Chapter 76
Louis did not like acting faster than he judged prudent, and without groundwork.
But if Southwood was correct, the chances of gaining access to Sturgis’s property unobserved, and more importantly leaving it the same way, were set to decrease dramatically by morning.
Southwood asked if Louis could source an untraceable burner at short notice, but Louis said he didn’t know many people in Massachusetts because, well, #Massachusetts and #NobodysFriendButTheirOwn.
Southwood told him to stay put, and an hour later a call from the front desk advised Louis that a package had arrived.
The envelope, when it was delivered to his room, contained a flip phone manufactured by a company Louis had never heard of, and which probably no longer existed.
As per Southwood’s instructions, he did not turn it on but slipped it into his pocket.
The phone was to be activated only when he was within sight of Sturgis’s home.
Louis left the hotel shortly after nine p.m. This time, he didn’t go to the T station but instead walked to Newbury Street, where he browsed for ten minutes before hailing a cab.
He directed the driver to take him to Captain Marden’s Seafoods on Linden Street in Wellesley, which was walking distance from the target.
When he reached Sturgis’s house, lights were on downstairs as well as on the top floor, and a porch lamp was burning.
Louis powered up the flip phone, inserted the earpiece that had come with it, and waited.
Seconds later, Southwood’s voice was in his ear.
“A male left the house an hour ago,” said Southwood. “No suitcase or bag, and he didn’t take a vehicle, so he may not have been going too far, or for too long. The alarm was activated before he left and the cameras are motion sensitive. Are you proceeding?”
“Yes,” said Louis.
“Okay, then I’m killing the systems: one, two, three—now. If you want me to stay with you once you’re inside, I will, and I won’t even charge you extra for my company. But if you think I might be a distraction, keep the earpiece in place and be sure to answer if I call.”
Louis took the second option, because any potential for distraction aside, he wasn’t convinced that Southwood’s company was preferable to no company at all.
He didn’t bother double-checking with Southwood before entering Sturgis’s property through the open gate, Southwood not appreciating doubters.
At the rear of the house, he placed a folded newspaper against a windowpane and used the butt of his pistol to break the glass.
When he was sure that no jagged edges remained, he reached in, twisted the latch, and raised the window.
Once inside, he used the newspaper to stuff the hole in the glass; he didn’t want an unexpected night breeze to warn Sturgis of an intruder.
Louis was standing in a large formal dining room that didn’t look like it had been used to entertain in years.
Even by moonlight, he could make out a patina of dust on the table, chairs, sideboard, and mantel.
He turned on a slim Fenix Tactical Penlight, allowing him to take a closer look at the paintings on the wall, which comprised works from the first and second generation of Hudson River School artists: Cole, Durand, Church, Kensett, and more.
These, too, had not been dusted in some time.
The dining room door was closed, but thankfully, not locked from the outside.
It led into a dreary hallway, furnished with a sideboard and coat stand, and a Persian carpet so worn it could only have been expensive.
The rest of the floor comprised a living room—again, more paintings, more dust; a library, which showed signs of use; and a huge kitchen, with a four-seater table, an island, and bright Le Creuset kitchenware in orange and yellow.
The cupboards and refrigerator were well stocked and the EuroCave cabinet against the far wall was dominated by European wines, mainly Spanish and Portuguese.
Sturgis might not have held many parties, but either he knew a lot about dining or employed someone who did.
Louis inclined toward the former because of the dust elsewhere; this was the home of a very solitary man.
On the second floor were the bedrooms, two with master bathrooms and all with bare mattresses on the beds.
Only the main bathroom showed signs of use.
At the end of the hallway was a staircase to the third floor, and it was here that the lights burned.
Louis ascended carefully, even though Southwood had assured him the house was unoccupied.
For Louis, old habits died hard, in the hope that by embracing them, killing him might prove similarly difficult.
The top level of the house, which might once have been a high-ceilinged attic space, was now a single living area, with the exception of a small room containing a toilet, shower, and sink.
The room smelled stale and sour, like male seed spilled and left to fester.
One corner held a single bed, unmade. Open shelves, and a long steel rack on wheels, were used to store clothing that was exclusively male.
Against the shorter wall was a large-screen TV, with an easy chair in front and a small side table nearby.
To the left was a desk with a computer and high-end printer.
On the floor, a trash can overflowed with scraps of paper.
Every space on the walls was adorned with pornographic images, many of very young boys and girls, at most in their midteens.
Of the rest, there could be no doubt that the subjects were underage, with their teenage years ahead of them.
Up close, the arrangements appeared random; only when viewed from a distance did patterns emerge.
Louis discerned figures human and bestial, dominated by one image that took up the main gable wall, where genitalia, heads, nipples, and pubic hair combined in collage to create a dark angel seven feet tall, its wings extending to the side walls.
Particular pain had been taken in constructing those wings: the scapulars and marginal coverts were nippled breasts, the primary and secondary coverts vaginas, and the primaries and secondaries below them erect penises.
Louis could smell the paste used to glue the images to the wall; the angel was a recent addition to the décor.
The flip phone rang, startling him. He used the button on the earpiece wire to accept the call.
“Courtesy contact,” said Southwood.
“I’m in. The house is empty.”
“Can you see a computer?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s probably the one I’ve accessed. Would you like to hear what I’ve found so far?”
“If it involves naked children, I’ll decline.”
“How did you know?”
“He’s covered his walls with pictures of them.”
“Guess he does his own housework,” said Southwood.
Then: “He’s been accumulating videos and photographs for a long time.
He uses the dark web, probably because he’s under the false impression that it protects his anonymity.
He’s not just looking either: he’s an abuser.
If it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to leave everything intact, meaning I don’t want to attempt to copy his caches to a secure server.
Even I have my limits, and if I’m ever apprehended by law enforcement, however remote the prospect, I don’t want child pornography coming back to bite me.
But if you decide you want to sic the feds on him, I’ll happily direct them to his door. ”
Louis said he’d think about it.
“Heads up,” said Southwood. “You have a man entering the property, the same one who left earlier. He’s just come through the gate.”
“Description?”
“Tall, thin, balding.”
Sturgis.
“Understood,” said Louis, killing the call. He found a place in the shadows, the angel looming behind, and made himself unseen.