Bowman grunted something unintelligible, pulled a U-turn, and took off up Welch Street away from the landing. McCabe sat silently, watching the dark, empty island streets flow by. At least it wasn’t snowing, and the air was a lot warmer. The cops in the elevator must have been right about the January thaw. McCabe tried to force his overtired brain cells back onto the issues at hand.
Okay, he was pretty sure Kelly was guilty, but he wasn’t at all sure he could prove it. Not to a jury. Not if Father Jack got himself a smart defense lawyer. Goff’s prints provided hard evidence that she had been in Kelly’s house, but they didn’t prove Kelly killed her. Leanna Barnes’s dying words wouldn’t help that much either. You heard her say what, Detective? Ellie. She said Ellie? Not Kelly? That’s right. Ellie. Not quite the right name, gurgled and garbled by a dying woman who couldn’t herself testify. Sure, he could explain how Leanna’s wound prevented her from forming the letter K in the back of her torn-apart throat, but his assumption that she was really trying to say Kelly would be dismissed as pure conjecture. No. Burt Lund would need more.
There was Kelly’s paper on the Old Testament prophets. That’d help. If they found it. Even if they did, though, he didn’t think it would be enough to convict. Even if the Amos quote was right on the front page, underlined and circled in red, some slick lawyer could make the case that anybody might have known that Old Testament quote. Anybody could have broken into Kelly’s house and found Kelly’s old grad school paper.
Then there was Abby. Even if hypnosis helped her identify Kelly as the killer, no jury in the world would convict on testimony from a schizophrenic witness. A schizophrenic witness who, according to her own psychiatrist, could have been off her meds. As for the other witnesses, both Maggie and Magol Gutaale Abtidoon could only testify that the bad guy wore a heavy coat and glasses with black frames.
Finally there was the not insignificant issue of motive. Goff’s insurance policy might work for a jury, but he was sure a lawyer would try to pooh-pooh it as a gift to a worthy charity and not something that could be used to enrich an individual. Especially one who had deliberately chosen a life of relative poverty so he could, in turn, help others.
What else was there? McCabe knew firsthand Kelly was volatile. Given to easy anger. But this, the lawyers would eagerly point out, wasn’t a killing committed in a rage. It was too planned. Too choreographed. Plus, Kelly was gay, so why’d he keep her alive so long? Not for sex, unless he swung both ways. Possible, but not convincing.
About ten minutes out from the landing, Bowman left the paved road and bumped the Explorer onto a circuitous pattern of dirt trails, going from one to another until, after another ten minutes or so, they came to a small clearing. He pulled in behind Jacobi’s crime scene van. McCabe could see some lights about a hundred yards ahead. They climbed out.
‘That’s Kelly’s cottage, if you want to call it that,’ said Bowman. ‘More of a shack really. We go the rest of the way on foot.’
Directly in front of him was a small wooded area about fifty feet wide. Beyond that lay a snowy and possibly rocky field.
‘There’s sort of a path,’ said Bowman, ‘but there’s lots of icy ledge between here and there. The ice is covered by mushy snow, so you’ll have to walk carefully.’ He shined his flashlight on McCabe’s city shoes and smirked. ‘You may have some trouble walking in those. You’re sure as hell gonna get wet feet.’
‘I’ll live with it.’
‘Might even break an ankle.’ Bowman smiled as if he thought that was worth hoping for.
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Suit yourself.’ Bowman handed McCabe a flashlight. Tasco already had one. ‘I’ll go first. Watch my feet and step where I step. I’ll let you know if there’s anything treacherous coming up.’
The January sun wouldn’t be up for another couple of hours, and there was no moon. ‘Place was built about a hundred years ago,’ Bowman said as they started down the path. ‘House is cantilevered out over a cliff maybe fifty feet above the ocean. Nothing but rocks and breakers below. An old set of wooden stairs to the side over there takes you down to the beach. Hell of a view from the house, but it beats me how it’s stood up to the nor’easters all these years. I would’ve guessed the storms that blow in here would’ve knocked it to hell and gone long ago, but there it is.’
McCabe followed Bowman and, as instructed, walked in his tracks. Tasco brought up the rear. He felt wet snow slipping into his shoes. Within seconds his socks and feet were soaked. There was no way he was going to complain about it. He’d sooner get frostbite, even lose a toe or two, than give an asshole like Bowman the satisfaction of hearing him whine. It took ten more minutes of careful foot placement to traverse the hundred yards to the house. McCabe slipped a couple of times and landed on his ass once. He got up and kept going.
Bowman pushed the door open. In the dim light of a single lamp, McCabe saw Bill Jacobi, seated at a small wooden table, systematically leafing through piles of paper files taken from a cardboard moving carton set in front of him. Neater piles, already examined and sorted, were arranged on the far end of the table. Two more cartons were on the floor.
Jacobi looked up. ‘Okay to come in,’ he said. ‘We’re finished in here except for this stuff.’
McCabe entered and looked around. The place was about as different from the Markhams’ as two structures described as island cottages could be.
‘Where are your guys?’ McCabe asked.
‘Out searching the property with a few of the locals. Kelly’s got about five acres here. Doubt they’ll find much, but hey, you don’t know if you don’t look.’
Bowman left to join the searchers. Tasco sat down next to Jacobi. McCabe slipped off his shoes and explored the space. The room they were in was a small combo kitchen and living room. Beat-up furniture. Appliances that reminded McCabe of what his parents had in the Bronx thirty years ago, and his parents’ stuff was old then. One door led to a small bedroom that was pretty much filled by a double bed with a bare mattress, a small painted bureau, and one bedside table. On the table was an alarm clock, digital numbers flashing as if it hadn’t been reset after a power cut. A couple of books. A telephone. He pulled open one of the drawers in the bureau. Nothing. Not even a pair of dry socks. Books were piled everywhere on the floor. He saw no obvious signs of Lainie having been in residence.
A second door led to a bathroom. A sink. A cheap metal shower stall. He turned the tap. No water. Turned off for the winter. What did Lainie drink if this was her prison? Where did she wash? Using the toilet wouldn’t have been a problem. The seat was set above a hole hanging out over the sea. Probably illegal these days. And, no doubt, a little cool on the ass.
McCabe came back into the main room and sat with the others. He rubbed each set of toes in turn, trying to get the circulation going in them again. He’d read you can always tell when you’ve got frostbite because you can’t feel the pain anymore. If that was right he was okay. His toes hurt like hell.
‘You guys been here a while?’ he asked.
‘Pretty much all day.’ Tasco looked at his watch. ‘And all night.’
‘Find anything other than the fingerprints?’
‘Yeah,’ said Jacobi. ‘Lot of DNA sources. Hairs in the bed. A couple long and brown like Goff’s. What looks like dried semen stains on the sheets.’
‘Where are the sheets?’
‘Packed up and on their way to Augusta. Some dirty cups and silverware that were in the sink. Also en route. May have traces of DNA. There’re cold ashes in the woodstove. Can’t tell how long ago the last fire was. We’ll sift through them in case Kelly tried burning something incriminating.’