The north suburbs of Iron Shore were a different country. Here, the streets were lined with mature oak trees, their branches forming a canopy over quiet lanes of Cape Cod homes and manicured lawns. The mailboxes were freshly painted. The driveways held late-model sedans and the occasional RV. It was the kind of neighborhood where people moved to escape the city, to pretend the decay and desperation of Iron Shore proper was someone else's problem.
Alan Hartwell lived in a ranch house at the end of a cul-de-sac. The house was modest by suburban standards, a brick and siding affair with a sagging front porch and a yard that had surrendered to crabgrass. A mailbox overflowed with uncollected circulars. The blinds were drawn tight across every window.
Wicks parked his car, a battered Chevy he had borrowed from a former client who owed him a favor, and walked up the cracked driveway. The morning sun was pale and thin, filtering through a haze of clouds that looked like dirty cotton. He rang the doorbell and heard it echo through the house, a hollow sound that suggested empty rooms.
He rang again. Nothing.
He was about to walk around to the back when the door opened a crack. A face peered out, gaunt and gray-stubbled, with eyes that had seen better decades. The man was in his seventies, Wicks guessed, but he looked older, the way men look when they've spent too many years carrying too much weight.
"Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying." The voice was a dry rasp.
"I'm not selling anything, Dr. Hartwell. My name is Dan Wicks. I'm a private investigator. I'd like to ask you a few questions about the 1984 waterfront explosion."
The effect was immediate. Hartwell's face went pale, and his hand tightened on the doorframe. "I don't know anything about that."
"You were the deputy medical examiner for Iron Shore County in 1984. You performed the autopsies on the four federal agents killed in the explosion. Your reports were included in the official case file. But I think those reports were falsified. And I think you kept copies of the originals."
Hartwell stared at him for a long moment. Then he laughed, a bitter, rasping sound. "You're either very brave or very stupid, coming here and asking about that."
"Probably a little of both."
The old man studied him, weighing something behind those tired eyes. Then he stepped back and opened the door. "Get inside. Quickly."
The interior of the house was dim and stale, the air thick with the smell of dust and old coffee. The living room was cluttered with stacks of medical journals, cardboard boxes, and the kind of accumulated debris that came from decades of living alone. Hartwell led Wicks to a small kitchen in the back, where a coffeemaker sat on the counter, its carafe half-full of something that looked like crude oil.
"Sit," Hartwell said, gesturing to a wobbly kitchen chair. "Coffee?"
"Sure."
Hartwell poured two mugs and set one in front of Wicks. The coffee was thick and bitter, strong enough to strip paint. Wicks drank it anyway.
"You said you're a private investigator," Hartwell said, settling into a chair across from him. "Who are you working for?"
"A developer named Victor Crest. He's buying up the waterfront. Lot 47-B is part of the package."
"Crest." Hartwell rolled the name around in his mouth. "Never heard of him. But I've been out of the loop for a long time." He took a sip of his coffee. "You know why I left the medical examiner's office?"
"I heard you were forced out."
"Forced out. That's a polite way of putting it. They told me if I didn't resign quietly, they'd find a way to revoke my medical license. They said I had made mistakes. Errors in judgment. That I was a liability." Hartwell set down his mug. "The only mistake I ever made was telling the truth about what happened to those four men."
Wicks leaned forward. "What did happen to them?"
Hartwell was silent for a long moment. Outside, a lawnmower started up somewhere in the neighborhood, a distant drone that seemed to belong to a different world.
"The official story was that they died from blunt force trauma and thermal injuries sustained in the explosion. Gas leak, accidental ignition, tragic loss of life. But that wasn't what I found when I examined the bodies." Hartwell's voice dropped, becoming harder, more clinical. "Three of the four agents had been shot before the explosion. Small caliber rounds, probably a .22. The entry wounds were in the back of the skull. Execution style."
Wicks felt the coffee turn to acid in his stomach. "Shot?"
"Shot. The fourth agent, Marcus Dutton, was different. He had been beaten. Severely. Broken ribs, shattered jaw, multiple contusions. The explosion and fire obscured a lot of the evidence, but not all of it. I documented everything. The gunshot wounds, the pattern of injuries, the inconsistencies with the official narrative. I wrote up my findings and submitted them to the chief medical examiner."
"And?"
"And the next day, my report was gone. Replaced by a new report that said the deaths were accidental. My signature was forged on the bottom. When I protested, I was told to take a leave of absence. When I came back, my office had been cleaned out. My personal files, my research notes, even my Rolodex. Everything was gone. And the message was clear: keep your mouth shut or lose everything."
Wicks set down his mug. "Do you still have copies of your original findings?"
Hartwell didn't answer. He stood up and walked to the window, peering through the blinds at the quiet suburban street. "Why now? Why after all these years?"
"I don't know all the details. But the man I'm working for, Victor Crest, he's not a developer. Not really. His real name is Vincent Dutton. Marcus Dutton was his father."
Hartwell turned from the window. His expression shifted, surprise and something else, something that might have been relief. "Dutton's son. I wondered if he was still alive. After the explosion, his mother took him and left town. Disappeared. I tried to find them, but..." He shook his head. "So the boy came back."
"He came back. And he's looking for evidence to bring down the men who killed his father. Chief O'Neill and the others."
"O'Neill." Hartwell spat the name like a curse. "He was a sergeant back then, but he was the one running the show. Him and Frank Holbrook and a few others. They were the ones who falsified the records, who threatened me, who made the whole thing disappear." He walked back to the table and sat down heavily. "I've been waiting twenty years for someone to come asking about this. Twenty years of looking over my shoulder, wondering if they'd finally decide I was too much of a liability."
"Did they ever come after you?"
"A few times. Phone calls in the middle of the night. A break-in, back in '92, though nothing was taken. A car that followed me for a week in '98, right after Holbrook died. I think they were worried I'd see his obituary and get bold." Hartwell laughed his bitter laugh. "They didn't need to worry. I've been a coward for two decades. Too scared to talk, too stubborn to die."
Wicks looked around the kitchen, at the stacked boxes and the peeling wallpaper and the coffee cups crusted with old grounds. It was the home of a man who had been living in a prison of his own making, a cell constructed of fear and guilt.
"You kept the originals," Wicks said. "You said they cleaned out your office, but you kept copies somewhere."
Hartwell nodded slowly. "I did. Not here. After the break-in, I moved them. They're in a safety deposit box at a bank in Erie. I go once a year to make sure they're still there."
"I need those records, Dr. Hartwell. With your testimony, they could be enough to reopen the case. To bring charges against O'Neill and the others."
"Charges." Hartwell shook his head. "You think the law is going to save you? These men own the law in Iron Shore. They own the police department, the city council, half the judges in the county. You walk into the FBI with my autopsy reports, and by the time you get to the front desk, O'Neill will already know about it. And you'll end up like those federal agents. Shot in the back of the head and buried under a convenient gas leak."
"My client has resources. Money, connections, a plan. He's been working on this for years."
"Money and connections don't stop bullets." Hartwell stood up again. "But I'll give you the records. On one condition."
"Name it."
"You promise me that when this is over, when you've got enough evidence to put O'Neill away, you'll make sure my name is on the file. I want the world to know that Alan Hartwell wasn't a coward. That he tried to tell the truth." His voice cracked slightly. "I've been living with this for twenty years. The nightmares. The guilt. If I'm going to die for this, I want to die with my name cleared."
Wicks met the old man's eyes. "I promise."
Hartwell nodded. "The bank is First Mercantile of Erie. Box 442. I'll give you the key and the authorization. It's in my name, so you'll need me to sign the access forms. But I'm not going with you. I can't. If O'Neill's people are watching, they'll see us together, and they'll know what I've done."
"Then how do I get the records?"
"You go tonight. The bank has extended hours on Thursdays. I'll call ahead and authorize your access. You bring the records back here, and we'll go through them together. Then you take them to your client and do what needs to be done." Hartwell walked to a cluttered desk in the corner of the living room and rummaged through a drawer. He returned with a small brass key and a folded document. "This is the key and a notarized letter of authorization. I had it drawn up years ago, just in case. I never thought I'd actually use it."
Wicks took the key and the letter. They felt heavy in his hand, heavier than they should have.
"Dr. Hartwell, when this is over, you should consider leaving Iron Shore. At least for a while."
"I've been considering leaving for twenty years. I never had the courage." The old man smiled, a thin, tired expression. "Maybe now I will."
Wicks stood up to leave. At the door, Hartwell put a hand on his arm.
"Be careful, Mr. Wicks. The men you're dealing with, they've killed before. They'll kill again. And they've had a long time to convince themselves that what they did was justified. That they were protecting their own." He paused. "There's a kind of evil that grows in institutions. It starts small. A little corruption here, a little cover-up there. And over time, it becomes normal. The people inside it stop seeing it as evil. They see it as loyalty. As survival. They'll do anything to protect it."
Wicks nodded. "I know. I used to be one of them."
"Not anymore. But remember: you're not just fighting a few bad cops. You're fighting a system. A whole way of life that's built on a foundation of blood. When you pull out that foundation, everything collapses. Are you ready for that?"
"No," Wicks said. "But I'm doing it anyway."
He walked out into the pale morning light. The suburban street was quiet, the lawns empty, the houses silent. Somewhere a dog was barking, a distant, hollow sound. Wicks climbed into the Chevy and sat there for a moment, the key to the safety deposit box cold in his palm.
Three of the agents had been shot. Execution style. Small caliber rounds to the back of the head. Marcus Dutton had been beaten to death. The official report was a lie, and the man who had tried to tell the truth had been silenced for twenty years.
Wicks started the engine and pulled away from the curb. He had a long drive to Erie ahead of him, and he had calls to make. To Crest, to tell him what Hartwell had revealed. And to Sarah, to warn her to be careful.
He tried Sarah's number first. It rang four times and went to voicemail. "Sarah, it's Dad. Call me when you get this. It's important. And listen, stay with a friend tonight, okay? Don't go home alone. Just trust me on this."
He hung up and tried Crest's number. Diana Holcomb answered, her voice as crisp as ever. "Crest Development."
"This is Wicks. I need to speak to him."
"He's in a meeting. Can I take a message?"
"Tell him I found the medical examiner. The original autopsies were falsified. Three of the agents were executed. Dutton was beaten to death. The records are in a bank in Erie. I'm going to get them now."
There was a pause. "I'll tell him immediately. Do you need backup?"
"I don't know. Maybe. I'll call you when I have the records."
He hung up and merged onto the highway. The road to Erie stretched ahead, a gray ribbon cutting through the drab winter landscape. Behind him, Iron Shore receded in the rearview mirror, its smokestacks and empty warehouses silhouetted against the pale sky.
He was about twenty miles outside the city when he noticed the car.
It was a dark sedan, the same make and model as the one that had been parked outside his office. At first, he thought he was being paranoid. There were plenty of dark sedans on the road. But this one had been behind him since he left the suburbs, matching his speed, keeping a steady three-car distance.
Wicks sped up. The sedan sped up.
He slowed down, pulling into the right lane. The sedan slowed too, falling back but not passing.
He took an exit, a two-lane road that wound through a stretch of farmland. The sedan followed.
Wicks's heart was pounding now. He reached into the glove compartment and pulled out the revolver he had stashed there, a .38 special he had carried since his days on the force. It was old but clean, and he had six rounds in the cylinder.
He pulled onto a dirt road that led to an abandoned farm. The sedan followed. Wicks stopped the car and got out, the revolver held low against his leg.
The sedan stopped about fifty yards away. The door opened, and a man stepped out.
It was the same man from the night before. The heavy jaw, the hard eyes, the look of a retired cop who had never stopped being a cop. He raised his hands in a gesture of peace.
"Easy, Wicks. I'm not here to hurt you."
"You followed me for forty miles. That doesn't feel like a friendly visit."
The man walked closer, his hands still raised. "My name is Leo Shanahan. I used to be a detective in the department. I worked with your father, back in the day."
Wicks kept the revolver at his side. "My father died when I was twelve."
"I know. Car accident. Hell of a thing." Shanahan stopped about ten feet away. "Look, I'm not here on O'Neill's behalf. I'm here to warn you."
"That's what you said last night."
"I was delivering a message last night. This is different. This is me, talking to you, off the record. I've been watching you since you left Hartwell's house. I know what he told you."
Wicks raised the revolver slightly. "How do you know what he told me?"
"Because I was there, Wicks. In 1984. I was a young patrolman, fresh out of the academy. I wasn't part of the cover-up, but I saw things. I heard things. And I kept my mouth shut because I was scared." Shanahan's voice cracked. "I've been scared for twenty years. But I'm done being scared."
"Why should I believe you?"
Shanahan reached into his coat. Wicks tensed, his finger tightening on the trigger, but the man pulled out a photograph. He tossed it to Wicks, who caught it with his free hand.
The photograph showed a group of cops, maybe a dozen of them, standing in front of the Iron Shore Police Department. They were young, smiling, their uniforms crisp. In the center was a man with a captain's bars, his arm around a younger man who looked like a rookie.
"That's me," Shanahan said, pointing to the rookie. "And that's Patrick O'Neill. He was a sergeant then. The others, most of them are dead now. Heart attacks, accidents, a couple of suicides. Funny how the people who knew about the explosion kept dying."
Wicks studied the photograph. "What do you want, Shanahan?"
"I want to help. I have records. Internal affairs files that never made it to the official archives. Witness statements that were suppressed. I've been collecting them for years, waiting for someone to come asking the right questions." He looked Wicks in the eye. "You're the first person in twenty years who's asked."
"Why now?"
"Because I'm old. I'm sick. I've got maybe a year left, maybe less. And I don't want to die with this on my conscience." Shanahan took a step closer. "You're going to Erie to get the autopsy records. I know that. But I've got something better. I've got the gun that killed those agents."
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