“I’ve got some questions,” Mulligan said.
“Shoot.”
“Did the medical examiner say how many times Becky was stabbed?”
“Forty-eight.”
“Forty-eight?” Mulligan’s stomach lurched. He took a moment to compose himself, then pressed on.
“You said the killer twisted the bulb over the back door to extinguish the light. How could you possibly know that?”
“Officer Rubino was stationed outside that door all day to keep unauthorized personnel from entering the house. Around eight o’clock, it was starting to get dark; so he opened the door, reached in, and hit the switch for the outside light. Nothing happened. He figured the bulb might have been loose, so he reached up to fiddle with it. Fortunately, I’d just stepped outside for a cigarette. I saw what Rubino was about to do and shouted, ‘Stop!’ As it turned out, the killer left us a perfect thumbprint on the sixty-watt Sylvania.”
Mulligan didn’t know much about what detectives did, but that sounded like good police work to him. That Jennings could rattle off the wattage and make of the bulb without consulting his notes seemed doubly impressive.
“What do you make of the two blood trails in the living room?”
“One of them was made by size nine dress shoes,” Jennings said. “That was Miller tracking blood as he ran across the living room and out the front door.”
“And the other one?”
“After the killer butchered his victims, he walked through the living room in his stocking feet.”
“He did? What for?”
“To look out the picture window. He was probably checking to see if Becky’s screams roused the neighbors. He left a blood smear on the curtains and a print of his forehead on the glass.”
“Why wasn’t he wearing shoes?”
“We figure he took them off before he broke in so he wouldn’t make as much noise when he creeped the place.”
“How did he get in?”
“He found an unlocked window at the rear of the house, pried the screen off, and crawled inside.”
“Think he left the same way?”
“Can’t say for sure.”
“Any idea who could have done this?”
“Not yet. Any more questions?”
“Yeah. How do you spell Rubino?”
October 1990
The scientific method.
The boy sits at a school desk that is uncomfortably small for him and pays close attention as the teacher explains it. You form a hypothesis. Then you design an experiment to test it.
He’s a solid B student. He likes to read, and history intrigues him, but math and science usually bore him. Not today. This concept appeals to him. It’s not something you learn just to get a passing grade. It’s something you can use. He decides to try it himself.
That afternoon, he thinks up his hypothesis. Then he tests it. He jumps with glee when his hypothesis proves to be correct.
Cats do burn faster than dogs.
5
June 1992
It was nearly ten P.M. by the time Mulligan stepped off the elevator into the Dispatch’s football-field-size newsroom, where three-quarters of the paper’s 340 journalists worked. The rest were posted in Washington and in nine suburban bureaus that covered local news in every one of Rhode Island’s thirty-nine cities and towns.
At this hour, more than half of the desks were empty. At the others, reporters were pounding out late-breaking news, copy editors were writing headlines, layout men were dummying pages, and photo editors were cropping the last few pictures for the fat Sunday edition. Lomax, who had started work twelve hours earlier, was still at his post at the city desk. He practically lived there.
“’Bout time you showed up,” he said. “The murder story’s bare-bones. Got anything we can use to fill it out?”
“I do,” Mulligan said.
“Type up your notes and give them to Hardcastle. Be quick about it. We’re already crowding deadline.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Lomax.”
“And shoot me a hard copy. I want to see what you came up with.”
Minutes after he turned in the notes, Lomax and Hardcastle hustled over to Mulligan’s desk. Lomax was grinning. Hardcastle wasn’t.
“Who’s your source for all this?” Hardcastle demanded.
“Nearly all of it came from Detective Jennings.”
“Nearly all?”
“I also talked to a thirteen-year-old neighborhood kid.”
“You expect us to use information from a fuckin’ kid?”
“He told me Miller was covered with blood when the police arrested him. Jennings tried to hold that back, but when I told him I already knew about it, he confirmed it.”
“Big fuckin’ deal,” Hardcastle said. “I had that already.” Without another word, he turned and stomped back to his desk.
“Maybe you’re not useless after all,” Lomax said. “Why don’t you head on home now and get some rest?”
“If it’s okay with you, Mr. Lomax, I’d like to hang around so I can read the story when Hardcastle’s done with it.”
“Sure thing. And kid?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Your notes put the murder house on Oakhurst Street. It’s Oakhurst Avenue. Don’t make a mistake like that again.”
Thirty minutes later, Mulligan sat at his desk reading the finished copy. Hardcastle may be a jerk, he thought, but the guy can really write. As Mulligan headed for the elevator, he overheard Lomax and Hardcastle squabbling at the city desk.
“Why’d you leave Mulligan’s name off of this?” Lomax asked.
“Cuz there’s no way I’m sharing a byline with a fuckin’ sportswriter.”
“Fine,” the city editor said. “Have it your way.”
Next morning, Mulligan slept till noon. When he woke, he pulled on a Red Sox T-shirt and an old pair of jeans, trudged barefoot down the stairs from his mother’s second-floor walk-up in the city’s Mount Hope neighborhood, and fetched the Sunday paper from the stoop. The murder story was below the fold on page one. The two-column headline said:
Killer At Large in Double Slaying
It carried a single byline:
By L. S. A. Mulligan
By the time he got back upstairs, his mother had set the kitchen table with mugs of strong coffee and plates of pancakes and bacon. Together they ate and read the entire paper front to back, passing the sections back and forth. As his mother cleared the table, Mulligan spent an extra few minutes with the sports, where his piece on Coach Happy Dobbs was displayed on the section front. Then he rose and went to the sink to wash the dishes.
His mother sat back down at the table, cut out her son’s two bylined stories, and stuck them on the refrigerator.
“I’m so proud of you, Liam.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
After drying the dishes, Mulligan stood in front of the refrigerator and studied the photograph that accompanied the murder story. Somehow, the Dispatch had gotten hold of a Medeiros family snapshot. According to the caption, it had been taken a couple of weeks ago at Misquamicut State Beach in Westerly. Jessica was on her knees, her brow furrowed in concentration as she dumped a yellow plastic shovel full of wet sand on top of a lopsided sand castle. Her mother and Miller sat behind her, grinning with their entire beings. Becky’s blond hair, backlit by the sun, looked as if it were on fire.
Mulligan stared at the photo for a long time. Then he took the scissors from the kitchen table, cut out the picture, folded it, and slipped it into a vinyl sleeve in his wallet.
He walked into the living room, dropped into the platform rocker, and turned on the Red Sox-Royals game in time to see Frank Viola throw the first pitch to Brian McRae. In the third, the Sox took the lead when Wade Boggs doubled in Ellis Burks. Mulligan didn’t care. He pulled out his cell and made a call.