Hidden Order: A Thriller (22 page)

“Another murder.”

“Is it a bad one?”

She looked at him. “Is there actually such a thing as a good one?”

Depends who’s on the receiving end,
he thought to himself, but he didn’t say it. Instead, he said, “Something about that text got to you. I can tell. What is it?”

“The victim’s a prostitute. They just pulled her out of the Charles River.”

“And?”

“
And
whoever killed her, cut her off ears before dumping her in the water.”

C
ordero had no intention of allowing Harvath to tag along to an unrelated murder scene, but that changed as soon as he explained how Claire Marcourt’s body had been found with her ears removed.

With her wigwags flashing and siren blaring, she raced through traffic toward the river. The Community Boating Inc. boathouse was located on the Esplanade, right in between the Hatch concert shell and the Longfellow Bridge.

When they arrived, there were already multiple officers on the scene, including Cordero’s partner, Sal whatever-his-name-was.

“What’d you bring him along for?” he asked upon seeing Harvath. “They don’t give swimming lessons here. This is a sailing school.”

Harvath looked out over all the boats. “I always wanted a sailboat as a kid. I used to pray every night for one.”

“Is that so? I’m all broken up.”

“I was, too, until I learned God doesn’t work that way. So I went out and stole one and asked for forgiveness instead.”

Cordero’s partner was a prick, but now that Harvath had had a little
something to eat, he didn’t feel like riding the guy as hard. Besides, he always heard that the shortest distance between two people was either a good laugh or a smooth trigger pull. He figured he’d try the laugh route first. He watched pointlessly for any hint of a sense of humor in the man until Cordero jumped back in and changed the subject.

“I brought him along,” she replied, “because we think there may be a connection to our other homicide.”

“So the two of you are partners now?” he asked.

“Lighten up, Sal. Where’s the body?”

“This way,” he relented, waving them toward the water.

The dock formed a long, narrow U shape large enough to pen about fifty sailboats, all of which appeared to Harvath to be small, Cape Cod Mercurys. There were at least fifteen officers present, including members of the Boston Police Rescue/Recovery Dive Team.

Detective what’s-his-face stopped at a blue plastic tarp and lifted it up so they could see the body of the prostitute, along with the rope and anchors that had been used to weigh her down. As Cordero’s text message had read, both of her ears had been sliced off.

Harvath examined the work. Though he was no expert, the cuts looked clean, similar to Claire Marcourt’s. “Where was the body found?” he asked.

“Just on the other side of the corral. One of the staff had come down to open up and get the boats ready for the day. He was carrying a bunch of stuff and apparently dinking around on his iPhone at the same time. iPhone goes in the water, staffer goes after iPhone, staffer meets Kelly Davis and the rest is 911 history.”

“Any idea how long she’s been in the water?”

“Less than twelve hours.”

“Was she dumped here or did she drift from another spot?” Harvath asked.

“With those anchors tied around her like that? She didn’t move more than a couple of feet, if at all. Whoever dumped her, dumped her right here.”

Harvath looked at the ropes that had been wrapped around her. Removing his camera, he took several photos. The killer had done a
good job of tying her up. “Where did the anchors and all this line come from?”

“The staffer says someone broke into a utility shed they have up at the boathouse. We’re pretty sure that’s where they came from.”

“Anybody have any gloves?” Harvath asked, as he put his camera away.

An evidence tech handed him a pair and he examined the body. When he was finished, Cordero remarked, “I take back what I said about you not looking like law enforcement. Spent some time around dead bodies in your past?”

“One or two. I’m sure you’ll want to take a look.”

“Why don’t you tell me first what you see?”

“From what I can tell, it looks like she’s been strangled. I don’t see any trauma to the head, other than the ears, of course, so I’d be willing to say strangulation’s the most likely cause of death.”

“You think she was dead before she went in the water?” Cordero asked.

“I do, though an autopsy will look for water in her lungs, which would tell us if she was still alive when she went in.”

“If there’s no water in the lungs, would that rule out death by drowning?”

“Not necessarily,” Harvath replied.

“Why not?”

“Because the minute water enters your airway, your larynx seizes up. It doesn’t matter if you are conscious or unconscious at the time. It’s a self-preservation mechanism. The vocal cords slam shut and stop any more water from going down your windpipe. It’s called a
laryngospasm
.

“In most people the spasm recedes after they lose consciousness, at which point water pours into the lungs as the body struggles for air and tries to breathe. In layman’s terms that’s a
wet
drowning. In about ten to fifteen percent of cases, though, the spasm continues until the person dies from cardiac arrest and no further water gets in. That’s a
dry
drowning. Even if there’s no water in the lungs, a good ME will look for water in the stomach.”

“Why’s that?”

“A laryngospasm may prevent water from getting into a person’s
lungs, but it doesn’t stop water from getting into the stomach. It goes down a different pipe that isn’t closed off as the drowning person sucks in water. Conscious or unconscious, it doesn’t matter. If you go in the water alive, you’re going to end up with water in your stomach.”

Cordero was impressed. “Pretty good. Where’d you learn all that?”

“It was part of my drownproofing as a SEAL.”

Cordero’s partner, who was still holding the tarp up said, “Stick with the sailboat jokes.”

“Why’s that?”

“They’re more believable than you being a SEAL.”

“You know a lot about the military?”

“I know enough,” the man said.

Harvath shook his head and peeled off his gloves.

Cordero didn’t know what to believe at this point, but whoever Harvath was, he was starting to grow on her. And the way he was growing on her was something she wasn’t comfortable with. Widowed with a two-year-old son, her life was complicated enough.

She decided to chill what she was feeling by embarrassing him. If she could shake his confidence, maybe he’d seem a little less attractive. “Let’s have you move a little further south and examine the body for any signs of sexual assault.”

Harvath held up his hands and smiled. “Already took my gloves off, sorry.”

“We can get you another pair,” she said, waving one of the techs back over.

Harvath took a step back from the body. “Gynecology isn’t really my strong suit.”

Cordero’s partner lowered the tarp back down and as he did, Harvath heard him say beneath his breath,
“Pussy
.” The man had said it just loud enough for Harvath to hear.

What was this guy, in fifth grade? “Hey, Sal,” he said, examining a cloth one of the evidence techs had been using and tossing it to the detective. “Does this smell like chloroform to you?”

The man looked at Harvath like he was crazy.

“Go ahead,” said Harvath. “Take a deep breath. It can be a tough
odor to detect. Let’s just be one hundred percent sure before we rule it out.”

The man threw it back at him. “Blow me.”

“She can’t hear you,” Harvath said, pointing down at the tarp. “She has no ears. Plus, she’s kind of dead.”

Cordero could see her partner’s blood pressure rising just by watching his face. He was overprotective and had a short fuse. She’d seen him get rough with suspects and even occasionally other officers. Harvath, on the other hand, seemed eerily patient and willing to goad his opponent into making an emotional mistake. Either way, she didn’t need these two bulls going at it, especially over her. It was becoming clear that if they couldn’t play nice, they’d need to be separated.

She was just about to suggest a few minutes to cool off when one of the patrol officers came down the dock talking over his radio. A few feet from the tarp, he stopped. Cordero recognized him and waited until he was done speaking.

“Officer Kaczynski, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am. It’s good to see you again, Detective.”

Cordero turned to Harvath and said, “Officer Kaczynski was first on scene. When the dive team brought up the body, he made the tentative ID.” Looking at the patrolman, she stated, “Isn’t that correct?”

“I’ve arrested her multiple times; twice last month. Her name is Kelly Davis.”

“All for prostitution?” Harvath asked.

“Prostitution, drugs, petty theft. It’s all tied together.”

“Is there anyone who may have seen her with our potential killer last night?”

The young officer nodded. “That’s the call I just took on the radio. Ms. Davis ran with a couple of other girls. They like to work the tourist areas downtown, but all three of them live in the Old Colony public houses on East Ninth Street. Southie.”

“Southie?”
said Harvath.

“South Boston,” Cordero explained. “It’s a working-class neighborhood.”

“These girls are meth heads, you know, tweakers. They stay up for days at a time,” Kaczynski continued. “When I saw that Kelly was the victim, I radioed a couple of guys on patrol and asked them to keep a lookout for her pals.”

“And they found them?” Harvath asked.

“Yes, sir. One admits she even saw Kelly with a john last night.”

“How about the other one?”

“That’s the thing. The other one was giving both officers a hard time.
I know my rights. I don’t have to talk to you.
She was a real piss-and-vinegar type—right up until her friend started describing the john that Kelly was last seen with. Suddenly, Ms. Piss and Vinegar was as quiet as a church mouse and as white as a sheet. The officers think she definitely knows the guy. I figured you detectives would want to hear this right away.”

“He’s not a detective,” Cordero’s partner piped up, glaring at Harvath.

“Leave it alone, Sal,” Cordero replied, and then asked the patrolman, “Are the two officers still with the ladies right now?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Kaczynski. “Over by Park Street Church near the Granary Burying Ground.”

“Tell them to hold on to them until we get there.”

“Yes, ma’am. Will do.”

As the patrolman walked away, Cordero turned to her partner. But before she could say anything, he offered, “I’ll process the scene here. I want Popeye the Sailor out of my sight anyway. Take him with you to visit the Southie lasses.”

“Are you sure?”

“Go,” he replied. “Before I change my mind.”

“W
hen we get there,” said Cordero as they approached Park Street Church, “let me do the talking. Unless, of course, you also have interrogation experience.”

Harvath held up his thumb and forefinger close together. “One or two. But I’m lost without jumper cables and a bucket of water. Why don’t you do the talking when we get there.”

She was starting to believe there might be more truth to the remarks he made than he let on.

They parked in front of the Orpheum Theatre and played dodge-car crossing Tremont Street. Harvath had never seen a tweaker in person before. In fact, the only reason he was familiar with the term was because a buddy of his at Taser had told him about them. Before the company learned to lock their dumpsters up, local tweakers used to dumpster-dive behind their facility and scavenge parts.

Twitching for days on end with tons of energy and fine-motor skills, they had figured out how to, sort of, rebuild Tasers from the broken and discarded parts they had found in order to resell them on the street for drug money.

The Frankenstein devices they created were not only incredibly unreliable, but also incredibly dangerous. Nevertheless, it was a fascinating, albeit scary accomplishment.