Live to Tell (Detective D.D. Warren, #4)(9)

D.D. looked at him. “I don’t know. Why do these guys kill?”

“Because they think they’re doing their family a favor.”

“Yet another reason I’m single, now that you mention it.”

Alex smiled wryly. “Times were hard. I bet when we dig deeper, we’ll find the financial picture even bleaker. Maybe they were facing foreclosure, about to be kicked to the curb. The pressure mounts. The father starts thinking he’d be better off dead, but he doesn’t want to hurt his family. That gets him thinking that they’d be better off dead. It’s too cruel to just kill himself. So he’ll do right by them—he’ll kill them all.”

“Shit,” D.D. said, staring down at the blood-churned floor, swatting away another buzzing fly.

“He takes them out one by one. Then he carries each one of them back here and lays them down side by side. Maybe he prays over them then. Or says absolution, or gives them some little speech he’s already prepared in his head. I love you, I only want what’s best for you, I’ll see you soon. Then he picks up the twenty-two and taps one to the forehead.”

“He shot himself?” Phil spoke up. “*.”

“True. Especially given that he didn’t get the job done.”

D.D. did a double take: “Are you saying—”

“Yep. Father’s undergoing surgery now at Mass General. With any luck, they’ll save him. Then we can nail his ass.”

“The father’s still alive,” D.D. murmured, looking at the blood, waving away the hungry flies. She finally smiled. It was a distinctively wolfish expression on her face. “I think we’re gonna have some fun with this after all.”



They were walking back toward the front of the house, past the dining room, when it came to her. She drew up short. Belatedly, Phil and his shadow followed suit.

“Hey, Professor,” she said. “I got a question for you.”

Alex arched a brow, but waited.

“Okay, so father kills the mother, the fourteen-year-old boy, the nine-year-old boy, and the twelve-year-old daughter, then shoots himself in the forehead.”

“Current theory, yes.”

“Based upon blood evidence.”

“Based upon preliminary exam of the blood evidence, yes.”

“It’s an impressive analysis,” she told him. “Very well done. I can tell that you’re hell on wheels in the classroom.”

Alex didn’t say a word, which confirmed that he was as smart as he looked.

“But there’s another major piece of evidence.”

“Which is?”

“The dining room.”

Alex and Phil turned toward the dining room.

Phil asked the question first: “What about the dining room?”

Alex, on the other hand, got it. “Crap,” he said.

“Yeah, it’s always slightly more complicated than we’d like it to be,” D.D. agreed. She looked at Phil. “We got five bodies, right? Four dead, one in critical condition. Five bodies for five family members.”

Phil nodded.

D.D. shrugged. “Then why is the table set for six?”





| CHAPTER

FOUR





DANIELLE


You want to know what it means to be a pediatric psych nurse? Welcome to the Pediatric Evaluation Clinic of Boston, otherwise known as PECB. Our unit occupies the top floor of the larger Kirkland Medical Center. We like to believe we have some of the best views in Boston, which is only fair as we serve the toughest citizens.

Thursday night, I sat in the hallway of the pediatric ward observing our newest charge. Her name was Lucy and she’d been admitted this afternoon. We’d had only twenty-four hours to prepare for her arrival, which hadn’t been enough, but we did our best. Most of our kids shared a double room; Lucy had her own. Most of the rooms included two twin beds, bedside tables, and matching wardrobes. Lucy’s room had a mattress and a single blanket, that was it.

We’d learned the hard way that the shatterproof glass on our eighth-story windows didn’t always hold up to an enraged child armed with a twenty-pound nightstand.

Lucy was a primal child. That meant she’d been so severely and continuously abused that her humanity had been stripped from her. She didn’t wear clothes, use silverware, or tend to basic hygiene. She didn’t speak and had never been potty-trained. According to her file, she had spent most of her life in a disconnected freezer unit with bullet holes for ventilation. Her time out of the freezer had been worse than her time in. The result was a nine-year-old girl who existed like a wild animal. And if we weren’t careful, she’d train us to treat her like one.

First hour she was admitted, Lucy greeted our nurse manager by defecating into her own hand, then eating the feces. Twenty minutes later, a milieu counselor—MC—observed her ripping out the insides of her pillow and stuffing it into various orifices. The pillow was removed; Lucy wouldn’t allow us to tend to the stuffing. An hour after that, she scratched open her arm with a fingernail, then drew patterns on the wall with her blood.

First observation of our new charge: Any form of attention seemed to trigger a need to debase herself. If Lucy had an audience, she had to hurt.

By four in the afternoon, we agreed to confine Lucy to her room and assign one staff member to monitor her. Rather than the five-minute check system, where an MC accounts for every child’s whereabouts every five minutes, one staff member would observe Lucy as discreetly as possible, noting every twenty minutes.