Live To Tell Part 6

"Oh, least once a week at church. More during the summer. This is a nice neighborhood. Lots of kids play outside during the day. I like to take my tea on the front porch and watch the little ones riding their bikes and whatnot. Does a body good."

"And the Harrington kids? What did they like to do?"

"Football, the boys. You'd see the older one and younger one playing catch. The girl, she was getting to that age where she just wanted to hang out with her friends. Denise commented that Molly was always pestering her for a ride to the mall. But sometimes, on the cooler evenings, you'd see a whole group out playing capture the flag or maybe hide-and-seek through everyone's yards. Not a bad place to live, our neighborhood."

D.D. made a note. "What were the kids doing this summer? Once school was out?"

"Summer camp at the Y," Miss Patsy answered. "'Course, their father was home during the day, working on the house. Sometimes you'd see them hanging out with him. They liked to take breaks on the front porch. Renovation this time of year had to be pretty hot work." Miss Patsy fanned herself.

"Family entertain much? Socialize with the rest of the block?"

"Yes, ma'am. They were happy to live here, wanted to get to know everyone. I had the impression their previous home wasn't in a very safe neighborhood-not a good place for kids, Denise would say. Like I said, they were real happy to move here."

"You ever hear them fighting?" D.D. asked bluntly. "Patrick and Denise?"

"You mean screaming at each other in the middle of the night?"

"Yeah, that sort of thing."

"No, ma'am." Miss Patsy said it primly.

"We heard Patrick lost his job. Money must've been tight."

"Tough times all over," Miss Patsy observed. "I still saw them putting a dollar or two in the t.i.the plate when it pa.s.sed; they weren't dest.i.tute yet."

"Never heard them argue about it? Or taking an extra c.o.c.ktail or two to help them unwind?"

"Never saw them drinking anything stronger than wine and beer. They were responsible people."

"Drugs?"

"I already told you-no need to go down that road. Not with the Harringtons." Miss Patsy gave a little sniff, as if maybe the same could not be said for some of the other neighbors.

"What about Denise and the kids? Did they have a tendency toward large bruises, broken bones? Report a lot of strange accidents?"

"Like falling down the stairs or running into doork.n.o.bs?" Miss Patsy asked.

"Exactly."

"No, ma'am. Patrick didn't beat his family. Maybe he should've with the younger one. Lord knows I watched that kid provoke his father time and time again. But Patrick held his temper. He was a good man. In church, he would pray for patience. He knew what he was up against."

D.D. exchanged glances with Phil and Alex. "What do you mean, 'what he was up against'?"

"The younger son, the adopted child, he was trouble. Face of an angel, soul of the Devil, if you ask me."

"The youngest child was adopted? The boy?" D.D. flipped through her notes. "Oswald?"

"Ozzie's mother died when he was three years old. Guess folks didn't find her until months later. All that time, he lived in the apartment with her body, eating every last piece of food in the cupboards, including flour, cardboard, powdered lemonade. Denise told me when the social workers tried to take him away, the poor child broke down and started screaming uncontrollably. He spent some time in a psychiatric unit for little kids. I never knew they even had such a thing."

This was news. D.D. could feel both Alex and Phil leaning forward. She kept her eyes on Miss Patsy. "Know the name of the hospital where they admitted the child?"

"Someplace in Boston. He was there until last year. They brought him home once they moved here."

"Sounds like you and Denise spoke quite a bit," D.D. probed. "She come over often? Maybe join you for iced tea on the porch?"

Miss Patsy nodded easily. "Sure. This summer she came by couple of times a week. Sometimes she brought me cookies, maybe a pie. She's a very gracious woman, Denise. And yes, she was probably looking for a little time away from the family." Miss Patsy held up a hand. "Not saying that she and her husband were fighting. But she worked all day, then came home to three kids, one of them right demanding. Can't blame the woman for seeking out a little iced tea and adult company, can you?"

"Probably not. Denise ever mention any ... extracurricular activities? Maybe she and Patrick weren't fighting. But maybe she'd met someone who'd caught her eye, or he'd found someone who caught his eye. These things happen. Maybe Denise was looking for a little womanly advice?"

"Never mentioned it," Miss Patsy said, folding her hands on her lap. There was a moment of silence, then Miss Patsy regarded D.D. straight in the eye. "Did Ozzie do it? Rumor mill is the whole family was slaughtered like chickens. Always thought that boy would do something terrible one day. Though maybe," she sighed, "not as terrible as this."

"Miss Patsy, what makes you think Ozzie might be capable of doing something like murder?"

Miss Patsy sniffed a little. "Heavens, what to mention? Boy was up and down, up and down the street all day, sunup to sundown if they'd let him. At church, he still had to attend the toddler room, 'cause he couldn't make it through the service. Had the worst case of fidget you ever did see. Rolling up his pant legs, rolling down his pants legs. Sitting up, sitting down, s.h.i.+fting right, s.h.i.+fting left. Never saw a child so ready to burst out of his own skin.

"And no sense of boundaries. Child would walk through your front door without knocking if you left it unlocked. Several of the neighbors kept finding him in their yards, sitting on their patio furniture as if he owned the place. Then there was the incident with him and Mr. Harding's barbecue. Boy said the grill turned over by 'accident,' but I gotta say, I wouldn't put it past him to dump hot coals on a wooden deck. When he felt slighted, he could be cruel. Did I mention the squirrels?"

"You haven't mentioned the squirrels."

"He liked to throw stones at them. I yelled at him more times than I could count to leave the poor squirrels alone. Then you know what he did? I caught him one day in my own backyard, yanking a squirrel off the bird feeder. Guess he'd crept up on it while it was eating. Why, he grabbed it by its tail, whipped it around two or three times, then slammed its head into the feeder post. Terrible, terrible thing. Blood everywhere. He just stood over the poor creature, and smiled.

"Normal boys don't smile like that, Mrs. Detective Sergeant. Normal boys don't lick the blood off their hands."

D.D. couldn't think of anything to say to that. Apparently, neither could Phil or Alex. "When ... when did this happen?" she ventured finally.

"May, or maybe June. Beginning of summer, we'll say. Ozzie wasn't allowed out of the house alone after that. Mostly, his older brother, Jacob, came out to keep tabs on him. Now, Jacob's a good boy. Strong and fast. Good arm, I'm told. Makings of a first-rate quarterback, to hear his father speak. Jacob seemed to be able to keep Ozzie in line."

Miss Patsy paused, seemed to realize she had just spoken of Jacob in the present tense, and caught her breath in a small hiccup. "Oh," she said, and that one sad word spoke volumes of a family that did not exist anymore.

D.D. gave the woman a moment. She took another sip of her iced tea. She was almost done with her gla.s.s; Alex and Phil were as well.

Alex leaned forward, seemed to have something to say. D.D. nodded slightly and he cleared his throat.

"Miss Patsy?" he asked gently.

The old woman turned her gaze to him.

"Were you home last night?"

"Yes, sir."

"What exactly did you hear?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary. But I was inside, had the air conditioners running. Can't hear much of anything over that hum."

"Did you talk to any of the family members earlier in the day?"

"No, sir. Just saw Denise out, sweeping the front porch, when I went on my evening shuffle. I gave her a little wave and she waved back."

"Did she mention having company?"

"Not to me, sir."

"Notice any strange cars in the neighborhood?"

"Oh, there were several. Always is this time of year, with all the summer barbecues." She smiled faintly. "We folks in Dorchester like to have fun."

"Do you know of anyone who might bear a grudge against Patrick or Denise?" D.D. spoke up. "Did either of them mention getting in a fight with anyone? How was their relations.h.i.+p with their ex-spouses?"

"Patrick was a widower; Denise never spoke of her former husband. I got the impression he was out of the picture. Maybe not so interested in domestic life. I certainly never saw anyone coming by to take the kids every other weekend."

D.D. made a note. "Times are hard," she said softly, looking at Miss Patsy. "Sounds like Patrick and Denise had a lot on their plate. Three kids to manage-one with some challenges. Plus, they had an entire triple-decker to remodel, then Patrick lost his job. That's a lot of stress for one family. Things happen when people are under that kind of stress."

"The Harringtons are good people," Miss Patsy repeated firmly.

"And the last time you spoke to either Denise or Patrick ...?"

"Two days ago. Denise came by around nine o'clock and we had a little wine on the front porch. Jacob was starting up football practice and had just been picked for the first string. She was gonna take Molly back-to-school shopping this weekend." Miss Patsy shrugged. "We talked of normal things, everyday things. Denise seemed happy enough to me."

D.D. nodded, made another note-Money??-then rose off the chair, digging out her card. "Thank you for your time, Miss Patsy. If you think of anything else, please give me a call. Oh, and, of course, thanks for the excellent iced tea."

Miss Patsy nodded, shuffled to her feet. Phil offered to carry their gla.s.ses and iced tea pitcher back to the kitchen. Miss Patsy let him.

"It's true they're all dead?" Miss Patsy asked as she escorted them to her front door. "Patrick, Denise, Jacob, Molly, and Ozzie?"

"Patrick's hospitalized. Critical condition."

"Poor, poor man," Miss Patsy murmured. "I don't know what's worse: for him to join his family in Heaven, or for him to recover all alone. Sad choices for a good man. I guess you just never know what's really going on with your neighbors, do you?"

"Nope," agreed D.D. "You never do."

CHAPTER EIGHT.

By the time they were done with Mr. Dexter Harding, it was after twelve and D.D. was starving. Alex proposed that they break for lunch. He knew a great little Italian bistro not far from here. He said this more to D.D. than to Phil, and Phil took the hint, ducking out with some mumbled excuse about stacks of paperwork waiting for him on his desk.

D.D. was suspicious of her partner's abrupt departure, but it was Italian food, so she didn't press the matter.

She and Alex caravanned to the corner restaurant, which featured green awnings and the smell of garlic and fresh baked bread. D.D. inhaled twice and decided she'd found a new home.

Alex ordered lasagna. She went with chicken parm. The waitress brought fresh bread to dip in olive oil. D.D. tore her way through the steaming loaf while checking phone messages. Patrick Harrington remained in a drug-induced coma. Neil, D.D.'s other squadmate, had made it through the autopsy of the wife with no surprises. The ME would start in on the girl after lunch.

Finally, she had a message from Chip, the almost-got-laid accountant, wondering if D.D. wanted to try dinner a second time around. She did, but given the way the morning was going, Chip was going to have to be a very patient man.

"Okay," D.D. declared half a loaf later, trying to check surrept.i.tiously for olive oil dripping down her chin. "We spent last night with one crime scene and the morning with two neighbors. You're the professor-what d'ya think?"

"Will there be a quiz later?" Alex asked mildly; he'd also been checking messages. Now he put away his phone and reached for the bread basket.

"Please. This case was supposed to be wrapped up five hours ago. You're gonna have to start detecting a lot quicker if you wanna roll with my squad."

He arched a brow, seemed amused. He was a good-looking guy, D.D. decided. The charcoal-colored suit worked with his dark blue eyes and salt-and-pepper hair. A good-looking guy with good taste in restaurants. Hmm.

"Let's review the basics," he said now, his deep baritone sounding very much like the teacher he purported to be. "We have a crime scene with four stabbed and one shot, close contact to the head. Blood evidence tells us the victims were taken out one by one. The pattern would at first blush appear to be a murder-suicide, with the head of the household, Patrick Harrington, stabbing his entire family before shooting himself in the head."

"At first blush," D.D. agreed.

"Now, we'd love Patrick's take on this, but so far he's one step above a vegetable in the ICU, so that's not going to happen yet."

"Darn convenient for him," D.D. groused, then went for more bread.

"Which brings us to impressions of the family by friends and neighbors. We have the lovely Miss Patsy-"

"Very lovely," D.D. interjected.

"Fabulous iced tea," Alex agreed. "Though a little heavy on the breakable figurines."

"Don't sneeze in that house; it'll cost you."

"Miss Patsy likes Denise and Patrick very much. Considers them stand-up parents, good Christians, and all-around nice neighbors, who did have a lot on their plate but were holding up well enough. On the other hand, she is not a fan of their adopted son, Ozzie, who has a history of creepiness."

"Licking the blood off his hand ..." D.D. s.h.i.+vered.

"Now, the second neighbor, Dexter Harding, had a bit to add to that puzzle. Economic situation was a bit more dire than Miss Patsy understood from Denise. According to Dexter, Patrick considered them down to their last two months of operating income. Not a good place to be."

"Ah, but according to Dexter, Patrick had a plan," D.D. countered. "Patrick believed he was just two weeks from finis.h.i.+ng the second floor. Say he gave himself six weeks to get it rented, asking for first and last month's rent, plus deposit. That would be a significant cash injection due in the next two to eight weeks."

"So we have a family in a tense economic condition, but not hopeless. Few things go according to plan, they could pull out of it."

"Which suggests," D.D. commented, "that Patrick has reason to be stressed, but perhaps is not yet suicidal. I mean, why go postal now? You'd think if he's gonna lose it, it'll be eight weeks from now when he can't find a renter, doesn't get the money, etc., etc."

"Logically speaking, yes," Alex agreed. "But he's still stressed, the wife's still stressed. Maybe someone said something last night at dinner. The daughter charged too much at the mall, the expenses for the older son's football uniform were higher than expected. All you need is a trigger. Things unfold from there."

"Patrick can't stand the thought of his family ending up homeless, his kids becoming wards of the state ..." D.D. filled in. "All of a sudden, Patrick convinces himself that killing his own family is the right thing to do. And our solid Christian neighbor turns into a family annihilator."

The waitress appeared, sliding oval plates smothered in red sauce in front of each of them. The smell alone made D.D.'s mouth water. She loaded her chicken parm with grated cheese and went to town.

"Brings us back to the kid," she managed after the third bite.

"Ah, but which one?" Alex asked with an arched brow. He was taking more time with his lasagna. A patient man, she observed. Probably had to be for working crime scenes. She wondered what had taken him from the field to the cla.s.sroom, and what now made him want to be out in the field again.

"I mean Ozzie," she prompted. "You know, the one that kills squirrels for sport. Why? You're not suspecting the oldest, are you?"