Текст книги "The Missing"

Автор книги: Chris Mooney

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Chapter 7

Darby McCormick stood on the back porch of the Cranmore home, running the beam of her flashlight over the door, a reinforced steel model with two deadbolts. The thunderstorm had stopped, but the rain hadn’t tapered off, still coming down fast and strong.

Detective Mathew Banville of the Belham police had to yell over the noise, in a tone that left little doubt he was running thin on patience.

‘The mother, Dianne Cranmore, came home around quarter of five because she forgot her checkbook and needed it for when she swung by the bank later today to pay the mortgage. When she pulled in, both doors were open and then she saw this –’ Banville used his penlight to point to the bloody hand print on the hallway wall. The mother didn’t find her daughter, but she found her daughter’s boyfriend, Tony Marceillo, slumped on the stairs and immediately called nine-one-one.’

‘Besides the mother, who else has been inside?’

‘The first responding officer, Garrett, and the EMTs. They all went in through the front to get to the boyfriend. The mother gave Garrett the keys.’

‘Garrett didn’t come in this way?’

‘He didn’t want to destroy any evidence so he sealed the place off. We’ve issued an Amber Alert, but so far nothing.’

Darby glanced at her watch. It was coming up on six a.m. Carol Cranmore had been missing for several hours, enough time for her to be well out of Massachusetts.

On the gray carpet was a single tan fiber. Darby placed an evidence cone next to it.

‘There’s no sign of forced entry. Who else has keys to the house?’

‘We’re talking to the ex-husbands,’ Banville said.

‘How many she have?’

‘Two, and that’s not including the biological father. They were married for about fifteen minutes back in ninety-one.’

‘And does this fine gentleman have a name?’ Darby checked the kitchen floor, glad to see it was made of linoleum. It was an ideal surface for picking up footwear impressions.

‘Mother called him “the sperm donor.” Said he went back to Ireland right after he found out he was going to be a daddy. She hasn’t heard from him since.’

‘And they say all the good ones are taken.’ Darby rummaged through her kit.

‘The other two ex-husbands, one lives in Chicago, and the other lives here, in the wonderful city of Lynn,’ Banville said. The dipshit from Lynn is the most interesting of the bunch. Street name is LBC, short for Little Baby Cool – don’t ask me what that means. LBC’s biological name is Trenton Andrews, did a five-year stretch in Walpole for the attempted rape of a minor – a fifteen-year-old girl. The Lynn police are looking for Mr Andrews right now. We’re looking for registered sex offenders who live in the area.’

‘I’m sure it will be quite a list.’

‘You need anything else or can I go?’

‘Hold on a moment.’

‘Let’s hurry it up.’

Darby didn’t take Banville’s clipped tone personally; he spoke to everyone this way. She had worked with him on two previous crime scenes and found him to be a thorough investigator; but his personality was gruff, to say the least, and he generally avoided eye contact. He also made sure people didn’t stand too close to him – like now, he was leaning against the porch railing, a good five feet away.

She grabbed another flashlight, the heavy-duty Mag-Lite, and laid it down on the kitchen floor, angling the light until she found what she was looking for – a series of wet latent footwear impressions.

‘Sole pattern looks like a men’s boot, around a size eleven,’ Darby said. ‘Looks like our man came in through here and left through here. You might want to check and see what LBC favors for footwear.’

‘Anything else?’

‘You’re free to go.’

Banville bolted down the stairs. Darby went to work bracketing off the boot impressions with tape. When she finished, she placed evidence cones next to the best impressions, then grabbed her kit and umbrella and stepped into the rain.

Across the driveway, seated at a table behind the kitchen window at the next-door neighbor’s house, was Carol’s mother. Dianne Cranmore pressed a wadded-up tissue against her eyes as she talked to a detective writing in a notepad. Darby looked away from the mother’s broken expression and hustled to the front door.

The busy street was lit up by flashing blue and white lights. Police were standing out in the rain, directing traffic and keeping the crowds of reporters behind the sawhorses blocking off the street. The entire neighborhood was awake. People were standing out on their porches and watching from behind windows, wanting to know what was going on.

Darby slipped a pair of disposable booties over her shoes and stepped inside the foyer. Her partner, Jackson Cooper, who was known to everyone simply as Coop, was hunched over a well-muscled young male dressed in a tight pair of black bikini briefs. The body was slumped at an awkward angle against the wall on the carpeted landing between the two sets of stairs. Blood had pooled under him, soaking into the carpet. Darby counted three shots – one in the forehead, two in a tight pattern on the cougar tattooed above the heart.

Coop pointed to the tight shot pattern on the teenager’s chest. ‘Double tap.’

‘I’d say our guy’s a trained marksman,’ Darby said.

‘If I had to guess, I’d say the boyfriend heard something and decided to come downstairs to investigate. He comes down these steps to check the front door, finds it locked, and on the way back up gets shot twice in the chest. Then he falls, lands here and gets one planted in the forehead to make sure he doesn’t get back up.’

‘Which means our guy is used to shooting in the dark.’

Coop nodded. ‘No scratches on his hands or arms. He didn’t get a chance to fight.’

‘But his girlfriend did,’ Darby said, and told him about the bloody handprint.

‘What’s Banville’s take on this?’

‘He’s starting with the ex-husband angle.’

‘Why add murder to kidnapping?’

‘Who knows?’

‘That doctorate in criminal psychology is really paying off for you,’ Coop said. ‘ID here?’

‘Not yet.’ Darby told him about the footwear evidence in the kitchen. ‘I’m going to take a look around, and then we can do the preliminary walkthrough.’

Light gray carpeting covered the stairs and the tiny hallway leading to a spacious TV room with mint-green walls and a brown couch and a matching chair mended by strips of duct tape. The mother had tried to brighten the place up with decorative throw pillows, a good area rug and assorted knickknacks.

An archway separated the TV room from the dining room. On the table were several paperback romance novels by Nora Roberts and stacks of coupons. The two rooms had the stale, soiledwrapper feel of too much fast food and the fading odor of dope.

Stretching across the upstairs wall were dozens of pictures of Carol and her achievements. Here was one of Carol as a toddler holding a paintbrush. In another one, Carol was wearing Mickey Mouse ears at Disney World. An expensive-looking frame held a certificate from Belham High School for the distinction of being a straight-A student. Then another framed certificate, this one for her leadership abilities on the student council. Here was a framed watercolor of the ocean, a ribbon pinned on it. Carol had won first place in an art contest.

Carol’s mother had hung the most prestigious awards and certificates at eye level outside her daughter’s bedroom. That way, when Carol walked outside her bedroom door every morning and returned each night, she would always be reminded of her extraordinary talents.

Car doors slammed. ID, the section of the lab that dealt exclusively with crime scene photography, had arrived. Darby grabbed her umbrella and headed out.

She told Mary Beth Pallis about the body and the footwear impressions in the kitchen. After Mary Beth left, Darby examined the porch steps.

The only interesting item she found was a discarded matchbook at the bottom step. She placed an evidence cone next to it. She backed up and stared at the porch. It hung suspended above the ground by columns. Latticework, also painted white, covered the perimeter. To the left of the stairs was a small door. Inside were plastic garbage cans and recycling bins.

One of the garbage cans tipped over. A raccoon was in there, its eyes reflected in the flashlight –

‘Oh my God.’

Darby opened the small door. The woman underneath the porch started to scream.

Chapter 8

Darby dropped her flashlight. She didn’t pick it up. She stood absolutely still, staring wide-eyed at the woman who was now pressing a garbage can against the doorway to prevent anyone from entering.

Patrolmen came running. One of them grabbed Darby roughly by the arm and yanked her away from the door. He reached inside to move the garbage can.

The woman’s teeth, what few of them remained, sunk deep into exposed skin of his wrist. She twisted her head ferociously from side to side like a mongrel dog trying to rip free the last piece of meat from a bone.

‘My hand! The goddamn bitch is biting my hand!’

Another patrolman moved in with a can of Mace. The woman saw it, let go of her bite and started knocking over the barrels and recycling containers as she screamed, scurrying back underneath the porch.

Darby pushed the patrolman away and slammed the porch door shut.

The patrolman holding the Mace said, ‘What the hell you doing?’

‘We’re going to give this woman some breathing room to calm down,’ Darby said. The first patrolman, his eyes tearing, grabbed the dangling meat of his bleeding wrist with a shaking hand. ‘Go and help him.’

‘All due respect, hon, your job is to –’

‘Move everyone out of the driveway – and while you’re at it, make sure the ambulance doesn’t pull in with its sirens blaring.’

Darby turned and addressed the crowd of men who had gathered around her. ‘Back up, I want everyone to back up now.’

No one moved.

‘Do what she says.’ Banville’s voice. He emerged from the crowd, his black hair flattened by the rain.

The patrolmen moved out of the driveway. Banville stepped up next to her. Darby explained what she had seen.

‘She’s probably a crack addict,’ Banville said. There’s an abandoned house down the road where they all hang out.’

‘Let me try and talk her out of there.’

Banville stared at the porch door, water dripping over his lumpy face. With his hangdog expression, he bore a striking resemblance to the cartoon character Droopy Dog.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘But under no circumstances are you to go underneath the porch.’

Darby put down her umbrella. Slowly, she opened the porch door. No screaming. She knelt in a cold puddle. The flashlight was still on and gave her enough light to see.

During a college history course, Darby had seen grainy black-and-white footage taken of prisoners inside Hitler’s concentration camps. The woman underneath the porch had clearly been starved. Most of her hair had fallen out; what little remained was thin and stringy. Her face was incredibly gaunt, the cheeks sunken, the skin waxy and white. The only color came from the blood around her lips.

‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ Darby said. ‘I just want to talk.’

The woman didn’t look at her so much as through her. Vacant eyes, Darby thought.

Then, incredibly, the vacant sign disappeared. The woman’s eyes came into focus, narrowing first in recognition, then widening in surprise mixed with, what, relief? Was that it?

‘Terry? Terry, is that you?’

Use it. Whatever it is, use it.

‘It’s me.’ Darby’s mouth was dry. ‘I’m here to –’

‘Lower your voice, he’s watching.’ The woman pointed with her chin at the porch ceiling.

There was nothing on the ceiling but spiderwebs and the dried-out husk of an old hornet’s nest.

‘I’ll shut off the flashlight,’ Darby said. ‘That way he won’t see us.’

‘Okay, good. That’s good. You were always smart, Terry.’

Darby turned off the flashlight. The flashing blue and whites blinked through the spaces between the latticework. The woman was still holding on to the barrel, still using it as a barrier.

Ask her name? No. She already believes I know her. Darby didn’t want to risk breaking the connection. Better off going along with the delusion.

‘I thought you were dead,’ the woman said.

‘Why did you think that?’

‘You were screaming. You were screaming for me to come help you and I couldn’t reach you in time.’ The woman’s face crumbled. You weren’t moving, and you were bleeding. I tried to wake you up and you didn’t move.’

‘I fooled him.’

‘I did, too. I fooled him real good this time, Terry.’ The woman grinned and Darby had to look away. ‘I knew what he was going to do when he put me in the van, and I was ready.’

‘What color was his van?’

‘Black. He’s still out there, Terry.’

‘Did you see a license plate?’

‘He’s looking for me – for us.’

‘Who’s looking for us? What’s his name?’

‘We’ve got to hide until the screaming stops.’

‘I know a way out,’ Darby said. ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’

The woman didn’t move, didn’t answer. She continued her examination of the porch ceiling. She was crouched behind the other side of an overturned barrel, holding it in a way to keep anyone from getting close to her.

Two choices: She could go in there and see if she could somehow guide the woman out, or she could let the patrolmen take care of it.

Darby moved the barrel blocking the door. When the woman didn’t scream, Darby slid underneath the porch.

Chapter 9

‘I’m going to come closer so we can talk,’ Darby said. ‘Okay?’

Darby crawled across the muddy ground of spilled trash, soda cans and newspapers. The most atrocious body odor she had ever smelled hit her. She dry-heaved, coughed.

‘You okay, Terry? Please tell me you’re okay.’

‘I’m fine.’ Darby was breathing through her mouth now. She leaned her back against the wall. She sat less than two feet away, on the other side of the barrel. The woman wasn’t wearing pants or shoes. Bones jutted out from underneath her skin.

‘Did you see Jimmy?’ the woman asked.

Darby had an idea. ‘I saw him, but I didn’t recognize him at first.’

‘You’ve been gone away for a long time. I bet he’s changed a lot.’

‘He has, but it’s… I’m having trouble remembering things. Small things, like my last name.’

‘It’s Mastrangelo. Terry Mastrangelo. Will you introduce me to Jimmy? After everything you’ve told me, I feel like I know him as much as you do.’

‘I’m sure he’d like that. But first, we have to get out of here.’

‘There’s no way out, only places to hide.’

‘I found a way out.’

‘You’ve got to stop that foolish thinking. I tried, remember? We both did.’

‘I came back for you, didn’t I?’ Darby took off her windbreaker and held it across the barrel. ‘Put this on. It will keep you warm.’

The woman went to grab the jacket, then pulled her hand away.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I’m afraid you’ll disappear again,’ the woman said. ‘I don’t want you to disappear on me again.’

‘Go ahead and take it. I won’t disappear, I promise.’

It took several minutes of thinking, but finally, the woman touched the jacket. The terror, the pain and fear – all of it seemed to collapse. She hugged the jacket against her chest, burying her face in the fabric and rocking back and forth, back and forth.

The ambulance was here now. It had pulled up to the bottom of the driveway without the sirens or spinning red lights. Thank God for small favors.

‘You really found a way out?’ the woman asked.

‘I did. And I’m going to take you out with me.’

Every part of Darby’s body screamed at her not to do it, but she ignored the warning and held out her hand.

The woman gripped it fiercely. Two of her fingers had been recently broken and had healed at sharp, painful angles. Splinters covered her arms.

The woman was watching the ceiling again.

‘There’s nothing to be afraid of anymore,’ Darby said. ‘You’re going to hold my hand and we’re going to walk out this door together. You’re safe.’

Chapter 10

Much to Darby’s surprise (and her considerable relief), the woman didn’t scream or put up a fight when she stepped out into the driveway of blinking lights. She squeezed Darby’s hand.

‘Nobody here is going to hurt you,’ Darby said, reaching for her umbrella. She didn’t want to risk having the rain wash away any potential evidence. ‘Nobody here is going to hurt you, I promise.’

The woman pressed the jacket against her face and started sobbing. Darby slipped an arm around the woman’s waist. Her bones felt as frail and as delicate as a bird’s.

Taking slow, careful steps, she guided the woman toward the waiting ambulance. Standing by the front doors were two EMTs. One of them was holding a syringe.

There was no way around this part. They had to sedate her. Best to do it out here, in the open, in case things turned nasty again. It would be harder to confine her inside the ambulance’s tight space.

Both EMTs circled behind the woman. Cops were hovering close by, ready to intervene, if necessary.

‘We’re almost there,’ Darby whispered. ‘Just keep holding my hand, and everything will be fine.’

The EMT sunk the needle into the woman’s buttock. Darby tensed, bracing herself for the worst. The woman didn’t flinch.

When the woman’s eyes fluttered, the EMTs took over.

‘Don’t strap her in yet,’ Darby said. I’m going to need her shirt and to take some pictures.’

Coop was already standing outside with his kit. There wasn’t much space to work in the ambulance. Darby, small and petite, got inside while Coop stood near the back doors. They wore masks to help with the odor. The woman’s sick, raspy breathing could be heard over the rain pelting the ambulance roof.

Mary Beth handed Darby the camera. She took pictures of the woman lying on her back, then closeups of the tear marks on the black T-shirt.

Using a pair of scissors, Darby cut a straight line up the T-shirt’s neckline, and then made two more cuts, one to each armpit. She slid the T-shirt off the woman’s body, exposing her chest. The pale skin, marred with thick scars and sores and cuts that hadn’t healed, had sunken far below the ribs.

‘It’s a miracle she didn’t die of heart arrhythmia,’ Mary Beth said.

Darby moved the woman onto her side. She folded the T-shirt and dropped it inside the evidence bag Coop was holding.

‘Let’s get fingernail scrapings,’ Darby said.

Darby did an oral swab on the insides of the woman’s cheeks. Coop used a wooden toothpick under the woman’s thumbnail. It tore in half and started to bleed.

‘What the hell happened to her?’ Coop asked.

I wish to God I knew.‘Let’s get her fingerprinted,’ Darby said.

Chapter 11

The Serology Lab is a long and airy rectangular room of black-slab countertops often referred to as benches. The high windows overlook some green hills, twin basketball courts and, directly below them, a concrete promenade with picnic tables where people ate lunch in the nice weather.

Leland Pratt, the lab director, was waiting for Darby by the door. He smelled of shampoo and some citrus-scented cologne – a welcome relief from the atrocious body odor that was still lining her nose and clothes.

‘It’s all over the news,’ he said as he followed her to the bench in the back corner where Erin Walsh, the head of the DNA unit, was set up. ‘Who’s handling the investigation?’

‘Mathew Banville.’

‘Then the girl’s in good hands,’ Leland said. ‘What about the Jane Doe you found underneath the porch?’

‘That made the news?’

‘They’re playing video footage of you helping her to the ambulance. They didn’t mention her name.’

‘We don’t know who she is – we don’t know anything.’

Darby handed Erin four marked envelopes. ‘Blood from the kitchen doorway. Buccal swab for Jane Doe. These last two envelopes are the comparison samples, Carol Cranmore’s toothbrush and her comb. If you need me, I’ll be across the hall.’

‘Keep me updated on everything,’ Leland said.

‘I always do,’ Darby said and left Serology. She dropped off the envelope with the tan fiber to the Trace section and then went to assist Coop.

Because the shirt was biologically contaminated with blood and other bodily fluids, Darby suited up. Next she put on a mask, safety goggles and neoprene gloves.

The small, dark room was filled with the faint hum of the rain. The shirt had been placed inside a fume hood.

‘Take a look at this,’ Coop said, stepping away from the illuminated light magnifier.

A white sliver marked by dry blood was caught in the fabric. Using a pair of tweezers, Darby freed the sliver and turned it over under the magnified light.

‘Looks like a paint chip. This patch here is probably rust.’

Coop nodded. ‘The T-shirt is a mess,’ he said. ‘We’re going to be in here all day collecting samples.’

Half an hour later, they had collected two more slivers.

The secretary’s voice came over the speaker: ‘Darby, Mary Beth on line two.’

Darby collected the glassine envelopes. ‘I’ll run these down to Pappy.’

Mary Beth was seated in front of her computer, working the keyboard and mouse. Her blond hair was now a dark red.

A black footwear impression was on the monitor. Darby could make out the grooves in the soles and the cuts and gouges from stepping on such things as tacks and nails and glass. All of these individual marks, along with gait characteristics, made a boot impression as unique as a person’s fingerprint.

‘When did you color your hair?’ Darby asked as she sat down.

‘Yesterday. I needed a change.’

‘This wouldn’t have anything to do with Coop, would it?’

‘Why would you ask me that?’

‘Because you were eating lunch with us when he announced he had a thing for redheads.’

‘Bear with me for a moment. I’m almost done.’

Darby leaned in closer. ‘Coop only dates women who can string no more than four words together at a time. It’s a policy with him.’

Mary Beth pointed to the monitor. Inside a circle were lines drawn to resemble a mountain top and, below it, what appeared to be the letter R.

‘This is the manufacturer’s stamp,’ Mary Beth said. ‘Some companies stamp their name and logo into the soles of their footwear. I’m pretty sure this is the company logo for Ryzer Footwear.’

I’ve never heard of them.’

‘But you have heard of Ryzer Gear.’

‘The ones that make those ridiculously expensive winter jackets?’

‘They’re the same company,’ Mary Beth said. ‘When Ryzer started out – this is going all the way back to the fifties, I think – they started out making boots for the military. Then they branched out into hiking boots. That’s all they did for a number of years. You could only buy them through their catalogue. The boots were very upscale and highly overpriced. During the eighties they were swallowed up by some global corporation, and Ryzer Footwear became Ryzer Gear. They still make hiking boots, but they also sell stuff like weatherproof coats, wallets and belts – they even came out with a kids’ line of clothing and accessories. They’re like a very upscale Timberland for the high-society set.’

‘How do you know all of this? You own stock in the company?’

‘During my teenage years, I was a big-time hiker. My parents gave me a pair of Ryzer boots one Christmas. The ones they make now are mass produced and are crap, but the originals? You take care of them, they’ll last you a lifetime. I still have mine. They are, hands down, the most comfortable pair of boots I’ve ever owned. That’s why I recognized the logo – it’s their old logo. These boots we’re looking at, they don’t make them anymore.’

‘I’ll see what I can do to track them down. Thanks, Mary Beth.’

‘You’re wrong about Coop. He likes smart women. Like you, for example.’

‘We’re just partners.’

‘Whatever you say,’ Mary Beth said. ‘By the way, you really need to take a shower. And a couple of breath mints wouldn’t hurt, either.’