“Already on it,” he assured her. Pedophiles loved to hide digital files—say, incriminating photos—as attachments to computer games, where the file sizes were already so huge and graphic-rich that it was hard to see the piggyback. Inside stereo speakers was also a favorite spot for stashing thumb drives. In this house, given this crime scene, they couldn’t afford to assume anything.
“I’ll talk to our three nine-one-one callers,” D.D. said. “See if I can determine at exactly what time the first shot was fired, then who might have seen something on the street. Given the position of Charlie Boyd’s body, the shooter had to have come through the front door, meaning we should be able to find a witness.”
“Or Roxy Baez did it herself, acting alone.”
“Gonna be a long day,” D.D. said.
“And probably an even longer night,” Phil agreed.
Phil walked back into the house while D.D. squared her shoulders and headed for the noise and chaos of the front street. Eyewitness testimony—with all its inherent strengths and weaknesses—here she came.
? ? ?
SIXTY-THREE-YEAR-OLD MRS. SANCHEZ HAD the kind of direct stare and firm voice D.D. liked in a witness. Yes, she’d heard shots. Was standing at her kitchen sink, washing the breakfast dishes, when she heard a distinct pop, pop, pop. Not terribly loud, but no mistaking the sound. She’d just set down the plate, was trying to figure out what to do next, when she heard more.
She’d picked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1 immediately. Six minutes after nine. She’d looked at her watch to note the time.
No, she had not heard screaming or sounds of a commotion. Just the shots and then . . . nothing. She wasn’t even sure which place they’d come from. Across the street, she thought. But given the options, an entire row of houses, most of which had been turned into multiple units . . .
Yes, she’d peeked out from her window on the second story. But no, she hadn’t seen anyone running down the street. In fact, the sidewalks had been quiet for such a sunny morning.
Had she heard sounds of arguing or any disturbances earlier in the morning?
No, but then she spent most of her time in her kitchen, catching up on chores while watching her shows. Not much she could hear from back there.
How well had she known the family across the street?
Well enough. Charlie had come over last year when he’d noticed the railing of her front steps was hanging loose. Technically, her landlord was responsible for the repairs, but Charlie had volunteered to fix it himself, given how long landlords could take to get around to such things. He’d brought Manny with him, a chatty little thing. Sweet boy. Mrs. Sanchez had produced some cookies, and after that Manny had taken to showing up on his own in case she had any more sweets.
On nice days, she liked to sit out front, which is how she’d come to know Hector; Manny had dragged his father over for introductions. The younger girl started visiting, as well, especially if there was a chance of snacks. The oldest was shy—at least that’s what Manny said. Roxanna might wave and nod when out playing with the dogs, but she rarely crossed the street.
They seemed like a nice family. And no, Mrs. Sanchez had never noticed strangers coming and going at odd hours or vehicles pulling up for short periods of time before driving quickly away. Which already made them much better than the previous owners—the ones who’d lost the house to foreclosure, the ones whom Mrs. Sanchez had reported twice as probable drug dealers.
Were they really dead? All of them? Such a waste. Such a terrible, terrible waste. Who would do such a thing?
This time, D.D. was the one who didn’t have the answer. She left Mrs. Sanchez with her card and a request to call if she thought of anything else. Then D.D. moved on to the next 9-1-1 caller.
Mr. Richards lived in the building next to the Boyd-Baez family. He’d been in the basement, starting the laundry, when he’d heard the shots. At first, he’d thought it was the sound of a car backfiring. But then when he heard it again . . .
He knew immediately it had come from the house next door. By the time he’d run upstairs, though, and peered through the window, he hadn’t seen anything. Not on the street, or in the backyard, which he could see from his third-story unit.
What about the dogs? D.D. asked.
That made him think. Mr. Richards didn’t know the family well, but he was used to the sight of the two brown-spotted dogs sleeping on the back porch. Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen them that morning. Not that he’d been paying much attention, he added hastily.
Had he heard the sound of arguing, any disturbances, maybe while he was eating breakfast? His apartment was much closer than Mrs. Sanchez’s.
Mr. Richards shook his head. He’d been gathering laundry, though, then lugging it all the way down to the basement washer and dryer. The morning had been quiet, just like any other morning, he reported. And then . . . He shrugged, spread his hands. As witnesses went, he’d heard more than he’d seen, and that was that.
D.D. thanked him for his time, moved on to caller number three.
Barb Campbell was a twenty-eight-year-old English teacher, currently house-sitting her parents’ rear apartment on the second floor of the building to the left of Charlie Boyd’s fixer-upper. She’d been reading when she’d heard the shots. Close enough, sharp enough, her first instinct had been to duck. It had taken her a few moments to realize the shots had come from the side of her apartment, and not out front.
She’d belly-crawled over to a window, peering out. Most of her view was obscured by the side of the Boyd-Baez residence. But looking diagonally, she could just make out a thin slice of the family’s backyard. And a foot disappearing over the rear wooden fence.
“What size?” D.D. asked immediately. “Male, female? Adult, child?”
“I don’t know. A foot. The sole mostly. Black? Maybe the bottom of a boot?”
“Did it have a heel? Say, fashionable versus functional tread?”
“I . . . I don’t know. Maybe a tennis shoe? I was pretty rattled. I’d never heard gunshots before. Especially that close. I wasn’t sure what to do.”
“How long did you watch?”
“Probably several minutes. You know, in case the person came back.”
“And . . .”
“Nothing.”
“No sounds of commotion from the residence on the other side of the fence, the property behind the Boyd-Baez house?”
“It’s not a residence. That building is office space. Maybe a dental clinic, real estate? Something like that.”
“What about right before the sound of shots fired? What did you hear then?”
Barb Campbell flushed. “I was reading. And I don’t exactly hear much when I’m lost in a good book.”
“Dogs barking?”
She shook her head.
“Voices arguing? Screaming?”
Another shake.
“Had you noticed anything going on earlier at the house? Maybe glanced out while you were pouring a cup of coffee, picking up your novel?”
“Um, the dogs. I heard the jangle of their collars as they came around the side yard.”
“They were running or playing?”
“No, the girl had them. Looked like she was taking them for a walk.”
D.D. stared hard at Barb Campbell.
“You saw someone leave with the dogs?”
“The taller girl. Long dark hair. Maybe eighteen or so? She stopped right beneath this window to pick up her backpack.”
“Her backpack?”
“Yes. A ratty light blue thing. Looked like she was retrieving it from behind a bush.”
“What time was this?” D.D. asked sharply.
“I don’t know. Maybe eight thirty? I was just getting ready to read.”
“What was she wearing? Color of her shirt, maybe a jacket?”
“Um, I wasn’t paying that much attention. Red shirt, maybe? I can picture red. And blue jeans, I think. I don’t know. Nothing special.”
“Did you see her leave through the front gate?”
“No. I just saw her walking down the side yard. But she had both dogs on leashes, then she grabbed her backpack. Where else would she go but through the front gate?”
“Did she seem agitated, upset, anything?”
“Honestly, I have no idea.”
“What about a phone? Did she have her cell in her hand? Did you hear her talking to anyone?”
Barb Campbell shook her head.