“I know we’ve got this written somewhere, but is Sergeant French left-handed or right-?”
“Right-,” Steve said. Then in Neil’s defense he added, “So is a majority of the human race.”
“Yeah, but so far he was her only known lover.”
So far. The syllables made little flares in Steve’s brain.
“I asked Lieutenant Markarian to review the time line of Neil’s activity surrounding the killing.”
Steve nodded. “If the time line is correct, Terry Farina was murdered sometime between 5:47 P.M. and 10 P.M. on June second. On that day, Sergeant French had checked in to work at 11:15 A.M. and left around 4:30 P.M. He had two tickets to the Sox-Yankees’ game, which started at 7:05 P.M. Originally he was going to bring his daughter, but he gave his ticket to her girlfriend, leaving him free and unaccounted for until around 10 P.M. when he claimed to have picked her up. If he dropped them off at 6:15 as claimed, that gave him four hours to drive to Jamaica Plain to kill Farina and still be back to get the girls. Lily’s phone records showed that she had called Neil at 9:47, possibly for the ride home.”
The others jotted notes and asked a few questions while guilt bubbled in Steve’s gut.
“We’ve got this other lead,” Reardon said. “Witnesses claim that Farina spent the week at a resort in Ontario recuperating from some trauma to her face. We checked, and there was no report of an accident with her car or crime report, so we’re going on the theory that she was assaulted by someone she knew.” Reardon checked his notes. “The thing is, her stay up there comes just days after Detective French was seen roughing her up at the Kingsbury Club.” He looked at Steve. “I want you to check into that.”
Steve nodded.
Yeah, check and see if that’s you who had sent her up there with a battered face. Just may be that you had a little more going with her than a few coffee breaks. Maybe the same lamp-smashing id twin who wanted to pound the lights out of Sylvia Nevins took it out on poor Terry Farina.
So why didn’t she report it? another voice protested.
Because maybe you pulled a one-man blue-wall thing and threatened her with worse if she did.
Then how come I don’t remember any of that?
Because you pickled your memory nodes with scotch and Ativan like the night you dropped up there with the Taittinger to finish her off.
“In the meantime, we’ve got this Cobbsville case which Lieutenant Markarian will review.”
Reardon nodded to Steve, who flushed down the voices with the rest of his coffee and did all he could to maintain the autopilot.
He got up, adjusted the overhead projector, and moved to his laptop. With the help of Sergeant Dacey, he had put together a PowerPoint review of the overlaps with the Farina case. Copies of the Novak file had been distributed around the room earlier.
Displayed on the overhead screen were both victims’ photos, their personal data, forensic data, and common MOs. Each was a single white female three years apart. They were similar in body size, in appearance, and had red hair of close shades, both dyed. Each lived alone and had separated from a boyfriend. Each was found dead at her apartment, hanging from a black lace-top stocking—Farina from her bedpost, Novak in her closet.
“The problem is there were no signs of forced entry, foul play, or sexual activity,” Steve said.
“If she was murdered,” Dacey said, “the killer had to have strangled her someplace else then set her up in the closet. That’s where I’m having problems. He’d had to have moved her pretty fast because the forensics say she appeared to have died in place.”
“We get confirmation of the stocking brand?” Hogan asked.
“No.”
“Maybe we can get them to go back into the evidence box and do a lab check.”
Steve nodded. “My guess is that the stocking might be a coincidence.”
“Yeah, but there’s the demographic overlaps, plus the hair and general appearance,” Hogan said. “Plus the parents and case officer said they didn’t buy the autoasphyxia.”
“True, but there’s also nothing hard to prove foul play or a connection,” Steve said.
“I agree,” Reardon said. “And it’s not incumbent upon us to disprove the official ruling on cause of death. At this point, I think it’s best to consider the Novak case coincidental.”
Steve nodded, feeling the pressure in his chest ease up.
“But just for the record,” Reardon added, “I want you to check Neil’s whereabouts when the Novak woman was killed. He was at the Gloucester P.D. at the time, which is only ten miles from Cobbsville. The same with Pendergast. I also want French’s office computer examined for any correspondences with either victim, et cetera.”
“What if he decides to drop in for something and the techs have his PC?” Hogan asked. “He’s going to know he’s being investigated.”
“That’s not going to happen because I want a surveillance on him,” Reardon said. Then he took a deep sigh. “I don’t even know if he’s our guy, and I’m praying to God that he’s not. But while he’s on the road, I want a search of his place. Lieutenant, we’ll need a warrant. Coordinate with Sergeants Dacey and Vaughn so you can do it when he and his daughter are away. If need be, we’ll get the state to provide extra manpower for different shifts, different teams—people he doesn’t know.”
“When do you want us to start?” Vaughn asked.
“Immediately. He’s back in the office next Wednesday, and I want him covered day and night.”
Nobody in the room knew what Steve was sitting on—that nagging fear that it was he who owned the death of Terry Farina. And while every survival instinct in him screamed to go with the flow, he could not suppress a reflex of conscience on Neil’s behalf. “Captain, is all this necessary? We’ve got only circumstantial evidence connecting him to Farina’s murder and nothing on the Novak case.”
“I understand that, and we may not even have enough to get a paper. But circumstance is all we’ve got. Believe me, I don’t like it any more than you do, but consider the investigation not a means to indict him but to exonerate him. Look at it that way and it’ll go down easier.”
Steve nodded.
“What do we know about his wife?” Vaughn asked.
“We found the obit from The Gloucester Gazette,” Dacey said, glancing at her notes. “Ellen Gilmore French worked as a registered nurse before her daughter was born, died three years ago of cancer.” Dacey looked up. “I checked with the coroner, she was a brunette.”
Steve wondered what he would have thought were she a redhead.
“Captain,” Vaughn said, “do you really think he’s a danger?”
“I’m telling you I don’t know,” Reardon said. “But what bothers me is that Sergeant French is a man who’s not at ease, who’s known to be volatile. God forbid, if it is him, he’s feeling the pressure of his suspension. And if there’s one thing that my years in this business have taught me it’s that bad guys under pressure will pop. It’s merely a precaution.”
After a moment’s silence, Dacey said, “You’re saying you think his daughter might be at risk?”
“I’m saying he may be prone to violence, and she’s the closest body, which is why I want her under surveillance also.” Reardon tapped the table with his knuckles to say the meeting was over. “Okay, you’ve got your assignments. It goes without saying, no screwups. No blowing cover. And I need not tell you how this department would look should word get out we’re investigating one of our own.”