“My guess is this is the murder site,” one of the technicians said. “Right here by the table.”
The Wilsons heard the camera being moved, then the loud click of its shutter opening followed by sustained hissing from the spray bottle. Quillan explained that the bloodstains were so faint, the luminol had to be sprayed continuously.
After the crime-scene investigators had left, the Wilsons returned to the family room even more depressed than they had been earlier. There was no more talk of skiing or sledding on the hill behind the barn.
Angela sat on the hearth with her back to the fire and looked at David and Nikki, who had collectively collapsed on the couch. With her family arrayed in front of her, a powerful protective urge swept through Angela. She did not like what she had just learned: her kitchen had the remains of blood spatter from a brutal murder. This was the room that in many ways she regarded as the heart of their home and which she had thought she had cleaned. Now she knew that it had been desecrated by violence. In Angela’s mind it was a direct threat to her family.
Suddenly Angela broke the gloomy silence. “Maybe we should move,” she said.
“Wait one second,” David said. “I know you’re upset; we’re all upset. But we’re not going to allow ourselves to become hysterical.”
“I’m hardly hysterical,” Angela shot back.
“Suggesting that we have to move because of an unfortunate event which didn’t involve us and which occurred almost a year ago is hardly rational,” David said.
“It happened in this house,” Angela said.
“This house happens to be mortgaged to the roof. We have both a first and second mortgage. We can’t just walk away because of an emotional upset.”
“Then I want the locks changed,” Angela said. “A murderer has been in here.”
“We haven’t even been locking the doors,” David said.
“We are from now on and I want the locks changed.”
“Okay,” David said. “We’ll change the locks.”
Traynor was in a rotten mood as he pulled up to the Iron Horse Inn. The weather seemed to fit his temperament: the rain had returned to tropical-like intensity. Even his umbrella proved uncooperative. When he couldn’t get it open, he cursed and threw it into the back. He decided he’d simply have to make a run for the Inn’s door.
Beaton, Caldwell, and Sherwood were already sitting in a booth when he arrived. Cantor got there just after him. As the two men sat down, Carleton Harris, the bartender, came by to take their drink orders.
“Thank you all for coming out in this inclement weather,” Traynor said. “But I’m afraid that recent events mandated an emergency session.”
“This isn’t an official executive board meeting,” Cantor complained. “Let’s not be so formal.”
Traynor frowned. Even in a crisis, Cantor persisted in irritating him.
“If I may continue,” Traynor said, staring Cantor down.
“For chrissake, Harold,” Cantor said, “get on with it.”
“As you all know by now, Hodges’ body turned up in rather unpleasant circumstances.”
“The story has attracted media attention,” Beaton said. “It made the front page of the Boston Globe.”
“I’m concerned about this publicity’s potentially negative effect on the hospital,” Traynor said. “The macabre aspects of Hodges’ death may attract still more media. The last thing we want is a bunch of out-of-town reporters poking around. Thanks largely to Helen Beaton, we’ve been able to keep word of our ski-masked rapist out of the headlines. But big-city reporters are bound to stumble across that brewing scandal if they’re in town. Between that and Hodges’ unseemly demise, we could be in for a slew of bad press.”
“I’ve heard from Burlington that Hodges’ death is definitely being ruled a homicide,” Cantor said.
“Of course it will be ruled a homicide,” Traynor snapped. “What else could it be ruled? The man’s body was entombed behind a wall of cinder blocks. The issue before us is not whether or not his death was a homicide. The issue is what can we do to lessen the impact on the hospital’s reputation. I’m particularly anxious about how these events impact our relationship with CMV.”