Robert Parker: Death in Paradise

"School ring," Jesse said.

"That's my guess," Simpson said. "I didn't want to handle it more than I had to so I dropped it right into the bag as soon as I found it."

"The chain with it?"

"Looped through, just like that," Simpson said.

Jesse opened the evidence bag and took out the ring.

"What about prints?" Simpson said.

"No chance," Jesse said. "Look at the surface."

"Maybe the stone, though."

Jesse smiled. "I won't touch the stone."

Jesse looked at the ring. Engraved around the blue stone were the words SWAMPSCOTT HIGH SCHOOL, 2000. Jesse tried it on. It was too big for him.

"Well, I guess it wasn't hers," Simpson said. "If it's too big for you."

"That's what the chain is for," Jesse said. "Didn't the girls in your high school do that? Wear the boyfriend's ring on a chain around their neck?"

"Sometimes," Simpson said. "So you think it might be hers?"

"Doesn't do us any good to think it's not," Jesse said. "Show me where you found it."

It was hot, and still. As they walked down through tall grass and short bushes toward the edge of the lake, Jesse could smell the mud where the shore and water met. Ahead, Eddie Cox was moving along the edge of the shore, head down, looking at the ground. The back of his blue uniform shirt was dark with sweat.

"Right over here," Simpson said.

Cox looked up and turned back and joined them.

"You think it's something, Jesse?" Cox said.

"Maybe."

"We found it right here," Simpson said. "It was snagged on this little bush."

Jesse squatted on his heels, looking at the bush and the ground around it.

"When did it rain last?" Jesse said.

"Tuesday," Simpson said. "I remember, the Sox game got washed out."

Jesse kept looking.

"What are you looking for?" Cox asked.

"She probably weighed a hundred, hundred and twenty. That's a lot of dead weight to carry, unless you're in pretty good shape."

"So you figure he dragged her?"

"He's probably not too calm while he's dragging her. When the ring around her neck snagged, he just tugged her loose and kept dragging."

Jesse continued to sit on his heels and look around him.

"There's a little cul-de-sac up the hill," Jesse said. "Off Newbury Street. DPW uses it to pile sand for the winter."

"Kids go in there to smoke dope," Simpson said.

"And make out," Cox said.

"Smoke and moke," Simpson said. He reddened a little, taking pleasure in his wit.

"The perfect combo," Jesse said.

He stood and began to walk up the hill toward the cul-de-sac. Cox and Simpson followed. They wanted to watch Jesse. He'd been a homicide cop. L.A., where there were murders all the time. Main Street bordered the lake at right angles to Morton Drive. By the time he reached the top of the hill he was nearly a mile from his car. He stood in the cul-de-sac and looked back down toward the place where they had found the ring. He was talking aloud as much to himself as to Simpson and Cox.

"It's dark, and darker in here. Guy pulls in. She's probably dead. He's probably got her in the trunk."

As he talked, Jesse walked through the ideas. Maybe in the replay there'd be something to notice.

"Takes her out of the trunk. Probably can't pick her up. People see it in the movies all the time. But in fact, a hundred and twenty pounds of dead weight is more than most guys can handle. So he drags her out. Might have her wrapped up. Might not. But there should be blood."

Jesse squatted again and looked at the gravel surface of the cul-de-sac.

"It was a big rain," Simpson said.

Jesse nodded. Jesse knew how much it had rained Tuesday night. But Simpson was trying to be helpful and Jesse didn't want to discourage him.

"So if there was some, it's been washed away," Jesse said. He stood and imagined dragging the girl's body from the trunk and along the ground.

"Gets her out and arranged, then starts to drag her. Probably by the arms, unless he had rope or something. And he drags her backwards down the hill. It'll be slow going." Jesse began to back down the hill.

"But there is a sort of path," Jesse said. "Kids probably bring beer in, drink it by the lake."

He paused, looking at a broken branch on one of the short bushes. He pulled it toward him a little and looked at it.

"Leaves are still green."

"So it hasn't been broken very long," Simpson said.

Farther down the slope was a pair of branches, barely above ground level, that had been broken as well.

"He gets to the lake," Jesse said. "And he puts her in. Does he just leave her there?"

"If he didn't care about her being found, he wouldn't have gone to all this trouble," Simpson said.

"So he wanted her to sink," Cox said.

"But not right here," Jesse said. "First kid came down here with a Miller Lite would spot her."

"So he had to drag her out a ways," Simpson said.

He was excited. It was like a real murder investigation.

"She'd have dragged easier in the water," Jesse said.

He stepped into the lake. It was barely knee high. It deepened only gradually as he waded out. He stopped when the water reached his crotch.

"If he wanted her to sink," Simpson said from the shore, "he'd have weighted her."

"But not on shore," Jesse said. "It would have made dragging her that much harder. He wouldn't want to weight her until he got her deep enough to let her sink."

"I read the ME's report," Simpson said. " 'Fore I came out here to sweep the place. There's no sign of any weight being attached."

"How many shoes she have on?" Jesse said. "When we found her?"

"Shoes? One."

"What if he tied the weight around an ankle," Jesse said. "And after it was in the water for a while the body began to decompose and become more buoyant at the same time it was becoming less, ah, cohesive, and the rope dragged off her ankle and took a shoe with it?"

"So, the weight and the rope should be in the water around here."

"It should," Jesse said.

Jesse could hear the music from beyond the curve. As he came around the curve he could barely squeeze his own car between the cars parked on both sides of the street. He could see the blue light revolving on the roof of Arthur Angstrom's cruiser parked in the driveway of a big, sprawling Victorian house that sat at the top of a rolling lawn. Angstrom stood beside the cruiser talking to a short man with a dark tan. The man was partially bald. His remaining hair was gray and hung to his shoulders.

"You're Chief Stone?" the man said.

"Yes."

"I'm Norman Shaw."

"I know."

Shaw looked gratified. "Good," he said. "Your officer here appears to think there's a crime being committed here."

Shaw's eyes were bloodshot, and beneath the tan on his face was a web of broken veins. He was wearing shorts and a white oxford shirt with the tails out. His legs were tan and skinny and nearly hairless. He wasn't fat, but he had an assertive belly that pushed against the shirt.

"Actually he's not my officer," Jesse said. "He's yours. He works for the town."

"Casuistry aside," Shaw said, "I like to talk with the man in charge."

"That would be me," Jesse said.

"Young for the job," Shaw said.

"I'm aging fast, though."

"Well, I am sure you're old enough to explain to this officer…"

"Angstrom," Jesse said. "Officer Angstrom."

"I'm sure you can explain to him that Party Patrol is not the best use a policeman can make of his time."

"You had a complaint?" Jesse said to Arthur.

"Noise," Angstrom said. "Obstructing access. Drunk and disorderly. Public lewdness. Littering. Urinating on a private lawn."

"Punishable by death?" Shaw said. "It's a party, for God's sake. The Lieutenant Governor is here. Michael DeSisto came all the way from Stockbridge. There are state reps. A congressman. My attorney. Do I have to get my attorney down here?"