“I thought you said she was Sybil, which accounts for her lack of memory; Charlie wasn’t stabbed by her mother but her ‘victim personality’…Rosalind…was, meaning Charlie really didn’t know any such thing. And Charlene’s not really running around shooting sex offenders, some ‘protector personality’ Abigail is.”
“Bunch of hooey.”
“You started it.”
“Just to argue with you. Most fun part of the job, right?”
D.D. shook her head at the detective’s quick change of heart. “Fine. At least we agree on one thing—we need the ballistics report. Good work seizing the gun and making arrangements at the lab, Detective.”
For a moment, D.D. could almost feel O’s discomfort over the line, and she couldn’t help but think of another detective she knew that was always more comfortable with criticism than praise—herself.
“Detective,” D.D. said briskly.
“Yes?”
“Go home. Get some sleep. We have approximately seven hours until Charlene gets off work and Jon Cassir has results from the ballistics test. Meaning, most likely, tomorrow will be a big day. And…” D.D. hesitated, “being the anniversary date of two murders, maybe even a longer night.”
“Not a problem,” O said immediately. “We’ll have Charlene arrested by eleven, processed by one, and tucked safely in jail by three. Meaning, if any killer wants her, he’ll have to tunnel through cinder blocks to get her.”
Chapter 33
HELLO. My name is Abigail.
Don’t worry, we’ve met.
Are you afraid of me? Or are you afraid for me?
Trust me, and I will take care of you.
Don’t you trust me?
Hello. My name is Abigail.
Chapter 34
SATURDAY. 7 A.M. Thirteen hours and counting.
Maybe less? Maybe more?
What did I know? My shift was due to end, but my replacement hadn’t appeared, leaving me trapped at a desk, comm lines still ringing with various Boston citizens in various states of panic.
I’d arrived to a slew of motor vehicle incidents. Car versus cat. Motorcycle versus telephone pole. Drunk teenager A versus drunk teenager B.
By 2 A.M., the bars had closed and the phone lines heated up. Tina Limmer from 375 Markham Street called to report that her boyfriend was an asshole. Guess she caught him balling her best friend. Sadly, being an asshole was not yet a prosecutable offense, so I’d been forced to end the call. Just in time for Cherry Weiss from 896 Concord Avenue to report the smell of smoke in the stairwell of her apartment building. Two officers were dispatched, not to mention the fire department. Officers arrested two drunken seventy-year-old men who were trying valiantly to prove that you could light a fart on fire. Fire department laughed, took in the show.
Which brought me to Vinnie Pearl of 95 Wentworth Way. He wanted to report that he’d lost his nose. With a bit of searching (I managed to direct him to the bathroom of his own apartment), he located said nose in the mirror. Turned out, Vinnie had spent most of Friday brewing homemade limoncello. Which explained his call back ten minutes later to report he’d lost his lips, couldn’t feel them anymore, his entire mouth was gone.
I ordered Vinny to take four aspirin, drink three glasses of water, and good luck in the morning.
That call ended just in time for the first of three bar brawls, followed by two calls of domestic violence and yet another motor vehicle incident, Hummer versus three parked cars.
Parked cars lost. Hummer didn’t fare so well either, and completely drunk-as-a-skunk Hummer driver was arrested, as they say, without incident.
Sometime around 3 A.M., I ate my cold chicken breast and half grapefruit while still sitting at my desk. At four thirty, the call volume lulled enough I could actually pee. Five thirty, I attempted to log onto Facebook from the PD’s computer; I wanted to check the page honoring Randi and Jackie.