But I’ve also learned the hard way to be overly conservative about making assumptions based on previous cases I’ve worked. A detail in one death may mean something else entirely in another. As we get closer I make out that the bicycle is on its side in the middle of the unpaved gritty path. I recognize the tall broad-shouldered Cambridge investigator Tom Barclay off to one side, near the trees, about fifty feet from the body. The spritelike voices I’ve been hearing belong to the two girls he’s with, and they look too young to be out alone at this hour. But it’s hard to tell.
They could be ten or twelve or maybe slightly older, and they’re identical twins, one in pink, the other in yellow. Restless like two plump little birds, they turn their heads in synchrony, their eyes darting about, and it’s obvious there’s something not quite right about them. As we approach I can see that Barclay is shining a light on whatever he’s holding. He’s asking a question I can’t quite hear.
“I might have,” the girl dressed in pink drawls loudly in the voice of one who doesn’t hear very well as she peers at what Barclay is showing the two of them on his phone, and Marino and I get closer.
“I don’t know. Usually there’s lots of people and I stay out of the way of bikes,” the girl in yellow says slowly in the same blunted tone, and no matter what I was told, I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing in the uneven illumination, the chiaroscuro created by our flashlights.
During one of our badly connected phone conversations as Marino was on his way to pick me up, he mentioned twins. I didn’t give it much thought but to stand before them especially under the circumstances is extremely disconcerting. I find myself literally doing a double take as I look from one to the other, both of them dark-haired with identical unflattering helmetlike cuts.
The matching unstylish glasses they have on remind me of yearbook pranks, of inking nerdy black frames on the face of a rival’s photograph. The girls are built the same, under five feet tall and heavy. They wear striped T-shirts, shorts and sandals that fortunately for me don’t match. If the twins weren’t wearing different colored clothing I’m not sure I could tell them apart.
“Wait here, okay? You know what to do, don’t you? You stay right here and don’t go anywhere. Stay. And I’ll be back.” Barclay talks to the girls as if they’re a lower order of a pet such as a rabbit or a lizard.
He strides toward us, and I check my phone to see if there’s any word from Rusty and Harold.
I HEAR THE TRUCK as I’m about to call, and I press END.
The rumble of the diesel engine is unmistakable, and I look back in the direction of John F. Kennedy Street. I can see headlights cutting through the park as a white CFC truck that’s bigger than an ambulance bumps off the pavement and creeps under trees. The low-hanging branches scrape the boxy metal roof, making a terrible screeching sound that has the effect of nails on a chalkboard.
“Good. Maybe we can get going here so we can figure out who we need to be notifying and talking to,” Barclay says too authoritatively as he reaches Marino and me. “The sooner we can process the scene and get the body to the morgue, the better,” he adds as Marino ignores him.
My eyes have adjusted to the contrasting shades of light and shadow, and I can better make out the twins some distance from us where Barclay was a moment ago. A female uniformed officer is with them now, asking if they need water or food. She wants to know if they’d like to wait in an air-conditioned patrol car. She says it as if they’ve been asked this before, and they shake their heads no. I have a pretty good idea what will happen next.
In a while she’s going to transport them to the department and place them in a daisy room, as police call a comfortable nonthreatening setting they use for interviews with children. A counselor will be in to talk to and evaluate the girls, but the female officer isn’t going to mention that out here in the middle of the park.
She’s not going to explain that the twins will be treated the same way abused children are, and I can’t help but feel judgmental. It’s not appropriate for me to have personal opinions about cases I work, but it’s inevitable some things are going to hit me harder than others. I’m not good with bad parents, bad caretakers and bad pet owners.
The twin sisters are young and impaired, and what sort of person would allow them to be out and about unchaperoned, especially after dark? Is anybody wondering why they aren’t home and where they are?
“We can turn on the lights whenever you’re ready,” Barclay tells us rather than asks.
“The problem, Clay, is the minute we do it’s like we’ve lit up a baseball field,” Marino answers in an artificial avuncular tone, as if the young investigator is dim-witted and useless but a nice enough boy. “And if you build it, they’ll sure as hell come. So nope, Clay.” Marino says the name every chance he gets. “Not yet, right Doc?” He looks at me.
“Flashlights only for now,” I agree, and the diesel sound gets louder, then stops as the engine is cut. “It’s going to be difficult enough when people start noticing our mobile command center parked out here in addition to all the police cars.” I look at the twins watching us with owl eyes. “It’s pretty obvious there’s something going on, and I don’t want to draw attention until we can set up a barrier.”
I explain that right now the body is exposed to anyone who happens by or trains a telescopic lens on it. I can’t turn the lights on, and I can’t work without them, and it’s a familiar catch-22. I wouldn’t think of examining the body in situ without lighting if I’m given the choice, and I can’t cover her with a sheet before I examine her or I run the risk of disturbing or displacing evidence. So for the moment we’re stuck in the dark with only flashlights, and my attention wanders back to the twins again. I can’t stop looking at them.
I’m keenly aware of their disproportionately small heads, their thin upper lips and flat midfaces. They probably won’t get much taller, will have an ongoing struggle with their weight, and their small eyes are spaced far apart like a nonpredatory animal, a horse or a giraffe. The thick glasses, hearing aids, the silver braces on their teeth and everything else indicate a catastrophic failure that likely happened in utero.
Possibly it was due to what the unborn twins were exposed to, and if what I suspect is correct, it’s unspeakably tragic. It’s careless and cruel. Fetal alcohol syndrome is preventable. Just don’t drink during pregnancy, and I wonder if the two girls are in special classes in school. I worry how functional they are, and what obstacles we face in using them as witnesses in this case.
I wonder how much I can rely on what they tell me now about how they happened upon the body and what they might have tampered with. Are they cogent? Are they truthful? And what kind of parents or guardians would allow them to wander about at night or at all?
I feel anger stir like an ember glowing hotly when it’s fanned. Then Barclay is next to Marino and me, showing us the photograph on his phone of Elisa Vandersteel’s driver’s license.
“That’s what I found on the path,” Barclay says proudly, as if he discovered the smoking gun. “Obviously, I didn’t pick it up. I thought I’d wait until you got here.” He directs this to Marino as I look at the photograph on the phone display.
Elisa Ann Vandersteel. DOB: 12–04–1998. London, and the post code is the exclusive area of Mayfair, on South Audley Street near the Dorchester Hotel and the American embassy. The photograph could be the woman I encountered twice earlier today, but I’m not certain.
I’m not going to say anything to Marino or anybody else until I have more information. Any sightings of the victim are important in determining when she died, and I’m mindful of being cautious about what I pass along without verification. Not that driver’s-license portraits are very good in general, but in this one Elisa Vandersteel is heavier than the cyclist I met. The face in the picture is broader, and the brown hair is short, whereas the young woman in Converse sneakers was lean and had a ponytail. But we don’t know how old the photograph is. She might look very different now.
“Anything else?” I ask. “Any other personal effects. A lot of cyclists have bike packs or saddlebags for their wallets, keys and other belongings.”
I don’t add that I don’t remember seeing something like that when I encountered the cyclist on Quincy Street. But Barclay says he didn’t see a bag of any sort attached to the bicycle or nearby.
“That doesn’t mean there wasn’t one,” he adds. “It might have been stolen by whoever did this.”
“And we don’t know if this is a homicide.” I’m just going to keep saying it. “We don’t know anything yet.” I return his phone to him.
“How many people have you had to chase off since you got here?” Marino asks him what’s gone on since the call was broadcast over radio.
“A handful have wandered in or tried to.”
“How close did they get?” Marino has yet to really look at him while they talk.
“They didn’t get anywhere near.”
“At least not the ones we know about.” Marino abruptly walks off in the direction of the twins.
“A couple of students, three to be exact,” Barclay tells his retreating back. “I turned them away before they could see anything. They couldn’t see there’s a dead body,” he directs this at me, and I wonder what he was doing before he showed up here.
CHAPTER 15
HE’S SLEEK AND QUITE an eyeful in parachute pants, a polo shirt, and leather high-tops, everything black.
His pistol is holstered on his right hip, his detective’s badge displayed on his belt, and Investigator Barclay looks like the star of his own TV show with his lean muscular build, Ken-doll face and buzz-cut blond hair. I can smell his cologne from several feet away, and I know his type, what we used to call a hotshot.
Marino has cruder terms for vain young bucks like Clay, as he hails him. I can’t imagine the two of them are friendly with each other or would be under any circumstances imaginable. As this is going through my mind I have second thoughts about Barclay’s nickname. Or better put, something comes to me as a warning.
“Does everybody call you Clay?” I ask, but what I’m really wondering is if anybody does besides Marino.
“I don’t know why he suddenly started doing that unless it’s to tick me off as usual.” He watches Marino talking to the twins. “My first name’s Tom, my middle name’s David. People call me Tom. It’s just another one of his stupid jokes that he thinks are so brilliant. I guess his point is to encourage other corny bullshit. First it’s Clay. Then it’s Dirt. Or Play-Doh. Or if I do something wrong my name will be Mud. But it goes with the turf when you get promoted to working major cases.” He shrugs. “You get picked on.”
Barclay continues to nail Marino with a stare, and Marino continues talking to the twins as if he’s oblivious. But he’s not. The sophomoric jokes, the juvenile behavior are a special skill set of his, and he has the acumen of a hawk. He doesn’t miss Barclay’s slightest twitch, and it’s a good thing I didn’t call him Clay. Marino would have thought that was hilarious, and it may very well be that he’s the only one who’s ever called him that.
But chances are good that Marino won’t be the last. Unfortunately when he comes up with a nickname or new “handle” for someone, there’s no undoing it. I wouldn’t be surprised if soon enough everyone in the Cambridge Police Department was talking to and about Clay Barclay, as if the lame redundancy really is his name.
“How you doing, Doctor Scarpetta?” He’s boisterous and too friendly as if we’ve just run into each other at a reception or in a crowded bar.
“Thanks for doing a good job keeping things quiet out here …” I start to say.
“If this was in daylight can you imagine a more exposed spot?” He watches me dig in my bag for a notepad and a pen. “Not to mention working a scene when it’s over a hundred degrees. At least it’s a cool eighty-eight now.”
I’m methodical and not in a hurry as I pull out Marino’s package of coveralls and the box of gloves. I set them on top of his nearby scene case. Then I walk back to Barclay, my tactical light pointed down at the grass with each step.
“I’ll take the ambient temperature as soon as the truck is here,” I let him know, and the real point I’m making is he needs to be careful about throwing around information the way he’s been doing.
I’m mindful that he’s already gone out on a limb by deciding the victim is Elisa Vandersteel when identity hasn’t been confirmed by DNA, dental records or any other legitimate means. And an ID found on the fitness path in a public park isn’t a confirmation. Not even close.
He’s also said she’s an assault, a murder, and I can’t know any such thing when I’ve not so much as looked at her yet. Possibly most dangerous is what he’s also passed along to at least one person—Marino—that the body is as stiff as a mannequin. In other words, it’s in an advanced stage of rigor mortis. That directly impacts the estimated time of death, and I wish Barclay had kept his opinion to himself.
These are the sorts of seemingly benign mistakes that can haunt you in court, and time of death is especially tricky. It’s not an exact science but is crucial to any alibi. It’s a favorite bone for defense attorneys to chew on, and how quickly strangers can lose faith in what an expert witness like me testifies. I have no intention of causing jurors to doubt my credibility because an inexperienced detective thought he could do my job for me at a death scene.
While it was appropriate for Barclay to check that the victim was actually deceased, he shouldn’t have begun playing the role of a medical examiner by making determinations about rigor mortis and how advanced it is or isn’t. He needs to be careful about information he finds on the Internet. He shouldn’t accept as gospel what the temperature in Cambridge is based on a weather app.
What part of Cambridge? There could be quite a difference between a shady spot near the water and the hot bricks of Harvard Square, for example.
“I’m assuming you got the temperature from some sort of app on your phone,” I say to Barclay after a silence I can tell he’s eager to fill. “So the detail about it being eighty-eight degrees Fahrenheit or thirty-one degrees Celsius? We’ll keep that out of any reports since we don’t know what the temperature is in the exact location where the body was found.”
“If you got a thermometer I can put it over there next to her,” he says, and I realize how aggressive he is.
“No thanks. That’s not what I was suggesting. I don’t have my scene case yet, but when I do I’ll handle any temperatures that need to be taken of the body, the ambient air, and all the rest.” I speak slowly and in a measured tone, resorting to what I think of as my neutral voice. “It might be cooler here because of the river,” I suggest as if it’s no big deal.
But he knows it is. He feels disrespected and criticized, and I’m witness to his mood’s rapid shift. It’s something I suddenly remember observing about him on the few occasions I’ve been in his presence. He’s volatile. He goes from hot to cold with not much in between.
“If only there was a breeze.” He looks away from me, toward the river, and it’s obvious when his narcissism is winged. “It’s hard to breathe. Damn suffocating.”
He’s practically turned his back to me.
“WHAT TIME WAS THE body found?” I ask him that next, and he can keep his back to me the rest of the night if it makes him happy.
After a sulky silence Barclay says, “We got the call about forty-five minutes ago. But oh! Wait a minute!”
He turns around and feigns a eureka moment, flashing his white teeth in the dark.
“The time came from my phone.” He throws a snarky dart, and it won’t find its mark with me.
“Is that okay? Or should I trust my watch instead?” he asks, and I won’t engage.
“The time I have written down for when I got the call is nineteen-oh-six-hundred hours.” He says it as if I won’t know what that is.
I jot it down. “Twenty-three-twenty Zulu time. Twenty minutes past seven EDST.” Then I a
sk, “How was the call classified when it was broadcast? What was said exactly? Because it would seem the media isn’t aware of anything yet.”
“It came in as a ten-seventeen.” He waits for me to ask him what that is, but I know the police ten-codes probably as well as he does.
I’ve been hearing them my entire career, and a 10-17 is common. It literally means “meet complainant.”
“I’m assuming it was about the twin sisters,” I interpolate, and Barclay stares at me as I think, What a dick.
He says nothing went out over the air that might alert reporters monitoring Boston-area law enforcement radio frequencies. This continues to argue against Marino’s suspicious phone call being from anyone legitimately involved in the case. It would seem Barclay absolutely didn’t contact Interpol’s National Central Bureau in Washington, D.C. I have a feeling that Marino’s right. The inexperienced investigator probably wouldn’t think of it and might not even know what the NCB is. Not every cop does.
Marino certainly didn’t initiate the contact, and of course I didn’t. It couldn’t have been anyone at my office. We didn’t know about the death at the time the alleged NCB investigator called Marino’s cell phone. What’s becoming more apparent is that the person responsible is someone up to no good, to understate the problem.
“I happened to be on Memorial Drive and got here in maybe three minutes max,” Barclay then answers what I didn’t ask about why he was the first responder or paid attention to a low-priority call.
Meeting a complainant suggests someone wants to talk to a police officer, usually to report a concern or upset of one sort or another. A general request like that could be about anything. Much of the time it’s about nothing, and it surprises me that a detective would pay much attention to such a call unless it was specifically directed at him. But Barclay is new to the Major Case Squad. Maybe he’s overly eager. Maybe he was bored.