Eight in the Box (22 page)

CHAPTER 70

“C
onnie, where’s Campbell?” Detective Taylor asked as he came
running into the office. The detective probably hadn’t exercised in a while, his face pale and damp with the exertion.

“I don’t know,” Connie said. “I think he’s in Liz’s office. What’s going on? Did you get something on Nick?” It wasn’t even noon yet. Taylor had been down in the clerk’s office for no more than two hours. It certainly looked like he’d hit on something.

“I think I might have a lead on the Blood Bath Killer,” Taylor said.

“What kind of a lead?” Connie asked as he followed Taylor into Liz’s office.

“We’d better give Sergeant Mooney a call,” Taylor said to Campbell.

Campbell pushed away a stack of files and stood, stretching as though he had been in one position too long.

“I was talking to one of the women in the clerk’s office. She asked if we were going to solve Susan McCarthy’s murder. I told her it was still under investigation. Then she tells me that McCarthy seemed like such a nice woman when she sat on a jury last winter. She recognized her picture in the papers and on television. Felt horrible about what had happened to her. Susan McCarthy comes to this courthouse for jury duty a few months before she gets killed. Now we have a missing prosecutor from the same courthouse. Maybe it’s a coincidence, but it’s worth looking into. This might be the break Mooney’s been waiting for.”

It appeared that Campbell didn’t hear what Detective Taylor had just told him. He stood silently for a few seconds before looking from Liz to Connie. “Not a word about this to anyone. Not to other prosecutors, judges, anyone. We’ll talk with the DA himself and the police commissioner. We’re going to get Mooney and Alves over here ASAP.”

Liz drew in a sharp breath of air. “Let us know if you need anything.”

CHAPTER 71

R
ichter pushed the 350 pounds off his chest as if he were doing a
push-up. It had been a hectic day, with Alves and Mooney and what seemed like half the police department swarming in on the courthouse by early afternoon. Judge Davis had closed the courthouse early but had all of his staff stay to be interviewed by the detectives. Alves and Mooney told Liz she could let her people go home as long as they were back first thing in the morning to be interviewed. Richter and the other guys went to relieve some stress with an afternoon workout.

One thing Angel Alves mentioned was that the police were having trouble getting the archived juror questionnaires. The Office of the Jury Commissioner had claimed that the forms were confidential records that couldn’t be divulged, even for a homicide investigation. There had been a lot of legal wrangling, and the DA’s chief legal counsel was going before a superior court judge in the morning to get a court order for the records. Richter enjoyed watching everyone scramble around.

Richter did nine more repetitions before he finally rested the steel bar back on the arms of the weight bench. While he was lifting the weights, he was in a zone, another world. He couldn’t hear the others urging him on, or the pop music playing in the background, or the chatter of the people who came to the gym to socialize instead of lift weights.

Everything was working out well. In the locker room after their workout, Richter would take his time getting undressed and let the other two head for the showers first. Then he would be one step closer to deliverance.

CHAPTER 72

S
till pumped from his workout, Richter followed Linda Bagwell as
she left her office at Rosenthal & Fitch in the financial district. He kept his distance as she made her way down Federal Street and up Summer and then through the Boston Common and the Public Garden, heading toward her apartment on Marlborough Street. It was almost seven o’clock on a beautiful June evening, the first day of summer. A perfect night for a walk in the city. Richter pictured Linda shutting off her cell phone and relaxing on the couch with a book after a quiet dinner alone in her apartment.

As she approached the statue of George Washington on horseback, she suddenly stopped. Had she seen him? Richter turned toward a bed of deep purple pansies, kneeling as if admiring them. He watched her from the corner of his eye. She seemed to be overcome by the history that surrounded her as she gazed at Washington’s statue at the west entrance of the Boston Public Garden, his stoic visage facing the statue of Alexander Hamilton less than a block away on Commonwealth Avenue. Comm Ave., a broad boulevard divided by a grassy mall and lined with stately brick town houses, was a taste of Paris in the heart of Boston, and any tourist who didn’t realize that Commonwealth Avenue and the Public Garden were built on landfill in the nineteenth century might actually picture Washington and Hamilton meeting in that very spot, planning the American Revolution and the new government of the United States.

Richter touched one of the purple-and-yellow flowers that his grandmother said cheered her up. Each one was like a happy little face, she always said.

“Why’s Gramma in bed crying?” the child asked. “Is she okay?”

The old man sat quietly in his rocker on the back porch loading his rifle. “She’s fine, boy. Sometimes women just don’t understand men’s work.”

“I understand, Grampa.”

“Sure you do,” the old man nodded. “How old are you now?”

“Seven,” the child said.

“You want to help me do some men’s work?”

“Can I, Grampa, can I?”

“You go find old Butchy and meet me out by the barn. We’ll take him out so he can exercise his tired old legs.”

The child was excited. He ran and found his grandparents’ old mutt sleeping on the rug by the mudroom. “C’mon, Butchy,” he said, shaking the dog. “We’re gonna go play in the woods.” The dog struggled to get his footing, before slowly standing up. “Let’s go,” the child called as he led the way out onto the back porch.

The child ran to catch up with the old man who had already made it halfway down toward the brook. Butchy was straggling behind, going at his own pace, stopping to sniff at old rabbit and woodchuck holes along the way. “What kind of manly stuff are we going to do, Grampa?” the child asked. “Are we gonna ride the tractor or feed the animals? Maybe we can milk the cows.”

“Not everything is fun like that. Sometimes men have to do ugly work. Are you ready to do ugly work? Are you ready to show me you’re a man?”

The child was frightened by the way his grandfather was talking, but he didn’t want to show his fear. He wanted to make his grandfather proud. “I’m ready,” he said.

“Good,” the old man said as they crossed over the brook. “You like Butchy?”

“I love Butchy, Grampa.”

“Well, old Butchy’s not the same dog he used to be. He was a great hunting dog, but now all he does is sleep and soil the rugs. We can’t have that in the house. It’s filthy.”

The boy felt a coldness creep over him despite the warmth of the day. They were at the edge of the woods now and the old man took the rifle off his shoulder.

“I want you to show me how much of a man you are,” the old man said, handing the rifle to the boy. “Butchy’s not happy. He doesn’t want to live like this. If you really love him, you’ll take this gun and put him to rest.”

The child pushed the rifle away. “I can’t hurt him. I love him, Grampa.”

“That’s what I thought,” the old man shook his head sadly. “You’re no man. You’re still that little boy who’s afraid of the dark.” The old man pointed the rifle at the dog. The dog looked in their direction, his eyes milky and unfocused.

“Don’t do it, Grampa!” the boy yelled. He lunged for the gun, taking hold of the barrel and pulling it down as a round fired into the ground. The old dog didn’t react to the crack.

“Don’t you cry like a little girl,” the old man said as he swung and hit the child firmly with the back of his hand. The child let go of the barrel as he fell to the ground. “You’d better start acting like a man or you’re not going to last very long on this farm. If you don’t care enough about old Butchy to put him down, I guess I’ll have to do it.”

The child lay on the ground sobbing as the old man raised the rifle and aimed it at Butchy’s head.

The child covered his eyes and heard a loud pop. It seemed much louder than the first shot. And then silence.

Richter looked down. In the cradle of his hands was the small face of a pansy, snapped from its stalk. As if it were scorching the palms of his hands, he tossed it away and stood up.

Linda Bagwell hadn’t seen him. Inhaling and looking around with great satisfaction, she continued her leisurely stroll up Comm Ave. She turned right onto Berkeley and then left on Marlborough.

Richter timed it so he caught up to her just as she reached her apartment building. He followed her up the granite stairs to the main entrance of the town house, which, like almost every other grand old home in Boston, had been converted into apartments or condominiums. She must have heard his footsteps, he must have startled her, because she spun around to see who was behind her.

“Oh my God, you scared me,” she said, seeming to recognize him. She smiled. “You’re the man from the district attorney’s office. I sat on your jury last week. What brings you to the Back Bay? Do you live around here?” she asked with a smile. Richter could tell she was attracted to him as she tried to turn on her charm.

“I have a friend who lives on the third floor,” he said. “I’m supposed to meet him for drinks. Do you live here?” Richter knew that she lived there, in the rear apartment on the first floor.

“I live here for now,” she said as she unlocked the door, letting Richter into the main lobby. “Until I save enough to buy a condo on Beacon Hill.”

He needed to take care of Linda Bagwell before Mooney and Alves got the archived juror questionnaires. Once they had those forms they’d learn that all the other victims had served their jury duty at South Bay. Then they’d be contacting every juror who had served in that court to let them know about the potential danger. Linda Bagwell might not have been as trusting of Richter if she’d received a call like that from the police.

As they entered the building Richter scanned the lobby to make sure they were alone. They walked toward the stairs, which were adjacent to her apartment door. As she reached to insert her key in the lock, Richter heard a loud mechanical noise and a bell at the end of the hall. It was an old service elevator. Apparently it was still functioning. Someone was coming. He had to act fast.

“It was nice to see you again, Miss…?”

“Bagwell. Linda Bagwell. The pleasure was mine,” she said as she opened her apartment door. “Maybe we’ll see each other again sometime.”

“Who knows?” he said. “With a little luck, maybe we’ll be seeing a whole lot of each other.”

Richter lunged toward her and grabbed her from behind. He slipped his left arm around hers and pulled it back into a chicken wing. At the same time he reached his right hand under her chin, pulling back and to the right so she couldn’t make a sound. The Chin and Chicken was one of his favorite wrestling holds. Linda Bagwell was helpless. He lifted her into her apartment and kicked the door closed behind them. She’d done such a good job as a juror in his last trial that he couldn’t let her get away. And he could set up her apartment as the crime scene that would finally point Mooney and Alves in the
right
direction.

CHAPTER 73

A
lves stepped out of Linda Bagwell’s apartment, nearly bumping
into Mooney.

“It’s definitely the Blood Bath Killer,” Alves said

“Now I’ve got you calling him by that fucking name.”

“Sorry, Sarge, how’s this?” Alves said. “This case may be related to the open homicides we have where victims had their blood drained out of their bodies and into their bathtubs.”

“Don’t be a fresh prick. I’m not in the mood.” Mooney was scanning the small studio apartment, focusing on the bed, a foldout couch from some tony furniture store. Alves had already determined that there was potential evidence from that source. “Don’t push me, Angel. Not today.”

“Sorry, Sarge.” Alves realized that he’d crossed the line.

“What’s her name?” Mooney asked.

“Linda Bagwell. Didn’t show up for work this morning. Her best friend was worried because Bagwell always gets in early. She tried calling, but no one answered. After a couple of tries she called nine-one-one. Met the uniforms here with the spare key that Bagwell kept in her office for emergencies. The friend is outside with the paramedics in the ambulance. She freaked out after seeing the blood in the tub.”

“No phone call from the killer?” Mooney asked.

“Not this time, Sarge. Maybe something spooked him and he had to get out quick.”

“Maybe,” Mooney muttered to himself, a sign he was deep in thought. “Have you talked with the friend yet?” Mooney asked.

“No, I told one of the patrolmen to bring her back in when she settles down.”

“What do we have besides the blood in the tub?” Mooney asked.

“Her bedsheets look like a bloody shroud, like the towels on the bathroom floors at the other scenes. The killer must have moved her around on the bed. Maybe he sexually assaulted her there. It’s hard to tell, but he did something with her. I’ve got the crime lab checking for semen, hair and fibers on the sheets.”

“Did they find anything yet?”

“They’ve got some possible hairs and some sort of stain aside from the blood on the sheets. Looks like our guy may have been too tempted by this one.”

“There goes your FBI profiler’s theory that he’s not a sexual predator.”

“Sarge,” one of the patrolmen interrupted them, “I may have found something out back. I was closing off the alley when I looked down the sewer grate back there. I saw a condom on top of the leaves. It seems pretty clean. I don’t think it’s been down there very long.”

“If you think it’s evidence, go back there and watch it before it washes away.”

Alves remembered a story Mooney had told him about two detectives who were out with their wives when they got robbed at gunpoint and a round was discharged. When the district sergeant showed up, all three got into an argument over who should be in charge of the scene. Meanwhile, a city street sweeper came by and swept up the shell casing.

“Angel,” Mooney said, turning back to Alves, “have the techs go out there and collect the rubber when they’re done in here. I’m going to go talk with the friend.”

Alves followed Mooney as he walked back out to the apartment threshold and inspected the door and its frame.

“I checked out the door and windows,” Alves said. “There’s no damage anywhere. She must have let him in.”

An officer led a distraught young woman toward them. She looked to be in her mid-thirties. She was probably attractive, but now her dark mascara was running down her face.

“Ms. Shea. I’m Detective Alves and this is Sergeant Mooney.”

“Hello, ma’am, sorry to meet you under these circumstances,” Mooney said as he stuck his hand out. “You work with Ms. Bagwell?”

She nodded, unable to talk.

“Ms. Shea, I’m sorry, but I do have to ask you some questions,” he said. “When was the last time you saw her?”

The young woman hesitated for a moment and then answered. “Last night. Around seven o’clock. We walked out of work together and said good night.” Her shoulders shuddered. “We said we’d see each other in the morning.”

“What time does she usually get to work?”

“We’ve been coming in at seven because we’ve got a deadline coming up on a project. We were behind because Linda had jury duty last week. She tried to tell the judge about our time constraints, but he made her sit on the jury anyway.”

“Ms. Shea,” Mooney said. Alves could see that this last bit of information had energized Mooney. “Do you know where she had jury duty?”

“I think it was that courthouse in Dudley Square.”

“Thanks for your help, Ms. Shea,” Mooney said. “Why don’t you go with this officer?” Mooney indicated the same young patrolman who had ushered her in. “He’ll take you back to work. We’ll contact you if we have any more questions.”

Mooney directed Alves to step back into the apartment. “Angel, I want you to finish processing the scene.”

“Where are you going, Sarge?”

“I’d like to go to the jury commissioner’s office and kill someone up there. We’ve got another dead woman because of those fuckin’ assholes.”

“There’s plenty of time for that later, Sarge.”

“And don’t think I won’t do it.” Mooney paused, rubbing his temples. “I’m going over to South Bay to start looking through the jury forms. Meet me there as soon as you’re done. If we confirm that each of our vics served on juries there, no one is leaving that courthouse today until we’ve taken a run at them. I want to know who would’ve had contact with them while they were there.” Mooney dialed a number on his cell phone as he moved toward the door. “I’ve got to make some calls. I want every detective in the city working overtime to reach out to anyone who did their civic duty at South Bay over the past year. I want to make sure they’re safe. Linda Bagwell is the last person this bastard’s going to kill.”