Play Dead by Richard Montanari

Author:Richard Montanari [Montanari, Richard]
Language: eng
Format: epub, pdf
Published: 2011-03-23T22:00:00+00:00

yrne sat in the car, watching. The man stood across the vacant lot, leaning against a half- demolished brick wall. The man had been there every day at the same time for the past three days, probably long before that. He wore the same clothes. He wore the same hat, the same expression. To Byrne he looked emptied, as if someone had scooped out everything that made him human and left just the shell, a brittle shell at that.

This had become Robert O’Riordan’s vigil, the same as a deathwatch, even though his daughter had already died. Or perhaps she had not, in his mind. Perhaps he expected her to appear in one of the windows, like some spectral Juliet. Or maybe his desires were more earthbound, and practical. Maybe he expected Caitlin’s killer to return to the scene of the crime, as killers were wont to do.

What would he then do? Byrne wondered. Was he armed? Did Caitlin’s father have the nerve to pull the trigger or launch the blade, based on a suspicion?

Byrne had talked to hundreds of fathers in his time on the job, men who had lost a son or daughter to violence. Each faced the darkness in his own way.

Byrne glanced at the man. There was no reaching him. Not now.

He started the car. But before he could pull out into traffic his phone rang. It was Jessica.

“We’ve got something,” she said. “Meet me at the lab.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

T

racy McGovern was deputy director of the crime lab. A tall, slender woman of fifty, she had silver, shoulder-length hair, bluntcut bangs. She favored shapeless black suits, rock- and- roll T-shirts, and Ecco walkers. Tracy had spent nearly ten years working with the FBI’s Mitochondrial DNA Unit—a division that examines items of evidence associated with cold cases, as well as small pieces of evidence containing little biological material—before returning to her hometown of Philadelphia. According to her colleagues, she had the unique ability to sleep three twenty- minute stretches per twenty- four- hour period, right at her desk, and continue working on a case until the perpetrator was caught. Tracy McGovern was not so much a bloodhound as she was a greyhound.

The three boxes from the Shiloh Street crime scene were on the floor. In the harsh light of the lab they looked even brighter, more colorful. It was hard to reconcile this with the purpose for which they had been used.

“There were no prints on the boxes,” Tracy said. “They’ve been rather thoroughly wiped down with a common household cleaning solution.”

Byrne again noted the craftsmanship that went into the design and construction of these boxes. The mitered edges were almost invisible.

“These hinges look expensive,” Byrne said.

18 3 B A D L A N D S

“They are,” Tracy said. “They’re made by an Austrian company called Grass. They’re available from only a few dozen companies on the Internet. You might want to check them out.” Tracy handed Byrne a printout of specialty hardware websites.

“We’re still collecting trace evidence from the boxes, but there is something else I wanted to show you.

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