Live to Tell, Page 2

  Yep, definitely something worse than gun-toting, tennis-shoe-tossing drug dealers.

  D.D. sighed, put on her game face, and approached the uniformed officer stationed at the base of the front steps. She rattled off her name and badge number. In turn, the officer dutifully recorded the info in the murder book, then jerked his head down to the bin at his feet.

  D.D. obediently fished out booties and a hair covering. So it was that kind of crime scene.

  She climbed the steps slowly, keeping to one side. They appeared recently stained, a light Cape Cod gray that suited the rest of the house. The porch was homey, well kept. Clean enough that she suspected it had been recently broom swept. Perhaps after unloading groceries, a household member had tidied up?

  It would’ve been better if the porch had been dirty, covered in dust. That might have yielded shoe treads. That might have helped catch whoever did the bad thing D.D. was about to find inside.

  She took another breath right outside the door, inhaled the scent of sawdust and drying blood. She heard a reporter calling for a statement. She heard the snap of a camera, the roar of a media chopper, and white noise all around. Gawkers behind, detectives ahead, reporters above.

  Chaos: loud, smelly, overwhelming.

  Her job now was to make it right.

  She got to it.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  VICTORIA

  “I’m thirsty,” he says.

  “What would you like?” I offer.

  “Woman, bring me a drink, or I’ll break your fucking face.”

  He doesn’t sound angry. That’s how these things often go. Sometimes, the storm arrives quickly. One moment he’s watching TV, the next he’s tearing apart the living room. Other times, he lingers on the precipice. Say or do the right thing, and calm will be restored. Say or do the wrong thing, on the other hand …

  I get off the couch. It’s Thursday evening, an ungodly hot and humid August night in Boston. The kind of night best spent at a beach or at a giant swimming pool. Of course, neither one is an option for us. We’ve spent the afternoon inside, watching the History Channel while basking in air-conditioning. I’d hoped a quiet evening might be soothing for him. Now I don’t know.

  Inside the kitchen, I debate my options. A drink order involves a vast array of land mines: First, guess the proper beverage. Then select the right glass/mug/cup. Not to mention ice or no ice, straw or no straw, cocktail napkin or coaster.

  Once, I wouldn’t’ve refused such a belligerent demand. I would’ve demanded nice words, nice voice. I’m not your servant, I would’ve reminded him. You will treat me with respect.

  These things happen, though. Not all at once. But bit by bit, moment by moment, choice by choice. There are pieces of yourself that, once you give away, you can never get back again.

  I go with the blue mug, a recent favorite, and tap water—less mess when he inevitably tosses the contents into my face. My hands are already shaking. I take several calming breaths. He hasn’t gone over the edge yet. Remember, he hasn’t gone over the edge. Not yet.

  I carry the mug into the living room, where I set it on the glass coffee table while watching him beneath my lowered eyelids. If his feet remain flat on the floor, I will continue with appeasement. If he’s already twitching, perhaps tapping a foot, or rolling his shoulder in the way that often precedes a sudden, hard-thrown punch, then I will bolt. Get down the hall, grab the Ativan, and dope him up.

  I’m telling you, there are pieces of yourself that, once you give away, you can never get back again.

  He picks up the mug, feet stable, shoulders loose. He takes an experimental sip, pauses….

  Sets it down again.

  I have just resumed breathing, when he grabs the plastic mug and slams it against the side of my head.

  I reel back, not so much from the force of the plastic cup as from the shock of the blow.

  “What the fuck is this?” he screams, two inches from my water-drenched face. “What the fuck is this?”

  “Water,” I reply, stupidly.

  He tries to club me again, more water spraying the couch, then we’re off and running, me dashing for the medicine cabinet in the downstairs lavette, him determined to wrestle me to the ground so he can beat my head against the hardwood floor, or wrap his fingers around my throat.

  He catches my ankle at the edge of the family room. I go down hard on my right knee. Reflexively, I kick back. I hear him roar in frustration as I break free and bolt four more steps.

  He catches me in the side, crashing me against the wainscoting. The chair rail slams into my ribs with bruising force.

  “BITCH! Bitch, bitch, bitch.”

  “Please,” I whisper. No good reason. Maybe because you have to say something. “Please, please, please.”

  He grabs my wrist, squeezing so hard I can feel small bones grinding together.

  “Please, sweetheart,” I whisper again, desperately trying to sound soothing. “Please let go, honey. You’re hurting me.”

  But he doesn’t let go. I’ve read him wrong, missed the signs, and now he’s gone to the dark place. I can say anything, do anything—it doesn’t matter. He’s a feral animal, needing someone to hurt.

  And I think, as I often think during these times, that I still love him. Love him so much my heart breaks more than any bones, and now, even now, I have to be careful. I don’t want to hurt him.

  Then, in the next instant, I lash out with my foot, connecting behind his kneecap. He goes down just as I wrench my hand free. I race for the bathroom, crashing open the medicine cabinet and scrambling for the orange prescription bottle.

  “I’m going to kill you!” he roars in the hallway. “I’m going to stab you a million times. I’m gonna fucking rip off your head. I’ll eat your heart, I’ll drain your blood. I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you.”

  Then the sound I don’t want to hear—the whap whap of his bare feet slapping down the hall as he wheels around and runs for the kitchen.

  Ativan, Ativan, Ativan. Dammit, where’s the Ativan?

  I hit the bottle with the side of my hand. It falls to the floor, rolls across the tiles.

  I hear another scream, pure unadulterated rage, and know he’s just discovered that I locked up the kitchen knives. I did it two weeks ago, in the middle of the night, when he was sleeping. You have to keep one step ahead. You have to.

  The Ativan has rolled behind the toilet. My fingers are shaking too hard. I can’t reach it, can’t roll it out. I hear crashing now. Cherry cabinet doors being flung open, cups, plates, serving platters being tossed onto imported Italian tile. I changed everything over to Melamine and plastic years ago, which only pisses him off more. He has to trash the kitchen, does it every time, even as the lack of shattering damage drives him further over the edge.

  Another loud crash, then silence. I find myself holding my breath, then bend over the toilet, scrabbling for the damn prescription bottle. The quiet stretches on, unnerving me more than the destruction.

  What’s he doing? What has he discovered? What have I missed?

  Dammit, I need the Ativan now.

  I force myself to breathe, to steady my strung-out nerves. Towel, that’s the trick. Roll up the towel, poke it behind the toilet, push the prescription bottle out the other side. Got it.

  Tranquilizer tablets firmly in hand, I creep into the hallway of my now silent home, already terrified of what I might find.

  One step. Two, three, four …

  I approach the end of the hallway. Expansive family room on the left, followed by formal dining room, leading to the gourmet kitchen to the right, then circling around into the vaulted foyer. I peer behind the dying ficus tree in the corner, then tiptoe into the family room, mindful of the ambush spots behind the L-shaped sofa, beside the battered entertainment unit, and underneath the tattered silk drapes.

  What have I missed? What have I failed to consider and what will it cost me?

  Other images crowd my
brain. The time he bolted out of the pantry with a wooden meat tenderizer and cracked two of my ribs before I managed to get away. Or the first time he picked up a meat cleaver, going after my arm, but in his enraged state slicing open his own thigh. I was afraid he’d severed an artery and would bleed out if I ran away, so I stood my ground, eventually wrestling the knife from his grasp. Then I comforted him while he sobbed in pain, and the blood from both of our wounds soaked into the Persian rug in our beautiful vaulted entryway.

  Can’t think of these things now. Must remain focused. Find him. Calm him. Drug him.

  I creep through the family room, approaching the dining room, taking in all shadowed corners, trying to listen for sounds from behind. The kitchen opens back into the foyer. That makes it easy for him to circle around, attack from the rear.

  One foot in front of the other. Inch by inch, prescription bottle clutched like pepper spray in my fist.

  I discover him in the kitchen. He has pulled down his jeans and is now defecating on the rug. He looks up as I approach, an expression of malevolent triumph crossing his face.

  “What do you think of your precious rug now?” he sneers. “What’s so fucking special about it now?”

  I approach him steadily, holding out the bottle of Ativan. “Please, baby. You know I love you. Please.”

  For his response, he scoops up a pile of excrement and smears it across his bare belly.

  “I’m gonna kill you,” he says, calmer now, conversational.

  I don’t say a word, just hold out the bottle of tablets.

  “I’m gonna do it in the middle of the night. But I’ll wake you up first. I want you to know.”

  I hold out the tablets.

  “You locked up the knives,” he chants. “You locked up the knives. But did you lock up all the knives? Did you, did you, did you?”

  He smiles, gleefully, and my gaze goes instinctively to the drying rack, contents now strewn across the kitchen floor. Had there been a knife in that rack? Had I washed one just this morning? I can’t remember, and that’s going to cost me. Something is always going to cost me.

  I twist off the lid of the prescription bottle. “It’s time to rest, sweetheart. You know you’ll feel better after you’ve had a little rest.”

  I pour a couple of tablets into the palm of my hand, stepping close enough that the heat and stench of his body flood my nostrils. Slowly, I open his mouth with one finger and poke the first quick-dissolving tablet into the pouch of his cheek.

  In turn, he cups his stained fingers around my neck and, almost tenderly, rubs the hollow of my neck.

  “I will kill you quickly,” he promises me. “With a knife. I’ll slide the blade in. Right here.”

  His thumb brushes over the pulse beating wildly in my throat, as if he’s mentally rehearsing the death blow.

  Then I can see his facial muscles start to relax as the drug takes effect. His hand falls away, and he smiles again. Sweetly now. A ray of sunshine through the storm, and I want to cry but I don’t. I don’t.

  There are pieces of yourself, so many pieces of yourself, that, once you give away, you cannot get back again.

  Ten minutes later, I have him in bed. I strip off what remains of his clothes. Wipe down his body with a soapy washcloth, though I know from previous experience that the smell of excrement will linger on his skin. Later, he will ask me questions about that, and I will lie to him with my answers, because that’s what I’ve learned to do.

  I clean him up. I clean me up. The dishes will go through the dishwasher, then be replaced in the cupboards. The rug will be left on the curb on trash day. But all that can wait.

  Now, in the silence of the aftermath, I return to his bedroom. In the lamplight, I admire the quiet, still lines of his face. The way his hair curves into one golden cowlick right above his left temple, the way his lips always purse slightly in his sleep, like a baby’s. I stroke my fingers across the softness of his cheek. I take his hand, lax now, not hurting, not destroying, and hold it in my own.

  And I wonder if tonight will be the night he will finally kill me.

  Meet Evan, my son.

  He is eight years old.

  CHAPTER

  THREE

  “Started in the dining room,” Detective Phil LeBlanc was explaining to Detective D.D. Warren. Phil wore a pair of chinos and a white-collared golf shirt with a ketchup stain above the embroidered emblem. Apparently, he’d been at a family barbecue when he’d received the call. Now he pointed to the rectangular table, currently set for six. The plates held traces of a recently consumed dinner, with several empty serving platters in the middle. D.D. counted three empty cans of Bud Light, two at one end of the table, one at the other.

  The table was old-looking, a warm-hued oak. A nice table, she was willing to bet, maybe an antique. The chairs, on the other hand, were more blue folding chairs, companions to the ones on the front porch. So the residents could afford a solid wood table, but not yet the chairs. That fit with the overall feel of the space. Freshly painted, but conspicuously empty.

  The dishes were thin white Melamine. Simple, but set off against bright red place mats and blue linen napkins. Red, white, and blue again. A theme to the household.

  “Maybe they started to argue,” Phil theorized. “They were eating together, had a few beers, then started to get into it. Maybe she tried to walk away, and that set him off.”

  D.D. nodded absently, still walking around the table. The hardwood floors appeared recently refinished, buffed to a high gloss that glimmered with hints of her own reflection as she walked across. They’d been working on this space. Sweat equity would be her guess. A working-class family building a future together, trying to get ahead during tough economic times, until …

  “Where’s Neil?” D.D. asked, referring to the third member of their homicide squad.

  “Upstairs. Top two floors are midrenovation. We think the activity was confined to this level, but then again, lots of power tools and sharp objects to account for.”

  D.D. nodded. Given the red ball call-out, she’d expected to find the scene crawling with investigators. Instead, it was pretty quiet. But three floors to search, secure, then process, that explained a lot. Plus guys would already be out, canvassing neighbors, tracking down known associates. Crime scenes like this were best worked fresh. Throw a lot of bodies at it, get in, get out, get it done.

  “What do we know about the residents?” she asked.

  “Single family. Mom, dad, three kids. Second marriage for both, so not sure yet whose kids were whose. Patrick Harrington would be head of household. Date of birth nineteen sixty-eight. Recently unemployed. Had been working for a local hardware store, but it went out of business.”

  “When?” D.D. squatted to study the area rug under the table. Neutral beige; it appeared recently vacuumed. Freshly swept porch, newly vacuumed rug. She added clean freak next to patriotic on her mental list of household traits.

  “Couple of weeks or so. Neighbor said the couple bought the whole place at a foreclosure auction eight months ago. They planned on fixing it up, using his skills and employee discount, no doubt, then they’d live in part, rent part. They just got the downstairs completed, however, when, boom, he lost his job. Goodbye, hourly wage. Goodbye, employee discount.”

  “Hello giant mortgage with no rental income,” D.D. finished for him.

  “Yep. Had to suck.”

  “So couple’s stressed.” D.D. straightened up. “What did she do?”

  “Denise Harrington worked as a receptionist at a dentist’s office. Mrs. Nancy Seers, lives across the street, said Denise got off work by three each day so she could meet the kids’ bus. That was a priority.”

  “Ages?”

  “Ummm …” Phil flipped through his notes. “Nine, twelve, and fourteen. Boy, girl, boy.”

  D.D. nodded, turned away from the table, and headed back into the kitchen. A frying pan remained on the stove. Smelled like olive oil and chicken grease. Next to it was a
giant pot, like the kind used for corn on the cob or pounds of pasta. More signs of meal prep on the counters: a half-used head of lettuce, bag of carrots, partly sliced cucumber.

  She looked for additional beer cans, finding three more in the trash. She opened the refrigerator, found it fairly loaded—proof of recent grocery shopping?—with the usual assortment of bread, eggs, lunch meat, produce, and mystery meals in Tupperware. The refrigerator door yielded two dozen condiments and a half-consumed bottle of Cavit pinot grigio. No more beer. So, assuming that a six-pack had been purchased, then all six beers had been consumed.

  But six cans of Bud split between two grown adults? Or even mostly consumed by one? Not enough for a drunken rampage. She didn’t buy it.

  Jack McCabe from the ID unit had entered. He looked at the food-covered counters, sighed heavily. “It’s been photographed?” he asked.

  “It’s been photographed,” Phil assured him.

  Jack sighed again. D.D. didn’t blame him. Processing this scene would be painstaking and, most likely, unproductive. But you had to do what you had to do.

  “Start with the knife,” she told him.

  “There isn’t a knife,” Jack said, staring at the counter.

  “There has to be some kind of knife,” D.D. said, gesturing at the sliced cucumber.

  “Oh, there’s a knife,” Phil said.

  “Ah fuck,” D.D. said, and followed Phil into the hallway.

  Halfway down the hall, they encountered the first sign of blood spatter. It started midway on the high-gloss floor, then continued toward the back of the house, presumably toward the bedrooms, in a mix of spots and streaks.

  A man in a brown suit was standing farther down the hall, next to the blood trail. He appeared to be sketching the marks and the corresponding evidence placards.

  “You should see this,” he said, so D.D. and Phil walked over. “Note that the droplets actually radiate in two different directions, plus the smear marks, here and here?”