The Secret Friend (22 page)

66

‘It seems Malcolm Fletcher mailed CDs containing a recording of Tim Bryson’s conversation with Tina Sanders to every reporter in the city,’ Chadzynski said. ‘I’m sure they’ll be playing it over the news tonight.’

‘Have you heard a copy?’ Darby asked.

‘Not yet. I’m afraid I have more bad news. A reporter for the
Herald
knows Sanders’ remains were found inside Sinclair. The reporter is amenable to stalling the story in exchange for an exclusive interview with you after you’ve solved the case.’

Darby leaned back against the wall. Stuffed animals from Hannah’s childhood were arranged around the pillows and cheap comforter.

‘I’m not suggesting you do it,’ Chadzynski said. ‘It’s only a matter of time before other reporters find out. I’ll try and stall him as long as I can.’

‘I spoke with Bill Jordan. He’s brought in some men with SWAT experience. When our man shows up at the chapel, Jordan and his men will take him down.’

‘Do you really think this person is going to show up?’

‘I do. At some point, he
will
return. The statue of the Virgin Mary I found was clean – remember the bucket of water and towels I found? That statue and the chapel hold a special connection for this person. He could go to any church but he specifically goes to this chapel that’s buried under the ground. It’s not easy to find. He must have found a special route.’

‘Darby, I’ve been on the phone with the federal task force assigned to track down Malcolm Fletcher. The task force coordinator is a man named Mike Abrams. He met Fletcher while he was working the Sandman case. Abrams was a site profiler for the Boston office. He suspects Fletcher is long gone, but Abrams still wants to speak to us. They’re scheduled to arrive at Boston sometime tomorrow afternoon. His people want to look at the DVD Fletcher sent to Hale as well as the audio tape you found.’

‘Maybe you should have him talk to Jonathan Hale while he’s here.’

‘I’m sure they’ll want to talk to him. Have you read Bryson’s toxicology report?’

‘I didn’t know it was available.’

‘I received a copy this morning. Tim was injected with GHB and Ketamine. If he was alive, his drug-induced confession would be thrown out. It wouldn’t have a leg to stand on during trial.’

Maybe that’s why Fletcher threw him off the roof,
Darby thought.

‘Have you made any progress with Sam Dingle?’ Chadzynski asked.

‘The address Fletcher left on the sign-in sheet at the club and the registration for his Jaguar, which still hasn’t been found – all of it points back to the house where Sam Dingle grew up. It’s like Fletcher’s shoving it in our faces.’

‘I agree. Where do you think he is?’

‘Who knows? If you’re serious about finding him, you need to put people on Hale.’

‘Malcolm Fletcher is a loner. He doesn’t work for anyone.’

‘The locks for Emma Hale’s doors weren’t picked. He didn’t force his way in there.’

‘Darby –’

‘At least put Hale under surveillance.’

‘I’m not going to do that.’

‘Why? Because he’s rich?’

‘Because there is
no
evidence to suggest that Fletcher is working for or is in collusion with Jonathan Hale,’ Chadzynski said. ‘For God’s sake, we have a security tape showing the man sneaking inside the parking garage.’

‘Fletcher didn’t break into Emma Hale’s home; he had a key.’

‘Have you considered the possibility that maybe Fletcher’s working for Tina Sanders? Fletcher’s spoken to her several times. Maybe I should put her under surveillance.’

‘I would.’

‘You can make your recommendations to the federal task force,’ Chadzynski said. ‘Have you found any indication that Bryson tampered with evidence on either the Hale or Chen case?’

‘Both Neil and I reviewed the chain of custody on all the evidence. It doesn’t appear Bryson tampered with any of our cases. I can’t say what happened in Saugus.

‘I got the state lab’s report on the two Saugus women. Both were raped and strangled. There were no traces of semen, no blood under the fingernails, but they found a lubricant that’s used with some condoms. Coop’s reviewing the evidence files right now.

‘NCIC doesn’t contain any listing for Samuel Dingle,’ Darby said. ‘There is no DNA profile in CODIS under that name. Same goes for AFIS. Dingle could possibly be using an alias.’

‘I heard something about a fingerprint being recovered from the duct tape used to bind Sanders’ wrists.’

‘It’s a palm print. Have you spoken to Dr Karim?’

‘I did this morning. He was very cooperative. He didn’t have anything new to add.’

‘Maybe we should dig a little deeper.’

‘What’s going on with Hannah Givens? What new developments do you have?’

‘I don’t have anything at the moment. Neil told me Bryson did, in fact, pay for an experimental stem-cell treatment for his daughter.’

‘I want your focus on Givens.’

‘I’m at her place right now.’

‘Good. I need to get going. We’re holding another press conference. We can talk more after Bryson’s wake.’

‘I’m going to stick around here for a while.’

‘Keep at it,’ Chadzynski said. ‘I believe you have a real talent for this.’

Darby hung up. From behind the closed bedroom door she heard the TV playing down the hallway, the murmured voices of Hannah’s parents. They were parked in the living room hoping for a phone call from their daughter’s kidnapper.

For the next hour Darby walked around the bedroom examining Hannah’s things, feeling certain she had overlooked something valuable. That feeling, she knew, was her frustration speaking. There was nothing here.

Darby put on her coat. She opened the door and walked down the hallway to the living room where Hannah’s parents were waiting.

67

Hannah’s parents sat on the couch watching a recording of last night’s Nancy Grace show. The so-called victim’s rights crusader was talking about the abduction of Hannah Givens, the apparent third victim of a Boston-based serial killer who abducted college women and, after holding them for a period of weeks, shot them in the back of the head and dumped their bodies.

After rehashing the gory details of Emma Hale and Judith Chen’s murders, Nancy Grace consulted a criminal psychologist and a former FBI profiler, both women, and asked them if Hannah’s abductor, given the heightened media attention, might panic and decide to kill her. There was much discussion about the possibility.

Tracey Givens, her eyes bloodshot and puffy from crying, turned away from the TV, saw Darby and stood.

‘You find anything in my daughter’s bedroom, Miss McCormick?’

‘No, ma’am, I didn’t.’

Hannah’s mother seemed surprised. Hannah’s father stared at the stains in the well-worn carpet.

‘You were in there an awfully long time today, I thought you…’

‘I wanted to get to know your daughter better,’ Darby said.

Tracey Givens glanced back to the TV where Nancy Grace was shouting at Paul Corsetti, the media rep for the Boston police. By not telling the truth to the public, Nancy Grace yelled to the camera, Boston PD had put Hannah’s life in danger.

No, you dumb, self-centred piece of shit, you’re the one who’s putting Hannah’s life in danger.

Darby couldn’t stomach it any more. ‘Thank you for allowing me to examine Hannah’s things,’ she said, opening the front door. Hannah’s father followed.

Michael Givens had the face of a man who had spent too many years in the sun. His skin, sagging and leathery, was carved with deep grooves. He looked frail in the afternoon light. The street was quiet now. The Boston media and national tabloids were downtown at Chadzynski’s press conference.

‘The experts on TV, they’re saying all this attention Hannah’s getting might egg this man on – might encourage him to, you know, do something,’ he said. ‘But those TV people, these so-called experts, they’re looking at it from the outside. You’re on the inside, Miss McCormick. You’ve got all the facts.’

Darby waited, not sure what the man was asking.

‘They said on the news you worked on the other two cases where the women disappeared.’

‘I’ve only read the case files.’

‘Those two girls… they were gone for a long time, right?’

‘Mr Givens, I’m going to work day and night to find a way to bring your daughter home. That’s a promise.’

Hannah’s father nodded. He was about to open the door when he decided to lean against the doorway. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked to the corner of the porch, at the recycling bins filled with beer cans.

‘Hannah… she wanted to stay home with us and go to a local school, a community college about ten minutes away,’ Michael Givens said. ‘Schools in the northeast are real good. Hannah got this real nice financial aid package from Northeastern, so I pushed her. Sometimes you’ve got to push your kids. You’ve got to give them a shove ’cause sometimes that’s the only way to help them.

‘I told Hannah I couldn’t afford to send her to the local college, which was the truth. We don’t make much. Getting a degree up here would open all sorts of doors for her. Hannah didn’t like it much – she missed her friends, didn’t care for the weather here. Too cold, she said. My wife, she sort of relented, said she’d pick up an extra job to help see Hannah through a local college but I said no. I kept pressing Hannah to come here. My daughter’s shy – she’s been that way since she was wee-high – and I thought, my thinking was being up here, surrounded by all these smart people, it would do Hannah a world of good, help break her out of her shell. She may be shy but she’s a persistent bugger when it comes to studying.

‘Hannah kept on telling me how unhappy she was, how she wanted to come home, and I kept telling her no. I’d hang up and every time there’d be a knot in my stomach. I always shook it off. Maybe God was trying to tell me something.’

‘Mr Givens, I know this is easy for me to say, but you can’t blame yourself for what’s happened. Sometimes…’

‘What?’

Sometimes things just happen,
Darby said to herself.
Sometimes God doesn’t care.

‘We’re all working real hard on this, sir.’

Michael Givens stood with his hands in his pockets, unsure of what to say or where to look.

‘What do you think of her?’ he asked.

‘I think your daughter is –’

‘No, I meant Nancy Grace. She wants us to come on TV and talk about Hannah, says it will help find her. My wife wants to do it, says anything we can do to help Hannah we ought to. Truth be told, I don’t feel too good about it. There’s something about the way that woman carries on that gives me a bad feeling all over. If we go on TV, you think it will make this person who’s got Hannah decide to… hurt her?’

Darby told him the truth. ‘I don’t know.’

‘What would you do, if you were in my situation?’

‘I think you should do what you feel is right.’

‘What’s your opinion of that Nancy Grace woman?’

‘Personally, I think the only thing she gives a shit about is ratings.’

‘You’re blunt. I admire that. You and Hannah would get along real good. Thank you, Miss McCormick.’

Hannah’s father turned around but he didn’t open the door.

‘She’s our only child. We couldn’t have any other children. It was a miracle we had her. I don’t know what we’d do if she… Just bring my baby girl home, okay?’

His hands fumbled for the doorknob. Michael Givens stumbled back inside, forgetting to shut the door behind him. He took the seat next to his wife and stared at the phone, willing it to ring.

68

Keith Woodbury had taken the cassette tape and created an mp3 file which he burned onto a CD.

The first time Darby had listened to it she had to excuse herself. She went outside and walked around the building several times until the fresh air had purged the sick, clammy feeling that wrapped itself around her skin.

The second time was just as difficult, but with the initial shock over, Darby concentrated on the recording, forcing herself to ignore the woman’s screaming and listen for background noises. Darby listened to the CD again as she drove back into the city.

Jennifer Sanders screamed out in pain, screamed for it to stop, begged for it to stop. The man on the tape grunted and moaned. Sometimes he laughed. He didn’t speak. If he had said something, then maybe Dingle’s sister could have identified her brother’s voice. At least then Darby would know for sure that the man on the tape was, in fact, Sam Dingle.

The traffic leading into Boston was awful. There was some sort of road construction. Darby took the nearest exit, her mind focused on the sounds playing over her car speakers. She didn’t hear anything in the background. The tape needed to be analysed by an audio expert, a process that would take months.

Half an hour later she found herself driving through the Back Bay. Trinity Church, one of the oldest in Boston, stood in the shadow of the Prudential Center. Every Christmas season, for as long as Darby could remember, her mother had brought her here to Copley Square for the candlelight carols. Sometimes the Trinity Chamber Choir sang.

Darby spotted an empty parking space and, without a moment’s thought, pulled in as daylight died behind the Prudential Tower.

A Catholic church is a sinister place. Sin and salvation. A life-size statue of Jesus hanging on the cross was mounted on the wall behind the altar. In the dim light Darby saw the painted drops of blood running from his crown of thorns and the nails driven through his palms and feet.

The original church, founded in 1733, was burned in the Great Boston Fire of 1872. The architect H. H. Richardson rebuilt the church in the style which became popular in a number of European buildings – massive towers of stone with clay roofs and arches. Darby was always mesmerized by the stained-glass windows behind the altar. She saw David’s Charge to Solomon, designed in 1882 by Edward Burne-Jones and William Morris.

Darby sat in a pew, wondering about the generations of people who had sat in this same spot and prayed to God out of desperation and fear. Please, Jesus, my son has cancer. Please help him. Mary, Mother of God, please keep my children safe. Please don’t let anything happen to my family. Please help me, God. Jesus, please help me.

Did God hear their prayers? Did he listen? If he did, did he pick and choose at random? Did he even care?

Did the victims go to church?

Darby set her backpack on the pew and removed the copy of Emma Hale’s murder book. She hunted through the text with the aid of a pen light.

Emma Hale was born and raised Catholic. She went to Mass every Sunday with her father. What about Judith Chen? She, too, had been raised Catholic. Her roommates didn’t know if she attended church.

Darby called the number for Hannah’s apartment. Michael Givens answered.

‘What is your daughter’s religious affiliation?’

‘We raised her Catholic,’ Hannah’s father said. ‘That was my wife’s doing. Me, I didn’t really have much use for it.’

‘What about Hannah?’

‘She went through the motions for her mother, but I don’t think it really took hold.’

‘Do you know if Hannah ever attended Catholic services in or around Boston?’

‘Hold on.’

Michael Givens conferred with his wife for a moment. Tracey Givens mumbled something to her husband and then she came on the line.

‘Hannah hasn’t attended church for a while now. I wasn’t too happy about it, but Hannah wasn’t afraid to speak her mind. She wasn’t real religious, and whatever faith she had left went out the window when that
awful sexual
abuse scandal broke out here – you know the one I’m talking about, where the priests molested those boys and Cardinalwhat’s-his-name covered it up?’

‘Cardinal Law,’ Darby said. ‘What about any local charity work?’ Bryson hadn’t investigated that item.

‘My daughter didn’t have a lot of free time between her classes and two jobs – Hannah kept complaining about it to both me and her father, saying she wished she had more of a personal life. If she was doing any charity work, she didn’t tell me.’

‘What about a boyfriend? Was she seeing anyone?’ Darby felt desperate, reaching for straws.

‘Hannah was seeing a nice boy back home but that fell by the wayside after Hannah left for college,’ Tracey Givens said. ‘She wasn’t dating anyone here. It was a real sore spot for her.’

‘Thank you for your time, Mrs Givens.’

Darby stared at Jesus’ sorrowful expression and for some reason her thoughts drifted to Timothy Bryson. His body was lying inside a casket at a funeral home in Quincy. Tomorrow morning he would be buried. She wondered who had made the arrangements.

Darby recalled the framed picture of his daughter and held it in her mind’s eye while she examined her feelings.

I’m sorry for what happened to your daughter,
that cold, analytical part said.
But I don’t feel sorry for what happened to you, Tim. I know I should, but I don’t.

Darby thought of her own mother. Out of habit, or maybe out of faith, she knelt, and with her back ramrod straight, just as the nuns at St Stephen’s had taught her, made the sign of the cross and closed her eyes. First she said a prayer for Sheila. Then she prayed for Hannah.

Her phone vibrated against her hip. The display said unknown caller. Darby let her phone ring three more times before she answered.