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  DEAD, WITHOUT A STONE TO TELL IT

  DEAD, WITHOUT A STONE TO TELL IT

  JEN J. DANNA

  WITH ANN VANDERLAAN

  FIVE STAR

  A part of Gale, Cengage Learning

  Copyright © 2013 by Jen J. Danna

  Five Star™ Publishing, a part of Gale, Cengage Learning.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  All characters named as being part of the Massachusetts State Police Department and the Essex County District Attorney’s Office are fictional and not based on actual persons, living or deceased. All places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously.

  No part of this work covered by the copyright herein may be reproduced, transmitted, stored, or used in any form or by any means graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including but not limited to photocopying, recording, scanning, digitizing, taping, Web distribution, information networks, or information storage and retrieval systems, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  The publisher bears no responsibility for the quality of information provided through author or third-party Web sites and does not have any control over, nor assume any responsibility for, information contained in these sites. Providing these sites should not be construed as an endorsement or approval by the publisher of these organizations or of the positions they may take on various issues.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  Danna, Jen J.

  Dead, without a stone to tell it / by Jen J. Danna ; with Ann Vanderlaan. — First edition.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-4328-2695-6 (hardcover) — ISBN 1-4328-2695-6 (hardcover)

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4328-2837-0 eISBN-10: 1-4328-2837-1

  1. Policewomen—Fiction. 2. Serial murder investigation—Fiction. 3. Forensic anthropologists—Fiction. 4. Mystery fiction. I. Vanderlaan, Ann. II. Title.

  PR9199.4.D365D43 2013

  813′.6—dc23 2012051188

  First Edition. First Printing: May 2013

  This title is available as an e-book.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4328-2837-0 ISBN-10: 1-4328-2837-1

  Find us on Facebook– https://www.facebook.com/FiveStarCengage

  Visit our website– http://www.gale.cengage.com/fivestar/

  Contact Five Star™ Publishing at [email protected]

  Printed in the United States of America

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 17 16 15 14 13

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The title of this novel comes from the poem “Across the Lines,” written by the American poet Ethel Lynn Eliot Beers. Composed during the American Civil War, the poem tells of a Union soldier, fallen on the battlefield and on the brink of death, who fears being buried in an unmarked grave without a headstone to tell the world of his passing.

  Dead? and here—where yonder banner

  Flaunts its scanty group of stars,

  And that rebel emblem binds me

  Close within those bloody bars.

  Dead? without a stone to tell it,

  Nor a flower above my breast!

  Dead? where none will whisper softly,

  “Here a brave man lies at rest!”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  It takes many hands to help write a book that contains a large amount of factual research. We’ve been fortunate to have been assisted by a group of extremely knowledgeable experts and we’re very thankful for their contributions: Reverend Stephen Ayers, for his personal tour of the crypts below Boston’s Old North Church and for sharing current research on the crypts and the columbarium. Massachusetts State Police Detective Lieutenant Norman Zuk, for details concerning the Essex Detective Unit and his willingness to answer any and all questions concerning law enforcement. Essex District Attorney Jonathan Blodgett and Steve O’Connell, Director of Communications, Essex District Attorney’s Office, for sharing their knowledge of law enforcement in Essex County. Ellie Reese, for assistance on legal details. Dr. Tara Moore, for providing information on Boston University’s forensic anthropology labs and graduate program. Dr. Donald Siwek and retired FBI agent Gary Reinecke, for a tour of Boston University’s anthropology labs and an enlightening discussion on forensic cases and classes. The assistance we received from these experts has been invaluable in firmly basing our story in realism; any mistakes after their contributions are ours alone.

  From a writing standpoint, we owe thanks to many others: Our agent and number one cheerleader, Nicole Resciniti, for believing in us and this novel, and for working so hard alongside us to get it published. Our editor, Gordon Aalborg, who showed us that working with a professional editor is actually a great experience and not one to be feared. Our beta readers and first test audience—Kelly McMillen, Anna Dymarsky, Catherine Albano, Micki Sellers, Jessica Newton, and Rick Newton. And, last, but definitely not least, our fantastic critique team—Margaret Mc-Mullen, Sharon Taylor, Jenny Lidstrom, and Lisa Giblin—for their willingness to always be available at a moment’s notice and for constantly challenging us to be better writers.

  J.J.D. and A.V.

  My personal thanks to those who offered support and encouragement during the plotting, writing, and editing of this manuscript: My son, Paul, and his wife, Shelly (who is the best daughter-in-law a mother could ever have) supported my decision to leave the 8 to 5 rat race and do something that I really enjoyed—there is no shortage of faith, sympathetic ears, or cell phone minutes in their home. My neighbors Don and Margaret Newman helped keep my daily life on track after an accident knocked me off my feet for several months. Angel Thundertail, an alumnus of Love-A-Bull Pit Bull rescue in Austin, Texas, greets me every morning with a big pittie smile and a somewhat restrained wiggle. His fur brother, Spike, a deaf dog from the same rescue, taught me that you don’t have to shout to make yourself heard.

  A.V.

  My sincere thanks to those who walked beside me on the path to publication: My fellow writing partners-in-crime—Marianne Harden, Amanda Flower, Amanda Carlson, Melissa Landers, Lea Nolan, Cecy Robson, and Marisa Cleveland—for all the encouragement, understanding, and commiseration; it’s been a pleasure taking this journey with you. My mother, who instilled in me a lifelong love of reading and introduced me to the mystery classics. And my family—Rick, Jessica, and Jordan—for believing in me and allowing me the time and space to follow a dream.

  J.J.D.

  PROLOGUE

  Three years earlier

  Essex Bay Coast, Massachusetts

  The night is never silent. Even in its darkest hour, it has many sounds: the mournful sigh of the wind as it whispers through graceful stems waving silver in the moonlight; the musical rush of water on its inevitable journey to spill into the sea; the furtive scurry of night creatures foraging for food; cunning hunters, stalking their prey before sunrise.

  Sounds of the cycle of life.

  Until a life ends …

  The shovel scattered loose soil into the gaping tear in the earth. Clumps of dirt spread over tangled limbs and ragged flesh; the dark earth shading deathly white skin streaked with vivid splashes of red.

  The man looked down into the grave, his heart filled with satisfaction and victory. He had held life in his hands until it slipped through his fingers. Gone forever.

  Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. The silent earth reclaiming its own. The dead feeding new life as the cycle continues.

  He felt a twinge of sadness at the completion of this challenge, but welling up through the melancholy was an overwhelming anticipation.

  This round was over.

  But there was always
another round to play.

  The cycle would continue …

  CHAPTER ONE: MARSH WREN NEST

  Marsh Wren Nest: a hollow, ball-shaped structure woven from marsh grass and sedges by the short-billed marsh wren (Cistothorus platensis); it is attached to the stems of marsh grasses a few feet above the high water mark.

  Monday, 10:57 A.M.

  The Old North Church

  Boston, Massachusetts

  The heels of the woman’s boots rapped sharply against worn wood as she descended the centuries-old staircase. Not many ventured from the sun-streaked upper reaches of the church into the oppressive stillness of the dark, damp basement below. Only those who would commune with the dead.

  She was one of those people.

  She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, the large area under the church sanctuary spreading before her. Through the doorway opposite, a long corridor stretched away into the gloom that shaded the far reaches of the space, dimly lit by the few exposed light bulbs that hung from the ceiling. There, long held safe in the quiet darkness and forgotten by all but a scarce few, were the oldest crypts in Boston.

  Standing in the nearly silent basement, with only the creaks from the floorboards overhead betraying the presence of the funeral mourners, the centuries of history entombed in this building surrounded her, just like the dead sleeping inside the aged brick walls.

  The vicar’s words rang in her head. I’m sorry I can’t take you down, but the funeral is about to start. You’ll find him if you go down the stairs and turn right into the columbarium.

  The atmosphere changed the moment she stepped over the threshold. The basement and the crypts were cold and damp, but even surrounded by walls of modern burial niches, the columbarium seemed warm and inviting. A space where the living could feel closer to the dead who had gone before them.

  Mournful music filtered through the floorboards into this quiet room of remembrance.

  It felt … peaceful.

  The peace was abruptly shattered by the clatter of something solid falling to the floor followed by a soft curse.

  There he is.

  On the far side of the room, a door opened into a small chamber. A doorway was cut into one of the whitewashed chamber walls, bright russet clay revealed at the entrance. Moving to stand in the gap, she looked into the tomb, staring in shock at the chaos within while breathing air musty with centuries of undisturbed stillness.

  Rotting wooden boxes of different shapes and sizes were stacked haphazardly along the walls. Many of the boxes had collapsed, their lids loosened and their contents spilled out over other boxes and across the floor. Bones of every size and description lay in tangled piles, mixed with funeral ornaments and remnants of moldering cloth. A solitary skull grinned up at her from where it lay tipped against the cracked side of a crumpled box.

  A movement to her left drew her attention and her gaze shifted to the man kneeling with his back partially turned to her. He bent over the pile of debris, freeing a single bone before transferring it carefully in his gloved hands to a clear plastic tub on the floor beside him.

  The small ball of tangled nerves in her stomach clenched tighter. So much was riding on this case and she had so much to prove—

  She jerked her thoughts back into the present. That’s water under the bridge now. You have to do this right. And to succeed, you need him.

  Her eyes sharply assessed the man kneeling before her. Mid-thirties, medium build, about 190 pounds, brown hair.

  What surprised her most was how much he’d changed since her single encounter with him years before. In her memory, while tall, he had a slight build, like a man who spent all his time with his nose in a book or bent over bones in the lab.

  Not anymore.

  He’d filled out considerably in the intervening years. His hunter green, crew-necked shirt stretched taut across his wide shoulders and muscled back as he bent over his work, and his biceps stretched and bunched as he picked up another bone.

  As he placed the bone into the container, his overlong hair fell over his eyes. He raised a latex-gloved hand and pushed it back with his wrist.

  For a brief moment, the scar was revealed by the bright spotlight—a thick furrow of twisted skin that started on his temple near his right eyebrow and disappeared into his hairline. Leigh stared at it in surprise—how had she missed it before? Whatever caused that scar had struck dangerously close to home. Any closer, he wouldn’t be kneeling in a dusty church basement, and she wouldn’t be here asking for his help.

  She must have made a tiny involuntary sound because he suddenly twisted to face her. His hazel eyes widened in surprise as they met hers, and he gave a small jerk of his head, sending his hair tumbling back over his forehead.

  “Dr. Lowell?” Her words seemed jarringly loud in the silence.

  His gaze slid down her body. Unlike many men, his stare wasn’t predatory; rather it was a critical examination, as if cataloging her features. “I’m Matthew Lowell.” He rolled to his feet, pulling himself up to stand several inches taller than she.

  He’s aged well, she thought. The only signs were the tiny lines around his eyes that gave his face character.

  She pulled back the edge of her jacket to reveal a gold shield, bright against the black leather oval. “Trooper First Class Leigh Abbott, Massachusetts State Police, out of the Essex Detective Unit.”

  His face clouded with confusion. “Essex? I haven’t been up there for probably two or three years.”

  “Essex is my jurisdiction, but it’s what you can do here in Boston that interests me. When I was told you were out in the field, I asked whomever I talked to at the university to let you know I was coming.”

  His expression grew wary. “I guess the message never made it through.” Planting his feet firmly, he crossed his arms over his chest. “What is it you think I can do for you?”

  Leigh noted his sudden move to a defensive posture with a small spurt of alarm. “I’m looking to consult with a forensic anthropologist on a case. I would like to retain your services for—”

  “No thanks. Not interested.”

  Leigh drew up short, staring at him in stunned disbelief, dread starting to slowly pool in her stomach. This wasn’t the easygoing professor she remembered. “You haven’t even heard my proposal, Dr. Lowell. How can you make that decision?”

  “I don’t need to hear it. The answer is ‘no.’ ”

  Anger started to build, swamping the dread. She forced herself to calm down and try a different tack. “I’m familiar with your skills and you’re exactly what I need to help me solve this case. If you’ll just let me explain—”

  “Don’t bother. I’ve worked with you before. I don’t need to hear the details.”

  Leigh stepped closer, drawing herself up to her full height. This was familiar ground; she worked with bigger egos than his on a daily basis in her own department. “I can assure you, Dr. Lowell, we have never worked together.”

  He didn’t retreat. Instead, he simply stared down at her from only inches away. “Not you personally, Trooper. Your kind.” His tone was thick with disdain.

  “My kind? Do you mean women? Or cops?”

  “Cops. You come in, you make demands, and you expect results. You don’t care how, or why, you just want answers and you want them now. And you’re willing to bully and threaten to get them. So … no thanks.” He pushed past her, carefully skirting the debris on the floor and stepping back into the small prep area.

  Leigh followed him, her eyes narrowed on his stony profile. She had one last weapon in her arsenal and she wasn’t above using it—his own words from years ago, overheard as he spoke to a Boston detective after class: If you think Sharpe is the expert, then you deal with him. Personally, I don’t like his style and I have serious doubts about his methods and some of his conclusions. I wouldn’t send a student I disliked to work with him. “Thank you for your time, Dr. Lowell,” she said with stiff formality. Turning away, she paused in the doorway to speak into th
e empty columbarium beyond. “You’re clearly a very busy man, so I’ll take my request to Dr. Sharpe at Harvard. He may be interested in a case like this. I’m told he likes—”

  “Wait.” The single word was clipped short with banked irritation.

  Standing with her back to him, Leigh allowed a very brief smile of triumph to curve her lips. Gotcha, you arrogant bastard. But when she turned back to face him, her features were schooled into polite interest. “Yes?”

  She glimpsed the battle warring within him by the way the muscles in his jaw bunched and his hazel eyes simmered with frustration. When he spoke, his voice was resigned. “What is it you need, Trooper Abbott?”

  Relief flooded through Leigh. “I have a bone I need examined.”

  “A bone?” His dark brows drew together. “Singular?”

  “Singular,” she confirmed. “It was found by a man out walking his dog near the town of Essex. The dog ran off and the owner caught up with it at a beaver pond. That’s when he noticed the bone protruding from the dam.”

  “It was in the dam?”

  “Yes. The beaver built it right into the dam. Having only one bone tells us nothing except that there’s a body. Dr. Edward Rowe, Medical Examiner for the State of Massachusetts, has declined the case at this point due to the lack of evidence recovered at the scene. But he suggested having a forensic anthropologist take a look to see if anything could be learned from examining the bone itself.”

  “I know who Rowe is. Why doesn’t he use his own anthropologist for this?”

  “He doesn’t have one anymore,” Leigh said. “Budget cuts. The person who used to be on staff took a position out of state, so we need a new consultant on a case-by-case basis. One with the appropriate qualifications to serve as an expert witness in court if the case comes to trial.”

  “I’ve worked at two body farms during my training and have run my own lab for years. It’s my reputation on the line if I give faulty testimony in court, so I wouldn’t do this if my qualifications, knowledge, and experience didn’t stand up. But you already know they will or you wouldn’t be here in the first place.” His eyes narrowed on her in speculation. “Why me?”