“Yeah,” I said. “And the AG?”
“The honorable Camden Martin? He’s still up front, still running the show. The guy will probably be governor one of these days, you know? Lots of excess energy and smarts that have to go somewhere.”
“He still thinks it was something to do with heroin?”
Diane rubbed at her chin. “Well … the autopsy shows nothing in Maggie’s system except for some THC.”
“THC? Maggie was smoking dope?”
“Her personal doc said she had bad arthritis. But there was no sign of any opioid in her system, no track marks on her arms, thighs, or between her toes. Pretty clean. But still … there was that packet of heroin on the floor.”
“The bluebird,” I said. “Your sign of drug quality. Anything from the Massachusetts end?”
“Nope,” she said. “Massachusetts State Police—in a shocking development—is cooperating with us and the staties. Heroin doesn’t know state borders. And the local cops in Lowell and Lawrence, they’ve been helpful, too. But there’s something funny going on with that gang …”
Her voice dribbled off.
I had a queasy thought of where this was going, but I decided to take it there anyway. “What’s the funny thing?”
“The gang members, they’ve scattered, gone to the wind. Two days ago, there was a firefight and two of them were wounded at a tenement building in Lawrence. They’ve been keeping their mouths shut about what happened, who did the shooting, or why it happened in the first place. But whatever happened, it scared the shit out of them. It’s hard tracking them down.”
“Maybe Maggie’s pain was getting too much. Maybe—”
Diane shook her head. “Doesn’t make sense. If her pain was getting too much, why go the illegal route? Her doc would have prescribed something to take the edge off.”
We changed the subject and spent some time talking about Diane’s upcoming wedding. I remembered that she was considering applying for the deputy chief’s job, but I didn’t want to bring it up, and it seemed like neither did she. When trash was disposed of and dishes were washed and put away—and I actually had the energy to do the bulk of the dishes this time—Diane wiped her hands dry and said, “I guess it’s time.”
“I guess so, too.”
“Where do you want to do it?”
I thought about the kitchen counter but no, I’d be cursing this area for the rest of the time I’d be here, seeing those death photos over and over again. “Let’s go to the couch,” I said.
“Fine.”
We sat down on the couch. Diane dragged the coffee table over, pushed over a pile of magazines—Smithsonian and Astronomy—then took out her laptop, put it down, and switched it on. The computer made its usual bloops and bleeps, and as Diane worked the buttons, she said, “Just a reminder that I’m going out on a limb here.”
“I appreciate the reminder,” I said. “I promise not to come along with a saw.”
“That’s nice,” she said. “Okay, here we go. What are you looking for?”
“Where she was found.”
A little grunt—of acceptance, concern?—and then she double-clicked an icon, and up came a photo. I grimaced and forced myself to keep looking.
“From the entrance to her office area,” Diane said. “Wide shot.”
“Okay.”
I took my time, just looking around the edges, trying to get used to what was there in front of me on the screen, in all its bloody and colorful horror. The shelves of books and antiques and other knickknacks were crowded on either side of the area that had been cleared for use as Maggie’s office.
There was a shape at the center of the photo. I glanced, looked away, glanced again.
It was the shape of a human, sitting in a chair I also recognized, wearing baggy jeans and what was once a light blue sweatshirt. I could only tell it was once light blue because of the end of the sleeves. The rest of it was smeared and stained with blood and other fluids.
The only tiny saving grace was that Maggie’s body had been thrust backward by the force of the shotgun blast. There was just a mound of bone, blood, tissue, and brain barely visible between her shoulders. Her legs were splayed and a portion of the jeans were stained from where the body’s internal fluids had let loose.
I could sense Diane sitting next to me, smell a fresh soap scent, hear her breathing.
I looked away from the body. Papers and file folders were strewn across the wide planks on the floor.
“Well?” Diane asked.
“Give me a minute more.”
“As long as you want,” she said.
To the left were the rows of wooden filing cabinets, and I could make out that at least two drawers were open.
“Okay,” I said. “Do you have a photo that focuses on the left here, where the filing cabinets are?”
“Hold on.”
She reached forward, picked up the laptop, and went to work. I saw one close-up photo pop up on her screen of Maggie’s shattered head, and I looked away and stared at my dark and quiet fireplace. More boxes of books around the side of the fireplace. One of these days, these books would be removed, lovingly examined, and put up on shelves. And one of these days, my dear friend would leave my house with these horrible photos.
“Okay,” she said. “How about this?”
“This” seemed to fit the bill. It was a photo of the wooden filing cabinets that were to the left, and three drawers in one cabinet were pulled open. I looked closer and there was splintered wood in the upper right corner. A lock there had been smashed open.
“Any others in this area?”
“Thought you’d ask,” Diane said. “Give it back.”
We flipped back and forth and yes, this new photo was aimed toward the floor, where again, papers and file folders had been strewn around. Blood was splattered over the paper and cardboard, and there were pink and gray pieces of tissue that I recognized came from Maggie’s brain matter.
I swallowed.
“Interesting,” I said.
“How’s that?”
“The papers and folders here
