The Missing (13 page)

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘Tell me about it. So now, in addition to everything else, I’ve got to deal with a leak.’ He was looking at her now. ‘Who else knows about Mastrangelo?’

‘Everyone at the lab,’ Darby said. ‘What about you?’

‘I’ve tried to keep that information locked down to a few key people. The problem is, in a missing person investigation, especially one of this size, it creates a real competitive environment. Reporters want to be the first to get the inside scoop, and they’re willing to pay for it. You’d be surprised at the kind of money they offer.’

‘Someone approached you?’

‘Not me. They know better. But there are plenty of guys in the department who need extra cash for child support payments or maybe they got their eyes on a new set of wheels. Who else at the lab knows about the bugs?’

‘At the moment, just me and Coop.’

‘Keep it that way.’

‘My boss wants me to update him,’ Darby said. ‘You’re putting me in an awkward position.’

‘As far as he’s concerned, I was the one who found the listening devices. You don’t know anything about it.’

‘What about using the reporter? Have him plant a story about how the crime lab is planning on going through the house, say, tomorrow night because we’re looking for certain key evidence. That way we can guarantee he’ll be listening.’

‘I was thinking the same thing. Let me make some calls, and I’ll get back to you. You want a ride back to the house?’

‘I’m going to grab some coffee and then I’ll walk back. The fresh air helps me think.’

Darby’s phone rang as she was standing in line. It was Leland.

‘AFIS came back with a hit on Jane Doe’s prints at one a.m. this morning. Her name is Rachel Swanson, from Durham, New Hampshire. She was twenty-three when she disappeared.’

‘How long has she been missing?’

‘Almost five years. I don’t have the details yet, just some preliminary stuff. Any luck at the house?’

‘I struck out.’ Darby didn’t like lying to Leland, but this was Banville’s investigation, and he had decided how he wanted to play it out.

‘I found Neil Joseph in the squad room and asked
him to pull up the case file, see what’s listed on NCIC,’ Leland said. ‘I’ve already talked with someone at the state lab in New Hampshire. They’re going to fax over what they have for evidence.’

‘I’m on my way.’

Chapter 28

By noon, Darby had learned most of the facts on Rachel Swanson’s disappearance.

In the early morning hours of New Year’s Day, 2001, twenty-three-year-old Rachel Swanson said good-bye to her close friends in Nashua, New Hampshire, and made the hour’s drive back to the Durham, to the house she had recently moved into with her boyfriend, Chad Bernstein, who had skipped the party because he was ill. Lisa Dingle, a neighbor returning home from her own New Year’s Eve celebration, saw Rachel’s Honda Accord pull into the driveway sometime around two a.m. Rachel waved to her neighbor and entered through the side door of her house.

An hour later, Dingle, an insomniac, was still up reading in bed when she heard a car start. She glanced up from her book and saw Chad Bernstein’s black BMW backing out of the driveway.

Five days later, when Lisa Dingle learned that both Bernstein and his girlfriend were missing, she called the police.

Police focused their attention on Bernstein. The thirty-six-year-old software engineer had been
previously married, and the ex-wife was all too willing to tell police the stories about her former husband’s physical abuse. She knew her ex was capable of hurting a woman, and the police knew it, too. The former wife had called 911 three times. During their last argument, Chad had pulled a knife and threatened to kill her.

Bernstein traveled extensively around the country for business. Three times a year he visited his office’s London branch. A thorough investigation of Bernstein’s house failed to produce his passport. The BMW was never found.

At quarter to one, the New Hampshire state lab faxed over the evidence report from the case. There was no sign of a forced entry, but boot prints were discovered in a flower bed outside one of the back windows – a man’s boot print, size eleven. A mold of the footwear impression was taken, and the forensics technician Darby spoke to promised to send out a comparison sample via FedEx later today.

‘So instead of shooting Chad Bernstein, our guy abducts the boyfriend,’ Coop told Darby. They were jogging through the Public Garden, having decided to take advantage of the unusually warm fall weather and clear their heads. ‘The question before us is why.’

‘It makes the pattern less noticeable,’ Darby said. ‘Plus this guy is smart enough to abduct women from different states, so when a detective gets on NCIC
or VICAP, he can’t find a common denominator except missing women – and women disappear all the time, right?’

‘And he mixes up the pattern at the crime scenes. Terry Mastrangelo was abducted outside of her house. Rachel Swanson was grabbed when she came home, and then he took her and her boyfriend somewhere. Then our guy goes inside Carol Cranmore’s house, shoots the boyfriend and leaves with her.’

‘If Rachel Swanson hadn’t escaped, we’d be looking in all the wrong places.’

‘You know what I keep wondering? How long has he been doing this?’

‘We know he’s been doing it for at least five years,’ Darby said. ‘Now we’ve got to figure out what he’s using these women for. I’m hoping the blood from the house finds a match on CODIS.’

‘I keep playing around with those letters you found on Rachel Swanson’s wrist. I can’t see the pattern. Any new thoughts?’

‘Nothing beyond what I told you before about it being directions for something.’

They jogged up a set of stairs and then ran over the bridge overlooking the swan boats, heading toward the Common. Darby had to run fast to keep up.

Twenty minutes later, Darby spotted a hot dog cart and stopped running. ‘I need to eat something before I pass out,’ she said. ‘You want anything?’

‘I’ll take a bottle of water.’

While she ordered a chili dog loaded with onions and a Coke, Coop made small talk with a female jogger dressed in very tight spandex. Darby noticed two professionally dressed women eating their lunch on a bench; they were staring at Coop. Darby wondered if Carol’s abductor had done that, had sat on a bench somewhere like the Public Garden, waiting for someone to catch his eye.

Was it as simple as that? Darby hoped the selection process wasn’t some random intersection. She very much wanted to believe all three women shared one single common denominator.

Darby handed Coop his water. A moment later, he joined her on a bench set up across from rows of colorful mums arranged around a water fountain.

‘You know what’s missing from this hot dog?’ Darby said.

‘Real meat?’

‘No, Fritos.’

‘The stuff you eat, it’s amazing you don’t have an ass the size of an elephant.’

‘You’re right, Coop. Maybe I should just eat heads of lettuce like your last girlfriend. It was great when she passed out at the Christmas party.’

‘I told her she should splurge and have some ranch dressing with her celery sticks.’

‘Seriously, do you ever feel guilty for being so shallow?’

‘Yes. I cry myself to sleep every night.’ Coop shut
his eyes and leaned back against the bench to soak up the last of the afternoon sun.

Darby shook her head. She gathered up her trash and brought it over to the garbage can.

‘Excuse me.’ It was the good-looking blonde Coop had been speaking to a few minutes ago. ‘I hope you don’t think this is too forward of me, but that guy you’re sitting with, is he your boyfriend?’

Darby finished chewing. ‘He was until he came out of the closet,’ she said.

‘Why are all the good-looking guys gay?’

‘It was for the best anyway. The man is hung like a cocktail weiner. His name is Jackson Cooper, lives in Charlestown. Warn all your friends.’

Coop was eyeing Darby when she came back. ‘What were you two talking about?’

‘She was asking for directions to Cheers.’

‘Darb, you grew up in Belham.’

‘Unfortunately, yes.’

‘You remember the Summer of Fear?’

She nodded. ‘Victor Grady made six women disappear that summer.’

‘One of his victims was from Charlestown, this girl named Pamela Driscol,’ Coop said. ‘She was friends with my sister Kim. They were at some party one night, and Pam walked home and vanished. Pam was… She was just this really nice person. Very shy. She used to cover her mouth when she laughed because she had an overbite. Every time she came
over she brought me a Hershey’s Kiss. I can still remember her sitting in my sister’s bedroom, listening to Duran Duran records and giggling about how cute Simon LeBon was.’

‘I thought the bass player was better looking.’

‘He didn’t do it for me.’ Coop’s face turned serious. ‘When Pam disappeared, everyone in town thought we had a boogeyman prowling around at night. My mother was so paranoid, she made my sisters move up to the second floor. She wanted an alarm system, but we couldn’t afford one, so she convinced my old man to change all the locks on the house and install some extra deadbolts. Sometimes at night I’d wake up and hear a noise, and it would be my mother running around downstairs making sure the doors and windows were locked. My sisters wouldn’t walk anywhere alone. Not that they could. Charlestown had instituted a curfew because ofwhat happened to Pam.’

Coop wiped the sweat from his face. ‘Wasn’t one of Grady’s victims from Belham?’

‘There were two,’ Darby said. ‘Melanie Cruz and Stacey Stephens.’

‘Did you know them?’

‘We went to school together. I was friends with Melanie – good friends.’

‘So you know what I’m talking about,’ Coop said. ‘That’s what this case reminds me of, that same kind of fear.’

They jogged back to the station and hit the showers. Darby was drying her hair when her cell phone rang. The caller was Dr Hathcock from Mass General. It was difficult to hear her over the screaming.

‘What did you say?’ Darby asked.

‘I said Jane Doe just woke up. She’s yelling for someone named Terry.’

Chapter 29

Darby was relieved to see two additional patrolmen stationed outside the ICU doors.

‘Doc’s waiting for you inside,’ the chubby one said with a wry grin. ‘Enjoy.’

Darby was wondering what he meant when she saw the tall, balding man huddled against the wall around the corner from Rachel Swanson’s room, having a private conversation with Dr Hathcock. The man’s name was Dr Thomas Lomborg. He was the hospital’s director of psychiatry and author of several bestselling books on deviant criminal behavior.

‘Damn,’ Coop said, patting down his pockets.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘I forgot to pack my pompous asshole repellent.’

‘Play nice.’

Darby flinched at the painful cry coming from down the corridor:
‘TERRY!’

Quick introductions all around. Lomborg spoke first.

‘I gave Jane Doe a mild sedative to calm her down. As you can hear, it hasn’t had much of an effect. Dr Hathcock and I both agree her physical condition is still too risky to handle an antipsychotic drug, and
I’m a bit leery of prescribing one until I can diagnose her mental condition. Dr Hathcock told me Jane Doe believes you’re this person named Terry?’

‘She did the other night, when I found her under the porch,’ Darby said. ‘Her name is Rachel Swanson.’

‘Is Terry a real person?’

‘Yes, she is. I can’t get into specifics, but Terry and Rachel knew each other for an extended period of time.’

‘Can you at least tell me the circumstances of their relationship? It might help me with a diagnosis and possible treatment.’

‘They endured the same trauma,’ Darby said.

‘Which is?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘And Rachel Swanson? Can you tell me anything about her?’

‘Nothing that would be helpful,’ Darby said. ‘Has she spoken at all? Said anything beyond calling out for Terry?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’ Lomborg looked to Dr Hathcock, who was shaking her head.

‘TERRY, WHERE ARE YOU?’

‘I want to go in her room and see if I can talk to her again,’ Darby said.

‘I’ll be in there when you question her,’ Lomborg said.

‘Rachel won’t talk if you’re in there – if anyone is
in there. She wouldn’t talk until I was alone with her.’

‘Then I’ll listen outside the door.’

‘I’m sorry, but I can’t allow that,’ Darby said. ‘For whatever reason, this woman trusts me, and I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize that trust.’

Lomborg stiffened. The dark circles under his eyes were covered with a light concealer so he’d look good for the camera crews camped out in front of the hospital.

‘Are you going to record your conversation?’ Lomborg asked.

‘I am.’

‘I want a copy before you leave.’

‘You’ll get one after it’s been reviewed.’

‘This is not only highly irregular, it’s against hospital procedure.’

‘
TEEERRRRRRRRY!
’

‘Dr Lomborg, I don’t want to argue, I want to get in there and calm Rachel down,’ Darby said. ‘What would you suggest I do?’

‘That’s difficult to say, since I don’t have much information about the case, or the circumstances causing her trauma. She’s in a highly agitated state because she wants out of her restraints. Under no circumstances are you to do that. Despite your success the previous evening, Rachel may not be as receptive this time. She attacked a nurse.’

‘Yes, I know. Dr Hathcock told me what happened yesterday.’

‘I was referring to this morning’s incident,’ Lom-borg said. ‘A nurse, thinking Rachel Swanson was still sedated, reached across her face to change a bandage, and Rachel bit her arm. Speaking ofwhich, what’s this business about the numbers and letters she wrote on her wrist?’

‘We don’t know.’
Come on, you stuffy bastard, let me in there.

‘You need to try and convince her that we’re here to help. She seems to think she’s being kept somewhere. That’s all I can tell you.’

Rachel Swanson screamed for help, her bed thumping against the floor.