“There’s a limit to what Toby can earn in the public sector compared to what he might get as an investigator for the Jill Donoghues of the world,” Lucy says, and of course she’s right. “He’s about to get married, wants kids, and has overextended himself buying his truck. I think that’s what started his troubles. He’s been complaining about it a lot, apparently owes more than it’s worth. Not to mention what he’s spent on tattoos.”
“How depressing. Betray the world for tattoos and a pickup truck.”
“The American dream. Buy everything on credit and drive off into the sunset with body art and piercings you’ll live to regret.”
“There’s no excuse for what he did.” I unlock the door to the evidence room. “And shame on Jill Donoghue.”
“It’s really rather brilliant.” Lucy follows me in.
“Luke should have e-mailed photos, and I’m expecting ones from Machado. Can you check?” I don’t want to hear how brilliant Donoghue is.
“All is fair. A shrewd defense attorney using whatever resources happen to be available.” Lucy’s blue gloved hands type on a biosafe keyboard as she goes into my e-mail. “Her client happens to have his own pilots and a helicopter that can do aerial filming.”
“I’m just sorry Judge Conry doesn’t know what she’s done.”
“Why would he care?”
It’s a good question. Literally, the judge allowed television news footage to be played in court. He didn’t allow footage from the defendant’s helicopter, which the judge would have deemed inadmissible. But the source of the news footage wasn’t known or questioned at the time, and it’s too late now.
“Nothing illegal about it,” Lucy says. “Not even improper from a legal standpoint.”
“You sound as if you’re applauding it.”
“Maybe I would have done the same thing.”
“I have no doubt you would have,” I comment, and I don’t want to get into what she does or might do.
Howard Roth’s clothing looks dirty and shapeless and seems forlorn on waterproof white paper, a large black T-shirt, a pair of woven cotton boxer shorts in a red plaid pattern, and white tube socks speckled with blood that is dark, almost black. On another table against the far wall are the dog crate and soggy bags of clumping litter, the yellow rope and old fishing gear, and the yellow boat fender that I realize is slightly scuffed, a detail I didn’t notice when it was wet.
“Nothing wrong with her letting Toby know that whatever he overhears at work might be helpful.” Lucy is playing out what she thinks happened. “And certainly he’d want justice to be done, and by the way, how does he like working for the CFC, and does he ever think about his future?”
She continues describing what she imagines Donoghue’s line to Toby must have been, and I look for a measuring tape.
“So she’s with her client right before court’s in session yesterday morning, or maybe already sitting at the defense table with him, and gets an electronic communication from Toby. A woman’s body has just been discovered in the bay. Maybe she even gets the details that the body has fingernail polish, has long white or blond hair. A fucking gift.”
“Are you guessing that’s what happened, or do you know it?” I open a drawer and find what I’m looking for, a pocket rod, the type of tape measure we carry in our scene cases.
“I know what the Sikorsky pilots said to ATC,” Lucy answers. “I’d just taken off from Hanscom and was monitoring Logan on comm-two when the S-Seventy-six that I later found out was Channing Lott’s helicopter contacted Approach, radioing that they were out of Beverly and had a request. They wanted to do some filming in the outer harbor.”
I wipe down the rigid metal tape with a spray-on disinfectant, making sure it’s clean.
“Wow, he’s got quite a gash on the back of his head,” Lucy says. “It’s really apparent after his hair’s been shaved.”
“What time did you hear the pilots on the radio?” I take a look at autopsy photos on her computer screen.
“Approximately two hours after you got the call about the body in the bay,” she says.
“Definitely blunt force, not sharp force,” I observe. “You can see where the tissue’s torn, and in the depths of the wound is bridging.” I point out nerves, blood vessels, and other soft tissue extending like threads across the gaping gash. “His head impacted with a surface that has no discrete edge.”
“So it wasn’t caused by the edge of a concrete step catching him at