BLUE MERCY Read online

  “I owe Bernard a lot. Our mother died when I was eight. It was Bernard who raised me. But before you get the wrong idea, Detective, my debt to Bernard ended with that house. Even then he was already into the drugs and drinking. I wanted to help out but I wasn’t willing to support his habit, so I bought him the house and cut the ties. You understand, I’m married. I have a baby daughter.”

  “Congratulations,” Finn said with sincerity.

  “Do you have any children, Detective?”

  Finn nodded. “I have a daughter. Fifteen.”

  Coombs smiled. “Then you’ll understand why it is I have to exclude my brother from my life. I have to think about my own family now.”

  “So you two never spoke? Never called?”

  “Sure, Bernard called. When he needed money. But the calls ended a few years ago. I think my wife finally said something to him.” Coombs waited as their waitress refilled their coffee. “Like I said to the detectives who called last year, when it comes to Bernard and his friends and acquaintances, I really can’t help.”

  “Do you know a Patricia Hagen?”

  “Actually, yes, I do.”

  “Any idea how she knows your brother?”

  “Her father employed Bernard years ago. The Parkview Funeral Home down on Fort Avenue. Why, are Patricia and my brother involved?”

  Finn nodded. “You sound surprised.”

  Coombs shook his head and this time let his gaze wander past the grimy window to where a rusted-out pickup with Pennsylvania plates pulled out of the crowded lot. “At this point, Detective, not a lot surprises me about my brother.”

  Kay stirred sugar into her black coffee. Working on nothing more than the diner’s burned brew, four Excedrin, and a breath mint, she had let Finn do most of the talking this morning. Besides, it was his interview. She’d known already last night they weren’t going to get much from Coombs. Last year when he’d been nothing more than a voice over the phone, even with all the hatred she harbored for Eales, Kay had felt a semblance of sympathy for Coombs. But now, sitting across from the man, she felt sorry for him.

  Still, Kay had questions of her own. Questions there’d been no need to ask Coombs a year ago when his brother’s case was a slam dunk.

  “Do you have any idea why Bernard might have killed those women last year?” she asked carefully.

  Coombs let out a breath, and she thought she saw a sadness behind his eyes then. “I don’t know what went on with Bernard the past few years. I only know what little I read in the papers. And I know he was into drugs and alcohol. I guess I’d like to blame that, the drugs. I mean, it’s hard for me to believe my own brother could … do those things.”

  “I think it’d be hard for anyone to believe of a sibling,” she offered.

  “Bernard always did have a temper though.” When Coombs looked at Kay then, she sensed a genuine compassion behind his soft eyes. “But I think you already know about that. You’re the detective he beat, aren’t you?”

  Kay nodded.

  Coombs’s gaze went unbroken. “I’m sorry for what he did to you.”

  “Thank you.”

  Next to her, Finn cleared his throat. “So, Mr. Coombs, you’ve had absolutely no contact with your brother?”

  “No. Like I said, I had to sever the ties. For the sake of my family.”

  “And your brother’s defense? Who’s paying for that?”

  A flicker of confusion seemed to touch his narrow features then. “I’m sorry. I …I’d assumed it was the state, that Bernard had been assigned a public defender.”

  “Not exactly. He’s being represented by James Grogan.”

  “Should I know that name?”

  “He’s one of the top criminal attorneys in the city,” Finn explained. “And he doesn’t come cheap.”

  Coombs shrugged. “I didn’t know that. Honestly, I haven’t been following the situation. I hope you understand.”

  He drank his coffee and looked up as the electric train trundled past, his eyes following its route around the room.

  “It’s been a difficult year,” he said. “My wife, she already couldn’t stand Bernard, and then … with the media attention … You’d think having a different surname would give us at least a modicum of privacy. But it didn’t seem to matter. Within days of Bernard’s arrest those vultures were circling. The attention’s died off a bit now. We’ve been able to get on with our lives. But you’re always waiting, you know? Waiting for the press to swoop in.”

  When he looked back at them, Kay saw a premature tiredness in his young eyes.

  “I guess, with this murder you’re investigating, I might hear from them again, hmm? The media?” Coombs asked.

  “It’s quite possible,” Finn said. “If you run into problems, you can call us. There might be something we can do.”

  “I appreciate that, Detective. But I’m getting pretty skilled at handling it. Do you know, I even found my name on some asshole’s website because of all this? I finally had to threaten the guy with a lawsuit so he’d take my name off.”

  “What website’s that?” Kay asked.

  “Some guy, Arsenault I think. Yeah, Scott Arsenault. He had a website up and running, about my brother. The murders. God knows what else. I didn’t look at the whole site. Stopped when I found my name.”

  “Do you know if the site’s still up?”

  Coombs shook his head. “I have no idea. It’s not the kind of thing I keep tabs on, you know?”

  18

  BERNARDEALES.COM was a load of Ethernet horse-shit.

  They’d driven back to Baltimore and Headquarters in the same awkward silence that had settled between them earlier on their way up to meet with Coombs. In Kay’s silence, Finn guessed she was imagining the content of the website Coombs had mentioned, questioning why someone would go to the trouble, and wondering who Scott Arsenault was.

  Within minutes of stepping off the elevator on the sixth floor, Kay had logged on to the last available computer in the unit while Finn pulled up a chair next to her. And as she scrolled through the pages, one by one, Finn felt his hostility unraveling.

  The entire site was dedicated to “saving” Eales. A red banner at the top of the main page announced the wrongful arrest of Eales, and the opening notes detailed claims of police brutality, evidence tampering, and a gross miscarriage of justice.

  Act now before this innocent man is convicted! A photo showed Eales standing next to a large, black vintage car behind his Gettings Street house, a polishing rag in one hand, a can of Michelob in the other.

  Kay scrolled past the smarmy grin and started clicking links to articles about the prostitutes’ murders and Eales’s arrest, press clippings and evidentiary summaries, court documents, even articles from law publications. At the bottom of the main page, a link offered to take visitors to the Eales message board.

  “The prick’s got himself his own fan club,” Finn said, feeling tension settle in his jaw.

  “And look at this”—Kay pointed to the flashing red link beneath it—“visitors can even contribute to a defense fund.” She kept scrolling. “Tell me this isn’t for real.”

  “Sure as hell is. And you’re lucky visitor number twelve thousand and two,” he said, indicating the counter at the bottom of the screen.

  Kay clicked the cursor on a link titled Get the REAL Story. Together they skimmed an elaborated narration of the events that had transpired on Eales’s porch fourteen months ago. All lies.

  Finn’s mood darkened as he read about police not announcing themselves at Eales’s front door and Arsenault’s citation of every American citizen’s right to bear arms in defense of self and home. Sitting so close to Kay, Finn could feel her tension as well and had the overwhelming desire to take the mouse from her hand and close the entire site so as not to subject her to the propaganda. But he knew there was no prying her from the terminal.

  He read on: the exaggeration of Eales’s arrest and interview, claiming he’d been “relentlessly interro
gated by police” for more than ten hours, when Finn knew it had been six, maintaining Eales had been denied restroom breaks, food, and water, when Finn had seen Eales hauled off to the men’s room at least four times during that long, hot day in July while Kay still lay in the hospital. The memories were crystalline. Finn could even remember the look Eales had given him each time they’d led him out of the interview room, could remember the hatred that had swelled through him as he thought of what the man had done to Kay.

  “Jesus,” Kay said, several lines ahead of him, “my name’s in here. More than once.”

  She backed up to the main page again, this time clicking the link Press Coverage. More than a dozen links to the Sun and video bytes from the local channels ran down the page. Another click of the mouse and Jane Gallagher’s voice sputtered over the speakers through the media player. The video stream was choppy and the audio broken, short bursts that didn’t sync with the WBAL reporter’s image. Kay hit stop the second her own bloodied face filled the screen.

  Then, Finn at last commandeered the mouse. Kay’s hand lingered under his for a moment before she relinquished it.

  “It’s all bullshit,” he said, tempted to close it down, but knowing they needed to investigate the entire site.

  While Kay watched, Finn went through several more pages, bringing them to one titled The Evidence just as Ed Gunderson joined them.

  The sergeant stood behind their chairs, scanning the contents with them: the summary of the evidence, the victims’ slashed wrists, the heroin in their systems, and how each had been bled, then washed before being dumped down a slope in Leakin Park. The address of the row house where Annie Harris’s body had been left was documented, along with highlights of the ME’s findings. All of it lay before them … before the world.

  “What the hell is all this?” Gunderson asked.

  Kay explained, a new waver in her voice, while Finn scrolled.

  “Well, where’s all this information come from?”

  “Most of it looks like it’s been picked up from the media,” Kay said. “I don’t think there’s anything here that isn’t public.”

  “Wrong,” Finn said, his hand freezing on the mouse as the text appeared on the black background. … several shallow knife wounds to the chest of each victim …

  “How in the hell did he get that?” Kay stared at the reference and finally pushed away from the desk. “If that detail is on the site,” she said, pacing, “anyone could have read it.”

  “Which means your suspect list just got a hell of a lot longer.” Gunderson’s words were clipped.

  “Twelve thousand and two hits on his site. That’s a long list.”

  “Who put this damned site together?” Gunderson asked.

  “Some wannabe serial-killer junkie named Scott Arsenault.”

  “So is this a departmental leak or is this mope some friend of Eales’s?”

  Kay shook her head, her jaw twitching, her lips tight.

  “Well, you’re gonna find this little asswipe,” Gunderson said, “and you’re going to find out how the hell he knows about those cuts to the victims’ chest.”

  19

  SCOTT ARSENAULT lived on President Street in an upscale high-rise a world away from Eales’s dump across the harbor. Taking the marble-floored elevator to the twentieth floor, Kay could feel the anger steaming off Finn. It was even more palpable when he brought his fist to the double doors of the Web designer’s condo. And as they waited, Kay knew there was more behind Finn’s mood than Arsenault’s site. Her inclusion in the site’s content had really put Finn over the edge. He hammered on the door again.

  Arsenault was smiling when he answered. He was handsome: lean but well muscled under the crisp oxford shirt with button-down collar, tucked into a pair of pressed linen pants. Except for the trimmed goatee, he had an adolescent’s face, with the kind of features and good skin that would likely have him mistaken for twentysomething even into his forties. Kay thought he had a pleasant face.

  “You Scott Arsenault?” Finn asked, showing his shield, waiting for the nod. “We need to talk to you.”

  “Can’t this wait, Detective? I’m with a client.”

  “A client?”

  As if on cue, a large, heavy-jowled man stepped into view at the head of the foyer, his tailored suit looking as though it had been fitted forty pounds ago. “Is there a problem, Scott?” the man asked.

  Finn moved into the doorway. “You a serial killer too?”

  “Excuse me?” Arsenault’s face darkened. The smile gone. When he moved to block Finn’s entrance, Finn countered and managed to gain another two feet into the overly air-conditioned suite. “I’m in the middle of a meeting here. Do I need to call security?”

  “Not necessary, Scotty. Security already knows we’re here.” And then addressing the suit: “You can go now, sir. Meeting’s over.”

  But not until Arsenault gave the man a stiff nod and apologized did he gather his briefcase and brush past them.

  “I don’t know what this is about, Detectives,” Arsenault said as Finn invited himself into the front hall, “but I trust your superior officers are aware of and approve of your intrusion today?”

  “You can call our sergeant, Scotty. I’m sure he’ll handle any complaints you have with the utmost expediency, especially given his recent interest in your website,” Finn said as Kay followed him past the foyer.

  The main room of the open-concept condo was immaculate. Sun flooded through floor-to-ceiling windows, reflecting off polished wood and chrome, glass and mirrors. Bookshelves lined the east wall, banking in a tight arrangement of black leather furnishings. Past the immaculate kitchen bar, Kay saw the stainless-steel appliances and gleaming white tiles. It took a moment for her to decide what was absent from Scott Arsenault’s suite. The place had absolutely no sense that someone lived there.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your names.” Arsenault stood with his arms crossed over his chest.

  “I didn’t give ’em,” Finn said, moving past the Web designer. “Finnerty and Delaney.”

  Arsenault looked squarely at her this time, his features softening with an ingratiating smile. “Delaney? From Homicide?” When he extended his hand, she took it— warm and dry—into hers. “I didn’t recognize you.” She thought of the Sun photo on his website as his hand held hers just a little too long.

  “It’s a real pleasure to meet you, Detective Delaney.”

  She sensed Finn watching as Arsenault ran his gaze over her. The designer’s smile broadened unabashedly, and Kay couldn’t decide whether she should be insulted or flattered.

  “What do you do for a living, Mr. Arsenault?” Finn asked, casually moving through the condo, lingering at the wall-to-wall bookshelves.

  Arsenault fingered back a shock of blond hair. “I develop software. Why?”

  “Pays well, huh?”

  “I’m certainly not in it for the adventure.” He smiled, but only to Kay.

  “So why all the books then? Criminal law. Forensics. True crime,” Finn asked, following the precise line of texts with one finger, like a stick to a picket fence. He removed one of the hardbound books, leafed through it, then replaced it, shoving it too far back.

  “It’s just an interest,” Arsenault answered. “As a kid I wanted to be a cop.”

  “So what happened?”

  Arsenault let out a quick laugh. “I heard the pay’s shit. Won’t you sit down?” he asked Kay, guiding her to the seating area.

  She obliged, feeling his hand against the small of her back for the briefest moment. Passing the windows overlooking the Inner Harbor, she tried to ignore Arsenault’s stare. She watched a tug break the surface of the Patapsco far below.

  “Can I get you anything, Detective Delaney?”

  “No. Thank you.”

  “So what is this about, Detectives?” Arsenault angled toward the bookshelves that Finn had abandoned.

  “We’re investigating a homicide,” Finn said.

 
; “Really?” Arsenault reached for the book Finn had pulled and edged it forward so the spine was once again flush with the others. “How interesting. For me at least. Death investigation has always been a fascination for me.”

  “We know.”

  On the glass coffee table in front of her an orchid arched in full bloom, and yesterday’s Sun was squared perfectly with the table’s edge. Kay couldn’t tell if it had been read. When Finn passed her, he nudged the paper off-center.

  “So I take it you’re here about my websites. And given Detective Delaney’s presence, I’m suspecting it’s the Eales site.”

  “There’re others?”

  “I’ve designed several.” Arsenault moved in to straighten the paper, his eyes already tracking Finn’s next maneuver.

  “How many?”

  “Eales. Clarence Gossard. Eddie McCleester. Willy Tarleton.”

  Kay recognized all but one of the names.

  “So you develop websites for killers then?” Finn asked.

  “I develop websites for men arrested and convicted of murder.” Arsenault straightened a couple architectural magazines Finn had shifted. It had become a dance: Arsenault following Finn through the suite, righting whatever he’d messed with. “I think it’s important that the public has the opportunity to view both sides. Come to their own conclusions.”

  “The public already made a decision on those other cases, Mr. Arsenault,” Kay said. “They’re called a jury.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t have an undying faith in the judicial system. And, please, call me Scott, Detective.” Another flirtatious smile.

  “So do you know Eales personally, Scotty?” Finn asked.

  “No.” Arsenault had given up. Sitting on the sofa now, his spine stiff, his hands fisted in his lap, he kept an eye on Finn. “I’ve never met the man.”

  “So where do you get the information for your site then?” Finn asked.

  “Everything on the site is public domain. It’s all procured from the media.”

  “Really?” Finn turned. “Are you sure about that?”

  “Yes.” But there was a tremble in Arsenault’s arrogant self-confidence.