Patricia Moriarity
Detective Sergeant
Massachusetts State Police
CHAPTER 8
Patty woke from a troubled sleep at ten after three. Her dream this time-what she remembered of it-featured multiple burned and bloodied body parts interspersed with varying images of Dr. Willard Grant. The two homicides she had handled before the managed-care murders were exercises in police and crime-scene procedure, not in detective work. In the first, the victim had taken out a restraining order against her violent boyfriend, and half an hour after she had returned from court he kicked in her door and stabbed her twenty-five times. The second, a lover’s quarrel between two gay men, had ended in a single impetuous gunshot to the heart.
The shooting death of Ben Morales, CEO of Premier Care, was the first murder she had been assigned where the suspect wasn’t ready-made. Now, that one case had grown to three, and no one doubted that a serial killer was at work. On paper, she was still part of the team from Middlesex working the case, but thanks to Wayne Brasco, she was justifiably feeling more and more like an outsider. Meetings were being held that did not include her and were called nothing more than impromptu discussions when she found out. Consultants were being called in without her knowing about them. The profiler she had originally lined up-a young, talented woman-had been replaced by a more experienced, though in her mind far less capable, man.
Tired of having her ideas demeaned and brushed off, Patty had decided on her own and on her own time to attend the Faneuil Hall debate. It just seemed to her like a charged setting where something might possibly happen. And something had, only not at all what she had expected. Wrapped in the darkness of her room, she sat on the edge of her bed and wondered about Grant and why he was occupying so much of her thoughts.
There was no question he appealed to her. His looks were hardly classic Hollywood, but she had never been attracted to square jaws and dimpled chins. His face was narrow and angular, almost gaunt, but there was a gentle vulnerability to it that brought her images of the man curled up on a couch, glasses perched on the tip of his nose, reading by a winter fire. It was his eyes, though, that affected her the most-wide and dark brown, enveloped by shadows of strain and fatigue, yet still bright and intelligent. This was not a simple man, she decided after just a few minutes of watching him at the podium. This was a man who felt things deeply, who had honest humility, and who also, she suspected, had a past that included some significant pain.
Patty shuffled to the couch in her living room and sipped some decaf cinnamon tea before attempting to read herself back to sleep-first with an Agatha Christie she had read at least once before, then with some Emily Dickinson poetry. By four-thirty, her angry thoughts of Wayne Brasco and her pleasant ones of Willard Grant were scrambled with the frustration surrounding three violent deaths and nearly eight weeks of fruitless investigation. Sleep, at least for this night, was over. She tied a terry-cloth robe tightly about her waist, padded into the guest bedroom, which doubled as her at-home study, and switched on her desk lamp, the base of which was a remarkable Northwest Eskimo carving of a polar bear. The lamp had been a gift from her brother, Tommy, in honor of her graduation from the police academy.
Willard Grant. She knew precious little of the man. It would be fun to learn more. She rotated some residual stiffness from her shoulders, then switched on her PC, called up her favorite search engine, and typed in the name. Surprisingly, a seventy-five-page list of Web sites that contained the name popped up, encompassing 717 separate items. Intrigued, Patty began to scroll down the pages. After just a few minutes she was ready to give up. There were a few sites involving a Reverend Willard Grant in historical documents dating back before the Revolutionary War, but all of the rest, it seemed, pertained to a rock/jazz fusion band that took its name from the intersection where their first recording studio was located.
Grinning at the image of herself poring through countless Web listings at four in the morning, searching for a man to whom she had spoken all of five words, Patty highlighted page 33, which, for no particular reason, she considered her lucky number. The page was filled with more band sites, most of them in German.
Enough! she thought. He wasn’t wearing a ring, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t married. Go for a run. Do some push-ups. E-mail some friends. But stop this teenage-
Patty stared at an item near the bottom of the page. It was from the Ashford Sentinel-the police log from May 27, four years ago.
Domestic disturbance, 94 Martin Road. Dr. Willard Grant taken into custody for arguing with responding officers. No charges filed.
There was no more information.
Taken into custody. No charges filed.
“What was that all about?” she muttered.
The best scenario she could concoct was that Grant’s wife or else a neighbor, or perhaps even one of their children, had called the cops because of a noisy argument. When the officers arrived, Grant refused to calm down or perhaps to leave the house for the night in order to defuse the situation. He was eventually removed by the officers, by force, and then calmed down quickly enough so that no charges were filed. Maybe the responding officers even knew him. Maybe he did some medical work for them or their families. Cops and docs-especially surgeons and ER docs-tended to share the bond of full moons and early-morning crazies.
Just as quickly as that, Patty’s romantic fantasies were gone, replaced by thoughts that were much more serious and sinister-thoughts of a father of two with a bullet in his forehead, and a company CEO, shot through the throat, and finally, a meticulous suburbanite, blown to bits in his driveway. The issues Willard Grant had discussed at Faneuil Hall didn’t exactly qualify as a motive, but there could certainly be more going on. Add an anger-management problem to the man’s passionate dislike for HMOs, and something well might be brewing.
In twenty minutes Patty had showered and dressed and was speeding through the early morning toward Salem along largely deserted streets. The Middlesex state police detectives unit was one floor below the district attorney’s office, located in a small shopping mall near the center of town. Patty used her security code to enter, left the overhead lights off, and switched on the desk lamp in her cubicle. Her desktop, while somewhat cluttered, was still neater than any of the men’s except for Lieutenant Court, who was at times fastidious to a fault. She had a single poster on the wall, sent by her brother, which looked amazingly like a mullioned window looking out on the Cascade Mountains. She had added a rod and set of paisley curtains, tied back to complete the illusion.
Sensing she was on to something, Patty settled in front of her computer and logged in. In moments she would be linked over space and time to the Criminal Justice Information System, an almost inconceivable amount of data on criminals, as well as on everyday citizens with no police record at all. She was about to become something of an expert on one Dr. Willard Grant. Her first stop was the Registry of Motor Vehicles.
Discovery number one was that Willard Grant used the name Will on his driver’s license, which Patty sensed might already be a violation of state law. He had two citations in five years, both for speeding, both paid. His current address was in Wolf Hollow, a modestly upscale condominium development in Frederickston. Backtracking, Patty found a Maxine Grant still living at the Martin Road address in Ashford. Since the domestic-disturbance incident four years ago, Will Grant was either separated or divorced. A quick check of Fredrickston records showed a divorce two years ago. Two children, Daniel and Jessica, both the same age. An adoption, perhaps, but more likely twins. Patty wondered where the children were the night their parents argued and Will Grant was hauled off by the Ashford police.