Temporary Sanity (4 page)

“Oh, sure, they might pick him up. They’ll have to now, I guess. But he’ll be out in no time. The cops are his friends.”

“The cops have nothing to say about it. A judge will decide.”

Maggie straightens up and dries her face with the heels of her palms, leaving small patches of water on her cheeks. “But he’ll get out on bail first. He’ll be out before any judge decides anything. And you know what will happen then?”

Maggie points backward toward her mother’s now incomprehensible words. “Do you?”

I shake my head. I want to hear it from her.

“He’ll kill her,” she spits. “He’ll just plain kill her.” She turns away and buries her face in her hands.

The waiting area suddenly falls silent. Even Sonia Baker is abruptly quiet.

I lower my voice to a whisper. “Maggie, did Howard Davis say that? Did he say he would kill your mother if she turned him in?”

She stares at me, her eyes red, her cheeks stained, and says nothing.

I leave my chair, cross the small space between us, and take hold of her bony shoulders. “Maggie, you have to tell me. Did Howard Davis threaten to kill your mother?”

She looks away and talks to the floor. “Yeah,” she whispers, “he says he’ll break her neck with his bare hands. Right after she watches him break mine.”

Cape Cod Hospital’s parking lot is emptying, the seven-to-three nurses and technicians just off their shifts. The snow is falling in sheets, the afternoon sky a nighttime gray. I pull my hood tight around my face and insert myself and my cell phone into a crevice where the granite wall takes a jog, in a futile attempt to escape the gale-force winds and the driven snow. I take one glove off just long enough to punch in my office number.

Sonia Baker needs more than a restraining order. She needs more help than the District Attorney’s office can give her. She needs a lawyer of her own-to walk her through the process of swearing out a criminal complaint; to convince the District Attorney’s office to charge Howard Davis not only with domestic violence but with threatening to commit double homicide as well; to persuade a Barnstable County judge to put one of his own parole officers behind bars-and keep him there.

I can’t do it; I’ve already taken too much time from Buck Hammond’s case. Harry can’t either, of course. He’s in court on a suppression hearing right now, and he’s got Steady Teddy’s pretrial conference at the end of the day. Sonia Baker needs help today, not tomorrow. The Kydd will have to do it. It’s a serious matter-he’s never handled one of these before-but I know the Kydd. He’s up to it.

He answers the phone on the first ring and starts talking as soon as he hears my voice. “Marty, where the hell have you been?”

This is not the greeting I expected. “Do you think I dropped them off and went shopping, Kydd? I’m at the hospital, for God’s sake.”

“I’ve been trying to reach you for half an hour. Your cell phone’s been shut down.”

“I know that, Kydd. What’s going on?”

“Where is she?”

“Where’s who?”

“Sonia Baker.”

A shiver runs down my spine, and it has nothing to do with the weather. The Kydd knows Sonia Baker’s name now. He didn’t when we left the office. “She’s on her way to X ray,” I tell him. “Why?”

He takes a deep breath before he answers. “Chatham police are headed your way.”

“Good. They can take her statement, then pick up the murderous boyfriend.”

“Marty…”

“The boyfriend is Howard Davis. You know, that giant parole officer. Can you believe that?”

“Marty…”

“Sonia Baker is lucky she’s alive. Howard Davis is big enough to break her in two. And he’s threatened to do just that-to her and the girl.”

“Marty!” The Kydd screams so loudly I almost drop the phone in the snow.

“What, Kydd? For God’s sake, what?”

He takes another deep breath. The wind whips the hood from my head and hurls heavy wet flakes into my eyes.

“Howard Davis is dead.”

My vision blurs and I press my free hand against the granite wall for balance.

“Dead?”

“Stabbed to death with a steak knife,” the Kydd says. “One from a set in Sonia Baker’s kitchen.”

Chatham’s Chief of Police pulls into the hospital parking lot just as I snap my cell phone shut. I race across the slippery lot to the Thunderbird, grab my camera and a fresh roll of film from the glove compartment, then head back to the ER. I hurry through the automatic doors again, maneuver around the crowded waiting area, and run down the long tube of fluorescent light. I can’t get there fast enough.

Sonia Baker is reciting her litany all over again, this time to the X-ray technician. Her voice has grown hoarse, though, and she’s lost some volume-a small improvement. I wish I had a muzzle.

I find Maggie in the waiting area first and pull her to her feet. “Forget everything I said about talking to the police,” I tell her. “Don’t answer any questions. Not for the cops. Not for anybody else. Do you understand me?”

Maggie nods her head yes, but her terrified eyes say no. Of course she doesn’t understand me.

“Maggie,” I tell her, “give them your name. If they ask who you are, answer. But that’s it. Nothing else. Tell them those are my instructions.”

She nods again, but says nothing.

I rush into the X-ray suite and lean over Sonia while the technician scolds me from his booth. “Hey,” he yells out, “what are you doing? You can’t be in here. Where the hell did you come from?”

I ignore him.

“Sonia.” My hand moves above her stitched lips to stop her recital. “Be quiet. I mean it. Don’t say another word.”

Sonia stares at me while I load my camera, her expression suggesting she’s never seen me before. “I provoked him,” she mutters, the word sounding through her damaged lips as if it has a
b
in the middle. “He wouldn’t have done it if I hadn’t proboked him.”

“Shut up,” I tell her. “For God’s sake, shut up.”

“Sonia Baker?”

The sound echoes through the hallway, a voice I know well. It’s Tommy Fitzpatrick, Chatham’s Chief of Police. The dead man was an insider; the Chief’s handling this one personally. Two uniformed Chatham detectives are with him, but only Tommy Fitzpatrick speaks. “Sonia Baker?” he repeats.

“This is Sonia Baker,” I tell him. “She doesn’t want to answer any questions. She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

The Chief gives me a friendly nod with his full head of strawberry blond hair. He’s more comfortable with my new job than I am. “Okay,” he says, “but she needs to listen.”

I know what’s coming. I wish I’d warned her.

“Sonia Baker,” the Chief recites, towering over her on the X-ray table, “you’re under arrest for the murder of one Howard Andrew Davis.”

Sonia gasps and raises her upper body from the table. She looks at me, shaking her head back and forth, disbelief creeping into her eyes. I nod at her. She pulls herself to a seated position, holding the hem of her hospital johnny with her good hand.

“You have the right to remain silent,” the Chief continues. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

Maggie Baker leans through the doorway, dwarfed behind the uniforms, her eyes as big as their badges. She stares first at her mother, then at the Chief’s back.

“You have the right to talk to a lawyer and have that lawyer present with you while you’re being questioned.”

I drop my hand to my side and wave Maggie out of the room. She hesitates for just an instant and then disappears before the Chief wraps it up.

“If you can’t afford to hire a lawyer, one will be appointed to represent you before you’re asked any questions.”

Sonia shakes her head at the Chief, her mouth open.

I hope no one noticed Maggie. We’ve had enough casualties for one day. No need to add her to the list.

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.

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.