The Dead Room

‘He wouldn’t tell me. He’s under no obligation to do so. Isn’t Amy Hallcox the woman who was murdered in Belham?’

‘Yes. How does he know her? Did he say?’

‘No, he didn’t. But I can tell you she went to visit him yesterday afternoon.’

The day she was murdered.

‘She came in at three thirty and spoke to him for an hour,’ Skinner said. ‘That’s the maximum time we allow. Ezekiel is in Ten Block – that’s our maximum-security wing – and since he’s been on good behaviour, we allowed the visit.’

‘When was he moved from general pop?’

‘Let’s see…’ She heard the tap-tap-tap of keys on the other end of the line. ‘After Ezekiel was arrested, he got into a lot of fights with inmates. Nothing serious but he spent a lot of time in solitary. That changed five years ago when he murdered another inmate in the shower – he broke the man’s neck. We had to move him to Ten Block. Ezekiel’s been quite a problem, especially with the psychiatric nurses. He’s schizophrenic and they have to inject him with medication. Right after we moved him, he glassed one of the male nurses.’

‘Glassed?’

‘Sorry, that’s one of our local prison terms. A male nurse coined the phrase. Ezekiel unscrewed one of the light bulbs in his cell, crushed the glass and mixed it with his faeces. When the nurses came to give him his daily injection, he threw the mixture at them. They wiped their faces and ended up getting cut pretty badly from the glass. One of them had to have surgery on his eyes and has been partially blinded. Thanks to Mr Ezekiel, we had to install grates around all the lights in Ten Block Have you spoken to him before?’

‘No. Did he specifically ask for me?’ Her name hadn’t been mentioned in the papers or the news regarding the Belham murder.

‘He asked to speak to you – and only you,’ Skinner said. ‘He also told me that if you refused to come, he won’t speak to another detective. Have you ever interviewed a prisoner before?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Then let me explain how this works. I can arrange a room where you can speak to Mr Ezekiel in privacy. Don’t be surprised if he suddenly decides not to speak to you. He’s under no legal obligation to share the knowledge of his meeting with Miss Hallcox, if that’s what this is all about. He may, in fact, request a lawyer.’

‘Has he asked for one?’

‘Not yet, but that doesn’t mean he can’t – or won’t – change his mind. Murderers are, at their core, nothing but cowards. It’s been my experience that when they’re in the presence of the victim’s family, they simply shut down. I’m not saying he will, but I am saying you should be prepared for the possibility. And you have the added burden of his schizophrenia. He’s medicated, but I’m told that disease is tricky to treat. From what I’ve read here, he still suffers from delusions – thinks people are watching and listening.’

‘Has anyone else visited him?’

‘Not according to what I’ve got up on my computer screen, but these records only go back fifteen years. That’s about the time we switched over to using computers. Now we use them for everything. I’m an old-fashioned man, and I must admit I miss paper.’

‘I’m assuming you kept all the old paper logs.’

‘You assume correctly.’

‘Can you pull them? I’d like to know who else has visited Ezekiel.’

‘I can do that, but that may take a few days. You’ll have to fill out paperwork. I can email it to you, or you can fill it out when you come in.’

‘I’ll do it when I come in. When can I see him?’

‘We need to make some preparations, so how about tomorrow morning at ten?’

‘Ten’s fine.’

‘This is going to sound odd, but I have to say it. Please adhere to the female dress code policy. You’ll find the details on our website. Read it and have yourself a good laugh.’

Darby hung up, called ballistics and asked the person who answered to run a Glock eighteen through their database.

She walked down the hall feeling unsteady on her feet and strangely light-headed, as though she had just woken up from anaesthesia. Her mind recalled the single image she had of John Ezekiel – a black-and-white newspaper photograph of him staring down at his cuffed hands as the judge read the verdict of his life sentence. She remembered Ezekiel’s high forehead and blond hair; the hard, knotted muscles in his forearms. Eyes that seemed too small for his large face. Darby remembered that the photograph had been bigger than the small article tucked away in the back pages of the Boston Herald American.

When she opened the door to the fingerprints unit, she saw Coop standing behind his desk.

‘Homicide in Charlestown,’ he said, tearing a sheet of paper from a pad. ‘Lead detective is Stan Jennings. I couldn’t get him on the phone, but ops told me what we need to know. The victim’s lying in a dirt basement full of human remains.’

28

Darby sat behind the wheel of the crime scene vehicle waiting for the dozen or so Charlestown cops to clear the people crowding the streets. The afternoon’s pounding rain had finally stopped and the predominately Irish residents packed the streets and pavements. They watched from their windows and stoops, rooftops and decks. Some drank beer, and she saw more than one person passing a bottle wrapped in a brown-paper bag. Almost everyone was smoking.

Homicides in Charlestown, she knew, always produced a carnival-like atmosphere. The die-hard townies who had prised themselves away from their TV sets and bar stools had come here not so much to see if they knew the victim (chances were they did) but rather to find out who in the neighbourhood was out talking to the police. Charlestown still operated by a strict code of silence similar to the Italian Mafia’s omerta: your secrets and sins belonged to the town, and the town took care of its own. You didn’t go to the police, you didn’t talk to the police. This tribal value system had helped to confer upon Boston’s smallest and oldest neighbourhood the distinction of having the highest unsolved homicide rate in the city and the state year after year.

‘They’re acting like the police are here to hand out free scratch cards,’ Darby said.

Coop nodded, looking at the sea of faces passing by the windows. He had been unusually quiet during the ride. The moment he had entered the SUV, he had grown sullen and fidgety; he kept shifting his seat.

At first she had thought Coop might know the victim waiting for them in Charlestown. When he said he had no idea who lived there, she had told him about her conversation with Superintendent Skinner. Coop had answered in grunts and nods.

Clearly Kendra Sheppard was still on his mind, but Darby sensed it was more than that. He wasn’t ready to talk about what was really bothering him yet, so she dropped it. Over the years she had learned one thing about him: he couldn’t be pushed. Try it and he’d lock up and shut down. He’d talk to her when he was ready.

A patrolman tapped the Explorer’s hood and waved her through.

Darby parked the crime scene vehicle in the middle of the street. There was nowhere else to park. Cruisers had blocked off the surrounding streets slick with rain. Stepping out of the car into the grey evening light, she spotted several TV cameras pointed in her direction and wondered if the cameraman she’d seen in Belham had followed her here and was lurking somewhere close by.

When she opened the hatchback, Coop grabbed one of the vacuum-sealed packages holding a disposable Tyvek biohazard suit and headed for the house. The patrolman guarding the front door held it open for him.

‘Coop, you forgot your mask and face shield,’ Darby said.

He didn’t answer – or maybe he hadn’t heard her. He had already ducked inside the house. She stared after him, wondering why he was in such a rush.

Rummaging through the hatchback, she was relieved to find the new 3M respirator masks. In addition to its