48
Finding people, Darby explained to Mickey, wasn’t her area of expertise, so she promised to put him in touch with Sue Michaud, who, coincidentally, worked as an investigator for Shapiro and Hager. Sue, she explained, was not only great at her job but also known for her discretion and professionalism, which wasn’t always the case with private investigators.
Alone in the car and driving back to Belham, Darby got in touch with Sue and told her about Mickey’s situation. Sue agreed to take on the case, and Darby gave her Mickey’s contact info. Sue, thankfully, did not ask if Darby had come to a decision involving her own family drama.
The question of whether or not her parents had given up a child for adoption when they had been in high school had been eating at her for days. Every time she pondered it, like now – when she thought of those torn shreds of audio tape sitting inside the envelope – it felt like a blade dunked in ice water was resting against her heart.
Her phone rang. Chris Kennedy was calling.
‘You’re calling to tell me you’ve arranged a personal tour of Byrne’s house, aren’t you?’
‘I am indeed,’ Kennedy replied. ‘Where are you?’
‘Driving back to Belham. In fact, I’m almost there.’
‘Good. Head on over to Byrne’s house. Blake will meet you there.’
‘I hate to ask, but why are you calling me instead of Blake?’
‘Let’s just say he’s not interested in becoming a member of the Darby McCormick fan club.’
‘We’d probably have to reject his application anyway. It’s a very select group.’
Roger Blake was not waiting for her at Byrne’s home. Instead, she found a plain-clothes cop sitting in a cruiser parked along the side road that abutted the former priest’s backyard – an older, Irish guy with a bloated face caused by too much drinking. She recognized him.
‘You were the first responding officer that night,’ she said. ‘Officer Rich, right?’
He nodded and, as on the night she’d met him, he made no effort to hide his contempt. Rich knew who she was – had made a point telling her so when she’d met him after finding Byrne’s body and calling 911. Just to make sure she knew where he stood, Rich had called her ‘a rat’.
‘Detective Blake won’t be joining us,’ Rich said.
‘Oh? And why’s that?’
‘He got tied up with something.’
Rich didn’t want to talk, which was fine by her. He stuck close by her side and took out his notepad when she entered the bedroom.
The evidence cones were gone, but the floorboards where Byrne, she assumed, had hidden the pictures, Claire Flynn’s snow jacket and the cassettes of the girls crying hadn’t been placed back in their slots. The bed, which was on rollers, allowing Byrne to move it to access the floorboards, was pushed aside, to the left – the same position she’d seen it in on the night Mickey had called her.
She looked around the room, at the toys covering the bureau and nightstand. The floor. Everywhere she looked she saw clean surfaces. She turned to the patrolman.
‘Why wasn’t the crime scene dusted for prints?’
‘Because there was no crime,’ he replied, clearly uninterested in the topic. ‘We were dealing with a suicide, not a homicide.’
‘But you didn’t know that at the time.’
The patrolman looked at her, his boredom reaching his features.
‘Just because something appears as a suicide doesn’t mean it is one,’ Darby said. ‘You can never assume. You have to rule out homicide first. That means processing the scene correctly, treating it –’
‘Blake is the investigator, and he ruled it a suicide. You got questions, ask him.’
‘I would, only he’s not here, is he?’
‘Not my problem. Now get on with it. I’d like to get home to my wife. We’re binge-watching Game of Thrones.’
She ignored him and turned her attention to the ceiling beams. On the one Byrne had used to hang himself, the rope was still there, only it had been cut in half. The section tied around Byrne’s neck had gone to the lab for analysis. The other part hung limply from the beam.
She doubted the patrolman had a folding ladder in his cruiser, didn’t want to ask or engage in any more fruitless conversation. It was clear he wasn’t going to cooperate.
She went downstairs, to the kitchen. Rich followed her, jotting down notes on his pad. When she returned to the bedroom with a kitchen chair, she turned on all the available lights. He wrote that down too.
Darby examined the knot. It was called a trucker’s hitch, a popular knot she used herself to secure a mattress or some other large piece of furniture to the roof rack of a car or an SUV. She fished a pair of latex gloves out of her back pocket.
‘Detective Blake doesn’t want you touching any evidence,’ Rich said.
‘You just told me no crime was committed here. Therefore, there isn’t any evidence, correct?’
‘Doesn’t mean he might not find something down the road, so –’
‘I’m going to take a look at this knot. Write that down in your little book.’
Darby moved the knot to the side and, using her flashlight, examined the wood.
‘What are you looking for?’ he asked.
‘Termites.’
‘If you’re going to be a smartass, I’ll remove you.’
No, you won’t, Darby thought. The reason Blake had allowed this quid pro quo was because he was worried she might come across something he’d missed. Blake was hedging his bets. If she found nothing, no harm, no foul. But if she did come across something, he’d want to know about it. Only he was too lazy to go there himself.
Darby traded her flashlight for her phone and took several pictures at different angles, the patrolman keeping a close eye on her and writing on his pad.
For the next half-hour, she used her flashlight to carefully examine each of the beams. When she got down from her chair, she examined the bedroom door.
‘What are you looking for?’ the patrolman asked again.
The man gritted his teeth.
‘I’m looking at a bedroom door,’ Darby said. ‘Before that, I was looking at the ceiling beams. Now I’m going to look inside the other bedroom.’
Darby brushed past him and moved down the narrow hall. It took her a moment to find the light switch.
This bedroom, which clearly belonged to an adult, had the same fifties vibe to it – same ugly colours and furniture that had gone out of fashion decades ago (and, ironically, was probably worth a lot of money in vintage circles). The bedroom didn’t have any exposed beams, and the space looked neat and clean except for the areas where the cops and forensic people had been.
She examined both sides of the door and then turned to the patrolman.
‘I’m all set,’ she said.
‘And?’
‘I didn’t find anything. It was a bust.’
‘I think you’re full of shit.’
Darby smiled.
‘You keep something from us,’ he said, ‘we’ll kick an obstruction charge so far up your ass you’ll choke.’
‘Duly noted. Any other words of wisdom?’
‘Yeah. You’re no longer a part of this case. It ends here. That means no more talking to Grace Humphrey, Father Cullen, Mickey and Sean Flynn.’
‘Not even to say hello? Seems rather rude, don’t you think?’
‘If you’re smart, you’ll pack up your shit and leave Belham,’ the patrolman said. ‘If you don’t, well, you’re not going to like what happens next.’