A Deeper Darkness (3 page)

Chapter Four

Nashville, Tennessee
Dr. Samantha Owens

Sam was surprised by how clinical her own voice sounded.

“I’m sure the medical examiner did everything right, Eleanor. The police in D.C., too—they see this all the time. I could look over the report—”

“No. Sam, listen to me. The police are saying this was a random shooting. They have no suspects. They aren’t closing the investigation, but they practically told me that finding his killer is like looking for a needle in a haystack. I don’t believe that, not for a second. Eddie was working on something. He was withdrawn, quiet, distracted. I don’t believe he was gunned down by some random drug dealer. I think he was deliberately ambushed and murdered.”

Sam sat at the kitchen table, her scotch forgotten on the counter.

“Eleanor. You have no proof. You can request a second autopsy from a private pathologist—that’s your right. But think about what you’re saying.”

“Think about what
you’re
saying, Sam. How could you even doubt me? That man was as edgy as a newborn foal. He was always on alert—that’s what made him such a good soldier. He saved too many lives to count because of that nervous edge. I can’t believe for a second that he’d let his guard down. He never has. The war changed him, Sam. He wasn’t the same man you knew.”

Eleanor’s voice softened. “If you can’t do it because of what happened, I truly understand. But something isn’t right here. Eddie was so aware, so
on,
all the time. I can’t imagine he’d allow himself to be ambushed by a thug.”

She’s right, Sam. You know that. Donovan was the cautious one. He was the one who held back when you were willing to plunge headlong off the cliff with him, run away and forget the world. He held back.

And now he was dead.

“I’m not an investigator, Eleanor. All I can do is look at the facts the body reveals.”

The body. Jesus, Sam, he was your lover, and you’re referring to him as the body.

“Call it a mother’s instinct, Sam. Please.”

A mother’s instinct. Possibly the strongest force of nature in the known world. Sam knew what that was like, once. She shoved her emotions back into their cage, locked the door and sighed.

“All right, Eleanor. I’ll be up there in the morning. Call the homicide detective assigned to the case and tell him to all stop, that you’re requesting a secondary protocol autopsy be performed by a private pathologist. We’ll see if your hunch is correct.”

“Thank you, Sam. So much. I can’t begin to tell you how much.”

She hated this. Hated it like hell.

“Just be prepared for the truth, Eleanor. Sometimes it disappoints us all.”

* * *

Sam hung up the phone and stared off into the distance. Memories rushed at her like starved wild animals, all competing for her attention, tearing away bits of her skin. Donovan on Key Bridge, the wind blowing his sandy-blond hair into her eyes as they kissed, the lights of D.C. spread before them. The look on his face when he came to tell her he was reenlisting. Slow dancing to Dire Straits’ “Romeo and Juliet.” The horror she’d felt when she realized he was ending their relationship. The pride she felt when she saw him in his uniform the first time. Their first date, at Charing Cross, the wonderful Italian food, then running down the street to Nathan’s for a nightcap, a new band called Nirvana blasting from the speakers.

With the lights out, it’s less dangerous…
.

All that emotion, tucked away for so long. She had a moment of nausea, swirling in her stomach, overwhelming and immediate. She bolted for the bathroom. Got sick. Slid to the floor by the toilet, put her arms on her knees and buried her face in them. Stayed curled on the floor of the bathroom for an hour, fighting with her mind.

She finally rose, exhausted. She’d wrestled the demons back into their rightful place. Her eyes were dry. Tears were unfamiliar to her. She hadn’t been able to cry for a very long time.

Numb.

One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi. Four
.

She went to pack.

Donovan. You bastard. You weren’t supposed to die, too.

Chapter Five

Washington, D.C.
Georgetown
Jennifer Jill Lyons

There was a light on in the house across the street. The top floor. A single window glowed behind the drawn blinds. Shadows—one, two—moved past the light.

Jennifer set her book in her lap and watched. She wasn’t supposed to be awake. It was nearly 2:00 a.m. But she couldn’t sleep. She was too excited. Tomorrow was her sixth birthday. Today, actually. She was already six, but it wouldn’t count until 6:25 a.m. That’s when she was actually born, took her first breath. At 6:25 on the dot there would be cake for breakfast, a family tradition, and tonight, a small party with her cousins and siblings. She’d asked for riding lessons and hoped that her mother would allow such a thing.

She wondered about the people across the street, why they were awake so late, as well. Perhaps they had a birthday tomorrow, too?

The light went out. Darkness crawled across the street, deafening and slick, and she was suddenly afraid. There was a brief spark in the window across the street, triangular, flashing out, then gone. Like a shooting star.

Moments later, she saw a shadow move around the corner of the house and walk away up the street. Something felt bad. “Mommy!”

Feet shuffled, and her mother’s warm, cinnamon scent preceded her into the room.

“What’s wrong, sweetie? Did you have a bad dream?”

She gathered Jennifer into her arms. The tattered paperback fell to the floor. Her mother picked it up and sighed deeply.

“Jennifer Jill, how many times have I told you not to read that gruesome stuff in the middle of the night?
Ghost Story?
That’s not a book for a girl your age, even if you can read it. Did your brother give it to you?”

“Yes, Mommy. But, Mommy—”

“No. None of that. It’s just your imagination, all stirred up. Get back in bed and go to sleep.”

“But, Mommy, I saw—”

“Jen, honey. Stop. It’s late.”

Jennifer knew that tone. It was the one that made her close her mouth and climb into bed. There would be no more comfort from her mother tonight.

“Good girl. Do you want me to leave the closet light on?”

“Yes, please. Night, Mommy.”

She let her mother kiss her briefly on the cheek and watched her leave the room, flicking on the closet light as she left. Jennifer rolled over, wondering. The flash was like a shooting star, there one moment, gone the next, quick as a blink. What had made a shooting star in the room across the street? Who had made it? Maybe it was from the tip of a wand, like in Harry Potter. She wished she could have that kind of power.

A star.

Her voice was soft, a gentle singsong. She’d gotten herself to sleep this way many times before.

“Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.”

Chapter Six

Georgetown
Detective Darren Fletcher

Darren Fletcher hated when the schedule rotation put him on the overnight shift. He was supposed to get off at 6:00 a.m., but it never failed—nights there was a murder, and that was more often than he liked, he always got the call around 4:00 a.m. Which meant that after spending ten hours on he’d have to pull another five or six. Yes, it was overtime, but he was a creature of habit. Losing sleep made him cranky.

And he was cranky right now. It was 4:13 in the morning. He was nursing a rapidly cooling cup of coffee from the Dunkin’ Donuts down the street, and staring into the empty eyes of a dead man.

A man who had three eyes, if you wanted to be specific, because he’d been shot cleanly through the forehead, with an accompanying shot to the chest.

Kill shots.

Fletcher had no idea which was the fatal injury, though he was willing to guess it was the head, because there was a tidy pool of blood under the man’s chest and neck, which told him the body had been dropped with the chest shot, the bullet to the head delivered as the coup de grâce. The man had crumpled into a nice heap, his right leg bent under him as if he were trying to turn and flee.

There were no obvious contact burns on the man’s skin or clothing.

So he’d been surprised, whether by an intruder or a conversation gone terribly wrong… . Fletcher would have to figure that out.

The dead man’s driver’s license identified him as Harold Croswell of Falls Church, Virginia. He was thirty-nine, five feet ten, a fit one-eighty, brown on brown. Organ donor, though it was too late for that. Maybe his eyes, those brown, murky eyes, could be given for corneal transplant.

Fletcher winced and looked away. He’d signed his own donor card, but the idea of someone taking his eyes freaked him out.

The soft voice of his partner, Lonnie Hart, interrupted his thoughts and he turned, grateful for the distraction.

“Not a smash and grab. I can’t see anything disturbed outside this room. Do you think this is his place, and he just hasn’t gotten the license updated?”

“I don’t know. Maybe,” Fletcher said.

“It’s kind of weird downstairs. Fridge is empty and the temp’s turned down. There’s no mail. The whole house is spotless. No dust, vacuum cleaner tracks in the carpets, fresh TP rolls in the head. Looks like someone’s out of town for an extended period. And it’s clean. Bet you dollar to doughnuts we won’t find any prints.”

“No shell casings, either. This guy’s smooth—shoots a guy and cleans up after himself. A pro.”

“Don’t know how he’d have time for all that. M.E. said liver temp shows the body’s only been here for a couple of hours.”

“Fresh meat. Who called it in?”

“No idea. Where’s the patrol?”

“Probably downstairs. I sent him to run the sheet.”

“Let’s go talk to him.”

They trooped down the stairs. Fletcher spotted the patrol he’d talked to when he arrived, standing at the open front door. The sun wanted to come up, but the sky was fighting the light. Maybe there’d be storms today. Who knew. Fletcher had stopped worrying about the weather long ago. It wouldn’t change his ability to do his job, or the inevitable outcome for the victim.

“Detective.” The patrol greeted Fletcher seriously. His name tag designated him B. Jimenez. He turned to Hart, smiling, looser. Hart was the buddy, Fletcher was the boss. Good cop, bad cop. Had to happen like that out here on the streets. At least, that’s what Fletcher told himself.

“How’s it, Lonnie?”

“Benito.
Bay-neat-toe
.” Hart thought he was funny. “How’s it hanging? I didn’t realize you were here. Thought you worked days—who’d you piss off?”

“Price you pay for greatness. Gotta do some scut. I’m taking the sergeant’s exam next month.”

If Fletcher had a dime for every time he heard that… The exam was easy to take, hard to pass and even harder to land a slot if you did pass. Budget cuts always meant lower personnel levels, and everyone wanted to move up. Move up or move out.

“Good luck with it. So what’s the story here? Detective Fletcher would like the rundown.”

Jimenez squared his shoulders and pulled out his notebook, and Fletcher shot Hart a look. Hart just grinned.

“Yes, sir. Call came in to 9-1-1 at 2:15 a.m. Said there was a body at this address. Dispatch put it out at 2:17 a.m. I was closest, rolled up on the house at 2:32. Officer Gefley was with me. There were no lights on in the house. The front door was unlocked. We swept the premises, found the body on the second floor in the front bedroom. I checked the decedent’s pulse, found none and called it in. Came downstairs and waited for the rest of you to show.”

“Who made that initial 9-1-1 call?” Fletcher asked.

“Hell if I know. Sir.”

“Let’s find that out,” Fletcher said, and Hart nodded. He turned back to Jimenez.

“What was the neighborhood like when you arrived?”

“Quiet. A few cars parked on the streets. No one walking around. It’s like that here usually, this late. This early. Now, a few streets west and you get the spill-off from the bars on Wisconsin and M, the Georgetown students wandering home or back to campus. It’s got folks stirring at all hours. But over here, they settle in and go to bed like good little boys and girls.”

“So why’s he dead here? What’s special about this place?”

“Well, the name Emerson is on the box. Could be family, or he was house-sitting or something, though the place was awfully clean for that. That’s all I got. I’m leaving the detecting to you fine gentlemen.”

Smart-ass.

“Did you smell anything when you got to the house?”

“Sir?”

“Detective work is more than just what you see, Jimenez. Did you smell anything?”

“Naw. Just blood, and shit. The usual.”

“Stop for a moment and think back. Close your eyes.”

Jimenez frowned, but complied, and Hart rolled his eyes in response.

“Mumbo jumbo,” he whispered, but Jimenez’s eyes shot open.

“Cigarettes. I smelled cigarettes.”

“Fresh or old? Stale?”

“No, sir. Fresh. Definitely.”

“Did you observe any cigarette butts or ashes on the premises?”

“No, sir. But Crime Scene will be looking at everything.”

“Excellent, son. Thank you. You can get back to your post now.”

Jimenez sauntered off looking pleased with himself, no doubt thinking he had made a good impression. Fletcher watched him go.

“All right. Let’s do it. Lonnie, you pick. Body or house?”

Hart shrugged, the overbuilt trapezius muscles of his neck flexing. “House.”

“Fine. I’ll go find out what I can about Mr. Croswell there. If you get a chance, can you track down that call? In this kind of neighborhood, you’d think someone might have heard or seen something, even if it
was
the middle of the night.”

“They’re all out there now.”

He pointed out the door, where a small crowd had formed.

“Let your buddy Bay-Neat-Toe start talking to them. He seems keen to help.”

“You’re the boss.” This was said without rancor—Hart had been his partner for eight years now, and they both liked the setup. Hart was an excellent cop, one hell of a detective and seriously lacking in any ambition to rise above his current post. Fletcher, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to get out of Homicide. He was five years from his twenty, and counting down every second. He’d take a promotion, push papers, ride a desk, anything to get out. He’d seen too much. Been in this position too many times. It wears on a man. If he’s sane. And Fletcher would like to think he was, after a fashion.

He watched Hart talk to Jimenez, saw the young man’s eager smile and shook his head. He’d been like that once. Full of piss and vinegar, titillated by his proximity to evil. So certain he could make a difference. Not unlike the gaggles of twentysomething college graduates that flooded the city each May, buffed and polished to a high shine—no more jeans and sweatshirts, but dark blue wool suits, crisp white shirts and red power ties for the lads, skirts and dresses over the knee, nipped at the waist and lightly shoulder-padded for the lassies. Drinking venti coffees, staring at their handhelds, talking earnestly over single malts and pitchers late into the night at the various Capitol Hill watering holes. He watched them on his way home, on his way to work, and marveled at their hope.

Hope that wouldn’t alter this empire of dirt. D.C. was immortal: the more things changed, the more they stayed the same. Even Icarus flew too close to the sun. But in D.C., the sun moved out of the way for the chosen ones, only singeing them around the edges in punishment. Nothing ruined a career in D.C. except for the obvious: a dead girl, a live boy or pictures of your junk all over the internet. Still, no one was ever totally destroyed. Even in death, the vanquished took on mythic qualities.

Confident things were well in hand, Fletcher shook off his melancholy and went back to the stairs, looking for anything out of the ordinary. The house was too clean, the scene too quiet. Soon the body would be moved, the cleaners would arrive, mopping the blood, replacing the carpet in the bedroom, and things would go back to normal. Normal. As if that could ever happen. More than likely, the owner of the house would decide to sell, unable or unwilling to stay behind where a life had been lost, and the thread of the day’s events would be gone in the ether. Empty, the house would collapse in on itself little by little: first the paint flaking, the porch sagging, a roof leak or two, until one of the many polite neighbors got upset and grouched to the owners, who by now were in Florida, paying a fresh mortgage, allowing the bank to foreclose on the property they couldn’t sell.

It was his job to find the answers before the trail was dead and gone. He didn’t need another cold case cluttering up his desk.

Crime scene techs crawled all over the second bedroom, dusting for latent prints, attempting to lift electrostatic footprints from the hall, accumulating the evidentiary elements that would be needed down the road to prove the identity of the murderer. Even the tiniest bit of matter could solve a case, and no tech wanted to be the one who missed it.

Fletcher let them work. He leaned against the wall and pulled out his iPhone, searched for Harold Croswell, Falls Church, VA. It would be just the first of multiple computer searches through multiple databases, but why not start with the easiest?

Bingo. With the treasure trove of information the internet could yield, detecting was sometimes made easier.

Facebook. MyLife. Twitter. “Hal,” as he was known, was married, with three kids and two dogs. Great. Notification would be fun.

“We’re all done here, sir.” A freckled worker, laden down with bags, flagged him down in the hall. “M.E.’s gonna move the body now.”

“All right. Thank you. Who’s on this morning?”

“Lurch.” The tech grinned at him. “Have fun.”

“Great,” Fletcher groaned.

“You are talking about me, I presume.”

Amado Nocek emerged from the hallway. He was cadaverously pale and extremely tall. Fletcher always thought he looked like some sort of translucent praying mantis, hands rubbing together in glee over the dead. They called him Lurch behind his back. He would suck them dry if they tried it face-to-face, but he knew what they said. In the manner of all great men, Nocek ignored their ignorance.

Fletcher shot the tech a look. “Of course we aren’t talking about you, Dr. Nocek. How have you been?”

“I am fine. Suffering from a malady I’ve not yet been able to discern, but it involves a great deal of mucus.” He proved his point by sniffing hard and long, his reddened nose closely resembling a proboscis. When the insect invasion came, Nocek would be flying in the lead formation.

“Keep that cold to yourself. When will you do the post?”

“You’ll have to call the office. We had a rash of deaths this week, and I’m afraid we’ve fallen behind. Some of that is my fault. The illness I alluded to has precluded me from working for the past few days.”

“Will you let me know?”

“Of course. It will probably be Friday at the earliest. I intend to send out engraved invitations. Do you need a plus one?”

“Yes. Detective Hart will be attending, as well.”

“Fine. Fine. I’ll see to it. If you will, I’d like to return to the office of the chief medical examiner now.
Justitia omnibus
.”

He wandered off and Fletcher didn’t know which to shake his head at, that Nocek didn’t call it the OCME like everyone else, or the obscure reference to the motto for the District of Columbia: justice for all. Like that happened. Especially in a homicide case.

Fletcher reached in his pocket for fresh nitrile gloves and went back into the bedroom. Watched them load up the body. Yawned, and made peace with the fact that he wouldn’t be getting any sleep any time soon. Decided to go help with the canvass, after all.

And damn it, the coffee was cold, too.