“Something? Or someone?” D.D. muttered grumpily. She pulled it together. “I need the name of the investigating officer into Roberto’s death.”
“Detective Hank Swetonic. Has a solid record.”
“Not the kind of guy to miss something obvious?”
“Not likely.”
“All right. Wish me luck.”
“Luck.”
“And, Phil, remind me at the end of the day to buy some cheap boots. I think before this puppy thing is over and done with, I’m gonna need some expendable shoes.”
D.D. ended the call. Sunday afternoon, traffic was light, at least by Boston standards. It gave her some time to collect her thoughts, though she still wasn’t sure what she was thinking.
Roberto. It felt to her that all roads led back to one bullying teenager and his reign of terror in a foster home. He’d abused Roxanna and Lola, plus untold others. He’d done whatever was necessary to advance his girlfriend’s stage ambitions. And he was possibly involved in the unlawful distribution of child porn.
Which raised another good question. Had Roberto left behind a bank account, any kind of financial resources? Because if he’d taken photos of his victims and sold them, where were those funds? Eighteen-year-olds weren’t exactly known for their advanced financial or legal planning. So where did he stash the money while he was alive? And what had happened to it upon his death?
A lockbox, she thought. The kind of thing he could keep close, yet also secure in an overcrowded foster home. Assuming he had such a thing, probably his longtime girlfriend knew the combo, had the key, something. Meaning that upon his death, Anya might have quickly grabbed the box before Mother Del or the investigating detectives could get their hands on it. Seed money for her New York ambitions? One last cover-up of her evil boyfriend’s crimes?
So many questions, so few answers.
Which brought her to the BPD field office in Brighton. D.D. walked in, flashed her shield, and was led immediately to the back office, where the head of the district, Captain Wallace, was waiting for her. The captain and a black male detective stood as she walked in.
“Captain.”
“Sergeant Warren.”
They exchanged handshakes. “This is Detective Hank Swetonic, who handled the initial case file.” The captain made the introductions. More hand shaking. Detective Swetonic wasn’t a tall guy, barely topping D.D. by two inches. But the trimly built African American could hold his own in any room. D.D. liked his eyes: thickly lashed and definitely intelligent.
Not the kind of detective to miss the obvious.
“Tough couple of days,” Detective Swetonic commented. The D-14 field office had supplied most of the officers and patrol cars involved in the Amber Alert. For a field office that dealt mostly with burglary, larceny, and vehicle theft, four homicides followed by two shootings in a span of twenty-four hours was definitely a change of pace.
“I’m assuming Phil told you we are interested in a suicide you handled four months ago. Male teen, Roberto Faillon.”
“Yeah, I pulled the records.” Detective Swetonic nodded toward the captain’s desk, where D.D. spied the case file. The captain gestured to an available chair. They all took a seat, D.D. helping herself to the paperwork.
Thin, but about what she’d expected for a case that had initially appeared open and shut.
“Where’d you find the body?” she asked, sifting through the reports till she came to the crime scene photos.
“Community theater building. His girlfriend, Anya Seton, discovered him in one of the dressing rooms after rehearsal. Looks like he shot himself while the rest of them were working on their performances.”
“Did he leave a note?” D.D. asked. She stared at the first crime scene photo. Roberto appeared to be sitting in an old gold-striped recliner, the kind of furniture picked up cheap at a yard sale and hoarded by a small theater for future set pieces. He was wearing a short-sleeved black T-shirt, the graphic front faded to an indistinguishable shadow. One arm hung limply on his lap, his head lolling to the side. Further angles showed a small but distinct entrance wound to his right temple. Small caliber was D.D.’s first thought. Most likely a .22.
Sure enough, following protocol, the scene had been shot with a high-resolution camera, including many close-ups of a .22-caliber handgun dangling from the fingers of his right hand. She also noted a nearly empty bottle of whiskey at the teen’s feet.
“No suicide note,” Detective Swetonic was saying now, “but there were traces of GSR on his right hand consistent with firing a handgun. Also, angle of entry of the wound was consistent with it being self-inflicted. Finally, the tox screen revealed a blood alcohol level of point one five. We interviewed the other members of the theater group. They said Roberto and his girlfriend had been feuding over her relationship with the director. Basically, Roberto had been angry and drinking pretty hard for days. Apparently, when a fifth of whiskey failed to make his problems go away . . .”
“Any witnesses?” D.D. asked.
“No. And no one heard the sound of a gunshot either. Though given the size of the building, that’s not a huge surprise. The place is a bit of a maze, and everyone was focused in the main stage area at the time.”
D.D. nodded. “Any leads on where he got the gun?”
“In that neighborhood, try any street corner.”
“Money?” she asked. “Cash in pockets? Did you go through his possessions at his foster mom’s place, Mother Del’s?”
“We found about ten bucks in his pocket, so if he’d had cash, he’d spent it. I did pay a visit to the foster mom. Can’t say she seemed that shaken up about his death. Couple of the younger kids, however, definitely perked up.”
“We’ve heard Roberto was a bully,” D.D. supplied.
“Ditto. I believe his guidance counselor used the term angry young man. In his room, we found a storage box. Some photos, that kind of thing. But no large supplies of cash.”
“What kind of photos?”
“Pages from an old scrapbook with baby photos. Probably his own. Some more recent shots of him and his girlfriend. You know, walking around Boston, standing in front of the swan boats, lovers-out-and-about-town sort of stuff.”
“Anything questionable? We heard he’d shared a nude photo of one of his classmates on the internet.”
“Heard the same from the guidance counselor. A Ms. Lobdell Cass?”
D.D. nodded.
“So, the one thing that stood out from the crime scene: no cell phone. Not on the body, not in the dressing room, not in his bedroom. But of course the kid had to have had a phone, given the accounts from school.”
“Someone took his phone before you got there,” D.D. filled in.
“I’m guessing the girlfriend, probably to protect him if there were questionable photos involved. She let us search her and her belongings while we were there. We didn’t discover Roberto’s phone, but that’s hardly a surprise. The theater building is an old church overstuffed with props, costumes, you name it. There’s a million places she could’ve stashed the phone before we arrived.”
“Follow up with the cell phone carrier?” D.D. asked.
“Sure. Got a transcript of Roberto’s final texts, phone messages. Mostly exchanges with Anya, and yeah, he didn’t like all the attention theater director Doug de Vries was paying to her. Roberto definitely felt threatened. Which, again, led to his suicide.”
“Did Roberto own a computer? A laptop, anything?” D.D. asked.
“No. Used the computer lab at school. That is, when he bothered to attend.”
D.D. pursed her lips, considering. “We have allegations he had abused some of the girls in foster care,” she said.
Detective Swetonic nodded. “Other than distraught girlfriend Anya, who swore Roberto was the great love of her life—theater director Doug notwithstanding—we couldn’t find anyone with a good thing to say about the teen.”