The X-ray room is full of hospital personnel; white coats are everywhere. And not just technicians. Nurses and doctors came to see the show too.
“We’ll get out of your way,” the Chief tells them. He takes a closer look at Sonia. “We know you’ve got work to do.” He gestures toward the two uniformed detectives. “But when you’re finished, she’s to be released into police custody.”
He turns his attention to me and points toward my camera. “You on this one?”
“I guess I am.”
“When she leaves here, she goes straight to lockup. Arraignment’s tomorrow morning. Judge Gould says eight o’clock sharp, before the regular docket.”
“No waiver,” I tell him. “Don’t even ask her what time it is unless I’m with her.”
“Don’t worry.” The hint of a smile flickers in his Irish eyes. “We know better.”
Sonia leans forward and stares at me while I photograph her face, focusing first on her stitched lip, then on her swollen right eye. “Howie’s dead?” she whispers.
“Be quiet,” I instruct her, refocusing on her contorted arm.
Her eyes fill and I regret my tone at once. “I’m sorry, Sonia,” I tell her, lowering the camera. And I mean it. The anguish in her eyes now is far worse than anything I saw when her pain was just physical. During my years with the District Attorney’s office, I saw enough of these cases to know she probably loved him. No matter what he did to her-no matter what she did to him-she probably loved him.
One of the uniformed detectives returns to the small room with a blue surgical scrub suit and hands it to me.
“We’ll need to take her clothes,” he says.
I take the scrub suit and hand him the plastic bag containing Sonia Baker’s clothes. The cops expect to find more than one person’s blood on her stained white blouse.
“There’s a child,” the Chief says, sorting out his paperwork on the bedside tray. “A young girl. She’ll need to go to the Service for a while.”
I scan the room, relieved to see no sign of Maggie Baker. No child should be entrusted to the Massachusetts Department of Social Services. A child from Chatham would be safer on the streets.
“I don’t know where she is,” I tell the Chief. “But I’ll find her, and she can stay with me. No need to involve the Service.”
“You a relative?” the Chief asks, not looking at me.
“Yes. A second cousin.”
The Chief snorts at his paperwork. “Sure you are. And my cousin’s the Queen of England.” But he balls up the Department of Social Services referral form and tosses it into the wastebasket. He and the uniform leave the X-ray suite without another word.
I’m relieved and grateful. It’s good to know that on some issues, at least, Chief Tommy Fitzpatrick and I are still on the same side.
Chapter 8
Defense attorneys don’t show up at crime scenes. They’re not welcome. Now that I’ve crossed the aisle, I’m not expected to appear at the site of Howard Davis’s murder. Police officers and prosecutors enjoy exclusive control over every newly discovered suspicious death. It’s one of the perks of working for the Commonwealth.
Old habits die hard, though.
During my years as an assistant district attorney, I attended dozens of crime scenes. Almost always, important facts can be gleaned from the physical details of the site-the position of the body or the location of the weapon. Sometimes, the significance of what’s there, or not there, isn’t apparent until months later, when the evidence is being pieced together for trial. Once the scene is dismantled and sanitized, much of that information is gone for good.
I figure it’s worth a shot. I leave Maggie Baker at the office with Harry and the Kydd and drive the short distance to Bayview Road. Sergeants Terry and Reid are on duty, stationed outside Sonia Baker’s modest cottage as if it houses the crown jewels. Even through the winter darkness, I see the two men exchange nervous glances when they recognize my pale blue Thunderbird.
Not all cops are the good guys they’re cracked up to be, but these two are. I’ve known them both for years, and I can feel their anxiety levels rising as I approach. They’re used to seeing me at crime scenes. But they know I wear a different hat now; they didn’t expect to see me at this one. And they’re not quite sure how to get rid of me.
Sergeant Terry must have drawn the short straw. He steps out to the small, snow-covered lawn as I slam the car door and cross the road.
“Counselor,” he calls, his breath leaving a single white cloud in the air, “how goes it?”
“Can’t complain,” I tell him, though it occurs to me I could do so at length, given the right opportunity.
“How’s the new job?” He ducks under the yellow tape that surrounds the perimeter of the small property.
Nicely done. Remind me at once that I have a new job; I don’t belong here.
“Not all that different from the old one.”
He chuckles and looks down at the grass, then gestures toward the moonlit sky, gloved palms up, and looks back at me. He’s about to tell me he’s sorry-he doesn’t make the rules, after all-but I can’t have access.
“Come in, Martha,” I hear instead.
Sergeant Terry is as startled as I am. Geraldine Schilling is standing on Sonia Baker’s miniature front porch, waving at us. “By all means, do come in.”
The sergeant turns his wide eyes back to me, shrugs his shoulders, and lifts the yellow tape so I can pass. “She’s the boss,” he says.
I smile at him.
“Guess I didn’t need to tell you that,” he adds.
Geraldine moves inside, still waving for me to follow, as if she just bought the place and is anxious to show me around. She’s here, I realize, covering for Stanley, a fact that hits me like a hammer. Stanley is busy doing what I should be doing-walking through Buck Hammond’s case one more time.
I hurry up the cottage steps and shut the front door tight against the winter wind, wondering what motivates Geraldine’s hospitality. There are two possible explanations. She may think my viewing the scene-particularly if it’s grisly-will make me reconsider my move to the defense bar. When I left the DA’s office, she predicted I’d be back, her tone that of a preacher telling a sinner he’ll eventually reconcile with his maker.
More likely, though, Geraldine plans to gloat.
She stops in the center of the tiny living room and gestures toward the couch like a Tupperware hostess unveiling the latest in snap-top containers. “You’re on for the lady of the house, I hear.”
She takes a drag on her cigarette and watches me digest the scene. It’s grisly all right.
“It was a girlfriend of hers who called,” she says. “Stopped by to see if your client was okay.”
Geraldine blows a stream of smoke from the side of her mouth when I look up. “Touching,” she adds.
The crime scene photographer was delayed-at his wife’s office Christmas party, he says-and he’s just getting started. Nothing has been moved. Howard Davis is sprawled on his back on the couch, bloody from the neck down. His eyes are closed, his expression that of someone in peaceful slumber.
The dead man’s arm hangs from the couch, his fingers resting on the threadbare carpet. Next to them is a bloodstained serrated knife, a tape measure already aligned with its blade for the photo shoot. Nine inches, it reads. On the other side of the knife is an empty bottle. Johnnie Walker Red.
A large maroon pool over Howard Davis’s left breast suggests that the single incision beneath would have done the job. It didn’t have to, though. It’s one of multiple stab wounds, too many to count through the patches of almost dried blood. His flannel shirt is sliced open in at least a half dozen places. His heavy work boots are stained red. Even the couch cushions are saturated.
There is little blood elsewhere. A few drops in the bathroom sink, Geraldine points out, and a smear on a hallway light switch, but the rest is confined to Howard Davis’s body and the living-room couch.