A Deeper Darkness (8 page)

Chapter Fourteen

Washington, D.C.
Detective Darren Fletcher

After the grueling talk with Betty Croswell, Fletcher had Hart drop him at his house and crashed for a few hours. Without sleep, his mind wasn’t going to work properly, anyway. He woke from his nest on the couch with a sore neck, waded through a month’s worth of
Washington Post
s stacked on the floor as he stumbled toward the kitchen, passed by a year’s worth of books he hadn’t had time to read stacked on the tiny dining room table. The kitchen was still decked out in 1970s avocado appliances and speckled linoleum.

But it served its purpose: a semiclean space to house his coffeemaker.

He started the coffee brewing and found a clean cup.

He needed a maid.

And a decorator.

And a very large trash compactor.

Despite the fact his case had kept him out all night and half the morning, he liked that it now had a wee bit of intrigue. A husband off the rails, obviously lying to his family, made for interesting investigating. It was better than that carjacking he’d caught a few nights ago. That upset him. Guy just minding his own business jacked at a stoplight, then dumped on the street. A freaking war hero, at that. Managed to survive three tours and saved God knew how many lives before coming home and biting it because some junkie needed to drive out to Prince George’s County to get a fix.

The world was a seriously fucked-up place.

He opened the refrigerator, found the remnants of a Cinnabon he’d neglected to finish and tossed it in the microwave. He didn’t want to think about how old the pastry was. Sipped on the coffee, leaned against his counter. Massaged his stiff neck.

Military.

A war hero carjacked in Southeast. A PTSD mess shot in Georgetown.

Connected?

Naw.

The microwave dinged. He pulled the slick wax paper out, dumped the half-eaten and very hot bun onto a paper plate, and carefully gnawed.

Military.

Hmm.

He set the plate on the counter and went to his office. Flipped open the laptop. Searched the obituary for the carjacking victim, Edward Donovan.

The obit wasn’t vague, that was for sure. He’d served his last tour in Afghanistan in the 75th Ranger Regiment, Bravo Company.

Fletcher had managed to remember to charge his cell when he came in, zombified from his all-nighter. He didn’t use a landline anymore—what was the point? He speed-dialed Hart, who answered on the third ring.

“I’m sleeping. Go away.”

“What unit did Croswell serve in?”

“Fuck I know?”

“Humor me.”

Fletcher heard groaning, then sounds equating movement—sheets ripping back, feet on the floor, heel strikes on the teak hardwood Hart’s wife had insisted they pay extra for that their Labrador’s nails tore to shreds in a week. Fletcher hated to say
I told you so
to Hart—it wasn’t his fault. He’d had to capitulate to the wife. That’s what you did if you wanted to stay married during a renovation. In its favor, the teak had looked nice at the beginning.

Page flip. That would be Hart’s notebook.

“The 75th Ranger Regiment, Bravo Company. Served last in Afghanistan.”

“Fuck me.”

“Really, I’d rather stick it to Ginger. She’s got better equipment for that. Prettier than your nasty—”

“Shut it. The carjacking last week? Guy was in the same company.”

Hart was quiet for a second. “Uh-oh.”

“That’s what I thought. I’m going in. See if there’s a ballistics report on the Donovan case yet. I’ll flag Croswell’s to be compared.”

“Without a weapon…”

“You got a better idea?”

“No. You really think they’re connected?”

“Who knows? But I got three hours of sleep, sunshine. I’m raring to go.”

Hart groaned. “I’ll meet you there.”

Chapter Fifteen

Washington, D.C.
Dr. Samantha Owens

Sam scrubbed up after Donovan’s post, feeling vaguely uneasy. The rest of the morning had gone smoothly—no surprises. The gunshot wound to the right temporal lobe had crossed through his brain and lodged in his left ear canal, causing an unbelievable path of destruction along the way. His poor, beautiful, brilliant mind, shredded and destroyed. The bullet had certainly caused his death.

But the lungs were vexing her. How did he get fresh sand in his lungs? Eleanor hadn’t mentioned that he’d been back to Iraq. She supposed it made sense—after all, he did work for a defense contractor now. But the fact that he’d been within the week before he died nagged at her.

Nocek saw her out with a promise to get the mass spectrometry on the sand ASAP, and took her cell number in order to call with the results. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours to get their answer—Sam assumed the sand would be a biological and ecological match to Iraq or Afghanistan. Wherever he’d been in the past week. Wherever he’d snuck off to and lied to his family about.

She needed to find out where he’d gone. And why he’d want to hide that fact from everyone.

She slid behind the wheel of Eleanor’s Mercedes and turned over the engine. Let the cool air-conditioned air flow over her. She’d come damn close to losing it inside the morgue. Too close. She knew the minute she let things come out she’d be broken forever. If she could just hold it together a little longer. Just get through the next few days, then she could go back home, to her rote little life, and continue on.

If her existence could be called living.

A living hell, perhaps.

She thought of Susan Donovan then, and her heart broke. No one should have to know how it felt to lose the one you love. Sam wouldn’t wish that on her worst enemy.

Focus.

Donovan.

Sand.

Lungs.

Shot.

Why him? What was it about his car, at that particular moment, that had drawn in some crooked stranger? He’d obviously not gone along with the plan, fought back in some way. Which would be typical of Donovan. Though she’d seen no bruising, nothing that indicated a struggle. So it wasn’t a physical altercation. She imagined that the man had drawn a gun and asked for the car, Donovan had refused and the suspect had shot him.

That didn’t work. If they’d had words, the window would be down. So why was there glass all over the body?

Besides that, who had sent the note to Donovan in the first place?

Too many questions. She needed to speak to the detective in charge of the case. Eleanor had given her his name, as well: Darren Fletcher.

Sam pulled out his card and dialed the number.

After three rings, a rough, abrupt voice said, “Speak.”

“Fine, then. Woof.”

The man started to laugh, a genuine, infectious sound, and she smiled to herself. At least she still had a sense of humor. Not everything had been taken from her.

“Nicely done. Who is this?”

“Dr. Samantha Owens. I’m a forensic pathologist, and chief medical examiner for the state of Tennessee. I’ve just done a secondary autopsy on Edward Donovan. I’m told you’re the detective of record on the case.”

He paused for a moment, measuring his next words. She imagined him thinking why the hell he was being asked this obvious question, and if answering in the affirmative was going to get him into a world of hurt. She heard an exasperated sigh.

“That’s right. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to go over your case notes, if I may.”

“And why is that, Dr. Owens? Do you have something new for me?”

A stronger note of aggravation in his tone now. She had no time for posturing. She’d dealt with plenty of cops in her day, knew exactly what tone to take in return.

“He was still shot to death, if that’s what you’re wondering. Listen. Humor me. I flew all the way up here from Nashville as a favor to his mother.”

He heaved a sigh. “Fine. When do you want to meet?”

“Right now. If that’s possible, of course.”

“By all means. I have nothing better to do.”

She poured on a tiny bit of Southern. “I know you’re terribly busy. I won’t waste your time, I promise.”

“Fifteen minutes. M Street. You know where we are?”

“I’ll find it.”

He hung up.

Well.

Her next call was to Eleanor, who answered on the first half ring, completely breathless. Sam felt guilty. Eleanor had been waiting all morning for news. She should have called her first.

“Sam?”

“Hi, Eleanor. We’re finished.”

“Did you find anything?”

Sam imagined Eleanor sitting at the counter in her pristine, gaily decorated kitchen, an untouched teacup at her elbow, waiting, so alone, for Sam to call. She didn’t want that.

“I did. Why didn’t you tell me Eddie was overseas recently?”

Eleanor paused for a second, then said, “Because he wasn’t. He hasn’t been back for three years. He’d never go willingly, either. He despised that place. Why in the world would you think he’d been back over there?”

Sam was quiet for a moment. “Do you want the details?”

“Please, Sam. I didn’t ask you up here for tea.”

“He had fresh irritations in his lungs that mimics the scar tissue he built up from his tours.”

It was Eleanor’s turn to be quiet. “I’m confused. What does that mean?”

“There’s a common phenomenon that’s cropped up in soldiers who serve in the Arabian Peninsula. Because of all the sand, it’s embedding in their lungs. Add to that natural situation the fact that the air over there is tainted—they burn their trash, computers, plastic—those things put chemicals in the air that people breathe, and you have a mess. Soldiers are coming home with asthma, bronchial conditions, the works. Eventually there will be a high incidence of lung and skin cancers in those who served. But in the here and now, with this finding in Eddie’s autopsy… Forensically, it means that sometime in the past few days before his death, he breathed in sand. Tests are being run to determine where the sand came from. As far as the investigation into why he died, I have no idea. Not yet. But something isn’t right.”

She heard the tone in her voice, grimly determined. She was on the hook now. She couldn’t walk away and let it rest. She was going to figure out who killed Eddie, and why. Eleanor must have heard it, too, because she began to cry.

“Oh, thank God, Sam. I knew there was something more to this.”

“It’s too early to know anything for sure, Eleanor. Once we find where the sand is indigenous to, we’ll know much more. I’m heading over to meet with the detective on Eddie’s case right now.”

“You’ll stay in touch?” Eleanor sounded old and weak. A lioness who’s been guarding the den for too long without feeding herself, exhausted and famished.

“Of course. Why don’t you lie down for a bit? Doctor’s orders. I’ll call Susan and let her know.”

“Sam, why don’t you let me.”

Sam understood the question immediately. Susan Donovan wouldn’t want to hear that Sam had been right.

“Of course. But then, a nap. Promise?”

She got off the phone and put the car into gear. Fletcher’s office wasn’t too far away. She wondered how much information he’d been holding back from the family. And what surprises that information held.

Chapter Sixteen

Washington, D.C.
Detective Darren Fletcher

Fletcher accepted a cup of coffee from Hart, who looked like a rattlesnake woken from a too-short bath in the sun.

“They found Edward Donovan’s car.”

Fletcher stopped the cup on its way to his mouth. “Donovan’s car?”

“Yeah,” Hart said. “Up by Branch Avenue in PG County, near the Safeway in Clinton. Someone torched it.”

“Really?” Fletcher allowed himself a contemplative sip of coffee then. Only one reason a suspect torches a car—they think they can erase evidence. Often times, they were right.

“They found a casing, too. Under the front seat—.9 mil.”

“But no gun?”

“No gun.”

“Donovan was shot with a .9 mil.”

“Yep.”

“Curiouser and curiouser.”

His phone buzzed. He hit the speaker button.

“Speak,” he said, briefly amused as he remembered the response from that Southern belle, Dr. Owens. No one had ever barked before.

“Fletch. Chick here to see ya.”

“Dr. Owens,” he corrected. “Send her up.”

He mashed the button to turn the speaker off.

“Who’s Dr. Owens?” Hart asked.

“M.E. from Tennessee.”

“Huh?”

“The carjacking’s mother, remember her? Battle-axe called in a second M.E. to do another post.”

“Why? She doesn’t trust us?”

“Apparently not. Who knows, though. Maybe she was on to something. You know this is starting to look like too much of a coincidence.”

There was a soft knock on the door, and he broke off. Standing in the doorway was a most attractive woman. Willowy, with shoulder-length brown hair, light brown eyes the color of aged scotch from a sherry barrel, a perfect mouth. Jesus, she was inspiring him to poetics and she hadn’t even spoken yet. He felt a ridiculous pull in his groin. She was just his type.

The mouth smiled, pleasant and polite, but it didn’t reach her eyes. She looked at once like a child and a woman, all rolled up into a basket of certainty laced with doubt. Pain. That was pain he saw there. Of course. He should have recognized it immediately. He’d seen enough to last a lifetime.

He was immediately intrigued. Who, or what, had damaged this stunning woman?

“I’m Dr. Owens. You’ll be Detective Fletcher?”

Fletcher nodded once and gestured for her to come in. Hart almost knocked his chair over getting to his feet. He was uncharacteristically tongue-tied. Fletcher threw him a lifeline.

“This is Lonnie Hart, my partner.”

“Good’ta meet’cha,” Hart finally blurted out. Fletcher bit his lip. Hart was a sucker for a Southern accent.

“Thank you,” she said, and sat in the chair across from Fletcher’s desk. “I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice.”

Her voice was soft, cultured, with hints of bougainvillea and sweet tea. Fletcher had been to Nashville before, a long weekend with his son. He’d been struck by how cosmopolitan the city was, while at the same time so very Southern. He’d liked the way they talked, so open and friendly, with those tiny inflections and knowing smiles that screamed:
You’re a Yankee, brother, and don’t you forget it.

“Not a problem. Did you find anything interesting on your secondary post?”

“Actually, yes. Sand in the victim’s lungs. Fresh sand.”

Fletcher pulled open the file on Edward Donovan, flipped to the autopsy report. “Says here that’s most likely attributable to the time he served overseas. He was stationed in Iraq for two tours and Afghanistan for one. Stands to reason.”

“That there would be latent sand embedded in his lungs, yes. There was plenty of scar tissue from the old irritant. But this is recent. Like in the past few days. His mother said he hadn’t been overseas. I’m having it tested, we should know more this afternoon. Did anything in your investigation indicate that he’d been lying to everyone about his whereabouts?”

Fletcher felt that familiar zing. Croswell had lied to his family, too.

“No. This looked cut and dried. I’m still not convinced it’s anything other than bad timing, bad luck.”

“Did ballistics come back on the bullet recovered from the scene?”

Fletcher caught Hart’s eye, saw the amusement in them. He was enjoying this, damn him.

“No,” Fletcher said slowly. “We’re expecting the report back any time now. Dr. Owens, can I ask? What’s your tie to Edward Donovan? Why did his mother call you?”

She got a faraway look on her face, brief, fleeting, then snapped back. “Donovan and I went to med school together. Georgetown. We’ve known each other for a long time. Eleanor just wanted to do right by him.”

Fletcher wondered if that was the real reason she was here, but it was plausible enough.

“So other than the sand, did you find out anything else that might help?”

She shook her head. He liked the way her hair swirled around her neck when she did it. She was a deceptive package. On the surface, so strong, smart, capable. But broken inside. Fragile. She needed protecting. And boy, how he’d be happy to be of service.

Hart coughed, and Fletcher realized he was staring. He closed the file.

“Thank you for coming by, Dr. Owens. If we find anything, we’ll be sure to let you know.”

“That’s it?” Her eyebrows arched. “Seriously?”

“What would you like me to say? This is good information, and we’ll hold it in consideration as all of the facts come in.”

She shook her head again, her eyes becoming frank and assessing. “Don’t even think about blowing me off. Something isn’t right here, and we both know it. What aren’t you telling me?”

Pretty, and perceptive, too. A bad combination.

Hart spoke up, and Fletcher strongly considered strangling him.

“Another soldier from Donovan’s unit was murdered. Yesterday.”

The M.E. shut her mouth tightly, her lips compressing into a thin line. Fletcher could swear he felt shadows swirl around the room, darkening the walls with foreboding.

He needed to nip this in the bud, and quick.

“We have nothing to prove that these two cases are related.”

Owens laughed, humorless and sharp. “Except your gut, telling you there’s no such thing as coincidence. Did you run it through ViCAP yet? There could be related cases in other states. Have you talked to Donovan’s commanding officer and gotten a list of everyone in his unit? Better yet, they keep those records at Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri—you can make a request for the files right away. You have to move fast, Detective. Tick-tock. Time’s a-wastin’.”

“Jesus, you sound like a cop.”

“I’m a medical examiner in a city that has over a hundred murders a year. I have been for a very long time. And my best friend has spent most of her career in Homicide. We’ve seen a lot. She’s the one who taught me coincidence doesn’t exist. Not when people are dying all around you. Something else is going on here. I don’t know what, but I’d like to help you get to the bottom of it.”

“She’s right, Fletch.”

Hart. Traitor to the cause. Fletcher gave him the evil eye for a moment before returning his gaze to the pathologist. He checked his libido and really looked this time. Used his gift, his ability to read people. She let herself be read, dropped the walls. She was right. And she knew he knew it.

Someone whistled, and Fletcher dragged his eyes away. His admin, Danny Rama, stood in the door.

“Yo, Danny. What’s up?”

“Lots of good news. Ballistics on the Donovan and Croswell murders you asked for. You’re gonna want to see this.”

Fletched snapped his fingers, and Danny brought him the file. He ignored both Owens and Hart, opened the heavy manila folder.

Son of a bitch.

“What is it?” Hart asked. Owens just sat, watching them, beatific and serene, as if she already knew what the report said.

“According to the wife, Donovan carried a 9 mm Beretta in the car, right?”

“Right,” Hart answered.

“Well, ballistics confirm that Donovan and Croswell were both shot with a 9 mm Beretta. And according to this, the bullets in both cases came from the same gun. There was a match in IBIS. It’s registered to Edward Donovan. Wait a second.” He looked at his admin. “When did they find the gun?”

Rama grimaced. “Sorry, boss. This morning. In the Dumpster on N Street, by that new construction.”

“Did anyone think to call me?” Fletcher grumbled.

“They wanted to run the tests first.”

The M.E. had stopped moving, was staring at him with her big sherry eyes. “Donovan was killed with his own gun? Then whoever killed him took out Croswell, too?”

Fletcher nodded. “Most likely scenario.”

Dr. Owens looked contemplative for a moment. She reached into her purse, pulled out a small plastic bag and handed it to Fletcher.

“You need to see this,” she said. “Eddie Donovan gave this to his mother on Sunday for safekeeping.”

Fletcher read the words on the tattered page.

DO THE RIGHT THING

“What is this? And why didn’t she give it to us immediately?”

“It slipped her mind. She’s not as young as she once was. And obviously it’s a threat of some kind. I’d assume whoever killed Donovan didn’t feel like he’d lived up to the bargain. Was a note sent to Croswell?”

“Not that I know of. Lonnie, would you be so kind as to ring Mrs. Croswell, and see if she’s seen anything like this?”

“Sure.” Hart stood, and nodded at their interloper. “Dr. Owens.”

“Detective Hart,” she replied.

Fletcher waited for Hart to leave, then turned to the M.E. angrily. “What else have you left out?”

“Nothing. Eleanor truly had forgotten the note. She didn’t hold it back from you on purpose. If anything, she needed it to make me believe Donovan’s shooting wasn’t a random carjacking. But it’s not the end of the world. If anything, it should give you more to go on. A handwritten note is better than nothing, right?”

Fletcher wanted to snap at the woman, but refrained. She was right, it was a clue. He couldn’t help but feel embarrassed that she’d brought it to him, instead of the victim’s mother. That meant he wasn’t trusted, and if the victim’s family didn’t trust him, regardless of whether they should or not, his job was ten times harder. That was why the old biddy had asked Dr. Owens to come to town. She didn’t believe in Fletcher.

Hart came back in the room. “Mrs. Croswell is looking through her husband’s things. She thinks she remembers seeing something like that.”

Fletcher nodded and swallowed his burning pride.

“I’d appreciate your help with this, Dr. Owens.”

You wanted it? You got it, sister.