Eight in the Box (5 page)

CHAPTER 11

W
ayne Mooney parked his car at the bottom of Prospect Hill. He
knew from experience that the best time to go through a neighborhood undetected was between two and four in the morning. Breaking-and-entering artists did their best work during those hours.

Mooney was wearing dark sweats. It would be easier to cut through the yards without a suit. He walked up the driveway of the nearest house, into the shadows of the backyard, away from the glow of the streetlights. He stood at the base of the hill looking at the rear of the houses on Prospect Hill Road.

Mooney didn’t walk up the hill. He cut across the yards at the foot of the hill until he got closer to the McCarthy house. Then he made his way through a half dozen yards and over a couple of chain-link fences before the house came into view.

Navigating his way through a minefield of toys scattered in one yard, he found himself behind the house adjacent to McCarthy’s. Looking up toward the house, he had a perfect vantage point from which to watch Susan McCarthy’s bedroom. The view would be even better when he got closer. He hopped the fence. Two decades after making it through the Boston Police Academy, he knew he could still beat most of the younger guys in the obstacle course.

He moved through the neighboring backyard, which was overgrown with shrubs and briars. According to neighbors they’d interviewed last night, the old house hadn’t been lived in for some time, not since the elderly woman who owned it retired to her summer house down the Cape. Inside, the house was fully furnished as if she just got up one day and left without packing. The exterior of the house showed signs of deterioration, some of the shingles curling up and others rotted off.

Mooney stood on the side of the house where he had an unobstructed view of Susan McCarthy’s bedroom. It was the perfect place to sit and watch her, completely hidden by the neglected boxwood hedges. From his post, he also had a clear view of the basement door where the criminalists had recovered the shoe print. He focused on the door for a moment, scanning the surrounding area. He knew what he needed to do. Get into the McCarthy house. And he was going in through the basement door.

Mooney took a step toward the house and someone knocked his legs out from under him, locked both his arms and took him to the ground. A jolt of pain shot through his chest, his face mashed into the moist dirt. He struggled to free one of his arms and managed to land a few elbows. There was the familiar racking of a semiautomatic, and he saw the shadow of a gun aimed at his head.

“Boston Police. Don’t move!” the man with the gun shouted.

The first man regained his hold, Mooney’s arms and legs immobilized. He knew enough not to struggle and get himself killed by a couple of overanxious uniforms. And he knew they were uniforms, even though they wore civilian clothing. The one with the gun was wearing black jeans and an oversized black Chicago White Sox baseball jersey. Gang Unit, or maybe the Anti-Crime car from District 5.

“Morning, guys,” Mooney said, struggling to turn his head toward the barrel of the gun. “Sergeant Mooney. Homicide. Check my pocket.”

Mooney saw the look on the young cop’s face change. Mooney had never seen the kid before, but the kid now recognized Mooney. Maybe he had seen Mooney at the scene last night.

“Oh shit, Sarge, we’re sorry,” he said, putting his gun back in its holster. “Jackie, let go of him,” he said to his partner. “It’s Sergeant Mooney.”

“How do you know? Check his credentials.”

“Trust me, I know. Just let him up.”

The big guy let go of him. Mooney stood up, brushed the dirt off and tried to get the circulation flowing in his arms and legs. Maybe he couldn’t compete with these younger guys after all. “I didn’t even know you were behind me. You guys Anti-Crime?”

“Yeah, we’re in the K-Car on last halves. I’m Mark Greene,” he said, extending his hand to Mooney. “My partner’s Jack Ahearn. Sorry if he roughed you up.”

“Roughed me up? I didn’t even know what hit me. You guys do a good job. What are you, some kind of judo guy?”

“Wrestler, sir,” Ahearn said.

“High school? College?”

“Both.”

“You’re pretty good.”

“I know, sir.”

“What are you doing out here, Sarge?” Greene asked.

“Since this is my murder investigation, why don’t you tell me what you guys are doing here?”

“We just figure sometimes these killers return to the scenes of their crimes. We’ve been sitting on the house since midnight. Came here straight from roll call.”

“Good thinking,” Mooney said. “Unfortunately, if he was coming back, I’m sure we just scared him off.”

“Do you need us to help you with anything, Sarge?” Greene asked.

“I’m trying to figure out how this guy operates. I think I know how he got here undetected and where he hid while he cased the place. Now I just need to get into the house the way he did. I’m pretty sure I’ve solved that mystery. But before I go breaking into the house, why don’t you guys call for a marked car so everyone knows we’re the good guys?”

CHAPTER 12

F
umbling through the junk piled on his nightstand, Alves found his
cell phone and answered it on the fourth ring. “Yeah.”

“He slid his arm in through the dryer vent.”

What time was it? Four fifty-six, according to the bedroom clock’s digital readout. Was that Wayne Mooney’s excited voice booming in his ear?

“The exhaust vent for the clothes dryer is so close to the basement door, you can reach right in, knock off the hose and unlock the door. I just did it myself.”

Sergeant Mooney was at the McCarthy house at five in the morning?

“That’s how he got into the house without waking Susan McCarthy. That’s why the only struggle was in her bedroom, when he startled her awake. She didn’t let him in. She was being watched, probably from overgrown shrubs at the house next door. The killer knew she was alone and he knew how to get in the house because the dryer vent was right in front of him.” Mooney finally took a breath.

Silence.

Alves glanced at Marisela. Such a beautiful name, but she liked to be called Marcy. She seemed to be breathing regularly. Good. The phone hadn’t woken her up. Maybe she was finally getting used to the calls at all hours. He watched her closely in the dim bedroom light. Maybe her breathing was just a little too regular. She hadn’t stirred since he’d picked up the phone, hadn’t shifted to accommodate his body’s movement. She was pretending to be asleep. “Sarge, do you know what time it is?” Alves tried to keep his voice down. “What are you doing out there?”

“Woke up at two and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I figured what better time to come out here than the middle of the night, just like the bad guy.”

“The neighbors are going to think the killer’s back.”

“I have a marked unit with me. This is our first break, Angel. Now we know the footprint by the cellar door is probably his. And the dryer vent has rough metal edges, so there’s a possibility he left some hair or fiber evidence when he reached in to open the door. The crime lab’s coming to check it out. What size was the footprint?”

“Ten and a half, New Balance.”

“I’m going to the New Balance Factory Store in Brighton as soon as they open. I know they sell irregulars. Back in the day, I used to buy my running shoes there. Nice discount for anyone in the BPD Runners Club. They should have no trouble figuring out the sneaker model. Maybe they can tell us where and how many might have been sold locally in the last couple of months.”

“Should I meet you there?”

“No. I want you to keep working on how these two women crossed paths with the killer. Have you run it through ViCAP yet? There have to be some other missing-persons cases where foul play is suspected.”

“Nothing there. I even spoke with an FBI agent in Quantico to make sure I hadn’t missed anything.”

“Then go back and look at our unsolved homicides and missing-persons reports from the past year. Look for successful, divorced women who lived alone or were home alone the last time they were seen alive. This isn’t the first time our guy has killed. He’s killed before and he’s decided to start taking the bodies and leaving the blood behind for us.”

“Sarge, I don’t think serial killers change their MO.”

“I don’t think he has
changed
his MO, he’s still
developing
it. He’s performing some sort of ritual that he’s perfecting. There are some sick thoughts going through this guy’s head, and I’d say he’s getting more daring with every kill. The first time he probably left the body right where it was and took off in a panic. Or maybe he dumped the body. I’m sure he didn’t start by killing Michelle Hayes, draining her blood and taking her body.”

“I’ll give it a shot and let you know if I come up with anything.”

He brushed the long brown hair off Marcy’s cheek. He felt her stiffen. In that moment he hated Mooney for calling so early. Two more hours and he’d be having coffee with the guy anyhow. He couldn’t have waited to fill him in?

Mooney read the silence. “Angel”—his voice was tight and tinged with anger—“in a homicide investigation, you have to follow every lead. You take what you’ve got and investigate the hell out of it so that you can catch this guy before he kills again. And he will kill again. If you don’t think Homicide’s for you—”

“Sarge,” Alves began, “I didn’t mean to—”

“I need you to chase down the evidence so we can figure out how these women came across this guy and ended up dead. That’ll be the most important piece of this puzzle. Once we know how
he
found
them, we’ll
find
him.
I’ll be at New Balance. You go through those missing-persons reports. I’ll see you at headquarters in a couple of hours.”

Alves flipped his phone closed and sat up in bed trying to focus his eyes with the light from the clock. He looked at Marcy. He never wanted to let the job come before his family, but Mooney was right. This was Homicide.

He leaned over and kissed Marcy on the cheek. “Happy Birthday,” he whispered.

“Are you leaving?” she asked, without moving, her eyes shut tight.

“I have to. Sarge has already been up for three hours.”

“So we can’t have a life because your boss is an obsessive maniac?”

“He’s doing his job. How can I complain? He’s not asking me to do anything he wouldn’t do.”

She lay there quietly, facing away from him. He heard her short, quick breaths. He was screwed.

“Marcy, we both knew this was going to happen. But we decided that this was the best thing for us right now. Homicide is going to look great on my résumé. And we need the money if we’re ever going to get out of this tiny house and send the twins to private school. You were more than happy with the thirty hours of guaranteed overtime every week. Well, this is why it’s guaranteed.”

He was making sense, but he knew she was not in the mood to hear it. She’d been comfortable with their old life, when he had a regular shift and they could sit and have a cup of coffee together in the morning. Still, she had to understand that he was doing this for her and the kids. He gave her another kiss on the cheek. This time he whispered, “I love you.” He stood up, and with the help of the kids’ night-light in the hall, walked toward the bathroom.

CHAPTER 13

N
ick Costa stepped out of the clerk’s office with the police reports
for the day’s arraignments. Behind him he heard knocking on the glass entrance. A pretty blonde was trying to get his attention. Just his luck that a good-looking juror would show up on a day when he didn’t have a trial scheduled.

Nick checked his watch: It was only seven thirty. He opened the door a crack. “I’m sorry, Miss, but jurors aren’t allowed in until the courthouse opens. You’re about an hour early.”

“I’m not here for jury duty,” she said. “I’m with the DA’s office.”

Nick stammered for a moment, then caught himself. “I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said, extending his hand. “My name’s Nick Costa.”

“Monica Hughes,” she said. She had a firm handshake, almost too firm, and she made some serious eye contact. Someone, probably her father, had told her the importance of a good handshake and eye contact. It didn’t come naturally for her. She gripped his hand as if she were trying to crush it, jerking his arm up and down.

On the other hand, thought Nick, she had a great body, tall and athletic. Not an ounce of fat on her, and blue eyes to go with her short blond hair.

“I’m with the DA’s office too,” Nick said. “I think you’re going to be tagging along with me today in arraignments.”

“I didn’t mean to snap,” she said, taking a moment to grab a breath. “It bothers me when people assume I’m a juror or a victim because I’m a woman.”

Nick nodded. “Sorry for making that assumption,” he said. “Listen, let me show you around. The clerk’s office and probation department are at those counters,” he said, pointing straight ahead past the metal detectors and the security checkpoint. “The courtrooms are this way.” He gestured toward the stairs.

She walked two steps ahead of him as they made their way up the stairs. A swimmer, he figured, or a runner. Hell, she could probably finish the Boston Marathon without breaking a sweat.

“You ever been in a courtroom or argue in front of a judge?” Nick asked as they reached the second floor.

“No.”

“Not even an internship?”

“Nothing.”

“So you really are new at this? Get ready, because you’re about to take a crash course in the criminal justice system.” It was clear he was going to have to teach her everything. Not a bad assignment at all.

“I’ve seen courtrooms on TV. I’m not worried.”

He laughed out loud. He knew she wouldn’t appreciate it, but he couldn’t help it. “You better be worried. It’s a lot different in a real courtroom, when you’re the one standing up there arguing in front of the judge. Let’s see if the first session is open,” he said, pointing down the hall. “I’d rather show you around before the courtroom is crowded.”

Nick directed her down the corridor. On second thought, maybe she was too good-looking. How was he supposed to concentrate on his work?

The door to the courtroom was locked, but he jiggled the handle and it popped open. One of the advantages to working in the same courthouse every day was that he got to know all of the little idiosyncrasies of the building. He held the door for her. They entered the courtroom with its white walls and pale woodwork, and he saw the look of surprise on her face.

“This isn’t at all what I pictured,” she said.

“I told you. Get that TV crap out of your head.”

“I was expecting dark wood-paneled walls and ceilings with antique chandeliers. This place looks so modern and bright. It’s so
…plain.
” She pointed toward the front of the courtroom and the two tables separated by a podium in front of the bench. “Which table is ours?” she asked.

“The one on the right,” he said. “We are the prosecutors, you know.”

“Right,” she said with a smile. “Thanks. You know? I like this place. I think I’ll be just fine.”

“Don’t get too cocky. You’re still in an empty courtroom. This place will be a circus by ten o’clock. We arraigned more than eight thousand new cases in this courtroom last year. That’s almost seven hundred a month.”

“Do you guys get a lot of jury trials?”

Wow, she
was
ambitious. Her first day on the job, she hadn’t even done an arraignment and she was trying to figure out how many jury trials she was going to have. “If we’re lucky we average about two a month.”

“That’s all?”

“If you were at a firm you’d be lucky to get one a year.”

“Yeah, but I’m not at a firm. I’m in a courthouse that had eight thousand arraignments last year, remember?”

“What a wiseass.” He laughed. “Very few cases go to trial,” he explained. “Most of them plead out or get dismissed. There are times when you think a case is definitely going but something goes wrong at the last minute. Your witnesses don’t show up, the defendant defaults, the Creole interpreter doesn’t show up or you don’t have enough people to sit a full jury.”

“You actually have days when you can’t get twelve people to show up for jury duty?”

“
Eight,
” he said. “District courts use six-person juries with two alternates.” He gestured toward the jury box with its eight empty seats. “You could go to trial with six jurors, but if you lost one for any reason—illness or family emergency—you’d have a mistrial and have to start all over.”

She walked toward the front of the room and stood at the podium. She looked back over at the empty courtroom and jury box, and then turned toward the judge’s bench. “How long have you been with the office?” she asked, her head tilted up at the seal of Massachusetts high on the wall behind the bench. It wasn’t an innocent question. She wanted to know how experienced he was, if she should take his advice.

“A year,” he said. “I’ve been at South Bay the whole time. There’s so much turnaround, I’m already one of the more experienced prosecutors here. Liz has been around for three years. Most people leave the office if they don’t get promoted to superior court within three years. Some with political aspirations put a year or two in as a prosecutor so they can say they’re ‘tough on crime.’ But most of us are here to get trial experience that you can’t get anywhere else. That’s how we justify making less money than the secretaries at most big law firms.”

“How many trials have you had?” she asked, still facing the judge’s bench. She didn’t seem overly impressed by his long-winded explanation.

“Ten, over the past six months,” he said. “Most of them were dogs, but the defendants wouldn’t plead guilty, so I took them to trial. They weren’t the sexiest cases, but in the end I’d done ten openings, ten closings and a bunch of directs and crosses.”

She turned toward him, looking at him directly. “What’s your record of wins and losses?”

The one question he had hoped she wouldn’t ask. He didn’t want her to know he had lost every one of his trials. “No one around here cares about wins and losses as long as you try the case.”

“Still, you must keep track of your record.”

“Really, I don’t. If I start counting wins and losses I might get gunshy about trying a case. The way I see it, if a defendant refuses to change his plea to guilty—no matter how weak or strong my case is—then bring in the jurors, give me eight in the box, and let’s start the trial.”

Nick could see that Monica wasn’t impressed with his explanation, and he was starting to lecture her. Here was this gorgeous woman, his captive audience for the day, and he was boring her before their first cup of coffee. He needed to change the subject or he was going to blow this perfect opportunity.

“Shit,” Nick said, looking up at the clock and heading back toward the door. “It’s eight o’clock. We’d better get upstairs and start prepping these files.”