Boneyard (13 page)

Kelly repressed a sigh; clearly sensitivity training was something Doyle had opted to skip. “That’s what I’m afraid of. You push too hard, when this goes to court the confession might get thrown out. I can pretty much guarantee Mr. Sommers will be hiring pricey legal counsel, and I don’t want to give them anything to latch on to. I want Sommers to sweat it out while we wait for the test results. In a few hours we should have more to pressure him with.”

“Yeah, okay,” Doyle agreed begrudgingly.

“You’ve done such a great job getting the lab to expedite things so far, why don’t you sit on them, see if they can push those tests? The sooner we get his tox screen results and the blood from his clothing typed and matched, the better.”

Doyle mock-saluted. “I’m on it.”

He shuffled down the hall. Monica stared after him, perplexed. “Is it me, or is Doyle going soft on us?”

Kelly shook her head. “Maybe he just decided to be a team player.” Monica was right, she thought to herself. The past few days Doyle had seemed increasingly distracted. Hell, he’d been downright cooperative whenever she asked him to do something. “Whatever it is, I plan on enjoying it while it lasts. Did that kid Danny say where he sent Sommers?”

Monica shook her head. “The uniform that questioned him didn’t think to ask. Want me to send someone back?”

“Definitely. I want to find out where Sommers was headed—might help us find the kill site.”

“Good point, I’ll have someone dispatched.” Monica turned and looked back through the glass at Sommers. “I used to trust my radar for guys like this, but him? I don’t know, seems like he couldn’t hurt a fly. Are the really twisted serial guys just different?”

“Sometimes,” Kelly said, watching as Sommers crushed the hat to his face and inhaled deeply. And sometimes it means we got the wrong guy, she thought to herself.

Dwight awakened with a start, eyes automatically jumping to the clock. It was just before four in the afternoon. Whew, he thought, stretching languorously. Thank God he’d woken up in time for his shift. He’d been so exhausted when he fell into bed that he’d forgotten to set his alarm. Dwight sat up slowly, scratching the paunch that distended over the tops of his boxers then, in one fluid motion, he dropped to the floor and executed a series of push-ups. He got to fifty before he dropped to the ground panting. Not too shabby, he thought, pleased with himself. Especially considering he’d only started up again a few weeks ago. Another month of this and he’d be knocking out five hundred a day, no problem, just like he used to. He squeezed the roll around his belly and frowned. It might mean cutting out the beer, too. But better wait and see. No need for drastic measures yet.

Fifteen minutes later he’d showered, shaved, changed his bandage and was ready to go. On his way out the door he glanced at the clock, tossing his keys in the air and catching them. He could spare five minutes, he thought with a sly smile. After all, something had probably happened in the past few hours. Maybe it was already posted on one of the news sites.

As Dwight waited for his computer to boot up he suppressed a yawn. Damn thing was so slow, he really wished he could afford a new one. Man, he was tired. All this running around day and night really took it out of a guy. It was training, he reminded himself. When he finally got to Langley, they’d keep him up for days straight. This would help him get used to it. Hard to believe the Captain still managed to maintain this pace at his age. Probably sleeps all day, though. Doesn’t have to hold down a pissant job like the rest of us, Dwight thought with a flash of anger as he tugged at his shirt collar, the polyester already making him sweat.

The Berkshire Eagle home page finally popped up. He let out a whoop at the first article—it was right there in black and white, Two Bodies Found In Cherry Plain Park. Dwight skimmed it quickly, eyes narrowing. Police were talking to a “person of interest” in the recent park killings, which was interesting, he hadn’t seen that coming. Could they have caught the Captain already? Maybe his plan had worked too well. The report didn’t say much else; he’d have to cruise down to Ace’s Place after his shift, see if any of the local cops were willing to spill the beans over a brewski.

He scrolled down. There was another article below, an oped piece entitled, Prostitution In Our Community. The writer danced around the fact that it was gay hustlers getting killed, never saying it outright. But he suggested that the presence of such elements attracted danger to the community at large. “Amen to that, my brother,” Dwight said aloud, nodding. Not that he minded hookers, he’d indulged in female company a few times himself. But little fag boys, that was different. He’d lived here his whole life, could remember back to when it was a nice place. Shame a bunch of homos had to come along and screw it up, just like they screwed up everything else. He’d heard straights weren’t even allowed into Miami anymore. Thank God they still kept gays out of the military. His brow furrowed as it suddenly occurred to him that he wasn’t sure what the official CIA policy was, but he shrugged it off. No way they’d hire a bunch of pansy spooks who’d never be able to maintain a cover.

Satisfied, he clicked off the computer and stood up, tightening the belt of his gun holster and clamping his hat on his head. The bosses didn’t know that he carried. But you gotta be prepared, he thought. If some guy broke into a building he was watching, he’d squeeze off two rounds right in their chest. Dwight glanced at his watch again and frowned. To get there on time he’d have to blow through a few lights. Thank God his new radar detector had arrived yesterday. He grabbed it and tucked it under his arm. The screen door slammed behind him as he strutted outside.

Thirteen

Dr. Howard Stuart adjusted the viewfinder again and squinted through the microscope, brow furrowed. Raising his head, he turned to the open notebook beside him and furiously scribbled a few notes, then dropped his head back down and adjusted the dial again. A minute later he straightened, wincing, one hand reaching up to rub the crick in his neck.

“You okay?” the tech at the next table asked, eyebrow raised.

“Fine, thanks,” he said with a smile. “It’s always a challenge to adapt to new facilities.” And what a facility it was, he thought as his eyes swept the room. Purgatory was more like it. His lab at the Smithsonian was strictly state-of-the-art; they had equipment there that wouldn’t reach the marketplace for at least another year. The Massachusetts State Police Lab in Sudbury, on the other hand, appeared to have picked up most of their diagnostics at a rummage sale. He was gazing through a microscope that, for all intents and purposes, belonged in a public high school science class. And their vacuum oven…suffice it to say it left him cold.

Although the technicians themselves weren’t a bad lot, he thought grudgingly. And the lab had proved a welcome escape from the increasingly aggressive attentions of Lieutenant Lauer. He’d begged off dinner at her house that night, claiming he’d reached a critical phase at the lab and couldn’t handle the long commute back to the Berkshires. The truth was he was stalling; most of the work on the earlier remains had been completed, and Agent Jones was insisting he return the next morning to examine two new bodies.

Which meant an uncomfortable scene with Monica, he thought with a sigh as he gathered up the stack of papers he’d been working on, tapping them against the countertop to straighten them. He didn’t have a lot of experience with women to begin with, and the intensity of her attentions was disconcerting to say the least.

One of the techs appeared at the door. “Dr Stuart, I have those results you asked for,” she said.

“Thank you, Jamie,” he said, taking them from her. Now she was more like it, he thought, taking in her slender form appreciatively. Quiet, subdued, nondescript. That was his kind of woman. Initially he’d been intrigued by Monica’s attentions, and she did make him laugh. But the truth was something about her scared him. She was so loud, so different from the women he generally dated. He frowned slightly as his eyes fell upon the document in his hand. He flipped forward a page, checked the number, flipped through a few more. It was there on all of them.

“Jamie, have you double-checked these numbers?”

She rolled her eyes. “Of course.”

“All right, then. Thank you.” Still frowning, he picked up his cell phone and dialed. It was answered on the third ring. “Agent Jones? I’ve found something…strange.”

“Looks like we got him!” Doyle chortled gleefully, slapping the stack of papers with one hand.

Kelly glanced up from her desk, then held out a hand for the papers. Doyle bobbed back and forth on his feet as he watched her, barely able to contain himself. “How sure are they that the blood on his shirt is a match?” she asked slowly. Monica crossed the room to peer over her shoulder.

“DNA will take another few weeks, but it’s the same blood type. Jim Costello was A positive, which isn’t exactly common,” Doyle said. “And check out the tox screen.”

“So Sommers had ketamine in his system,” Kelly said. “I’m actually surprised they tested for that, it’s not in the usual battery.”

“I had them check for everything when the first test was negative,” Doyle said. “And you know what ketamine does?”

“Gives you hallucinations,” Monica said, then caught their glances. “What? I got a teenage son, I got to know this stuff,” she said defensively. “Kids call it ‘special k.’”

“It’s big with the gays, too,” Doyle interjected. “So our boy Sommers probably got pissed off when his little friend stole his shit. He drops a little ketamine, goes after him, does a job on him when he finds him, then passes out in his car.”

“What, and forgets the whole thing?” Kelly said dubiously.

“Could be, actually,” Monica said slowly. “They call it ‘falling into a k-hole,’ it’s supposed to be like entering a dream state. And afterward they usually don’t remember much.”

“Or maybe someone drugged him to shift the blame,” Kelly mused.

Doyle snorted. The lab reports had brought back his swagger. “I say if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck, it’s a fucking duck. We got the guy cold. We got the kid’s blood on his clothes, and he admits to getting pissed off and going after him. We got motive, opportunity, and more than enough evidence to arrest this sicko.”

Kelly looked at Monica, who shrugged. “Much as I hate to admit it, Sunshine here is right. We can link Sommers to two of the boys so far. Maybe he’s hooked on this stuff and it makes him do bad things, things he doesn’t remember after the fact. I say we charge him and see how it pans out.”

“All right.” Kelly nodded her agreement. “Doyle, since this is your jurisdiction, you get to do the honors.”

Doyle smacked his hands together. “So I guess this is it, huh? Not much reason to keep the task force going if we caught the guy.”

Kelly eyed him thoughtfully. She knew Doyle hadn’t been a fan of the task force from the beginning, but he was practically pushing her out the door. Not that she’d mind getting out of here, but still. In part just to nettle him, she said, “Let’s wait and see what happens. Have we tracked down Danny Smith yet?”

Monica shook her head. “No one was at the house when they went back. They’ll try again later, after the shift change.”

“Good. Meanwhile, let’s have Mr. Sommers arraigned. But we say nothing to the press yet.” She looked meaningfully at Doyle. “I don’t want any leaks on this. If something goes wrong, all of our respective units end up with a black eye. So let’s be sure we got the right guy before we start talking. Agreed?”

Monica nodded her head, while Doyle mumbled something that sounded like acquiescence. Kelly glanced at her watch; it was 4:30 p.m. the Friday before Labor Day weekend. The standard buzz outside their office was greatly diminished, most of the other officers having left early. No reason not to join them, she thought. Barring anything unforeseen, she might actually get three whole days off in a row, which for her was practically a record. She grinned and said, “Why don’t we call it a day?”

Fourteen

He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand and dumped another bottle of bleach on the floor. Eyes watering, he almost choked on the fumes. He climbed up a few rungs of the ladder, stuck his head above ground, tore off his surgical mask and gulped in drafts of fresh air. He’d have to be careful, worst thing in the world would be for him to pass out and have his wife find him down there. He was a fantastic liar, a skill required by his life circumstances, but not even he would be able to explain away the room at the base of the ladder.

Taking a deep breath, he dropped back down and poured a good amount of clean water over the bleach, using a mop to swirl it around and toward the drain he’d installed in the center of the room. When he built the chamber he’d tapped into the sewer pipes so that everything would flow out to the septic tank. He made a mental note to call the service company to come and drain it. They’d just had it emptied a few months ago, so he’d have to come up with an excuse for why they were called back, maybe shove a few tampons down the toilet or something.

He turned on the hose and sprayed the walls and floor, the fumes abating as bleach circled down the drain. Pulling off his mask, he surveyed the room. He’d removed the chains and stowed them. Sometime this week he’d take them out on his boat and dump them in the nearest lake, along with a few other items that were too incriminating to dispose of through the normal channels. The only evidence now that the room was anything but a bomb shelter was the eyebolt embedded in the concrete. He could remove it, but he was loath to do that. It had been a pain in the ass to install in the first place, and he dreaded the thought of having to do it again. Besides, the cabinet he was going to set up for nonperishables would completely cover it. That, plus a few strategically placed cots, and anyone who came looking would have no reason to be suspicious.

Other than that, all that remained were his tokens. He eased the top off an industrial-size can of tomatoes, identical to a dozen others lined up next to it. He tilted it carefully so that a small glass jar slid out and into his waiting palm. A smile crept across his face as he took in the contents. Satisfied, he eased the jar back inside and pressed the metal top back down. He knew it wasn’t the smartest thing in the world, keeping them around, but he couldn’t bear to part with them. And besides, what were the chances anyone would come down here with a can opener, even if they did find the room?