“I think you’re going overboard is all,” Neil said. “Another thing, it’s embarrassing for her family.”
“You know the family?”
“No, but you saw the pictures out there—nieces and nephews or whatever. We drag this out and the neighbors outside are gonna want to know what’s going on. Then the fucking media will horn in. So let’s just wrap this up, okay?”
“We’re going to wrap this up, but we’re deferring to policies and procedures when cause of death isn’t immediately apparent.”
“Everything by the rules, huh?”
“Yeah, especially with someone we know.”
“All the more reason to protect her dignity.”
Steve stared at Neil. A large part of him wanted to do what Neil said—send her to the M.E. and let it go. But in some dark recess of his gut he felt a rustling unease. “I don’t know how to say this without saying it, but I’m the lead on this. So, yeah, by the rules.”
Because of their brief partnership, Steve and Neil were still meshing. Reardon had paired them as complements to each other. Steve was the more traditional investigator who used logic, precision, and scientific evidence to reconstruct a crime scene. He was methodical and orderly and took pride in the details and style of his reports. He was also good with people, almost deferential to a fault. Neil, on the other hand, was more gut- intuitive, impulsive, sometimes letting assumptions get ahead of facts. He was also a cunningly effective interrogator, sometimes playacting to manipulate a suspect into spilling his guts. He was good, and they made an effective team. But this was the first time in their partnership that Neil had outright challenged Steve. Maybe because the victim was a mutual acquaintance. Maybe resentment because Neil was older and had been a cop longer, while Steve had rank.
“Look, guys,” Steve said to the others, “we’ve got some inconsistencies here. So, I want to take this from the top: a full forensic on the body—hands bagged, fingernail clipping, DNA, prints, vaginal swab, blood-typing, semen illumination, fibers, hairs—the works.”
Neil started to leave.
“Where you going?”
He gave Steve a sulky look. “To talk to the landlady.”
“We’re going to need some backup for a neighborhood sweep plus an RMV check on all parked cars, the owners talked to.”
The others nodded.
“I also want all phone company records including home and cell and work. Also her laptop settings and e-mail messages preserved and copied. Same with her answering machine and any address books, mail correspondence, and credit card purchases in the last forty-eight hours.” Then Steve added: “And any known boyfriends, past and present.”
He then picked up the telephone by her bed and pressed *69 to get the last incoming call while Neil watched him over his shoulder from the bedside. “The number you are trying to call cannot be reached by this method.”
Neil continued to stare at him, knowing what Steve was doing.
Steve shook his head. “Whoever it was blocked caller ID.”
While the techs got ready to do a full processing, Steve headed out of the room. But before he left he glanced back. Neil was at the bedside looking at the body of Terry Farina. His back was to him, but Steve could swear that Neil made the sign of the cross.
3
“When was the last time you saw her?”
They were walking down the back stairs to the landlady’s apartment.
“I don’t know, four or five months ago. How about you?”
“Two or three weeks.” Steve had gotten to know Terry casually from the short class breaks. On occasion they’d meet downstairs at the Dunkin’ Donuts eating area in their classroom building, a few times have coffee together. She was in her late thirties and was taking refresher courses because she had decided to attend grad school in the fall. “So, you’ve never been here before?”
Neil looked over his shoulder at Steve. “No, I’ve never been here before. I would have told you that.”
They reached the bottom of the stairs. Neil pulled two aspirin from a tin and dry-swallowed them. “What I know is she broke up with a guy last year then moved down from someplace up north. I still don’t believe it, but if it turns out to be personal, he’s a lead.”
Steve tapped the door and Officer Abraham led them to the living room where another uniform sat with the landlady, Jean Sabo, and Terry’s friend, Katie Beals. Steve explained that they were uncertain of the cause of death and that the interview was voluntary but asked that the women remain confidential about the case. As was policy, they were questioned separately. Steve began with Mrs. Sabo, asking if she had heard anybody upstairs—voices, footsteps, loud sounds—that day over the last twenty-four hours.
“No, but I didn’t really pay much attention. Terry was very quiet. Also, I had the television on.” She said she had three sets—one in her bedroom, a small flat screen in the kitchen, and the living-room console. “Besides I was out most of yesterday.”
“About what time did you get home?”
“A little after seven.”
“And you put the TV on?”
“Yes, the kitchen and bedroom. They keep me company while I putter around.”
“And what time did you retire last night?”
“Just after
“And you remember hearing nothing.”
“No, I heard nothing.” Then she turned toward Neil. “I thought you said it was an accident.” Her hand went to her mouth. “Do you think someone did that to her?”
“We’re not exactly sure how she died.”
Steve interviewed her for a few more minutes then let Neil continue while he moved into the kitchen. Katie Beals, a petite, attractive woman of thirty-six, was still fragile from the discovery. Steve explained that although she had already given Sergeant French a statement he wanted her to take him from the top.
“We were going to Vermont for five days. I had to work on Saturday so we were going to leave this morning.”
She explained they were to stay at her parents’ place, which jibed with the pen notes on the kitchen calendar upstairs. VT in the Sunday box, Home in the Thursday box.
“I came to pick her up. I rang and rang then called her phone and cell. I could see the light on from outside, but when she didn’t answer I went down to Mrs. Sabo.”
“Which light?”
“The living room.”
Steve asked her to describe the condition of the apartment when they entered and to retrace their steps, and if they touched anything or the body. They hadn’t, except for the telephone in the dead woman’s kitchen to call 911.
“And you didn’t touch the body, maybe shake her, feel for a pulse, anything like that?”
“No, no. I could tell she was dead just looking at her. It was just so horrible. I think I just froze and screamed. Jean made the call from the phone in the other room. It’s such a blur, but we didn’t touch her or anything.”
“How long have you known Terry?”
“Since September. We took an evening class together at Northeastern last year.” She was struggling through her tears to talk. “She was a beautiful, happy person. I don’t understand.”
“You think she killed herself?”
