The Graves Read online

  “It already hit the airwaves?” I say.

  “NECN ran a live feed from the courtroom,” Kevin says.

  When we walk into the conference room and take seats, Karen barely looks up. Kevin introduces me, and I sit next to her and try to bring her up to speed on the investigation. It’s difficult to tell whether or not she’s absorbing my words.

  “Do you have questions?” I say.

  She looks up and speaks quickly. “Some reporters called and asked me if I thought Caitlyn and that girl from BU are connected to each other. Are they? Or is this random? Is he a serial killer?”

  I try to comfort her with competence, which is a challenge given the state of the evidence. “We don’t have any indication that Caitlyn and Rose knew each other, but the circumstances of their abductions do have similarities. We’re not sure who killed your daughter, not yet, but he isn’t going to get away with it.”

  Karen is about sixty, my mother’s age, but the deep crevices around her forehead, eyes, and mouth make her appear decades older. She hasn’t had the benefit of regular visits to the spa for facials, dermabrasion, and age-defying injections. Her roots are gray, her hands are chapped, and her eyes are swollen from crying. It’s obvious she hasn’t had it easy up to now, but at least she had her daughter.

  I put my hand on her arm. “Caitlyn sounded lovely.”

  “She was my only child. Her father passed when she was a baby.”

  “Do you have pictures?”

  I know what Caitlyn looked like, but I always make a point of asking survivors to share a happy memory. It diminishes their pain, however slightly, and it sharpens my resolve.

  Karen scrolls through the photos on her phone, a series of candids. Caitlyn, at the state fair, holding a half-eaten corn dog. Caitlyn, wearing a wrist corsage and lavender bandage dress, sitting next to an awkward teenage boy. Caitlyn, grinning, cradling a small turtle in the palm of her hand. Karen continues to scroll, stopping at a picture of herself with Caitlyn, who is wearing a cap and gown. Karen is almost unrecognizable; she’s happy, her arm proudly wrapped around her teenage daughter’s shoulder.

  “She was the first in our family to go to a four-year college.”

  I look at the picture and think about my own high school graduation. Winsor girls didn’t wear cap and gown; we wore simple white dresses of our own choosing and a garland of flowers in our hair. My grandmother and nanny stood in for my parents, who couldn’t make it because they had more pressing matters: tickets to the U.S. Open.

  “It must have been difficult, having her so far away,” I say.

  She coughs back the pain in her throat. I find a bottle of water in my tote, untwist the top, and hand it to her. She takes a couple of sips.

  “Do you feel up to answering a few questions?” Kevin says.

  “If it will help.”

  “Do you know if Caitlyn was dating anyone?” Kevin says.

  Karen shakes her head. “She wasn’t. She would have told me.”

  “Did she ever mention anyone she was afraid of?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know if she had any new friends?”

  Karen looks at Kevin, as though she’s worried that she’s failing a test.

  “I don’t think so,” she says.

  While they continue to talk, I get a text from the medical examiner. Caitlyn Walker autopsy completed. Body ready for identification and retrieval. I put the phone away and deliver the news, one more bit of sadness.

  “We need you to identify Caitlyn’s body, for the official records,” I say. “Then they can release her for burial.”

  Kevin drives us to the medical examiner’s office, and we spent most of the ten-minute ride in silence. I fight the urge to make small talk, allowing Karen some time to prepare herself for what she’s about to experience. When we arrive at the morgue, the receptionist buzzes us into the visitors’ room, where an assistant medical examiner is waiting. We take seats around a table, and the assistant displays an edited photograph of Caitlyn that was taken after she was placed on the gurney. The picture is cropped so only Caitlyn’s face is visible; her eyes are closed, and her skin discolored.

  Karen examines the picture and lets out a hiccup.

  “That’s my baby,” she says.

  The assistant flips the photo over, shielding it from further view, and asks her to sign some documents.

  “I’m going to bury her next to her father,” Karen says.

  My throat swells. “We have you scheduled to fly out in the morning.”

  “We’re not flying,” Karen says. “My sister is on her way from Pittsburgh to pick us up and drive us back to Missouri.”

  “It’s a long trip. If you’re concerned about the fare, the office will cover it.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I’m not putting Caitlyn in the cold belly of an airplane, like a piece of luggage.”

  Our next stop is Leary’s Funeral Home in Mission Hill, where Caitlyn’s body has been embalmed. We pull into the parking lot, Karen steps out of the car, and Kevin and I linger a minute.

  He reaches over and squeezes my shoulder. “You okay?”

  It feels like a million years ago that Tim Mooney was waked here, but it has actually only been about six months. I tell my victims’ families that time makes things easier. Turns out, I’ve been lying all these years. Time doesn’t heal all wounds; sometimes it barely makes a dent.

  “I know you miss him,” Kevin says.

  Karen is standing in the parking lot, staring at the funeral home.

  “I’m fine,” I lie.

  I get out of the car, put my hand on Karen’s back, and lead her inside, where we find the funeral director. We sit in a family room, while Karen fills out forms and talks about arrangements. About a half an hour later, her sister, Arleen, arrives.

  “The car’s out back,” Arleen says.

  “You need a permit to transport the body to Missouri,” the funeral director says.

  Kevin passes him some paperwork. “I stopped by the Hall yesterday. We have authorization to do a private transport.”

  While Karen is not unusual in her devastation and grief, she is unusual in her devotion. Few if any families would want to drive their child’s dead body halfway across the country in the back of a van. I know my parents wouldn’t.

  When we’re finished filling out forms, Arleen pulls her minivan up to the back of the funeral home. All but the two front seats have been removed. She opens the rear door, and there are a few scattered clues about her family: a crumpled-up bag of Goldfish crackers; a few stray LEGO pieces; a small orange life jacket.

  Three men slide Caitlyn’s casket onto the floor of the van. Arleen grabs a fleece blanket from the front and hands it to Karen, who wraps herself up in it. Karen climbs into the back and lies down, next to the casket.

  “You’re going to stay back there?” I say.

  “She’s my child,” Karen says.

  Karen crumples up a sweatshirt that will serve as her pillow. She stretches out next to the wooden box, where she will remain until her family reaches Missouri. Arleen climbs into the front seat, starts the engine, and looks over her shoulder to check for oncoming cars. When all is clear, she pulls out of the parking lot and eases into the flow of traffic.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Caitlyn’s lung tissue contained water and traces of soap, leading the ME to opine that she was likely killed in a bathtub. Water served dual purposes: it killed her, and it washed away evidence of her killer’s identity. We can’t tie the murderer’s DNA to Caitlyn, but if we can locate the bathtub, maybe we can tie Caitlyn’s DNA to her killer.

  We need to find out if Tommy or Robbie Greenough have bathtubs and, if so, snake the drains for evidence. The only way to get a forensic team inside Tommy Greenough’s apartment, or the Alpha Beta house, short of committing a felony, is by obtaining a search warrant.

  Kevin and I go back to my office. He writes up an affidavit, and I research relevant case law, with the h
opes that clever legal maneuvers will compensate for lack of evidence. By the time our application is ready for judicial review, the courts have closed for the night.

  “Who’s the on-call?” I say.

  “Rebecca Hynes,” he says. “Do you know her?”

  “She’s a former constitutional law professor, apolitical, and brilliant.”

  “Just our luck. We pull Oliver Wendell Holmes when we need Bozo the Clown.”

  I call Judge Hynes to let her know we’re coming, and we set out to Brookline. As we pass Taberna de Haro, one of my favorite tapas bars, my stomach gurgles. Kevin reaches into his glove box and hands me an unsweetened granola bar. I appreciate both the gesture and the nourishment, but I would have preferred a Snickers.

  Judge Hynes lives on prime real estate in Brookline, between John F. Kennedy’s birthplace and the Country Club, the nation’s oldest and snobbiest. Word is that Tom Brady was denied membership here. It’s dated, elitist, and expensive. My great-great-grandparents were among the founding members.

  Judge Hynes’s gingerbread-style Victorian looks grand, with wraparound porches, two chimneys, and a turret. We ring the bell and are greeted by two barking Dobermans; they jump up on their hind legs, their front paws scraping against the door. We wait on the porch as Judge Hynes yells at the dogs and corrals them into a side room.

  I’ve never seen her without her black robe. When she opens the door, she looks more absentminded professor than superior court judge. She has unapologetically gray hair and a tattered brown sweater dotted with dozens of pulls and pills. She reminds me of my uncle Minty, who lives in a $10 million estate in Dover but refuses to set his thermostat above fifty-five.

  I introduce her to Kevin, and she leads us down a dimly lit hallway, littered with yellowing newspapers and half-full trash bags. Kevin and I take seats around the kitchen table. I put my hands in my lap, careful not to touch the grimy Formica tabletop. She fumbles around, searching under books and papers, looking for something.

  “Do you need a pen?” I say.

  Maybe she’s going to be more of a pushover than I thought.

  “I can’t find my peepers,” she says.

  I subtly tap my forehead to clue her in on the whereabouts of her glasses. She takes them off the top of her head, puts them on, and flips through Tommy Greenough’s search warrant affidavit. When she’s done, she folds the warrant in thirds and hands it back to me, as though she just discovered it has cooties.

  “You’re lacking probable cause,” she says. “It’s not even a close call.”

  I helped her find her glasses; maybe I can help her find probable cause.

  “Tommy Greenough was one of the last people to have seen the victim alive,” I say.

  She’s not buying it. “There’s no evidence the victim was ever inside his apartment,” she says.

  “I’ll concede that point, but nonetheless, the apartment could contain valuable evidence.”

  “Be more specific.”

  I direct her to various sections in the affidavit, speaking quickly and jumping around from paragraph to paragraph.

  “His computer could have e-mails or Google searches. His phone could have voice mails or texts.”

  “It’s entirely speculative.”

  Not ready to concede, I keep pressing. “The bathtub could contain the victim’s hair or DNA.”

  She pushes her glasses back on top of her head. “There’s no evidence that the apartment even has a bathtub.”

  I knew the warrant for Tommy’s apartment was a long shot, but I had to give it a try. Some judges might have signed off on it, especially at this time of night, shortly before bedtime but after cocktail hour. Not dissuaded, I put the papers in a folder and pull out the application to search the Alpha Beta house.

  “Would you consider authorizing a warrant to search the fraternity?”

  “Not based on the same set of facts.”

  “There are differences. The fraternity has shuttered its doors. No one lives there anymore. The expectation of privacy and level of intrusion have been significantly diminished.”

  “Are you familiar with Sisyphus?” she says.

  “We’ll see ourselves out,” I say.

  Heading to the car, I imagine Karen Walker, still lying in the back of her sister’s van, stretched out next to Caitlyn. They’re probably somewhere in Connecticut by now.

  “We have to get inside the fraternity,” I say.

  “Can we treat it as abandoned property?” Kevin says.

  “Nice try, but that rule is for trash, like chewed gum or used tissues. It doesn’t apply to real estate.”

  “How about a consent search?”

  “How are we going to find the building’s owner at this hour?”

  Kevin smiles. “I know a guy.”

  We head over to Boston City Hall, a shining example of brutalism. The cement bunker is dark, closed for the night, but Kevin’s uncle’s wife’s brother-in-law works there as a security guard.

  Kevin’s guy looks like he’s old enough to have been with the City since the Curley administration. He lets us inside, leads us up to the eighth-floor assessing department, and logs us on to a computer terminal. It only takes Kevin a few minutes to search the database and find the property owner, Otis Thurman.

  “Is he in Boston?” I say.

  “Better. He lives in the land of the liberals: Cambridge.” He smiles. “I’m guessing he’s not a fan of our conservative senior senator.”

  “I’ll give him a call,” I say.

  “I’ll assemble a search team.”

  As anticipated, Mr. Thurman is happy to assist in our efforts to solve the murder and, as he said, to stand up to the D.C. power structure. It’s a sure sign we’re up against a formidable opponent when the police and prosecutor are considered the underdog.

  We arrive at the Alpha Beta house to find it stripped bare and wiped down. The students got rid of everything that might contain DNA: clothing, dishes, books, furniture. The search team goes room to room, confirming what we already know: there’s nothing to collect. Even the lightbulbs have been removed from the ceiling fixtures. Last week, the place reeked of booze; now it smells of bleach.

  Jack Rater, a civilian who oversees the crime lab, approaches. “There’s no bathtubs, just showers. I don’t see anything to sample.”

  “Take some pictures of the empty space,” I say. “I can try to spin it as consciousness of guilt.”

  I climb the back staircase, up to the fourth floor. The steps are narrow and steep. Between the third-and fourth-floor landings, my ankle buckles, and I fall backward, grabbing hold of the railing just before I hit the ground. A sharp pain runs from my foot to my knee, reigniting the injury I got the night that Ty was shot. Serves me right; the doctor warned me about removing the cast too early.

  At the top of the stairs, there’s a shadowy hallway that leads to three rooms. The ceiling is low and slanted. I open the doors, one by one. The first room is an empty storage closet, with warped shelves and a built-in set of drawers. The second room could have been a bedroom, large enough to fit a single mattress. The door to the third room won’t budge. I jiggle the handle, try to force it open. Behind me, the floor creaks; footsteps startle me. I’m not alone.

  I whip my head around and see Kevin.

  “You scared me,” I say.

  “What are you doing, besides contaminating the scene?” he says.

  “There’s nothing to contaminate.”

  “What’s behind door number three?”

  “I don’t know. It’s jammed.”

  Kevin twists the knob.

  “It’s not stuck, it’s locked,” he says. “Interesting. It’s the only room in the house with a lock on it.”

  Kevin leans his shoulder into the door and pushes, but it won’t open. He takes a couple of steps back and kicks it in.

  “Oops,” he says.

  He walks inside the room, looks around, then signals me to follow. It’s a bathroom, with a hot t
ub. Kevin calls Jack Rater, who comes upstairs, removes the trap, inserts a drain auger, and twists it around.

  “I don’t feel anything,” he says.

  “Please, dig deeper,” I say.

  He grips the snake with both hands and pushes down on it, to lower the cable. He twists the snake around clockwise, until it stops. “Got it.” He draws back the snake until we see a clump of brown hair, hooked onto the end.

  “Let’s get it tested,” I say.

  Chapter Sixteen

  When I arrive home, Manny, the night doorman, is in the lobby of my condo building, at the reception counter. I wave to him from outside and he opens the sliding glass doors. He was on duty when I left for work, about fifteen hours ago.

  “It’s barely past midnight,” he says. “You’re slacking.”

  I check my mail, which consists of a bunch of catalogs and a handful of bills. My Visa is past due. Comcast is threatening to shut off the cable. Neiman Marcus is giving me thirty days to settle my account. Stuffing the envelopes in my tote, I hop on the elevator. When I get upstairs, I pour a glass of Malbec, plant myself on the couch, and open my laptop. There are a dozen messages.

  From Chip Aldridge: I hope you’ll reconsider, I’d really like to take you to dinner. Delete.

  From Max: I want an update on the search warrants. ASAP. Delete.

  From the governor’s legal counsel, return receipt requested: Please contact us at your earliest convenience. We’d like to arrange a meeting to discuss your candidacy for district attorney. I read the message two more times, then print it out.

  I kick off my shoes, lie back, and imagine myself standing at a podium, giving a campaign speech to a large audience. My colleagues are pretending to be excited, but each one secretly wishes it had been him or her on the stage. Charlie and Missy are enthusiastic and supportive, but privately wondering how I ended up in such an unsavory line of work. Ty is front and center, smiling proudly and cheering me on. My parents are noticeably absent.

  A few hours later, I’m awakened by the clicking of the dead bolt on my front door. Disoriented, I open my eyes and see Ty walk into the living room, carrying his saxophone case, singing to himself. I can’t give you anything but love, baby. That’s the only thing I’ve plenty of, baby.