Darkness peering (2 page)

"Sorry, Chief."

"Now that's just irresponsible." He pocketed the butt and continued
searching the perimeter, where he found a three inch-long piece of red
thread, a matchbook from Dale's Discount Hardware and over a dozen
glass shards, beer-bottle green. He sealed these items in evidence
bags, then knelt to examine the body again. Stuck to the bottom of the
girl's right sneaker, wedged into the tread, was a small piece of
yellow lined notepaper. He removed it gingerly and held it in his
palm, letting it dry slightly before opening it. Torn haphazardly in
the shape of Italy, it was approximately two inches by one inch. He
slipped it into an evidence bag, then knelt to take a soil sample.

While he was scraping the mud off a rock, the image of the girl's
broken body flashed through his mind, and his stomach lurched. A sharp
pain gripped his skull. Nauseated, he rested his head between his
knees and took deep, shuddering breaths.

"You okay, Chief?" McKissack took the evidence bags from him. "I'll
finish up. Go catch your breath."

Grateful, Nalen raised his head to the light and sat for a while, lost
in thought, as if he were waiting for a turkey sandwich.

A car horn blared, an oddly comical sound in the bright morning air,
and the medical examiner's platinum Mercedes 280CE coupe came
cata-humping across the field.

"That guy changes cars the way some people change underwear," McKissack
muttered as Archie Fortuna got out and, with a ceremonious flourish,
snapped on a pair of latex gloves. He had delicate hands for such a
big man. Archie was all dancing belly-a balding, fortyish indoor
enthusiast who barreled toward the

scene with the kind of eagerness most people reserved for sex or steak
dinners.

"Howdy doody, Chief." Archie's breath was infamous for its alleged
ability to drop a Doberman at six paces. "Whaddaya got?"

"Looks like she was struck on the head and then strangled," Nalen said.
"Possibly dragged from a car, although I think she was killed right
here in this field."

Archie clapped his hands with professional zeal. "Let's have a
look-see."

They bent over the corpse together, shoes sinking into the muck.
Archie had a lover's touch. When he turned the girl's body over, a
hundred tiny beads of dew rolled off her skin.

"Petechial hemorrhages," he said.

"Mm-hm."

"Finger markings around the throat. Possible blow to the skull. See
this reddish area? Look for a blunt instrument ... a rock, maybe. You
called this one, Chief." Archie grunted as he straightened up and
squinted at the sun, dark eyes disappearing behind greasy folds of
flesh. "Take any prints?"

"Couldn't. Skin's too wrinkled."

"Not to worry. I'll finish back at the lab."

Nalen tried not to think about the process Archie would use to obtain
the girl's prints for identification purposes. He'd seen it done once
before; Archie would peel off little ovals of skin, place the flaps
over his own fingertips, and then, using an ink pad, press them to the
blotter.

Archie let out a muffled belch. "Mongoloid, huh?"

"Down's syndrome, they call it."

"Makes you sick, doesn't it?" He raised the dead girl's fist and
delicately pried her fingers apart, and to the astonishment of both of
them, a tiny silver bell fell out.

"What the doohickey's this?" Archie held it to the light.

"Looks like a cat bell," Nalen said, and Archie dropped it into his
palm, where it rolled to a stop with a little tinkling sound.

NALEN CROSSED THE D'AGOSTINOS' FRONT YARD, NOTING THE

weed-choked foundation and rusty watering can, the cracked slate slabs
leading toward the sagging front porch. Out back, the lawn sloped
sharply toward the woods, where birch trees shot up from the ground
like jet contrails. He could hear the cries of the neighborhood
children; they sounded like gulls. The air was fragrant with azaleas
and sweet william, pregnant with the promise of rain.

Picking up the morning paper, he rang the doorbell. "It's Nalen
Storrow," he said through the screen, and Frances D'Agostino let him
in. She was in her mid-forties, built solid, with weathered skin and a
heavy brass-colored braid slung over her shoulder. He handed her the
newspaper.

"Hello, Frances."

Hope flashed in her eyes. "Did you find her?"

He shook his head and all hope died. "I mean ..." He fumbled for the
right words. "Well ... I need to talk to you and Marty, if he's
home."

"Something's wrong, isn't it?" She had the dried-out stare of an old
woman.

"May I come in?"

Silently, resentfully, she stepped aside.

He took a seat on the living room sofa, removed his hat and leaned
against an embroidered pillow that said "There's no place like home."
The house was neat as a pin. Just yesterday, he'd issued a bulletin
and placed Melissa D'Agostino's name in state police files. He'd taken
down a report--physical description, medical history, access to bank
accounts. He'd called the county

hospital, just in case, and formed a search party. Now the search was
over. They could all go home. Except that, for the D'Agostinos, this
place would never really feel like home again.

"Marty, Chief's here!" Frances hollered up the stairs, then moved
awkwardly into the living room, her wary eyes on him.

The air smelled warm and moist, something meaty boiling away on the
stove. "Smells good," he said politely.

"Pot roast." Frances rubbed an arthritic hand across her belly.
"Stomach's been cramping up on me. Hope I don't get cystitis again.
Hate those sulfa pills. Oh, here you are, honey."

Marty D'Agostino strode into the living room and sat down opposite
Nalen in a plaid armchair. Marty had a resonant voice, an imposing
frame and a shock of spiky gray hair. He was an accountant for an
insurance firm in Manchester, New Hampshire, and commuted four hours
back and forth to work each day. When Melissa was a toddler, Marty had
refused the doctors' suggestion that he commit her to an institution;
instead, he'd insisted on main streaming her into the public schools,
an uncommon request in 1970. Heroism came in all shapes and sizes,
Nalen thought, as Frances sank onto the sofa beside him.

Marty's lower lip trembled. "She's dead, isn't she?"

In the second or so it took him to respond, Nalen wished he could've
made something up. A better ending. And silence sounds no worse than
cheers, after death has stopped the ears. He cleared his throat. "I'm
afraid so."

He could hear the air going out of their lungs. The living room was
all patches of color embroidered with their stunned faces. Frances's
arthritic fingers clutched the sofa cushions.

"Where'd you find her?" Marty asked.

"Out on Black Hill Road."

"Could you be more specific?"

"Off the road a ways ... lying in a runoff pond."

"What d'you mean?" Marty was glaring at Nalen now.

Frances hoisted herself off the sofa, went over to a bookcase

and reached for a photo album on the top shelf, lacy yellow slip
showing beneath her floral-patterned dress. She dropped the album in
Nalen's lap. "There's my baby," she said, pointing at a family
portrait.

Marty fearlessly held Nalen's eye. "How did my daughter die? Did she
drown?"

"We think there might've been foul play."

Marty sat back.

Frances leaned over and thumbed through the photo album's thick black
pages. "I don't understand," she said softly, "who'd want to hurt my
baby?" She tapped one arthritic finger against a snapshot of her
daughter. Melissa had a face like a big, sweet pie. She mugged for
the camera, her round cheeks like two cupped hands framing her short
squat nose with its triangular nostrils. Her eyes sparkled with
mischief and she exuded so much warmth and curiosity, it wasn't
difficult to imagine how easily she might've fallen prey.

Marty's face reddened, all its angled planes pinched with pain. He
slammed his fist against his knee. "What d'you mean, 'foul play'?"
His words fired off like darts.

"We won't know for sure until after the autopsy. I can give you more
information then."

"Give me more information now," Marty insisted, his steely gaze boring
into Nalen. "Was she drowned in this pond? Is that what you're
saying? Somebody drowned my Melissa?"

"No, sir," Nalen said softly.

"What then, for chrissakes?" Waves of anger peeled off him like heat
from an oven. "What happened to my daughter?"

"We think she was strangled."

Frances clutched her braid, lowered her head and wept. Nalen could
feel each sob like a body blow. He didn't know whether to put an arm
around her or not. He was usually good at this sort of thing, but the
murder of a child was different. The murder of a child was
inexplicable, unforgivable.

"You're sure it's our Melissa?" Marty pleaded, eyes like two watery
coins. "You're absolutely certain?"

Nalen set the photo album carefully on the coffee table and stood up.
"We need you to come down and identify her for us, Marty."

Marty bowed his head. Frances was shuddering, eerie grunting sounds
emitting from her lungs. Nalen noticed his hands were shaking. It
wasn't fair. He remembered his father's words just then. Life's a
comedy to those who think, a tragedy to those who feel.

"Marty ... Frances ..." Nalen looked at each of them in turn. "We're
going to solve this case. I promise you."

"You know ..." Marty rose on tall unsteady legs. "Melissa always told
the truth. Children tell the truth, you know. Us adults ... we're
good at self-deception, but not kids. Why do you think they call it
the 'unadulterated' truth?"

"Well, you're right about that." Nalen moved toward the door. Outside,
a light rain was beginning to fall.

"Boy oh boy, she loved cows," Marty said. "You know Stinky Peppers?
We'd go down to his farm and visit the cows. Melissa loved those cows
with all her heart. Stinky let her name the calves. You ever been out
to Stinky's place?"

"On occasion." Stinky had a habit of getting drunk and beating his
third wife and their many children.

Frances gripped Nalen's hand, her fingers warm and rough. "Bless you,
Chief. She's with the Lord now."

"Stop it, Frances," Marty said, eyes blinking in irritation.

Nalen felt this sore spot between them like a slippery drop down a
granite gorge, icy as glacial meltwater.

"Almost forgot." Nalen pulled the cat bell out of his jacket pocket.
"Do either of you recognize this?"

Marty studied it for a moment. "Itch had one of those on her
collar."

"Itch?"

"Melissa's cat. Got killed six months ago." He looked away,
embarrassed. "You know, that brouhaha with your boy."

Nalen felt his face flush, every cell in his body awake now. "And you
haven't seen the cat collar since?"

"Nossir."

Nalen pocketed the bell.

"You know," Frances said, "when Melissa was born, I thought everybody
else's baby was just a baby ... but my little girl was a real human
being. Isn't that funny?"

"I know what you mean," he said, thinking of Rachel.

THE MEDICAL EXAMINER'S BUILDING WITH ITS NONDESCRIPT

brick facade was sandwiched in between the First Bank of Maine and the
police station on Lagrange. Autopsies had been performed in the
basement of this building for decades. The lobby smelled like a
dentist's office and was decorated with the same quasi-cheerful
decor--flowery wallpaper, tangerine upholstered sofas and chairs, side
tables offering up neutral reading matter like House & Garden and
Popular Mechanics.

"Hiya, Chief!" Archie Fortuna's irreplaceable assistant, Betty,
greeted them with a warm, gracious smile. She tripled as receptionist,
secretary and medical assistant, and Nalen liked her a lot. She had a
tousled head of dark hair, intelligent eyes and a bright, energetic
manner that served to neutralize the depressing atmosphere of the
morgue. "I'll tell Archie you're here. Please, have a seat."

They sat in silence, Marty D'Agostino's face a mask of torment. The
viewing room was all they would see today, but Nalen

knew the rest of the building like his own sorry face--Archie's office
with its tumble of files, its mini-fridge full of hummus
and-black-olive pita bread sandwiches; the medical lab with its
formaldehyde smell and bottles of preserved body parts; the storage
room, a jumble of black metal filing cabinets and cardboard boxes
labeled 1919, 1920, 1921, and so on; and finally the basement morgue
with its cement floor and stark lighting, its walk-in refrigerator, its
body bags and gurneys and signs prohibiting eating and smoking. Nalen
had witnessed over a hundred autopsies in his five years as police
chief and remembered every single one of them--the man who drowned in
his bathtub, people killed in car crashes, the high school cheerleader
who OD'd, the SIDS case. He admired the way Archie bore up under
tragedy, how even the most heart-wrenching case seemed to buoy him like
an inner tube.

"Marty?" Archie greeted them at the door. "Chief? Would you come
with me, please?"

They followed the rotund man in the white lab coat down a long corridor
whose carpet was a lovely cow pie brown. Fluorescent lights flickered
overhead with irritating irregularity. At the end of the corridor,
they entered a cramped, dimly lit room where a gurney held the body of
Melissa D'Agostino, white sheet pulled up to her shoulders. Her eyes
were closed, her mouth sealed shut with some sort of adhesive--Nalen
detected a smear of glue on her lips. She looked very peaceful, as if
she were sleeping.

Archie turned to Marty D'Agostino. "We need you to ID her, then we'll
leave you two alone for a moment."