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?”
“The 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.
“Hey, Officer Fiske. You’ve logged every single uniform entering this joint?” She gestured to the notebook in his hand, where he was collecting the names of all personnel to cross the crime-scene tape.
“Forty-two officers,” he said, without batting an eyelash.
“Jesus. Is there a single cop left on patrol in the greater Boston area?”
“Doubt it,” Officer Fiske said. Kid was young and serious. Was it just D.D. or were they getting younger and more serious with each passing year?
“Well, here’s the problem, Officer Fiske. While you’re collecting names here, other cops are entering and exiting from the rear of the property, and that’s really pissing me off.”
Officer Fiske’s eyes widened.
“Got a buddy?” D.D. continued. “Radio him to grab a notebook, then take up position behind the house. I want names, ranks, and badge numbers, all on record. And while you two are at it, get the word out: Every state trooper who showed up at this address needs to report to Boston HQ by end of day to have an imprint made of his or her boots. Failure to comply will result in immediate desk duty. You heard it straight from the state liaison officer.” She jerked her thumb at Bobby, who stood beside her rolling his eyes.
“D.D.—” he started.
“They trampled my scene. I don’
t forgive. I don’t forget.”
Bobby shut up. She liked that about him.
Having both secured her scene and stirred the pot, D.D. next approached the EMTs, who now had the stretcher positioned between them and were preparing to climb the steep stairs to the front door.
“Hang on,” D.D. called out.
The EMTs, one male, one female, paused as she approached.
“Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren,” D.D. introduced herself. “I’m the one in charge of this circus. You getting ready to transport Trooper Leoni?”
A heavyset woman at the head of the stretcher nodded, already turning back toward the stairs.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” D.D. said quickly. “I need five minutes. Got a couple of questions for Trooper Leoni before she goes on her merry way.”
“Trooper Leoni has sustained a significant head wound,” the female answered firmly. “We’re taking her to the hospital for a CT scan. You got your job, we got ours.”
The EMTs took a step closer to the stairs. D.D. moved to intercept.
“Is Trooper Leoni at risk for bleeding out?” D.D. pressed. She glanced at the woman’s name tag, adding belatedly, “Marla.”
Marla did not appear impressed. “No.”
“Is she in any immediate physical danger?”
“Swelling of the brain,” the EMT rattled off, “bleeding of the brain …”
“Then we’ll keep her awake and make her recite her name and date. Isn’t that what you guys do for a concussion? Count to five, forward and backward, name, rank, and serial number, yada yada yada.”
Beside her, Bobby sighed. D.D. was definitely toeing a line. She kept her attention focused on Marla, who appeared even more exasperated than Bobby.
“Detective—” Marla started.
“Kid missing,” D.D. interrupted. “Six-year-old girl, God knows where and in what kind of danger. I just need five minutes, Marla. Maybe that’s a lot to ask from you and your job and from Trooper Leoni and her injuries, but I don’t think that’s nearly enough to ask for a six-year-old child.”
D.D. was good. Always had been. Always would be. Marla, who appeared to be mid-forties and probably had at least one or two kids at home, not to mention how many little nieces and nephews, caved.
“Five minutes,” she said, glancing over at her partner. “Then we’re taking her out, ready or not.”
“Ready or not,” D.D. agreed, and sprinted for the stairs.
“Eat your Wheaties this morning?” Bobby muttered as he jogged up behind her.
“You’re just jealous.”
“Why am I jealous?”
“Because I always get away with this shit.”
“Pride goeth before the fall,” Bobby murmured.
D.D. pushed opened the front door of the house. “For six-year-old Sophie’s sake, let’s hope not.”
Trooper Leoni was still sequestered in the sunroom. D.D. and Bobby had to pass through the kitchen to get there. Brian Darby’s body had been removed, leaving behind bloodstained hardwoods, a pile of evidence placards, and a thick dusting of fingerprint powder. The usual crime-scene detritus. D.D. covered her mouth and nose with her hand as she skirted through. She was still two paces ahead of Bobby and hoped he didn’t notice.
Tessa Leoni looked up at Bobby and D.D.’s entrance. She held an ice bag against half of her face, which still didn’t cover the blood on her lip or the oozing gash in her forehead. As D.D. walked into the sunroom, the female officer lowered the pack to reveal an eye that had already swollen shut and turned eggplant purple.
D.D. suffered a moment of shock, despite herself. Whether she believed Leoni’s initial statement or not, the female trooper had definitely taken a beating. D.D. quickly glanced at the officer’s hands, trying to ascertain any signs of defensive wounds. Trooper Leoni caught the motion, and covered her knuckles with the ice pack.
For a moment, the two women studied each other. Trooper Leoni seemed young to D.D., especially wearing her state blues. Long dark hair, blue eyes, heart-shaped face. Pretty girl despite the bruises and maybe more vulnerable because of them. Immediately, D.D. felt herself set on edge. Pretty and vulnerable almost always tried her patience.
D.D. surveyed the other two occupants of the room.
Standing beside Leoni was a super-sized state trooper, his shoulders thrown back in his best tough-guy stance. Conversely, sitting across from her, was a petite gray-suited older gentleman with a yellow legal pad balanced delicately on one knee. Union rep standing, D.D. determined. Union-appointed lawyer sitting. So the gang was all here.
The union rep, a fellow state trooper, spoke first.
“Trooper Leoni isn’t answering questions,” he stated, jutting out his chin.
D.D. glanced at his badge. “Trooper Lyons—”
“She has provided an initial statement,” Trooper Lyons continued stiffly. “All other questions will have to wait until she’s been treated by a doctor.” He glanced behind D.D. to the doorway. “Where are the EMTs?”
“Getting their gear,” D.D. said soothingly. “They’ll be right up. Of course Trooper Leoni’s injuries are a priority. Nothing but the best for a fellow officer.”
D.D. moved to the right, making room for Bobby to stand beside her. A united front of city and state law enforcement. Trooper Lyons didn’t look impressed.
The lawyer had risen to standing. Now he held out a hand. “Ken Cargill,” he said by way of introduction. “I’ll be representing Trooper Leoni.”
“Sergeant Detective D. D. Warren,” D.D. introduced herself, then Bobby.
“My client is not taking questions at this time,” Cargill told them. “Once she has received the proper medical attention and we understand the full extent of her injuries, we’ll let you know.”
“Understand. Not here to push. EMTs said they needed a few minutes to prepare the stretcher, grab some fluids. Thought we could use that time to cover a few basics. We got a full Amber Alert out for little Sophie, but I gotta be honest.” D.D. spread her hands in a helpless gesture. “We have no leads. As I’m sure Trooper Leoni knows, in these kinds of cases, every minute counts.”
At the mention of Sophie’s name, Trooper Leoni stiffened on the sofa. She wasn’t looking at D.D., or at any of the men in the room. She had her gaze locked on a spot on the worn green carpet, hands still tucked beneath the ice pack.
“I searched everywhere,” Leoni said abruptly. “The house, the garage, the attic, his vehicle—”
“Tessa,” Trooper Lyons interjected. “Don’t do this. You don’t have to do this.”
“When was the last time you saw your daughter?” D.D. asked, seizing the opening while she had it.
“Ten forty-five last night,” the officer answered automatically, as if speaking by rote. “I always check on Sophie before reporting for duty.”
D.D. frowned. “You left here at ten forty-five for your eleven o’clock shift? You can make it from here to the Framingham barracks in fifteen minutes?”
Trooper Leoni shook her head. “I don’t drive to the barracks. We drive our cruisers home, so the moment we take the wheel, we start our patrols. I called the desk officer from my cruiser and declared Code 5. He assigned me my patrol area and I was good to go.”
D.D. nodded. Not being a state trooper, D.D. didn’t know these things. But she was also playing a game with Trooper Leoni. The game was called establish the suspect’s state of mind. That way, when Trooper Leoni inevitably said something useful, and her eager-beaver attorney sought to block that admission by claiming his client was suffering from a concussion and therefore mentally incapacitated, D.D. could point out how lucidly Leoni had answered other, easily verifiable questions. For example, if Leoni had been able to accurately recollect what time she’d called the desk officer, where she’d gone on patrol, etc., etc., then why assume she was suddenly mistaken about how she’d shot her own husband?
These were the kind of games a skilled detective knew how to play. Couple of hours ago, D.D. might not h
ave used them on a fellow officer. She might have been willing to cut poor battered Trooper Leoni some slack, show her the kind of preferential treatment one female officer was inclined to give another. But that was before the state troopers had trampled her crime scene and placed D.D. squarely on the other side of their blue wall.
D.D. did not forgive. She did not forget.
And she did not want to be working a case right now involving a small child. But that was not something she could talk about, not even to Bobby.
“So you checked your daughter at ten forty-five …” D.D. prodded.
“Sophie was asleep. I kissed her on the cheek. She … rolled over, pulled the covers up.”
“And your husband?”
“Downstairs. Watching TV.”
“What was he watching?”
“I didn’t notice. He was drinking a beer. That distracted me. I wished … I preferred it when he didn’t drink.”
“How many beers had he had?”
“Three.”
“You counted?”
“I checked the empties lined up next to the sink.”
“Your husband have a problem with alcohol?” D.D. asked bluntly.
Leoni finally looked up at D.D., peering at her with one good eye, as the other half of her face remained a swollen, pulpy mess. “Brian was home sixty days at a stretch with nothing to do. I had work. Sophie had school. But he had nothing. Sometimes, he drank. And sometimes … Drinking wasn’t good for him.”
“So your husband, who you wished didn’t drink, had had three beers and you still left him alone with your daughter.”
“Hey—” Trooper Lyons started to interrupt again.
But Tessa Leoni said, “Yes, ma’am. I left my daughter with her drunken stepdad. And if I had known … I would’ve killed him then, goddammit. I would’ve shot him last night!”
“Whoa—” Attorney was out of the chair. But D.D. didn’t pay any attention to him and neither did Leoni.
“What happened to your daughter?” D.D. wanted to know. “What did your husband do to her?”
Leoni was already shrugging her shoulders. “He wouldn’t tell me. I got home, went upstairs. She should’ve been in bed. Or maybe playing on the floor. But … nothing. I searched and I searched and I searched. Sophie was gone.”