court, she missed our monthly-”
I drop the phone.
McDermott says, “Write down her address.” Stoletti runs to get her coat. I scribble the address on the notepad and jog toward the exit, as I hear McDermott say into the phone, “Dispatch, I need all units to respond. We have a possible 401 in progress…”
THREE SQUAD CARS HAVE already double-parked in front of Shelly Trotter’s brownstone when McDermott pulls up his sedan. For the third time he says to Riley, “We go in first,” but before the car has even come to a stop Riley’s pushing himself out of the passenger’s door.
A couple of uniforms, standing at the door, look at McDermott. He points at Riley and shakes his head. He jogs toward the door with Stoletti.
“This is the governor’s daughter, right?” she asks.
“It sure fucking is.”
The uniforms block Riley, who struggles with them. “Paul, you can come up in a minute,” McDermott says. “Let us do our job first.”
“Shelly!” Riley is calling out as McDermott heads up the stairs. At the second-floor landing another uniform awaits them, shaking his head.
“I’ve never seen anything like it.”
McDermott and Stoletti bound up the final sets of stairs and slow their pace as they walk through the entrance to the apartment. They step in and see another uniform standing next to a bloody chain saw.
They walk slowly toward the bathroom, pure dread filling McDermott’s stomach. Wanting to do anything but-the damn
Blood spatters have reached well beyond the bathtub to the sink, the walls, even to the entrance. Inside the tub is a bloody mess, like remnants from a butcher shop.
“Mary, Mother of God,” McDermott mumbles. He takes a careful step into the bathroom and looks in the tub. Stoletti looks in and draws an abrupt breath.
He caught her in the shower. The body appears to be naked, which is only to say there is no evidence of clothing. There is little to draw from the body because, as one would define a body-a torso with limbs, a neck, a head-there is no body anymore.
“He took his time with her,” he says, trying to keep a clinical perspective. The body has been sawed into a hundred pieces at least. No arms, no legs, no neck, no head. Everything has been sliced through. Just little parts.
He hears commotion on the staircase. He steps out of the bathroom and moves to the doorway. Paul Riley looks like a running back trying to shed tacklers. Halfway up the final staircase, with two officers clutching at him, he makes eye contact with McDermott, still a trace of irrational hope on his face.
“I’m sorry,” McDermott says.
“I want to see her.” The struggle begins anew between Riley and the officers. McDermott takes a few steps down and grips Riley’s arm.
“There’s nothing left to see, Paul,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
Riley collapses on the staircase, crying out Shelly’s name. McDermott looks back at Stoletti, who says to him, quietly, “We have to call the governor.”
47
SEVEN O‘CLOCK. Radio still mentioning his name, Leo Koslenko, wanted for questioning, armed and dangerous, Chrysler LeBaron, and now the new scoop, Trotter, Michelle Trotter, governor’s daughter, daughter of the governor, might be a connection, wanted, dangerous, armed-
Guide the Toyota Camry off the interstate, follow the signs through town. New construction at this intersection, not what he’s seen before, weird, feelings return, but the place looks different, he’s never come back here, always stayed away, no reason to go back, but now he feels like he’s back in every way, he’s back to work, back in the game-
Mansbury College, welcome to Mansbury, where vision meets opportunity.
McDERMOTT TAKES ANOTHER REPORT from the neighborhood canvass, another report of nobody seeing anything. One neighbor did hear a chain saw earlier today, midday, but that was not terribly out of the ordinary in the summer, near the tree-lined park on the lake.
The County Attorney Technical Unit and the medical examiner have nearly completed their work. They will run prints but everything was wiped down, and, anyway, they know who the hell it is. They just can’t find him. They’ve had an all-points bulletin out on Koslenko and his car since this morning to no avail.
He takes a call on his cell phone from the squad room, where, apparently, Harland Bentley and his lawyer have had their fill of waiting for McDermott. They were there solely as a courtesy, his lawyer said, so they were free to leave.
“Albany left, too, Mike. We couldn’t very well-”
“That’s fine,” he says. He has his hands full tonight. But he tells them to post a car at both houses, Bentley’s and Albany‘s, and follow them if they go anywhere.
He looks into the living room, where Paul Riley sits on the couch, his face buried in his hands, his toes tapping on the carpet. They tried to get him into a squad car, but he refused. McDermott let him stay when he promised to keep out of the way.
Riley is wearing more than sorrow, more than shock on his face. He is wearing guilt. This is his fault, no matter what anyone tries to tell him. Over time, he’ll work on the same rationalizations. He will tell himself that he did the best he could with Burgos’s prosecution. He will tell himself that it was Leo Koslenko who killed Shelly, not him. But he won’t accept any of that. He will put this squarely on himself.
McDermott knows that better than anyone.
He had the ability, the right, to have his wife institutionalized against her will. With a three-year-old child involved, he had more than that-he had the responsibility. How could he have left Joyce with Grace that day? After seeing her unglued the night before?
How could he do that to little Gracie?
How could
He finds himself standing at the threshold of Shelly Trotter’s bathroom. What happened in here was evil, whatever the face you paint on it, no matter that it was the product of mental illness. Death has no exceptions, only victims.
