2 in the Hat (32 page)

Mooney smiled. That was all Alves needed to get out of him.

“How’re you doing, Sarge? Hey, Leslie.” She was sitting in a chair by the window.

Mooney raised his thumb.

Not bad, Alves thought, considering Sarge had lost a section of colon and a chunk of his liver. And he’d lost a lot of blood. Those small-caliber bullets did more damage than a big gun.

“The twins are having fun feeding Biggie,” Alves said. “He’s quite the mac and cheese fan.”

Mooney almost managed a smile.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” Alves said.

Leslie stood and came forward to give Alves a hug. “I could use a cup of coffee. I’ll leave you two alone, but no work talk. Doctor’s orders.”

Leslie hadn’t even disappeared down the hall when Mooney managed to ask, “What about Darget? Figgs was here earlier, told me what happened. Said Darget took two in the ten ring.”

“Connie’s in critical. Paramedics on scene said he was nothing but body parts.”

Mooney tipped his chin up, tubes and all. “Figgsy. From Department sharpshooter to barstool and back again.”

“Sarge, I shouldn’t be talking about the case. Leslie said you can’t have any stress. How about the Pats? Big game this weekend, huh? They’re saying it’s going to be a blizzard by game time.”

With his dry, raspy voice Mooney asked, “Execute search warrants?”

“Yeah. His house, office, parents’ house. We even hit his grandparents’ farm. We got the embalming table. Luminol came up positive for human blood, but that doesn’t tell us anything. Could have been there since the table’s funeral home days. There was no actual blood for us to test for DNA. Nothing much else in the house.”

Alves stopped talking and smiled. A young nurse with a big blond ponytail came in to check Mooney’s blood pressure, oxygen and temperature. The second she was out the door, Alves continued. “We didn’t find any trophies from the victims. I was hoping to find the suits, underwear, jewelry, something. No newspaper clippings or TV coverage. Darget kept a very neat house.”

“Car?” Mooney croaked.

“Hasn’t owned a car in a while. Got stolen a few years ago, just after we closed the Blood Bath case. Oddly enough, they found it torched down by Tenean Beach in Dorchester. Never bought a replacement. He’s been riding around in the DA’s office minivan ever since his promotion. We didn’t find anything in the van. But it wouldn’t matter if we did. Each of the kids he killed had been in that van when they got picked up for court by his investigators. He got to know each of them personally before he put two in the hat.”

Mooney gestured for the cup of ice water on the bedside table. Alves put one of the tiny blue sponges into Mooney’s mouth like a lollipop. It would be a while before Sarge would be enjoying his Schlitz. “Parents,” Mooney mumbled. “Grandparents.”

“Nothing at his parents’ house. His grandparents own thirty acres in Bridgewater. Used to be a working farm, now it’s pretty much overgrown. Grandmother is up there in years, but she still manages to take care of the house and all. Grandfather’s pretty bad with Alzheimer’s. Just stands there and shouts out passages from the Bible.”

“Evidence?”

“No. But we did find something interesting out in the woods behind the barn. An old oil tank with the top third cut off. Apparently, the old man used to burn brush and trash in there. He had a blower hooked up to it. Once he got the flame going nice and hot, he’d kick on the blower, and it heated up like an incinerator. It would eat up pieces of wood as fast as you could feed them in.”

“Bone fragments? Anything?”

“Been cleaned out. Recently. I asked the old woman when her husband last used it. Not for years. She said Connie was the last one to use it a few years ago when he came out to get rid of the ark.”

Mooney raised his eyebrows.

“You heard me right. She was embarrassed to tell the story. It seems as though grandpa had some mental health issues to go along with the onset of Alzheimer’s. The old man’s name is Noah Darget. Back in the mid ’90s, before the Alzheimer’s got too bad, he believed that the world would come to an end at the turn of the century. He was convinced that he was
the
Noah and that he had to build an ark. He starts building this monstrosity back behind the barn, but he never completes it. This half-finished mess sits out there for years, rotting away, until one day Connie volunteers to get rid of it for his grandmother. He tells her he’s got some construction debris from his house in Hyde Park and takes it back there in the minivan. He spends the whole weekend out there burning every last bit of that ark and his debris, with the old man watching. Then he hauls the remaining ash to the asphalt batching plant down the road.”

They were both quiet for a couple minutes.

“Sarge, I think he incinerated Robyn and the others with that rotten wood. Now all those people, they’re part of a highway somewhere.”

“Can we tie him in?”

“We can. We’ve got his statements corroborated by circumstantial evidence tying him to the Blood Bath case. For the gang killings with the .40, we have the confession he made to me. Not to mention motive and opportunity. I’ve got ATF trying to raise the serial number off the gun. And let’s not forget, he tried to kill me with Ray Figgs as a witness.”

Mooney tried to smile. “Hope that prick-of-misery Darget dies.”

Alves sat with Mooney as the late afternoon sky lit up orange with the setting sun. He watched his sergeant drift in and out of sleep. He wasn’t sure if he wanted Connie to live and face justice or to die. He thought about something he hadn’t thought about since he was a kid. How a prayer was like a wish. And how you got just one.

In the quiet room humming with the machines that kept Wayne Mooney alive, Alves put his folded hands on the clean, smooth white blanket, bent his head and said a prayer.

Of course, thanks to my writers’ group, Lin Haire-Sargeant, Peggy Walsh, and Candice Rowe, for their unflagging encouragement, support and hard work during the early drafts.

Once again, special thanks to Boston Police Sergeant Detective Kevin Waggett for his enthusiasm. Not a day goes by without a call or email from my good friend offering suggestions, insights and tips.

Thanks, too, to everyone who assisted me: my mentors Judge Bob Tochka and Peter Muse; Paul Treseler and Matt Machera, my #1 fans; my friends Sarah Richardson, Terry Reidy, Kevin Hayden and Rahsaan Hall; Boston Police Sergeant Charlie Byrne (Ret.), Deputy Superintendent Earl Perkins, Lieutenant Bob Merner, Detective Mike Devane, Sergeant Mark Vickers, Sergeant James O’Shea, Detective Marty Lydon, Sergeant Michael Fish, Senior Criminalist Amy Kraatz, Criminalist Kevin Kosiorek, Jim Hassan, Kevin Reddington, Truesee Allah, Judge Dave Poole, Frank McCabe, Liza Williamson, Eric Breckner, and Sammy Kamel for their technical assistance.

Thanks to Jessica, Chris, Nolan, Russell, and Castin for keeping me on track.

For their wisdom and guidance, thanks to Mark Tavani and Simon Green.

And thanks to Candice, for without her there would be no Sleep.

R
AFFI
Y
ESSAYAN
is the author of
8 in the Box
. He spent eleven years as an assistant district attorney in Boston. Within two years of becoming a prosecutor, he was named to the Gang Unit, ultimately becoming its chief. He recently left the DA’s office to go into private practice. He and his wife live in Massachusetts.