“Yes.”
“She knew that they would interrogate you. Maybe with drugs. Maybe harshly. And if you didn’t know anything—”
“I couldn’t help them.”
“More than that,” I say.
“What do you mean?”
“Maura was keeping you safe,” I tell her. “Whatever made her run, if you knew about it, you’d be in danger too.”
“Oh my God . . .”
I try to focus.
“So what then?” I ask.
“I don’t know.”
“Are you saying you haven’t seen Maura since that day in Starbucks?”
“No. I’ve seen her six times.”
“In the past fifteen years?”
Lynn Wells nods. “Always by surprise. Always a quick visit to let me know she’s okay. For a while she set up an email account for us. We never sent anything. We would both just leave it in our draft files. We both had the password. She used a VPN to keep it anonymous. But then she started to think that was too risky. And in a way, oddly, she had nothing to say to me. I told her about my life. About my quitting drinking and Bernadette. But she never said anything about her own life. It was torture for me.” She holds the water bottle a little too tightly. “I have no idea where she’s been or what she’s been doing.”
My mobile phone vibrates again.
This time I glance at it. It’s Augie. I put the phone to my ear.
“Hello?”
“We found Hank.”
Chapter Seventeen
Do you remember Hank’s tenth birthday party, Leo?
It was a big year for laser tag and Nerf wars and sports-themed parties. Eric Kuby had that soccer party in an indoor bubble. Alex Cohen had her birthday at that mall with mini-golf and a Rainforest Cafe. Michael Stotter’s had video games and virtual-reality rides. They strapped us in and shook the seats and we stared at the screen. It really felt like we were on a roller coaster. You got sick on that one.
Hank’s party, like Hank, was different. His was held in a science laboratory at Reston University. Some guy with thick glasses and a white lab coat led us through a series of experiments. We made slime using borax powder and Elmer’s Glue. We made high-bouncing polymer balls and giant ice marbles. We did lab stuff involving chemical reactions and fire and static electricity. The party was better than I thought it would be—a geek heaven even the jocks would love—but the part I remember best is the expression on Hank’s face sitting right up front, his eyes wide and dreamy, that dorky smile plastered to his face. Even then, even as a ten-year-old, I got how happy Hank was, how much in his element (ha-ha), how rare it was for any of us to reach this particular high. Even then—and I doubt I could have articulated this—part of me wanted to stop time for him, just let him stay in this moment, this room, his friends and his passions locked together for longer than the forty-five minutes of entertainment followed by fifteen minutes of cake. I think back now about that party, about the purity of that moment for Hank, about the directions our lives take, and what the timeline was between that moment and now, the link between that happy boy with the dorky smile and the naked and mutilated dead man hanged by his neck from a tree.
I can still look on the face—bloated, grotesque, decaying, even—and see that little boy at the party. It’s weird how you can do that with people you grew up with. The stench knocks everyone else back a step, but for some reason it doesn’t bother me. I have seen my share of dead bodies. Hank’s naked corpse looks like someone ripped out his bones, a marionette held up by one string. Cut marks, probably made by a sharp blade, cover his torso, but the thing that keeps drawing your attention is the most obvious one.
Hank was castrated.
I’m surrounded by my two superiors. On one side of me is Essex County Prosecutor Loren Muse. On the other side is Augie. We are all staring up in silence.
Muse turns to me. “I thought you asked for a few personal days.”
“Not anymore. I want this case.”
“You knew the victim, right?”
“Years ago.”
“Still. No way.” Muse is one of those tiny women who seem to emanate great strength. She gestures to a man heading down the hill. “Manning will take it.”
Augie still hasn’t spoken. He too has seen his share of dead bodies, but his face is ashen. County has jurisdiction in homicides. The town of Westbridge—Augie’s department—offers only support. My job will be to liaise between the two.
Muse looks back over the hill. “Did you see all those media trucks?”
“Yes.”
“You know why so many showed up?”
I do. “That viral video.”
Muse nods. “A man is outed as a sexual predator via online vigilantism. The video has, what, three or four million hits. Now that man is found in the woods, hung from a tree. When it gets out that he was castrated . . .”
She doesn’t have to finish. We all get it. A total shit show. I’m almost glad now I’m not the lead on this one.
Alan Manning walks past us like we aren’t there. He stands by Hank’s slightly swaying remains and makes a show of inspecting him. I know Manning. He’s not a bad detective. But he’s not a good one either.
Muse takes a step back. Augie and I follow her.
“Augie tells me you spoke to the mom who posted the video,” she says to me.
“Suzanne Hanson.”
“What did she say?”
“That she lied. That Hank didn’t really expose himself.”
Muse slowly turns toward me. “Come again?”
“Mrs. Hanson just didn’t like an undesirable hanging around the school.”
“And now he’s dead,” Muse says with a shake of her head.
I don’t reply.
“Ignorant, stupid . . .” She shakes her head again. “I’m going to see if we can charge her with something.”
I have no issue with that.
“Do you think maybe Mrs. Hanson is involved in this?” Muse asks.
No, I think to myself. And I want to be honest. I don’t want to lead Manning off the scent, but I also want what’s best for the case, which may involve slight misdirection. So I say, “I think the Hansons might be a good place for Manning to start.”
We stare up at the body again. Manning is circling underneath it, his face scrunched up. His manner is too showy, like something he saw on TV, and I half expect him to whip out a giant magnifying glass à la Sherlock Holmes.
Augie still has his eyes on the corpse. “I know Hank’s father.”
“Then maybe you should be the one to notify him,” Muse says. “And with the press already buzzing around, the sooner, the better.”
“Do you mind if I go with him?” I ask.
She shrugs a “suit yourself.”
Augie and I start walking away. Franco Cadeddu, the county medical examiner and a good guy, has just arrived. He passes us with a stern nod. Franco is always all business on the scene. I return the stern nod. Augie does not. We keep walking. The crime scene guys, dressed in full body suits and surgical masks and gloves, hurry past us. Augie doesn’t so much as glance at them. His face is set, trudging toward a dreaded task.
“Doesn’t make sense,” I say.
It takes a moment or two for Augie to reply. “How’s that?”
“Hank’s face.”
“What about it?”
“It isn’t purple or even a different hue than the rest of his body.”
Augie says nothing.
“So he didn’t die from strangulation or a broken neck,” I say.
“Franco will figure that out.”
“Another thing: The smell—it’s beyond rancid. You can see the start of decay.”
Augie keeps walking.
“Hank disappeared three weeks ago,” I say. “My guess is, he’s been dead that long.”
“Again, let’s wait for Franco.”
“Who found the body?”
“David Elefant,” Augie says. “He was walking his dog off leash. The dog ran this way and started howling.”
“How often does Elefant do that?”
“Do what?”
“Walk his dog here. This ravine is somewhat out of the way, but it isn’t that remote.”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Let’s say I’m right. Let’s say Hank has been dead for three weeks.”