Double Homicide Read online

  “Not exactly,” McCain said.

  “I don’t like that,” O’Toole said. “What does that mean, ‘Not exactly’?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to determine, sir.”

  “Who’s we?” Harriet asked.

  “Dr. Change,” Dorothy said. “John Change. He thinks Julius died from an aneurysm and not from a gunshot wound.”

  “He thinks?” O’Toole said.

  McCain muttered, “He thinks, therefore he screws us up.”

  “That’s his conclusion so far,” Dorothy said.

  Harriet said, “Oh my.”

  “Still,” Dorothy said, “Delveccio’s gunshots could have caused the aneurysm to burst. Because when Julius was hit, he fell forward onto a table.”

  McCain said, “The force on his chest from slamming against the table could very well have burst open the aneurysm.”

  “So the shots lead to the chain of events that caused Julius Van Beest’s death,” Harriet said. “We still could make a case for premeditated murder.”

  “Is that what happened?” O’Toole said. “A fall killed him? Change says that?”

  Dorothy said, “The fall didn’t cause the aneurysm—if there was an aneurysm. But it could have caused an aneurysm to open up.”

  “What do you mean, if there was an aneurysm?”

  “So far, nothing showed up on the X-ray,” Dorothy said.

  O’Toole said, “This is starting to stink like bullcrap.”

  Harriet played with her hair. “So it’s possible he didn’t have an aneurysm.”

  McCain said, “Change is sayin’ right now that there’s no physical evidence of one on the X-ray.”

  “So how did he come to his conclusion that Julius died of an aneurysm?”

  “There was a ruptured artery upon autopsy and blood pooling in the chest cavity,” said Dorothy. “I respect Change, but I’m wondering if maybe he missed a bullet wound.”

  “You’re saying Change fucked up?” said O’Toole.

  “No one’s perfect,” McCain half whispered.

  As the captain colored further, Dorothy broke in: “We’re meeting with him in an hour. We’ll go over everything in detail.”

  “Cancel your meeting,” O’Toole snapped. “We got more important things to deal with. As in, we found the gun that shot Julius in the pile of confiscated weapons. As in, on the damn thing was a partial of Delveccio’s right thumb.”

  Dorothy and McCain smiled. She said, “You pick him up?”

  “He’s in holding as we speak. The bad news is that our witnesses who said they saw Pappy pulling out a gun have recanted. But with the print, we know the asshole touched the gun at some point. And we know that the same gun shot Julius.”

  “I think a jury can put two and two together,” Dorothy said.

  “But,” Harriet said, “if I’m trying to prove premeditation, I have to make sure Julius was killed by the gun as part of an intentional, direct action committed by the accused. Now you’re telling me we don’t know that.”

  O’Toole glared at the detectives.

  McCain said, “That’s a question for Change. But in the meantime—”

  “Here’s the thing,” said Harriet. “If we go for attempted murder rather than homicide, Pappy’s counsel is going to know we can’t prove the gun killed Julius. It’s going to give him ammunition to fight even that charge.”

  “So what do you want from us?” Dorothy said.

  “I want you to see if you can get him scared about premeditated murder,” the DA said. “Then we can probably deal him down to attempted murder. Otherwise we could end up settling for some dinky charge.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” McCain said. “He was aiming for Julius, he touched the damn gun, and the bullets hit their mark.”

  “But not necessarily fatally, Detective. And if we don’t get someone who saw Pappy fire the gun, we end up with a break in the chain. And Pappy can be very charming when he wants to be,” Harriet said. “Get some b-ball fans on the jury, maybe a swooning female or two, we could be in trouble.”

  The room fell silent.

  McCain spoke first. “How about this: We don’t have conclusive evidence of an aneurysm on the X-ray. So at this particular moment, I don’t know what killed Julius. Meaning I can tell Delveccio it was his bullet.” He shrugged. “Hell, Supreme Court says I’m allowed to deceive, right? Let me go in there now and work him.”

  “He’s already asked for his lawyer,” Harriet said. “When he was picked up the first time.”

  “I didn’t hear him ask for his lawyer today.”

  “That’s irrelevant,” Harriet said. “Once he requests—”

  “Unless he chooses of his own volition to talk to me,” said McCain. “Coupla guys shooting the breeze.”

  O’Toole said, “Why in blazes would he do that?”

  McCain smiled. “You know, Captain, when I want to be, I can be charming, too.”

  Through the one-way mirror, McCain looked at Patrick Luther Delveccio, a huge, broad-shouldered figure barely out of his teens. An indulged child in an oversize body, and that made him menacing. He was dressed casually—jeans and a sweatshirt. Musta been size 20 athletic shoes—fancy blue shoes—housed his feet. The kid’s mouth was set petulantly, but his body was all movement: hands drumming the tabletop, feet tapping the floor, head bopping to an internal beat. Despite that, he looked relaxed, as if a prospective stint in the cooler was little more than a camp vacation.

  McCain licked his lips and entered the interview room. “Hey, Pappy.”

  Delveccio glared at him. “I ain’t talking to you.”

  “Why not? Am I that ugly?”

  “Yeah, you are that ugly. But I also ain’t talking to you ’cause I don’t talk to cops.”

  “Sooner or later, you’re gonna have to talk to us. I just thought if it was just like you and me—you know, a little game of one-on-one—it makes things simpler.”

  Delveccio laughed. “Go fuck yourself.”

  McCain wagged a finger. “Yeah, you think about that when the needle slips into your veins.”

  Delveccio sneered. “No death penalty in Massachusetts. And all they’re gonna charge me with is mischief or some shit like that.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Everybody.”

  “Well,” said McCain, settling in a chair and winking, “you’re right about the needle, but maybe you’re gonna be wishing for the needle after fifty years in prison. Know what I’m saying?”

  Delveccio laughed. “You’re full of shit.”

  “And you are in trouble, my man. Because today’s a new day and guess what, Pappy? We got the gun. Nice clear ballistics match to the bullets in Julius and a beautiful fingerprint match to you. It’s first-degree murder now, Pappy. We’re handing you to the DA, signed, sealed, and delivered.”

  Delveccio pursed his lips but didn’t say anything. McCain decided to wait him out.

  Finally: “Julius didn’t die of no gunshot. You got nothing on me.”

  “That what they told you?” McCain shook his head. “Everyone’s telling you stuff, and then stuff changes.” His turn to laugh.

  Delveccio tried to stay cool, but his youthful impulsiveness broke through. “What’s so fucking funny?”

  “Nothing,” McCain said. “I don’t blame you, Pappy. Most athletes do very well at trial. All those girls swooning over you.” He paused. “But then again, most athletes don’t have their fingerprints on the smoking gun. And most athletes don’t kill other athletes. People liked Julius. Maybe more than you.”

  “It don’t matter ’cause he didn’t die from no bullet.”

  “You keep telling yourself that, Pappy. Maybe eventually, you’ll convince someone.” McCain stood. “Nice talking to you. Good luck with your lawyer.”

  He started for the door.

  “Hey!” Pappy shouted.

  McCain turned but didn’t speak.

  “You’re lying,” said Pappy.

  McCain
started to swivel back toward the door.

  Pappy said, “What’re you saying? What do you know about all this shit?”

  “Sorry,” McCain said. “I can’t tell you anything without your lawyer present.”

  “Fuck my lawyer. What’re you saying?”

  McCain stuck a hand in his pocket. “Why should I tell you anything when you’re not telling me anything?”

  “’Cause . . .” Delveccio pursed his lips. “You’re fixing me. I don’t play fixed games. Yeah, I am gonna wait for my lawyer.”

  “Good choice,” said McCain. “I hope for your sake he’s not one of those guys trying to make his career outta you.”

  He headed for the exit. Had his hand on the doorknob when Delveccio said, “Maybe I can give you something. ’Cause I didn’t do nothing. And that’s the truth.”

  McCain kept his back to the boy.

  “You hear me?” said Pappy.

  McCain turned again, made eye contact. Saw Pappy’s eyes flicker. The kid licked his lips, then his soul patch.

  “What?”

  “Sit down,” said the kid. Ordering McCain like he was used to it. “I don’t like you over me like that.”

  McCain sat.

  “Here’s the deal,” said Delveccio. “I ain’t saying nothing about what happened at the club. I ain’t stupid.” He leaned across the table. Far across. McCain’s instinct was to recoil, but he held fast. Waited.

  The kid said, “What I’m saying got nothing to do with Julius. It’s got to do with something else.”

  “I’m listening.” McCain tried to keep his voice even. It wasn’t easy with that big scowling mug inches from his face.

  Delveccio said, “Tell me what you’ll give me.”

  “Can’t do that until I know what we’re talking about, Pappy.”

  “Man, you fixing me.”

  “Tell you what, Pappy. Give me a hint.”

  Delveccio sank back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “I might have an idea where a certain person that you been lookin’ for is hiding.”

  “That so?” McCain’s voice was even, but his brain was racing.

  “Not that I know for sure,” Delveccio said, “but I hear things.”

  “Speak to me.”

  “I don’t do no time, okay?”

  “That’s not gonna happen, Pappy.”

  “Well . . . then I do the minimum. Six months for reckless firearm, whatever. City jail time, I can do that. I did that when I was fourteen.”

  “That so?”

  “Yeah.” Pappy grinned. “Got into a little fight with some dudes. Long time ago. Juvey record’s all sealed.”

  “As it should be,” said McCain.

  “Three months,” said Pappy. “I get back in time for the season.”

  “The boy died, Pappy. I got to be honest with you. But I’m not saying we can’t work something out if you give me something good.”

  “Believe me, it’s good.”

  “Look, Pappy, I’ll do my best. What are we talking about?”

  Delveccio grinned. “You’re looking for someone, right?” He made kissy noises. “Mr. Lover Boy. And that’s all I’m gonna say until you get me a deal.”

  McCain stared at him.

  Looking for someone.

  Lover Boy.

  The bastard was talking about their multiple-murder fugitive wanted in Perciville, Tennessee.

  The bastard was talking about Romeo Fritt.

  14

  By half past nine, both Pappy and Lover Boy were secured behind bars. Tomorrow, Romeo Fritt would be on his way back to Tennessee, where he could get the needle. And Delveccio would board a bus to jail.

  Pappy’s lawyers, upon hearing about the conversation with McCain, had tantrumed, threatened, then realized their boy had gotten a good deal. After three hours of wrangling with Harriet, the charge was involuntary manslaughter. Pappy’s sealed youth record notwithstanding, he was a first offender. He might see playing time within a couple of seasons.

  Dorothy and McCain weren’t wild about the conclusion. But Change’s assertion was still death by aneurysm, and it would have been impossible to get a premeditated-murder conviction.

  Even attempted murder was a stretch.

  “It’s Boston,” McCain said. “You gotta know your audience. I think we did fine.”

  Dorothy tightened her coat around her body. A bitter wind was whipping from the bay. The sky was dark and clear. No snow tonight, but that only made it colder. Her teeth chattered as she talked. “It isn’t going to sit right with Ellen Van Beest.”

  McCain wrapped his scarf around his neck, mouth, and nose. “Pappy’s still gonna serve time, and we got a worse murderer off the streets.”

  “I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

  He pulled the scarf off his mouth and repeated himself. “All in all, it’s not too bad, right?”

  “Yeah . . . How about you take Ellen’s phone call?”

  McCain was silent for a moment as he retrieved the car keys from his pocket. “Let’s go out to dinner. I’m starved.”

  “I want to get home to the boys.”

  “Let’s take them out,” McCain said. “My treat. I’m thinking lobster. How about Legal?”

  Dorothy couldn’t resist that. “You know, I am hungry. I’ll call up the boys and have them meet up with us.”

  “Sounds great.” McCain opened the car door, shivering as he turned on the ignition and the heat. It took several minutes for the interior air to be breathable. “At first, I wasn’t looking forward to Christmas in Florida. You know how I feel about Florida. Now after trudging through this cold spell and not sleeping for the last couple of days, Florida doesn’t sound half bad.”

  “Take me with you.”

  “You’re welcome to come.”

  Dorothy fished her phone from her oversize tote. She looked at the cell’s window and read her text message. “Forget lobster. Change wants to see us right away.”

  McCain groaned. “It’s over.”

  “Apparently not. Want me to ignore the head ghoul?”

  “Yeah,” McCain said. “No.” He snatched the phone from her. “Call him back but do it after dinner.”

  The basement lab was pitch-dark until Change flicked on the fluorescent lights. The ceiling fixtures blinked in succession until the room was awash in glare. After Dorothy’s eyes adjusted, she took off her coat and hung it on the rack. Then she changed her mind and put it back on. It was an igloo inside.

  Change said, “Evening, Detectives.”

  “Just don’t tell me Julius died of a gunshot wound. Pappy’s been dealt down.”

  “No, he didn’t die of a gunshot wound.” Change switched on the lights to a wall box mount, then searched through a series of large manila envelopes. “Sorry about the temperature. This shouldn’t take long at all.”

  “So why couldn’t it wait until the morning?” McCain grumped.

  “I thought you might want to see this,” Change said. “It could change your schedule for tomorrow.”

  McCain mumbled, “Then show it to us tomorrow.”

  Dorothy nudged him in the ribs. “What is it, Doc?”

  “Here we go.” Change pulled a large X-ray out of an envelope and placed it on the backlit monitor.

  “A chest X-ray,” McCain said.

  “Exactly.”

  “You found the aneurysm?” said Dorothy.

  “No aneurysm. But now more than ever, I believe that Julius died of one.” Change picked up a pointer. “It should have been right around here. See this area of gray, this arch? This is where the aorta splits into the subclavian and the carotid.”

  “I don’t see nothing except a bunch of ribs,” McCain groused.

  “We’ll get to that in a moment,” Change said. “There’s nothing anatomically suspicious in this radiograph. Everything looks normal—No, let me modify that. Everything looks normal in the vascular department.” He turned to McCain. “So since you’re focused on the ri
bs, let’s look at the ribs. Twelve ribs in all.”

  “Looks to me like a lot more than twelve,” McCain said.

  “That’s ’cause you’re seeing a double image. Ten ribs are attached. They come from the spine, swing around, and attach to the sternum.” He picked up a pointer and traced. “Because the image is two-dimensional, what we’re seeing is the same rib from both front and back projections.”

  “Got it,” McCain said. “Go on.”

  “Here we have what we call the floating ribs—these projections on either side of the spine that appear to hang.”

  “And that’s not normal?” Dorothy asked.

  “No, that’s very normal. Stay with me.” Again, Change traced the ribs. “This twelfth rib is easy—nothing in its way. The eleventh rib in this X-ray is a little shorter than normal, meaning the tip is partially obscured by the rib cage, specifically by the tenth rib’s arch. But if you look really carefully at what I’m pointing to, tell me what you see.”

  The detectives stared at the X-ray. McCain said, “It’s like split.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Dorothy said. “I see it.”

  “It isn’t like split,” Change said. “It is split. It’s called a supernumerary rib, in this case a bifid rib, and the condition is somewhat unusual but not really rare—one in twenty.”

  He faced them. “I autopsied the boy. I studied him from the inside out. The extra rib has nothing to do with Julius’s death. But it also has nothing to do with Julius. This X-ray isn’t from the body that I autopsied. The body I autopsied did not—I repeat did not—have a supernumerary rib. I would have seen it clearly, and I would have noted it.”

  Change’s eyes heated. First time the detectives had seen that.

  Dorothy said, “It’s not Julius’s X-ray.”

  Change said, “You’re the detectives. You might want to find out what’s going on.”

  Silence.

  The ME tapped the X-ray with his pointer. “If I were you, I’d go back and look at all of Julius’s medical records, not just those from his most recent year. “The one that the school gave seemed fine at the time, but now we’ll want to see all of them. What was Julius, a senior?”

  Dorothy nodded.

  “So Boston Ferris Health Services should have other chest radiographs. Go back and see if you can find different X-rays—at least one that really belongs to Julius.”