The Graves Page 13

  Valerie’s room on the third floor is sealed off by yellow tape. Kevin and I go inside and look around. It’s standard fare, about fourteen by fourteen, with two twin beds, two desks, two dressers, and two closets. Valerie’s closet is jammed with a hodgepodge of clothes, shoes, and bags. Some things are old, some new; some designer, some discount.

  Kevin pulls out an unused Proenza Schouler bag from the closet, unzips it, and pulls out the price tag.

  He reveals a rare expression of surprise. “Guess how much this thing cost?”

  If he had posed the question a year ago, I’d have had no idea. I never knew the price of anything. I didn’t have to. Not so anymore. I inspect the bag; I’ve always been able to tell the difference between a real from a fake. The elaborate stitching and crisp magenta leather tell me that this one is the real deal, not a knockoff.

  “Twelve hundred,” I say.

  “Close,” he says. “Eleven fifty.”

  “That doesn’t include the sales tax.”

  “You know your pocketbooks.”

  Kevin inspects a few more handbags until he finds something inside the flap of a counterfeit Kate Spade: nineteen white pills, wrapped in tissue. He holds them under the light and examines them closely.

  “Oxy,” he says.

  A clear pattern is emerging. Rose, Caitlyn, and now Valerie are all young, attractive college students. They all receive some kind of financial aid. And they all have a penchant for Oxy. This doesn’t bode well for Valerie’s chances of survival.

  When Sasha Phelan arrives, minus her Mr. Potato Heads, I barely recognize her. She sits at Valerie’s desk and flips on her laptop. Kevin and I go downstairs to the first-floor student lounge, where the chief introduces us to Valerie’s roommate, Lexie.

  She’s wearing sweats, clutching a nylon gym bag.

  “Did you find her? Do you know where she is?” she says.

  “Not yet,” I say. “We’d like to ask you some questions.”

  The chief leads us to the resident advisor’s apartment and leaves us alone. We take seats around a coffee table. The place smells of Lemon Pledge and looks like the floors have just been mopped. There’s not a speck of dust; my kind of apartment.

  “There are some expensive things in Valerie’s closet. Do you know how she paid for them?” Kevin says.

  “Sorry, I’m not really into clothes.” Lexie looks down at her sneakers. “Unless I can wear them on the soccer field.”

  “Is there anyone new in Valerie’s life?” I say.

  “I don’t mean to sound disrespectful, but we’re in our first semester, freshman year—everyone is new.”

  “What about outside interests?”

  “She wasn’t into sports, so we didn’t have a lot in common.”

  I remember how self-involved I was during college. I changed my major three times, from classics to French literature to history. When I wasn’t in class or studying, I was working for the school newspaper, the Crimson. And I dated more than a few guys. I was rarely in my room, and when I was, I wasn’t paying attention to my suite mates’ comings and goings.

  “We’re pretty different. I’m an athlete, she’s more of a partier,” Lexie says.

  “What about drugs?” I say.

  “I’m not a narc or anything, but I’ve seen pills.”

  “Boyfriends?” I say.

  “She goes out like all the time. And her phone is always ringing.”

  “Any idea where she was planning to go last night?” Kevin says.

  “I never asked.” She tears up. “I’m a lousy roommate. I’m so into my own stuff, I haven’t really taken the time to get to know her.”

  I put my hand on her arm. “This isn’t your fault.”

  “Do you know if she ever went to frat parties?” Kevin says.

  “I don’t,” Lexie says.

  When we’re done, we go back up to Valerie’s dorm room to see if Sasha had any luck.

  “Tommy Greenough sent her messages at all hours,” Sasha says, “hooked her up with men, sent her the names of hotels and a couple of private parties.”

  “Anything in there about last night?” Kevin says.

  “Not that I can tell. I’ll dig deeper back at my office.”

  As Sasha packs up the computer, I think about Valerie’s father, somewhere in Somerville. His life is about to change forever.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Max has left me several voice mails, each one increasingly hostile. When I get to Bulfinch, I e-mail him an update, hoping that will be enough to keep him off my back for a while. I was wrong. Three minutes later, he makes a rare appearance in my office.

  He stands in the doorway, out of breath. “Arrest the bastard.”

  Max’s opinion poll results have made him trigger-happy, but I’m sticking to the plan. He’s not the one who has to stand up in court and defend the arrest. I’ve had my head handed to me by a couple of judges already, and I don’t want to risk it again. I don’t care about getting yelled at; in fact, sometimes that’s half the fun. I worry that a premature arrest, followed by a quick dismissal, will do damage to both my credibility and my case.

  “Hold on. Let’s pump the brakes,” I say.

  “We got Tommy Greenough dead to rights on deriving support and obstruction,” Max says.

  There’s a knock on my door. Before I have time to respond, Cassandra opens it and walks in.

  “Hope I’m not interrupting,” she says, “but there’s a pack of reporters outside the building. I told them we couldn’t comment.”

  I wait for Max to ream her out for overstepping. She doesn’t have authority to talk about the case to the media, not even to say, “No comment.” Surprisingly, Max seems to be on board with her insubordination.

  “Thanks for protecting me, Cassie.” He turns to me. “I don’t want to be quoted until we have some positive developments. So get me some fucking positive developments.”

  All three of our phones sound. It’s a text from dispatch. Another body, partially buried, in Christopher Columbus Park.

  “That’s got to be the girl from Tufts,” Cassandra says.

  Cassandra shouldn’t be on the distribution list of this case. I make a mental note to have her name removed.

  She keeps talking, as though this is her business. “At least they found her. That should give the family some closure.”

  I don’t say what I’m thinking, which is, Spoken like a white-collar crime prosecutor. There’s no such thing as closure when it comes to murder. The case ends and life goes on, but the wound never heals and the sadness never disappears.

  “Cassie, go to the scene with Abby,” Max says. “Work the press. Stay in front of the cameras. Abby, you work behind the scenes.”

  Even though I’m angry Max allowed Cassandra to muscle her way into my investigation, it could play to my advantage. I’d rather not be quoted in the media until I have something significant to say. She can play Mickey the Dunce.

  Kevin picks us up out front, and we head over to Christopher Columbus Park, which is on the outskirts of the North End. When we arrive, there are a group of reporters assembled around the perimeter. Inside the yellow tape, the usual controlled chaos of a murder scene is under way. Uniforms, detectives, technicians, and medical personnel carry out their respective assignments. A couple of men in white hazmat suits use shovels to collect soil from around the area where the body was found.

  I notice a new guy in the mix, someone I don’t recognize. He’s taking notes, wearing a suit and a badge.

  I nudge Kevin. “Who’s the new detective?”

  “He’s a head-shrinker.”

  “The FBI sent a profiler?”

  The man sees us looking at him and comes over to introduce himself.

  “I’m Stan Alvarez, FBI.”

  “I didn’t know we called for a profiler,” I say.

  “Three bodies in a span of more than a month—the bureau is considering it a serial killing,” he says. “I talked to your cocounsel,
she said she’d have the files sent to my office today.”

  I’ve got two turf battles on my hands. First Cassandra, now the shrink with a badge. Everyone wants a piece of my case. I’ll play along for now. Otherwise, this guy will do an end run around me, to Cassandra, which will empower her even more.

  “You ready to meet the vic?” Kevin says.

  I follow him over to the tented area, but stop short before I can see the body. “Tell me,” I say.

  Kevin speaks slowly, allowing me to absorb every detail before moving on to the next one.

  “It looks like her neck was broken,” he says. “There’s reddish, purplish bruising and ligature marks around her throat.”

  “Are her eyes open or closed?” I say.

  “Open,” he says.

  I reach into my tote and take a sip of water while he continues.

  “She was a fighter. There are defensive marks on her hands and pretty deep cuts on her knees.”

  I wish I could leave; instead I glove up. When Kevin is done describing the victim, I squint my eyes, then open them, slowly. She starts out as a blur, then slowly comes into focus. There she is, my new victim. She was once someone’s loved one; now she’s their memory.

  “Has there been a positive ID?” I say.

  “Not yet,” Kevin says.

  I hold my breath and take a closer look, then pull out the police report and read it.

  “Something’s not right,” I say.

  “Amen to that,” Kevin says.

  I hand him the report. “The description doesn’t match.”

  He consults the report, compares it to our victim. “Five ten, one hundred and thirty pounds,” he says.

  “Valerie’s eye color is listed as blue. This woman’s eyes are brown.”

  “Could be a mistake.”

  I search my file for Valerie Jackson’s college ID photo. The differences extend beyond eye color. The woman in the picture is shorter and thinner than this victim.

  “This is not Valerie Jackson,” I say. “We got ourselves a fourth victim.”

  Chapter Thirty

  The feds have named a so-called task force: me, Kevin, Stan the profiler, and a press aid. The saving grace is Cassandra didn’t make the list, at least not officially. The FBI issued a statement, touting their interest in lending resources, providing technical assistance, and bringing the killer to justice. It sounds good, but it’s really a way to position themselves—to take credit if the case is solved or distance themselves if it’s not. Stan requested a sit-down. I’d rather spend my time doing real investigative work, but Max feels otherwise.

  “Go to the meeting,” he says.

  “Profiles never pan out,” I say.

  “This is the era of cooperation and coordination. At least that’s what we’re going to say in the press release.”

  “We both know profiling isn’t a crime-solving strategy. It’s a PR campaign.” Max is as frustrated as I am, but he’s all about image these days.

  “If you don’t want to go, I’m sure Cassandra won’t mind,” he says.

  “What time is the meeting?” I say.

  He checks his watch. “Now.”

  I call Kevin to see if he wants to join me, even though I think that I can pretty much predict his response. I’m not wasting my time with a hocus-pocus mind reader. I’d rather go to that lady who sits on a bench in the Boston Common, holding a crystal ball.

  “I’ll meet you there,” he says.

  “That wasn’t what I expected to hear. Is the commissioner making you go?”

  “Yup. Can’t argue with chain of command.”

  I walk across the street, keeping my head down so I don’t have to stop and talk to anyone. The murder investigation and the political speculation make this part of town ground zero for gossip.

  When I arrive at Center Plaza, Kevin is in the waiting room. The receptionist gives us visitor’s passes and escorts us to Stan’s office. His work space is decorated with a framed diploma from Georgetown Law School, certificates from training programs, and his Ph.D. in forensic psychology. He wheels his chair from behind his desk to face me and Kevin without obstruction. The setup looks like we’re about to start a couple’s therapy session, which would probably be more fruitful, and would definitely be more fun.

  “I’ve reviewed the local police accounts and spoken with the ME and the computer analyst,” Stan says. “This guy is kind of a cross between the Boston Strangler and Ted Bundy.”

  “As you shrinks say, how does that make you feel?” Kevin says.

  I stifle a laugh. Stan blows it off, which probably adds fuel to Kevin’s annoyance. One of us has to play along, and it’s not going to be Kevin.

  “Where do you suggest we start?” I say.

  “Establishing the commonality among the victims is important,” Stan says.

  “One thing they have in common is they’re all dead,” Kevin says.

  “Agreed,” Stan says.

  Stan is taking Kevin’s snarkiness in stride, which makes him start to grow on me. He’s not a bad guy, probably used to being the butt of law enforcement jokes, and he seems to be a good enough sport. Still, I proceed with caution, skating the line between helping Stan and not pissing off Kevin.

  “All the victims are women, in their late teens to early twenties,” I say.

  “What else?” Stan says.

  “Attractive, college students, need money, engaged in prostitution.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Yes.”

  Kevin lets out an exaggerated yawn and stretches his arms. Stan isn’t discouraged.

  “Is there an element of nonreactive premeditation?”

  “Yes. It’s not a crime of opportunity. Someone has been introducing him to his victims,” I say.

  “Do you know who?” he says.

  “No.”

  I’m not ready to reveal what we learned about Tommy Greenough in the grand jury. Stan shrugs. I can tell you’re holding back, but suit yourself.

  “Regardless, there seems to be an obvious cooling-off period between attacks.” He sits back, his fingers steepled, “He fits within the parameters of a serial killer. I’d categorize him as hedonistic, motivated by either thrill or lust.”

  Kevin takes a long look at his watch. “Can you tell us something we don’t know?”

  “We’re looking for someone who is intelligent and probably comes from a high-achieving family, with at least one overbearing parent.”

  “You just described Abby.” Kevin smiles for the first time since he’s been here.

  “If the Greenoughs are on your radar, you’re on the right track,” Stan says.

  We start to say our good-byes, but are interrupted by a barrage of texts. My phone beeps, Kevin’s vibrates, Stan’s dings. We all get the same message: our third victim has been identified. Positive ID of victim FKA Jane Doe. Britney Marshall, 20 yo, student at Northeastern.

  “This sicko is working his way through all the colleges on the East Coast,” Kevin says.

  “He’s held true to his pattern,” Stan says.

  “Why would someone target students?” I say.

  “That’s a complicated issue. It’s possible that the killer never completed his education. But it’s important to note that all the victims are away from home, needed money, and turned to prostitution, which means he could have some kind of inexplicable obsession from which he derives sexual gratification.”

  “Or it could be simpler; these just happen to be the women who answered his ads,” Kevin says.

  “Regardless, he’s still active,” I say. “And he’s getting bolder, taunting us. He dumped Britney less than a mile from the courthouse. It’s like he wants to prove he’s smarter than the rest of us.”

  “Right now it looks like he is smarter than the rest of us,” Kevin says.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  After the meeting, Kevin and I go to the morgue, and on our way back, we get stuck in a massive traffic jam on Mass Ave. Kevin uses th
e downtime to call his wife and make a movie date. I eavesdrop on their conversation. She wants to eat at the Centre Street Cafe and see a rom com; he’d rather dine at Doyle’s and take in an action flick. They settle on pizza and a game of darts at J. J. Foley’s.

  Sirens blare. Two lanes of cars pull to either side of the street, making enough room in the middle for emergency vehicles. Two ambulances, a fire truck, and three marked police cruisers zoom by.

  “It’s either a bad crash or a jumper on the bridge,” Kevin says.

  He turns on the scanner. I check my e-mails.

  “A seven-year-old boy, riding his bike, was hit,” I say.

  “Dead?”

  “He’s at the Mass General, on life support.”

  Even though we’re knee deep in the serial killer investigation, I can’t resist a child fatality. Kevin indulges me in a way that feels intimate and oddly romantic—in a gesture of unspoken understanding, he flips on the blue flashers.

  He races us to the Mass General emergency room and parks in the ambulance bay. When I’m halfway through the revolving door, I’m surprised to see my sister-in-law in the lobby of the hospital. She’s upset, pacing, blowing her nose, and talking on her cell phone.

  “I’ll meet you in the emergency room,” I say to Kevin.

  As soon as I join Missy, before I can ask what’s wrong, she says, “She’s okay.”

  I’m confused. “Who?”

  “It’s my fault. I should never have let her drive, but you know how she can be when she sets her mind on something.”

  There’s only one person she could be referring to. “My mother?”

  “She’s banged up, but she’ll be fine.” Missy stops, looks at me. “There was a little boy.”

  I take this in and start to tremble with rage. “My mother, she’s the one who hit the kid on the bike?”

  Missy looks out the window. “There’s Charlie.”

  I turn to see my brother, handing cash to a taxi driver. He rushes in, and we all walk toward the emergency room. A receptionist gives us visitor stickers, and we slap them on. Missy and Charlie go to my mother’s room, but I move toward Kevin.