What Have You Done(3)

Liam had been six years old when his mother tried to kill him. It had happened eleven months after he and Sean had lost their father to a set of bad brakes and a fatal car wreck. Their mother hadn’t been able to handle the loss and had spent the majority of that time after her husband’s death on a self-destructive spiral that was one of the scariest things Liam had ever seen in his young life. The woman he’d grown to depend on had become dark and intense in her depression, shutting both of her sons out of her life and communicating through a series of muted grunts and head tilts instead of forming actual words. He and Sean had spent most of their time trying to understand what these movements and sounds meant and how they should go about responding to them. Sometimes they guessed right. Often they were wrong. During those eleven months, their mother had stopped eating and cooking and, on that last day, couldn’t even rise from her bed in the morning to see them off to school. Their father had been her everything, and he was gone. Over the course of that first year, she’d left with him. There was no way he and Sean could’ve expected what had been waiting for them that afternoon. That memory, those events, had burned into his psyche like a hot brand.

The birds continued their morning song as Liam got dressed. His head ached, and he fought to recall anything from the night before, but there was nothing. He wondered if his memory would ever return. It had to, right? Probably by the time he got in to work. There was no sense freaking out about it. Besides, Sean would be there. He’d ask his brother for the details and hope he hadn’t done anything stupid. If that didn’t work, he’d keep trying Kerri. Someone had to know something. Waking up in the tub had scared him. How had he ended up in there? How out of it had he really been?





2

A white sheet covered the body of Alexander Scully. It was the best the responding officers could do until the initial investigation was complete and the EMTs could put him in a body bag for transport to the coroner’s office. Sean Dwyer stood over the victim, staring as if the sheet weren’t there, as if the corpse would suddenly sit up and tell him who had done it. But there was no need for such a confession, supernatural or otherwise. He knew who was responsible.

The Philadelphia Police Department handled about sixteen thousand violent crimes a year. Of that total number, approximately three hundred were homicides. As a homicide detective, Sean found most of the cases were common enough and forgettable: gang violence, domestic violence turned manslaughter, hit-and-runs. You worked the case when you were up, then moved on in the rotation when you were through. With only twenty-one districts for 350 murders, you didn’t have time to be Perry Mason on every assignment. Usually, the person who appeared to be the guilty party was in fact guilty, and the case was solved without much fanfare. Those homicides had no Hollywood flare. They were the real thing, and as with anything authentic, there was a certain percentage of the job that was mundane. This was not one of those times.

Sean rubbed the stubble on his square chin and absently pulled at the shield that hung around his neck. He was twelve years in. Seven with Homicide. He’d thought he’d seen it all by now, but this particular crime scene had stopped him in his tracks. The brutality with which death could be administered was an amazing thing.

The EMTs waited outside in their truck. It was still early, but the morning rush was about to begin. The few pedestrians who bothered to try to sneak a peek were quickly chased away by a police unit parked in front of the shop, but they had been few and far between. For the most part, the city was still rising. They’d have time before the crime scene would be fully exposed.

Don Carpenter, Sean’s partner, came in through the front door. He was tall, African American, about fifteen years older than Sean, and good-looking. When he walked, he seemed to float. There were no hard movements about him. The ladies loved him, but he was a faithful husband, which made him all the more alluring. He was the only partner Sean had ever known and had been his mentor since Sean’s rookie year. Over time they had formed a bond that grew far beyond the department.

“Sorry I’m late,” Don said.

Sean dismissed the comment with a wave of his hand. “How’s your mom?”

“She fell asleep last night watching TV. When she woke up, she didn’t know where she was. Started panicking. Wouldn’t listen to the nurses, so they called me.”

“This is happening more and more.”

“I know. I might need to move her closer to me if this keeps up. I can’t run to Doylestown every time she gets confused. It’s getting to be too much.” Don pointed to the sheet covering Mr. Scully. “Find anything?”

“Not really. Victim was seventy-two. Owned the store pretty much all his life. We sent a unit to pick up his wife and bring her to the coroner’s office for an ID.”

Don bent down and pulled the sheet back to take a look. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Might as well go straight for the dental records. He doesn’t have much of a face left.”

“Doesn’t seem to be forced entry. UPS guy came to deliver a package this morning and called it in. We’re guessing the owner knew his assailant. The store closes at eight, and we’re figuring time of death to be around midnight.”

“Forensics get any prints?”

“More than they can handle. Between the front door, the glass counter, the shelves, and the back door, they’ll have their work cut out for them. This is a stationery store two weeks before Easter. The guy was busy.”