him know it’s on the Web so he’s ready when CNN calls. Start the interviews at the hospital—every doctor, orderly, nurse and administrator who had contact with Taaraa Ghosh.”
“Will do,” Vertesi called after MacNeice, who had already left the cubicle.
14 .
M AC N EICE WAS SEETHING . The damage caused by nasty or upsetting images and videos released onto the Web had become all too common around the world, committed by a sneering class of bullies who used the shelter of the Internet’s anonymity to terrorize and humiliate people for their own savage amusement. For MacNeice, however, the image of a ripped-open woman defied and transcended even that level of callousness. He inhaled deeply as it occurred to him again—with this level of planning and display, what happened at the mountain stairs was probably just the beginning.
MacNeice turned the heavy Chevy into the coroner’s parking lot and backed into a spot near the basement entrance. He was about to shut down the engine when he refastened his seatbelt and drove out of the lot, turning east on Barton, then right on Wentworth. It was starting to rain, and he switched on the wipers.
At the top of the hill he stopped on the shoulder where he’d parked the day before. There was a cruiser off to the side ahead ofhim and yellow tape still marked the crime scene. The mountain stairs remained closed to the public. He could see the uniform in the car turning to check him out, and nodded to him as he walked by. He heard the car door open behind him.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“DS MacNeice. No. Get back in your unit and out of the rain.”
“Ah, sir, you’re going to get soaked. I’ll get you my slicker from the trunk.”
“Don’t bother, I’m fine.” The tone of his voice caused the officer to snap the car door shut.
MacNeice walked out and stood in the middle of the road. Within seconds, two cars and a minivan had passed on either side of him.
The cop flicked on his wipers to get a clearer look. “Jesus H, this fucker’s going to get smacked.”
MacNeice seemed to be looking back and forth from where the body was found to the stairs. A pickup truck came around the bend and swerved to avoid the guy in the dark blue suit standing in the middle of the road. The suit was getting darker by the second.
The cop couldn’t stand it anymore and reached for the radio. “Vittelli, it’s Rankin. I got a situation here. Over.”
“Define ‘situation.’ Over.”
“I’m up on the Wentworth hill where the woman got whacked yesterday.”
“I know. What’s the situation?”
“I got a Detective Superintendent MacNeice—you know the guy? Over.”
“Yeah, he’s God. Don’t fuck with him, Rankin. Over.”
“Tell me about it. But he’s standin’ out in the middle of Wentworth, just staring at the hill, the crime scene. It’s pissing rain and people are swerving to avoid him. What do I do? Over.”
“If this guy is standing in the rain, assume there’s a good reason. Over.”
“Roger that. Bat-crazy. But roger that. Over and out.”
Wiping the rain away from his mouth and eyes, MacNeice ran over the scenario again in his mind. She had been waiting for her mother to descend the stairs from the top of the mountain; it was a weekly ritual and her habit was to look up, not down. The killer had approached quietly from below or was waiting under the stairs. To the right was a six-foot drop onto jagged rocks, to the left, a three-foot drop down to rocks, weeds and gravel. The traffic was intermittent and the houses across the street looked deserted, so she had fled to the railing on the left and jumped to the ground, where she broke off her heel. She was now on the run and, like a terror-stricken animal, she had no thought other than to flee—tragically, in the wrong direction.
A car coming down the hill narrowly missed MacNeice. The water from its tires slashed across his shins and he heard the driver shout through the rain, “Asshole!”
She
“Will do,” Vertesi called after MacNeice, who had already left the cubicle.
14 .
M AC N EICE WAS SEETHING . The damage caused by nasty or upsetting images and videos released onto the Web had become all too common around the world, committed by a sneering class of bullies who used the shelter of the Internet’s anonymity to terrorize and humiliate people for their own savage amusement. For MacNeice, however, the image of a ripped-open woman defied and transcended even that level of callousness. He inhaled deeply as it occurred to him again—with this level of planning and display, what happened at the mountain stairs was probably just the beginning.
MacNeice turned the heavy Chevy into the coroner’s parking lot and backed into a spot near the basement entrance. He was about to shut down the engine when he refastened his seatbelt and drove out of the lot, turning east on Barton, then right on Wentworth. It was starting to rain, and he switched on the wipers.
At the top of the hill he stopped on the shoulder where he’d parked the day before. There was a cruiser off to the side ahead ofhim and yellow tape still marked the crime scene. The mountain stairs remained closed to the public. He could see the uniform in the car turning to check him out, and nodded to him as he walked by. He heard the car door open behind him.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“DS MacNeice. No. Get back in your unit and out of the rain.”
“Ah, sir, you’re going to get soaked. I’ll get you my slicker from the trunk.”
“Don’t bother, I’m fine.” The tone of his voice caused the officer to snap the car door shut.
MacNeice walked out and stood in the middle of the road. Within seconds, two cars and a minivan had passed on either side of him.
The cop flicked on his wipers to get a clearer look. “Jesus H, this fucker’s going to get smacked.”
MacNeice seemed to be looking back and forth from where the body was found to the stairs. A pickup truck came around the bend and swerved to avoid the guy in the dark blue suit standing in the middle of the road. The suit was getting darker by the second.
The cop couldn’t stand it anymore and reached for the radio. “Vittelli, it’s Rankin. I got a situation here. Over.”
“Define ‘situation.’ Over.”
“I’m up on the Wentworth hill where the woman got whacked yesterday.”
“I know. What’s the situation?”
“I got a Detective Superintendent MacNeice—you know the guy? Over.”
“Yeah, he’s God. Don’t fuck with him, Rankin. Over.”
“Tell me about it. But he’s standin’ out in the middle of Wentworth, just staring at the hill, the crime scene. It’s pissing rain and people are swerving to avoid him. What do I do? Over.”
“If this guy is standing in the rain, assume there’s a good reason. Over.”
“Roger that. Bat-crazy. But roger that. Over and out.”
Wiping the rain away from his mouth and eyes, MacNeice ran over the scenario again in his mind. She had been waiting for her mother to descend the stairs from the top of the mountain; it was a weekly ritual and her habit was to look up, not down. The killer had approached quietly from below or was waiting under the stairs. To the right was a six-foot drop onto jagged rocks, to the left, a three-foot drop down to rocks, weeds and gravel. The traffic was intermittent and the houses across the street looked deserted, so she had fled to the railing on the left and jumped to the ground, where she broke off her heel. She was now on the run and, like a terror-stricken animal, she had no thought other than to flee—tragically, in the wrong direction.
A car coming down the hill narrowly missed MacNeice. The water from its tires slashed across his shins and he heard the driver shout through the rain, “Asshole!”
She
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