Out Cold (11 page)

I put Evie's third martini on the table. She picked it up, took a sip, then stood up. “I want to see her.”

“Dana?”

“Yes. Her body.”

“Why?”

“To be sure. Do you understand?”

I nodded. “I guess I do. I'll see if I can arrange it.”

She put her hand on my shoulder and peered into my eyes. “My sweet man,” she murmured. She went up on tiptoes, stuck out her tongue, and gave the side of my face a long wet lick.

Then she turned and headed for the stairs.

Evie was a little drunk. She was entitled.

I went into my office, found Saundra Mendoza's cell-phone number, and tried it.

Her voice mail answered, asked me to leave a message.

“It's Brady Coyne,” I said after the beep. “I think I have an ID on our dead girl.”

I went back to the kitchen, got the risotto started, poured myself another martini, and sliced up some portabella mushrooms for the salad.

It took Saundra Mendoza about ten minutes to get back to me. “What've you got?” she said when I answered.

“Her name was Dana Wetherbee. She'd be about sixteen now. Father's name Ben. Benjamin, I guess. Mother, name of Verna, now deceased, was a patient at Emerson Hospital in Concord about three years ago.”

“You got an address for me?”

“No,” I said, “but the hospital records should help you.”

“Yeah,” she said, “thanks. Never would've thought of that.”

I didn't say anything.

“What else've you got for me, Mr. Coyne?”

“That's it,” I said. “Evie identified her from the photo. Evie knew her when she worked at Emerson.”

“Evie being your girlfriend.”

“She's way more than a girlfriend.”

“She lives with you.”

“Right.”

“So the girl…”

“We assume Dana came here that night looking for Evie. She was away at a conference in Scottsdale, Arizona.”

“And Evie's blaming herself, I bet.”

“We're both blaming ourselves.”

“She okay?”

“I made martinis.”

“Good idea,” said Mendoza. “How definite is she?”

“Quite definite.” I hesitated. “She wants to see the body.”

There was a pause. Then Saundra said, “Sure. Good idea. I can arrange that. How's tomorrow morning, say ten?”

“I'll check with Evie,” I said, “but if I don't get back to you, let's call it a date.”

“At the Medical Examiner's office. Know where it is?”

“Albany Street,” I said.

“I'll meet you there at ten.”

“Okay,” I said. “So have you learned anything?”

“Not a thing, Mr. Coyne. I'm doing my best. Don't forget, this isn't a homicide. It's an unidentified body.”

“A young girl's unidentified body,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “You don't need to keep reminding me.”

“Any news on Sunshine?”

“No,” she said. “Not a thing. Gotta run. Thanks for calling. See you tomorrow.” And she disconnected.

Monday morning was sunny and, for the first time in the new year, there was a hint of January thaw in the air. When we left for our appointment at the Medical Examiner's office, we let Henry stay outside in our walled-in backyard. Henry always wanted to be outdoors. In the winter, he loved to lie on the back stoop where the morning sun warmed the wood.

Evie and I debated walking over to Albany Street, but in the end we took my car. She'd been away from her desk for a week and was feeling anxious about all the paperwork and phone messages she'd find waiting for her.

OCME—the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner—is an unimposing three-story brick building on Albany Street, surrounded by the more imposing campuses of Boston City Hospital, the Boston University Medical Center, and the B. U. schools of Medicine, Dentistry, and Public Health. OCME is where victims of homicide and unattended and suspicious deaths go to be autopsied.

We got there a little before ten. When we walked into the lobby, we spotted Detective Saundra Mendoza leaning against the wall on the other side of the room talking on her cell phone.

When she saw us, she waved us over. By the time we got there, she was stuffing the phone into her pocket.

I introduced her to Evie.

She shook Evie's hand and said, “I really appreciate this. I know it's hard.”

“I want to be sure,” said Evie.

Mendoza nodded. “They're waiting for us. This way.”

We followed her down a corridor and then into a small room. The back wall of the room was dominated by a big window with a white curtain drawn over it from the other side. Four wooden chairs were lined up facing the window.

Mendoza gestured at the chairs. Evie and I sat. Mendoza remained standing behind us. “Ready?” she said.

Evie groped for my hand and gripped it hard. “I'm ready,” she said.

Mendoza, apparently speaking into a microphone, said, “Okay. We're all set here.”

A moment later the curtain slid away from the window. A gurney had been wheeled up to the other side of the glass. A pale blue body bag lay on it. A young Asian man in a green lab coat stood there looking solemn. He peered at us through the window for a moment, then partially unzipped the bag and pulled it open, revealing the girl's face and bare shoulders.

She looked smaller and paler and more lifeless than I remembered from when I'd last seen her lying on my living room sofa. More lifeless, even, than she looked in the photo I'd been carrying around. She was absolutely still.

I noticed that they hadn't removed the jade stud from her nose.

Evie's hand was squeezing mine so hard it hurt. “It's Dana,” she said.

“You're positive, Ms. Banyon?” said Saundra Mendoza.

“Yes,” said Evie. “I'm sure.” She let go of my hand and stood up. “I want to leave now.”

Back out in the lobby, Mendoza touched Evie's arm and said, “Thank you. It was a big help.”

“Now what happens?”

“I'll pass the information along to the Medical Examiner. What happens is up to him.”

“That's it?” said Evie.

Mendoza nodded. “How it works.”

We got into my car and headed over to Evie's office at Beth Israel Hospital. She sat there huddled against the door, staring out at the window. She told me she didn't want to talk about it, and I didn't argue with her. I could only imagine what she was feeling.

 

After I dropped Evie off, I swung around to our house on Mt. Vernon Street to let Henry in. It was a warm, almost springlike day, but you could never be sure what the New England weather would decide to do, and as much as he'd like it, I didn't want him staying outside all day.

I left the car parked on the street, went in the front door, checked the kitchen phone for messages, then opened the back door. Henry was curled on the deck. When he saw me, he pushed himself to his feet, yawned, and came sauntering inside.

He sat and looked at me expectantly. I always gave him a miniature Milk-Bone when he came inside, to reinforce his good behavior. That's when I noticed that something had gotten stuck under his collar.

It was a plastic sandwich bag. When I tried to take it off, I saw that it had been stapled around his collar. I yanked it off. There was something in the bag. Through the transparent plastic, I saw that it was a photo.

It was the morgue photo of Dana Wetherbee.

On the back, in red ink and in my handwriting, were my name and phone numbers.

I had to think for a minute. I always used a pen with black ink. This was red. Then I remembered. I'd borrowed a red pen from Sunshine that night at Skeeter's.

This was the photo that I'd given to Sunshine. The photo that disappeared the night she was murdered. The photo that her killer had taken from her.

And now it was stapled onto Henry's collar. This was a message, and neither a subtle nor a friendly one. A message to me from whoever had ripped Sunshine's throat open.

His message was: “I killed Sunshine because I don't want you snooping around trying to figure out what happened to Dana Wetherbee.”

His other plain message was: “I could have killed your dog. I can kill anybody. I can kill you.”

My legs suddenly felt weak, and my hands, I noticed, were trembling.

Anger. Well, okay. A little fear, too.

I sat on one of the kitchen chairs. My pulse was pounding behind my eyes. I wasn't thinking about me. I was thinking about Evie. And Henry.

Bastard!

Henry came over, put his chin on my leg, and rolled up his eyes, looking into mine, checking to see how I was feeling.

I patted his head and told him not to worry about me.

I took a few deep breaths, then went to the phone and called Saundra Mendoza.

When she answered, I said, “I just got a message from Maureen Quinlan's murderer.”

“What did you say?”

I repeated what I'd said.

“Explain,” she said.

I explained.

Mendoza was quiet for a minute. Then she said, “Okay, good. This is good.”

“Good? This murderer comes into my backyard and sticks a message on my dog's collar, and you're saying this is good? You'll have to excuse me if I don't see it the same way.”

“It's a stupid, desperate thing to do,” she said. “He's panicking. Something you've done has scared him. He'll do something else stupid and we'll nail him. So, yeah. It's good.”

“Jesus. He could've killed Henry.”

“Point is, he didn't. He could have and he didn't. He wants you to back off. Which, as a matter of fact, is a good idea. It's what I want, too. You back off. Okay?”

“This sonofabitch comes into my backyard, lays his hands on my dog, and you expect me to back off?”

Saundra Mendoza sighed. “Last thing I want is your girlfriend or your dog finding you bleeding in the snow in your backyard, Mr. Coyne.”

“Well, me neither.”

“Or you finding one of them.”

“Jesus, Saundra.”

“So just leave the detecting up to us detectives from now on, okay? Do you hear me?”

“I hear you,” I said. “So do you want this photo?”

“Did you take it out of the plastic bag?”

“No.”

“Yeah. Maybe we can lift some prints off it. Where are you now?”

“In my kitchen.”

“On a cordless phone?”

“Yes.”

“Take me out back and tell me if you see any boot prints in the snow.”

I went out onto the deck. “It's pretty much trampled down out here,” I told her. “Between Henry and me. Plus the snow settled a lot under the sun today. If this guy came into the yard, there aren't any good prints that I can see.”

“How could he not have come into your yard?”

“He might've just opened the gate and given Henry a whistle. The lock's broken. I've been meaning to get it fixed. If he had a Milk-Bone, called him a nice pooch, my stupid, trusting dog would've gone right to him with his tail wagging.”

“If we were CSI,” said Mendoza, “we'd probably send a team over anyway. But we're not, so we won't. You going to be at your office this afternoon?”

“Yes. I'm late already.”

“Bring that photo with you. I don't have to tell you not to touch it. Leave it right there in its baggie.”

“Okay.” I hesitated. “Will you do me a favor?”

“Maybe. What?”

“If you talk to Evie, don't mention this. It would freak her out.”

“It should freak you out,” she said.

“It does, believe me. Just don't tell her, okay?”

“Fair enough. As long as you promise to behave yourself.”

I crossed my fingers. “I promise.”

“You understand what this means, don't you, Mr. Coyne?”

“What?”

“Now we've got a definite connection between Maureen Quinlan's murder and what happened to Dana Wetherbee. It's no coincidence that Sunshine was killed. She was killed because of what happened to Dana.”

“I do understand that,” I said. “I've assumed it all along.”

“Well,” said Mendoza, “me, too. But now we know.”

After I hung up with Mendoza, I patted Henry some more and told him that I was sorry, but he wouldn't be spending any unattended time in the backyard until further notice.

I had a padlock in my desk drawer. I took it out back and locked the gate in the wall that opened into the back alley. Obviously, if anybody really wanted to get into our yard, he could climb over the wall. But there was no sense in making it easy for him.

Back inside, I put the plastic baggie containing Sunshine's copy of Dana Wetherbee's morgue photo into my briefcase.

Then I said good-bye to Henry, told him I wish he'd bite strangers instead of sniffing their crotches, and went to work.

 

Outside my office window, the streetlights had come on and the late-afternoon pedestrians were swarming over the Copley Square sidewalks. I'd managed to make some phone calls and clean up some paperwork, but the image of some killer patting Henry and stapling that plastic bag onto his collar was never far from my mind.

I was thinking about heading home to hug my dog and kiss my girlfriend, or kiss my dog and hug my girlfriend, when Julie tapped on my door and stuck her head inside. “Detective Mendoza's here for you,” she said.

“Good,” I said.

She pushed the door open and Mendoza came in. I started to stand up, but she waved me back in my chair and sat across from me. “So how you doing?” she said.

“Okay,” I said. “I'm angry. But I'm not scared.”

“You promised,” she said.

“Sure. I won't do anything stupid. I promise. You promised, too.”

“I won't say anything to Evie,” she said, “as long as you keep your promise.”

I reached into my briefcase, took out the plastic bag with Dana's photo in it, and put it on my desk. “Here it is.”

She picked up the baggie by its corner and looked at the front and back of the photo. Then she fished a plastic evidence bag from her jacket pocket, put the baggie with the photo into it, wrote on it with a black Sharpie, and put it into her attaché case. “Good,” she said. “Thanks.”

Then, instead of getting up to leave, she put a manila folder on my desk.

“What've you got?” I said.

“Ms. Banyon giving us an ID on that girl's body this morning cleared away the log jam. Now we've got two autopsy reports. Figured you'd be interested. Figured I owed you. You and Ms. Banyon.”

“You do owe us,” I said, “and I am interested.”

She opened the folder and glanced at what was inside. Then she looked at me. “Maureen Quinlan,” she said. “Sunshine. No surprises. Unequivocally a homicide. She drowned in her own blood from a lacerated trachea. Basically, her throat was ripped open, wounds consistent with a broken bottle. Slivers of green glass recovered from the wound. She was damn near decapitated. Layman's terms. I'm summarizing here. She had a BAL of point-oh-seven.”

“BAL,” I said.

“Blood alcohol level. Point-oh-seven, a woman her size, about one-twenty, is certainly buzzed, but not what you'd call falling-down drunk. A few highballs, three or four glasses of wine in an hour, hour and a half. She was probably just getting started when it happened.”

“She told me she was fighting it,” I said. “The drinking.”

“She was fighting a losing battle that night.”

“Sunshine,” I said. “A sad person. Big black cloud over her. Irony.”

“Yeah.” Mendoza puffed her cheeks and blew out a breath. Then she flipped through the sheets of paper in the folder. “Anyway, we got autopsy results on the girl, too.”

“Dana,” I said.

“Yes. Dana Wetherbee. The M.E. hasn't verified her identification, but…” Mendoza smiled quickly, then cleared her throat. “He estimates she was between fourteen and seventeen years old. She had a miscarriage. Died from blood loss due to a ruptured uterus. The M.E. noted an anomaly of sorts. Blood tests, or however they do it, hormone tests, maybe…anyway, they indicated the girl was two or three months pregnant when she died. But it appeared that the fetus had, well, outgrown her uterus, and that's what the M.E. thinks caused the miscarriage.”

“What do you mean, outgrown?”

“The fetus was too big,” she said. “It was like a five-or six-month fetus in a two-or three-month uterus, is how the M.E. described it when I talked to him. The girl's insides couldn't keep up with the growth of her fetus.”

“How does he explain that?” I said.

“He didn't have a theory,” she said, “and I certainly don't. Miscarriages aren't uncommon, and they happen for many reasons.”

“Maybe it's just, she was so young, an immature body, narrow hips or something….”

“Yeah,” said Mendoza, “maybe. Except there was something else.” She hesitated. “This girl, Dana, she was taking clomiphene.”