Love You More: A Novel

Last night, I had spent fifteen minutes donning my uniform. First, basic black panties, then a black sports bra, then a silk undershirt to keep the next layer—heavy body armor—from chafing my skin. I’d rolled on black dress socks, then my navy blue trousers with their electric blue accent stripes. Next I’d laced up my boots, because I’d already learned the hard way I couldn’t reach my feet once I’d donned my vest. So socks, trousers, boots, then back to the top half, adding my bulky vest, which I covered with a state police turtleneck in deference to the weather, then topped with my official light blue blouse. I had to adjust the vest under my turtleneck, then work to get three layers—silk undershirt, turtleneck, and blouse—tucked into my pants. Next I belted my slacks with a broad black belt to hold them in place. Then I got my gear.

Twenty pound black leather duty belt, which I wrapped over my pants belt, and attached with four Velcro keepers. Next taking my Sig Sauer semiauto from the gun safe in the bedroom closet and inserting it into the holster on my right hip. Clipping my cellphone to the front of my duty belt, then attaching my police pager to the clip on my right shoulder. Checking my radio on my left hip, inspecting my two extra ammo clips, the steel baton, pepper spray, one pair of cuffs, and Taser. Then slipping three ink pens into the sewn inserts on my left shirtsleeve.

Finally, the pièce de résistance, my official state trooper hat.

I always paused to study my reflection in the mirror. A state trooper’s uniform is not just a look, but a feel. The weight of my duty belt pulling at my hips. The bulk of my body armor, flattening out my chest, broadening my shoulders. The tight band of my hat, pulled down low onto my forehead and casting an impenetrable shadow across my eyes.

Command presence. Never let them see you sweat, baby.

The nurse stripped my uniform from me. She removed my light blue blouse, my turtleneck, body armor, undershirt, bra. She pulled off my boots, unrolled my socks, unclasped my belt, and tugged my trousers down my legs, before doing the same with my underwear.

Each item was removed, then bagged and tagged as evidence in the case the Boston cops would be building against me.

Finally, the nurse removed my gold stud earrings, my watch, and my wedding band. Can’t wear jewelry for the CT scan I was told as she stripped me bare.

The nurse handed me a hospital gown, then bustled away with her evidence bags and my personal possessions. I didn’t move. Just lay there, feeling the loss of my uniform, the shame of my own nakedness.

I could hear a TV down the hall broadcasting my daughter’s name. Next would come an image of her school photo, snapped just this October. Sophie wore her favorite yellow ruffled top. She was turned slightly sideways, looking back at the camera with her big blue eyes, an excited smile on her face because she loved pictures and she especially wanted this photo, her first since she’d lost her top front tooth, and the tooth fairy had brought her a whole dollar which she couldn’t wait to spend.

My eyes burned. There is pain, then there was pain. All the words I could not speak. All the images I couldn’t get out of my head.

The nurse returned. She stuck my arms in the Johnny gown, then had me roll to the side so she could tie it in the back.

Two technicians arrived. They whisked me away to the CT scan, my gaze locked on the blur of ceiling tiles whizzing by overhead.

“Pregnant?” one asked.

“What?”

“Are you pregnant?”

“No.”

“Claustrophobic?”

“No.”

“Then this will be a breeze.”

I was wheeled into another sterile room, this one dominated by a large, donut-shaped machine. The technicians didn’t let me stand, but hoisted me from the gurney directly onto the table.

I was instructed to lie absolutely still while the donut-shaped X-ray moved around my head, taking cross sections of my skull. A computer would then combine the two-dimensional X-ray images to form a three-dimensional model.

In thirty minutes, the doctor would have a graphic image of my brain and my bones, including any swelling, bruising, or bleeding.

The technicians made it sound very easy.

Lying alone on the table, I wondered how deep the scanner could peer. I wondered if it could see all the things I saw every time I closed my eyes. Blood, appearing on the wall behind my husband, then streaking down to the kitchen floor. My husband’s eyes, widening in surprise as he looked down, seemed to actually notice the red stains blooming across his muscled chest.

Brian sliding down, down, down. Me, now standing over him, and watching the light dim in his eyes.

“I love you,” I had whispered to my husband, right before the light fled. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I love you.…”

There is pain, then there was pain.

The machine started to move. I closed my eyes and I allowed myself one last memory of my husband. His final words, as he died on our kitchen floor.

“Sorry,” Brian had gasped, three bullets in his torso. “Tessa … love you … more.”





7


With Brian Darby’s body removed, and Tessa Leoni whisked off to the hospital, the immediate practicalities of the homicide investigation began to wind down while the search for six-year-old Sophie Leoni ramped up.

With that in mind, D.D. summoned the taskforce officers to the white command van and began cracking the whip.