Jesse was still pounding the ball when Bill Marchand came into the office. Square-jawed, blue-eyed, with black and silver hair that seemed to fall into place of its own accord. About Jesse’s height, but more slender, he was one of those men whose clothes hung on him just so. It was no wonder to Jesse that Marchand had succeeded in business and politics. He had the rare combination of good looks and unforced charm that appealed to men and women alike. When Jesse saw that Marchand was close to his desk, he wrapped the fingers of his glove around the ball and put the glove back in its customary spot on his desk.
“Bill.”
“Jesse.”
“You here as friend or foe?” Jesse asked.
“Both, I suppose.”
“Those shutters hold during the storm?”
Marchand smiled. “They did. Thanks for the help.”
“What can I do for you, Bill?”
For one of the few times since they’d known each other, Marchand looked uneasy. He’d been sent to talk sense to Jesse about the murders. If it was any of the other selectmen or some other town functionary, Jesse might’ve been tempted to let him twist in the wind for a while. But Marchand usually had his back and Jesse wasn’t a what-have-you-done-for-me-lately? kind of guy. He valued loyalty and friendship even if he wasn’t very good friend material himself.
“Boys in town hall nervous?” Jesse said.
Marchand exhaled, laughed. “If you’ve forgotten, Jesse, Mayor Walker is a woman.”
“I haven’t forgotten. Bill, it will be easier if you just say what you’ve come to say.”
“She’s worried. We’re all worried.”
“With what’s going on, it’d be hard not to be worried.”
“Look, Jesse, it’s not that. We’ve had a fair share of crime around here since you came on board. Worse than in some nearby towns, much better than in some others. And you’ve gotten to the bottom of all of it. But this... this strikes at the core of things.”
“Tough to sell Paradise as the Best Little Seaside Town in Massachusetts when you’ve got the skeletons of two murdered girls and an unidentified body with half its head blown off all over the national media.”
Marchand nodded. While he didn’t always love Jesse’s lack of diplomacy, he appreciated Jesse’s ability to cut through the bull and get to the point.
“Town hall wants it to all go away quick,” Jesse said.
The selectman smiled. “That’s about right.”
“Quick isn’t my job. Doing right is.”
“How did I know you were going to say that?”
Jesse shook his head, a sly smile on his face. “Because it’s the same answer I give everyone who’s ever walked through my office door and tried to tell me how to do my job, from Hasty Hathaway on down.”
Marchand raised his palms up in front of him. “Hold on a second, Jesse. I’m a long ways away from that corrupt little prick, Hasty Hathaway. You know I’ve always erred on your side of things when matters come before us.”
“Uh-huh.”
“So why give me the treatment? We’re friends. I’m only the messenger.”
Jesse stood up from his desk chair, turned his back on Marchand, and stared out his window at the water and Stiles Island.
“It’s because we’re friends that I’m telling you this, Bill. This isn’t a parking ticket I can make go away with a wave of my hand. I’ve got three murders to deal with, two of which are twenty-five years old. Everyone in this town over the age of forty is a suspect for the old murders, and probably the new one, too.”
“Including me?”
“Including you,” Jesse said. “So tell Her Honor and her minions that I have a job to do and I’ll do it my way.”
“She can always fire you.”
“That’s her prerogative, but you’ll make sure she doesn’t do that.”
“I will?” Marchand asked. “Why would I do that?”
“Because you like winning softball championships and you’ve got no shot without me.”
They both laughed at that.
“And,” Jesse said, “you know it would look even worse if she tried to get rid of me in the middle of this mess.”
“Okay, Jesse, I’ll talk them off the ledge, but I can’t promise they won’t walk back onto it.”
“Understood.”
“Is there anything else I can do to help?”
Jesse nodded.
“What’s that?” Marchand asked.
“New softball uniforms. The old ones are beat-up.”
“Anything else?”
“An obvious suspect might be nice.”
Marchand laughed. “I’ll see what I can do about the uniforms.”
They shook hands and Marchand left. Jesse went back to staring out the window and waiting for Healy to show.
16
The station was ill-equipped to handle the glut of reporters crowded into the small conference room. That suited Jesse fine. When he noticed that most of the reporters weren’t wearing their coats, Jesse instructed Suit to shut off the heat in the building, then delayed the beginning of the press conference for twenty minutes. He’d already made sure there were no seats in the room. The more uncomfortable the media were, the sooner they’d stop asking questions and the sooner he could get on with his job. Jesse began with a brief statement about how all the resources of his department and those of the state police would be brought to bear on the cases. His main focus was on the body in the blue tarp. He gave as many specifics as possible on his John Doe.
“Finally,” Jesse said, holding up an enlarged print, “we have this. The tattoo is four inches long by three inches wide and is located under the victim’s left arm.” Jesse put the print down and raised his left arm. “It runs from here to here. Officer Simpson will distribute copies of this image as you leave the premises and it will also be available on ParadisePD.gov, as will many of the facts we discuss here today. The Paradise Police Department would appreciate your help in identifying the deceased.”
Jesse was purposefully less forthcoming about the girls. He did confirm that the bodies found at the abandoned factory building were those of Mary Kate O’Hara and Virginia Connolly. He mentioned that the ME believed Mary Kate’s death was caused by numerous stab wounds, any of which might have been fatal. That there were notches and scrapes on several of her ribs, scapula, and clavicle that were consistent with wounds from the same knife. He didn’t elaborate beyond that. He noticed that even before he opened the floor to questions some of the reporters were rubbing their hands together and blowing on them for warmth. He almost smiled.
A Boston TV reporter Jesse recognized because he had worked with Jenn said, “You didn’t give the cause of death for the Connolly girl.”
“You’re correct.”
“Will you give it to us now?”
“No.”
After that, the questions came rapid-fire.
“Have you officially notified both sets of parents?”
“I spoke with Mrs. O’Hara yesterday afternoon and Mrs. Connolly will be arriving in town later today.”
“Does the ME have any idea how long the blade on the knife was that killed the O’Hara girl?”
“She does. Next.”
“Does she have an estimate as to how long the girls have been buried there?”
“We believe the girls have been where they were discovered since shortly after they disappeared.”
“You believe that based on what?”
“Science.”
Jesse was at his irksome best.
“Is it your theory that the John Doe is somehow connected to the murder of the girls?”
Jesse shrugged. “I’m not in the theory business. I’m in the evidence business.”