The Bone Bed

played in court. He didn’t allow footage from the defendant’s helicopter, which the judge would have deemed inadmissible. But the source of the news footage wasn’t known or questioned at the time, and it’s too late now.
    “Nothing illegal about it,” Lucy says. “Not even improper from a legal standpoint.”
    “You sound as if you’re applauding it.”
    “Maybe I would have done the same thing.”
    “I have no doubt you would have,” I comment, and I don’t want to get into what she does or might do.
    Howard Roth’s clothing looks dirty and shapeless and seems forlorn on waterproof white paper, a large black T-shirt, a pair of woven cotton boxer shorts in a red plaid pattern, and white tube socks speckled with blood that is dark, almost black. On another table against the far wall are the dog crate and soggy bags of clumping litter, the yellow rope and old fishing gear, and the yellow boat fender that I realize is slightly scuffed, a detail I didn’t notice when it was wet.
    “Nothing wrong with her letting Toby know that whatever he overhears at work might be helpful.” Lucy is playing out what she thinks happened. “And certainly he’d want justice to be done, and by the way, how does he like working for the CFC, and does he ever think about his future?”
    She continues describing what she imagines Donoghue’s line to Toby must have been, and I look for a measuring tape.
    “So she’s with her client right before court’s in session yesterday morning, or maybe already sitting at the defense table with him, and gets an electronic communication from Toby. A woman’s body has just been discovered in the bay. Maybe she even gets the details that the body has fingernail polish, has long white or blond hair. A fucking gift.”
    “Are you guessing that’s what happened, or do you know it?” I open a drawer and find what I’m looking for, a pocket rod, the type of tape measure we carry in our scene cases.
    “I know what the Sikorsky pilots said to ATC,” Lucy answers. “I’d just taken off from Hanscom and was monitoring Logan on comm-two when the S-Seventy-six that I later found out was Channing Lott’s helicopter contacted Approach, radioing that they were out of Beverly and had a request. They wanted to do some filming in the outer harbor.”
    I wipe down the rigid metal tape with a spray-on disinfectant, making sure it’s clean.
    “Wow, he’s got quite a gash on the back of his head,” Lucy says. “It’s really apparent after his hair’s been shaved.”
    “What time did you hear the pilots on the radio?” I take a look at autopsy photos on her computer screen.
    “Approximately two hours after you got the call about the body in the bay,” she says.
    “Definitely blunt force, not sharp force,” I observe. “You can see where the tissue’s torn, and in the depths of the wound is bridging.” I point out nerves, blood vessels, and other soft tissue extending like threads across the gaping gash. “His head impacted with a surface that has no discrete edge.”
    “So it wasn’t caused by the edge of a concrete step catching him at the base of his skull.”
    “I seriously doubt it.”
    “I don’t see how that part of your head could hit the floor?” Lucy feels the back of her head, where her skull connects with the hollow of her neck.
    “It’s troubling,” I agree.
    I lean over her, clicking through other autopsy photographs.
    “An open slightly depressed comminuted fracture,” I note. “Intracranial and intracerebral bleeding.”
    I look through more, resting my hand on Lucy’s shoulder, and I’m always startled by how strong she is.
    “A subdural hematoma overlying contusions, hemorrhages. A significant blow to the back of the head but with very little swelling. He didn’t live long.” I return to the boat fender and begin to measure it. “Does Marino know what Toby’s done?”
    “It’s probably best their paths don’t cross for the next hundred years.”
    The fender is heavy-duty vinyl, fifty-eight inches by eighteen, and I ask Lucy if the size is significant, and keys click as she checks the Internet.
    “In the marine world, that’s extra-large,” she says. “Fenders associated with yachts.”
    “And it’s not inflatable,” I point out. “So if extra-large fenders were being stored on a boat as opposed to off-site, it had to be a really big one. At first I just assumed whoever did this bought it new. Like the dog crate, the bags of litter. I