The 3rd Victim (5 page)

9

‘L
ake Pawtuckaway,’ said the blonde-haired, blue-eyed, six-foot-three Gus Svenson.

‘What did you say?’ asked Joe Mannix as he took the seat across the desk from the Swedish-born Medical Examiner.

‘You ask me where in New Hampshire I headed for fishing trip. It was Lake Pawtuckaway, in the Pawtuckaway State Park in Rockingham County.’

‘Sounds – um … rural,’ said Joe, not sure how else to respond.

‘Yes,’ replied Gus as he sat back in his worn red vinyl swivel chair. ‘It is quiet, green, few people but plenty of crappie, sauger, catfish, large-mouth bass – although the large-mouth bass don't like the cold.’

‘It's the low population of large-mouth people that I could get used to.’

‘Me also, my friend,’ said Gus. ‘Me also.’

‘So what have you got, Gus?’ asked Joe after a pause, knowing that shooting the breeze about log cabin country, as pleasant as it was, was not the reason he had made the trip down to the ME's red-brick office building in Albany Street.

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing?’

‘You gave me nothing, so I have nothing.’

Gus was pulling Joe's chain and Joe knew it. Svenson was a good man – smart, fair. While many in law enforcement saw the Medical Examiner's Office as an extension of that of the Suffolk County DA, it was in fact under the jurisdiction of the Executive Office of Public Affairs and not the Department of Justice, which meant that it was independent and neutral, just like the ME himself.

Joe held up his hands. ‘You're pissed for being called back from Lake Tucked-Away when there wasn't even a body to examine.’

But Gus was shaking his head. ‘No, you know I don't care about this.’

A grateful Joe did.

‘What I say is, no body, no autopsy – no autopsy, no report on status of the victim before, during, after death.’

‘You're saying you cannot tell me how this little girl died?’

‘No, I didn't say that.’ Svenson swallowed. ‘The girl's throat was cut, no question, what I am saying is, beyond the obvious, I am afraid I am of little help.’

A restless Joe got to his feet to lean against Gus's gun metal grey filing cabinets. ‘I'm sorry, Gus, I'm not sure what you mean.’

‘Let me start with the first point. The amount of blood indicate there is no possibility this child did not die as a result of her injury.’

‘You're saying the baby is definitely deceased?’

‘Yes,’ confirmed Gus. ‘I estimate at least 3.5 litres of blood – extremely high considering babies of such an age only carry a blood volume of 4 litres. Which mean the baby came close to completely bleeding out at the crime scene. You see?’

Joe nodded. ‘I see, Gus, but doesn't that mean the perp must have spent some time in that bedroom – I mean for the child to have bled out before the body was taken away?’

‘Yes. And the perpetrator mostly likely held her up, like this –’ Gus pretended to cradle a baby, ‘in the nursing position, while she bled out, do you see?’

‘How do you figure that?’

‘From the blood spatter pattern. Plenty on the pillow but more in heavy drops over the side of the cot and there was a pool of blood on the carpet. But this is not my specific area. Dan Martinelli will tell you more,’ he added, referring to the head of Boston PD's Crime Lab Unit.

Joe set about trying to visualise Sienna Walker post murder. He tried to recall the stains on her nightshirt and from memory they were smears. If she had held the baby as Gus was suggesting, her nightshirt would have been saturated – unless she had changed before the police arrived. An extensive search of Walker's home hadn't revealed a second nightshirt, but that didn't mean it didn't exist. ‘What else can you tell me?’ Joe asked, moving on.

‘Like I said, not much. If I had body I could extract DNA which you could give to your people for comparisons – but this moot in any case as your team have more than enough blood for cross-referencing.’

Gus was basically talking about a standard process of elimination whereby the evidence retrieval technicians would take various blood samples from different areas around the crime scene – in this case Eliza Walker's bedroom – and pass them on to the crime lab analysts who would test them for DNA comparisons. Once the baby's DNA was identified, they would then look for other DNA samples in the hope that the perpetrator had unwittingly left some of his own genetic material behind. It was rare that this procedure actually delivered results, but given there was no doubt that a knife was used as the murder weapon, there was a chance, although a slim one, that the perp accidentally cut him or herself during the execution of the murder. Joe's only concern at this point was that these tests took time to produce results. He had spoken to Dan Martinelli first thing that morning, only to be told he would not have anything until the end of the week.

‘Your people are thorough,’ said Gus, reading Joe's mind.

‘Yes,’ said Joe. ‘Martinelli said he'd get back to me, but probably not before Friday.’

Gus nodded in understanding.

‘Anything else?’ asked Joe, knowing that he was stretching it.

‘Nothing bar my opinion that everything is as it seems – meaning my guess is the child died after someone severed her jugular.’ And then Gus added, ‘I am sorry – both about my lack of assistance and – the baby, you see?’

Joe nodded as he slumped against the cabinets. ‘The kid barely had a decent eight weeks on the planet, Gus.’

‘I know,’ said Gus. ‘Not fair.’

‘Is it at any age?’

But Gus did not answer, as Joe straightened up to leave.

‘You have any leads as to the location of the body?’ asked Gus.

‘Not yet,’ said Joe. ‘The blood trail went down the fire escape and stopped at the pavement. The K9s did a thorough round of the neighbourhood but came up empty. But you know how these things work, Gus.’

Svenson did. In these situations it was usually a matter of sit back and wait – for some poor distressed schmuck to call 911 after finding a kid in a trash can, or dumped in a too-shallow grave.

‘If I hear anything you'll be the first to know,’ said Joe as he reached the door. ‘You'll need a weekend at Lake Pawtuckaway after that, Gus.’

‘You and me both, my friend. You and me both.’

10

‘D
avid, this is Daniel Hunt,’ said the even-toned voice from down the other end of the line.

David shifted slightly and looked at the clock on the far wall. It had just gone half past eight.

‘I apologise for calling first thing, but I assumed you'd be at work early.’

‘Like yourself, Mr Hunt,’ said David.

‘It's Daniel, and I'm in the office by five.’

No obvious response to that one, thought David. No obvious response at all.

‘What can I do for you?’ asked David at last.

‘I'm afraid it is not so much what you can do for me but how you might be able to help a friend of mine.’

‘What does your friend need?’ asked David, guessing where this was going.

‘Representation.’

‘Is your friend in some kind of trouble?’

‘Yes. She murdered her daughter.’

Whoa, thought David, I didn't see that one coming. ‘Has she been arrested?’ he asked, determined not to sound rattled.

‘No.’

‘She wants to confess?’

‘No.’

‘But you're sure that she is the one responsible for her daughter's death.’

‘Yes. She killed her. There is no question about it.’

David was left speechless once again.

‘David,’ Hunt did not pause before continuing, ‘as you may have already surmised, I am not one to waste people's time. I am sure you are aware that the friend I am referring to is Sienna Walker, the mother whose daughter was murdered at their Back Bay home late last Saturday night. Your friend Deputy Superintendent Mannix attended the crime scene. I know this because I was there.’

David took a breath, knowing the man was suggesting David may have already discussed the case with Joe, and thus David was aware of how carefully he needed to proceed. ‘You're a lawyer, Mr Hunt, are you speaking on Mrs Walker's behalf?’

‘I'm a lawyer, but not the kind she needs. I am speaking on her behalf as a friend. Of course I am advising her, in as much as I told her not to speak to anyone the moment I reached her house on the night of the matter in question.’

The matter in question.

‘You're right, Mr Hunt,’ said David, deciding then and there that this was not a conversation he wanted to continue. ‘I have heard about the case, and as such I think we should stop here.’

Hunt said nothing so David continued: ‘For starters I am not Mrs Walker's attorney. Secondly, Mrs Walker hasn't made any personal attempts to hire me, and thirdly, you just gave me information I am legally obliged to pass on to the police. But I think you know that already.’

‘I'm making a judgment call,’ said Hunt. ‘I don't think that that is what you are going to do.’

‘And why is that?’

‘Because you are a man of principle.’

‘And on principle, I should be reporting what you told me.’

‘Not if you think Mrs Walker is innocent.’

‘You just told me she killed her daughter.’

‘She did.’

‘Then she's a long way from innocent.’

‘She's innocent if she was not of sound mind at the time of the murder.’

‘Are you saying Mrs Walker suffers from some form of mental illness?’

‘Mrs Walker suffers from depression.’

This, at the very least, was one answer David had seen coming. ‘Mr Hunt, as you and I both know, “not guilty” and “innocent” are two very different things when it comes to Massachusetts law. One term cannot be used to substitute for the other.’ And he was right. According to the General Laws of Massachusetts, ‘not guilty’ was the language of the rules which set the perimeters for pleas and verdicts and it was technically more accurate than innocent. David knew that Hunt was talking about his using the ‘not guilty by reason of diminished responsibility’ to defend Sienna Walker, but even if she was suffering from post-partum depression this did not make her innocent. ‘You're suggesting a temporary insanity defence,’ he said.

‘No. I am suggesting she pleads her innocence.’

Once again David was floored. ‘You are asking me to represent your friend and blame someone
else
for her child's murder?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you have an appropriate mystery perpetrator in mind?’ asked David, unable to help himself.

‘I will assume you are not trying to be facetious, David, as you and I both know you won't require a
specific
scapegoat, just the idea of one should be enough.’

And despite himself David knew that Hunt was right. Many a lawyer had secured a ‘not guilty’ verdict for their guilty-as-hell client on the grounds of reasonable doubt. Thousands of defence lawyers built healthy practices on simply creating the idea of an alternative offender to deflect the guilt away from their client, but David was not one of them – never had been, never would be.

‘I am sorry, Mr Hunt,’ he said, wanting to put an end to this conversation as quickly as possible, ‘but I made a promise to myself a long time ago never to represent anyone unless I was certain of their innocence.’

‘I've heard that about you, David, but I've also heard that you are a man of compassion.’

‘If what you say is true, I feel for your friend, Mr Hunt, but not as much as I feel for the child that she slaughtered.’ He regretted it the minute it came out of his mouth. He had basically told Hunt that he and Joe had discussed the particulars of the case – not that it should matter at this point, given there was no way David was taking the case.

‘Then your answer is no,’ said Hunt after a pause.

‘My answer is no,’ repeated David.

‘And the $150,000 up front fee and monthly retainer of $25,000 leading up to the trial plus expenses and a final payment with a bonus upon a “not guilty” verdict are not enough to persuade you to reconsider?’

‘I'm afraid not,’ David managed, his temperature now rising.

‘A conversation with your wife the other night suggested you two could be looking to upgrade residentially.’

David could not believe what he was hearing. The man was incorrigible. Had Sara really discussed their living arrangements with this asshole before she discussed it with him? David's blood began to boil.

‘I'm sorry, Mr Hunt,’ he said, trying desperately to keep his anger in check. ‘I don't believe we have anything else to discuss.’

‘Then you'll forgive me for wasting your time,’ said Hunt, obviously understanding that for once his negotiations had failed. ‘And, David,’ he added, almost as an afterthought, ‘please pass on my good wishes to your wife.’

11

R
oger Katz was fuming. He had just spent the past ten minutes in his poorly organised outer-office area yelling, cursing and gesticulating at his completely useless, amoeba-brained, sloth of an excuse for a secretary. Shelley had done it this time – she had, for the third time in a single hour, put a call from the media through to his direct line, the last one from
Boston Tribune
Deputy Editor Marc Rigotti, who went at him like a bulldog with a hard-on.

Katz had nothing – well, he had
something
. The murder of a small child was definitely fertile ground from which his impending campaign for reelection could grow. One look at the
Tribune
's front page – with a headline that shouted ‘WHO KILLED BABY ELIZA?’ – was enough to tell him that this was an opportunity not to be missed. This wasn't just an abduction, the child had been butchered, for god's sakes, which meant Katz would get to play caped crusader, and launch his next term, and ideally his future at the AG's office, to infinity and beyond. And all of this would be possible if it weren't for Mannix.

Katz was used to the inferior investigator's procrastination – hell, he had wasted many an hour trying to lasso Mannix and his Mr McGoo of an offsider into giving him a report on a case. But Mannix's latest behaviour was beyond unacceptable. He had not called at all, not even to fill Katz in on the smallest of the details involved.

According to a monotoned detective in Homicide (another Mannix devotee – the man's staff adored him, which said a lot about their mental capacity as a whole), Mannix had spent the morning at the ME's office, but a call to that Nordic incompetent revealed that Mannix had already left. In a third call, this one finally connecting to Mannix's sidekick, Detective Frank McGoo, McGoo told Katz that he could not talk as his boss was waiting for him out the front of HQ so that they could make the trip to Mass General to interview the mother. And then McGoo promised Katz that he would ask his boss to return the call, but warned that this may not happen until later as cell phones were banned in the busy ER.

What a load of shit, thought Katz as he paced his shady corner office, the only view the One Bullfinch Place address offered being that of the grime-covered bricks of the too-close building next door.

Enough, came his next thought as he heard the phone ring in his outer office once again – no doubt another member of the shameless pack of media hyenas who were obsessed with trying to grill him on matters over which he appeared to have no control.

If Mannix will not come to me then I shall go to Mannix, the thought continued, ballooning into yet another brilliant concept which he chastised himself for not thinking of earlier. The mother – of course – she is the second victim, and it is my job to stand up for all the victims, both those living and those deceased.

‘Shelley,’ he barked, before moving back behind his desk to retrieve his briefcase. His rotund secretary responded by opening the door and rounding it, her feet still clad in the dirty pair of Adidas that she donned each morning to lug her substantial tonnage to work.

‘What?’ she said, obviously still smarting after their earlier altercation.

‘I'm going out, but I want you to call Marc Rigotti at the
Tribune
and tell him that I will be able to talk to him further later this afternoon when I get back from visiting Sienna Walker at the hospital.’

‘But you hate me talking to the press.’

‘Of course I do, but this is an emergency – which you cannot fuck up.’

‘Okay, but I think he'll just follow you to the hospital.’

‘You think?’ said Katz, rolling his eyes.

But Shelley had obviously had enough of Katz's sarcasm and so offered nothing more than a shrug.

Katz grabbed his Armani sunglasses from his desk. ‘If any other press call, you can tell them I am at the hospital as well.’

Shelley gave the slightest of nods.

‘And make sure you don't sound obvious, just mention it as an aside.’

Another shrug.

‘And answer me when I am talking to you,’ he barked as he shoved past her to make his way through the doorway.

Still nothing.

‘And change your goddamned shoes.’

*

Joe Mannix turned the wheel of his Nissan SUV hard to the right and pumped his foot on the accelerator.

It had taken Frank McKay mere seconds to tell his boss that a quick call to the hospital to check on Sienna Walker's condition had revealed that she was going to be released some time this afternoon. McKay had asked to speak to the registrar, who told him that Mrs Walker was physically well and as such did not qualify as someone ill enough to be taking up a bed in the busy ER unit or in one of their overcrowded wards. Further, the registrar explained that he had had a face-to-face conversation with two of her friends, including her own private physician who confirmed that he would stick around for Mrs Walker's discharge, escort her home, and be on hand to maintain a constant watch over her physical and psychological wellbeing.

‘Why in the hell didn't this asshole excuse for a doctor call me before making that decision?’ asked Joe of Frank. ‘These fucking medicos think just because they carry some badge with a snake on it that they can do as they fucking well please.’

Frank did not answer, perhaps sensing his boss needed to vent.

‘I put her in there so those control freaks couldn't get to her, Frank, not so that they could dictate everything from her sedation schedule to her recommended time of release.’

Truth be told Joe was beyond frustrated. Yesterday his attempts to see Sienna Walker were stymied when the same registrar administered more sedatives following her waking and apparently exhibiting extreme distress at her predicament, and now today Joe heard – by chance, given Frank's call to the hospital – that the woman was well enough to be released into the custody of her dead husband's overprotective friends.

‘She's not under arrest, Chief,’ said Frank, the inevitable voice of reason. ‘And you and I both know the police guard was a stretch.’

‘Maybe so, but we also know that if this woman is released into Hunt's custody, getting close to her is gonna prove a problem.’

Frank nodded, his chest rising as he breathed deeply. ‘You want a little more rain on your parade?’ he asked after a pause, his left hand hanging on to the side passenger door as Joe weaved in and out of the heavy Copley Place traffic.

‘Seems like the day for it,’ responded Joe.

‘The Kat called again.’

Joe was not surprised. ‘What did he want?’ he asked, already knowing the answer to the question.

‘Your head on a silver platter.’

‘Besides that.’

‘He wants answers. He said the press had been calling, said he had nothing of substance to tell them because you have been negligent in your – and I quote – “responsibility to confer”.’

‘Nice to know his priorities haven't changed,’ said Joe. ‘The man's a fuckwit.’

‘True, but he's a powerful fuckwit, and like it or not you are going to have to call him. I gave us a few hours by explaining we were headed to Mass Gen, where our cell phones would be turned off. But after that …’

‘Okay,’ said Joe, Frank was obviously on a ‘book of wisdom’ roll today. ‘I'll call,’ he added, reaching into the glove box to pull out the portable siren light he kept in his own car at all times. Normally Joe would take an unmarked police-issue sedan on jobs like this, but he had left home early to go visit the ME and had no intention of wasting time by swapping vehicles. ‘But I don't know what I am going to tell him, Frank. We don't have enough on the mom for probable cause, but if the Kat is on heat, which he no doubt will be considering the press have been all over this since the moment the kid's body was taken, Katz'll jump the gun and railroad this woman all the way to the grand jury.’

Frank frowned. ‘You having doubts about her culpability?’ he asked, as Joe flicked on the siren.

Joe had discussed his concerns with Frank over the way the evidence was shaping up – the inside screws on that wire screen, the lack of prints on the light switch and so forth.

‘Did Gus have some insight?’ Frank asked the second question when his boss did not respond.

Joe shook his head. ‘Gus has nothing to work with,’ he said, raising his voice above the siren as he made a tight left into Charles Street.

‘But …?’ began Frank, sensing Joe had more to share.

‘But he thinks the kid bled out at the crime scene, which means the killer took his or her time – stood over that baby girl while the life leached out of her, picked her up as she drifted off to sleep, rocked her like a mother would her child.’

‘Martinelli has the nightshirt,’ said Frank, taking the next step.

‘Yeah.’

‘I don't recall it being soaked, Chief.’

‘For the moment, that's in Walker's favour.’

Frank returned the nod, perhaps understanding this was the only piece of evidence that did not point toward Sienna Walker as the perp. ‘I'm sorry, Chief. I don't like this any more than you do.’

Joe nodded. ‘We haven't had a chance to talk to the woman yet, Frank. Things aren't always as they seem.’

‘True, but more often than not, Chief, if it walks like a duck and talks like a duck …’

‘We'll see, Frank. We'll see.’

*

Fifteen minutes later, having parked their car illegally outside the front of the hospital and grabbed their radios in case they needed to call for backup, Joe and Frank ran across the road toward the hospital's busy front entrance. It was raining, so they wiped their feet as they waited for the automatic glass doors to open before walking straight ahead and then turning right, following the signs to the ER.

‘I hate these places,’ said Joe, Frank a mere step behind him.

‘My mom used to say that hospitals were the world's greatest equalisers,’ said Frank. ‘Junkies, CEOs, old, young, black, white – there's nothing like a medical emergency to level the playing field.’

‘Let's just hope this game isn't over before we arrive,’ said Joe as they rounded the corridor toward the ER.

‘I'm sorry, Joe,’ said a familiar voice. They looked up to see Lisa Cavanaugh, who was moving quickly toward them, her long dark hair caught up in a messy ponytail. ‘I heard from the registrar that Frank had called,’ she nodded at Frank, ‘and I gathered you'd be pissed.’ Lisa had never been one to mince words, and for that, at least in this instance, Joe was grateful.

‘How did this happen, Lisa?’ asked Joe.

‘Your cop on the door took a leak and Mrs Walker's friends moved in. Her doctor had a conversation with the registrar who subsequently agreed to release Mrs Walker into his care.’ Lisa's bright green eyes met Joe's brown ones. ‘She's going home, Joe. We have no reason to hold her.’

Joe shook his head. ‘Do you know if a man named Daniel Hunt was the second of the two friends that spoke to the registrar?’

‘Yes. He's been in and out for the past two days. He told me he knew you – and David,’ she said as she gestured for them to follow her down the equipment cluttered corridor.

‘And the doc's name is Davenport?’ asked Joe.

‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘The thing is, the woman isn't sick, Joe, at least not in the conventional sense, and given our situation here …’ she gestured at the row of metal beds now lining the narrow corridor, ‘… we need all the beds we can get.’

‘Your registrar should have called us,’ said Joe as Lisa stopped in front of a pair of blue painted doors.

‘Maybe, but strictly speaking consulting with a patient's physician is standard procedure – and the woman isn't under arrest.’

Unfortunately Lisa was right, which, while frustrating, was no surprise to Joe. She and her fellow ER staffers were well schooled on the legalities of their responsibilities in regards to the law, considering the emergency room often acted as a limbo for criminals about to face the consequences of their actions.

‘You want me to come in with you?’ asked Lisa as she went to use her ID to swipe them through the next set of doors.

‘No,’ said Joe. ‘You've been a help already, Lisa.’

She nodded, and Joe saw in her eyes that they were ‘cool’.

‘This is a short cut to Mrs Walker's ward,’ she said as the blue doors opened inward to reveal a new corridor painted pink. ‘Her room is number 13. Last time I checked, her two friends were in there with her.’

Joe nodded. ‘Thanks.’

‘Not a problem,’ she told him. ‘And I apologise if we've caused you any –’ Lisa began, only to be interrupted by a new voice echoing behind them.

‘You wait right there, Mannix,’ called the man.

Joe's stomach knotted as his hands curled involuntarily into fists.

‘You're not going anywhere until we've had a conversation,’ Katz continued as he strode toward them, his Italian shoes clicking on the hard linoleum floor.

‘Shit, I'm sorry, Joe,’ whispered Lisa, obviously identifying Katz from her brother's previous trials. ‘I don't know how he got back here. No one is meant to be in this area without authorisation.’

‘That's okay,’ said Joe. ‘The Kat has a way of slinking around unnoticed.’

Joe turned to Frank. ‘Your mom was wrong,’ he whispered.

‘About what?’ asked Frank.

‘About hospitals being equalisers. If they were, the Kat would be laid out on a stretcher.’

‘Could be arranged,’ said Frank.

‘Don't tempt me,’ said Joe.