Page 7 of Line of Sight

“Scott McCarthy, aged twenty-two at time of death. Father—Owen McCarthy. Owen was a self-made man who formed his first company when he was twenty-four. Created an empire of businesses. Mother died when Scott was small. Owen remarried, a widow, Marie Collins, with a son, Gregory, the same age as Scott.” He jerked his head up. “Greg Collins who was at the ball. It has to be. Okay, that’s interesting.”

Gary walked over to the board and studied the crime-scene photo. “Where was he found?”

Dan scanned the report. “In the bathtub of a show condo. I pity the prospective buyers who walked in on this.”

“What interests me are these.” Gary pointed to some large tubs of lye that sat around the bath. “What are they doing there?”

“No idea. Scott was found dressed in running gear. Apparently he went running every morning, following one of two circuits around Boston. His father said he’d gone out that morning—Friday, January 13—at dawn, around seven, and didn’t come back. His body was found later Friday morning, when someone showed up at the show condo of Reservoir Towers with—” He grimaced. “—a couple of prospective buyers. Autopsy stated he’d died in the early hours of that morning.”

Gary frowned. “Anything in the report about who stood to gain from his death?”

Dan scanned the notes once more. “No one. Reports at the time of death suggest he was a good guy, philanthropic, helped out at shelters, worked at camps for deprived kids…. There seems to be no reason why anyone should want him dead.”

Gary snorted. “Well, someone did.”

Dan found the autopsy report. “There were traces of ketamine in his system, enough to render him unconscious, the pathologist said.”

“Maybe the killer didn’t want Scott to feel any pain when they smashed his face in with an ax.” Gary grimaced. “How thoughtful.”

“WhatIwant to know is why they used an ax in the first place. Or left tubs of lye standing by the bath.” Dan stared at the photo.

Gary chuckled. “You’re sounding more like a detective every day, you know that?”

“I figure it has to mean something.”

“Well, if it does, I can’t think what. How about you? Any ideas?”

“Not yet. Except one.” Dan shivered. “The killer left an ax where Scott’s smile should be.”

Chapter Three

I’VE ALWAYSbeen different.

Take my birthday parties as a child. All those kids, brimming with emotions, excited, laughing…. I felt none of that, but apparently I knew enough even back then to fake some emotion, to try and fit in.

Fuck, it was exhausting.

And then there were the mirrors.

I used to stare at my reflection for hours, wondering. Practicing.

Wondering why I wasn’t like other people. I looked like them, but I knew that inside the similarity ended.

Practicing the same foolish smile I saw every day on my brother’s foolish face.

And thereIwas, unable to crack my lips. Showing emotion was always difficult. Feeling it was even more of a problem. Holidays and celebrations were the worst. I stood out like a sore thumb.

It wasn’t until I was eleven or twelve that the panic attacks started. At least now I know that’s what they were. Back then I didn’t talk about them, but there was a lot of shit that got me all worked up, inconsequential shit that really didn’t matter.

That all changed when I hit fifteen, sixteen.

A lot of those awkward emotions finally packed up and left, but that was also a problem. I didn’t feel anything. Like, nothing, not even when those around me got pissed at me or annoyed or frustrated. And while that made me sad at first, I soon shruggedthatoff and realized I was better off without people anyway.

Especially people like my father.

I don’t know if he saw anything, or even suspected, but I swear he was always watching me.

Anyway, enough about my idyllic childhood.