“Death doesn’t care about pretty or ugly. Only we do.”
“I guess.”
“Is Selectman Mackey home yet?” Jesse asked.
Suit shook his head. “He’s down in Boston, lobbying for highway funds. Mrs. Mackey was having trouble getting him on the phone until a few minutes ago.”
“Talk to me, Suit.”
“The kid’s in her bed—” Something caught in Suit’s throat. He might’ve been an ex — football star and a man to have on your side in a fight, but he was a gentle soul. That used to concern Jesse. Not anymore. He had taken a bullet in a gun battle with Mr. Peepers, and when the shit hit the fan at the old meetinghouse, Suit had walked back into the building to lead the people inside to safety. He’d done it knowing there was a good chance he would die in the process.
“It’s okay, Suit.” Jesse patted him on the shoulder. “I’ll see for myself.”
The Mackey house was at the foot of the Bluffs. It was a new-to-look-old Cape Cod — style home with a detached two-car garage and vinyl siding meant to look like overlapping cedar shingles. There was a bluestone path leading up to two granite steps and a welcoming red door. The red door didn’t feel very welcoming just then. Jesse let himself in, Suit trailing behind. The second he entered, he heard Patti Mackey’s robotic, disembodied voice. Jesse stopped to listen.
Sue, yes, it’s about Heather... No, she’s not in some kind of trouble. She’s dead... You heard me right... I’m numb, Sue. I shouldn’t be, but I’m numb. Is something wrong with me?
In Jesse’s experience, Patti’s denial and distance weren’t unusual. She was in a kind of self-protective shock, but it would wear off, and when it did... He had seen that dam break too many times for his liking. Once was too many. And there was no getting used to it. It was difficult to witness, so much so that he had always been glad not to be a parent. Now that layer of insulation had been stripped away. He followed Patti’s voice into the kitchen. Jesse had known the family for a long time and thought he should talk to Patti before going to see to Heather. It was a sad fact of his job that Heather was beyond his help.
Patti was a gray-eyed beauty with fair, freckled skin and long auburn hair. She could have passed as Heather’s much older sister. She was placing the phone back in its cradle when Jesse reached the kitchen. She turned to him — eyes empty, face blank. The moment she saw him the walls came down and she crumbled into Jesse’s arms. The tears came in a rush, soaking Jesse’s uniform shirt. Her body clenched and every part of her shook. But it was the sobbing that haunted him. The shrieks coming out of her were feral, primeval. He knew it was moot to try and say something soothing, so he stroked her hair and waited for the first wave to subside. When it did, Jesse sat her down at the kitchen table and held her hand.
“What happened, Patti?”
But it was too soon. She couldn’t even form words.
“Officer Simpson,” Jesse called for Suit.
When Suit stepped into the kitchen, Jesse told him to sit with Patti and to get her anything she needed. As he left the kitchen he leaned over and whispered in Suit’s ear, “Just keep her out of the bedroom.”
The ME was to the side of the bed, jotting notes down on a pad. Peter Perkins stopped what he was doing and held up a plastic evidence bag containing a syringe.
“Found it at the side of the bed.”
Jesse nodded, distracted. He was focused on the dead girl on the bed, dressed in a too-big Red Sox T-shirt. If not for the two other men present and the odors in the air that came with sudden death, Jesse might have been able to fool himself that the girl was simply in a deep sleep. He supposed she was, really, in the deepest of sleeps.
The ME stopped his scribbling and turned to Jesse.
“She’s been dead about two hours. No obvious signs of foul play. We’ll have to wait for the tox screen,” he said, “but it’s a heroin OD. I’d make book on it.”
Jesse asked, “Was she a heavy user.”
“I don’t think so. No track marks. Only one fresh puncture wound that I can see.” The ME took the girl’s left arm, turned it up, and pointed to the inner fold of her forearm. “See it?” He didn’t wait for Jesse to answer. “I’ll know more when I get her on the table. I’m done with her, if you want to have a look. I’ll send my crew in to bag her.” He looked back at the girl. “A shame.”
Three
A shame. Sometimes all it took were a few syllables to sum things up. But those two simple syllables were also woefully inadequate, because while they summed things up, they would also leave a thousand questions in their wake. The questions for Jesse and his department would be the easy ones: When did the girl start using? Who was her supplier? Could they catch him or her? Could they make a case against him or her? The questions for Heather’s parents would be the harder ones: How could we not have known? What didn’t we see? How had we failed her? And some of those questions, maybe all of them, would go forever unanswered. Jesse liked the Mackeys and hoped the questions wouldn’t tear Patti and Steve apart, but Jesse had seen the scenario play out a hundred times before. The parents would need someone to blame and, short on answers or with answers they didn’t like, they tended to blame each other.
If there was anything that experience had taught Jesse about drug cases, it was that they didn’t happen in a vacuum. Where there was one case there would be others. It wasn’t a matter of if, but a matter of how many, how severe, and when. The tough thing was that to limit the damage, Jesse was going to have to ask some of those hard questions of the Mackeys, and he was going to have to do it sooner rather than later. Sooner being now.
He found Patti Mackey in the kitchen, Suit standing silent guard over her. Jesse was glad for Suit being on hand. One of Suit Simpson’s remarkable qualities was that in spite of his size, he was almost always a comforting presence. People just felt at ease around him. The same could not be said of Jesse. He supposed he was a little softer around the edges these days, now that he was a father and he was no longer drinking, but there was something about his self-containment that didn’t allow people to feel the kind of comfort around him that they felt around Molly or Suit. He was okay with that. Those qualities helped make him good at his job. Still, there were times, especially times like these, when he wished he had the knack.
Patti was no longer wailing. No, she sat at the kitchen table nearly as still as her daughter had been. Jesse had seen it before; the stages of initial shock play out in only a very few minutes. First the disbelief, then the flood of pain that came with the realization that your child was lost to you forever and that there would never be another unblemished day for the rest of your life, then the momentary self-imposed numbness. It wouldn’t last long. Her zombielike state certainly wouldn’t survive the ME’s guys toting the body bag down the stairs.
“Patti,” Jesse said, “I’ve got to ask you some questions.”
“What?” Her answer seemed to come from somewhere very far away. Her red-rimmed eyes unblinking. Her expression excruciatingly blank.
Suit made to leave the room, but Jesse waved for him to stay, to sit at the table beside Patti Mackey. When Suit had taken a seat, Jesse began again.
“Have you noticed anything strange about Heather’s behavior lately?”
Patti blinked, fighting herself. “Different? No, not different. She just seemed a little more tired lately. Her stomach was giving her trouble, but she’s a — was a junior and, you know, looking at colleges and taking tests and all. Now, I don’t—”
Jesse knew it was unkind, but he had to keep Patti in the moment and not let her drift into the dark place just yet.