(1995) Chain of Evidence
Chain of Evidence
A Novel by
Ridley Pearson
PRAISE FOR CHAIN OF EVIDENCE
“Pearson handles the complex plot with grace and speed, packing a potent blend of action and procedural information into his work. Attention to detail and an imaginative plot make this a must-read for thriller fans.” —Chicago Tribune Book Review
“[Chain of Evidence] stands as one of the best novels yet by this author.” —Publishers Weekly [starred review]
“Some procedurals stress forensic detail, while others emphasize the multidimensional humanity of the cops. Pearson does both, and the combination continues to be unbeatable.” —Booklist
“… riveting murder mystery …” —San Francisco Examiner
“Oh, goody. The gadget man is back with a bag of new toys … You don’t have to be a techno-nerd to get wired on this scary stuff.” —New York Times Book Review
“Pearson weaves psychology and suspense into this tale of high-tech clues and complex motives. Save this one for a weekend, because you won’t put it down until you reach the heart-pounding conclusion.” —Playboy
“This is cutting-edge reading. The final chapters blend heart-stopping, breakneck chase scenes with high-tech computer hacking … This is a book to savor.” —Mostly Murder
“There is no better guarantee of entertainment than Pearson’s name on the cover of a book. Chain of Evidence ranks with his best.” —Flint Journal
“Pearson puts together fascinating forensic science, artful computer hacking, ruthless private security companies, and overbearing drug empires for an exciting, troubling look at the definitions and limitations of justice.” —New Orleans Times Picayune
“[Chain of Evidence] does prove that with some fresh, shrewd plotting there’s still plenty of mileage left in the crime genre’s most overworked premise … Pearson’s story is ingenious and plausible from start to finish.” —Tom De Haven, Entertainment Weekly
“All the characters are well delineated. The careful crafting of the plot with its well-woven subplots is thriller writing at its best.” —Alice DiNizo, Library Journal
“Ridley Pearson is an awesome storyteller, whose books are masterpieces of intricate suspense and breathtaking thrills.” —Jill M. Smith, Romantic Times
“A riveting murder mystery.” —Bobbie Hess, San Francisco Examiner
“Ridley owns the ground in forensic police procedural novels.” —John Linsenmeyer, Greenwich Time
“An author who knows his cyber ABCs.” —Ed Kelly, Buffalo Sun
“Pearson’s an excellent storyteller and a superb plotter who’s among the elite of crime fiction novelists; his latest effort will only solidify that vaunted position.” —Ray Walsh, Lansing State Journal
PRAISE FOR NO WITNESSES
“An up-to-the-nanosecond techno-thriller … truly impressive.” —The New York Times Book Review
“The combination of meticulous investigative detail and excruciating, screw-tightening suspense is utterly riveting … [Pearson] elevates any genre in which he chooses to work, and right now he’s the best thriller writer alive.” —Bill Ott, Booklist
“This is a serial-killer novel that speaks to readers’ hearts even as it jangles their nerves—and it’s not to be missed.” —Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Guaranteed to keep you reading till dawn—longer, if you wait for your fingers to unclench.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Ridley Pearson has scored a triple with No Witnesses—plot, characters and procedural detail are all brilliantly executed.” —Leslie McCool, Mostly Murder
“Astonishing.” —The Boston Globe
“No Witnesses is an amazingly memorable tale, ingeniously offering more twists than a white-knuckled roller coaster ride … Don’t forget your seatbelts.” —Ray Walsh, Lansing State Journal
Dedication
When your world turns upside down, you find out who your friends are. This book is dedicated to my best friend (whose idea sparked this story)—Bradbury D. Pearson. Thanks, Bro.
Contents
Title Page
Praise
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Beyond Recognition
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Acknowledgments
About the Author
By Ridley Pearson
Copyright
PROLOGUE
He heard her coming before she reached the top of the stairs. Wild and angry like someone possessed, the rage welling up within her from an addiction so powerful that two weeks earlier he had discovered her passed out with a bottle of rubbing alcohol still clutched in her spotted hand.
She roared at him as she dared to negotiate the stairs, suddenly a two-hundred-pound ballerina, one hand counseling the banister, one eye held shut to stop the dizzies. “You bring it to me, Boy!”
That was her name for him: Boy—the only name she had ever called him. They both knew what “it” was. The Boy got it from the neighborhood liquor store every day—or the days that she had the money to buy it. The old man with the white stubble beard handed him the brown bag out back in the alley, and the Boy carried it home dutifully. To him it was poison. To her, heaven.
She hadn’t had the money today, but she would have forgotten that by now, and she would have convinced herself that he was holding out on her, and when she became convinced of that then the world became a frightful place for the Boy. She possessed big, powerful hands, like paddles, and the stern will of a self-appointed tyrant. She knew nothing of forgiveness.
He lied about the bruises in school. Made things up. The school nurse had given up asking questions, hearing his inventive tales. People knew about his mother: This town, nestled in the Connecticut countryside, was a tolerant place.
He heard her swollen feet ticking off the eleven stairs. How many times had he counted down along with her descent? He shuddered. Would his reminders, his arguments, be enough today? And why did his feet always fail to run when she approached? Why did he stand there facing her, awaiting her, as if some magnet drew them together? He knew that his survival depended on her not seeing him, not getting that hold on him. He knew that he had to hide.
He stood frozen in place. He could tell what she was wearing just by the swooshing sound of the fabric: the Hawaiian colored housedress, worn like a giant zippered tent about her puffy white skin with its bright red blotches and unexplained b
lack-and-blue marks. Whoosh, she descended. She cleared the bottom step and, faced with the choice of two directions to go, somehow attached to his scent and headed toward him—she, a person who couldn’t smell burnt toast placed before her.
That was all she had eaten for the past three months: one slice of toast that he left by her bedside in the morning before he headed to school. She awakened closer to noon, and then drank well past midnight, her television turned up too loudly, her glassy eyes fixed to it like the eyes on some of the Boy’s stuffed animals. Dead eyes, even when she was trying to slur through her words at him. Dead for years. But not dead enough, he thought, as she charged through the kitchen door, flinging it open with a bone crunching effort.
He passed through the laundry room door, backing up—always backing up, he couldn’t seem to run forward when she pursued him; he allowed her to control him. The cry of the hinges gave him away. A trickle of sweat slid coldly down his ribs and his throat went dry: When he ran from her she hit him harder.
Out through the laundry room window, the sun’s fading rays, muted by a stranglehold of clouds, washed the horizon charcoal gray. A pair of geese, their necks stretched like arrows, cut north over the hardwood forest where the Boy had a clumsy fort built high into a tree. In the summer he could hide in the fort, but this was not summer and he was running out of places to hide—she knew them all.
And here he was in the laundry room. A dead end. Worse: a huge pile of dirty clothes erupted from the plastic laundry basket, and despite the fact that he was in the midst of doing the laundry—as if she didn’t already have enough to be mad about—sight of this dirty pile was likely to add to the punishment.
He reached for the bleach because it occurred to him he might throw it into her face and blind her, though he didn’t have the heart to do so, and besides, he discovered the Clorox bottle was bone dry empty. He stared down the into the neck wishing that by some miracle it would suddenly fill and save him from her wrath.
He glanced around at a room that offered only a back door into the cold. And if he went out there, she would lock him out; and if she locked him out and anyone found out, then they would take her away from him—this had been threatened more than once. And that, in turn, would mean living with his uncle, and if the Boy had it right, the uncle was a drug dealer and small time hood—Italian and proud of it. He went to church twice a week. The Boy wanted none of that.
On the other side of the door, he heard his mother’s footsteps crunch across crumbs on the kitchen floor as she drew closer. Sometimes she forgot all about him a few minutes into the pursuit. Not today, he realized.
The bell to the dryer sounded—ding!—and it called magically to him. The dryer! Why not? he wondered. Without a second thought, he popped open the door and, with her footfalls approaching, frantically gathered the clean clothes and stuffed them into the blue plastic basket with the purple four-leaf clovers. He slid one leg inside the machine but burned his hand on touching the tumbler’s gray-speckled rim. He debated taking whatever it was she had in store for him, deciding instantly that any burn was better than that. He pulled himself into a ball, his knees tucked into his chest in a fetal position, his lungs beginning to sear from the dry, metallic heat. He hooked his fingers onto the filter’s gray plastic tab mounted into the door and eased it quietly shut. Click. He winced. Even in a fit of rage, she had the ears of a mountain lion.
He had inherited those same ears, or perhaps it was something that he had developed, but whatever the case, he heard her push the laundry room’s springed door open, heard it flap shut again behind her like the wing of a huge bird.
He could picture her then, as clearly as if he were standing in the room with her. Her soft, spongy body slouched and immobile, her dazed head swiveling like an owl’s, scanning the room dully, attempting to reason but too drunk to do so. His disappearance would confuse her—piss her off. If he was lucky, she would begin to doubt herself. She would forget how it was that she had found her way into the laundry room, like a sleepwalker coming out of a trance. Whoosh: the sound of her as she patrolled past the dryer, her movements heavy and exaggerated. His heart drummed painfully in his chest. His lungs stung from the heat. Whoosh, her dress passed by again. He grabbed hold of the door in an effort to keep it shut should she try to open it. If he frustrated her, she might give up.
A tickle developed in his lungs, stinging and itching at the same time. It grew inside his chest, scratching the insides of his lungs and gnawing a hole into the back of his throat.
“Where are you, Boy?” she called out hoarsely, the phlegm bubbling up from the caldron.
He swallowed the scratching away—attempting to gulp on a throat bare with searing heat—refusing himself to cough and reveal his hiding place. His chest flamed and his nostrils flared, and he thought he might explode his lungs if he didn’t cough.
“Boy?” she thundered, only a few precarious feet away from him.
Tears ran down his cheek. He exhaled in a long, controlled effort that denied his body any right to a cough. And when he drew air in again it attacked his throat as if he had swallowed burning oil.
But this pain was so small compared to what she might inflict that he gladly accepted it, even allowing a self-satisfied smile to overcome him in the darkness. He was indeed the “clever devil” that she often accused him of being. And as he heard her storm back out of the room, off to another area of the house where she would threaten her terror until blacking out in a chair, or on the sofa, or even on the floor, he debated where and how he might steal some money in order to placate her, and buy himself another night of survival.
CHAPTER 1
Another one? he wondered, the sense of dread as great as anything he had ever experienced.
On his way back from his only trip to the beach all summer, Detective Joe Dartelli heard the call come over the radio and sat through the better part of a green light before someone had the good sense to honk and awaken him from his moment of dread.
The code was for a suicide—not that the codes did any good, the local press monitored these frequencies like sucker fish clinging to the belly of the shark, and they knew every code, could interpret even the slightest inflection—but it was the added word, “flier,” that caught Dartelli’s attention. A jumper.
Another one.
By the time he reached the front of the downtown Hartford Granada, the patrol personnel had already run the familiar tape around the crime scene, holding a few morbid curious at bay, and two impatient news crews. They were lucky: At eleven-thirty at night the downtown core was virtually deserted; the insurance executive set stayed out of the city at night unless there was a function. Better, the late news had already ended, making this tomorrow’s news. Dartelli spotted an unmarked Ford Taurus cruiser clumsily parked near the front, and a black step van that Dartelli recognized immediately as Teddy Bragg’s evidence collection van. Stenciled across its back doors were the words: HARTFORD POLICE DEPARTMENT FORENSIC SCIENCES DIVISION. Calling Bragg’s detail a division was a bit of a stretch, given that it consisted of only two people. But maybe that made the public feel better about their tax dollars.
Dartelli double-parked the eight-year-old red Volvo 245 wagon and left the emergency flashers going, and flipped around the visor with the paperwork that identified the car as one belonging to an HPD detective, so that it wouldn’t be cited or towed. He climbed out of the air-conditioned comfort into a soup of nearly unbearable heat and wicked humidity.
He wore a pair of blue madras Bermuda shorts, loafers with no socks and a white golf shirt from Scotty’s Landing, a fish and chips joint in Coconut Grove, Florida, the souvenir of a vacation long in the past. The patrolman at the door didn’t recognize him and tried to shoo him away before Dartelli’s police ID gained him passage.
“Good evening, sir,” the patrolman said, apologetically.
Joe Dartelli nodded, though there was nothing good about it at all. An African-American spread out on the sidewalk, the media
closing in. He clipped his ID to the collar of the shirt.
“Who’s on it?” Dartelli asked.
“Kowalski,” the patrolman answered.
The detective nodded again. Figures, he thought. When shit went bad it rarely hesitated to go all the way.
“Fifth floor,” the patrolman informed him.
He heard an ambulance’s approaching siren climbing in the distance, rising in both volume and pitch, as if it might arrive in time to save the cooling remains that filled the cheap suit spread out bloodied and disfigured on the sidewalk. A body bag and the coroner’s wagon was more like it, and even then a shovel and hose were going to be needed.
August in New England: He had never seen any tourist brochures bragging about it.
He approached the elevator with a sour stomach that had nothing to do with the hot dog and mustard that he had called lunch. His stomach was instead the result of a toxic combination of fear and guilt: Another one. He felt an unyielding pressure at his temples delivering an unrelenting splinter of pain that felt as if it pierced the texture of his brain.
He recalled the last suicide that he had attended, three years ago, and the resulting investigation, and he felt dizzy enough that when the elevator car moved he reached out for the railing to steady himself.
I did my job, he reminded himself, recalling the death that the paper had quickly dubbed the Ice Man. It had been a disgusting winter of seventeen ice and snow storms, two blizzards, and a ten-day period when the mercury never crossed five above zero. In March, a melting snowbank revealed a frozen John Doe—the Ice Man.
I followed procedure, he told himself. But he knew the truth: For the sake of a friendship he had looked the other way. He had investigated, written-up and filed some potentially damaging evidence, the facts of which, when linked one to the next, seemingly related to the Ice Man case—though indirectly, and circumstantially—electing not to bring the evidence to the attention of the lead investigator, Detective Roman Kowalski. For the past two years he had internally debated that decision—now, he questioned it.