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  The Third Victim

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  Find Her

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  The 7th Month

  3 Truths and a Lie

  A Detective D. D. Warren Story

  Lisa Gardner

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2016 by Lisa Gardner, Inc.

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  ISBN 978-1-101-98488-8

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  CONTENTS

  Also by Lisa Gardner

  Title Page

  Copyright

  3 TRUTHS AND A LIE

  Excerpt from Find Her

  About the Author

  “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  “Really? It’s a bunch of fiction writers. I think you’ve faced tougher opponents.”

  “Please! Have you read some of these thrillers? Blood and guts every page. Not to mention the keynote speaker’s last name is Slaughter. That tells you something.”

  “You’ve faced worse.”

  “I don’t know what to say. In their world, detectives only take on serial killers and DNA results are available in a matter of hours. Real-world policing isn’t like that.”

  “Tell them that. Give them the truth.”

  “Yeah, because I’m going to explain to bunch of crime addicts who Google things like ‘the best way to dispose of a body’ everything they’re getting wrong in their novels. Try again. You have it easier.” She scowled at him. “You get to talk about blood spatter. They’re going to love you.”

  “I am naturally charming. And armed with a graphic crime scene photos. The advantage of having done this before.”

  D.D. glanced at her watch, scrubbed her palms on her jeans. “Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes till I face forty, fifty—”

  “I’d say closer to a hundred.”

  “—rabid thriller writers. What am I going to say?”

  Alex leaned over, kissed her cheek as they stood in line at the coffee bar. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

  Then Alex’s coffee order was called. And he left her to fend for herself.

  “Writers’ Police Academy,” Boston detective D. D. Warren was muttering fifteen minutes later, coffee in one hand, map of the technical college in the other. “What kind of writers even want to go to a police academy? For the love of God, even cops can’t wait to get out.”She paused in front of the building that housed the lecture series. This “vacation” had been Alex’s idea. Fly out to Wisconsin, of all places, and spend a weekend hanging out with hundreds of thriller writers talking shop. He’d been roped into it years ago by a forensic buddy, who swore it really was fun. Discuss latent prints, blood spatter, and favorite crime scenes with a bunch of aspiring novelists who were not only fascinated by police procedure but determined to get it right. As experts, D.D. and Alex got to attend for free. And as long as they were there, they could also attend some of the more interesting activities.

  For example, the yearly Writer’s Police Academy not only offered hourly lectures on things such as ballistics 101 but also partnered with the local sheriff’s department to provide hands-on workshops: SWAT team training. Evasive driving techniques. Underwater evidence recovery. Alex had brought his wet suit. Personally, D.D. was looking forward to playing on the SWAT team’s training course later in the afternoon.

  But first she had to survive the morning. Where she got to play the part of the so-called expert, providing day-to-day details of a homicide detective’s life. Which, in fact, was not nearly as interesting as most people/writers thought. D.D. read thrillers on occasion—when she had time to read. She enjoyed a good twisty plot. And if fictional detectives spent all their time playing cat-and-mouse with serial killers, all the better for leaving the real cares of her job behind.

  Today, however, her job was to provide the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. She just hoped she didn’t bore her students to death.

  D.D. walked through glass doors, instantly replacing the hot August sun with frigid institutional temperatures. She’d forgotten this from her own academy days: the tendency to keep classrooms arctic, most likely to keep the occupants awake.

  One flight of stairs, a turn here, a turn there, and she arrived at her designated classroom. Outside the sign read: Boston Detective D. D. Warren’s Insider’s Guide to Policing. Within, true to Alex’s prediction, easily a hundred people waited, some having arrived early enough to snatch seats, the rest standing valiantly in any available space. Meaning she really had better open strong, or bit by bit, the standing ones would wander out again.

  “What am I going to say?”

  D.D. smiled bravely, clutched her coffee tighter, and headed for the front of the room. Along the way, she passed a petite blonde whose hairstyle D.D. wouldn’t mind trying out for herself—the keynote speaker, Karin Slaughter, whose thrillers did live up to her name. And sitting next to her, a forensic anthropologist, Kathy Reichs, who already wrote things about decomp D.D. never wanted to know. Because a Writer’s Police Academy had to offer more than just cops bursting everyone’s bubbles, but also a few New York Times bestselling authors who already knew how to get the fictional job done.

  “Insider’s guide to policing,” D.D. muttered under her breath. “Not going to work, not going to work, not going to work.”

  She made it to the front. Set down her coffee. Her bag. Eyed a whiteboard designed for her to write out scintillating details of a detective’s job. Turn in your paperwork. Never piss off your boss. Definitely turn in your paperwork.

  She turned, faced the room.

  Yep, at least a hundred faces, all armed with iPads and laptops for note taking. Bestselling authors, new writers, every single one of them obsessed with crime and determined to get it right. What had Alex told her about his presentation last year? The bloodier his slides, the happier his audience.

  D.D. took a deep breath. An insider’s guide to policing was never going to cut it.

  She opened her mouth, heard herself say: “I’m going to share with you today the strangest case I ever worked. It involves a seedy motel, a hooker, and a dismembered leg. What do you think?”

  The people stan
ding in the back quietly put down their bags, settled in against the wall.

  “All right. Let’s begin.”

  • • •

  “So you know that game, three truths and a lie? Most of the details of what I’m going to tell you will be the truth. One will be a lie. Since most of you like to write about detectives, this will be your chance to play one. First person to identify the lie will get a special prize.”

  Hand in the back. Male, six foot four, brown mop top, thick glasses. “What’s the prize?” he asked.

  “You’ll have to win to find out.”

  Collective groan.

  “Hey, aren’t you people supposed to be fans of suspense?”

  D.D. took a sip of coffee. Collected her thoughts. “All right. Here’s a bit of policing one-oh-one. A crime starts with a call—say, to nine-one-one, maybe even a direct complaint to the department. Either way, uniformed patrol officers are the first responders. In this case, the night manager of the Best Getaway hotel in Boston contacted nine-one-one demanding an ambulance. Dispatch tried to get more information, but the man was too busy vomiting to answer questions. So the operator summoned emergency services as well as the first available officer. In this case, a rookie patrolman, Justin, three days on the job, got to be the one to find the body.

  “You know what homicide detectives hate? What really, truly gets on our nerves?” D.D. gazed around the room. One by one, her audience members dutifully shook their heads. “First responders who trash our crime scenes. Don’t get me wrong. We respect EMTs. Of course we respect EMTs. But have you ever seen what they can do to a crime scene? Trampling across fields of evidence with backboards. Kneeling in blood spatter to check vitals, start CPR. Tossing aside packaging from bandages, gauze, life-saving injections. Hey, I’m not completely petty; I understand trying to save someone’s life comes first. The tricky part is that my job begins when, by definition, the EMTs efforts have failed. Except, of course, now my job is that much more difficult.”

  Her audience nodded.

  “But in this case, the rookie patrolman, Justin, saved me and my team a great deal of grief. He peered inside the motel room, noted the carnage, and, not being an idiot, called off the ambulance, as it wasn’t going to matter. Justin secured the scene, then notified dispatch to contact my unit instead. Job well done.

  “Boston homicide works as three-people squads. I’m a sergeant detective, meaning I’m the so-called leader of my squad, though my teammates, Phil and Neil, would love to argue. Each squad takes a turn being on call. That Saturday night, we were the lucky squad to be summoned at two A.M. to a sleazy motel in downtown Boston where the rooms rent by the hour.

  “Now, policing is a matter of playing the odds. Hourly-rate hotel in that area of Boston, I’m already thinking drug overdose, or maybe pimp versus hooker or dealer versus dealer. These things happen. So I wasn’t totally shocked to walk into a bloody hotel room and discover the body of a naked man on the floor. What caught me off guard was that the body had been partially dismembered—the right leg hacked off just above the knee.

  “Which had then been left behind in the room’s bathtub.”

  • • •

  “All right.” D.D. made her voice brisk. “You guys are the aspiring crime aficionados. Picture yourself as a homicide detective walking into a crime scene. What’s the first thing you do?”

  Hands shot in the air. She went with a middle-aged woman in the back, who stated immediately: “Secure the perimeter.”

  “Partial credit,” D.D. granted. “In theory, the first responder establishes the perimeter. But screw the perimeter, screw the investigation, which is why I feel a need to at least check things out when I first appear. In this case, our rookie officer Justin had been paying attention during training. He hadn’t just cordoned off the room, but most of the parking lot. Aggressive? Maybe. But our DG—dead guy—had to get into the motel room somehow, right? So best to protect all entrances and exits from contamination. Next?”

  “Establish a murder log,” someone called out.

  “Wow, you guys do watch a lot of TV. Partial credit again. Generally, a uniformed patrol officer or district detective will take this job, stationing themselves just inside of the crime scene tape and recording every person who crosses the line into the so-called murder book. Basically, upon arrival, every working officer, myself included, must supply a badge number for the log. You know why?”

  “Locard’s principle.”

  D.D. squinted the respondent in the front row. Attractive male, nice jacket, short wavy brown hair. She thought she recognized him as one of the speakers, Joe Finder, known for his clever thrillers.

  “Show-off,” she informed him. He grinned.

  “Joe, here, is being technical about things. But yes, Locard’s principle holds that everyone who enters a crime scene will transfer something to that scene—hair, fiber, fingerprints, you name it. It’s the basic tenet behind forensic science: By working the scene, forensic experts can identify these transfer elements and then smart detectives like me can use that information to catch the bad guy. Of course, that same principle applies to even the good guys. Sure, we don gloves and, in the case of a really bloody scene, maybe hair caps and foot booties. But that doesn’t mean we won’t inevitably leave something behind. So the murder log has two functions. One, to help forensics sort out our footprints, maybe even a really stupid officer’s fingerprint, from the relevant evidence gathered at the scene. Also, for legal reasons, you need a record of everyone at the scene. Now, here’s a question, the rookie officer, having answered his first homicide call, having done a great job of setting up his first perimeter, then snaps a photo to show off to his buddies. One of the perks of the job, or do I now seize his phone?”

  “Seize the phone,” the room agreed.

  “What about the leg?” someone else called out.

  “You, sir, are bloodthirsty. The rest of the room gets extra credit. No personal photos of the scene. Any prosecutor will tell you cell phone photos, selfies, whatever, are the bane of their existence. Any photo of the scene is evidence, and all evidence is subject to discovery—meaning it must be turned over to the defense upon request. Rookie officer takes a photo, rookie officer never tells, so the defense never gets a chance to view it, and six months after trial, when the officer shares it to the wrong person at a bar, the defense lawyer now has grounds to overturn the conviction. Definitely no personal photos at the scene. So. I believe our DG is still missing a leg.”

  D.D. stopped. Took a sip of her coffee. Contemplated her audience. They were leaning forward eagerly. Alex had pegged them correctly. Thriller writers had a thing for gore.

  “This is what a homicide detective really does upon entering a scene: prioritize. I have a motel room with a dead body that needs to be analyzed by both the crime scene techs as well as my squad. I have an entire building full of possible witnesses, most of whom will deny everything, but I gotta ask. In this day and age, there’s also video somewhere, which, sooner versus later, I want to pull. Lots of things to do, very little time to do it. So, I need to prioritize objectives, then devise strategy.

  “In this case, I assigned patrol officers to go door-to-door for witnesses. Who heard what. If there’s something of interest, the patrol officer will summon one of my detectives to conduct the actual questioning. In the meantime, I assign my squad mate Phil to meet with the night manager, drill him on what he knows about who checked into this room, and, oh yes, grab any and all video he can. Phil has a way with people, so even without a warrant, I’m sure he’ll get the job done.

  “That leaves me and my other partner, Neil, to work the room. Two detectives in a space this small are more than enough. Understand I already have crime scene techs everywhere, not to mention a photographer. Too many of us in the room and no one can get anything done. I’ve also held off the ME. Guy’s dead, not going anyplace; the ME can remove
the body, and the leg, when we’re done. This is crime scene management. And frankly, it’s one of the most important parts of my job. Just as with securing the perimeter, screw the management, screw the investigation. I’m not going to mess up my own investigation. Which brings us to . . .

  “The leg.”

  D.D. paused, took another sip of coffee.

  “No, see, of course you want the leg. I wanted to stare at the leg; Neil, a former EMT, definitely wanted to stare at the leg. But in my job, just like your novels, you can’t skip ahead in the story. Leg is in the bathtub. Body’s in front of the door. Meaning first, we gotta deal with the body.

  “All right. Basic info. I judged the deceased to be a midfifties male, thinning brown hair, a little paunchy around the middle but decent muscle tone. No, I’m not ogling the dead. I’m trying to figure out who this guy is. Identify the victim. One of the first steps in my investigation. There’s also a bunch of things I don’t see—for example, needle marks. No way this guy is using. For lack of a better word, he’s too healthy. He also has buffed nails, which indicates a level of income I don’t expect at an hourly motel. Guy is facedown, and we won’t roll him till the last minute. I can make out traces of blood around his neck and shoulders, but for now, the most obvious wound on him is the severed limb—right leg, amputated above the knee.

  “Now, here’s where things get interesting. For one thing, there’s a tourniquet above the knee. And it appears to be a silk tie. My partner Neil does the honors of walking to the foot of the bed, where we can see a pile of clothes in plain sight. The stack includes a neatly folded pair of black slacks and a blue dress shirt. Neil reads off the labels. His best guess, he’s looking at a thousand-dollar ensemble. And yeah, the tie is missing.

  “I know what you guys want me to do. My husband, Alex Wilson, is a blood spatter expert. He warned me all about you. You want the leg. You’re obsessed with the leg. Follow the blood trail back to the bathroom and the severed limb. Because, definitely, if you were writing this scene, some depraved psycho whacked off this guy’s leg, then left him to bleed out, at which point our DG—maybe a CIA operative, or corporate informant—valiantly tied off his own bleeding stump and crawled through a trail of his own blood, only to expire right in front of the door, inches from getting help.