The Girl In The Glass (28 page)

Chapter 60

O
N
F
RIDAY MORNING,
exactly a week after Dean Scott’s dog, Ruthie, found Aimée Whitby near death in the brambles off the Loring Trail, McCabe looked up to find Maggie peering down at him, arms folded across her chest, a grim expression on her face.

“McCabe, we screwed up big-­time.”

“What are you talking about?” He tossed the report he’d been reviewing onto his desk. The one that told him there were no DNA matches for the killer anywhere in either the state or federal databases. That, whoever he was, he’d never been made to submit a sample. Ditto for his daughter.

“You and me. You know, Portland’s hotshot supercops? We got this whole case wrong. From beginning to end, we got it wrong. And at least one person’s dead because of the stupid assumptions we made.”

“All right, Mag, maybe you better stop beating us up and tell me what you’re talking about.”

“Come with me and I’ll tell you in the car.”

She turned and headed for the elevator. McCabe grabbed his jacket and followed.

“Where are we going?”

“Westbrook.”

“What’s in Westbrook?”

“Intex Labs.”

They found an old unmarked Crown Vic in the downstairs garage. Maggie signed it out and slid into the driver’s seat. McCabe got in next to her.

“All right, start talking,” said McCabe as they pulled out onto Middle Street.

“You know how we assumed from the beginning that the killer’s primary target was Aimée? That Knowles was basically collateral damage?”

“A reasonable assumption, given the fact that the first Aimée was killed exactly the same way. Also given that the victim was the daughter of the richest man in the state and that Knowles was a relative nobody.”

“I agree. A very reasonable assumption. And a very logical trap. One which a sneaky bastard named Francis J. ‘Little Frannie’ Hogan, who I think I can prove is the real killer, set for us by mimicking the old murder, and which you and I, my dear Watson, bought into hook, line and sinker.”

“And this Little Frannie, whoever the hell he is, you’re saying he suckered us into thinking Aimée was the primary target . . .”

“ . . . when it was the ‘relative nobody’ all the time.”

“Okay, Sherlock, what exactly led you to this brilliant conclusion?”

“Actually, some variation of it occurred to me last week, but I dismissed it at the time. I went over to take a look at Aimée and Byron’s love nest on Hampshire Street, and I realized how easy it would have been for Gina to follow Byron to the place to get the goods on them. Once she did, she had an obvious motive for killing both of them.”

“Jealousy.”

“Jealousy. My problem was I couldn’t see how Gina, eight months pregnant, and too broke, and, I assumed, too distant from the world of professional killers could afford to hire a pro. So I put it out of my mind. Until yesterday, when Joe Pines delivered his news that the DNA found in the apartment came from the daughter of the killer.”

“And you figured out that Gina Knowles’s maiden name just happened to be Hogan?”

“Yep. It wasn’t even that hard. I just Googled Byron Knowles’s wedding announcement. Turns out Byron and Gina were married here in Portland, and the
Press Herald
carried the announcement. ‘
Miss Gina Hogan
,
the youngest daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Francis J. Hogan of Boston
, Massachusetts,’ blah blah blah. The next step was obviously finding out exactly who Mr. Hogan was and what he did for a living. You remember my old pal John Bell?”

“Yeah. Detective who works homicide for the Boston PD? Helped us out on the Lucas Kane case.”

“Exactly. I called John and asked him if he knew anything about the father of the bride. Turns out that in his younger days, Mr. Hogan was an enforcer for the D Street Gang, one of the old Irish mobs operating in Southie. They specialized in extortion and loansharking, and Hogan was suspected of being responsible for at least ten murders over the years. Including the extermination of two leaders of a rival gang by . . . guess what? Blowing up their car with a rocket-­propelled grenade.”

“While they were inside?”

“Indeed.”

“And this guy was never convicted?”

“Nope. Not even of stealing a newspaper. He had a reputation for being clever and for covering his tracks well. Never left any evidence or witnesses behind. At least no witnesses alive enough to testify.”

“How old is Hogan?”

“According to Bell he’s in his early sixties. Supposedly retired from what he used to call the insurance business about ten years ago. He moved out of Southie when the Irish gangs started falling apart and the Yuppies started moving in. Currently resides on Mussey Street in South Portland less than a mile from his loving daughter.”

“His motive being to get rid of an unfaithful son-­in-­law?”

“I guess. Since his daughter was adamantly opposed to divorce, looks like Daddy figured the best way to end a bad marriage was by doing what he did best.”

“Invoking the old
till death do us part
clause? Interesting. You think Gina was in on it?”

“I don’t know. She seemed genuinely horrified when she learned of the killings. On the other hand, she also told us she had no idea who Byron was having an affair with when she obviously did, so maybe she’s just a good liar.”

“How’d she find out?”

“My guess is she followed Byron to the Hampshire Street apartment, waited until she saw the lovers leaving, then entered the apartment herself. She either picked the lock or, more likely, made a duplicate of a key she found on Byron’s key ring. Once inside, she looked in the desk, found the old news stories and a screenplay he was writing, and read them. Maybe borrowed them and made photocopies and then gave the photocopies to Daddy or at least told him about them in detail. We’re going to Intex today to ask Gina to provide us with fingerprints and a DNA sample, which will prove both that she was there and that her father was the killer. I’ve got a fingerprint kit and cheek swabs in my bag.”

“And if she refuses?”

“Judge Washburn just signed a warrant requiring Gina to provide both. If her DNA proves she’s the daughter of the guy who killed Aimée and Lucy, we’ve got him. I also convinced Byron’s landlord to lend me a key to the apartment. I’d like to see if Gina happens to have a duplicate on her own key ring.”

“Sounds like the only thing you don’t have is a way to find out if Gina was complicit in the killings or whether Hogan did them on his own.”

“Yeah.”

They drove in silence for a while. McCabe didn’t look happy.

“What’s the matter?” asked Maggie.

“If you’re right about Gina and Hogan and the rest of it—­and I suspect you are—­I feel even worse than I did before about planting the seeds in Whitby’s mind that led to him killing Deirdre.”

“No way you could have known where it would lead. You did what you thought was right at the time.”

“But it wasn’t right. I jumped in with both feet without thinking through the possibilities. In the end, all I did was provoke the murder of an innocent woman.”

“Nonsense. She provoked it herself.”

“Yeah maybe. Anyway, let’s not talk about it anymore.”

“Okay.”

“I’m surprised Gina’s back at work already.”

“So was I, but when I called the house, her mother answered. Said being at work helps Gina not think about the murders. Also said she’s already scheduled a lot of time off for maternity leave and doesn’t want to miss any more.”

“Does she know we’re coming?”

“Yes. I called and said there were a few more odds and ends we needed to check with her. She was reluctant but finally agreed to meet us for coffee in the company cafeteria.”

The Intex Corporation’s headquarters building was a large, three-­story low-­rise covering at least an acre of land in a 1990s vintage industrial park off Route 22 in Westbrook. Maggie and McCabe parked in a visitor’s spot and went through the main entrance. The interior was totally utilitarian, lacking even a hint of corporate chic.

“Hi, Detective Margaret Savage and Detective Sergeant Michael McCabe. We’re here to see Gina Knowles,” Maggie said to the smiling, round-­faced receptionist. “She’s expecting us.”

The receptionist checked a directory for the right extension and called upstairs. When she hung up, she asked Maggie and McCabe to take seats in the reception area. “Mrs. Knowles will be down in a minute.”

G
I
N
A
K
N
O
W
L
E
S
H
ELD
her company keycard up to a small black sensor to the left of the door to gain access to the cafeteria. It was a large room with a capacity of at least three hundred. At ten forty-­five in the morning, it was mostly empty. All three of them poured themselves coffee from a large stainless steel urn and took the cups to a table in the far corner of the room. Maggie took her digital recorder from her bag and placed it on the table between them. She flicked it on and recorded the preliminaries.

“I don’t have very long,” said Gina. “What do you want that we didn’t cover the other day?”

Maggie decided to play it low key. “No big deal. It’s just some routine stuff that we forgot to take care of when we spoke to you at your house. First off, we need you to provide us with a set of fingerprints and a cheek swab.”

Gina looked at Maggie suspiciously. “Why?”

“Nothing important. It’s standard operating procedure in all murder cases to get prints and DNA from all persons related to the victims. We can take care of it right here if you like. Or maybe there’s a small conference room if you’d like to be more private.”

“Standard operating procedure?”

“That’s right.”

“I think you’re lying. I can always tell when ­people are lying. Even cops.”

“Fine. I won’t debate the subject with you, Ms. Knowles. I simply need you to provide us with your fingerprints and a sample of your DNA.”

“And if I say no?”

“I have a warrant signed by District Court Judge Paula Washburn requiring you to provide us with both. If you refuse, Sergeant McCabe and I will take you into custody on grounds of obstructing a murder investigation and get what we need at Portland police headquarters.”

“Fine,” said Gina, her tone more than a little petulant. “Come with me. There’s a small conference room down the hall. We should have some privacy there.”

They went in and closed the door. When Maggie finished taking prints and a cheek swab, Gina Knowles rose to leave. “Please sit down, Ms. Knowles. We still have a few questions we need you to answer.” Maggie turned the recorder on again.

Gina sat, but she didn’t look happy. “I hope this won’t take very long.”

“When we spoke to you at your house last Friday morning, you told us that you were certain your husband was having an affair but that you didn’t know who the affair was with. You said you thought it might be with one of the other teachers in the English Department. You were lying then, weren’t you?”

Gina swallowed hard. She avoided looking either Maggie or McCabe in the eye. “Yes,” she finally said, “I was lying.”

“May I ask why?”

“Because it occurred to me that if it ever came out that Byron was having an affair with one of his students, he’d lose his job and probably never find another one. At least not teaching. With the baby due any minute, the last thing we needed was for him to be unemployed and probably unemployable. Even after his suicide, I didn’t want ­people thinking that an affair with one of his students had ever happened or that it was his reason for killing himself.”

“Did you ever visit an apartment at 47 Hampshire Street in Portland? I would urge you not to lie about this, Ms. Knowles. The DNA swab you just provided will give us proof positive of whether or not you were ever there.”

Gina sat, her eyes down, her hands folded around the bulge in her tummy.

“Yes. I was there.”

“How did you get in?”

“I had a key. I made a copy of all of Byron’s keys when he was out fishing with his father one Saturday last month.”

“What did you do when you entered the apartment?”

“I just looked around. Especially at the art on the walls. Especially the self-­portraits of the Whitby girl and I guess most especially the nude drawing of Byron. The fact that he’d allowed her to draw him that way with all his parts hanging out enraged me. I was tempted to throw it in the trash, but they obviously would have noticed.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I found all the old newspaper reports of the murder in 1904. Also Byron’s screenplay based on those reports. I e-­mailed everything on the computer to myself. I also took all the paper stuff to FedEx Kinko’s on Monument Square and copied it all. Then I returned it to the apartment.”

“What did you do with the copies?”

“I gave them to my father.”

“Why?”

Gina looked from one detective to the other. She said nothing.

“Did you ask your father to murder your husband and Aimée Whitby to punish them for having an illicit affair?”

“I did not ask him to murder anybody. My father is not a murderer.”

Maggie wondered if Gina had any idea of what her father used to do for a living. “Did you suggest to your father that by copying the details of the 1904 murder, he would make everybody think that Byron killed Aimée in a rage and then took his own life just as Mark Garrison was supposed to have done a hundred years ago?”

“My father is not a murderer.”

“Oh really?” said Maggie. “According to my sources on the Boston Police Department, your father is Francis J. ‘Little Frannie’ Hogan. Former member of the D Street Gang in South Boston and known to the Boston police as a mob enforcer.”

“I’m not answering any more questions.”

“That’s your right. However, Gina Hogan Knowles, I am now placing you under arrest as an accessory to the murder of Veronica Aimée Whitby. This charge will be raised to actual murder if it turns out the killing took place with your knowledge and assent.” Maggie proceeded to read Gina her Miranda rights. She also patted her down to make sure she had no weapons. “If you promise to behave, I’ll allow you to walk out of here without being handcuffed, but you will have to wear cuffs in the police car that’s waiting for you outside.”