At the cold fireplace, a cheap black tin container had tipped over, spilling wrought-iron tools across the white-brick hearth. Two lab technicians were dusting powder over exposed surfaces and lifting tape impressions where they found fingerprints.
‘Please don’t touch anything,’ Haldane told Laura.
‘If you don’t need me to identify Dylan—’
‘Like I said, it wouldn’t do much good.’
‘Why?’
‘Nothing to identify.’
‘Surely the body can’t be that badly…’
‘Battered,’ he said. ‘No face left.
‘My God.’
They stood in the foyer, by the living-room arch. Haldane seemed as reluctant to take her deeper into the house as he had been to bring her inside in the first place.
‘Did he have any identifying marks?’ Haldane asked.
‘A discolored patch of skin—’
‘Birthmark?’
‘Yes.’
‘Where?’
‘The middle of his chest.’
Haldane shook his head. ‘Probably won’t help.’
‘Why not?’
He stared at her, then looked away, at the floor.
‘I’m a doctor,’ she reminded him.
‘His chest was caved in.’
‘Beaten in?’
‘Yeah. Every rib broken and rebroken. Breastbone smashed like a china plate.’
‘Smashed?’
‘Yeah. The word’s carefully chosen, Doctor McCaffrey. Not just broken. Not just fractured or splintered. Smashed. Like he was made of glass.’
‘That’s impossible.’
‘Saw it with my own eyes. Wish I hadn’t.
‘But the breastbone is solid. That and the skull are the closest things the human body has to armor plating.’
‘The killer was one big, strong son of a bitch.
She shook her head. ‘No. You might smash the breastbone in an auto accident, where there are tremendous forces, sudden impacts at fifty and sixty miles an hour, crushing forces and weights… But it couldn’t happen in a beating.’
‘We figure a lead pipe or—’
‘Not even that, she said. ‘Smashed? Surely not.’
Melanie, my little Melanie, my God, what’s happened to you, where have they taken you, will I ever see you again?
She shuddered. ‘Listen, if you don’t need me to identify Dylan, then I’m not sure what help I can—’
‘Like I said, there’s something I want you to see.’
‘Something weird?’
‘Yeah.’
Yet he kept her in the foyer and even seemed to be using his body to prevent her from seeing farther into the house. Clearly, he was torn between his need for the information that she might be able to give him and his dismay at having to drag her through the scene of such bloody murders.
‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘Weird? What?’
Haldane didn’t answer the question. He said, ‘You and he were in the same line of work.’
‘Not exactly.’
‘He was a psychiatrist too, wasn’t he?’
‘No. A behavioral psychologist. With a special interest in behavior modification.’
‘And you’re a psychiatrist, a medical doctor.’
‘I specialize in the treatment of children.’
‘Yes, I see. Different fields.’
‘Very.’
He frowned. ‘Well, if you have a look at his lab, you still might be able to tell me what your husband was doing there.’
‘Lab? He was working here too?’
‘He was primarily working here. I don’t think that he or your daughter led much of a real life in this place.’
‘Working? Doing what?’
‘Experiments of some sort. We can’t figure it.’
‘Let’s have a look.’
‘It’s… messy,’ he said, studying her closely.
‘I told you — I’m a doctor.’
‘Yeah, and I’m a cop, and a cop sees more blood than a doctor does, and this was so messy it made me sick.’
‘Lieutenant, you brought me here, and now you’re not getting rid of me until I know what my husband and my little girl were doing in this house.’
He nodded. ‘This way.’
She followed him past the living room, away from the kitchen, into a short hallway, where a slender, good-looking Latino in a dark suit was overseeing two men whose uniform jackets were stenciled with the word CORONER. They were stowing a corpse in an opaque plastic body bag. One of the men from the coroner’s office pulled up the zipper. Through the milky plastic, Laura saw only a lumpish man-shaped form, no details but a few thick smears of blood.
Dylan?
‘Not your husband,’ Haldane said, as if reading her mind. ‘This one wasn’t carrying any ID at all. We’ll have to rely entirely on a fingerprint check.’