The Secret Friend (20 page)

61

Darby was placed in charge of the crime scene. The remaining members of the lab were called to the nightclub. It took considerable time to locate additional gas masks.

At 6 a.m., bleary-eyed and weary, she entered the lab and started logging the evidence. Neil Joseph called. He asked her to come to the morgue.

Her office door was open, the light on, spilling into the hallway. Darby heard the voice of a reporter.

‘… don’t know any details yet. Detective Timothy Bryson was the lead investigator for Boston Police’s newly formed Criminal Services Unit, which was working on the murders of Emma Hale and Judith Chen. Both women were abducted and disappeared for several weeks before their bodies were found. Both women were shot execution-style in the back of the head. While the police have been uncharacteristically quiet on the murder of these two college students, Channel Seven has uncovered through a source close to the investigation that Hannah Givens, a sophomore at Northeastern University, is, in fact, missing and may be the next victim of this Boston-based serial killer. Boston Police Commissioner Christina Chadzynski is scheduled to hold a press conference sometime this afternoon. Stay tuned for more details.’

Darby stepped into her office and saw Coop and Woodbury sitting in chairs, watching a live newsfeed on the internet.

‘Have they mentioned Malcolm Fletcher?’ Darby asked.

Coop answered the question. ‘I didn’t hear anything, and I haven’t had a chance to read the papers. We just got back from Sinclair.’

‘Did the news mention anything about the remains?’

Coop shook his head. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot.

‘The remains are at Carter’s office,’ he said. ‘Keith and I are going to get started on the duct tape and clothes.’

‘Okay, good.’

‘The Sony player you found is a new model, one of those combo devices – radio, cassette, and CD player. There’s even a jack to hook up an mp3 player. Did you notice anything strange about it?’

‘It was the only thing inside that room that wasn’t covered in dust.’

‘Right,’ Coop said. ‘So either Malcolm Fletcher brought it there or the killer did.’

‘The killer brought the radio there?’

‘We found the box of Virgin Mary statues, and that statue of her inside the chapel was clean. We know this guy goes there, so while he’s there, I don’t know, talking to the Virgin Mary or whatever, maybe he goes inside that other room and listens to the tape so he can relive what he did to Sanders. That’s what these perverts do, right?’

‘Sometimes,’ Darby said.

‘But you don’t buy it.’

‘You saw the remains. The pants were pulled down. That woman, whoever she is, was most likely raped, maybe even tortured.’ Darby recalled portions of the recording – the man grunting as the woman cried out in pain and fear, begging for it to stop. ‘If it’s the same killer, I don’t see how he would evolve from rape to abducting women, holding them for weeks and then, after shooting them, dumping their bodies in water with a statue of the Virgin Mary sewn in their pockets.’

‘Hale and Chen were held someplace for weeks. We don’t know what this guy did to them.’

‘You’re right, we don’t,’ Darby said. ‘If the killer didn’t bring the cassette tape, that leaves only one other person – Malcolm Fletcher. Don’t ask me why, I have no idea.’

‘The cassette is old. The manufacturing stamp on the plastic is PLC. I forget what it stands for, but I remember buying them at record stores during the eighties. They were the cheapest tapes around. I’m pretty sure they don’t manufacture them any more, but we’ll run it down.

‘As for analysing the tape – trying to isolate or enhance certain sounds, lift background noises – we don’t have that kind of equipment, so we can either send it out to a private company or we can call the FBI,’ Coop said. ‘The Feds will probably turn it over to one of the audio wizards at the Secret Service.’

Woodbury said, ‘I’d recommend using the Aerospace Corporation in Los Angeles. They’re the ones who worked on the mother’s 911 call in the JonBenét Ramsey case. Aerospace had better luck than the Secret Service.’

‘Make the call,’ Darby said. ‘Can you make me a copy of the tape?’

‘I can probably make an mp3 file and burn it to a CD.’

‘That’s fine. What’s going on with the unknown makeup sample?’

‘I’m still working on it with my friend at MIT,’ Woodbury said. ‘I was planning on heading there today, but given what’s going on, our time and resources are going to be spread pretty thin.’

‘Which is probably what Fletcher wants,’ Coop said. ‘He’s burying us in evidence. It’s probably going to take us the rest of the week, including overtime, to process what we found inside the hospital.’

‘I want our focus on Hannah Givens,’ Darby said. ‘She’s our top priority. Neil Joseph is working on Bryson’s case. Fletcher is his responsibility now.’

‘Keith and I lifted a partial latent print on Judith Chen’s pant pocket,’ Coop said. ‘It’s running through AFIS.’

‘What about the thumbprint from her forehead?’

‘It didn’t find a match. The ballistics report came back. The slug retrieved from Chen’s skull was fired from the same gun that killed Hale. What about your end? What’s going on?’

Darby told them about the basement level of Instant Karma, an upscale members-only bathhouse where any sexual appetite could be indulged. The man who ran the operation, Noah Eckart, preferred the term ‘private gentleman’s club’. The yearly fee was $5,000. Malcolm Fletcher had joined the club two days ago, paying in cash, under the name Samuel Dingle. The paperwork listed an address in Saugus. Darby wondered if, during that initial meeting, Fletcher had planted the ‘non-lethal’ shotgun Watts had described. Had Fletcher planned all along to lure Bryson to his death?

The private club had no security cameras. Members flashed their ID and signed a sheet. The name Sam Dingle was on the list.

Fletcher had specifically requested room 33, which was conveniently located next to the elevator. His companion was an as-yet-unidentified young woman with long dark-red hair.

Eckart had escorted Bryson and Watts to the room, and when he heard the gunshots, he ran away and called security instead of the police – ‘I wanted to handle the matter privately, as I’m sure you can understand,’ he told Neil Joseph. Thick, grey smoke had started to fill the rooms and Eckart, believing there was a fire, had no choice put to pull the fire alarm.

Witnesses were hard to come by. Neil found two men who, after considerable prodding, reported seeing a man matching Bryson’s description being dragged into the private elevator before a smoke grenade and aerosol container laced with a nausea-inducing chemical flooded the hallways.

‘The aerosol and smoke grenades are used by SWAT teams in hostage situations,’ Darby said. ‘Both grenades contain serial numbers. The companies that manufactured them can use the serial numbers to find out which police agency purchased them.’

Malcolm Fletcher, Darby was sure, had most likely obtained the grenades from either a black-market dealer or at a gun show in a state where laws were lax and anything could be purchased for cash.

The blue pellets covering the bathroom floor came from three shell casings which also contained serial numbers. Neil Joseph was saddled with the unfortunate task of having to devote a significant amount of manpower to chasing down these leads which would most likely prove to be worthless.

‘You think Fletcher is still lingering around Boston?’ Coop asked.

‘If he is, he won’t be for long. He just killed a cop. Everyone in the state is going to be looking for him.’ Darby checked her watch. ‘I have to get to the morgue.’

Waiting for the elevator, Darby wondered why Malcolm Fletcher had decided to make a public spectacle of Bryson’s death. Doing so ensured intense media coverage. Maybe he wanted Bryson’s sins to have a national audience. Chadzynski was probably already meeting with her media advisor, working on spin control.

Darby couldn’t blame her. If what Tina Sanders said was true – that Tim Bryson had thrown a critical piece of evidence in exchange for money – what other cases had he contaminated? Had he planted, destroyed or removed evidence on the Emma Hale case?

62

Tim Bryson’s body lay on a steel table underneath a blue sheet spotted with blood.

Darby headed to the back of the autopsy suite. Cliff Watts, arms folded across his chest and face swollen from the stitched gash on his forehead, looked over the shoulder of Neil Joseph, who was hunched over one of the benches examining a clear, Ziplock bag smeared with blood. Lying next to the bag was a cell phone with a cracked screen.

‘This was inside his jacket pocket,’ Neil said to her, tapping his pen against the bag. It held Jennifer Sanders’ driver’s licence, hospital ID and credit cards. ‘I understand you found a purse next to the remains.’

Darby nodded. ‘It was empty,’ she said.

‘Bryson searched the hospital last weekend, right?’

‘We split into teams. The basement is a maze.’

‘Was Bryson with you?’

‘No.’

Neil looked to Watts and said, ‘How was the search organized?’

‘Three people on each team – two cops and someone from Sinclair security,’ Watts said. ‘Danvers PD loaned us some people.’

‘I talked with Bill Jordan. He said there are several ways to get inside the hospital. Bryson was well aware of them.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Maybe your partner went back for this evidence here and didn’t get around to disposing of it.’

‘Cut the shit, Neil, you know as well as I do Fletcher planted this bag before he tossed Tim off the roof.’

‘I don’t know that. The only thing I know is that this bag here was found inside Tim Bryson’s jacket. Maybe there’s some truth to what Bryson told Tina Sanders about that piece of missing evidence – what was it again, a belt?’

‘You’re taking sides with a psychopath?’

‘No, Cliff, I’m trying to figure out why Fletcher tossed Bryson off the roof – in a public place, no less. I’m trying to figure out if your partner was dirty.’ Neil straightened and looked Watts directly in the eye. ‘You two worked together in Saugus, right?’

‘I don’t have to put up with this shit.’ Watts stormed out of the room.

‘Don’t go too far,’ Neil called after him. He caught the expression on Darby’s face and said, ‘Something you want to add?’

‘I was thinking about a quote Fletcher told me, a line from George Bernard Shaw: “If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance.”’

‘Well, it looks like the son of a bitch is going to get his wish. Bryson’s all over the news. How long do you want to bet it will be until his conversation with Tina Sanders gets out? My guess is the end of the week.’

‘A cassette was playing when I found the remains,’ Darby said. ‘If Bryson went back there and cleaned out her purse, why would he leave the cassette?’

‘That’s a good question. You got an answer for me?’

‘Not yet, but if I were you, I’d shitcan the attitude.’

Darby left to change into scrubs. She ran cold water over her face until her skin was numb.

When she came back into the room with her equipment, ID was taking pictures. Tim Bryson’s mangled, crushed body lay under the harsh autopsy light, still dressed in his bloody clothing. Bags were tied around his hands.

Neil walked up next to her and leaned against the counter. ‘Tina Sanders still won’t speak to us,’ he said. ‘You think Fletcher threatened her?’

‘I don’t know. My guess is she’s in shock. All these years go by and then in the course of two days she not only discovers her daughter’s remains, she’s given the name of the man who killed her.’

‘Have you spoken to Jonathan Hale recently?’

‘Bryson and I went to talk to him on Saturday.’

‘So you haven’t talked to him since?’

‘No. Why?’

‘I took a look through Bryson’s cell phone. Hale’s name is listed on Bryson’s call log. Hale called twice last night. Bryson got a voicemail, but I don’t know his password so I can’t unlock it. You mind if I speak to Hale?’

‘Be my guest.’

ID finished the first round of pictures. Darby collected grit samples from underneath Bryson’s fingernails. There were no marks on his palms; he hadn’t fought off Fletcher. His right wrist was broken.

Collecting fibres and pieces of glass from the clothing, Darby spotted a bruised area on Bryson’s neck.

‘It looks like an injection site,’ she told Neil. ‘We’ll have to wait until the tox screen comes back.’

Darby went to work cutting the clothing. She replayed her conversation with Tina Sanders, remembering the framed picture of the young girl she had seen on Bryson’s desk.

I had one, my daughter, Emily,
Bryson had told her that morning after visiting Jonathan Hale.
She had this really rare form of leukaemia. We took her to every specialist under the sun. Seeing everything she went through, I would have sold my soul to the devil to spare her life. I know that sounds overly melodramatic, but it’s the honest-to-God truth. You’ll do anything for your kids. Anything in the world.

Was Bryson made so desperate by his fear and love for his daughter that he orchestrated a plan to throw away the key piece of evidence in a murder investigation in exchange for money he used in a final attempt to save his daughter’s life?

Darby slipped into that private place where she carried her true feelings about people, the same part which demanded a fierce, almost childish fairness in all human transactions; that constantly fought to separate everyone and everything into clearly labelled categories of right and wrong, good and evil. What side did Bryson fall? Darby considered the question and was surprised, even slightly appalled, to feel a cold, grim satisfaction.

To wash it away, Darby thought of the framed picture of the young girl. She focused on Emily Bryson’s smile to summon some measure of sympathy and still she felt empty.

63

Boston’s Forensic Anthropology Unit was a small suite of windowless, cluttered offices crammed with government-issued steel grey bookcases and matching filing cabinets. Except for an anatomical chart, the white walls behind Carter’s desk were bare.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting,’ Darby said.

‘It’s fine. It gave the students more time with the bones. It’s rare to get a full set of remains.’ Carter, short and stocky with grey stubble and thick glasses from some bygone era, grunted as he stood. ‘You look exhausted.’

‘I haven’t slept yet.’

‘I don’t know if the remains belong to Jennifer Sanders. I’m still waiting for the dental records to be sent over.’

Carter escorted her to the locker room. Darby changed into surgical scrubs and followed him down the hall to the bone room.

She passed the small room containing a sink and stove. The majority of bones sent here for examination more often than not were covered in decomposing soft tissue. In such cases, bones were placed in Crock-Pots and roasting pans holding water and detergent and brought to a gentle boil in order to allow the bones to adjust to the heat. The process, called thermal maceration, sloughed off the remaining tissue.

The remains were assembled on an adjustable steel gurney similar to the ones used in the morgue. As always, the room was very cool.

‘The remains are definitely female,’ Carter said. He pointed to the pelvic bones. ‘We have a raised sacroiliac joint and the wide sciatic notch. Given the blonde hair mat and the characteristics of the skull, our Jane Doe is definitely Caucasian.’

‘What about age?’

‘The medial ends of the bones aren’t completely fused to the shafts, so she’s at least twenty-five. The pelvic bones are dense and smooth. Because they don’t show any grain, and given the fact that the cranium’s intermaxillary sutures aren’t fused, she’s no older than thirty-five.’

‘Cause of death?’

‘Look at the hyoid bone.’

Darby checked the horseshoe-shaped bone in the neck. It was broken.

‘She was strangled.’

‘Yes,’ Carter said. ‘Now take a look at this.’

He pointed to the scapula. Darby saw a large fracture.

‘That was caused by a serious blow,’ Carter said. ‘Either he kicked her or he hit her with something like a bat or a long piece of wood.’

‘What about a brick?’

‘That might do it. She’s got some other fractures. The poor girl was beaten.’ Carter sighed, shook his head. ‘The femur is just under forty-eight centimetres. Our Jane Doe is between five-six and five-nine.’

The office phone buzzed.

‘Excuse me,’ Carter said. He took the call, listened for a moment and without answering hung up. ‘Jennifer Sanders’ dental records are here. I’ll be right back.’

While Carter compared the dental records, Darby stared at the remains, wondering how long they had lain inside the room full of brick and plaster. Was she kept alive for days, beaten and possibly raped before she was strangled? How long had she cried out for help?

Carter pushed his glasses up his long, beak-like nose.

‘It’s Jennifer Sanders,’ he said.