Savich said, “I’ll speak to the forensic team leader. Wait here a moment with Agent Sherlock.”
Savich ducked under the tape and met Jennifer Whipple in the large entryway. “Hey, Dillon, I called in about the father waiting outside. I mean, I can’t let him in, now, can I? He could contaminate the scene—”
“It’s okay, Jennifer. I’ll stick with him. He wants one of Peter’s suits for his son to be buried in.”
“I know.” She swallowed, her eyes darting toward a tech who was dusting for fingerprints in the large living room. “Okay, we’re done in the bedroom.”
Savich went back to the hall, where Sherlock and Mr. Biaggini were speaking quietly; rather, Sherlock was speaking and Mr. Biaggini was standing with her, unresponsive, his eyes unfocused.
“Sir, if you would come with me.”
“Do you know who did this to my son, Agent Savich?”
“We will know soon, sir,” Savich said.
Savich wasn’t about to take Mr. Biaggini to the bedroom, since the floor was covered with dried blood, the walls and furniture splattered with it. He met Sherlock’s eyes.
She said, “Sir, why don’t you describe the suit you want and I’ll fetch it for you.”
Mr. Biaggini knew, Savich thought; he knew why Sherlock didn’t want him going into the bedroom where Peter had died, but he said nothing. He described the clothes his wife had requested, his voice a whisper.
He remained with Savich in the beautiful entryway with the gorgeous wooden floors. “I haven’t been here that often. I forgot how much light comes in. I think Peter liked that.”
“Yes, even with the snow it’s full of light,” Savich said. “Did you furnish it for him?”
“My wife did. She’s a fine decorator. Can you help us be sure to have Peter’s body as soon as possible?”
“I’ll check with the ME myself, and I’ll call you.”
“Director Mueller called me personally as well, after Peter’s body was found. It was such a . . . shock. I mean, Tommy, Stony, and now Peter. All of our boys. They knew each other nearly all their lives, and now all of them are dead. What happened, Agent Savich? Why did this happen to my son?”
The man who looked so much like Savich’s father stood looking back at him, his deadening pain sitting on his shoulders like a black cloak.
Savich said again, “We’ll know very soon, sir, I promise you.”
Mr. Biaggini nodded, and Savich showed him into the living room.
A tech was sitting at Peter’s computer, set on a desk near the wide windows. He looked up toward Savich, and frowned when he saw Mr. Biaggini. “It’s all right,” Savich said. “What have you got?”
“Agent Savich, it looks like we’ve got encrypted files here. I doubt we’ll be able to get into them.”
Mr. Biaggini’s cell phone rang, and he turned to answer, his voice lowered to a whisper. He pocketed his phone after a brief conversation and turned back to Savich, his face again expressionless. “My wife is asking for me. She is in bed—our physician prescribed sedatives. I must go, there is so much to be done, and my wife shouldn’t be alone—” His voice stopped midsentence, and then, “We have to prepare for two funerals tomorrow. And when will Peter’s funeral be? It’s enough to take your soul, if there even is such a thing. It was only two days ago that I was with my son in your interview room with you at the Hoover Building. I never saw him again after that day.” He took a deep breath. “I know you did not think highly of my son, Agent Savich. He was not pleasant.” He paused, as if searching for words. His voice strengthened. “I told his mother as little as I could about it. She was so proud of him, though he let her know he held her in contempt.
“I don’t think his sisters care all that much that their brother is dead. They’re shocked, of course, but I wonder if they loved him. He had contempt for them, too, you see, believed himself above them, and he showed it.”
Sherlock walked into the living room, a Barneys plastic garment bag over her arm.
Mr. Biaggini gave her a ghastly smile. “Thank you for his clothes, Agent Sherlock.” He looked from one to the other of them. “Peter was an amazing child. We loved him so, and gave him too much, I guess, most anything he wanted, even though money was tight then.” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter now. He was my son and he was my heart and I would do anything for him, make everything right for him when he made a mistake. I am partially to blame he didn’t learn from his mistakes; I mean, there were never consequences for him. He became more supercilious, more arrogant. I remember I cried on his sixteenth birthday because I realized he didn’t love his mother, he didn’t love me or his sisters. What he seemed to love was power, over his friends, over all of us.”