Robert B. Parker’s the Hangman’s Sonnet

Now that he was here, he figured he had at least a little while before Nita Thompson, the mayor herself, and the media began to show up. For the moment, the only people on scene were Jesse’s allies, so there was no need for him to pretend he wasn’t nursing a wicked hangover. The body-bag boys from Tamara’s office were in their van waiting for the okay to take the body to the morgue. Jesse called Gabe over to him.

“Gabe, take Alisha to the station, then get back here.”

Weathers didn’t say anything, turning on his heel to go. Jesse watched him walk away, tap Alisha on the shoulder, and urge her toward his cruiser. She turned back and looked at Jesse over her shoulder. Her expression was no happier than it had been when he gave her the orders about telling the truth. But when Gabe’s cruiser kicked up a cloud of dust on the dirt road, the time for hesitation was over.

After trying unsuccessfully to stretch the hangover achiness out of his body, Jesse approached Molly and Lundquist. Both of them were sipping coffee against the slight morning chill. Molly reached down by her feet, grabbed a second cup, and held it out to Jesse.

“Morning, Jesse. I think it’s still hot,” she said, as if she hadn’t already seen Jesse earlier. “But don’t make me swear to it.”

He grabbed the cup from her and took a sip. “Hot enough.” Coffee had never tasted so good. “Who called it in?”

“Anonymous male,” she said. “Blocked number called in to the station, but not on the nine-one-one line.”

Jesse didn’t like that. “So there’s no recording of it. Who took the call?”

“I did. Peter was the responding officer. Good thing, too, because he preserved the crime scene and began doing the evidence search as soon as he called me back to confirm it was a homicide. I called the ME and then you.” Molly kept up the charade that it had only taken a call to get Jesse to the crime scene. She didn’t know Lundquist well enough to trust his attitude toward Jesse and his drinking.

39

With the near-empty cup in his hand, Jesse stood at the boundary of yellow tape strung in a wide, misshapen circle around pine trees, oaks, and maples. At the far side of the circle were Tamara Elkin and the body of the man presumed to be King Curnutt. Inside the circle to Jesse’s right was a blue Subaru and an old, weathered toolshed, its door flapping in the morning breeze. Peter Perkins, in a Tyvek suit and booties, was taking photos of the car.

“I need to talk to the ME,” Jesse said, calling to Perkins. “Get me a pair of gloves and walk me over to her and fill me in.”

Peter came to where Jesse was standing, handed him gloves, and lifted the tape. Jesse limboed under it, wincing as he did. Taking careful, measured steps, the two of them made their way slowly toward the ME. As they went, Perkins pointed to some tire tracks. Car’s stolen from some small town near the New Hampshire border. One set of tire tracks are definitely from the Subaru. Don’t know about the other. He pointed at faint impressions in the dirt that vaguely resembled footprints. I’m pretty sure one set belongs to the vic, but there are lots of imprints around because runners use this area.

“How was he killed?” Jesse asked.

“Close range. One to the head, one to the heart. I couldn’t see any exit wounds. Another thing, Jesse,” Perkins said. “If he used an automatic, the killer collected his brass.

“Something else. The vic was armed. I’ve bagged a Glock Nineteen that I found in very close proximity to the body. Killer must’ve surprised him.”

“Or Curnutt knew him,” Jesse said as they reached the ME and the body.

“Thanks, Peter.”

“No problem. I’m almost done anyway. Just have to pack up and make some notes.”

Jesse waited for Perkins to leave before kneeling down.

“You look almost as bad as him,” Tamara said. “At least you smell a little better.”

Jesse gave a slight nod toward the body. “I don’t feel so well, either, but let’s talk about him.”

“I’m sure Peter already told you.”

“Uh-huh. Been here for a day-plus. Killed by two at close range.”

“Probably a .22 caliber,” she said. “Small entry wounds, no exit wounds. None that are visible, at least. I’ll know more when I get him on the table and cut the clothes off him.”

“Can I pat him down?”

“One more thing, Jesse. The body was moved. Rolled over, I think, at least once,” she said, pointing at a small patch of dried blood on a smashed-down area of brown grass and dirt to the left of the body.

“You think it was my man who moved him?”

“Unlikely,” she said. “Perkins is too OCD to do that. My guess is it happened shortly afterward.”

“Thanks, Doc. That it?”

“Now he’s all yours. I’m going to go give my guys the okay to come get him. Your car here?”

Jesse stared up at her, puzzled. “Why?”

“I’ll leave some pills for you in your front seat.”

“Thanks.”