Judgment of the Grave (5 page)

“Actually,” Sweeney said, suddenly embarrassed. “I’ll bring my luggage in later.” In fact, she had to go back to Somerville to pack her luggage. But he didn’t seem to care.

“Great, I’ll just show you to your room.” She followed him up a narrow flight of stairs. “Sorry about the stairs. We wanted to keep everything authentic, but it means it’s a bit tricky sometimes. What kind of research are you doing?”

“Oh, gravestones,” Sweeney said. “I study them and I’m working on a paper about eighteenth-century stonecarvers from this area. I have one in mind who I’m going to try to identify. And I just discovered the work of a carver named Josiah Whiting, who I’m really interested in.”

“Josiah Whiting?” He turned to look at her, and in the dim light of the stairway, his eyes were intent.

“Yes, I’m really intrigued by his work. I understand he was kind of a Revolutionary hero too.”

“That’s right. My great-great-great-great-great-grandfather was a fellow member of the Concord Minutemen. He built the inn.”

“Really? And it’s been in the family all this time?”

“No.” He led the way along a narrow hallway lit with old-fashioned wall sconces. The wallpaper had a small pineapple pattern, and wooden floors were covered with threadbare Oriental rugs. There was a strong and pleasant smell of lemon oil. “It was owned by another family for a long time,” he went on. “But a couple of years ago it came back on the market and I was able to buy it. It had been a longtime dream of mine. Here we are.” He used the key card to open the door of room seven and held it so Sweeney could walk past him into the room. “Is this okay?”

“It’s beautiful. Thank you.” Sweeney’s room was furnished with simple Colonial pieces, and the walls were painted a pale salmon color that was picked up in the stenciled salmon-and-green curtains.

He smiled. “If there’s anything you need, please let us know.”

When he had gone, Sweeney sat down on the bed and took a deep breath. The week would take a chunk out of her savings, but she would be able to write it off her income tax since it was a research trip, and besides, her coffers were a bit more padded than usual after the sale of one of her father’s paintings last month. Sweeney’s father, a well-known American painter who had committed suicide when she was thirteen, had left her the weighty legacy of almost a hundred canvases. They’d been in storage for years, but she had decided to put a few on the market and was working with a dealer to find museums that would really appreciate them. In any case, she would think of her vacation as coming courtesy of
Brown House #12.

Sweeney had a thing for nice hotels. She had inherited this from her mother, a once successful actress who had continued to insist on staying at the best hotels even when the work had dried up and she could no longer afford them. But then hotels, unlike apartments or schools, could be put on credit cards. Sweeney remembered a winter soon after her parents split up when they had gotten evicted from an apartment in Boston and her mother had checked them into the Copley Plaza for two months. She supposed her father had ended up footing the bill. She still remembered the easy luxury of her room, the satiny sheets and little bottles of delicious-smelling shampoos and lotions that were replenished every day by the silent, smiling maids.

She lay back on her bed and smiled. She had done the right thing in staying. She was sure of it.

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 12

Cecily Whiting opened the storm door and took her coffee through to the picnic table on the back patio. It was just a little too cold to sit outside, the autumn sun not strong enough to warm the earth anymore. She wrapped her dressing gown more tightly around herself and caught her reflection in the sliding glass door, a long, too-thin wraith in blue silk, her short dark hair gleaming in the early light. She had always been too thin, too sharp, her breasts and hips just barely rounding beneath her clothes. It was only one of the reasons she’d loved being pregnant with Pres, the way her body had finally seemed to look the way it was supposed to.

She turned away and looked out at the little stand of glowing maple trees behind the house. It was a nice enough house, in a good neighborhood, an easy walk to town, but still she hated it, had hated it from the moment they’d moved in. She remembered the mother of one of Pres’s friends telling her how much she loved the little house she’d moved into after her divorce. “It was the first house I’d ever lived in that was just mine,” she’d said. “I ended up selling it when I got remarried, and it almost killed me. That house was independence; it was where I became a person again.”

For Cecily, the little ranch house behind the Hill cemetery represented her new life after the divorce too, but it wasn’t a life she’d ever wanted, and the house—which Bruce had found and bought for them like some kind of consolation prize—seemed to hold her very disappointment. When they had told her about Pres, about how sick he was, she had even wondered if it had been the house that had poisoned him, as if the sick sadness of her grief had seeped into the walls and ceilings like that mold you were always reading about.

She’d said so to Bruce. They’d been at the hospital and the doctor had said that jumble of words…acute myeloid leukemia…chemotherapy and bone marrow transplant…progresses quickly…good results from treatment…and she had turned to Bruce and said, “It’s your fault. His heart was broken over the divorce and we had to live in a house that wasn’t even his own and this happened. It’s because of you.”

Bruce had stared at her dumbly, and the doctor had coughed uncomfortably and told them that it was normal to experience anger and to want to blame someone for a child’s sickness. He’d handed her a card with the name of a therapist on it and said that it might be helpful for her to talk to someone about her anger. But she didn’t need to talk to anyone, she knew who was at fault and she knew that Bruce knew it, too. He’d looked away, his shoulders slumped, exactly the way he’d looked when he’d finally admitted that he was having an affair with Lauren, that he was in love with her, that in fact she was already pregnant with his child.

She almost gasped, remembering the extent of her fury. She’d hit him—she was ashamed of it now—and screamed that he was destroying his son’s life. He had started to cry and said that he knew it and that at least Pres had her, that she was a good mother, that if she wasn’t a good mother, he might not have done what he’d done. That had made it worse somehow, that her own love for Pres had allowed Bruce to leave them.

She wiped the sleeve of her sweatshirt across her eyes, trying to get a grip on her emotions. She had to get Pres to school and be at the museum by nine. There was a school group coming in and there would be tons of tourists in town for foliage season.

She looked out at the trees beginning their autumn show and tried to calm herself down. The childhood cancers coordinator at the hospital had given her a book about guided imagery and she had worked with Pres on it every night at bedtime. The idea was to give him a way to deal with the pain when they were putting in IVs or catheters or when he was sick from the chemo. She had had him lie in bed and asked him to picture himself in the most peaceful place he could think of. He had told her he was picturing himself lying on the ground in the woods behind Gramma and Grampa’s house. “What does it smell like, Pres?” she’d asked him, the way the book told her to. “What does the air feel like? Is it warm or cool?”

“It’s warm,” he’d told her, “and I’m lying between the maples, looking up at the leaves.”

“Okay, now picture everything about the woods; picture the trees and the sky. The idea is that you create a place inside your head, a place you can go to whenever you need to.”

It had actually worked. The next time he’d had to have a catheter put in, he’d done his visualization and he said that it was better, that he hadn’t felt it as much, that he’d just thought about being in the woods. He’d seemed calmer after that, she’d thought, though he’d been sad, or maybe scared since Sunday. He still hadn’t told her what he was doing in the woods when it was nearly dark, why he’d walked back to George and Lillian’s that way instead of along the road. The police had called and asked her to come to the hospital, and at first she thought he’d done something wrong, shoplifted or something. It would have been out of character, but the psychologist had told her to be prepared for Pres to act out in reaction to his illness.

But he hadn’t shoplifted.

“He fainted,” Chief Tyler told her. “There was a woman who found him and she carried him out to the road and flagged down a car. But before he fainted, he told her he’d found a dead body. She said it was very strange, the way he just stood there, not wanting her to get any closer.”

“You don’t think he…?” she’d gasped suddenly, and Chief Tyler had known exactly what she meant.

“Oh, no. The body had been there a week or more. But you might want to talk to him. Make sure he’s okay. He wouldn’t tell us why he was in the woods, wouldn’t say anything about the body.”

After the police station yesterday, she’d asked him about it, but he hadn’t wanted to talk. He’d just looked up at her with something like accusation in his eyes and said that he’d wanted to go for a walk in the woods. “I’m not the only one who likes to go for walks in the woods,” he’d said.

For a few minutes there, she’d almost worried that he’d found out about her. But she couldn’t imagine how, and besides, it was over now. It was over for good and she was glad. She’d have to try to talk to him again, or maybe get Bruce to do it. That was the thing, get Bruce to take some time out of his precious family life to talk to his son.

She got up and took one last look at the trees behind the house. There were so many different colors, golds and yellows and greens, it almost seemed that they were shimmering. For a second, she thought she saw someone standing there, but it was only a trick of the light.

By the next morning Megan’s cold had reappeared, her eyes dull and rheumy, her nose streaming greenish phlegm. And despite his casual comment that she seemed to have a little bit of a “sniffle” but seemed fine otherwise, the middle-aged woman who ran the day care on Mass. Ave. seemed to see right through him.

“Mr. Quinn, your daughter is very sick. She has a fever and she could pass it on to the other children. We can’t take her today. I’m sorry.” Her name was Mrs. Richardson and she was a tall, no-nonsense woman with short gray hair who reminded Quinn of an elementary-school teacher he’d once had. When he’d visited the day-care center, he remembered being impressed when she’d told him that she didn’t take children who were obviously sick. “Little ones belong with their parents when they’re not feeling well,” she’d said. “Any day-care center that takes sick kids does so for the convenience of the parents and not the children.” Now he was regretting how impressed she’d been.

“But she’s doing much better. I don’t think she’s contagious anymore.” He was grasping at straws, and he knew it.

“Mr. Quinn, I’m sorry. You need to take Megan home and let her get better.”

Now he felt guilty. “Okay, you’re right,” he said. “I’ll bring her back in a couple of days.”

When he’d got her into her car seat again, he sat there for a minute and tried to decide what to do. He was supposed to be working on the Kenneth Churchill thing. He had planned on calling all of Churchill’s colleagues to see if they might have any idea of where he’d gone. And he wanted to put out a trace on the car, see if the Concord cops had found anything. That was the weirdest thing about this whole case—if something had happened to the guy, then where had the car gone? No, it was more likely that the guy had taken off with some Betsy Ross impersonator or something. But Quinn remembered Beverly Churchill’s face and decided that he owed her the truth at least.

He turned around to check on Megan and found that she was fast asleep in her car seat. Maybe he could just take her into work with him. He had avoided doing it before because you couldn’t take a baby out on police work, but it wasn’t as if talking on the phone was particularly dangerous. He could bring her inside in the stroller and maybe she would just sleep all morning. Then, after he’d made all his phone calls, he could take her home a little bit early.

He was feeling confident about the plan until he actually walked through the front door of headquarters and the young woman on duty behind the front desk looked up and smiled and said, “Who’s this?”

“Oh, this is my daughter, Megan,” Quinn whispered, trying not to wake her up. A homeless guy sitting in the waiting room looked up and leered, making Quinn lean a bit more protectively over the stroller.

“She’s so cute,” the young sergeant said too loudly, reaching down to look at her and pat her hand.

“Thanks,” Quinn whispered. “She’s sleeping, so I’m going to…” But at that moment, Megan opened her eyes, saw the strange face looming over her, and began to howl.

The girl looked surprised, as though she hadn’t known babies could cry quite that loudly. Quinn hurried inside and went up to the homicide division, checking to make sure that Havrilek wasn’t around. At the sound of Megan’s plaintive screaming, though, every head on the floor looked up to see who it was. He put the stroller next to his desk and took her into the men’s room to check her diaper. All was well and he held her and walked up and down the bathroom, letting her crying run its course. When she finally hiccupped and sighed, her eyes sliding shut against her will, Quinn took her back out to his desk, easing her into the stroller. She was already asleep again.

His first phone call was to the Concord police. The chief wasn’t in, so Quinn left his number and the dispatcher said she’d have him get right back to Quinn. His next call was to the history department at BU. He asked to be connected to the department chairperson and was getting a new notebook out of his desk when a female voice said, “Delia Harmon.”

“Oh, yes, Ms. Harmon, I’m a detective with the Cambridge Police Department and as you may know, one of your professors, Kenneth Churchill, seems to have…um…disappeared. His wife asked us to look around, and I was thinking you could answer some questions.”

“Disappeared? Is that how you describe it? ‘Run off’ is more how I’d say it. We’ve had to cancel his classes this week. After the way he’s been behaving this year. And now he just—”

“Yes, that’s why we’re looking into it,” Quinn broke in. “That’s why I’m calling you. We want to find out what happened. You know, there is the possibility that he’s been in an accident. Have you considered that?”

She was silent for a minute. “Is that what you think happened?” she asked finally.

“We don’t know. Now, do you have any idea where he could be?”

“No, of course not. He was going out to Concord for one of his reenactment things.” She said “reenactment” with a hint of sarcasm. “And he was supposed to be back Thursday to teach. He just didn’t show up. The students were all waiting. When I called Beverly, she said she didn’t know where he was either, but that she thought he’d probably decided to stay a little bit longer. I assumed he was just blowing us off.”

“What did you mean when you said ‘the way he’s been behaving this year’? How has he been behaving?”

“Flaky. He’s been missing meetings, canceling classes. All because he said he was working on his book. I was all in favor of the book. If it’s as groundbreaking as he says it is, it’ll be good for the department when it’s published, but he can’t just forget about his students whenever he feels like it.”

“How much did you know about the book he was working on?”

“Not much. It was about Josiah Whiting. Do you know who he is?”

“A bit. Apparently he was a big shot during the Revolution.”

“Right. He had been a top man in the Massachusetts militia. One of Colonel Barrett’s most important men. A real American hero. Kenneth had discovered something big, but he wouldn’t say what it was. I think he felt that some of his claims were so explosive that he wanted to wait until the book was out.”

“Explosive?”

She laughed. “Well, something that contradicted the way Whiting’s role has been understood by historians up until now. I dare say you wouldn’t find it very explosive.”

“Where was he doing the research? I mean, was he talking to people out there or going to the library, or what?”

“He was doing interviews, as far as I know, with people around Concord who knew about Whiting. I know he’d spent a lot of time at the Minuteman Museum. It has quite a nice little collection, and I think he said that the woman who runs it is somehow related to Whiting.”

Quinn made a note of that, thanked her for her help, and asked for the names of other department members who had been friendly with Churchill. She gave him three names and then said, “Call me if you hear anything, will you? As negative as I sound about Kenneth, he is a friend, and a damn good scholar. I’d hate to think that anything’s happened to him.”

Quinn told her that he would and said good-bye.

Megan was still sleeping, so he called each of the three names that Delia Harmon had given him. All three expressed their concern for Churchill, but none had anything to add to what Quinn had already learned. Then he moved on to the list of friends that Beverly Churchill had given him. Most of Kenneth Churchill’s friends didn’t know that he was missing and, though they expressed their surprise, couldn’t shed any light on where he’d gone.

When he was done, he tried the Concord P.D. again, and this time the dispatcher put him through to Chief John Tyler.

“What can I do for you, Detective Quinn?” Tyler asked. “Sorry I didn’t get back to you. Things are a little nutty around here.”

“No problem.” Quinn explained about Kenneth Churchill’s disappearance. “He was a Revolutionary War reenactor. That’s why he was out there. I was going to see if you could put out something about the car. Make sure it’s not abandoned in some lot somewhere. Then, I was thinking—”

Tyler interrupted him. “Actually, I think we may be able to do better than that. We’ve got a body.” Quinn heard him call out to someone else in the room, “I’ve got something here. Get Lynch.”

Quinn leaned back in his chair. “No shit?” An image of Beverly Churchill’s hands flashed into his mind.

“No shit. A kid was out walking in the woods Sunday. Found this body. It’s a man, six feet. Dressed in some kind of soldier’s costume. Revolutionary War, I think, so that fits. Partially decomposed. Been in the woods a week or so. You know, it’s been pretty warm during the days. This is a lucky break for us, let me tell you. The guy didn’t have any identification on him and we’ve been calling these guys who do reenactments, asking if anybody’s noticed that someone’s missing, et cetera, et cetera. I’ll tell ya, it’s not exactly model detective work.”

“Sounds like him. Right down to the costume. Any idea on cause of death?”

“Stabbing, it looks like. Something sharp entered his chest cavity. We’ll know soon enough. We’ve turned it over to the state police already, so they’ll get the crime scene guys in.” Suburban police departments such as Concord’s turned major murder cases over to the state investigators connected with the county D.A.’s Office.

“You might want to try something like a bayonet,” Quinn said. “This guy had a whole arsenal of Revolutionary War weaponry in his living room.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea. Thanks. We should know more after the
P.M
. anyway.”

“Wait, so you find the car?”

“No. But we weren’t looking. Give me the plates and all that and I’ll check it out.”

“Sure.” Quinn read off the numbers. “And I already interviewed the wife. I can get the dentist from her so you can compare dental records.”

“Great. I’m sure they’ll try for an ID as soon as they can. Hey, assuming it’s him, would you mind telling the wife? Since you know her already?”

“No, no, of course. It’s gotta be him. The uniform and everything. Listen, I’ll send some photos.” Megan started crying and Quinn pulled her up into his lap, bouncing her up and down as he talked.

“Well, that’s the thing. The face is mostly gone. Pretty woodsy out where they found it. Lot of weasels and stuff, and it looks like one of the neighborhood dogs had been at it.”

Quinn swallowed. He didn’t like to think about that. “Okay, well, I’ll talk to the wife and get the dentals. I’ll get them out to you as soon as I can.”

“Thanks. That’s great.”

Quinn had put the phone down and was checking Megan’s diaper when a voice said, “Hey, Quinny, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.” It was Havrilek and he was standing in the doorway, looking amused.

“Hey, I’m sorry about this, boss. She’s got a cold and they wouldn’t take her at day care. I’m making phone calls on this missing professor thing, so I thought I’d just…Hey, listen, they’ve got a body out in Concord. Wearing a Revolutionary War outfit and everything.”

“Really? They know how he died yet?”

“Doesn’t sound natural. I’m going to get dentals through the wife and see if I can help with that.”

“Great. When’d they find the body?”

“Oh, uh, Sunday.”

“Shouldn’t we have known about it yesterday?”

Quinn blushed. He should have called Concord already or checked the online databases. “Yeah, maybe. I was just…I talked to the wife and I was just gonna see if…” He was fumbling, and Havrilek knew it.

“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?”

“You sure? I can…”

“No, no. You got a sick kid. You take her home and put her to bed.”

Havrilek stopped to tickle Megan under her chin. She smiled a little. “Cute kid,” he said. But somehow he managed to make Quinn feel bad.