The Murder Channel (28 page)

MY FLIGHT WAS DELAYED.

I grumbled about it, then found a quiet corner away from the gate area and dipped into my duffel bag in search of George V. Higgins’s
Outlaws.
Instead, I dragged out the lab and autopsy files on Shannon Waycross, Gina Radshaw, and Florence Dayle.

I returned to the analysis of blood types and blood mixes, the file that had so distressed Neville Waycross that he vanished, probably wandering the city on one hell of a bender. As I worked backward from the last victim, I found what I expected. Technicians identified two blood types at the Dayle residence, hers and Gina Radshaw’s. Transfer, I thought. When Waycross saw Zrbny emerge from the woods, the teenager was blood-soaked and carried a bloodstained knife.

There was no blood mix noted in the Radshaw report, and none in the Waycross report. Zrbny’s knife held stains from Dayle and Radshaw, none
from Waycross. His clothing—Dayle and Radshaw, no Shannon Waycross.

Zrbny had killed Waycross first, then Radshaw, then Dayle.

“No,” I muttered, flipping through the autopsy reports.

I skimmed the external examinations. Radshaw and Dayle were similar: numerous stab wounds, no defensive wounds, no evidence of restraint. Dayle had an appendectomy scar, Radshaw a mole on her stomach.

Shannon Waycross’s throat was cut. Traces of an adhesive were found on her ankles, wrists, and near her mouth. On her right hand, two fingernails were broken. Her right cheek and the back of her head bore evidence of blunt-force injury.

No solved homicide ever accounts for all the bits and pieces of evidence and information, but this was glaring. “Someone fucked up,” I muttered.

I glanced around for a phone, and that was when I saw Neville Waycross standing in the departure area, surveying the crowd. His hands were stuck deep in his pockets, and he was unsteady on his feet. He was not here to wish me a safe trip, nor would he be inclined to discuss the nuances of evidence. I figured he had primed himself with whiskey and convinced himself that I had to be eliminated. He expected me to discover the inconsistencies in the reports dealing with his wife’s death, to realize that he had killed Shannon.

I walked quickly to the opposite wall, where Waycross could not see me. The phones were in the corridor that led to the main terminal. That was out because Waycross had a clear view of the corridor.

I flattened myself against the wall, wondering if Waycross had a gun. He had to pass through metal detectors to get this far. Waycross was an ex-cop. A quick flash of his old ID might get him through.

When I looked out again, Waycross was gone.

There was a bar fifty yards down the corridor where he could grab a bracer and have a place to wait. I walked slowly toward the Budweiser sign, scanning the waiting areas and searching for airport cops.

Waycross stood at the end of the bar, watching pedestrian traffic enter from the main terminal. Ray Bolton was part of that traffic. I did not have to wonder what he was doing here. He had been waiting for a report on the gun that killed Donald Braverman and Danny Kirkland.

I waved at Bolton, caught his attention, and pointed at the bar where Waycross sat hunched over his shot and beer chaser. Bolton nodded, slowed his pace, and moved to the side of the corridor.

Farther down the corridor the media gang came running—cams, booms, mikes, cables.

Waycross slumped lower over his drinks.

I pointed at the approaching TV storm. Bolton turned and tried to wave them back.

“Detective Bolton,” Lily Nelson called.

Waycross raised his head, pushed himself from his stool and away from the bar. His eyes disappeared upward, and he crashed to the floor. He was dead before he got there.

“Not terribly exciting for the late news,” I muttered, walking into the bar.

I crouched and felt Waycross’s neck for a pulse.

“Did you know that there is a single moment of consciousness when past, present, and future are one?” I asked.

Bolton stood beside me and the cameras rolled.

“Felix Zrbny told me that,” I said. “Do you think Waycross caught the triple feature?”

“Dr. Frank,” Lily Nelson said.

I looked at Bolton. “Stroke? Heart attack?”

He shrugged. “The gun came back to him. He killed Braverman trying to get to Pouldice. She was a threat to find out that he’d killed Shannon. So was Danny Kirkland. Then Zrbny took out Pouldice, a whacko took out Zrbny, and that left you.”

I found the nine-millimeter semiautomatic in Waycross’s deep coat pocket and gave it to Bolton. “No one studied the lab reports,” I said.

“Not until Waycross did. That’s when he panicked. The case was a lock. Zrbny was crazy. He walked out of the woods covered with blood. He was carrying a murder weapon. He attacked a cop. And he never denied anything.”

“Shannon fit,” I said. “She made a perfect lady of darkness. He watched her out his rear window.”

“The log was right. She placed a call two hours after she was supposed to be dead.”

TV lights ignited behind us.

“Pouldice lived in Ravenwood,” Bolton said. “He could’ve gotten her whenever the spirit moved him.”

“Not on camera.”

“Detective Bolton,” Lily Nelson said again. “Will you comment on the information we’re getting that …”

“You clear things with Willy?” Bolton asked.

“I stopped on the way here. Willy needed a little help understanding the advertising potential of bullet holes in his floor and bloodstains in his bathroom. He thanked me for my help.”

Bolton looked down at Waycross. “He smells bad.”

“Sphincter failed,” I said. “You going to retire now?”

Bolton’s backup sprinted down the corridor.

“This is Lily Nelson broadcasting live from the departure area at gate …”

“I have the paperwork. I’ll get to it tonight.”

“Have you talked with Mrs. Stallings?”

He nodded. “We took Theresa’s remains out of the dungeons. The family can have a funeral now. We’ve identified one of the other kids.”

“My flight is boarding,” I said.

“Always good to see you, Lucas.”

Bolton’s officers cleared the bar.

“… told that the dead man is former Boston detective Neville Waycross, whose wife …”

“You tell her that?” I asked.

Bolton shook his head.

“Fuckin’ amazing,” I said, shoving my way through the crowd.