I fell down,” I recite for the district detective. “My husband picked up a chair.”

  Silence. The district detective waiting for me to say more. Spin a lie, tell the truth.

  “I didn’t hit him,” I whisper. I’ve taken enough of these statements. I know how this story goes. We all do. “If I didn’t fight back,” I state mechanically, “he’d wear out, go away. If I did … It was always worse in the end.”

  “Your husband picked up a chair, Trooper Leoni? Where were you when he did this?”

  “On the floor.”

  “Where in the house?”

  “Th
e kitchen.”

  “When your husband picked up the chair, what did you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Threw it.”

  “Where?”

  “At me.”

  “Did it hit you?”

  “I … I don’t remember.”

  “Then what happened, Trooper Leoni?” The district detective leaning down, peering at me more closely. His face is a study of concern. Is my eye contact wrong? My story too detailed? Not detailed enough?

  All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth, my two front teeth, my two front teeth.

  The song sounds in my head. I want to giggle. I don’t.

  Love you, Mommy. Love you.

  “I threw the chair back at him,” I tell the district detective.

  “You threw the chair back at him?”

  “He got … angrier. So I must have done something, right? Because he became angrier.”

  “Were you in full uniform at this time, Trooper Leoni?”

  I meet his eye. “Yes.”

  “Wearing your duty belt? And your body armor?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you reach for anything on your duty belt? Take steps to defend yourself?”

  Still looking him in the eye. “No.”

  The detective regards me curiously. “What happened next, Trooper Leoni?”

  “He grabbed the beer bottle. Smashed it against my forehead. I … I managed to fend him off. He stumbled, toward the table. I fell. Against the wall. My back against the wall. I needed to find the doorway. I needed to get away.”

  Silence.

  “Trooper Leoni?”

  “He had the broken bottle,” I murmur. “I needed to get away. But … trapped. On the floor. Against the wall. Watching him.”

  “Trooper Leoni?”

  “I feared for my life,” I whisper. “I felt my sidearm. He charged … I feared for my life.”

  “Trooper Leoni, what happened?”

  “I shot my husband.”

  “Trooper Leoni—”

  I meet his gaze one last time. “Then I went looking for my daughter.”

  5

  By the time D.D. and Bobby finished circling around to the front of the property, the EMTs were retrieving a stretcher from the back of the ambulance. D.D. glanced their way, then identified the Boston uniform standing outside the crime-scene tape with the murder book. She approached him first.