Текст книги "The Chill of Night"

Автор книги: James Hayman

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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

Thirty-One

Two A.M. It looked like a busy night at Cumberland Medical Center. McCabe supposed the combination of a Saturday night and warmer temperatures was luring people out of their houses and into trouble. He stood inside the entrance to the ER looking for someone who could tell him where he could find Maggie. No one seemed to be manning the reception desk. He looked through tight knots of people, the overflow from the waiting area. A teenaged boy moaned nearby. He finally spotted a woman in a white coat, kneeling down and taking information from a dirty-looking man who lay stretched out across three plastic chairs in the waiting area. He looked like he’d come out on the wrong end of a bar fight. McCabe headed toward her, squeezing past a couple in their eighties who sat quietly side by side, holding hands, her head on his shoulder, her eyes red as if she’d been crying. Next to them a three-year-old child was howling in his mother’s arms.

‘I’m looking for Detective Margaret Savage,’ McCabe said, holding up his shield to the woman in white.

‘Who?’ She looked confused.

‘Savage. Margaret Savage. Portland PD.’

‘Wait over there,’ she said, pointing him toward a counter with nobody behind it.

‘That’s the gunshot wound, right?’ A male voice. One of the EMTs from Summer Street. ‘She’s in Trauma Three. Right over there.’ The guy pointed. McCabe nodded his thanks and started across the open space in that direction.

‘Hey, you can’t go in there.’ A nurse rushed after him. McCabe ignored her. One of the hospital security guards followed.

‘Hey,’ she shouted again. McCabe held up his gold shield and pointed it in their direction and kept going. They didn’t follow.

He spotted Maggie lying on a gurney surrounded by seven or eight people, all in scrubs, all moving fast. They were, in turn, surrounded by an array of screens and monitors. A couple of the machines were making beeping noises. Two IVs were hooked into Maggie’s neck. Two more into her arms. Someone, probably a resident judging by his age, was moving a small white wand around Maggie’s abdomen a couple of inches below her navel and watching a screen on what McCabe was pretty sure was an ultrasound machine. Near the wand on Maggie’s right side, he could see a small, ugly red and black hole where the bullet went in just above her hipbone. A blanket covered her body below the wound.

Doctors and nurses were calling out information to each other.

‘Airway clear.’

‘BP 145 over 90.’

‘Pulse 105.’

Maggie spotted him and tried to roll her eyes in a kind of ‘how dumb is this?’ gesture. A wave of pain must have hit her pretty much at the same time, because her expression changed to a tight grimace. He spotted her clothes, cut from her body and lying in a heap on the floor. He still had her gun, but her empty holster was perched on top of the heap, her badge wallet on top of that. He walked to the pile and picked them up.

The team leader, a blonde woman about forty, approached him.

‘I’m Dr Herrold,’ she said. ‘Emergency attending. Are you McCabe?’

‘Yes.’

She accepted his ID and appeared to examine it carefully. ‘Good. She’s been asking for you. You’ll need to sign a confirmation that you’ve taken charge of Detective Savage’s belongings. We’ll put the rest of her things in a bag, and you can take those as well.’

He tilted his head toward Maggie. ‘She’s gonna be okay, right?’

‘I think she’ll be fine. The bullet appears to have torn some muscle, but it didn’t hit anything vital.’

He tilted his head at the young man with the wand. ‘What’s he doing?’

‘Finishing up what’s called a FAST exam. Using ultrasound to make sure there’s no abdominal hemorrhaging that could cause problems.’

‘Pelvic view clear,’ the man with the wand told Herrold.

‘That’s the last quadrant. Your colleague was lucky,’ Dr Herrold said to McCabe. ‘A couple of inches either way and she would have been in trouble. As it was, the bullet seems to have skimmed the muscle fascia at the top of the pelvic rim and then angled down. There’s an exit wound at the top of her butt on the right side.’

‘Great. A scarred ass. Just what I need.’ Maggie looked pale, and her eyes were still closed, but hearing her wisecrack made him feel better.

‘Do you have the bullet?’ McCabe asked. ‘We’ll need it for forensics.’

‘Sorry, we can’t help you with that. We don’t have it. Bullet tore through her sweats. I suspect your people will find it on the ground somewhere near where she was hit. I don’t think it would have gone very far.’

‘Did you catch the bastard yet?’ It was Maggie again. Her eyes were still closed, her voice weak.

‘Not yet.’

‘But you do have Quinn?’

‘Yes. She’s here as well,’ said McCabe. ‘Somewhere.’ Cumberland Medical Center was a big place.

‘Are you talking about the woman who came in at the same time as your detective?’ asked Herrold.

‘Yeah. Do you know where she is?’

‘Yes. There was no physical injury, but she’s heavily sedated. We sent her up to the psychiatric unit on four.’

A nurse handed McCabe a big paper bag. He removed Maggie’s keys from the pocket of her jeans and stuffed the rest of her things into the bag. ‘When can I have her back?’ McCabe asked Herrold, nodding his head at Maggie.

‘We’ll keep her overnight. Put her on antibiotics and Percocet for the pain. She’ll hurt for a while, probably be limping around for a week or so, but she ought to be out of here tomorrow.’

‘I’ve got your keys,’ he told Maggie. ‘I’ll go over to your place and get you some clothes and things.’

‘Do me a favor.’

‘What?’

‘Have Kyra do it.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? Because I don’t trust you, that’s why.’

McCabe told her to get some rest and tucked the brown paper bag under his arm. He found the right elevator and headed up to Cumberland Medical Center’s small psychiatric unit on the fourth floor.

He was intercepted by a young resident who told him Quinn was no longer there. ‘We gave her some antipsychotics and transferred her over to Winter Haven.’

‘On whose orders?’

‘Mine.’

‘Why?’

‘This is a very small unit. We have almost no room here. They’re much better equipped to handle someone with her history there.’

McCabe thanked the young man and took the elevator to one. He left the hospital the same way he’d come in. The old couple was still holding hands, and the homeless guy was still lying across the plastic chairs. He was snoring loudly.

Thirty-Two

Flashing blue lights still surrounded 131 Summer Street when McCabe pulled up in the Bird. News vans from all four of Portland’s network affiliates were lined up behind the police units. Tom Shockley’s black Chevy Suburban was parked to one side. Bill Fortier’s brand-new Impala, its vanity plates reading looey, was tucked in right behind. McCabe got out. Wasn’t much for him to do, so he just leaned against the Bird’s driver’s side door and watched the goings-on. Eddie Fraser wandered over and leaned alongside. Eddie pulled out a pack of Marlboros, lit one, and blew a long stream of smoke into the night air.

‘Hey, Mike,’ said Fraser after a bit.

‘Hello, Eddie. Thought you quit smoking.’

‘I did. For nearly a whole week. Want one?’

‘Don’t tempt me.’

‘Enjoying your weekend?’

‘Peachy, thanks. How about yourself?’

‘Oh yeah, great. Excitement is what I live for. How’s Mag?’

‘Well, aside from being pissed off about having a bullet hole going in her hip and coming out on her butt, she appears to be fine. Ought to be out of Cumberland tomorrow. What’s going on here?’

‘Chris Beneman’s inside doing his thing. The GO’s itching to get on the air.’

Beneman was a senior evidence technician. Had to be the last one the department had available.

‘Jacobi and Tasco still out on Harts?’

‘They were as of half an hour ago.’

‘We ID the dead woman yet?’

‘Yeah. A friend of Quinn’s from Winter Haven. Her only friend, according to the people I talked to at the hospital.’

‘Patient or staff?’

‘Patient. Another schizo. Name’s Leanna Barnes. It’s her apartment.’

‘Leanna, huh?’ So she hadn’t been telling him that her name was Ellie. She must have been telling him something else. Like who shot her. Not Ellie. Kelly. The man with the black-framed glasses. McCabe pushed his tongue up against his top row of teeth to make an ‘ell’ sound. He then released it and pushed out air for the ‘eee’ at the end. But if you wanted a ‘kuh’ sound at the beginning of the word, you had to make it at the back of your throat. Something you wouldn’t be able to do if a bullet had just blasted your throat all to hell. The killer was John Kelly. For McCabe, that pretty much sealed it. Father Jack. The guy who studied the Old Testament prophets. The guy McCabe’s gut had told him hadn’t done it. The minute anyone starts thinking they know who or what John Kelly is, Wolfe had told him, it’s time to think again. McCabe’s gut had got it wrong. It was time to think again. He told Eddie to find John Kelly and bring him in.

‘What if he says no?’

‘Arrest him.’

‘Okay,’ said Eddie, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘Where you gonna be?’

‘Me? I’m going back to Harts Island.’

Thirty-Three

Harts Island, Maine

Tom Tasco waited till McCabe’d jumped from the rear deck of the Francis R. Mangini onto the dock before he started talking. ‘Goff’s prints are all over Kelly’s cottage,’ Tasco said as they started up the ramp. ‘Specially the bedroom. Also some hairs that might be hers. Sonofabitch must have kept her there for a few days at least before moving her to the Markhams’.’

‘Any other prints aside from hers?’

‘Lots of Kelly’s. Plus a few smudges and smears belonging to person or persons unknown. How’s Maggie?’

‘She’ll have a sore hip and butt for a while. Otherwise, she’s fine.’

The black-and-white Explorer was, once again, waiting at the top of the ramp. Bowman was behind the wheel, this time in uniform. Tasco climbed in back, leaving the passenger seat for McCabe.

‘Hello, Scotty, how’re you doing?’

Bowman grunted something unintelligible, pulled a U-turn, and took off up Welch Street away from the landing. McCabe sat silently, watching the dark, empty island streets flow by. At least it wasn’t snowing, and the air was a lot warmer. The cops in the elevator must have been right about the January thaw. McCabe tried to force his overtired brain cells back onto the issues at hand.

Okay, he was pretty sure Kelly was guilty, but he wasn’t at all sure he could prove it. Not to a jury. Not if Father Jack got himself a smart defense lawyer. Goff’s prints provided hard evidence that she had been in Kelly’s house, but they didn’t prove Kelly killed her. Leanna Barnes’s dying words wouldn’t help that much either. You heard her say what, Detective? Ellie. She said Ellie? Not Kelly? That’s right. Ellie. Not quite the right name, gurgled and garbled by a dying woman who couldn’t herself testify. Sure, he could explain how Leanna’s wound prevented her from forming the letter K in the back of her torn-apart throat, but his assumption that she was really trying to say Kelly would be dismissed as pure conjecture. No. Burt Lund would need more.

There was Kelly’s paper on the Old Testament prophets. That’d help. If they found it. Even if they did, though, he didn’t think it would be enough to convict. Even if the Amos quote was right on the front page, underlined and circled in red, some slick lawyer could make the case that anybody might have known that Old Testament quote. Anybody could have broken into Kelly’s house and found Kelly’s old grad school paper.

Then there was Abby. Even if hypnosis helped her identify Kelly as the killer, no jury in the world would convict on testimony from a schizophrenic witness. A schizophrenic witness who, according to her own psychiatrist, could have been off her meds. As for the other witnesses, both Maggie and Magol Gutaale Abtidoon could only testify that the bad guy wore a heavy coat and glasses with black frames.

Finally there was the not insignificant issue of motive. Goff’s insurance policy might work for a jury, but he was sure a lawyer would try to pooh-pooh it as a gift to a worthy charity and not something that could be used to enrich an individual. Especially one who had deliberately chosen a life of relative poverty so he could, in turn, help others.

What else was there? McCabe knew firsthand Kelly was volatile. Given to easy anger. But this, the lawyers would eagerly point out, wasn’t a killing committed in a rage. It was too planned. Too choreographed. Plus, Kelly was gay, so why’d he keep her alive so long? Not for sex, unless he swung both ways. Possible, but not convincing.

About ten minutes out from the landing, Bowman left the paved road and bumped the Explorer onto a circuitous pattern of dirt trails, going from one to another until, after another ten minutes or so, they came to a small clearing. He pulled in behind Jacobi’s crime scene van. McCabe could see some lights about a hundred yards ahead. They climbed out.

‘That’s Kelly’s cottage, if you want to call it that,’ said Bowman. ‘More of a shack really. We go the rest of the way on foot.’

Directly in front of him was a small wooded area about fifty feet wide. Beyond that lay a snowy and possibly rocky field.

‘There’s sort of a path,’ said Bowman, ‘but there’s lots of icy ledge between here and there. The ice is covered by mushy snow, so you’ll have to walk carefully.’ He shined his flashlight on McCabe’s city shoes and smirked. ‘You may have some trouble walking in those. You’re sure as hell gonna get wet feet.’

‘I’ll live with it.’

‘Might even break an ankle.’ Bowman smiled as if he thought that was worth hoping for.

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘Suit yourself.’ Bowman handed McCabe a flashlight. Tasco already had one. ‘I’ll go first. Watch my feet and step where I step. I’ll let you know if there’s anything treacherous coming up.’

The January sun wouldn’t be up for another couple of hours, and there was no moon. ‘Place was built about a hundred years ago,’ Bowman said as they started down the path. ‘House is cantilevered out over a cliff maybe fifty feet above the ocean. Nothing but rocks and breakers below. An old set of wooden stairs to the side over there takes you down to the beach. Hell of a view from the house, but it beats me how it’s stood up to the nor’easters all these years. I would’ve guessed the storms that blow in here would’ve knocked it to hell and gone long ago, but there it is.’

McCabe followed Bowman and, as instructed, walked in his tracks. Tasco brought up the rear. He felt wet snow slipping into his shoes. Within seconds his socks and feet were soaked. There was no way he was going to complain about it. He’d sooner get frostbite, even lose a toe or two, than give an asshole like Bowman the satisfaction of hearing him whine. It took ten more minutes of careful foot placement to traverse the hundred yards to the house. McCabe slipped a couple of times and landed on his ass once. He got up and kept going.

Bowman pushed the door open. In the dim light of a single lamp, McCabe saw Bill Jacobi, seated at a small wooden table, systematically leafing through piles of paper files taken from a cardboard moving carton set in front of him. Neater piles, already examined and sorted, were arranged on the far end of the table. Two more cartons were on the floor.

Jacobi looked up. ‘Okay to come in,’ he said. ‘We’re finished in here except for this stuff.’

McCabe entered and looked around. The place was about as different from the Markhams’ as two structures described as island cottages could be.

‘Where are your guys?’ McCabe asked.

‘Out searching the property with a few of the locals. Kelly’s got about five acres here. Doubt they’ll find much, but hey, you don’t know if you don’t look.’

Bowman left to join the searchers. Tasco sat down next to Jacobi. McCabe slipped off his shoes and explored the space. The room they were in was a small combo kitchen and living room. Beat-up furniture. Appliances that reminded McCabe of what his parents had in the Bronx thirty years ago, and his parents’ stuff was old then. One door led to a small bedroom that was pretty much filled by a double bed with a bare mattress, a small painted bureau, and one bedside table. On the table was an alarm clock, digital numbers flashing as if it hadn’t been reset after a power cut. A couple of books. A telephone. He pulled open one of the drawers in the bureau. Nothing. Not even a pair of dry socks. Books were piled everywhere on the floor. He saw no obvious signs of Lainie having been in residence.

A second door led to a bathroom. A sink. A cheap metal shower stall. He turned the tap. No water. Turned off for the winter. What did Lainie drink if this was her prison? Where did she wash? Using the toilet wouldn’t have been a problem. The seat was set above a hole hanging out over the sea. Probably illegal these days. And, no doubt, a little cool on the ass.

McCabe came back into the main room and sat with the others. He rubbed each set of toes in turn, trying to get the circulation going in them again. He’d read you can always tell when you’ve got frostbite because you can’t feel the pain anymore. If that was right he was okay. His toes hurt like hell.

‘You guys been here a while?’ he asked.

‘Pretty much all day.’ Tasco looked at his watch. ‘And all night.’

‘Find anything other than the fingerprints?’

‘Yeah,’ said Jacobi. ‘Lot of DNA sources. Hairs in the bed. A couple long and brown like Goff’s. What looks like dried semen stains on the sheets.’

‘Where are the sheets?’

‘Packed up and on their way to Augusta. Some dirty cups and silverware that were in the sink. Also en route. May have traces of DNA. There’re cold ashes in the woodstove. Can’t tell how long ago the last fire was. We’ll sift through them in case Kelly tried burning something incriminating.’

‘Anything else?’

‘The phone’s connected,’ said Tasco. ‘Dial tone’s beeping like there’s a voice mail message on it.’

‘You haven’t listened to it?’

‘Can’t. Not till we get Kelly’s password. One oh nine is supposed to be checking with Verizon. I would’ve thought we’d have something by now.’

‘Can I help with the files?’

‘Sure. Just wear these and don’t smear.’ Jacobi tossed him a pair of gloves. ‘I’ll want to check all this stuff for prints later.’ Looked like a big job.

The boxes contained a potpourri of Kelly’s life. Letters, photos, postcards from vacationing friends. Also a lot of notes and papers from college and seminary. A number of photos showed a younger Kelly with the same young man. Teddy Childs? Or maybe an earlier partner. In a couple he was dressed as a priest, but mostly not. One photo showed a young Kelly with an older woman who stared at the camera with the same intense blue eyes. Presumably his mother.

Jacobi and the two detectives kept at it for an hour, none of them speaking, each of them glancing at each piece of paper, then placing it in one of several neat piles arranged by type of document. The room was silent save for the sound of men breathing, hands shuffling paper, and an occasional creak from the house moving on its precarious foundation. McCabe imagined the whole thing tumbling off the cliff and into the ocean with the three of them still in it. Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night sailed off in a wooden shoe. There was no wind. No roar from the dead-calm sea. Not even the ticking of a clock. Just the creaks.

‘This what you’re looking for?’ The sudden sound of Jacobi’s voice made McCabe jump. Jacobi was holding out a spiral-bound booklet with a clear plastic cover. McCabe took it. The first page contained only title, author, and date. ‘An Examination of the Prophetic Tradition in the Old Testament. John Kelly, TOR. May 2, 1994.’

He opened it and began reading. At the top of page 21 he found exactly what he was looking for. An italicized quote, All the sinners of my people shall die by the sword, which say, The evil shall not overtake nor prevent us. Beneath it was what appeared to be a lengthy and scholarly discussion of how and why a vengeful God would deal with those who ignored his precepts. McCabe stared at the quote. Seeing it on paper seemed to seal the deal. Kelly was guilty. McCabe just needed a motive and some hard evidence that would convince a jury. Jacobi got up from his chair and stood looking over McCabe’s shoulder.

‘So Kelly’s your pither, huh?’

‘Looks that way.’

The quiet in the room was broken by the William Tell Overture, the part that used to be the theme music from The Lone Ranger on TV. Tasco hit a button on his phone. The music stopped. ‘Tasco,’ he said. ‘Yeah? Okay. Good. Let me write that down.’ He removed a small notebook and pen from his coat pocket and made a notation. ‘Thanks, Andrea. Yeah, you, too.’ He looked at McCabe. ‘That was Verizon.’

‘Kelly’s password?’

‘Yup.’

‘What is it?’

‘Bunch of numbers.’ He read from the note. ‘726288279.’

‘It spells “sanctuary.”’

‘What?’

‘The numbers. They spell out the word ‘sanctuary’ on a telephone keypad. Should’ve guessed that one an hour ago. I must be losing it.’

They went into the bedroom. McCabe picked up the receiver and dialed the number for Verizon voice mail. ‘John Kelly,’ said a male voice.

Then a computerized female voice came on. ‘Please enter your password.’

McCabe entered the letters S-A-N-C-T-U-A-R-Y.

‘You have one new message. To listen to your messages now, press one.’

McCabe pressed one.

‘First new message. From unknown caller. Received Tuesday, December twentieth, at 6:44 P.M.’

‘I know what you’ve been doing, you asshole, and you’re not going to get away with it. We need to talk. And don’t try ignoring me. I’ll try your other line.’ McCabe realized he’d never heard Lainie Goff’s voice before. Still, he was sure it was her.

‘To hear the message again, press one.’

He pressed one. ‘I know what you’ve been doing, you asshole, and you’re not going to get away with it. We need to talk. And don’t try ignoring me. I’ll try your other line.’ I know what you’ve been doing, you asshole. What exactly was Kelly doing? Was it the motive McCabe was searching for? He handed the phone to Tasco and let him listen.

The front door opened and closed. Bowman’s voice called out, ‘Hey! McCabe! Where are you?’

‘In here.’

Bowman appeared in the door of the bedroom. ‘Get your coats on,’ he said. ‘You guys better come see what we found.’

It was still dark, and McCabe didn’t see it at first. Not until Bowman positioned the beam of his flashlight right on the spot. A human hand, sticking up out of melting snow and attached to about six inches of skinny arm that was covered in a solid mass of blue tattoos. Young and almost certainly male. Both hand and arm looked frozen. The same waxy sheen he’d seen on Lainie Goff’s body. McCabe looked around to position himself. They were standing in a wooded area a couple of hundred feet southwest of the house. ‘This still Kelly’s property?’ he asked.

‘Yeah,’ said Bowman. ‘It goes back another fifty feet about to that big pine tree over there.’

Two of Jacobi’s techs, Jeff Feeney and Carla Morrisey, had already started stringing yellow crime scene tape in a wide perimeter around the spot, shooing away a couple of the local searchers. They retreated to the far side of the tape.

I know what you’ve been doing, you asshole, and you’re not going to get away with it. Goff’s accusation played over and over in McCabe’s head. Was this what Kelly was doing? Abusing teenaged boys from Sanctuary House? Just like the priest who had abused him? Had Goff found out about it and accused him? Had he killed Goff, and this boy as well, to keep her from going public? To keep her from calling the cops and, in the process, destroying him and his life’s work, Sanctuary House? McCabe shined his own light on the hand and arm sticking out of the snow. He was sure he’d found a motive that, for John Kelly, would have been far more powerful than mere money.

When the area was circled in tape, Feeney and Morrisey hauled a small generator and a couple of powerful floods out of the back of their van. Feeney began setting them up on top of steel tripods. Morrisey unrolled heavy black cable from the generator to the lights. She plugged it in and flicked a switch, and suddenly the burial site was lit up like center field at Yankee Stadium.

McCabe called Terri Mirabito at home again.

‘Jesus, McCabe, don’t you ever sleep? What is it now?’

‘We found another body.’

‘You’ve got to be kidding me.’

‘Frozen.’

‘Pithed?’

‘Don’t know yet.’ McCabe watched as Feeney began shooting the crime scene photos with a high-end digital camera. Morrisey was taking measurements to precisely position the spot where they found the arm on a location diagram. ‘All we can see so far is an arm. Looks like a boy’s. The rest of the body, assuming there is a rest of the body, is still buried in a couple of feet of snow and ice. If the weather hadn’t warmed up and melted a bunch, we wouldn’t have found it at all.’

‘Okay. I’m getting dressed. Where do I go this time?’

‘Head on down to Casco Bay Lines. I’ll make sure the fireboat’s waiting for you.’

‘Harts Island?’

‘Yeah. There’ll be a car waiting on this side. I’m calling Fortier, too, so don’t take off without him.’

It was nearly six o’clock, and Fortier was already awake sipping coffee. He said he’d throw some clothes on and be at the dock in fifteen minutes. Before he hung up McCabe asked him to bring along some dry socks and, if he had them, an extra pair of waterproof boots, size eleven or thereabouts, and, oh yeah, if he didn’t mind terribly, maybe a hair dryer. Fortier said he’d see what he could rustle up.

By the time all the crime scene photos were shot and the measurements taken, a thin strip of orange was beginning to appear over a mostly green and gray eastern horizon. Feeney and Morrisey had started gently digging away the snow from around the arm. They worked carefully, like archeologists uncovering a precious artifact. McCabe looked up and saw Terri trudging through the snow toward him, carrying her little black doctor’s bag. Fortier walked behind her, holding a white shopping bag with MACY’s printed on both sides. He handed the bag to McCabe, who took it and headed for the cottage, forcing himself not to look back at the smirk he was sure was planted on Bowman’s face.

Inside the white bag McCabe found a pair of dark blue crew socks rolled in a ball, a pair of size eleven L.L. Bean trademark boots – green rubber on the bottom, tan leather on top – and a small portable hair dryer. He located an electric outlet, one of only two in the room, and dragged over a wooden chair. He removed his shoes and socks. His toes were totally numb, but they didn’t look as frozen as the kid’s arm. He took that as a good sign. He plugged in the dryer and started blowing warm air over his feet. It didn’t feel good. After only a few seconds his toes started hurting like a bitch. He wondered if PPD regs said anything about a detective’s fitness for duty if he happened to be missing a toe or two. It was time, he told himself, to start dressing properly for Maine winters. Manhattan was a long time ago and a long way away.

It took about half an hour of careful scraping before the frozen corpse of a teenaged boy began to emerge. He was lying on one side and was naked except for the tattoos that covered both arms and the rows of silver rings that were pierced into the skin above his right eye and along the curve of his lower lip. Even in death he had the sweet angelic face of a child, one that reminded McCabe of the face of Edward Mullaney, the abused altar boy he’d known so many years ago. The altar boy who was now a convicted pedophile and rapist. And so the cycle of sin continues, McCabe mused to himself, transmitted like a virus from abuser to abused, down through the generations and back again.

Judging by the layers of crusting ice around his body, McCabe figured the boy had been buried three snowfalls ago. He stood between Fortier and Terri and watched the techs take pictures of the uncovered corpse. ‘We’ve managed to move Goff’s limbs enough to straighten her out,’ Terri said.

‘And?’

‘I think she was sexually tortured. There are burn marks in and around the opening of her vagina.’

McCabe closed his eyes and sighed deeply, wondering why Kelly had had to do that. It was so hard to think of the man as a sadist. The minute anyone starts thinking they know who or what John Kelly is, it’s time to think again.

‘What about the bruising we saw in the trunk of the car?’

‘My guess is those bruises are old. She probably fought back when he grabbed her. Then he drugged her and kept her drugged, except maybe for the torture sessions. I have a hunch when we finally get the tox reports, we’ll find she was heavily sedated at the time of death.’

‘Anything else?’

‘No. Nothing under her nails, and other than the burns, the body is as clean as a whistle. I think he may have bathed her just before he killed her.’

Maybe that’s why he took her to Markham’s house, thought McCabe. No heat or water here. Plenty of both there – and, as Markham himself said, half the island knew where the key was hidden.

When the techs had finished, Terri knelt down next to the body in the hole they’d made and began her preliminary examination with gloved hands. ‘Yep. He’s been pithed, alright,’ she said. ‘There’s also considerable bruising and what looks like bleeding and torn skin around the rectum.’

‘Rough sex?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe. Either that or . . .’

Terri paused. She didn’t look happy.

‘Or what?’

‘I think our friend may have enjoyed pushing sharp objects into places they didn’t belong.’

McCabe winced again. Lainie Goff’s words came screaming back to him one more time. I know what you’ve been doing, you asshole, and you’re not going to get away with it. Unfortunately, Kelly got her before she got him. At least she was right about one thing. He wasn’t going to get away with it.