“Only establishes that you definitely own at least one weapon with a rosewood grip. Doesn’t say you don’t own a second twenty-two with a rubber grip.”
There was a moment of silence. “Isn’t that burden of proof on you?” Charlene spoke up. “Look at the report again. Are my fingerprints on the second gun? Because it’s not mine, meaning they aren’t, meaning you can’t prove that it’s my gun. I didn’t shoot three pedophiles, and you can’t prove that I did.”
“I’ll tell you what. Come down to HQ, and we’ll sort it out.”
“I’ll tell you what. Today is January twenty-first. My handgun has disappeared and I think your own detective is fucking with me, and I’m not going anywhere near Boston PD.”
“My detective?”
“Detective O. She’s the one who submitted the fake gun. And probably stole my Taurus.”
“What do you mean your Taurus is missing? You mean the one with the rosewood grip.”
“Exactly. I hid it yesterday, when I went to work. I…” There was a pause. D.D. could practically hear the girl do some quick thinking. “After you and O questioned me yesterday, I realized you seemed to think I’d done something wrong. You treated me like a suspect, not a victim. I got spooked. I didn’t want to be without my handgun, but I know it’s not allowed at work. So I hid it under a bush in the parking lot, in a snowbank. Tucked it where it would be safe.”
D.D. nodded, knowing this part from Detective O.
“Except when I finally got off work, my handgun was gone. Then…I heard over the police scanner the bulletin for my own arrest and the chatter on the ballistics report. So I called the lab—”
“You called the crime lab?”
“Sure. I called the lab, said I was Detective O and asked for the details of the report. The second I heard the description of the gun, I knew it wasn’t mine. Except, mine is also gone. Don’t you get it yet?”
D.D. said, slowly, “Why don’t you tell me,” though she had a sudden sinking feeling. She glanced up at Phil, who was listening to the conversation positively wide-eyed.
“Detective O submitted the real murder weapon for ballistics testing,” Charlene stated. “A twenty-two semiauto Taurus with a rubber grip. Except that’s not my gun. That’s Detective O’s gun. She had the murder weapon. She killed the sex offenders. And now she’s framing me for it. Has me unarmed, in hiding, and basically a sitting duck on the day we already know I’m supposed to die. Come eight P.M., Randi and Jackie’s killer will finish me off, and no one ever has to be the wiser. I’m dead, Detective O gets away with triple murder. Four homicides, if you count me, and personally, I think you should count me.”
D.D. stared at the whiteboard. “Detective O shot the sex offenders.”
“That’s what I’m saying! Her gun, not mine. Her crime spree, not mine.”
“Detective O introduced herself to the little boy as Abigail.”
“Yes. Trying to frame me.”
“Trying to frame you?” D.D. tested. “Then why didn’t she introduce herself as Charlene Rosalind Carter Grant, or Charlie. Why Abigail?”
“Abigail’s my sister.”
“Charlie, how would Detective O know that?”
Silence on the other end of the phone line.
“Everyone has to die sometime,” D.D. murmured. “Be brave.”
“Wh-wh-what?”
“What does that mean, Charlie?” D.D. had never told Charlie about the notes linking the three shootings. The contents of a message were the kind of detail a good detective held back, tried to trick a suspect into confessing, not the sort of thing one gave away.
Now she heard Charlie whisper in a faraway voice, “Everyone has to die sometime. Be brave, child. Be brave.”
“Charlie?”
“My mother. My mother said those words to me.”
“To you, Charlie? And maybe to your baby sister, Abigail?”
“Oh my God…”