Broken Harbor Read Free

traffic was moving again. One of the upsides of the recession: now that half the cars are off the roads, those of us who still have somewhere to go can actually get there. “Tell me something. What’s the worst thing you’ve seen on the job?”
    Richie shrugged. “I worked traffic for ages, before Motor Vehicles. I saw some pretty bad stuff. Accidents.”
    All of them think that. I’m sure I thought it too, once upon a time. “No, old son. You didn’t. That tells me just how innocent you are. It’s no fun seeing a kid with his head split open because some moron took a bend too fast, but it’s nothing compared to seeing a kid with his head split open because some prick deliberately smacked him off a wall till he stopped breathing. So far, you’ve only seen what bad luck can do to people. You’re about to take your first good look at what people can do to each other. Believe me: not the same thing.”
    Richie asked, “Is this a kid? That we’re going to?”
    “It’s a family. Father, mother and two kids. The wife might make it. The rest are gone.”
    His hands had gone motionless on his knees. It was the first time I’d seen him absolutely still. “Ah, sweet Jaysus. What age kids?”
    “We don’t know yet.”
    “What happened to them?”
    “It looks like they were stabbed. In their home, probably sometime last night.”
    “That’s rotten, that is. That’s only bloody rotten.” Richie’s face was pulled into a grimace.
    “Yeah,” I said, “it is. And by the time we get to the scene, you need to be over that. Rule Number One, and you can write this down: no emotions on scene. Count to ten, say the rosary, make sick jokes, do whatever you need to do. If you need a few tips on coping, ask me now.”
    “I’m all right.”
    “You’d better be. The wife’s sister is out there, and she’s not interested in how much you care. She just needs to know you’re on top of this.”
    “I am on top of it.”
    “Good. Have a read.”
    I passed him the call sheet and gave him thirty seconds to skim it. His face changed when he concentrated: he looked older, and smarter. “When we get out there,” I said, once his time was up, “what’s the first question you’re going to want to ask the uniforms?”
    “The weapon. Has it been found at the scene?”
    “Why not ‘Any signs of forced entry?’”
    “Someone could fake those.”
    I said, “Let’s not beat around the bush. By ‘someone,’ you mean Patrick or Jennifer Spain.”
    The wince was small enough that I could have missed it, if I hadn’t been watching for it. “Anyone who had access. A relative, or a mate. Anyone they’d let in.”
    “That’s not what you had in mind, though, was it? You were thinking of the Spains.”
    “Yeah. I guess.”
    “It happens, old son. No point pretending it doesn’t. The fact that Jennifer Spain survived puts her front and center. On the other hand, when it plays out like this, it’s usually the father: a woman just takes out the kids and herself, a man goes for the whole family. Either way, though, they don’t normally bother to fake forced entry. They’re way past caring about that.”
    “Still. I figure we can decide that for ourselves, once the Bureau gets there; we won’t be taking the uniforms’ word for it. The weapon, though: I’d want to know about that straightaway.”
    “Good man. That’s top of the list for the uniforms, all right. And what’s the first thing you’ll want to ask the sister?”
    “Whether anyone had anything against Jennifer Spain. Or Patrick Spain.”
    “Well, sure, but that’s something we’re going to ask everyone we can find. What do you want to ask Fiona Rafferty, specifically?”
    He shook his head.
    “No? Personally, I’d be very interested to hear what she’s doing there.”
    “It says—” Richie held up the call sheet. “The two of them talked every day. She couldn’t get through.”
    “So? Think about the timing, Richie. Let’s say they normally