Marino has always ignored my government affiliations as if they don’t exist.
He stares straight ahead, and headlights of an approaching car illuminate his face, touched by disgruntledness and a certain lack of
comprehension that is part of who he is. I might feel sorry for him because of the affection I can’t deny, but not now. Not under the circumstances. I
won’t let on that I’m upset.
“What else did you share with Briggs—in addition to your opinions?” I ask Marino.
When he doesn’t answer, Lucy does. “Briggs saw the same thing you’re about to see,” she says. “It wasn’t my idea, and I didn’t e-mail them,
just so we’re clear.”
“Didn’t e-mail what exactly?” But I know what exactly, and my incredulity grows. Marino sent evidence to Briggs. It’s my case, and Briggs has
been given information first.
“He wanted to know,” Marino says, as if that’s a good enough reason. “What was I supposed to tell him?”
“You shouldn’t have told him anything. You went over my head. It’s not his case,” I reply.
“Yeah, well, it is,” Marino says. “He was appointed by the surgeon general, meaning he basically was hired by the president, so I’d say that
means he outranks everyone in this van.”
“General Briggs isn’t the chief medical examiner of Massachusetts, and you don’t work for him. You work for me.” I’m careful how I say it. I try to
sound reasonable and calm, the way I do when a hostile attorney is trying to dismantle me on the witness stand, the way I do when Marino is about
to erupt into an unseemly display of loud profanities and slammed doors. “The CFC has a mixed jurisdiction and can take federal cases in certain
situations, and I realize it’s confusing. Ours is a joint initiative between the state and federal governments and MIT, Harvard. And I realize that’s an
unprecedented concept and tricky, which is why you should have let me handle it instead of bypassing me.” I try to sound easygoing and matter-offact.
“The problem about involving General Briggs prematurely, about involving him precipitously, is things can take on a life of their own. But what’s
done is done.”
“What do you mean? ‘What’s done‘?” Marino sounds less sure of himself. I detect an anxious note, and I’m not going to help him out. He needs
to think about what has been done, because he’s the one who did it.
“What’s the not-so-good news?” I turn around and ask Lucy.
“Take a look,” she says. “It’s the last three recordings made, including a minute here and there when the headset was jostled by the EMTs, the
cops, and this morning by me when I started looking at it in my lab.”
The iPad’s display glows brightly, colorfully, in the dark, and I tap on the icon for the first video file she has selected, and it begins to play. I see what
the dead man was seeing yesterday at three-oh-four p.m., a black-and-white greyhound curled up on a blue couch in a living room that has a heartof-
pine floor and a blue-and-red rug.
The camera moves as the man moves because he has the headphones on and they are recording: a coffee table covered with books and
papers neatly stacked, and what looks like architectural or engineering drafting vellum with a pencil on top; a window with wooden blinds that are
closed; a desk with two large flat-screen monitors and two silver MacBooks, and a phone plugged into a charger, possibly an iPhone, and an
amber glass smoking pipe in an ashtray; a floor lamp with a green shade; a fleece dog bed and scattered toys. I get a glimpse of a door that has a
deadbolt and a sliding lock, and on a wall are framed photographs and posters that go by too abruptly for me to see the details. I will wait to study
them later.
So far I observe nothing that tells me who the man is or where he lives, but I get the impression of the small apartment or maybe the house of
someone who likes animals, is financially comfortable, and is mindful of security and privacy. The man, assuming this is his place and his dog, is
highly evolved intellectually and technically, is creative and organized, possibly smokes marijuana, and has chosen a pet that is a needy
companion, not a trophy but a creature that has suffered cruelty in a former life and can’t possibly fend for itself. I feel upset for the dog and worry
about what has happened to it.
Certainly the EMTs, the police, didn’t leave a helpless greyhound in Norton’s Woods yesterday, lost and alone in the New England weather.
Benton told me it was eleven degrees this morning in Cambridge, and before the night is out, it will snow. Maybe the dog is at the fire department’s
headquarters, well fed and attended to around the clock. Maybe Investigator Law took it home or some other police person did. It’s also possible
no one realized the dog belonged to the man who died. Dear God, that would be awful.
“What happened to the greyhound?” I have to ask.
“Got no idea,” Marino says, to my dismay. “Nobody knew until this morning when Lucy and me saw what you’re looking at. The EMTs don’t
remember seeing a greyhound running loose, not that they were looking, but the gate leading into Norton’s Woods was open when they got there.
As you probably know, the gate’s never locked and is wide open a lot of the time.”
“He can’t survive in freezing conditions. How could people not notice the poor thing unleashed and running loose? Because I can’t imagine he
wasn’t running around in the park for at least a few minutes before he ran out of the open gate. Common sense would tell you that when his master
collapsed, the dog didn’t suddenly flee from the woods and onto the street.”
“A lot of people take their dogs off the leashes and let them run loose in the parks like Norton’s Woods,” Lucy says. “I know I do with Jet
Ranger.”
Jet Ranger is her ancient bulldog, and he doesn’t exactly run.
“So maybe nobody noticed because it didn’t look out of the ordinary,” she adds.
“Plus, I think everybody was a little preoccupied with some guy dropping dead,” Marino states the obvious.
I look out at military housing on a poorly lit road, at aircraft that are bright and big like planets in the overcast dark. I can’t make sense of what
I’m being told. I’m surprised the greyhound didn’t stay close to his master. Maybe the dog panicked or there’s some other reason no one noticed
him.
“The dog’s bound to show up,” Marino goes on. “No way people in an area like that are going to ignore a greyhound wandering around by
itself. My guess is one of the neighbors or a student has it. Unless it’s possible the guy was whacked and the killer took the dog.”
“Why?” I puzzle.
“Like you’ve been saying, we need to keep an open mind,” he answers. “How do we know that whoever did it wasn’t watching nearby? And
then at an opportune moment, took off with the dog, acting like it belonged to him?”
“But why?”
“It could be evidence that would lead to the killer for some reason,” he suggests. “Maybe lead to an identification. A game. A thrill. A souvenir.
Who the hell knows? But you’ll notice from the video clips at one point the leash was taken off him, and guess what? It hasn’t showed up. It didn’t
come in with the headphones or the body.”
The dog’s name is Sock. On the iPad’s display, the man is walking and clucking his tongue, telling Sock it’s time to go. “Let’s go, Sock,” he
coaxes in a pleasant baritone voice. “Come on, you lazy doggie, it’s time for a walk and a shit.” I detect a slight accent, possibly British or
Australian. It could be South African, which would be weird, a weird coincidence, and I need to get South Africa off my mind. Focus on what’s
before you, I tell myself as Sock jumps off the couch, and I notice he has no collar. Sock— a male, I assume, based on the name—is thin, and his
ribs show slightly, which is typical for greyhounds, and he is mature, possibly old, and one of his ears is ragged as if once torn. A rescue retired
from the racetrack, I feel sure, and I wonder if he has a microchip. If so and if we can find him, we can trace where he’s from and possibly who
adopted him.
A pair of hands enters the frame as the man bends over to loop a red slip lead around Sock’s long, tapered neck, and I notice a silver metal
watch with a tachymeter on the bezel and catch the flash of yellow gold, a signet ring, possibly a college ring. If the ring came in with the body, it
might be helpful, because it might be engraved. The hands are delicate, with tapered fingers and light-brown skin, and I get a glimpse of a darkgreen
jacket and baggy black cargo pants and the toe of a scuffed brown hiking boot.
The camera fixes on the wall over the couch, on wormy chestnut paneling and the bottom of a metal picture frame, and then a poster or a print
rises into view as the man stands up, and I get a close look at the reproduction of a drawing that is familiar. I recognize da Vinci’s sixteenth-century
sketch of a winged flapping device, a flying machine, and I think back a number of years— when was it exactly? The summer before 9/11. I took
Lucy to an exhibition at London’s Courtauld Gallery, “Leonardo the Inventor,” and we spent many entranced hours listening to lectures by some of
the most eminent scientists in the world while studying da Vinci’s conceptual drawings of water, land, and war machines: his aerial screw, scuba
gear, and parachute, his giant crossbow, self-propelled cart, and robotic knight.
The great Renaissance genius believed that art is science and science is art, and the solutions to all problems can be found in nature if one is
meticulous and observant, if one faithfully seeks truth. I have tried to teach my niece these lessons most of her life. I have repeatedly told her we are
instructed by what is around us if we are humble and quiet and have courage. The man I am watching on the small device I hold in my hands has the
answers I need. Talk to me. Tell me. Who are you, and what happened?
He is walking toward the door that is deadbolted with the slide lock pulled across, and the perspective abruptly shifts, the camera angle
changes, and I wonder if he has adjusted the position of the headphones. Maybe he didn’t have them completely over his ears and now he’s about
to turn on music as he heads out. He walks past something mechanical and crude-looking, like a grotesque sculpture made of metal scrap. I pause
on the image but can’t get a good look at whatever it is, and I decide that when I have the luxury of time I’ll replay the clips as often as I want and
study every detail carefully, or if need be, get Lucy to forensically enhance the images. But right now I must accompany the man and his dog to the
wooded estate not even a block from Benton’s and my house. I must witness what happened. In several minutes he will die. Show me and I’ll figure
it out. I’ll learn the truth. Let me take care of you.
The man and the dog go down four flights of stairs in a poorly lit stairwell, and footsteps sound light and quick against uncarpeted wood, and
the two of them emerge on a loud, busy street. The sun is low, and patches of snow are crusty on top with black dirt, reminding me of crushed Oreo
cookies, and whenever the man glances down, I see wet pavers and asphalt, and the sand and salt from snow removal. Cars and people move
jerkily and lurch as he turns his head, scanning as he walks, and music plays in the background, Annie Lennox on satellite radio, and I hear only
what is audible outside the headphones, what is being picked up by the mike inside the top of the headband. The man must have the volume turned
up high, and that’s not good, because he might not hear someone come up behind him. If he’s worried about his security, so worried that he
double-locks his apartment door and carries a gun, why isn’t he worried about not hearing what is going on around him?
But people are foolish these days. Even reasonably cautious people multitask ridiculously. They text-message and check e-mail while driving
or operating other dangerous machinery or while crossing a busy street. They talk on their cell phones while riding bicycles and while Rollerblading,
and even while flying. How often do I tell Lucy not to answer the helicopter phone; doesn’t matter that it’s Bluetooth-enabled and hands-free. I see
what the man sees and recognize where he’s walking, on Concord Avenue, moving at a good clip with Sock, past redbrick apartment buildings and
the Harvard Police Department, and the dark-red awning of the Sheraton Commander Hotel across the street from the Cambridge Common. He
lives very near the Common, in an older apartment building that has at least four floors.
I wonder why he doesn’t take Sock into the Common. It’s a popular park for dogs, but he and his greyhound continue past statues and
cannons, lampposts, bare oak trees, benches, and cars parked at meters lining the street. A yellow Lab chases a fat squirrel, and Annie Lennox
sings “No more I-love-yous… I used to have demons in my room at night… “ I am the man’s eyes and ears at the time the headphones are
recording, and I have no reason to suspect he knows about the hidden camera and mike or that any such thing is on his mind at all.
I don’t get the sense he has a dark plan or is spying as he walks his dog. Except that he has a Glock semiautomatic pistol and eighteen rounds
of nine-millimeter ammunition under his green jacket. Why? Is he on his way to shoot someone, or is the gun for self-protection, and if so, what did
he fear? Maybe it was a habit of his, a normal routine to walk around armed. There are people like that, too. People who don’t think twice about it.
Why did he grind the serial number off the Glock, or did someone else do it? It enters my mind that the hidden recording devices built into his
headphones might be an experiment of his or a research project. Certainly Cambridge and its surrounds are the mecca of technical innovations,
which is one of the reasons the DoD, the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, Harvard, and MIT agreed to establish the CFC on the north bank of the
Charles River in a biotech building on Memorial Drive. Maybe the man was a graduate student. Maybe he was a computer scientist or an engineer.
I watch what is on the iPad’s display, abrupt, shaky images of Mather Court apartments, a playground, Garden Street, and the tilted, worn
headstones of the Old Burying Ground.
In Harvard Square, his attention fixes on the Crimson Corner newsstand, and he seems to think of walking in that direction, perhaps to buy a
paper from the overstocked selection that Benton and I love. This is our neighborhood, where we prowl for coffee and ethnic food, and papers and
books, ending up with take-out and armloads of wonderful things to read that we pile on the bed on weekends and holidays when I’m home. The
