Dave Zeltserman - Bad Thoughts

Shannon started to think about February tenth, and as he did a dull ache radiated through his body and inched its way through his legs and to the heels of his feet. He took a deep breath and forced his mind blank. Then he pictured a mountain brook among golden aspen trees. He held that image in his mind. It was a technique his therapist had been urging him to use. He slowed his breathing, concentrating on keeping the scene intact. It was difficult, though, and the picture changed as other images danced in and out, scurrying every which way and perverting the pristine landscape he had built. Then they took over, pushing themselves to the front and playing themselves out in all their glory. There was so much blood in them. Shannon squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head until the images dissolved into a blur of redness. As he lay in bed listening to the uneven rhythm of his heart he realized his breathing had sped up dramatically. Not quite the effect his therapist had promised.

It was funny, but some days he actually thought he could beat it. That this year could be different. Then it would hit him how ridiculous the idea was and the realization of it would sap the strength out of him.

He became aware of the phone ringing. The answering machine clicked on and then his partner, DiGrazia, his voice muffled with frustration, left an address in East Cambridge that Bill had better meet him at. That they had a homicide to investigate.

Shannon thought about it for a long moment as he listened to a soft buzz running through the back of his head and then found the strength to push himself out of bed. He dressed without bothering to shower or shave.

The address DiGrazia left was typical of East Cambridge. A ratty, four-family house crammed between a street full of similarly ratty structures. Each front yard about the size of a large burial plot. Thin layers of sludge and dirty snow covered the ground. Neighbors and other passersby were standing in the street, gawking at the house. A few uniformed officers were keeping them at a distance.

There were a half dozen patrol cars and an ambulance at the scene, all left in the middle of the narrow street, blocking off traffic. Murders were unusual in Cambridge. Shannon dumped his car in line with the others and held the collar of his coat shut as he stepped outside. The wind had picked up, making the cold even more unbearable. Up ahead, Shannon spotted Gary Aukland’s white minivan with the vanity plate, “GUTS.” Aukland was the Boston coroner and was contracted out to Cambridge when needed. For some reason Aukland thought his license plate was funny.

Two ambulance attendants were standing by the doorway of the house enjoying a smoke. Shannon nodded as he walked by them. One of them warned him that it was a grisly one.

The murder had taken place in the second-floor apartment. DiGrazia was standing by its front door talking to one of the patrolmen. He eyed Shannon slowly and shook his head, not bothering to disguise his disgust. “Nice of you to show up,” he said, his tone flat and without any feeling. His small, red eyes continued to stare at his partner, the disgust in his face deepening.

“You look like a goddamn disgrace,” DiGrazia muttered softly, pulling his partner aside. “You couldn’t even shave, huh? Why don’t you at least go into the bathroom and run a comb through your hair?”

“Nice to see you, too.” Shannon forced a smile, glanced at DiGrazia’s thick, ham-hock hands. “And if we want to talk about personal hygiene, those knuckles of yours could use a trimming. Want to go fifty-fifty on a razor?”

“Very funny.” DiGrazia edged closer. “We’ll talk later. Don’t worry about that, buddy boy.” He paused. “Let me show you what we got.”

He led Shannon through the apartment and to a bedroom. Lying on the bed was a woman, fortyish, her eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling. She was dressed in jeans and a white turtleneck sweater. There were long, red gashes through the sweater that ran from her chest to her belly. There were other stab wounds along her torso and legs, and a deep one in the middle of her throat. She was long dead, her skin already turning a dull blue.

“A little like Janice Rowley,” DiGrazia said.

“Except she’s fully dressed. Janice Rowley was naked.”

“Yeah, but look at how she was stabbed.”

Shannon nodded. “She didn’t seem to bleed much,” he noted mechanically as he studied her.

“I wouldn’t quite say that,” Gary Aukland stated. He was sitting at a desk behind them, scribbling notes and sipping some coffee. He twisted his body around to face them. “She bled a lot internally. If we move her the wrong way, it will all come spilling out of her.”

“We better not move her the wrong way then,” DiGrazia said.

“Not unless we really want to piss off the apartment below.”

Shannon’s eyes hardened as he turned back to the dead woman. “Is it as it looks?” he asked.

“For the most part. She actually died of asphyxiation. Her lungs filled up with blood and she drowned. The autopsy will prove it, but you can push down along her sides and feel for yourself.”

Shannon did just that, putting his hands under her sweater and pushing down.

Aukland smiled. “Kind of squishy, huh?”

Shannon nodded. “What else do you got?”

“Believe it or not, everything.”

“Like what?”

“Murder weapon with prints-” Aukland held up an eight-inch knife wrapped in a clear plastic bag. “-hair and skin samples from under her fingernails. We’ve also got a couple of drops of blood next to her pillow that I don’t think are hers.”

“And,” DiGrazia cut in, “we’ve got the murderer in the second bedroom.”

“What’s he doing there? Why haven’t you brought him in?”

“Because he hasn’t shut down yet. I thought you, with that silver tongue of yours, could coax the truth out of him. Save us all some aggravation. I know it’s a lot to ask from you, since all the department is doing is paying your salary, but-”

“Shut up,” Shannon ordered. Normally he could ignore DiGrazia, and more often than not get a good chuckle out of him. Now, though, the fat man was getting to him and he could feel a hotness flushing his cheeks. DiGrazia closed his mouth, a slow, satisfied smirk twisting his lips. Aukland bent over the desk, pretending to be oblivious to their spat.

“Anyway,” DiGrazia said softly enough so Aukland wouldn’t be able to hear, “I thought it would be good to get you out of bed. Susie called me earlier this morning. Later, you’re going to tell me what’s going on with you. No bullshit this time.”

“Fine.” Shannon found himself staring at the woman’s dead eyes. He shifted his gaze to the rest of her face. A heavy weariness seemed to pull at her features. Even in death…

“So who do we have?” Shannon asked, looking away from the corpse.

“This is a real beauty,” DiGrazia said, his eyes sparkling slightly. Aukland, sitting at the desk, shook his head, his lips pressed tight together.

“Her son’s in the other bedroom,” DiGrazia went on. “He did it, buddy boy. He hasn’t talked yet, but there is no doubt about it. It’s a done deal, right up to the fresh scratch marks running up both his arms. And guess what we also found in his room?”

“What?”

“A collection of articles about Janice Rowley.” DiGrazia paused for a moment, and then his voice got lower, edgier. “This freak has probably been dreaming about this for months. If we take him in, Youth Services will shut him down. Let’s crack him now while we got the chance. If we’re lucky we might be able to get something to use to try him as an adult. Let’s have him spend his formative years in Walpole bent over at the waist.”