The Society Page 9

  Patricia Moriarity

  Detective Sergeant

  Massachusetts State Police

  CHAPTER 8

  Patty woke from a troubled sleep at ten after three. Her dream this time—what she remembered of it—featured multiple burned and bloodied body parts interspersed with varying images of Dr. Willard Grant. The two homicides she had handled before the managed-care murders were exercises in police and crime-scene procedure, not in detective work. In the first, the victim had taken out a restraining order against her violent boyfriend, and half an hour after she had returned from court he kicked in her door and stabbed her twenty-five times. The second, a lover’s quarrel between two gay men, had ended in a single impetuous gunshot to the heart.

  The shooting death of Ben Morales, CEO of Premier Care, was the first murder she had been assigned where the suspect wasn’t ready-made. Now, that one case had grown to three, and no one doubted that a serial killer was at work. On paper, she was still part of the team from Middlesex working the case, but thanks to Wayne Brasco, she was justifiably feeling more and more like an outsider. Meetings were being held that did not include her and were called nothing more than impromptu discussions when she found out. Consultants were being called in without her knowing about them. The profiler she had originally lined up—a young, talented woman—had been replaced by a more experienced, though in her mind far less capable, man.

  Tired of having her ideas demeaned and brushed off, Patty had decided on her own and on her own time to attend the Faneuil Hall debate. It just seemed to her like a charged setting where something might possibly happen. And something had, only not at all what she had expected. Wrapped in the darkness of her room, she sat on the edge of her bed and wondered about Grant and why he was occupying so much of her thoughts.

  There was no question he appealed to her. His looks were hardly classic Hollywood, but she had never been attracted to square jaws and dimpled chins. His face was narrow and angular, almost gaunt, but there was a gentle vulnerability to it that brought her images of the man curled up on a couch, glasses perched on the tip of his nose, reading by a winter fire. It was his eyes, though, that affected her the most—wide and dark brown, enveloped by shadows of strain and fatigue, yet still bright and intelligent. This was not a simple man, she decided after just a few minutes of watching him at the podium. This was a man who felt things deeply, who had honest humility, and who also, she suspected, had a past that included some significant pain.

  Patty shuffled to the couch in her living room and sipped some decaf cinnamon tea before attempting to read herself back to sleep—first with an Agatha Christie she had read at least once before, then with some Emily Dickinson poetry. By four-thirty, her angry thoughts of Wayne Brasco and her pleasant ones of Willard Grant were scrambled with the frustration surrounding three violent deaths and nearly eight weeks of fruitless investigation. Sleep, at least for this night, was over. She tied a terry-cloth robe tightly about her waist, padded into the guest bedroom, which doubled as her at-home study, and switched on her desk lamp, the base of which was a remarkable Northwest Eskimo carving of a polar bear. The lamp had been a gift from her brother, Tommy, in honor of her graduation from the police academy.

  Willard Grant. She knew precious little of the man. It would be fun to learn more. She rotated some residual stiffness from her shoulders, then switched on her PC, called up her favorite search engine, and typed in the name. Surprisingly, a seventy-five-page list of Web sites that contained the name popped up, encompassing 717 separate items. Intrigued, Patty began to scroll down the pages. After just a few minutes she was ready to give up. There were a few sites involving a Reverend Willard Grant in historical documents dating back before the Revolutionary War, but all of the rest, it seemed, pertained to a rock/jazz fusion band that took its name from the intersection where their first recording studio was located.

  Grinning at the image of herself poring through countless Web listings at four in the morning, searching for a man to whom she had spoken all of five words, Patty highlighted page 33, which, for no particular reason, she considered her lucky number. The page was filled with more band sites, most of them in German.

  Enough! she thought. He wasn’t wearing a ring, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t married. Go for a run. Do some push-ups. E-mail some friends. But stop this teenage—

  Patty stared at an item near the bottom of the page. It was from the Ashford Sentinel—the police log from May 27, four years ago.

  Domestic disturbance, 94 Martin Road. Dr. Willard Grant taken into custody for arguing with responding officers. No charges filed.

  There was no more information.

  Taken into custody. No charges filed.

  “What was that all about?” she muttered.

  The best scenario she could concoct was that Grant’s wife or else a neighbor, or perhaps even one of their children, had called the cops because of a noisy argument. When the officers arrived, Grant refused to calm down or perhaps to leave the house for the night in order to defuse the situation. He was eventually removed by the officers, by force, and then calmed down quickly enough so that no charges were filed. Maybe the responding officers even knew him. Maybe he did some medical work for them or their families. Cops and docs—especially surgeons and ER docs—tended to share the bond of full moons and early-morning crazies.

  Just as quickly as that, Patty’s romantic fantasies were gone, replaced by thoughts that were much more serious and sinister—thoughts of a father of two with a bullet in his forehead, and a company CEO, shot through the throat, and finally, a meticulous suburbanite, blown to bits in his driveway. The issues Willard Grant had discussed at Faneuil Hall didn’t exactly qualify as a motive, but there could certainly be more going on. Add an anger-management problem to the man’s passionate dislike for HMOs, and something well might be brewing.

  In twenty minutes Patty had showered and dressed and was speeding through the early morning toward Salem along largely deserted streets. The Middlesex state police detectives unit was one floor below the district attorney’s office, located in a small shopping mall near the center of town. Patty used her security code to enter, left the overhead lights off, and switched on the desk lamp in her cubicle. Her desktop, while somewhat cluttered, was still neater than any of the men’s except for Lieutenant Court, who was at times fastidious to a fault. She had a single poster on the wall, sent by her brother, which looked amazingly like a mullioned window looking out on the Cascade Mountains. She had added a rod and set of paisley curtains, tied back to complete the illusion.

  Sensing she was on to something, Patty settled in front of her computer and logged in. In moments she would be linked over space and time to the Criminal Justice Information System, an almost inconceivable amount of data on criminals, as well as on everyday citizens with no police record at all. She was about to become something of an expert on one Dr. Willard Grant. Her first stop was the Registry of Motor Vehicles.

  Discovery number one was that Willard Grant used the name Will on his driver’s license, which Patty sensed might already be a violation of state law. He had two citations in five years, both for speeding, both paid. His current address was in Wolf Hollow, a modestly upscale condominium development in Frederickston. Backtracking, Patty found a Maxine Grant still living at the Martin Road address in Ashford. Since the domestic-disturbance incident four years ago, Will Grant was either separated or divorced. A quick check of Fredrickston records showed a divorce two years ago. Two children, Daniel and Jessica, both the same age. An adoption, perhaps, but more likely twins. Patty wondered where the children were the night their parents argued and Will Grant was hauled off by the Ashford police.

  Seated in the pleasing quiet of the office, Patty logged on to a second site, the WMS—Warrant Management System. It took only a short while to learn that Grant had no outstanding arrest warrants against him. Patty sensed that in spite of herself, she felt strangely relieved at the news. Still, there was the after
math of the disturbance in Ashford.

  With several choices available to her, Patty next logged on to the Board of Probation site. The BOP recorded every court action in the state and was in the process of merging with the data banks of all other state boards of probation, as well. CORI, the Criminal Offenders’ Records Information segment of the BOP, was her first stop. Willard Grant (Ashford address) lit up immediately in the form of a three-month restraining order, taken out by Maxine Grant the day after the incident reported in the Ashford newspaper. Patty opened a spiral-bound pad and noted the information. She had intervened in enough domestic-violence cases to find them totally abhorrent, and that was even before her grisly first homicide case. What little warmth she still held for Grant vanished, replaced by heightened interest in him as a suspect in a string of murders that until now had no suspects.

  A few minutes later, that interest expanded like a party balloon.

  She had searched through the Interstate Identification Index (III) and the NCIC—the National Crime Information Center—without adding anything to what she already knew, and was about to call it quits when she decided to visit one last site—the Criminal History System Board. The CHSB, located in Chelsea, just north of Boston, was manned twenty-four/seven and contained a vast data bank, overlapping some of the others but also including information on lawbreakers who either hadn’t yet made it onto other sites or had been overlooked for one reason or another.

  Willard Grant was forty-one. Teaming up with the night officer on duty, a young-sounding man who introduced himself as Matthew MacDonald, Patty searched through the CHSB for Will or Willard Grant, beginning with the year he turned seventeen. When she reached twenty-one, Will Grant again lit up. It was an arrest at the University of Massachusetts in Amherst for leading a sit-in at the office of the dean. Public service and two years’ probation.

  There was no mention of the cause for which the sit-in was held, but the zealous action against a perceived social injustice fit well with the man who, twenty years later, was active in the Hippocrates Society and vehemently opposed managed care.

  “There’s more,” MacDonald said from his desk, twenty miles south and east of where Patty was seated. “In addition to being booked for illegally blocking the egress and entrance of a public building, Grant was charged with shoving a security guard. It doesn’t look as if that charge led to a court appearance, but I can’t be sure. There are still holes in some of these reports.”

  Patty’s spiral pad was filling up.

  Just three years later, there was more—another arrest, this time for assaulting a fellow med student at some sort of book burning.

  “Book burning?” Patty asked.

  “That’s what it says here,” MacDonald replied. “The other student’s name was Streeter—Owen Streeter. Apparently, no official charges were filed.” Patty was recording the information when MacDonald said, “Wait, this is interesting.”

  “What?”

  “Will Grant was picked up as a suspect in the bombing of a lab at the medical school. Same year.”

  “Arrested?”

  “I don’t think so, but the Amherst police were impressed enough to put him in the data bank.”

  “I wonder why?”

  For a few seconds, MacDonald was silent.

  “I think I know,” he said slowly.

  “Go on.”

  “There was someone in the lab at the time of the explosion—a janitor, it says here. He was killed.”

  MURDER!!!

  Patty wrote the word across the center of a blank page in her notebook, then added drops of blood coming off the legs of the M and Rs. She noted the date and for the time being ended her conversation with MacDonald, but not before extracting his promise to keep searching the intervening years for more on Grant and to call her if anything additional turned up. Her shift was about to begin, and even before this latest turn of events, she was behind in her paperwork. Still, strongly sensing that this was no dead end, she was unwilling to put matters on hold. Using the Net, she jotted down the names and URLs of the newspapers in Amherst, as well as the nearby towns and cities, including Northampton and Springfield. Before she could make her way into those newspapers’ back issues, the door to the office opened. It took just a few seconds to recognize the voices of two men as Jack Court and Wayne Brasco.

  “I don’t care if she did embarrass you in front of the Norfolk guys, Wayne, there’s no way I can take her any further off the case unless she fucks up.”

  The overhead fluorescents flickered on. Patty’s cubicle was farthest from the door—just a few paces from Court’s office. Brasco’s was just inside the door.

  “I could work better with Sonnenblick or even Tomasetti,” he said.

  “You don’t have to work with her, Wayne, just put up with her. Throw her a crumb here and there. Show her how real detectives handle a murder investigation. The moment she steps out of line, she’s off the case.”

  Patty heard Brasco grunt as he settled in front of his desk, then Court’s footsteps as he headed down the row of detectives’ cubicles toward her. He stopped when he realized she was at her desk, the nonplussed expression on his hawklike face clearly stating that he was calculating how much, if anything, she had heard.

  “Morning, Patty,” he said.

  “Lieutenant.”

  Patty slid her arm over the notebook to cover up the macabre rendering of the word MURDER.

  There was an unpleasant pause before Patty’s CO favored her with one of his most engaging, yet insincere, smiles.

  “We’ll be meeting in the conference room at eight,” he said. “Carry on.”

  The moment she heard the exchange between the two men, Patty conducted and resolved the internal dialogue surrounding whether or not to share her information and suspicions regarding Will Grant. She returned Court’s nod and remained motionless until she heard the door to his office close. Then she slipped the spiral notebook off her desk and into her shoulder bag.

  CHAPTER 9

  Impassioned Plea Helps Doc

  Lambaste Managed Care

  Four hundred of the city’s best and brightest, including Governor John A. Fromson, sat in stunned silence at Faneuil Hall last night as Fredrickston surgeon Willard Grant emotionally and effectively chastised managed-care companies for placing profits before patients and before physicians. . . .

  The article was the headliner in Section B of the Globe—the City Section. There were two copies of the paper on Will’s desk when he arrived at the office, along with two copies of the article itself, neatly cut out by the Associates’ dauntless receptionist, Mimi. There was also a copy of the Herald, which contained an article saying essentially the same thing, albeit in many fewer words.

  Will had begun his day as usual by making rounds at the hospital, where nearly everyone seemed already to have heard about the forum and his unofficial victory over Boyd Halliday. Several people—two nurses, a lab tech, and a ward secretary—buttonholed him to share their own angry managed-care stories. Two others felt the need to tell him how pleased they were with the care their HMOs were providing for their families. Even his patients seemed to have heard some version of the debate.

  Will persistently denied doing anything special, but in truth he was puffed over the turnabout he had been able to effect in the encounter with Halliday. He was not, however, at all pleased that the Willard cat had been let out of the bag. Even his office staff was surprised and amused that he was not a William. It didn’t help that the classic horror flick that had initially caused his dubbing as Ratboy had not too long ago been remade, and to generally favorable reviews, as well. As he flipped through a dozen excited e-mails, mostly from Hippocrates Society colleagues, Will wondered if he had ever even bothered telling the twins his true given name. Most likely, he acknowledged, even if he hadn’t, Maxine had found a way.

  In addition to the article, Mimi had dutifully left a copy of the day’s appointment schedule on his desk. Patient visits, sandwiched ab
out the removal of a large fatty tumor from a woman’s back, were light. This was exactly the mellow, stress-free day he would have prescribed for himself after an evening that hadn’t ended until nearly two in the morning.

  He was scanning the list of patients when he remembered the card Detective Sergeant Patricia Moriarity had given him, along with the request that he call her. He had little doubt she wanted to speak to him about the managed-care murders. Others in the Hippocrates Society had already been questioned. He took the card from his wallet and studied it absently as he thought about the woman. In all likelihood there had been a shoulder holster and pistol under her vest. Except for the one time a friend had dragged him to a firing range, he had never even held a real handgun. Patricia Moriarity lived by one. He gave a moment’s thought to calling her, then wedged the card alongside his desk blotter, protruding out as a reminder. This just wasn’t the time he wanted to be grilled about serial killings and his views on managed care.

  “Dr. Grant, it’s Mimi. Could you come out here, please?”

  Will did as the intercom requested and found Grace Peng—Grace Davis, he remembered—seated alone in an otherwise empty waiting room. He was struck, as he had been yesterday, with the remarkable transformation in the woman, who had essentially been a bag lady not that many years before.

  “Do you have a moment to speak with me?” she asked, quite obviously agitated and distressed.

  “Sure, come in to my office.”

  She settled into one of the two walnut-stained, Danish modern chairs that Jim Katz’s interior-decorator wife had chosen for each of the offices.