apartment.
Apparently, she is a bona fide klepto, to quote Marino. Someone who seemed to have taken souvenirs from all sorts of people, he goes on,
including items stolen from people we have no idea about. But some of what investigators have found so far has been identified as jewelry and rare
coins from the Donahue house, and also several rare autographed musical manuscripts that Mrs. Donahue had no idea were missing from the
family library.
Recovered from a locked chest in a closet in Dawn’s apartment were guns believed to have been removed from Fielding’s collection, and his
wedding band. Also in this same trunk a martial-arts carry bag, I’m told, and inside it, a black satin sash, a white uniform, sparring gear, a lunch bag
filled with rusty L-shaped flooring nails, and a hammer, and a pair of boys Adidas tae kwon do shoes believed to be the ones Mark Bishop was
wearing while practicing kicks in his backyard the late afternoon he was killed. Although no one is quite certain how Dawn lured the boy into lying
facedown and allowing her to play some gruesome game with him that included “pretending” to hammer nails into his head, or more specifically,
the first nail.
“The one that went in right here,” Marino continues speculating, pointing to the space between the back of his neck and the base of his skull.
“That would have killed him instantly, right?”
“If we must use that phrase,” I reply.
“I mean, she probably helped him in some of Fielding’s Tiny Tiger classes, maybe?” he continues to spin the story. “So the kid’s familiar with
her, looks up to her, and she’s hot, I mean really good-looking. If it was me, I’d tell the kid I’m going to show him a new move or something and to lie
down in the yard. And of course the kid’s going to do what an expert says, what someone teaching him says, and he lies down and it’s almost dark
out and then boom! It’s over.”
“Someone like that can never get out,” I reply. “She’ll do more and do it worse next time, if that’s even possible.”
“Denying everything. She’s not talking, except to say Fielding did it all and she’s innocent.”
“He didn’t.”
“I’m with you.”
“She’s going to have a hard time explaining what’s in her apartment,” I point out, as I continue going through photographs. Marino must have
taken hundreds.
“She’s good-looking and charming and smart as hell. And Fielding’s dead.”
“Incriminating.” I’ve said this several times as I look through the photographs on the iPad. “Should be very helpful to the prosecution. I’m not
sure why you think the case will be a problem.”
“It’s going to be. The defense will pin it all on Fielding. The psycho bitch will get a dream team of big-shot lawyers, and they’ll make the jury
believe Fielding did all of it.” Marino leans closer to me, and the slope of the bed changes again, and Sock is snoring quietly, not interested in his
former owner or her rat hole, which has a dog bed in it, Marino shows me.
He leans close to me, clicking through several photographs of the dog’s plaid bed and several toys, and I indicate I’d rather look at the
photographs myself. He and Sock are on top of me, and I’m feeling smothered.
“I just thought I’d show you, since I’m the one who took them,” Marino says.
“Thank you. I’ll manage. You did a very good job with the photographs.”
“Point is, it’s obvious the dog stayed here.” Marino means Sock stayed in Dawn Kincaid’s rat hole. “And also with Eli and with Fielding,” he
adds. “To give her credit, I guess she liked her dog.”
“She left him in Jack’s house with no heat and all alone.” I click through photographs that are overwhelmingly incriminating.
“She doesn’t give a shit unless it suits her. When it doesn’t, she gets rid of it one way or another. So she cared about him when it suited her.”
“That’s the more likely story,” I agree.
I look at photographs of an unmade double bed, then other pictures of a tiny bedroom shockingly filled with junk, as if Dawn Kincaid is a
hoarder.
“Plus, she had another reason to leave him,” Marino goes on. “If she leaves the dog at Fielding’s house, then maybe we think he’s the one who
killed everyone, then killed himself. The dog is there. His red leash is there. The boat that was probably used to dump Wally Jamison’s body is
there, and Wally’s clothes and the murder weapon are in Fielding’s basement. The Navigator with the missing front plate is there. You’re supposed
to think Fielding was following you and Benton when you left Hanscom. Fielding’s deranged. He’s watching you. He’s following you, trying to
intimidate you, or spying, or maybe he was going to kill you, too.”
“He was dead by the time we were followed. Although I can’t be exact about time of death, I’m calculating he’d been dead since Monday
afternoon, probably was murdered not long after he got home to Salem after leaving the CFC with the Glock he’d removed from the lab. It was
Dawn in the Navigator tailing us Monday night. She’s the one deranged. She rode our bumper to make sure we knew we were being followed, then
disappeared, probably ducked out of sight in Otwahl’s parking lot. So eventually we’d think it was Jack, who in fact already had been murdered by
her with a pistol she probably gave to her boyfriend, Eli, before she murdered him, too. But you’re right. It’s likely she’s tried to set things up so all of
it got blamed on Jack, who isn’t around to defend himself. She set up Jack and made it look like he was setting up Johnny Donahue. It’s terrifying. “
“You got to make the jury buy it.”
“That’s always the challenge, no matter the case.”
“It’s bad the dog was at Fielding’s house,” Marino repeats. “It connects him to Eli’s murder. Hell, it’s on video clips that Eli was walking the dog
when he was whacked.”
“The microchip,” I remind him. “It traces back to Dawn, not to Jack.”
“Doesn’t mean anything. He kills Eli and then takes the dog, and the dog would know Fielding, right?” Marino says, as if Sock isn’t inches away
from him, sleeping with his head on my leg. “The dog would be familiar with Fielding because Dawn was staying over there in Salem, had the dog
at Fielding’s house some of the time or whatever. So Fielding kills Eli, then takes the dog as he walks off, or this is what Dawn wants us to think.”
“It’s not what happened. Jack didn’t kill anyone,” as I conclude that Dawn’s apartment has the same brand of squalor that I observed at
Fielding’s house in Salem.
Clutter and boxes everywhere. Clothes piled in mounds and strewn in odd places. Dishes piled in the sink. Trash overflowing. Mounds of
newspapers, computer printouts, magazines, and on a dining-room table, a large number of items tagged and placed there by police, including a
GPS-enabled sports watch that is the same model as one I gave Fielding for his birthday several years ago, and a Civil War military dissection set
in a rosewood case that is identical to one I gave him when he worked for me in Richmond.
There is a close-up of a pair of black gloves, one of them with a small black box on the wrist, what Marino describes as lightweight flexible
wireless data gloves with built-in accelerometers, thirty-six sensors, and an ultra-low-profile integrated transmitter-receiver, only I have to infer all
this, sift it out of his mispronunciations and mangled descriptions. The gloves, which were closely examined by both Briggs and Lucy at the scene,
are clearly intended for gesture-based robotic control—specifically, to control the flybot that Eli had with him when he was murdered by the woman
who had given him the stolen signet ring he was wearing when his body came to the CFC.
“Then the flybot was in her apartment,” I presume. “And did Benton offer you any coffee?”
“I’m coffeed out. Some of us haven’t been to bed yet.”
“I’m in bed working. Doesn’t mean I’ve slept.”
“Must be nice. I’d like to stay home and work in bed.” He takes the iPad from me and searches through files.
“Maybe we could adjust your job description. You can stay home and work in bed a certain number of days each year, depending on your age
and decrepitude, which we’ll have to evaluate. I suppose I’ll be the one to evaluate it.”
“Oh, yeah? Who’s gonna evaluate yours?” He finds a photograph he wants me to see.
“Mine doesn’t need evaluating. It’s obvious to one and all.”
He shows me a close-up of the flybot, only at a glance it’s hard to know what it is, just a shiny wiry object on a square of white paper on Dawn
Kincaid’s dining-room table. The micromechanical device could be an earring, it occurs to me. A silver earring that was stepped on, which is
exactly what is suspected, Marino tells me. Lucy thinks the flybot was stepped on while the EMTs were working on Eli, then later, Dawn found it
when she returned to Norton’s Woods, possibly wearing the same long, black wool coat that she had on in my garage, a coat that I believe was
Fielding’s. A witness claims to have observed a young man or woman, the person wasn’t sure which, in a big black coat walking around Norton’s
Woods with a flashlight, several hours after Eli Goldman died there. The individual in the big coat was out there alone, and the person who saw him
or her thought it was strange because he or she did not have a dog and seemed to be looking for something while making odd hand gestures.
“It must have been huge on her and practically dragged on the ground,” Marino says, getting up from the bed. “I’m not saying she was trying to
look like a man, but with her short hair and the big coat, and a hat and glasses on or whatever? As long as you don’t see her rack. She’s got quite a
rack. Has that in common with her dad, right?”
“I’ve never known Jack to have large breasts.”
“I mean both of them built.”
“So she returned when she assumed it was safe to do so, and even though the flybot was badly damaged, it responded to radio frequency
signals sent by the data gloves?” I turn off the iPad and hand it to him.
“I think she just saw it on the ground, think it was shiny in the flashlight and she found it that way. Lucy says the bug is DOA. Squashed.”
“Do we know exactly what it does or was supposed to do?”
Marino shrugs, towering over me again, still in his parka, which he hasn’t bothered to unbutton, as if he didn’t intend to stay long. “This isn’t my
area of expertise, you know. I didn’t understand half of what they were talking about, Lucy and the general. I just know the potential for whatever this
thing is supposed to do is something to be concerned about, and DoD intends to do some sort of inspection of Otwahl to see what the hell is really
going on over there. But I’m not sure we don’t already know exactly what the hell is going on over there.”
“Meaning what?”
He returns the iPad to its case and says, “Meaning I worry there’s R-and-D going on that the government damn well knows about but just
doesn’t want anyone else to know, and then you get kids out of control and the shit hits the fan. I think you get my drift. When are you coming back to
work?”
“Probably not today,” I tell him.
“Well, we got a shitload of things to do and undo,” he says.
“Thanks for the warning.”
“Buzz me if you need something. I’ll call the hospital and let you know how the psycho’s doing.”
“Thanks for stopping by.”
I wait until the sound of his heavy footsteps stops at the front door, and then the door shuts again, and then a pause, and Benton resets the
alarm. I hear his footsteps, which are much lighter than Marino’s, as he walks past the stairs, toward the back of the house where he has his office.
“Come on, let’s get up,” I say to Sock, and he opens his eyes and looks at me and yawns. “Do you know what bye-bye means? I guess not.
They didn’t teach you that at the prison. You just want to sleep, don’t you? Well, I’ve got things to do, so come on. You’re really quite lazy, you know.
Are you sure you ever won a race or even ran in one? I don’t think I believe it.”
I move his head and put my feet on the floor, deciding there must be a pet shop around here that has everything a skinny, lazy old greyhound
might need for this kind of weather.
“Let’s go for a ride.” I talk to Sock as I find my slippers and a robe. “Let’s see what Secret Agent Wesley is doing. He’s probably in his office on
the phone again, what do you bet? I know, he’s always on the phone, and I agree, it’s quite annoying.
“Maybe he’ll take us shopping, and then I’m going to make a very nice pasta, homemade pappardelle with a hearty Bolognese sauce, ground
veal, red wine, and lots of mushrooms and garlic.
“I need to explain up front that you only get canine cuisine; that’s the rule of the house. I’m thinking quinoa and cod for you today.” I continue
talking as we go down the stairs. “That will be a nice change after all that chicken and rice from the Greek diner.”
The End
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